Murder in Germantown Read online

  “What, bitch?” Tiffany asked groggily.

  After the newscaster was done with her graphic recreation of the 1935 Hope Circle murders, the street reporter stood behind a live shot of a beautiful Chestnut Hill home. A triple homicide had taken place there.

  Tiffany threw her long, bottled-blonde hair from her face. Brown eyes could not believe what was on the TV. Rhonesia also stared at the screen. The reporter reported that the police was tight-lipped and that they had a suspect in custody. When they heard the name and saw the picture of the suspect they both gagged.

  “I don’t believe it. Not for one second,” Tiffany said. Her thin, pink lips quivered.

  “If I fucked him, I wouldn’t either.”

  “Please. Who wasn’t?” Tiffany shot back.

  “Not me. He’s 30. The NBA won’t want him.”

  “You’re such a gold digger.”

  “Thanks,” Rhonesia said, as if she had heard the grandest compliment. “I ain’t fucking for free.”

  Tiffany sat up. She blinked and raked her fingers through her hair.

  “Wydell? A murderer? Not likely.”

  “I’d concur,” Rhonesia said, and opened her laptop. “He played a game and was at the party Saturday night. I don’t believe he did that and then got to Chestnut Hill, killed three people, and then returned home as if nothing happened.”

  “Chestnut Hill, where exactly is that?” Tiffany asked.

  She was a Business major, with no intention of working. She would sleep her way to the rank of President of Kodak, or a comparable company.

  “Heading towards Plymouth Meeting,” Rhonesia told her, as she typed rapidly.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Typing!”

  “Evidently!”

  “Prepping my article on the star basketball player’s case.”

  “You’re always looking to exploit somebody. Did you report whose bed ya hot ass slept in last night, ho?”

  “I do not exploit people. I gather facts and fiction and report it. Keep it up, Missy, and your hell-raising Brazilian ass job will be on the front page of the school paper. Please keep trying me, hun.”

  “You wouldn’t. I knew I should not have told you.”

  “Try me!” Rhonesia said and stuffed her book bag. “If I do not come straight back, do not call 9-1-1. I’ll be on assignment.”

  “Breaking news, bitch, you’re not a damn reporter for anyone. You need to bring it down, honey. On assignment.”

  “Bitch, you’re getting real close to my anonymous scandal sheet.”

  Rhonesia slammed the room door shut behind her to punctuate her point. She had threatened to blast Tiffany’s ass augmentation in a scandal E-mail that she sent out anonymously to the student body that created news-worthy havoc around campus.

  CHAPTER 32

  After poorly gratifying his stomach, Jonathan Rude hit the Schuykill Expressway by ten-thirty. He looked over at other drivers and saw a diverse mix of calm faces. He scanned radio stations until he landed on 98.1: the oldies. Marvin Gaye's, “Let's Get it On” played. That sounded like a fabulous idea to Rude.

  Jonathan Rude--Mr. Rude if you tried his patience--had the warm, trustworthy face of a kindergartner teacher. He was a steel-nosed, azure eyed man, whose religious beliefs lay with discretion, not God. Call him atheist. Call him an ingrate. Just add private eye behind it.

  And he'd make it easy for you to say, too.

  He had won a scholarship to San Diego State University in his home town, where he was on the San Diego police beat. Unconfirmed rumors brought him to the East Coast and into the legal hands of Carlos Savino and ultimately, Ravonne Lemmelle.

  Rude's charm was experienced and brilliant. An interviewee would be in the kitchen fixing coffee--which he wouldn't drink for fear of poisoning--as he eyeballed their pad, learning all about them. He was a man of detail. A dirt man. And if there was any dirt to find, all efforts to hide it would be futile with Rude on the case.

  At the Germantown/Wissahickon exit, he took the Germantown Avenue northbound exit toward his Chestnut Hill crime scene. The slow-moving number-23 bus was in front of him, making his expedition a slow one.

  Finally at Chelten Avenue amongst all of the stores aptly dubbed "The Avenue," he went around the bus and passed Germantown High School. The school was not a square or a rectangle, like most of the Philadelphia high schools. The school was in the shape of a capital G. He passed a sign that announced that he had entered Mount Airy before he reached Chestnut Hill, the northernmost point of Philadelphia before entering Montgomery County. He swung around a bus depot and after a short distance, he found 1935 Hope Circle, his mark.

  The gabled mansion, tucked neatly behind birch trees, sat at the end of a driveway that opened into a circle with a fountain nucleus that could rival the water show outside of the Las Vegas Bellagio Hotel. This is the actually crime scene, he thought. Very nice. Posh. With the handsome snow covering the roof and trees, ice needles hung from the porch and snow filled fountains could grace a winter issue of Architectural Digest.

  Rude saw a very serious PPD foe. Sleep with someone's wife and foe was the likely result. Of all of the officers protecting the ionic columns and balcony that extended across the entire front of the home, why did it have to be Patrick Neisinger? Adding insult to injury, Mr. Rude, living up to his last name, had callously dismissed Neisinger’s wife as easily as dismissing snow off of the windshield, when she came running to him with her divorce papers.

