Murder in Germantown Page 12

  Next, I looked at the photos marked: shooter position. Wydell was tall enough to climb that tree and agile enough. I doubted that he could shoot through the window, jump in the tree, and then shoot two other men with a different weapon. Anyone there would be crawling away from the alcove. Even if it took five seconds, especially with the shooter’s proposed shooting location.

  Jonathan Rude entered my office and began going through his slides. He seemed impressed with his work. Maybe Rude had found a hobby?

  “There’s no picture to tell us who was shot first?” he informed me. “It’ll be nice to know.”

  He opened the binder of photos to the picture of the tree where the shell casings were found.

  He said, “If McKeithan was shot first, that means the shooter shot him, climbed into the tree, and then shot Miller and Daniels with an entirely different weapon.”

  “Not hardly,” I replied. “We have a second shooter, Jon. I wonder what Cynthia has to say about that.”

  “Probably nothing. That just means he had help. Or her and her imbecile team will come up with some foolishness to explain how agile Wydell is.”

  “No, Jon. They’re not that dumb,” I said and chuckled. “They’ll give him an accomplice and lean on him with a plea to rat his accomplice out of hiding. That’ll never fly.”

  “So you believe that he did it?”

  “Not sure yet. But I am leaning towards no.”

  “We need witnesses from that party.”

  “Let me handle that. Believe it or not, I used to run with a few of the hoodlums at this party. These were no ordinary corner boys. The attendees were the crème de la crème of the drug dealers.”

  “So we’re looking for a rival drug dealer, maybe?”

  “Maybe. We need to get the prints on that keychain.”

  “Already being taken care of.”

  “Let me guess. Dr. Lillian Matsuda put a rush on it for ya?”

  “You’re so jealous,” he said and flashed a smile.

  I chuckled.

  “Any prints other than Wydell’s on the weapon?”

  “Only a preliminary finding, but there were none.”

  “We need that to be conclusive. We need to find out whether the bullets were fired from Wydell’s gun and what type of gun was the other one. Also, could you go back to the crime scene and recreate the murderer’s movements. Did he jump from the tree, or onto the tree? I’ve spoken with the girlfriend via telephone and she’s on her way down. She’s really adamant that Wydell is innocent.”

  “The forensics are out of my hands. I’ll drive back up to the crime scene and get you that re-creation.”

  “Also, could you poke around the campus and find out who will, and can, testify that Wydell was at a victory party. I need the times nailed down precisely. I’m going to go up to the cab company and to the hood to get some information to reconstruct this charade.”

  “Good. I’ll hold out on getting the recreation. Be sure to find out how much time separated the killings.”

  Rude got up to leave and suddenly, I had one last question. “Did you get the owner’s name of the home?”

  He pulled a printout from a folder and passed it to me. I thanked him and he left to do what he did best. I sat for a moment and then walked to the window and pondered. A few things bothered me that needed to be addressed.

  One, my client seemed to have a concrete alibi, but the deaths were given estimated times of death between midnight and two. Wydell claimed to have called a taxi at 12:30 and was in a cab by one. I made a note to get the exact number of minutes it would take a cab to get from LaSalle to the 100 west block of Seymour Street. No more than seven I’d say. Before that was solid, I needed to know what time the shootings occurred. If they happened when the first of ten police calls came in, that would be 1:35 a.m. Certainly, Wydell could have made the Chestnut Hill trip, but wouldn’t he encounter people coming and going from the home? He needed time to set up, right?

  Two, Wydell offered me 30K without explanation. Who lived on Seymour Street with that much money to burn? I thought and realized that quite a few did. I had seen dope dealers own Benz’s and live in housing projects with their baby mamas. I had also seen them drive the same type of vehicles and live in their moms’ run down homes. But they had fancy wardrobes and TVs in the headrests of their cars. If something damaging came out about my client and his money, he would be off to Graterford’s death row, and I would face disbarment.

  Three, I wondered should I be looking for an alternative killer? That was the PPD’s job, but I could find him and use him to set my client free. That would have been nice--to be applauded in the media for withdrawing a college athlete from the throngs of a flawed criminal justice system and depositing him into death row.

  I usually did not need to rely on shady tactics to garner an acquittal, but I couldn’t see Wydell James railroaded. Cynthia actually hit me first by withholding exculpatory evidence. I am a non-violent person, but it was time to practice what I had preached to Brandon. I told him that if someone hit him, he had better hit their ass back! Cynthia was about to be hit, and I didn’t care that she was a girl. She had a punch like Laila Ali.

