White Death (9 page)

Unlike most law enforcement agencies, D.C. prohibited us from pronouncing someone dead at the scene, no matter how obvious death might be. The radio run was always for an unconscious person. The dispatcher, however, needs to know whether to send an ambulance or the morgue cruiser; thus, a timely status report after arrival was essential. The not-so-secret code for this was to say that the person was
very unconscious
– dead in other words. Another tool to manage limited resources.

The manager let us inside and subsequently ran down the stairs, followed by the reserve officer who puked going out the door. The morgue guy gave me a stony stare – the unspoken issue was who gets the top (easier) and who gets the bottom (harder). The decedent was an obese, older man, about two-hundred-twenty pounds. After some haggling, we agreed to switch at the halfway point and rest for one minute. We rested for more than a minute.

I returned to the car and snarled, “The job would have been a lot easier with two on the bottom.”

“Sorry, I know.”

“I’ve got some paperwork to do. Go find the manager for information about notifications. Be quick. I don’t want to sit here all night.”

He was quick, and I filled in the holes in my report.

We went back in service with little chatter on the air, almost too quiet. Sometimes the dispatcher gave cars returning to service three, or even four, radio runs at the same time. The people who complain about slow police response do not understand how crazy it can be at times. They want
their
problem solved right away.

“Scout 65, report of four suspicious subjects walking south from Madison Street on Kansas Avenue. Caller reports all four are armed, and one may be wanted for homicide; Respond code two, use caution, 2215.”

“Scout 65 is 10-4” – a mistake. I should have said, “With a reserve officer.” I drove east on Madison Street with no siren, only lights, which I planned to kill shortly. I considered correcting my error. Business had picked up, however, and all of the other cars were busy. I turned right on Second Street, then into an alley toward Kansas Avenue. I killed my lights and drifted toward the intersection with Kansas Avenue. Nothing. I waited a few minutes, still no sign of activity. Although finding nothing was typical of most calls of this type, the call had been quite detailed.

“Scout 65 is 10-8, nothing found.” Despite being in service and available for radio runs, I decided to circle around. If they were watching me, then they would see the cruiser driving south on Kansas and west on Longfellow, away from them. I circled to come up Second Place and down Madison for another look. As I eased through the same alley, they almost walked into my car.
One bolted and the reserve officer chased him. We looked at each other; all of us were surprised. The game was on.

“Kinda late for a stroll, got some ID?” I said casually. Two handed me driver’s licenses. In front of them appeared to be an open athletic bag, set down by the one in the middle. I left the car door open as I read the names and birth dates to the dispatcher.

“So, where you fellows heading tonight?”

The one in the center replied, “We repair small appliances and electronic equipment like eight-tracks, and we’re on our way to do a job. Our car is right here,” motioning with his head to a late model Buick with @#1@PA tags. A quick glance inside revealed what appeared to be stolen electronics. I was stalling, waiting for an ID from dispatch, and I sensed they were looking for an opportunity to flee or take me out. The dispatcher said words no cop wants to hear.

“Scout 65 is your outside speaker on?”

Without taking my eyes from them, I backed three steps to reach the control and turn it off.

“Scout 65 is on inside only with the volume turned down.”

“65 are they driving a Buick with PA tags?”

“65 affirmative.”

“We’re talking to the FBI on another line. One is wanted for the murder of a state trooper, one for other homicides, and all are wanted by the FBI for interstate flight” (to avoid prosecution).

“Officer,” said the one in the center. “We are being cooper-ative; we’ve shown you ID; we need to leave now for our job. Look, we have the tools. They’re right here in this bag. I’ll show you.”

I let him reach into the bag, my brain reacting a split-second slow. His movements were deceptively smooth and natural.

I jerked my revolver out of the holster and pointed it at his chest. “You’re a dead man,” I yelled, “unless you
slowly
pull out your hand with the fingers spread wide apart. I want to see each hair on your hand as it comes out. The rest of you are dead if you
move.”

His hand came out a little too fast for me, but a glimpse revealed it was empty.

“Now, kick the bag over to me.”

With a single glance, I observed four handguns, including an expensive .357 Magnum – standard issue for Pennsylvania state troopers. I suspected they might carry other weapons concealed.

“All of you slowly drop to your knees then face down on the concrete. Hands on top of your heads.”