  Rude escaped his car with his tape recorder and Sony digital camera in hand. Officer Neisinger looked at him with a hint of uneasiness. He was a cop before a husband. That's why he had lost his wife. The overtime was more important than his wife. Hence, no room to complain about her infidelity.

  "Pat," Rude said, flatly.

  "Jon," Neisinger replied flatter.

  No other words were exchanged. They both knew why Rude was there.

  Rude approached the outside of the alcove window, certain not to disturb anything. There were three gaping holes in the thick window. It looked like the holes were deliberately placed there by an expert interior decorator. He began his photo shoot. First, the close-ups of the holes. The glass on the porch beneath the window was next. He then backed up for some wide angles. He slipped the camera into his coat pocket and pulled out his recorder.

  "Seems three bullet holes had varying effects on the window. Two very clean entries. One spider webbed."

  He went to the front door with Neisinger in tow and snapped the entryway to the lair. He then recorded, "Who is the actual homeowner? The name on the deed and taxes, that is."

  The alcove--or hot spot--was a short distance from the foyer. He snapped away. Uncontrollably. Unlike a Tyra Banks top model, he had unlimited frames to capture the best pics. Anything resembling vague interest was snapped for his employer to review.

  All three chalked body lines were actually touching one another. Each body labeled one, two, and three had a yellow police placard identifying them. Body One's right arm was over the leg of Body Two. It appeared that Body One had toppled over Body Three. Both of Body One's legs were over Body Three's torso. Body Three must have dove for cover, Rude surmised, because Body Three was sprawled out beneath Body One. Rude figured out more upon careful review of the overall setup of the home. Once he viewed the photos at the office, he would know much more.

  Rude activated the camcorder feature on his hand-held and became a videographer.

  Reluctantly, Rude asked the officer, "Any bullets recovered, sir?"

  "All in the victims."

  Good. Rude knew where to find those and some more info.

  "Has PPD located the location of the shooter?"

  "Right this way," Neisinger said, nicely.

  He desired to have Rude search the property himself and earn his hourly wages, but that posed two problems. One, he would come off like a disgruntled ex-husband and not a police officer. Two, Rude may have found a piece of damaging evidence that t
he PPD hadn't, and the press would love that.

  About ten yards from the sprawling porch, Rude found three PPD placards dug deep into the ground.

  "Snow had been here, so how were the shells found?"

  Rude spoke into his recorder. He then began to snap away. He raced to his car and grabbed binoculars. He returned to the sniper’s position and looked at the home trying to confirm if the bullets were propelled from the ground or from a limb of the tree next to where the casings were found. From the ground, all of the victims would have to have been standing; the four feet wall beneath the window and additional two feet of the porch evidenced that. The deceased could have been lying on the floor in the very positions Rude saw from the chalk lines had the shooter been in the tree. He recorded that opinion.

  Rude then began thinking about the escape. He followed the path to the street looking around very methodically. He reached the street and noted the distance. No tire tracks left on the black top. No screeching marks from a tire taking off hastily. He began his trek back toward the home and snapped along the way. In the brownish, weather beaten grass, he noticed a blue object sticking out. He and Neisinger approached it. Rude snapped away at the object, which turned out to be a key chain. He used a pen to pick up the key chain and placed it in a plastic bag.

  "Be sure the DA gets notified of that. I'd hate to report you for withholding evidence, or arrest you for concealing evidence of a crime."

  "You would love that, I bet."

  In his car, Rude opened his laptop and downloaded the photos to Ravonne along with an E-mail.

  He picked up his cellphone and called the coroner’s office.

  "I knew you'd be calling," Deputy Coroner Lillian Matsuda said.

  "Really. Were you expecting a business call or the other kind?"

  "Oh, certainly the other kind of the booty persuasion."

  "Can I make both?"

  "Sure."

  CHAPTER 33

  Donald Cooley lived in Graterford, Pennsylvania--40 miles from Philadelphia. I pulled up to his home, a labyrinth prison surrounded by a twenty foot concrete wall that prohibited prisoners from looking out into the real world. Several guard towers were posted around the structure where expert marksmen took up position to arrest some buffoon with the chutzpah to scale the wall. I parked and walked past two inmate workers--evidently close to release--who were cleaning the front of the structure. Keeping their front porch clean.

  In the lobby, I was greeted by a correction officer. I identified myself, he checked my creds, and buzzed a gate that allowed me to proceed into the mouth of the beast. I sat on the slender wood bench and waited for a Security and Escort Officer to collect me.