  CHAPTER 38

  Wydell’s girlfriend, Shannon, met me at Sole Food, a seafood restaurant in the lobby of the Lowes Hotel. I ate there religiously, and had a running tab that didn’t seem to quit. I had many lunch dates there to impress clients, but today was different. I was on very serious business, as a man’s life was on the line. It had only been fifteen minutes of chit chat about nothing. I had already forgotten, Wydell’s girlfriend’s name. Despite that, I asked her to tell me about Wydell.

  She grinned, a pretty look, full lips, painted a shade of red.

  “Well, let’s see. We’re both marketing majors.”

  “Both!” I interrupted her half choking off lobster meat. “Pardon my rudeness.”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “Of course not,” I said and pulled out a tape recorder. “I’d like to record all of this.”

  “Sure. Fine. We are in our last semester. Graduate in May. He was already accepted into the Wharton School of Business at U of Penn.”

  I couldn’t suppress the grin, or my awe. I was a little embarrassed not to know this information.

  She continued. She spoke very carefully and coyly.

  “He’d have to be extremely pissed off to kill.”

  “I’d say that is a given, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I sipped my Sprite.

  Shannon shifted in her seat. “You once wrote that there are two types of murder. One is premeditated and the other stemming from passion. This was deliberate triple homicide, and Wydell was not there, so that rules out both for him. He was playing a school game from six to ten, and then attended a victory party.”

  “He was on the basketball team?”

  That was a stupid question, but my Wydell updates continued to get better. Some people said that there were no stupid questions. I totally disagree.

  “He was the team, Mr. Lemmelle.”

  All righty then.

  “Do you know about an argument he had with one of the deceased?”

  “No, but I know that he hated them. Always talking about becoming that man to reform his neighborhood. Get rid of the punks that were destroying people’s lives with drugs.”

  Motive. Legally, I couldn’t tell her to never repeat that to Cynthia. Cynthia could spin that line like a DJ.

  I then asked, “Have you read my article where I proposed potential defense character witnesses should be barred from speaking to the prosecution?”

  “I did. I have no intentions of speaking with the DA. After what they’ve done to Wydell. Ruining his last semester. He was going to move him and his family to a better area. I am a white African, Mr. Lemmelle. Born in Lesotho, South Africa. Trust me, I understand the plight. So, no offense.”

  “None taken. You seem passionate about Wydell.”

  Shannon batted thick
eye lashes.

  “Wydell is a very charming man. I adore him, Mr. Lemmelle. He worships me and does not hesitate to be romantic. A real gentleman. Beneath his braids is a beautiful mind. Upon graduation he intended to lose the braids for a conventional business look,” she huffed and looked into the ceiling as if holding back tears. “Mr. Lemmelle, I once caught him reading an etiquette book.”

  “Wydell, the thug?”

  “No, Wydell, the intellect,” Shannon said and went into a shopping bag that she had brought along.

  She pulled out an expertly wrapped gift.

  “Here’s your retainer. I know you’d like to know where this cash came from, but I’m sworn to secrecy. I will tell you that it’s so legal, Condi Rice would spend it in the White House commissary.”

  I gave her a cynical smile and took the gift. “Thanks, Ms. Oscar. Is there anyone else on campus who can attest to Wydell’s impeccable character?”

  “Sure, but don’t get me wrong he’s not flawless.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “A little arrogant temper.”

  “I know it,” I said quickly. “Was it public or private?”

  “Don’t-complain-about-the-small-stuff temper. Being from the ghetto, he hated complainers. Epitome of excellent judgment, charismatic, a leader. No nonsense, though.”

  “So, the showcase of temper came when?” I needed to know of any adverse behavior. (I do not do surprises.)

  “Only when a...” she hesitated.

  “Strictly confidential.”

  “When a racial slur about our relationship was thrown at us. A few football jocks had things to say.”

  “Like who?”

  “Lewis Barclay and his pals. Footballs lie between their ears, not brains. Wydell stole their newspaper thunder and according to them, one of theirs.”

  “You?”

  “Precisely.”

  She sipped her water.

  “They bad-mouthed me how some blacks badger Tiger Woods when he acknowledges his Asian descent. I acknowledge my African descent, and they can’t take it.”

  “Where do I find this Barclay clown?”

  “Don’t bother, Mr. Lemmelle. He can’t offer anything to help, Wydell.”

  “Just a little chat,” I said with a sinister stare in my eyes.

  “Lemmelle, he’d make trouble for me and there’d be no Wydell to protect me from their middle school-like horror.”

  “I won’t bother for now,” I told her.

  “If I thought he could offer anything favorable by talking to you I’d be up for it, but he’s a bad seed. The truth about what happened, and who did it, will come out. I hope so, so Wydell can come home.”

  What’s done in the dark. You know the cliché. “We’ll see,” I told her. “Glad to have met you.” I waved for the check. Albeit, I wouldn’t pay it then, I’d be billed, but the check needed my John Hancock.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Lemmelle. Thanks for the late lunch,” she told me and left. All of her curves went with her.