“This is hurting my face,” whined one.

“The bed in the D.C. Jail will be more comfortable, I promise.”

The sirens sounded closer, and the knot in my stomach was easing a little. Three professional killers almost whacked me, and one remained at large. Fearless Fosdick, who left me to chase one, despite having no weapon, arrived panting through the alley.

“He got away from me.”

“No shit. Go sit down.”

Several cars arrived at the same time; two almost collided.
Brinson leaped out of his car and said, “What do you need?”

“Help me cuff and search them.”

“Any of them give you trouble?” Brinson asked through clinched teeth.

“Please don’t break bad on me, Brinson. The entire world will be here on this one. In fact, I see blue grill lights, and two guys in trench coats arriving. There must be a secret FBI store which sells them the same coats.”

Brinson didn’t answer, too busy looking for weapons and making sure that their joints got a little extra pressure.

Soon the quiet, dark street became transformed into a surreal scene awash in blue and red lights from cars parked at all angles. Glancing up to ponder the last few minutes, I thought that Kafka, in his twisted worldview, would have enjoyed this. Abruptly, my brief reverie was broken by a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Are you the officer in 65?”

I rose up and saw it was Deputy Chief Pyles.

“Yes, sir,” and I saluted – a custom often overlooked within a chain of command where people work together on a daily basis. Lieutenant Dominik stood next to him.

“Damn fine job, Officer Stone. Those are some dangerous bastards. The FBI and my Tactical Unit are interviewing the reserve officer about the foot chase and other evidence regarding the fourth fugitive. The lieutenant here will put a letter of commendation in your official personnel file for this important collar. Congratulations on the good work.”

Lieutenant Dominik gave me a half smile; he had heard these congratulatory remarks many times before. Because the most serious charges were federal or out of state, Chief Pyles informed me not to object when the Assistant U.S. Attorney recommended extradition in the morning. I was hoping for no turf issues. Sitting in the court’s police waiting room for hours while other cases are called is a bureaucratic form of torture.

Paperwork finished my tour of duty. I went home, held a sleepy Karen for a few moments, and set the alarm for an early court appearance. For me, the case was closed.

Washington, D.C. July 1969

“JJ, this is Tyrone with a problem. I want you to go to the safe house on Swann Street and recover the coke from a dead swallower. She was carrying about 900 grams in eggs. One of her handlers is with her now.”

“Why can’t he do it? I hate that chore?”

“JJ, it’s too much money and temptation. I trust you and know you’ll do a good job. When you are finished, wrap her in a blanket and toss her in a dumpster at least ten blocks away.

“JJ?”

“Okay, Tyrone. Please give the next one to somebody else.”

“We are implementing other approaches to increase our volume and eliminate this method. Nobody likes it. Do it, and bring the washed product to me. I need to answer another call.”

JJ slouched up the steps to the safe house, which looked like all the other row houses on the small street with an alley in back. The handler greeted him. He had stripped her, put a heavy blanket underneath her, and piled her clothes in the corner of the room. Mr. Jones had told him not to do anything else until JJ arrived.

JJ regarded the young woman. She had long brown hair, not black, and fair skin. He examined one of the hands for calluses; they were soft. Why did such an attractive, middle-class lady take this risk for two-thousand dollars, he wondered.

He could not delay this any longer.

Removing a switchblade from his vest, he made two long incisions from the bottom of the rib cage under each breast down to bone on either side of the groin. JJ took care not to cut too
deeply. He made the last incision crosswise at the top where the two other incisions began, creating a flap. He braced for the stench, but she had not been dead long. Rigor was just easing. He reached inside and pulled the intestines from of the body.

He became queasy, and had to stand and walk a little. The handler sat in a chair in the corner facing away from her. The room had almost no furnishings except a foldout bed, two chairs, and ancient wallpaper, possibly original. A sole overhead fixture, aided by daylight coming through dirty windows, provided enough light for this job.

Back on his knees, JJ found the area where the containers of cocaine had clustered. He carefully slit open the intestines to remove them, one or two at a time. One was crushed – the cause of her death. Pressing along the intestines in this area, moving his hands from top to bottom, revealed more canisters. The total seemed less than 900 grams. He pulled the intestines further out and began squashing them, finding a few more canisters. An accidental look at her comely face gave him the chills. “Enough,” he thought.

