WHEN I HEADED BACK TO MY CAR ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE BOATHOUSE, I saw that the locust storm had descended—the kind with cameras, microphones, and broadcast towers.
Instead of the usual half-dozen reporters we might have seen by now, there were dozens of them, just waiting for the story. Trucks were lined up on Water Street, and without a designated press space everyone was right there on the tape line.
This was three bodies in less than a week, centered around one of DC’s least violent neighborhoods. By comparison, the previous three murders anywhere west of Rock Creek had been spread out over a fourteen-month period. People were definitely sitting up and taking notice.
“Detective Cross, over here!”
“Who’s the victim, Alex?”
“Are you considering this a serial investigation at this point?”
It’s a little like being a rock star, without any of the fringe benefits. I gave them the bare minimum, which was all I could afford to do right now.
“Sergeant Huizenga will be out to brief you after the family has been notified,” I told whoever was closest. “We won’t be releasing any details in the meantime.”
“Detective Cross, will you be overseeing all three of these cases?” Shawna Stewart from Channel Five asked me.
“I don’t know yet,” I told her.
“How are the Darcy Vickers and Elizabeth Reilly investigations coming along?”
“They’re coming,” I said, just as I reached my car.
“Hey, Alex, is it true you pulled Elizabeth Reilly’s dead body out of that window before a proper examination?” someone else yelled out. “Doesn’t that compromise the investigation?”
That one stopped me cold. Maybe I should have kept moving, but instead I turned around to see who had asked the question.
This guy struck me as a one-man operation from the first glance. I’d seen his type before—camera around his neck, a handheld recorder pointed my way, and a notebook sticking out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. He also had a full beard, and no press credentials that I could see. Everyone else around him had laminated badges from the city, clipped to their lapels or hanging on lanyards around their necks.
“I don’t recognize you,” I said. “Who are you with?”
“I’m just trying to get the facts, detective.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I said. “I asked who you’re with.”
He raised his voice then, enough to make sure the microphones all around us were picking him up. “Am I a suspect, detective? Are you saying you want to detain me?”
He was baiting me. I’ve seen it a million times. If they can’t get the story they want, they’ll try to create one—especially the hacks and the wannabes.
“No, I’m not detaining you,” I said. “It was just a simple question.”
“Why? Am I required by law to identify myself?” he said.
Now he was just being a dick. The civilian in me wanted to shove that recorder right down his throat.
“No,” I said again. “You’re not required to identify yourself.”
“In that case—no comment,” he said, fighting back a smile. It got a laugh from a few in the crowd, but not from me. The best thing I could do right now was get in my car and leave.
I had somewhere more important to be, anyway. And it couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER
14
BY THE TIME I PULLED UP IN FRONT OF CORY SMITHE’S HOME, I FELT LIKE I HAD a fifty-pound bag of gravel sitting on my chest. Family notifications are the hardest part of my job, hands down.
The Smithes lived in one of the thousands of early twentieth-century row houses that line the streets of Northwest DC. This one was on Shepherd Street in Petworth, with a tiny, terraced stamp of green lawn halfway up the stairs to the front door. In the middle of the grass was a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by a bed of spring tulips. Maybe the Lady would give these people some comfort when they needed it most.