Murder in Germantown Read online

* * *

  The idea of Aramis being dead was unbearable. I steadily researched and learned that 357 did reference a gun. It also was the number of crimes that he committed in a city.

  Three.

  Five.

  Seven.

  He had committed two in Philadelphia according to him, so I was third. Or perhaps, number three on his road to five or seven. He was spiraling out of control, and I planned to help him fall from grace. I would be right there to plant the Ravonne Lemmelle flag on his forehead. I typed in another website, and Aramis Reed marched down the basement stairs in front of Kensan.

  I jumped to my feet and embraced him tightly. I was overwhelmed with joy and could not thank God more.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked and released him.

  “Some crazy bitch put a .357 to my dome, made me call you, and that’s after I allowed her to cuff me to the bed,” he said and plopped on the sofa.

  “What? How’d the hell did you meet her?”

  I gave him a blank stare and he volleyed a crazy one, so I said, “The party line.” I let that sink in before I said, “Bet that will keep your ass off that chat line now.”

  I then asked Kensan, “How’d you get him from the police?”

  “I never called them. I went to the apartment and had the manager open the door.”

  “Wow.”

  I was impressed.

  “Yeah, I am not as dumb as I look,” Kensan said and grinned.

  No one could laugh.

  “Maybe,” Aramis said. “But what the hell is going on and who is this crazy bitch?”

  “She claims to be Mr. 357.”

  “What! Lies,” Aramis said.

  “Yes, this bitch is a psycho, too. The Inquirer had covered Mr. 357 extensively. Could you get the notes and articles from the library vault, so we can figure out who this is?”

  Aramis said, “I suppose I could, but what does Mr. 357 want with you or me? And since when did mister become misses?”

  “Since tonight,” said I, and then told him the short version of tonight’s events.

  He replied, “That’s bananas. Why would someone want to take Brandon?”

  “I guess it is anger at me for having Artis acquitted. Other than that, beats the hell out of me. Call the editors and get the info to see if I crossed this son-of-a-motherless goat.”

  “They’re going to take me through a bunch of red tape, because I am not an official reporter, but I may have a favor due to me.”

  “Tell them that you may nab Mr. 357. They’d be richer if they published the report. You would be famous and make history. So do whatever you want to do to get their library.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Aramis and I continued to plow through the Philadelphia Inquirer’s library files on Mr. 357, two hours after they had E-mailed what they had. I had sped read all of the articles twice. There were articles from all of the cities where he had committed crimes. The article titles could not be ignored, either. I could not imagine going out to retrieve the morning paper and having one of these former headlines screaming at me:

  HE’S HERE, MR. 357

  LOADED .357 LEFT IN THE BOX W/BODY

  MURDER CONNOISSEUR IN MIAMI

  STAY IN TONIGHT, OR MAYBE GO OUT

  If I was not a sane lad, I would believe that other murderers felt second rate when the press announced Mr. 357’s arrival to their town. The thought of local Charles Manson’s becoming envious of Mr. 357 was repulsive. Hell, I was jealous. His intelligence superseded mine by far.

  “I am really on to something here,” I announced to Aramis.

  He gave me one of those point-blank stares and I explained myself.

  “I’ve outlined a chronology of the crimes and it seems I’ve been a visitor to all of the cities where they’ve taken place.”

  “Good for you. The frequent flyer. Maybe you did literally fuck this animal. If he or she looks like the babe that tied me the hell up, I don’t doubt that ya gay ass fucked her. If it’s her,” Aramis replied.

  “You really think Mr. 357 is a broad somehow?” Kensan asked.

  “Anything is possible. No gun was used and maybe a woman was scared to shoot,” Aramis told him.

  “Nah. I’m not buying that,” Kensan said. “I know plenty of chicks that are shooters.”

  “Hood rats, yeah. Ghetto woman,” said I.

  “Are you implying only hood chicks shoot? Because I know or at least bet that there is a country bumpkin that’ll blow your head off.”

  “Okay, I get it, Kensan. But this is the work of a psychological dysfunctional man.”

  “Ravonne, you’re starting to annoy me. You’re sounding dumb. You could be Mr. 357. He does not have to be insane. He could be very sane. The typical soccer dad. By all accounts you’re a stable family man, which could be a serious facade.”

  I was taken aback by the aggression in Aramis’s tone.

  “Alright, I get it. Let me see what you’ve been writing.”

  I began to read his notes as he spoke to me.

  “I began an article shell of what has happened from the moment that she cuffed me until the moment Kensan rescued me. Even the things involving you.”

  Aramis’s notes were meticulous and extensive. I found very interesting things that “make you go um” hiding beneath his ideologies. He could’ve made an acute attorney, but he worked out to be a fine investigative reporter. His hypothesis was doused with hunches and innuendo, but the ideas were fresh, considering he had something no other reporter had, and that was contact.

  I stopped reading and said to him, “Something connects me to this monster. I wronged it somewhere.”

  “Maybe in another lifetime,” Kensan joked in an attempt to balm the mood.

