Incentive for Death, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by James Spoonhour
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60809-576-6
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
This book is dedicated to Marie Spoonhour
1922–2021
My mother was an Army nurse in WWII, married my father who was in the Army Air Corps but passed away in 1973, raised three sons, and was widowed the last forty-nine years of her life. She was also an avid reader until macular degeneration stole her eyesight late in life and she switched to audible books. She regularly monitored my progress on this book and was hanging on until it was finished. To my regret, she didn’t quite make it.
CHAPTER ONE
EARLY APRIL SAW the last of the cherry blossoms drop at the edge of the Tidal Basin. They did not foretell the three homicides that would occur in the District of Columbia over the next twelve hours. Homicides that seemed unrelated—but were actually connected. One of those cases would be assigned to Detective Mac Burke.
As Monday evening fell, the offices in Northwest D.C. emptied of most employees. Many headed for the Metro stations, while some retrieved their automobiles from the self-contained car parks under their office buildings or walked to public garages where they had monthly spaces reserved.
At Gideon & McCaffery, work wound down a little later. The law firm’s fifty-five attorneys occupied two complete floors of the middle-aged Charter Building on L Street NW. By the time the cleaning crew arrived around eight in the evening, most of the staff and all but one of the partners had left. Most of the associates had also departed, except those working on appellate briefs or pleadings with impending deadlines.
Weldon Van Damm, the managing partner of the firm, was in his office in the southeast corner of the 12th floor, the one with the best view of Farragut Square and Lafayette Park. There was a copy of the Washington Post laid open next to his desktop computer. Van Damm’s office was the largest in the firm, as befit his position.
After a light rap on his door, he looked up to see a young woman in a blue business suit. Gideon & McCaffery was one of the few law firms that did not endorse the trend toward casual dress in the office. The woman could easily have been one of the young attorneys the firm hired each year, worked hard for several years, then decided they were not partner material and let them go. He did not recognize her, but he had trouble remembering the names of the annual additions to the associate ranks.
She moved toward his desk and held out a folder containing about a quarter inch of papers. As he reached for the folder, she deftly jabbed something in his neck and just as quickly withdrew the syringe. Van Damm’s eyes went wide, and his head and neck shook for several seconds. Then he slumped forward onto his desk. He was dead within twenty seconds of hitting the blotter.
The young woman had touched nothing inside the office. She picked up the folder, and used a knuckle to turn off the lights and depress the lock button on the inside of his office doorknob. Using a tissue, she pulled the door shut and checked to make sure it was locked. She then took the curving internal staircase down to the 11th floor and used the stairs next to the elevator to walk down to the parking decks below street level. Leaving the parking garage, she turned her white car right on L Street and headed toward Georgetown.
CHAPTER TWO
MY NAME IS McDermott Burke. I was named after my mother’s father. I currently live in a restored row house in the 700 block of Morris Place NE in a part of the District of Columbia referred to as the Capitol Hill area.
I live with my ex-wife, Maggie Hampton, some three years after we got an amicable divorce, which not even our closest friends know about. We had been married about four years before we mutually agreed on the split.
Maggie has never revealed what she does for a living—not even to me—although I have long assumed that she works for the CIA in some capacity. I call her Mags. She calls me McDermott, my full first name, although nearly everyone else calls me Mac.
Sometimes it is friends with benefits—and sometimes not—when she occupies one of the guest rooms. She still leaves for a month or two, always with no warning that she is departing—or that she is coming home.
The best indicator that she is away is whether her classic 1959 Porsche Speedster is missing from our two-car garage. She had the Speedster convertible when we got married.
On Tuesday morning, I woke up about six thirty.
By seven, I was showered and dressed. I ground a batch of Starbucks Pike Place beans and made a pot of coffee, which I took out to the deck on top of the garage at the back of the house. I sat at the wrought iron table in the shade of a red maple. My guess was that the maple was around a hundred years old, probably about the same age as the house. The sky was clear with a comfortable spring temperature. I was into my second cup and first Marlboro in the dappled shade when my cell rang.
“Mac, Chief Whittaker here. We just got a call—homicide at a law firm in Northwest. Grab Oliver and head over to Gideon & McCaffery at 1817 L Street NW. This could be a big one. Brief me as soon as you clear the scene.”
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
I speed-dialed my partner, Oliver Shaw. He answered, “What’s up so early, Mac?”
“The Chief just called me and gave us a homicide at a law firm on L Street. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
Oliver replied, “Make it ten.”
I grabbed my suit coat, headed out the back door and down the steps from the deck to the garage. I hit the garage door opener. I noticed the Speedster was not in residence.
I jumped into my 1991 Jeep Grand Wagoneer and backed into the alley. After lowering the garage door, I headed toward my partner’s house, which was only twelve blocks away.
