Pop Goes the Weasel (14 page)

I did as I was told and loved every moment, every movement we made together, and I even wondered for a second if we had made
a baby.

MUCH LATER THAT NIGHT, we rustled up some eggs with Vidalia onions and cheddar and mozzarella cheeses, and opened a nice bottle
of Pinot Noir. Then I started a fire in August, with the air conditioner turned up high.

We sat in front of the fire, laughed and talked, and planned a quick trip away from Washington. We settled on Bermuda, and
Christine asked if we could bring Nana and the kids. I felt as if my life were changing fast, going to a new, good place.
If only I could get lucky and catch the Weasel somehow. That could be the perfect ending to my career with the Metro police.

I went home to Fifth Street late, and got in just before three. I didn’t want Damon and Jannie to wake in the morning and
not find me there. I was up by seven o’clock the next morning, bounding downstairs to the delectable smells of fresh coffee
and Nana’s world-famous sticky buns.

The terrible twosome were just about ready to dash off to the Sojourner Truth School, where they were taking morning advanced
classes. They looked like a pair of shiny angels. I didn’t get to feel this good very often, so I was going all the way with
it.

“How was your date last night, Daddy?” Jannie said, making her biggest goo-goo eyes at me.

“Who said I had a big date?” I made room for her on my knee. She ate a bite of the humongous sweet bun Nana had set on my
plate.

“Let’s just say a little birdie told me,” she chirped.

“Uh-huh. Little birdie makes good sticky buns,” I said. “My date was pretty good. How was yours? You had a date, right? Didn’t
sit home alone, did you?”

“Your date was
pretty
good? You came home with the milkman.” Jannie laughed out loud. Damon was giggling, too. She can get us all going when she
wants to; she’s been that way since she was a baby.

“Jannie Cross,” Nana said, but she let it go. There was no use trying to make Jannie act like a typical seven-year-old at
this point. She was too bright, too outspoken, too full of life and fun. Besides, we have a philosophy as a family: He or
she who laughs, lasts.

“How come you two don’t live together first?” Jannie asked. “That’s what they all do in the movies and on TV.”

I found myself grinning and starting to frown at the same time. “Don’t get me going on the silly stuff they do on TV and in
the movies, little girl. They always get it wrong. Christine and I are going to get married soon, and
then
we’ll all live together.”

Everybody was chattering for several minutes about our future life with Christine, until Jannie finally said, “I have to go
to
school
now,
Pa-pa
. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Johnson by being late now, would I? Here’s your morning newspaper.”

Jannie handed me the
Washington Post
, and my heart jumped a little in my chest. This was a good day indeed. I saw Zachary Taylor’s story at the bottom right of
the front page. It wasn’t the banner headline it deserved to be, but he’d gotten the story on page one.

“Potential scandal indeed,” Nana said, and squeegeed her lower face. “Genocide always is, isn’t it?”

I ENTERED THE STATION HOUSE at around eight, and Chief Pittman’s assistant-lackey came scurrying up to me. Old Fred Cook had
been a bad detective once, and now he was an equally bad and devious administrator, but he was as smooth a butt-kisser as
could be found in the department or anywhere else in Washington.

“The chief of detectives wants to see you in his office posthaste. It’s important,” Fred told me. “Better move it.”

I nodded at him and tried to keep my good mood intact. “Of course it is, he’s the chief of detectives. You have any helpful
hints for me, Fred? You happen to know what this is about, what I should expect?”

“It’s a big deal,” said Cook, unhelpful and happy about it. “That’s about all I can tell you, Alex.”

He walked away, leaving me hanging. I could feel bile rising in my throat. My good mood had already deserted me.

I walked down the creaking hardwood floors of the hallway to The Jefe’s office. I had no idea what to expect, but I sure wasn’t
prepared for what I found.

I immediately thought about what Damon had said that morning:
It’s time we had a normal life around here
.

Sampson was seated inside the chief’s office. Rakeem Powell and Jerome Thurman were both in there, too.

“Come in, Dr. Cross.” Chief Pittman beckoned with an outstretched hand. “Please come in. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”

“What is this?” I said, pulling up a chair next to Sampson’s and whispering in his ear.

“Don’t know yet, but it’s not too good,” he said. “The Jefe hasn’t said word one to us. Looks like the canary who ate the
cat, though.”

Pittman came around in front of his desk and leaned his ample buttocks back against it. He seemed particularly full of himself
and bullshit this morning. His mousy gray hair was plastered back and looked like a helmet on his bullet head.

“I can tell you what you want to know, Detective Cross,” he said. “In fact, I didn’t want to tell these other detectives until
you got here. As of this morning, detectives Sampson, Thurman, and Powell have been suspended from active duty. They have
been working on cases outside the auspices of this department. Evidence is still being gathered about the full extent of these
activities and also if any other detectives were involved.”

I started to speak up, but Sampson grabbed my arm—hard. “Be cool, Alex.”

Pittman looked at the three of them. “Detectives Sampson, Thurman, Powell, you can go. Your union representative has been
informed of the situation. You have questions, or issues with my decision, inform your representative.”

Sampson’s mouth was set hard. He didn’t say a word to The Jefe, though. He got up and left the office. Thurman and Powell
trailed close behind him. Neither of them spoke to Pittman, either. The three of them were hardworking, dedicated detectives,
and I couldn’t stand to watch this happen.

