“Hands on top of your heads! Both of you. Put your arms up slow and easy,” Sampson yelled at the man and woman we had surprised in the kitchen.
We had our Glocks trained on Colonel Moore. He didn’t look like too much of a threat: a short man, thin and balding, middle-aged paunch, eyeglasses. He wore a standard-issue Army uniform, but even that didn’t help his image too much.
“We’re detectives with the Metro D.C. police,” Sampson identified the two of us. The Moores looked in shock. I couldn’t blame them. Sampson and I can be shocking under the wrong circumstances, and these were definitely the wrong circumstances.
“There’s been some kind of really bad, really crazy mistake,” Colonel Moore finally said very slowly and carefully.
“I’m Colonel Franklin Moore. This is my wife, Connie Moore. The address here is 418 Seward Square North.” He slowly enunciated each word. “Please lower your weapons, Officers. You’re in the wrong place.”
“We’re at the correct address, sir,” I told the colonel. And you’re the crank caller we want to talk to. Either you’re a crank or you’re a killer.
“And we’re looking for Colonel Frank Moore,” Sampson filled in. He hadn’t lowered his Glock an inch, not a millimeter. Neither had I.
Colonel Moore maintained his cool pretty well. That concerned me, set my inner alarms off in a loud jangle.
“Well, can you please tell us what this is all about? And please do it quickly. Neither of us has ever been arrested. I’ve never even had a traffic violation,” he said to both Sampson and me, not sure who was in charge.
“Do you subscribe to Prodigy, Colonel?” Sampson asked him. It sounded a little crazy when it came out, like everything else lately.
Colonel Moore looked at his wife, then he turned back to us. “We do subscribe, but we do it for our son, Sumner. Neither of us has much time in our schedules for computer games. I don’t understand them much and don’t want to.”
“How old is your son?” I asked Colonel Moore.
“What difference does that make? Sumner is thirteen years old. He’s in the ninth grade at the Theodore Roosevelt School. He’s an honor student. He’s a great kid. What is this all about, Officers? Will you please tell us why you’re here?”
“Where is Sumner now?” Sampson said in a very low and threatening voice.
Because maybe young Sumner was listening somewhere near in the house. Maybe the Sojourner Truth School killer was listening to us right now.
“He gets up half an hour to forty-five minutes later than we do. His bus comes at six-thirty. Please? What is this about?”
“We need to talk to your son, Colonel Moore,” I said to him. Keep it real simple for right now.
“You have to do better—” Colonel Moore started to say.
“No, we don’t have to do better,” Sampson interrupted him.
“We need to see your son right now. We’re here on a homicide investigation, Colonel. Two small children have already been killed. Your son may be involved with the murders. We need to see your son.”
“Oh, dear God, Frank,” Mrs. Moore spoke up for the first time. Connie, I remembered her name. “This can’t be happening. Sumner couldn’t have done anything.”
Colonel Moore seemed even more confused than when we first burst in, but we had gotten his full attention. “I’ll show you up to Sumner’s room. Could you please holster your weapons, at least?”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” I told him. The look in his eyes was inching closer to panic. I didn’t even look at Mrs. Moore anymore.
“Please take us to the boy’s bedroom now,” Sampson repeated. “We need to go up there quietly. This is for Sumner’s own protection. You understand what I’m saying?”
Colonel Moore nodded slowly. His face was a sad, blank stare. “Frank?” Mrs. Moore pleaded. She was very pale.
The three of us went upstairs. We proceeded in single file. I went first, then Colonel Moore, followed by Sampson. I still hadn’t ruled out Franklin Moore as a suspect, as a potential madman, as the killer.
“Which room is your son’s?” Sampson asked in a whisper. His voice barely made a sound. Last of the Masai warriors. On a capital-murder case in Washington, D.C.
“It’s the second door on the left. I promise you, Sumner hasn’t done anything. He’s thirteen years old. He’s first in his class.”
“Is there a lock on the bedroom door?” I asked.
“No… I don’t think so… there might be a hook. I’m not sure. He’s a good boy, Detective.”