Dead on Arrival

25

‘You guys know where Rollie’s at?’ DeMarco asked.

DeMarco wanted to talk to Rollie Patterson, the U.S. Capitol police officer who had killed Mustafa Ahmed, but Rollie wasn’t at his normal post. The two men he was speaking to — one black, one white, door guards who worked with Rollie — didn’t answer his question immediately because they were busy admiring the backside of a female lobbyist who was passing through the metal detector.

‘Why you asking?’ the white guard finally said. ‘They wanna give him another medal?’

The day after preventing the Capitol from being turned into rubble, Rollie had been presented with a medal. Meritorious something-or-other for valor. The presentation had been made in the House chamber, and Mahoney had personally pinned the medal on Rollie’s stout chest. House members, the hundred or so who had bothered to attend the ceremony, had all risen and clapped their hands in tribute to Rollie’s heroism.

‘Nah, I just want to talk to him,’ DeMarco said.

‘Yeah, but who are you?’ the black guard said.

‘I handle media inquiries,’ DeMarco lied. ‘Got a question from some reporter that I’m tryin’ to get answered.’ Before the guards could ask another question — not because they cared, but because screwing with DeMarco was as good a way as any to kill time — DeMarco said, ‘So is he here today or not?’

‘No,’ the black guy said. ‘He’s been off since he popped that guy. I guess havin’ to stand up for all those pictures was hard on his feet.’

The white guy laughed.

Rollie, even after killing a terrorist, still got no respect.

Rollie had a small single-story home with a detached garage not too far from the Fort Totten metro stop in northeast D.C. DeMarco noticed that the mailbox was stuffed with envelopes, and three days’ worth of newspapers were stacked up near the door. It appeared that Rollie was out of town and that’s why DeMarco hadn’t been able to reach him by phone.

DeMarco knocked on the door. No one answered. He knocked again and looked in the nearest window but couldn’t see anyone in the house. It was beginning to look as if he’d wasted his time driving out to Rollie’s place, but he walked around to the rear of the house, stood on the back porch, and looked in through the backdoor window, into the kitchen of Rollie’s home. There were dishes on the table, and a carton of milk was sitting on the counter near the stove.

‘Hey, whatcha doin?’

DeMarco turned and saw, peering over the fence that separated her house from Rollie’s, an elderly white woman, bright-eyed as a robin. She was wearing an army fatigue jacket over a blue bathrobe, and there was a red stocking cap on her head, gray hair sticking out from beneath the cap.

‘I’m looking for Rollie,’ DeMarco said.

‘How do I know you weren’t planning to break into the house?’ the woman said, then jiggled her eyebrows up and down.

DeMarco smiled. ‘What would you have done if I had been?’

The woman smiled back and raised her right hand, which had been obscured by the fence. She was holding a revolver. She didn’t point it at DeMarco, she just sort of waved it.

Jesus!

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not loaded,’ she said.

‘Good,’ DeMarco said. ‘So have you seen Rollie? I work with him, over at the Capitol. Been trying all day to get ahold of him.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘and to tell you the truth, I’m kinda worried about him. The papers on his porch, you know.’

‘You think we should call the cops?’ DeMarco said.

The woman nodded, but then she said, ‘Nah. Look under that flowerpot, the one with the dead plant in it. The key to the front door’s there. We’ll go in together.’ Then she held up her gun again. ‘And if there’s anybody in there-’

‘I thought you said it wasn’t loaded.’

‘I lied.’

DeMarco opened the door. Rollie’s gun-toting neighbor — her name was Netty Glenn — was right behind him, which made him wish he’d let her go in first. Guns made him nervous.

The smell hit them the minute he opened the door.

‘Oh-oh,’ Netty said.

Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t get an answer, DeMarco called out, ‘Hey, Rollie, you here? Anybody home?’

‘Maybe you oughta wait here,’ Netty said. ‘I’ve seen lots of dead bodies.’

‘What?’ DeMarco said.

