Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

APRIL 6, 2001 -a Friday. Edward Teasdale had just tilted back in his Barcalounger to watch the Orioles and Red Sox on CSN, when he heard the shots.

Bam Bam Bam Bam

Steady shooting.

Bam Bam Bam

Silence.

Teasdale waited. No more shots.

Bayless Place in southeast Washington, D.C., used to be a quiet neighborhood. But in the last several years, Teasdale and his neighbors had gotten practice at what he sourly called acoustical gunfire analysis.

This evenings shots had been evenly spaced.

One shooter. Somebody out there on the street wasnt in a hurry.

Seven shots, maybe eight.

Not a revolver. An automatic-probably a nine.

Teasdale glanced at the digital clock on the TV-seven thirty-two. He went to the window and pulled the curtain open just enough to get a glimpse of the street, then settled back into the Barcalounger.

Jason Johnson took the mound against Boston.

The day before, Hideo Nomo had thrown a no-hitter for the Sox against Teasdales beloved Birds. Tonight, Teasdale wanted revenge.

The clock showed seven thirty-eight. Johnson had struck out the innings second batter no further gunfire outside. Teasdale grudgingly lifted himself out of the Barcalounger.

Might s well take a look.

Standing off to the side, he unbolted and opened his front door. It was sunset. The sidewalks were deserted. Anyone whod been outside had long before taken cover. The dark Ford Taurus was parked about halfway down the block in its usual place. Rhythmic bass thumps of a stereo driving at top volume rocked the air.

The sidewalks were still empty when Teasdale got to the car. In the street, glass nuggets glowed in the suns last light. Bullet holes dimpled the door. Skirting the back of the car, Teasdale peered through the shattered window.

Blood darkened the windshield and dashboard. A Puff Daddy rap thundered from the Tauruss speakers.

Off to his right, Teasdale caught the brassy glint of empty cartridge cases on the asphalt. Heres where the shooting had been done, right here where he was standing, Teasdale figured. He aimed a finger pistol.

Bam Bam Bam Just like that.

Teasdale circled around to get a more direct look into the front seat.

Why, hello, Skeeter, Teasdale whispered.

The top of James Skeeter Hodgess head had been blown away.

Teasdale smiled.

Another figure slumped in the passenger seat. Tobias Pencil Crawfurd, Skeeters number two, was breathing.

Teasdale frowned. He waited a moment.

But Crawfurd kept breathing.

Teasdale sighed.

Inside his house again, he dialed 911. Finished with the call, he settled back to watch the game. Things were getting better. The Orioles were up by one.

Oh, yes, Teasdale whispered into the empty room. He smiled.

Ten minutes passed before Officers Antwon Hawkins and Samuel Lawson responded, got Crawfurd on his way to the Hospital Center, and secured the crime scene.

Five minutes later, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department homicide detectives Frank Kearney and Jose Phelps arrived.

Funny, Jose said.

Funny funny?

Strange funny. Jose pointed through the windshield. No spectators.

Ahead, on Bayless Place, an ambulance and three squad cars, light bars blazing blues and reds, yellow crime-scene tape, and flares like fireballs framed a Taurus with shot-out windows. A regular circus. A sure-fire crowd-draw anywhere.

Frank felt his gut go heavy. Hed seen violent death, some of it in wholesale lots. Hed never gotten used to it. But hed learned to wall it off. Hed kept the wall in good repair. Through Vietnam, through the years on the force, the wall had shielded him from the soul-searing exhibits of the horrific things people did to one another. Lately, though, it seemed too much was getting through. Too much was following him home.

He pulled over to the curb. He and Jose got out and walked toward the lights and the Notorious B.I.G. rap blaring from the Taurus.

At six-two, Frank was an inch shorter than Jose, and at one-ninety, thirty pounds lighter. Frank had run track and cross-country at the University of Maryland. Jose had played football at Howard, switching in his junior year to boxing. Theyd been together on the force for twenty-six years. Roommates at the academy, beat cops in every tough neighborhood in the District, and now plainclothes in Homicide.

But the years had done more than produce the forces two most senior detectives. Their off-duty lives had intersected and intertwined. The two men had supported each other through private triumphs and personal trials, through marriages and children, divorces and deaths. Years passed, and each became as comfortable with the other as he was with his own shadow.

One of the uniformed officers turned. Frank recognized Antwon Hawkins.

Hawkins walked toward them with the rolling swagger of a sailor on shore leave. One hand thumb-hooked over his pistol belt, he tossed Jose a casual salute with the other.

Ho-zay can you see? he singsonged.

Jose pointed at the car. Who was that?

None other than the newly dead Skeeter Hodges.

As they walked to the car, Frank felt the heaviness ease. Somebody finally got him?

Pretty good. Pencil Crawfurd was sitting in front with him.

He get it too? Jose asked.

Hawkins shook his head and frowned in disappointment. Sam and I get here, he was unconscious. Looks like he took at least one in the shoulder. Hard to be in that car anywhere and not get one. We found eight shells nine-millimeter.

Where is he?

Hospital Center.

At the car, Hawkins pointed to the body slumped forward over the steering wheel. He turned his flashlight on the dead man. The top of the skull was missing. Contents of the brain pan were splattered on the dash and windshield.

Death smell, metallic like that of damp copper, radiated from inside the car. Frank exhaled through his nostrils. When he had to, he inhaled through his mouth, keeping it shallow. It didnt do any good. Hed known it wouldnt, but he did it anyway.

Head shot at close range.

Frank felt in his chest the vibrations of Notorious B.I.G. going on about big booty bitches, and he reached in and jabbed at buttons until the CD player turned off and B.I.G. vanished in the middle of a ho.

Who was the nine-one-one? Jose asked.

Hawkins checked his notebook. Teasdale. He spelled the name. Lives over there. He pointed to a small brick bungalow halfway down the block.

Frank felt somewhat better walking away, putting the crime scene behind him.

Skeeter finally got a dose of what hes been giving out, Jose said.

Surprised somebody didnt do it sooner.

Closing the case might not be too hard, Frank half reasoned, half hoped.

Somebody out there somewhere. Still on an adrenaline rush, pupils dilated with excitement. King of the world. Immortal. Invincible. Absolutely bulletproof. And theyd talk. Absolutely had to talk. Because they wouldnt get credit for the score, for taking down Skeeter Hodges, unless people knew theyd done it.

A porch crossed the front of the Teasdale house. From the porch, four rocking chairs surveyed a tiny but well-kept yard guarded by a chain-link fence.

Frank rang the doorbell. From where he stood, he could see Skeeter Hodgess car. The ambulance and the patrol cars were still there, and the flares still guttering, and still no rubbernecking crowd. The door opened a crack.

Police, Frank said, flashing his badge. The door closed. He heard the rattle of one chain lock being undone, then a second. The door opened.