A Murder of Justice

FOURTEEN

Frank!… Goddamnit!… Stop!”

Grabbing his right arm and left shoulder, Jose spun his partner around, backing him against a parked patrol car.

“That son of a bitch.” Frank heard the words come up from the murderous roaring inside his head and chest.

Jose clamped him into a bear hug and brought his mouth close to Frank’s ear. “Let… it… go, brother.”

The words came slow and deep, and Frank tensed as though to break Jose’s grip.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jose said.

“I want to talk to that bastard.”

“Not now.” Jose tightened his grip on Frank. “You go in there now, all you’re gonna do is get a ration of his shuck-and-jive bullshit. Then you’ll get more pissed an’ do something dumb.”

A moment like a year finally passed and the roaring inside faded into the distance and he could breathe again and he felt Jose’s arms loosen.

Jose squeezed the back of Frank’s neck. “Let’s go find R.C.”

Renfro Calkins lived on T Street, NW, in the 1700 block, not far from Dupont Circle. The house was on the end of a group of four red-brick row houses in a diverse neighborhood at an intersection of Washington’s black, white, gay, and Hispanic communities. A block west, the semiluxurious Washington Hilton, where Ronald Reagan had been shot. A block north, the beginnings of Adams-Morgan. A small brass plaque by the doorbell announced that the row houses, built in 1887, had been registered with the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

Frank rang the bell.

The door swung open.

“Yes?” The smile of surprise began before the question died away. “Jose! Frank!” Elsa Calkins pulled the two men through the doorway and into the living room. Petite and fine-boned, Elsa stood on tiptoe to kiss each of them on the cheek. She smelled of vanilla and nutmeg, and her dark curly hair glistened in the light.

“How’s he doing, Elsa?” Jose asked.

Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s better than I am. Come on.” She led them down a hallway lined with framed displays of exotic seashells. “Almost twenty years,” she said, her voice bitter. “Now this. They throw him out. Shut the gate.”

“It’s only a suspension, Elsa.”

She stopped at a closed door and turned to face Frank and Jose. “It’s a travesty.” She glared at them, then turned, knocked once, and opened the door.

Shelves and bookcases covered the walls. An antique walnut desk in the center of the room faced French doors leading to a small walled-in garden.

Renfro Calkins, seated at the desk, swiveled around. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by a look of withdrawing caution, as though he’d pulled himself back into a protective shell. He stood, one hand on the back of his chair, the other resting on a large ledger open on the desk. Several smaller notebooks also lay open. He followed Frank’s and Jose’s gazes.

“Updating my journal. If I don’t capture my thoughts right away, they just fly off.”

Jose nodded. “What happened, R.C.?” he asked in a voice heavy with concern.

Calkins gestured toward a couple of chairs. He and Elsa exchanged a wordless message, and she left, shutting the door behind her. The sound of the door had a finality to it, and the three men sat as though time had stopped.

Jose broke the silence, asking again, softly, “What happened,