At that point, I had no idea what this case would turn into.
CHAPTER THREE
AS I EASED DOWN the alley, I reflected on why my thirty-year-old Jeep Grand Wagoneer was still on the road. It was only by my stubbornness that this piece of flawed engineering was still running.
I took Maryland Avenue NE, which was the quickest route to Oliver’s house on Holbrook Avenue, not far from Gallaudet University. The curbs were covered with parked cars. As I pulled across the opening to Oliver’s driveway, he came out the front door, suit coat draped over his arm.
Oliver climbed into the passenger seat with a big smile and a hearty “What’s up?”
“No idea what we’ve got on this one. Just an address and name of a law firm.”
At some point during the thirteen years we had been paired as detectives at MPD, Chief Whittaker started calling me with new assignments, even though Oliver had about five years of seniority on me. I sensed that Oliver never understood why I had become the contact person for the Chief. Candidly, neither did I. It may have had something to do with my being the more verbal partner in our briefings of the Chief on our cases. Oliver never said anything about it, but I sensed that he noticed.
We headed toward Northwest D.C. We took Connecticut Avenue and then turned left on L Street where we saw three blue and white MPD patrol cars in front of a granite and glass office building about fourteen stories tall. The lettering on the marquee identified it as the Charter Building. The medical examiner’s white van was also there. I pulled to the curb and slapped an OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS placard on the dash. We climbed out and put our suit coats on.
A uniformed sergeant stood at the main entry.
“Morning, Sergeant,” Oliver said. “What’ve we got?”
“We can’t shut down the whole building, but we’ve sealed off the 11th and 12th floors where the law firm is located. We’re controlling traffic in and out of those floors. Take the fourth elevator. You’ll want to head to the 12th floor. That’s the main reception and where you’ll find the deceased.”
A key had been inserted in the control panel so that MPD could control the elevator for the duration. We punched the button for 12 and rose at a slow hydraulic pace.
On 12, we entered a high-end lobby with GIDEON & MCCAFFERY, LLP in 15-inch brass letters on the facing wall, which was covered in taupe-colored linen. At least I assumed that was the color, as I am one of the quarter of males who suffer from red-green color blindness, which means I don’t see pastels very well.
To our left was a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing toward Georgetown. Near the windows was a spiral staircase about eight feet wide curving down to the 11th floor.
A patrolman stood next to the elevators to control traffic into or out of the firm’s offices. We signed his log. He pointed us down a hallway to the right. “Go to the end of the hall by the corner. The crime scene crew and the M.E. are already down there.”
We found the crime scene guys in white Tyvek jumpsuits near a small seating area outside the corner office. None of the techs were sitting so as to not cross-contaminate their protective cover
Brady Pollard, the lead crime scene technologist, pointed at the dark paneled door, which stood ajar at the entry to the corner office. “The M.E. is inside. After she pronounces, we’ll go in and do our thing.”
“Thanks, Brady. A secretary or other admin staff?”
“A secretary. We put her in the office next door.” He pointed to the closest door adjacent to the seating area.
Oliver and I headed to the door of the corner office and stuck our heads in. Dr. Courtney Vaughan, Assistant Medical Examiner for the District of Columbia, was just straightening up after leaning over the deceased’s body, which was sitting in a tall leather desk chair and leaning across the leather blotter inlaid in the top of the large walnut desk. The M.E. was early fifties, about 5’8” tall. Her hair was dark brown with a few gray ones intermingled, likely the result of her eighteen years in the trenches as a D.C. medical examiner.
She held a magnifying glass in her right hand. “Mac and Oliver,” she said when she noticed us. “Glad you guys caught this one.”
Oliver asked, “What have you got so far, Doc?”
“Only preliminary. I’ll need to get him on the table to be more definitive. Quick body temperature, taking into account the residual temp of this office, indicates that he probably died sometime yesterday evening. I’ll be more precise after I get a liver temp.”
“What’s the magnifying glass for, Doc?” I asked. “Kind of Sherlock Holmesian, isn’t it?”
“I needed to take a closer look at something—I noticed a small red spot just above his shirt collar on the left side of his neck. Closer inspection with my trusty illuminated magnifying glass—which I always carry in my black case—revealed what looks like an injection puncture mark with a fine needle. I can give you more on that also when I get him on the table. I’ll expedite the tox screen to see what turns up. And the magnifying glass used by Sherlock did not have a self-contained source of illumination.”
“Good catch,” I noted. “So, the method may be fairly easy to determine. It’s just a matter of whodunnit.”
“Yep. Looks that way. As soon as the crime scene guys are done with the body, we’ll get it transported to my shop. The bus is already here. My guys are waiting to bring the stretcher up as soon as they get the ‘all clear’ from Brady.”
“You going to do this autopsy yourself?”
