Authors: Dorothy Phaire
“I’d better get out of here,” he said in a whispered voice, “I shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking right now in church.”
They ended their kiss as innocently as it began with a playful peck on the lips then reluctantly let go their grip on each other. After Deek left the church, Renee calmed down and returned upstairs to the funeral service.
Luckily, she found an opening in the pew directly behind Brenda, near Veda and Cha-Cha—familiar faces that smiled at her and made room on their pew.
At the end of the mass, Jerome’s oldest brother came up and eulogized him in a touching tribute and relayed anecdotes from their childhood. In the midst of Father Emanuel’s songbird vocalization of Psalm 116, a woman seated in the middle pews sobbed uncontrollably. Renee turned around but did not recognize the woman who appeared to be close to Brenda’s age. However, she did notice how Mrs. Adams looked back and cut her eyes at the sobbing woman whose makeup had started to run through her crying. She also overheard Mrs. Adams when she leaned over to Brenda and whispered in a voice that was not particularly quiet to anyone sitting near her. “What’s that tramp doing here,” said Mrs. Adams, “Has she lost her mind showing up at Jerome’s funeral? That’s just the epitome of bad taste.” Brenda rocked Baby Justin and ignored the woman’s outbursts as well as her mother’s outrage.
Now the whole church had begun to stare as the woman bent over screaming and clutching her midriff. Renee silently mouthed the question, ‘Who is that?’ and Veda, who sat right next to her, answered that it was Leenae Lewis, Jerome’s girlfriend from when they were all in high school. If Brenda heard Veda identify the woman as Jerome’s high school ex-girlfriend, she didn’t react. Instead, Brenda sat as rigid as a mummy with her lips clamped shut. By this time the noise had awakened the baby and Brenda’s father reached over to take him from Brenda and carried him quickly out into the vestibule. Suddenly, the woman leaped from the pew and sprinted down the aisle yelling, “Open it. Open the casket now. I wanna see him.” Brenda stood up, transfixed and speechless. Everyone stared in shock as Leenae ran towards the casket. Father Emanuel stumbled down the short steps from the altar in his haste to restrain the woman.
“Please, madam, stop,” begged Father Emanuel waving his pudgy arms, “This is a closed casket ceremony.”
People sat motionless with mouths gaped open, too stunned at this sudden outburst to move. In a flash, Leenae got past the priest and flung open the casket while people gasped in horror and disbelief. The severely burned body lay in the coffin, encased in white, silken padding. A white sheet covered most of Jerome’s burned remains. Leenae screamed, covered her hands over her face, and then turned away. Father Emanuel rushed to close the casket, at which point Jerome’s mother doubled over into her husband’s arms and began weeping.
“What in God’s name are you doing, Leenae?” Jerome’s brother shouted, “Are you insane?”
Two men grabbed Leenae by each arm and tried to guide her back to the pew, but she snatched away from them. She stood in the aisle yelling something unintelligible at the dead body in the casket. When she spotted the two men coming towards her, she ran out the side exit.
Alonzo grinned from his seat. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Some drama up in here.”
“This is a shameless spectacle in the House of God!” said Brenda. “Lord, forgive us.” Brenda crumpled onto the seat and cried softly. Veda and Cha-Cha quickly moved up to the front row and put their arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. Renee followed and came forward to try to comfort Brenda.
Mrs. Adams, Brenda’s mother, readjusted her red brimmed hat with a manicured red polished hand, and then crossed her leg to the other side. “Ya’ll should have known better than to set up a dignified funeral for Jerome Johnson. You know the type of riffraff he hung around with. Would have been easier and quicker to have him cremated like I said.”
Once things had settled down after Leenae’s tirade, Father Emanuel ended the service and signaled for the pallbearers to carry the casket out to the hearse. The family had paid the additional cost for police escort through the city, so the funeral procession proceeded straight to the cemetery, unencumbered by rude motorists breaking into their convoy or honking their horns.