JJ carried the canisters to a sink to wash them and put them into a bag for Tyrone.

The handler helped JJ wrap her up in the blanket, shove her into the car, and search for a distant dumpster.

“Scouts 65 and 67, report of a dead, naked woman, mauled by dogs, in the alley at 1450 Clifton Street; code two, Homicide is responding, 1422.”

“Scout 65 is 10-4.”

“Scout 67 is 10-99.”

Mike and I were the first on the scene. I asked the small crowd if anybody had seen or heard something unusual. Nobody had – the usual answer. I approached the corpse, careful not to disturb possible evidence, and noticed that dogs had chewed up one foot. As I inspected more closely, I jumped back into Mike, who
was standing behind me.

“Mike! Dogs didn’t do that. She was butchered by hand.”

Brinson in 67 and a Homicide cruiser arrived together. Johnny Yates from Homicide stepped out and said, “What do we have here?”

I pointed out the linear incisions and the intestines, apparently pulled out of the body. A slight shiver ran down my back. Johnny, who is normally loquacious in the worst cases, set his jaw and merely said, “I’m calling Narcotics.”

Brinson and Mike did not approach the corpse, said nothing, and stared at the remains of a young woman.

“Johnny,” I said. “Why Narcotics?”

Half looking at her, he replied, “She’s a drug swallower, she overdosed, and they filleted her like a dead fish for the drugs she carried. Notice some areas of the intestines were cut open by a knife. Dogs didn’t do that; another type of animal did.”

“Have you seen this before?”

“I’ve been doing police work in this city for eleven years, and this is the second dead swallower in three months. The first was cocaine. My money says the ME will confirm cocaine on this one as the cause of death.”

Johnny took some photos; we uncovered the blanket in one of the trash bins along with a small bag of women’s cloths. The morgue cruiser parked next to a Narcotics detective who quickly put on the rubber gloves with white powder favored by the morgue drivers. Brinson announced he was going back into service and drove off. I should have done the same as Brinson, but I remained morbidly curious about the intentions of this detective. In a few minutes he found an egg, presumably filled with cocaine. He set it down next to the intestines and snapped a photo. The egg went into an evidence bag, and the gloves into a dumpster.

“Let’s go, Mike. I’ve seen enough for a lifetime. I’m glad the slick suits are dealing with this.”

“Yeah,” said Mike. “Let’s hope we never get another one.”

As we drove off, I flashed back to the taunt by Slim Jim.
You can never win. We gonna out-slick you at every turn
.

Miami, Florida, August 1969

“He did
what?”
screamed Alvaro Gonzalez into the phone.

Sterling was ready for this reaction. “He flew to Nassau, sold the plane and its contents to a prearranged, unknown buyer. Next, he bought a commercial ticket for Madrid.”

“What are we going to do about it?” asked a simmering Gonzalez.

“I have dispatched two teams of two men. One will go to Nassau to find out who these thugs are, and try to get our money and drugs back. The other two will go to Madrid, find the pilot, interrogate him, and kill him. He probably thinks he’s safe in Europe and will be on a spending spree, which will be noticed.”

“Have you told the Professor yet?”

“Yes. He approved the plan.”

“Why am I always the last one to be informed or consulted?” complained Gonzalez.

Marcus was taken aback by the sudden need to be diplomatic with Alvaro. It never occurred to him that this loudmouthed killer had feelings.

“I’m sorry, Alvaro. Because you recruited this pilot, we thought you might feel better if we had an action plan in place.”

Shifting the subject, Alvaro said, “I’m not impressed with many of these former Batista pilots, and some of the other ones I can find here. It was a Cuban pilot who became lost, landed at the wrong airport in Florida, and had to ask for directions. If it weren’t so stupid, it would be funny. Now this double-cross. American pilots are better trained. What if you and Tyrone investigated along the coast for some upstanding, but crooked pilots
who we can count on not to get lost or rob us?”

“Great idea, Alvaro. I’ll talk to Tyrone and call you back.”

“How fortuitous,” thought Marcus. Alvaro had come up with the same plan he and Tyrone had discussed before this last incident. There had been several minor screw-ups. No single problem, rather a collection of them suggesting pilot incompetence.