  However, all of Ariel’s curves stepped in accompanied by a male companion.

  CHAPTER 39

  Mrs. Ravonne Lemmelle had had a lot of nerve to bring that gentleman to my digs. My stomping grounds.

  In a very casual fashion, I said to Ariel’s back, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lemmelle.”

  She turned and looked at me like a viper. I wholeheartedly desired to chuckle, but I suppressed that thought to remain within the behavioral standard that a man should be in line with men watching their wife in the hands of another man.

  “That’s the former, Mrs. Lemmelle. My husband is dead,” she snapped back. “Haven’t you seen the obituary?”

  “Who’s prince charming?” I asked, ignoring her comment. I was having a moment of jealousy, and praying that it did not turn into rage.

  “Prince Charming?” the man asked, gruffly.

  He then asked Ariel, “This must be the great orator that you told me about?”

  He pushed his tongue into his cheek indicating a long sharp object was piercing his mouth.

  I held marginal feelings for Ariel. I also adored my freedom, so rather than defending myself in a trial for murder, I reduced my ass-kicking to: “I can permanently force your cheek to swell like that, but...”

  The bitch cut me off.

  “No need for that, Ravonne Lemmelle,” she said to me. Turning to her date, she said, “Excuse me.”

  “Yeah, before we have a...”

  “A nothing,” I said cutting off her boy toy’s threat.

  That little pretty South American, green-eyed bandit was about to get fucked up over a bitch that I didn’t even want.

  “I’ll meet you at the bar,” the man told Ariel.

  “Good thing, or you’d be sipping out a straw for a few months.” I told him.

  I had to get the last word in. For this occasion, that was a must.

  When the prince left, I asked, “So this is who you wanna spend half my dough with?”

  “Not hardly. He’s new to Philly. I don’t need to explain myself to you, hun.”

  “To hell you don’t,” I said hotly and emotionally. I recanted that emotional outburst, and told her, “You should find a better place to entertain your flings. This will be desirable testimony during our divorce proceedings.”

  She stepped closer to me and rested her hand on my chest.

  Lovingly, she told me, “You will not be having a divorce proceeding, silly.” She smiled wickedly. “My lawyer will contact your lawyer and you’ll sign what I propose.”

  “Really. That’s a lie.”

  “You can pretend to be tough, Ray-Ray, but this is not a boxing match. Play pussy and get fucked if you wanna. I have a very long dildo for ya.”

  She then snickered at her joke, as I watched her walk to join another man at the bar.

  She could stay as firm as she wanted in the belief, but I would not be beaten by any one. Not even my wife.

  CHAPTER 40

  Rude parked on Olney Avenue and walked a few steps to the front of the LaSalle University two-story dorm. It had been sometime since he had been on a college campus. He lusted over two sexy co-eds exiting the dorm. Behind them a geeky male exited. Why wasn't the co-ed idea thought of when I was in college? he thought. He entered the building and slipped pass security. On the second floor, his eyes widened as two toweled females, bursting out of their towels with busts duly exposed, skipped past him gossiping.

  "Excuse me," he said to a girl with a LaSalle sweatshirt on and jeans.

  She had a luxuriant, spiky hair do.

  "Look cop. I was not smoking weed. Leave me alone, pal," she said and brushed by him.

  "Ex-cop," Rude countered.

  "Ex-con," she snapped back. "We have the ex part in common."

  "I'm investigating for one of your classmates, Wydell James."

  That caught her attention. "Who are you?"

  "You know him."

  "The entire campus knows him. Haven't looked at a conference championship until he arrived."

  "How'd he do at the game Saturday?" Rude asked.

  It was a leading question designed to get the student to confirm that Wydell was in fact at the game.

  "Thirty-four points, thirteen boards. He's thirty and plays like he's twenty. Do you work for his attorney?"

  "You must be a fan?"

  "Nope. Campus reporter. The name is, Rhonesia Cosby."

  Great catch, Rude thought. "Got any footage?"

  "Every game, but Coach Patillo could be better to assist you there."

  "Anybody dislike Wydell?"

  "Dislike may be the wrong choice of words. Jealous would be more fitting. He owned the sports section of the paper, even on Saturdays when the football team played. They always attempted to pressure the paper to be more partial to them."

  "Them as in?"

  "The football team. I'm sure they're glad that he's in county jail."

  "But Wydell didn't write the paper. How'd Wy
dell respond to them?"

  "He once pulled a gun on Barclay, the school QB. Barclay recently relocated from LA to King of Prussia and is perversely discriminatory. He's a racist pig, but all mouth and no bite. And I am being nice with my words because you're also white."