  “He loved Milan during the summer of 2000,” Aramis said.

  “True, and I was there for two months as an exchange student at U of Milan.”

  “How could I forget that? Ariel only visited you once and never took your calls. She called you when she was not busy with Kim. Or was it Daisy at that time?”

  “Daisy. You had to hear all about that as my best friend, because I had no one in Italy to really chat to. Okay, so I came back from Milan in mid-August and we ventured off to Harvard Law together.”

  “Along with your then girlfriend, Ariel, whom I still dislike.”

  “Whatever. At any rate, I got her pregnant in January/February 2001 and then came Brandon in October.”

  “But according to the papers, good ol’ Mr. 357 was ravaging Boston beginning in September 2001 as Sylvester Bailey the murderer and prolific international hacker. Who, might I add, eclipsed the reputation of the Boston Strangler. In October 2001, Ariel dumped you for Hollywood and never looked back. So, between December 1997 and October 2001, I’m assuming you wronged the clown.”

  “So Ariel is the connection?” Dajuan said, and opened his eyes.

  He had been feigning sleep with Brandon up under him in a deep sleep.

  “Well, I have to bring something to the light.” Everyone’s eyes beamed in on me. I felt like I was about to perform at a Super Bowl half-time show. “Ariel came to see me a week ago.”

  “What!”

  That was Dajuan. He moved Brandon to the side and stood. Kensan and Aramis stared at us.

  I went on. “She came to see me on the same day as the Artis acquittal. She refused to meet Brandon, so I walked out of her hotel room. She claimed that she wanted some money. Then she added that she was going to file for divorce and take me for half my worth. And that was because, I told her that if she did not meet Brandon I did not want to talk to her.

  “And take note that that night Dave and Busters was robbed and you received a crank call to watch the news that morning. Also note, Dorothy Kincaid, was bagged, tagged, and shipped to the local FBI office that morning,” Dajuan said. He went on, and said, “I’ve actually read most of what you two are now gagging over. I actually had time to read the papers. It seems that Ariel has been around the
set of all of the Mr. 357 crimes in Milan, Boston and now Philadelphia. I’m willing to bet that she was at the Salt Lake City Olympic Games. I would also bet she was with the true Mark Artis, too. That explains why she’s back or she may be Skylar Juday in drag as a man. You did not get the connection with Artis, so the heat was turned up.”

  “There you have it folks. Whoever is trying to kill you has a connection to Ariel Greenland,” Kensan said.

  “Makes sense to me. Why else would they want to blow you up and take Brandon?” Aramis asked.

  “He’s right,” Kensan added. “You were supposed to be blown up and at the same time your condo was being staked out to kidnap Brandon. Only that piece of the plan fell through because I was there and gave you an outlet to warn D and B.”

  “Oh shit,” Aramis and I said together.

  I then said, “D and B, as in Dave and Buster’s like Dajuan and Brandon. She fuckin’ did it! That crazy bitch is Mr. 357. That was a clue to the identity and now that I think about it, her favorite drink is...”

  “Don’t tell me,” Dajuan said. “Let me guess, Louis the damn 13th, which further explains why the women who were raped had no semen or body fluid evidence. She used a dildo.”

  I bet I looked as ridiculous as I ever have in my life. That couldn’t be it. A charming analysis that I could not accept. We were on the right train going down the wrong track.

  “Ariel is not Mr. 357.”

  “Why not?” Dajuan asked.

  “She’s not!” I growled and jumped to my feet.

  I was in no way going to let them badger my wife and son’s mother. “Where the hell is she now?” I asked and paced the floor.

  “Probably waiting for you to return home, or work, or to the courthouse,” Aramis said to my back.

  Dajuan walked up to me and touched my shoulder. I gave in and spun and hugged him tightly. Tears fell down my face. How could I have had a baby with Mr. 357? He was a terrorist in the highest form. Could Ariel have fooled me so easily? Why marry and have a baby by me?

  “I never wanted to hear myself say this, but I need to go to the FBI.”

  CHAPTER 87

  Armed with a neat, concise legal brief, I barged into the FBI office headquarters like I owned the joint. I would brook no superiority complexes from the agents who would perceive my ideas as wildly unbelievable. My brief was written in very clear layman’s terms because I was fully aware that despite the degrees earned by the agents, they had a brutish lack of thoroughly devoting energy to civilian ideas.

  I, along with Aramis, sat in what was the war room for the plans to capture Mr. 357. It was 9:20 according to a digital clock on the wall. As three agents consumed the Mr. 357 Brief, I took the free time to steal what information that I could from the pushpin maps and many bulletin boards around the room. Despite Aramis’s neutral expression, I was sure as a thirsty reporter he was doing the same as I. The agents should have put us in an empty interview room. Aramis should never, never, never be in a room that confided so many worthy developments.

  All of the civilian leads appeared to be verbal descriptions or forensic artist’s sketches of alleged eye witnesses. To my supposition, all of those leads were moot. Mr. 357 was not only a master of disguise, he could cross racial lines. That was a compelling skill that many men of the criminal cloak were not privileged to. There was no police or what they called, “trained eye” leads because the only three judicial figures to encounter Mr. 357 were all dead.

