Criss Cross

Chapter 3

We drove to friendship heights, in the far northwest corner of DC, parked on Forty-First Street, and ran up the sidewalk to Harrison Avenue, where a patrol car with lights flashing was in front of a barrier.

“Which one is it?” Sampson asked the patrol officer.

“Third on the right, sir. There’s a few plainclothes there already.”

“And I imagine there will be more,” I said, moving around the barrier toward a gray Craftsman house with a tidy front yard and a medical examiner’s van parked out front.

On the scene, there were three uniformed officers and two in plainclothes whom I recognized as junior homicide detectives Owen Shank and Deana Laurel.

They were talking to two very upset women in their late thirties. Laurel spotted us, excused herself, and came over.

She told us that the two women — Patsy Phelps and Anita Kline — were neighbors of the Nixons, who owned the Craftsman. Gary Nixon, the father, was a successful attorney on K Street. Mr. Nixon had taken his two young children on a four-day trip to see his ailing mother in San Diego. Katrina, his wife of fifteen years, had a successful speech-pathology practice and couldn’t make the trip.

“They said the Nixons made it a point to talk twice a day, no matter where they were,” Detective Laurel said. “So when Mrs. Nixon didn’t answer her phone this morning or this evening, Mr. Nixon called Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Kline to go over and check on their—”

Detective Shank came over and cut her off. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Dr. Cross, Detective Sampson. But are you sure it’s okay for the two of you to be here? I mean, isn’t this kind of a conflict of interest?”

“We’re here on orders,” Sampson said. “Take us inside.”

Shank, a tough, wiry guy who’d once served in a Marine Force Recon unit, didn’t like it, but he understood orders. “Straightaway, sir.”

Detective Laurel returned to the neighbors. We followed Shank into the house, which had been decorated by Pottery Barn and Toys R Us.

Shank told us there were no signs of forced entry, and although the house was in the disarray you’d expect with a young, affluent family, we saw no indications of a struggle as we moved down a short hallway to the type of kitchen you see in gourmet ads.

There were kids’ drawings taped to the stainless-steel fridge along with a calendar page where the Nixons kept track of babysitters and doctors’ appointments. It wasn’t until we got past the stove that we saw evidence of a fight.

A kitchen chair had fallen over. A glass vase lay shattered on the floor by a breakfast nook. Beyond it was a family room. The television was on, blaring the news about the police presence currently building on Harrison Avenue in Friendship Heights.

The body of Katrina Nixon, who’d been a pretty brunette in her late thirties, was on the far side of the room, naked and slumped in an overstuffed chair. Her skin was bluish and coated in a thin white film. Her mouth was stretched wide, as if she’d tried to scream, and locked in rigor. Her eyes were open and dull.

The air reeked of bleach. The instrument of her death, a red and purple Hermès silk scarf, was wrapped impossibly tight around her neck.

A piece of plain white paper lay on her lap.

As I walked over to look at it, I felt as if something foundational was cracking inside me. I read the note and felt a chunk of myself break free and fall.