  Everything matched precisely. Brown concrete bricks; dull, eggshell-colored floor tiles, which were being buffed; and a dirty, tan ceiling. I imagined Donald in his tiny cell prepping for his appearance. I’ve toured the notorious State Correctional Institute at Graterford and knew that the cells were as small as a tuna can. My hands had touched both walls in the cell when I held them out horizontally. There was a separate porcelain sink and toilet (no toilet seat), bunk bed, and a radiator on the wall above the toilet (often used to assist with inmates making meals using stolen goods from the kitchen together with things bought from the commissary). It was a cramped space that I wouldn’t put a pit bull in.

  The only plus were the windows, which opened and closed at the inmate’s discretion. There were 400 of these cells painted in a shade of cream with mint green doors. Black block-style numbers were on the outside of the doors. Four hundred cells on five blocks (A-E) had to be a lot of testosterone and frustration. I mean, two men locked in these kennels was bad. One hoped to be a lifer to get a single cell.

  Finally, a CO collected me and escorted me to a small corridor that led to the new side of the jail. A parole officer who waited to negotiate a plea for my client’s violations awaited me. Although it was only a violation hearing, I had brought missiles and rockets and they were ready to launch.

  I was reviewing my Donald Cooley file: parole report and current violation guidelines chart from the penal code. A very calm African-American, who was a tad sloppy, introduced himself as Clyde Smith, my client’s PO. The hair on his head resembled a dirt ring around a bath tub.

  “I’m recommending 24-months,” he said without preamble.

  His voice was grave and irritating.

  “That’s absurd.”

  I really disliked PO’s and Clyde had just evidence why. They always proposed some irresponsible punishment for violations not involving a new crime. I really believed they harbored jealousy of some of the men they were assigned to supervise. Convicts were rebels and thugs, so what was there to hate? Their ill-gained and oftentimes confiscated wealth? Drug dealers, like my client, spent money freely and government employees couldn’t stomach it, and since they couldn’t cashier bullets into the skulls of those ruffians, this was the venue for them to do it, nicely. Legally.

  “Your client was arrested over 90 miles outside of the county with a stipulation not to leave the city limits. And that was because of his criminal ties to various cities throughout the US. He admitted to being in Detroit and riding home, at the time a passenger of a speeding vehicle being driven by a man wanted in North Carolina for 16 counts of forgery. In the back seat were two other thugs from New York City who admitted that your client picked them up prior to going to Detroit. That, Mr. Lemmelle, is absurd.”

  I sat there quietly and let him ramble on as if I had not known the facts of the case. A guy goes to a couple of cities and commits no crime and two years behind bars was the absurd recommendation.

  “Do you intend to come down on the offer at all to avoid going before the panel?”

  “Absolutely not! He was in possession of $7,000 in cash.”

  “So!”

  I was hot. I then caught my anger. I never got mad about the facts. They spoke for themselves.

  “See you before the panel, Mr. Smith.”

  I have never been a good ass kisser.

  Mr. Smith walked out all high and mighty with me behind him. On a bench outside the room was a long line of parole violators. I spotted Donald and the CO allowed us to confer in the cramped interview room. I also asked the CO to move me to the top of the list. He did.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cooley,” I said to the sexiest client that I had ever had. “Your PO is crazy.”

  “You’re telling me,” he replied laughing.

  We shook hands. I got myself together having touched a big tandem of masculinity, Greek God, and Ebony Magazine Sexiest Man Alive. His hair was wavy and he had a full beard. Smoother skin could only be found on a baby. He sat across from me, and his biceps tensed each time he moved. The dull jail was lit by his presence.

  “He offered us two years and I accepted.”

  “What?”

  His eyebrows furrowed and anger lines formed along his forehead. It was so Hollywood.

  “I’m not doing two bullets. I didn’t do shit.”

  “Joking, DC. Don’t trip.”

  An angry smile. So seductive.

  “You could be a good salesman.”

  “Or, an even better lawyer. I’m ready to talk to the board and try to see if I can sell them some bullshit,” I said smiling.

  “You’re crazy. But that’s why I hired you.”

  “Glad you had that $7,000.”

  “Funny.”

  The CO knocked and told me that they were ready.

  I told my client, “Let’s make magic.”

  He had no idea that I had sent a subliminal message. He seemed relaxed and flashed me a mesmerizing smile.

  We entered a boxed room with cheap brown paneling and a cheaper brown table. I sat in a wooden chair next to my client and pulled out my Donald Cooley file and opened it to the officer’s report. I put on my pince-nez and then I was in character.

  “Ready, counselor?”

  “The defense is ready.”

  CHAPTER 34

>   The chairman, Larry Vasquez, asked Donald to state his name and inmate number for the record. He complied and spoke slowly and methodically.

  The Mexican, full mustached chairman with the forehead that never stopped spoke first. “We are here at the parole office discretion for a violation hearing of parolee, Donald Cooley. He was originally sentenced to serve not less than four years, but not more than eight years in state prison on the charge of distributing narcotics. He was released with three years, two months, nine days remaining on the 4-8 sentence and is before the board for violating said parole. Specifically, leaving the jurisdiction without permission, and fraternizing with known felons. Are those the facts?”