  The only evidenced personal history were Mr. 357’s crimes. Which to me was not personal. Every piece of data on the crimes was public information, and that’s hardly a fair description of personal.

  There was a lovely photo array of any surveillance which had been used to print a photo of Mr. 357. I looked at the photos very closely to see if I could see any likeness of Ariel Greenland. My mind also rewound and pictured Ariel in my office two weeks prior. Before she left me for Hollywood her canines on both sides of her mouth were slightly off, which forced an appearance of crowding. However, the only thing I noticed was her fabulous veneer job and the enamel was the brightest white. The new look was toothsome, but could they have been faux teeth? Pure theatrical?

  So many suppositions needed to morph into facts. I was in a war room inside of the FBI headquarters where facts were to be found and later used to prosecute. I never thought I’d be on this side of the table.

  The agents seemed to be eating every word on the page like beef Wellington. I was not fooled one bit, though. I knew a tsunami of questions would follow. First, they’d interrogate the hell out of me with tedious questions about the car bomb. Probably force me to convince them that I did not plant the bomb myself. They could satisfy all of the prongs to try and substantiate it, too.

  Carlos Savino, my boss and lead counsel at my firm, would beat the bologna down with a bat, but I imagined them claiming that I had a criminal connection to Mr. 357 as Mark Artis, and I had a means to garner explosives. They could make the motive car insurance. A joke right? The FBI usually cooked up beautiful con somme prior to arrest as they did with Mark Artis. However, I added power steering fluid to the soup, so no jury bought it. Now, I had the balls to press upon them a conceivable theory of who the true Mr. 357 was. I imagined the media beating they’d get. Not to mention the deflated egos. One of the agents closed the brief that I had written and the interrogation began.

  It was brief, and ended with them kicking me out with two conditions: no contact with Ariel Greenland, and I could not leave Philadelphia.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 15, 2007

  CHAPTER 88

  After leaving the Federal Bureau of Ignoramus office, Kensan drove Dajuan and Brandon to the Amtrak Station at 30th Street. We had planned for them to take an Amtrak train headed to Boston, but they would depart the train in Trenton, NJ, then take a SEPTA train from Trenton back to the Philadelphia Airport and board non-stop flights for LAX to join Constance. Meanwhile, I had work to do.

  We drove Aramis to his apartment to grab his laptop and clothing. He would be with me for a while, and needed to be prepared. He also retrieved his car, and Kensan and I followed him back to my home where we had met Jonathan Rude. Rude had swept my condo for bugs and hidden cameras and stayed there until I got there.

  At nearly three a.m., I was lying in my waterbed after taking a cat nap. Kensan was in the bed with me when I awoke, when I distinctly recalled going to bed alone. He was in boxers and a tank top and lay on top of the covers. I briefly admired his body, which wasn’t perfect, but attractive. I slithered out of the bed because I was afraid to wake him. I was more afraid of what may have ensued when human desires took over.

  I headed to my office and found Aramis typing away. He was determined to have an article about the exciting night of attorney, Ravonne Lemmelle, on the presses. We had decided to exclude all references to Ariel Greenland and the FBI. We focused on the car explosion, the attempted kidnapping of Brandon, and the threats that I received via telephone and instant message. We excluded the stolen car portion for obvious reasons. I saw that he was busy and just left him there. I had my own masterpiece to glue together.

  Back in my bedroom, I pulled out my notes and the motion to dismiss relevant to Wydell James’ case. That did not vanish, despite my drama.

  One habit that I had was that I loved rehearsing my lines long before I had to say them. Oftentimes, I prepared a speech for George Bush in the event that I ever met the President. I even edited and revised the words in my head. At that point, I lay in bed and rehearsed my private conversation that I’d hold with the judge to have Wydell’s charges dismissed.

  I sat up on the bed and grabbed the remote to the stereo. I needed to get pumped. Despite my personal crisis, I had a job, which I could have ignored and postponed for two weeks, but I couldn’t subject Mr. James to my problems. That was what my colleagues did, and that was what separated me from them. I had a Motion to Dismiss to prepare for, that would go on as planned, as long as I was not dead or otherwise
mentally unable to stand trial.

  I did a quick bathroom tour before I tried to recall the last meal that I had. I couldn’t. I popped a TV dinner in the microwave and knocked it down. I was eating when the telephone rang. It was Dajuan. He was in a city on a layover. I won’t bore you with the details of this conversation. Just know that there were a lot of reservations and tickets purchase to confuse anyone trying to find my family. Had someone tried to track them, they’d be dizzy. I assured that.

  I annihilated the Salisbury steak, mash potatoes, and mixed vegetables. Afterward, I dug into my briefcase for my Wydell James file and composition book. After a refresher read, I pulled out my tape recorder and blasted off questions for prosecutorial witnesses and my own. As I brooded, a fascinating development stumbled upon me. At that precise moment a shadowy figure stepped into the kitchen.