“Yes. As you will find out shortly, the deceased was a mover and shaker in this town of movers and shakers. This case will likely get a lot of attention. So far, no sign of the media. Did you see any when you came in?”
“Nope. But that was a few minutes ago, so the status could easily have changed.”
My partner was looking at his phone screen. He looked up at me. “Just checking to see who called it in and the time. The answer is Susanna Wales, the secretary we apparently have ensconced in the office next door. Time of call was 7:15 a.m.”
We thanked the M.E. and headed next door. “It’s all yours as soon as the M.E. leaves,” I told Brady. “She has the bus downstairs when you’re finished working around the body.”
Oliver knocked on the door of the neighboring office and stepped inside. “Ms. Wales, I’m Detective Oliver Shaw from the Metropolitan Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective McDermott Burke.” We both showed her our credentials.
The office showed signs of active use. There were several piles of documents organized on top of the desk with more stacks on the credenza in front of the window. Less than half the size of the corner office where we had just been—I figured it belonged to someone lower in the pecking order.
Susanna Wales was sitting in a chair at the end of the desk. Oliver asked if we could sit and she nodded. We took the two brown leather chairs in front of the desk.
As was our practice, I sat in the chair closest to her and Oliver took the other seat and pulled out his notebook. In our pairing, I was usually the initial interrogator and student of body language, while Shaw was the notetaker and the person who listened to the voices to pick up signals not otherwise visible. It was a system that worked well for us over the thirteen years we had worked as a team.
The woman’s red eyes and the wadded-up tissue in her left hand made it clear that she had been crying. She confirmed her name and said that she was Weldon Van Damm’s executive secretary. “Actually, they call us legal assistants now, instead of secretaries,” she added. She was nicely attired in a gray suit with a white blouse underneath. Other than earrings, she wore no jewelry. No wedding or engagement rings, and she appeared to be in her forties.
I started the discussion. “We understand that you called 911 this morning. Can you tell us what led up to that call?”
“Sure. I work directly for Mr. Van Damm. He’s the managing partner here at the firm. He usually gets in around seven thirty in the morning, so I try to get here between seven and seven fifteen. I park in our reserved section of the underground parking garage.”
“What time did you get here today?”
“About ten after seven. After parking downstairs, I took the elevator up to 12 and headed for our offices. My office is the cubicle right beside Mr. Van Damm’s door.”
“Was the law firm already open?”
“There’s no door, as such. The elevator that serves our two floors is locked once the last person leaves at night, which is usually the cleaning crew. As usual, the lights were on in the lobby, meaning someone else had already come in. No one was at the reception desk. Never is at that hour. Reception usually staffs up around eight.”
I needed to connect some dots. “So, there was somebody in the office before you?”
“I don’t know about the 11th floor offices. I usually don’t go down there much. The reception lobby lights come on automatically when someone steps off the elevator. The timer is set to stay on all day. So, somebody had come in before me, but I don’t know who. That’s not unusual. Particularly the associates come in to get an early jump on things.”
“Sorry to break your train of thought,” I interrupted. “So, you came in and headed toward your office?”
“Yes. I put my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk and retrieved my key to Mr. Van Damm’s office to unlock it. He always locked the door when he left at night.”
“Was that key locked inside your desk?”
“Yes. I have a key to my desk on my key chain. I unlocked Mr. Van Damm’s door and reached in to flick on the lights, as usual. I almost fainted when I saw Weldon asleep at his desk. He never does that. I went over and shook his shoulder a little, but he didn’t move. I almost screamed.”
I gave her my understanding facial expression and signaled for her to continue.
“I thought he might have had a heart attack. He felt cold when I touched him. I spoke to him a couple more times. I just had a feeling that he had died. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I called 911.”
“What did you tell the 911 operator?”
“I just told her that I think my boss is dead in his office and could they send someone. She asked me a couple questions and said they would send someone over.”
“How soon did the police arrive?”
“About five to ten minutes later, two police officers showed up. Before they got here, I had told our office manager and a couple of the partners that Mr. Van Damm appeared to be dead in his office. They looked inside, but I don’t think they went in his office.” Shaw asked for their names and noted the three of them in his notebook for a follow-up interview.
When we had finished with our questions, we asked Susanna Wales to stay away from her cubicle, other than to retrieve her purse. Then I asked her to meet us at MPD headquarters so that we could talk to her further. “We won’t know until later what the cause of death was, but we need to cover all the bases.” She agreed to meet us at two that afternoon. We gave her our cards. We also told her the crime scene techs would want to get her fingerprints for purposes of elimination.
After advising Susanna Wales to notify the office manager that she would be with us during the afternoon, we headed back to Van Damm’s office. I stopped at the doorway, saw no body, and assumed that it had already been transported to the Medical Examiner’s morgue.