T
he investigative homicide team, Detectives Melvin “Mel” Bradford and Degas “Deek” Hamilton pulled up at the front gates of Galludet University at 8
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and Florida Avenue, N.E. to question the guard. Bradford, the seasoned veteran on the team, short and stocky with thinning hair, and Hamilton, his younger partner, were following up on a tip they had received on Monday October 6, the day of the Capitol Hill fire. When the detectives approached, the six-foot five, muscled-bound guard stepped out of his booth to speak to them.
“Mr. Todd, is it?” said Det. Bradford, reading the nametag on the guard’s uniform, “We’re Detectives Bradford and Hamilton. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” The detectives flashed their badges and Ids simultaneously.
“Like I said, I didn’t see much behind that booth. I couldn’t even make out the license plate but the car was a black SUV. Looked like a Chevy model.”
“Your description matches what we got from some of the neighbors who thought they saw someone fleeing the scene that afternoon in a dark-colored sports utility vehicle,” said Bradford, “But unfortunately, it’s not enough.”
The guard furrowed his bushy eyebrows together in deep thought. “Wait, there was a pregnant, homeless woman that wanders the streets around here sometimes. She had a run-in with the driver that afternoon when the driver almost hit her. She probably got a better look at the vehicle and maybe even saw the suspect.”
“Well, that’s something to go on,” said Deek, “Where can we find this witness?”
“There’s a group of homeless people that squat in those abandoned rowhouses in Trinidad, N.E,” said the guard, “It’s cold today and when it’s cold outside or the weather’s bad, some of them go there to keep warm, or dry if it’s raining. You might track her down over there.”
“I know where you’re talking about,” said Bradford, “The doors on these abandoned houses are always broken open. We get complaints all the time from owners who can’t keep the homes boarded up. It’s easy for squatters to break in. Thanks, Mr. Todd, if you remember anything else, give us a call.”
Detectives Bradford and Hamilton jumped back into Bradford’s police-issued midnight blue Crown Victoria and sped off. They traveled down H Street towards the Trinidad neighborhood in Northeast Washington, D. C. The car slowed down in front of an L-shaped track of nondescript, brick red, graffiti-covered walls as the detectives peered out both sides of the window. Bradford told Deek how ten years ago when the housing complex was first built, a well-kept lawn of lush green surrounded the entire residential area. He said at one time there had been a park with functional playground equipment. Now, the swings were broken and the only thing standing on the basketball court was the backboard, and a dangling, net-less hoop that had been partially ripped off.
They continued slowly down the street, hoping to catch sight of the homeless, pregnant woman the guard had said might be a potential witness. Flanked by a twelve-foot high-wired fence and a forest of densely populated evergreens in the distance, the projects looked more like a maximum-security prison. A construction crew had left stacks of metal slabs, a bulldozer and a front loader on a nearby abandoned lot. A group of young men huddled on the lot but when they spotted Bradford’s car inching towards them, they ran.
The subsidized housing and abandoned dwellings that the detectives passed had been overrun by homeless people, thieves, drug users, and their dealers. Wasted young souls slouched in doorways, their youth and bodies used up by drugs. The homeless squatted in clusters with their bundled possessions close by. As he stared out the window, Deek felt a lump in his throat. He realized that at one time many of these people could have had jobs, homes, and dreams. Too many working people today were only two paychecks away from being in the streets.
Suddenly, something shadowy with a speck of red flashed from behind a dense thicket of poplar and catalpa bushes. Bradford slammed on the breaks and both detectives jumped out the car. The shadow fled but didn’t get far before Bradford and Deek caught up with her. She was pregnant. Her large, glassy eyes glared out at them with mistrust. She removed her red knit cap and twisted it in her hands.
“I didn’t do nothin’,” she stammered before the detectives could speak.
After Bradford and Deek introduced themselves and explained what they wanted, she grew even more reticent.
“What’s your name?” Deek asked.
“Belinda, but folks around here call me Billi.”
“Listen, Billi we just spoke to the guard at Galludet University. He told us you had an argument on Monday with someone fitting the description of our suspect. Could you tell us what happened?”
Billi folded her arms around her shivering body and stared at her scruffy shoes without answering.
“Do you have family anywhere?”
Billi shook her head.