I wondered why The Jefe had spared me so far. I also wondered why Shawn Moore wasn’t there. The cynical answer was that Pittman
wanted to set us against one another, to make us believe that Shawn had spoken against us.

Pittman reached across his desk and picked up a folded copy of the
Washington Post
. “You happen to see this article today? Bottom right?”

He pushed the newspaper toward me. I had to catch the paper to keep it from falling to the floor.

“‘Scandal over unsolved murders in Southeast,’” I said. “Yes, I did. I read it at home.”

“I’ll bet you did. Mr. Taylor, of the
Post
, quotes unidentified sources in the police department. You have anything to do with the article?” Pittman asked, and stared
hard at me.

“Why would I talk to the
Washington Post
?” I asked a question in answer to his. “I told you about the problem in Southeast. I think a repeat killer may be working
there. Why go any farther with it than that? Suspending those detectives sure won’t help solve the problem. Especially if
this sicko is approaching rage, which I believe he is.”

“I don’t buy this serial-killer story. I don’t see any pattern that’s consistent. No one else does but you.” Pittman shook
his head and frowned. He was hot, angry, trying to control himself.

He reached out his hand toward me again. His fingers were like uncooked sausages. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
“I’d like to fuck you over good, and I will. But for now, it wouldn’t be expedient to pull you off the Odenkirk homicide.
It wouldn’t
look
good, and I suspect it would end up in the
Post
, too. I look forward to your daily reports on the so-called John Doe case. You know, it is time you got some of those unsolved
murders off the books. You’ll report directly to me on this. I’m going to be all over you, Cross. Any questions?”

I quickly left Chief Pittman’s office. Before I hit him.

SAMPSON, THURMAN, AND RAKEEM POWELL had already left the building by the time I got out of The Jefe’s office. I felt as if
I could easily go postal. I nearly walked back inside Pittman’s office and wiped up the floor with him.

I went to my desk and thought about what to do next, tried to calm myself down before I did anything rash and stupid. I thought
about my responsibilities to the people in Southeast, and that helped me. Still, I almost went back after Pittman.

I called Christine and let out some steam. Then, on the spur of the moment, I asked if she could get away for our long weekend,
possibly starting on Thursday night. Christine said that she could go. I went and filled out a vacation form and left it on
Fred Cook’s desk. It was the last thing he and Pittman would expect from me. But I’d already decided the best thing would
be to get away from here, cool down, then figure out a plan to move forward.

As I headed out of the building, another detective stopped me. “They’re over at Hart’s bar,” he said. “Sampson said to tell
you they reserved a seat for you.”

Hart’s is a very seedy, very popular gin mill on Second Street. It isn’t a cops’ bar, which is why some of us like it. It
was eleven in the morning, and the barroom was already crowded, lively, even friendly.

“Here he is!” Jerome Thurman saluted me with a half-full beer mug as I walked inside. Half a dozen other detectives and friends
were there, too. The word had gotten around fast about the suspensions.

There was a whole lot of laughter and shouting going on. “It’s a bachelor’s party!” Sampson said, and grinned. “Got you, sugar.
With a little help from Nana. You should see the look on your face!”

For the next hour and a half, friends kept arriving at Hart’s. By noon the bar was full, and then the regular customers started
coming in for their lunch-hour nips. The owner, Mike Hart, was in his glory. I hadn’t really thought about having a bachelor’s
party, but now that I was in the middle of one, I was glad it happened. A lot of men still guard their emotions and feelings,
but not so much at a bachelor’s party, at least not at a good one thrown by the people closest to you.

This was a good one. The suspensions that had been handed down earlier that morning were mostly forgotten for a few hours.
I was congratulated and hugged more times than I could count, and even kissed once or twice. Everybody was calling me “sugar,”
following Sampson’s lead. The “love” word was used, and overused. I was roasted and toasted in sentimental speeches that seemed
hilarious at the time. Just about everybody had too much to drink.

By four in the afternoon, Sampson and I were steadying each other, making our way into the blinding daylight on Second Street.
Mike Hart himself had called us a cab.

For a brief, clear moment, I was reminded of the purple and blue gypsy cab we were looking for—but then the thought evaporated
into the nearly white sunlight.

“Sugar,” Sampson whispered against my skull as we were climbing into our cab, “I love you more than life itself. It’s true.
I love your kids, love your Nana, love your wife-to-be, the lovely Christine. Take us home,” he said to the driver. “Alex
is getting married.”

“And he’s the best man,” I said to the driver, who smiled.

“Yes I am,” said Sampson. “The very best.”

ON THURSDAY NIGHT, Shafer played the Four Horsemen again. He was locked inside his study, but through the early part of the
night he could hear the sounds of his family throughout the house. He felt intensely isolated; he was nervous, jittery, and
angry for no apparent reason.

While he waited to log on with the other players, he found himself thinking back to his wild car ride through Washington.
He relived a particular feeling over and over: the imagined moment of sudden impact with an unmovable structure. He saw it
as blinding light, and physical objects, and
himself
, all shattering like glass and then becoming part of the universe again. Even the pain he would feel would be part of the
reassembling of matter into other fascinating forms and shapes.

I am suicidal
, he finally thought.
It’s just a matter of time. I really am Death
.

When it was exactly nine o’clock, he began to type in a message on his computer. The other Horsemen were on-line, waiting
for his response to the visit and warning by George Bayer. He didn’t want to disappoint them. What they had done had made
him even more enthusiastic about playing the game. He wrote: