Murder in Germantown Read online

  "What room does this pig live in?"

  "Check with student services," she replied.

  She knew the room, but there was a limit to what she would disclose.

  "Look I have a class, so I have to go."

  "Okay," Rude said, shoving a card into her hand.

  "If anything surfaces, even rumors, contact me. Where can I find the coach?"

  Rhonesia checked her watch. "The gym. Practice is going on."

  "One last thing, sweetie."

  "Rhonesia is fine."

  She did not like that.

  "Was Wydell at a party after the game last weekend?"

  "He is the life of the parties."

  * * *

  Rude was escorted to the school gym by another female who shared the same sentiment for Wydell as Rhonesia. She dropped him off at the gym and he all of a sudden ran out of business cards, so that he could take her number. He was such a slick bastard.

  Rude forgot all about the gym when he saw a sweet thing. She had on jeans, T-shirt, and a wind breaker, like it was fall. But her long hair and breast caught his eye. He stepped to her.

  "I'm Jonathan Rude, an investigator working for a classmate of yours, Wydell James. You know him?"

  "I do," she said, without breaking her stride. "We can chat, but in the school cafe, as you can see I'm not dressed to talk out here.”

  Rude wondered what it would be like to see her not dressed at all. In the cafe, they ordered lattes, he paid and they took seats in the window.

  “Calculus,” he said. “Don’t miss that. Sorry to interrupt your studying time I know how valuable that is.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, and batted her eyes at Rude.

  He thought that she was flirting, but she was being normal, though.

  “What you wanna know about Wydell? I still can’t believe it. Unimaginable.”

  “Wish you were a juror. You sound convinced.”

  “No, I’m still registered in Virginia, but Wydell was...well...sweet.”

  A southern belle, Rude thought.

  “What you mean?”

  “Well not in a gay way, but in a gentleman way. Ladies first. Thank you. Excuse me. That sort of thing. Shannon is lucky.”

  “Wow! Sounds like Prince Charming.”

  “All except the time that he pulled a gun on the QB.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Guess everyone explodes.”

  “But everyone does not carry loaded guns.”

  “How can you be so sure that it was loaded or even worked?”

  “He shot it on New Year’s Eve right over there,” she said, pointing to an area which looked like it was a summertime hangout full of scantily clad females and in-heat males.

  “But do you think he’d kill anyone?”

  “Only under extraordinary circumstances.”

  Rude gave her a smile of understanding. “Happen to see him at the victory party?”

  “Who Wydell?”

  She gave a shrug. “Yeah, he was there.”

  She’s hiding something, Rude thought. “What’s the matter...”

  “Caitlin. Nothing.” Very nonchalant. A shrug.

  “Listen, I’m on his side. I work for a law firm,” he told her and gave her his business card. “If you’re in possession of something good or bad, Caitlin, I need to know.”

  “What time did they claim he was at the scene of the crime?”

  “Now you’re asking me questions?”

  “What time?”

  “Unsure. Coroner says the victims were killed between midnight and two am. The first police call came in at 1:35 a.m.”

  “I saw him and Shannon arguing at about 12:20 walking away from the dorms.”

  “Happen to hear what they were arguing about, Caitlin?”

  “Well, he had been caught in the bathroom fooling around, and Shannon became pissed and wanted to leave the party.”

  “He’s sort of ladies man on campus?”

  “Well, there’s a rumor about, you know. How black guys and...”

  “What rumor, Caitlin?” Rude said, rudely.

  “Okay. Word around campus is that Wydell has a big...”

  “Come on, Caitlin. A man’s life hangs in the balance, here.”

  “Okay...Dammit...It is said that Wydell has a big cock and a lot of girls want to find out about it,” she said and looked around guiltily.

  “Even you, Caitlin?” Rude asked. She nodded. “You were having sex with Wydell and were caught by Shannon during the night in question?”

  She hesitated and twirled her fingers.

  “Yes.”

  Rude thanked her for her time and stood to leave. “Was anyone else shooting on campus on New Year’s Eve?”

  “No.”

  CHAPTER 41

  I opened the front door and Brandon jumped off the sofa and ran into my arms. I picked him up and spun in a circle. I never stepped off the tile in front of the door there solely for shoe removal. Take that, Ms. Pearl. He had a wave cap on his tiny head that made him look weird. I could only imagine what prompted that. I kicked off my wing tips and scooted into my moccasins.

  “Where’s Dajaun?”

  “In the bedroom,” he told me.

  He jumped from my arms, grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the master bedroom where I found Dajuan writing in his music notebook.

  “Can I have some ice cream?” Brandon asked.

  “Nope.”

  “You’re early,” Dajuan said. “Five-thirty. That’s a record. We ordered cheesesteaks.”

  “Shut up,” I replied and took off my suit.

  Dajuan asked Brandon, “Did you tell that you played hooky from school today?”

  I stopped.

  “Uh...Dajuan, five-year-olds do not play hooky. Their parents do not take them to school.” I was polite, but in no way happy. “Did he manipulate you?” I asked and smiled.

  “No, Daddy R. I did not manip...whatever...him. I told him that I had to make you something nice, cause my teacher, Ms. Denise, told me that I should be a nice son.”

  He skipped out of the bedroom.

  “There’s more,” Dajuan said.

  Brandon came running back with a wrapped gift larger than him. He handed it to me. I had received more than the allowable gifts this day.

  “Open it,” he encouraged me.

  He then hopped onto the bed and curled under Dajuan.

  He whispered to Dajuan, “What’s manip...? You know. The word that Daddy R said?”

  “Ma-nip-u-late. Four syllables. Say it,” Dajuan whispered back.

  “Ma...mip...pa...late,” Brandon said and used four tiny fingers to count out the syllables as directed.

  “No,” Dajuan said.

  They rehearsed it a bit, before Dajuan said, “It’s when you lie to get something.”

  “I do not lie. Daddy R is crazy,” Brandon whispered conspiratorially as if I couldn’t hear him.”

  “I heard that,” I said and we all chuckled.

  I had the gift fully opened. It was a painting. Nothing that I identified, but my son had written on the bottom like Picasso. “This is nice, King B. What is it?” I asked carefully. Didn’t want to offend the little fella.

  “Dad!” he said excitedly.

  He stretched the word out.

  “It’s you in court,” he confirmed and then pointed me out in the painting.

  I was painted as a collage of colors. A rainbow. Was my son sending me a subliminal message?

  “I knew that,” I said, and picked him up.

  I gave him a tight hug.

  He rested his head on my shoulder and told me, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, King B,” I replied and he jumped down.

  “Can I get a big bowl of ice cream?” Brandon asked again.

  He was a real manipulator, and I am a sucker. I took him to the kitchen and gave him the ice cream. I returned to the bedroom and took a quick hot shower.

  Out of the shower, I emerged into the
bedroom in boxer-briefs and a tank top.

  I asked Dajuan, “Who is playing tonight?” We always watched basketball games together.

  “Don’t know. Did you miss me? I thought about you all day.”

  “I always miss you,” I told him and leaned in for a serious kiss.

  “I really appreciate you, Black Face.”

  He pulled me to the bed and rolled on top of me.

  “I know you do. I appreciate you, too. I especially love what you do with Brandon.”

  “That’s my little buddy. To leave you would be leaving him and I can’t do that.”

  “Don’t...”

  “No, listen,” he warned me. “This whole weekend you did not show any sign that you were mad about what I did. You’re a remarkable person, and I love you for that.”

  “Thanks, Dajuan. Things happen, I can handle a lot, but I do not want to be alone. You’re my world, my first and only lover.”

  “Good,” he said and smiled. “Because, while me and King B were out getting that painting framed, we stopped at Tiffany’s, and I bought these”--he pulled out a baby-blue box from his pocket and handed it to me. “Open it.”

  Another gift. I was really on a roll. I followed his order and found five round diamonds embedded in platinum wedding bands. I looked at him dreamy eyed. I was really stunned, but masked it well. I knew we could not legally marry in Pennsylvania.

  He said, “I know I’ve been an asshole, but Black Face, I realized you’re the one for me. I know legally marriage is not possible, but will you wear this ring as a symbol of our devotion to one another?”

  “Everyday, babe,” I said and hugged him tightly.

  I heard Brandon drop his bowl in the dishwasher and the dishwasher door slammed shut.

  “Get off me before King B gets here,” I said, but I wanted to be conjoined to Dajuan Jones.

  Brandon walked in, and I asked, “What did you do besides my painting?”

  I wanted to be into Dajuan, but my child came first.

  “Victor came over and I learned the Spanish numbers again. Test me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m five,” he said and chuckled. “Ask me a Spanish number?” he demanded.

  “You were supposed to answer in Spanish.”

  “Oh, cinco,” he said. He then said, “Yo soy cinco.” I am five.

  “And, on your birthday, you will be?”

  “Seis.”

  “How old am I?”

  “He only knows 1-15,” Dajaun said.

  “Old.” Brandon blurted and laughed.

  “Here’s a hard one, funny guy. Say fifteen.”

  “Quince,” Brandon said and danced.

  “Alright, Latin lover. Let’s watch the Sixers get blown out once again.”

  Old? I’m 30. Could I really be old to a five-year-old? Does he see me as an invalid?

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 9, 2007

  CHAPTER 42

  I rolled across Dajuan and staggered into the bathroom. It was 5:34 a.m. on the ninth. I perched on the toilet.

  Upset.

  Afraid.

  Heart racing to break Olympic records.

  The nightmare was terrorizing. Someone had stolen Brandon and Dajuan was found bolted to City Hall like Jesus. His wedding ring was glued to his forehead. With that vision I wanted no parts of sleep.

  I walked down the hallway to Brandon’s room. I peered around that powder-blue room with navy carpet and cloud decals on the ceiling. I thought about heaven. My baby looked angelic. He was sprawled in the bed with a leg loosely hanging in the air. He was as handsome as me, just a lighter hue. Our baby pictures could claim us as twins. He was a gloriously unique child who loved every book on the shelves around his room. He could create a new story for every picture book. One day, he’ll yarn blockbusters for Hollywood. Having him was joyous and kept me responsible.

  I checked the windows to be sure they were locked and that the bolts were still conspicuously in place to avoid them from being raised from the outside, but an inch.

  At 6:10, I walked out the front door. I went to the gym in the four-star Bellevue Hotel. I did a serious circuit routine and then watched CNN morning news as I conquered a half-an-hour on the treadmill. I showered, dressed for success, and then strolled into my office at 7:45.

  My first thought was acknowledging that one week of this routine--including the nightmare--would be a serious prob-lemmo. There were a myriad number of reasons why; chiefly, no breakfast with my son. I was away from him enough. I didn’t want him to grow up and call me a bad dad and blame his crack addiction on me chasing my dream of heading the largest Philadelphia law firm.

  I had a cappuccino and peered out of my office window to the streets below. So routine. The people below walked briskly with hats, scarves, and coats on snuggly. It was freezing outside. Gloved hands were wrapped around briefcases. Employees were bustling to offices to fatten the coffers of their employers.

  I checked my quotidian report That was always up-to-date, thanks to Marsha, certainly not, moi. I had a thought: Was I, too, a robot? A martyr of habit and gainful employment? Absolutely! I profited, too.

  401K.

  College savings.

  Two country club memberships.

  NAACP membership.

  ACLU membership.

  The law had been my life, considering dear old Dad was in politics before I was born. I always wanted to be in law. I never wanted to be a DA, though. Everyone screamed for a better, prosperous America. That began with an educated minority. Becoming a criminal defense lawyer, my motive was to encourage all minorities to find a way out of poverty, not through crime. I took on ugly cases that no one wanted, not because of the attention they promised--my sexuality handled that--but, because beneath that drug dealer was a sound business mind.

  A drug dealer knew product and demand, marketing, the art of negotiating, security, when to inflate, and how to turn a profit without paying taxes. It was well documented that drug addicts needed treatment and not a jail cell. I once defended a HIV-positive client who confided in me that his only reason for violating PA Crimes Code 4101 (Forgery) was to fly the skies and dine off stolen credit cards, wearing designer labels, all thanks to someone else. Simply put, he feared death and not having fulfilled a life. He had no time to climb the ladder of success and earn his fancy lifestyle. In his eyes he may have died before he reached the top rung. That was a serious psychological issue, one that should have been addressed in counseling, not prison.

  My reflection time was over at 8. Marsha was on the scene to kick my day off, but I felt like being stingy with my time that day. I began to meticulously plan my day. I had no court appearances. I wanted no phone calls until further notice, unless they were from Brandon’s school, where he had better been and not conning Dajuan out of another day at home.

  By 8:30, I was in my coat prepared to leave my office when Marsha’s sexiness entered. She waved a greasy homemade pork chop on an English muffin sandwich in her hand. I snatched it up and devoured it greedily.

  I told her, “Do not text my cell phone, unless Osama bin Laden needs a lawyer. And I am not taking any clients today.”

  “Where are you off, too?”

  “To see the wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

  CHAPTER 43

  It had been my fourth courtroom visit of that day at the Criminal Justice Center. I had no cases, but touring railroad central was always my favorite past time. My laptop and I had not been bored. I was building a legal career and what better way to spend part of my day than watching my opponents try their cases.

  I walked into a courtroom and became excited. So many dirty secrets, embellishments, half-truths, and flat out lies were revealed in court. It took a fine lawyer to reconstruct the facts through exhibits and testimony and unearth the truth. For a good legal drama, forget about what Hollywood had to offer. A trip to the local courthouse did justice.

  A courtroom spectator watched a horrible trial be put on and heard all of
the hallway gossip as a bonus. That was more intriguing than what happened inside the courtroom, at times. The delicious behind-the-scenes myths and scandals were tasty. Beware of the graphic crime-scene photos, though. I had seen a few races to the bathroom from some gut-wrenching photos. Don’t have a pity party for the vics, either, as they are on the witness stand letting beautiful tears fall from their eyes, as the DA asked, “Are you okay? Do you need time?” until you have heard both sides. I promise unparalleled let-down when the defense exposed that the true victim was not as pitifully distraught as they let on.