“I can try to get you some help Billi if you let me. You should be going to a clinic for regular prenatal care,” said Deek. “Take my card. It’s got my number at the precinct and at FBI headquarters.”
He stuffed his business card and some bills in her hands. “Go get yourself a decent meal. When I get back to the station, I’ll make some calls to find out about permanent shelter and other services for you and your baby once it’s born. You haven’t been drinking or doing drugs, have you?”
Billi assured Deek she wasn’t. She said when she discovered she was pregnant she stopped drinking and smoking crack. No family, homeless, and approaching her ninth month in the pregnancy, all she had in the world was her unborn baby.
“Let’s get back to the reason we’re here,” Bradford piped in, “Don’t keep us in suspense, lady, tell us about the driver in the black SUV. We think this is the person responsible for that fire Monday afternoon on 6
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Street in SE that resulted in the death of a 28 year old man.”
“No, I don’t know nothing, man. I’m not getting mixed up in this.” Billi shook her head vehemently. She refused to get involved in a murder investigation.
“Maybe we’ll just take you down to police headquarters and charge you with trespassing on private property,” Bradford threatened, “Unless you’re ready to make a formal statement.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere and I ain’t talkin’ to no cops,” said Billi.
Deek took his partner aside and spoke in a whispered tone so the witness could not hear. “Mel, can’t you see this woman is afraid and needs help?” said Deek, “Your scare tactics are a misuse of authority here.”
Bradford sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “You can play Santa Clause on your own time Young Blood. But I’m getting the hell outta here. This is a waste of my goddamn time.”
Detective Bradford turned and walked away. He plopped his heavy frame behind the wheel and slammed the door. Deek talked to Billi for a few more minutes before leaving. He asked her to call if she changed her mind about cooperating or if she needed anything.
“All right, let’s head back to the precinct,” said Deek, wearily then climbed in the passenger’s side, “Maybe something’s come in from the lab.”
A
fter the interment at the cemetery, Renee made a brief appearance at Mrs. Adams’s house, but still didn’t get a chance to speak to Brenda privately. Renee wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Brenda moving back home with her manipulating mother. But having Brenda safe at her own home did free up her time to work on the case with Deek as the investigative team’s criminal profile expert. In just four days, the media’s portrayal of Brenda had degraded from innocent widow to vilified murderess. The press painted a conniving, greedy woman who launched a scheme to collect on her husband’s $50,000-dollar life insurance policy by burning down an elderly lady’s house and all her memories. They projected a heartless criminal capable of killing her husband who she knew was home at the time of the arson, kidnapping her baby and leaving it to be found by authorities. In an attempt to show a rising trend in killer mothers, the press dug up past cases where mothers had willfully harmed or murdered their children.
Renee did not know this woman they depicted in the newspapers and on television. As far as she was concerned, that woman did not exist. There had to be other suspects to consider. Hopefully she could convince Lt. Melvin Bradford, the lead investigator for Jerome’s case, to explore different possibilities. When she volunteered her services as a civilian, Chief Frye and Detective Bradford agreed to accept her help. She headed for D.C. Police headquarters at 300 Indiana Avenue, NW and hoped Deek would be there instead of at the FBI building. Deek had been working double time, dividing his responsibilities between the Save Our Streets (SOS) FBI joint task force, designed to reduce drug-related crime in the city and his regular MPD homicide caseload.
When Renee arrived at headquarters, the desk sergeant told her that Detectives Bradford and Hamilton were on their way back to the station after questioning witnesses. Renee rode the elevator to the homicide division on the third floor to wait for them. She sat down on a bench amid the processing room’s somber decor of drab pea green walls, black metal desks, hard chairs, and metallic gray filing cabinets. A tower of boxed paperwork sat in a corner waiting to be filed. Now she understood why Deek kept his notes and paperwork electronically organized on a PDA and his laptop computer. In seconds he could access law enforcement databases and computerized systems to manage his cases and analyze evidence. All around the room, she heard the constant noise of phones ringing, conversations, and witnesses being questioned. Investigators huddled in their spaces, poured over stacks of case files, and charted their evidence on a large white board.