A Murder of Justice

Robert Andrews

APRIL 6, 2001 -a Friday. Edward Teasdale had just tilted back in his Barcalounger to watch the Orioles and Red Sox on CSN, when he heard the shots.

Bam… Bam… Bam… Bam…

Steady shooting.

Bam… Bam… Bam…

Silence.

Teasdale waited. No more shots.

Bayless Place in southeast Washington, D.C., used to be a quiet neighborhood. But in the last several years, Teasdale and his neighbors had gotten practice at what he sourly called “acoustical gunfire analysis.”

This evening’s shots had been evenly spaced.

One shooter. Somebody out there on the street wasn’t in a hurry.

Seven shots, maybe eight.

Not a revolver. An automatic-probably a nine.

Teasdale glanced at the digital clock on the TV-seven thirty-two. He went to the window and pulled the curtain open just enough to get a glimpse of the street, then settled back into the Barcalounger.

Jason Johnson took the mound against Boston.

The day before, Hideo Nomo had thrown a no-hitter for the Sox against Teasdale’s beloved Birds. Tonight, Teasdale wanted revenge.

The clock showed seven thirty-eight. Johnson had struck out the inning’s second batter… no further gunfire outside. Teasdale grudgingly lifted himself out of the Barcalounger.

Might ’s well take a look.

Standing off to the side, he unbolted and opened his front door. It was sunset. The sidewalks were deserted. Anyone who’d been outside had long before taken cover. The dark Ford Taurus was parked about halfway down the block in its usual place. Rhythmic bass thumps of a stereo driving at top volume rocked the air.

The sidewalks were still empty when Teasdale got to the car. In the street, glass nuggets glowed in the sun’s last light. Bullet holes dimpled the door. Skirting the back of the car, Teasdale peered through the shattered window.

Blood darkened the windshield and dashboard. A Puff Daddy rap thundered from the Taurus’s speakers.

Off to his right, Teasdale caught the brassy glint of empty cartridge cases on the asphalt. Here’s where the shooting had been done, right here where he was standing, Teasdale figured. He aimed a finger pistol.

Bam… Bam… Bam… Just like that.

Teasdale circled around to get a more direct look into the front seat.

“Why, hello, Skeeter,” Teasdale whispered.

The top of James “Skeeter” Hodges’s head had been blown away.

Teasdale smiled.

Another figure slumped in the passenger seat. Tobias “Pencil” Crawfurd, Skeeter’s number two, was breathing.

Teasdale frowned. He waited a moment.

But Crawfurd kept breathing.

Teasdale sighed.

Inside his house again, he dialed 911. Finished with the call, he settled back to watch the game. Things were getting better. The Orioles were up by one.

“Oh, yes,” Teasdale whispered into the empty room. He smiled.

Ten minutes passed before Officers Antwon Hawkins and Samuel Lawson responded, got Crawfurd on his way to the Hospital Center, and secured the crime scene.

Five minutes later, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department homicide detectives Frank Kearney and Jose Phelps arrived.