‘I was a nurse in Vietnam.’

‘Oh. Well, I’ll be all right. I’ll look with you.’

They found him in his bedroom, lying on the floor, fully dressed. His right hand was on his chest.

Netty made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue and shook her head. ‘I told him that if he kept eatin’ fried chicken every night of the week and didn’t lose some weight, this was gonna happen.’

DeMarco looked around the bedroom. He didn’t see anything out of place — other than a dead man on the floor with a waxy gray-green complexion.

DeMarco called the police using his cell phone. Netty said they should wait outside, but DeMarco said, ‘Why don’t we just take a look around first? You know, see if everything looks okay.’ Netty started to say something, but before she could, DeMarco said, ‘And maybe you oughta go home and put that gun away.’

‘You got a point there,’ she said.

After Netty left, DeMarco made a quick tour of the main floor of the small house. He didn’t have time to go into the basement. He didn’t see anything out of place — no sign of a struggle or a burglary — and was in fact surprised to find that Rollie was a fairly neat housekeeper. In the second bedroom, a room Rollie apparently used as an office, he looked at the papers lying on the desk, mostly bills Rollie hadn’t gotten around to paying. He found a brochure for a paint-gun place, one of those places that latent homicidal maniacs go to, dressed in camo pants, and shoot each other with paint balls.

Actually, DeMarco had always wanted to do that. He thought it might be fun.

He looked through the drawers in the desk, using his handkerchief not to leave prints, and found Rollie’s checkbook. He ripped one of the deposit slips out of the back and put it in his shirt pocket.

There was a large metal safe in the room, about six feet high and three feet deep with a big combination lock. DeMarco tugged on the safe’s door but it was locked. He guessed it was a gun safe, knowing of Rollie’s interest in firearms, said interest being apparent because next to the safe was a bookcase filled with gun books and magazines.

He was turning to leave the office, figuring the cops would be there any moment, when he noticed something lying on the floor, next to the desk, as if it might have been blown off. DeMarco picked it up. It was a four-page pamphlet, printed on glossy paper, and appeared to be some sort of right-wing rant about how whites were becoming a minority in America and how they had to fight back. He looked around the room but didn’t see any more literature like that. He thought of taking the pamphlet but then decided not to. Instead of putting it back down on the floor where he’d found it, he dropped it in the middle of Rollie’s desk.

Netty Glenn was standing outside on Rollie’s porch, smoking a cigarette.

‘I don’t usually smoke,’ she said to DeMarco. ‘Horrible, nasty habit. But dead bodies — they bring back memories.’

‘I’ll bet,’ DeMarco said. He was thinking that this was one interesting woman; he bet she’d been a looker when she was younger, like the nurses in the movie M*A*S*H — except she’d been the real thing.

As they were standing there, DeMarco noticed a big RV parked on the grass next to Rollie’s house, on the side of the house he hadn’t seen until now. He couldn’t help but notice it because the thing was as long as a city bus.

‘When did Rollie get that?’ DeMarco asked Netty.

‘Just last week, poor bastard. He was telling me — geez, I guess it was the last time I saw him — how he was already mapping out this trip he was gonna take out west when he retired.’

‘That looks like a pretty expensive rig,’ DeMarco said.

‘He said it cost him forty-two five. It’s used, but it’s only got a few thousand miles on it. Ain’t that life,’ Netty said, flicking her cigarette butt away. ‘A guy finally buys his dream machine, and the next thing you know …’ She concluded by just shaking her head.

‘Can I ask you something about Rollie?’ DeMarco said.

‘I guess,’ Netty said.

‘Was he some kind of racist?’

‘Why you asking? Because he shot that Muslim guy?’

‘No, not because of that. I saw this pamphlet on his desk from some white-power group.’ Then, because DeMarco had claimed to be Rollie’s friend, he added, ‘I just never thought he was into anything like that.’

‘Well, I don’t know about any pamphlet,’ Netty said, ‘and I never heard him talk about stuff like that. But he was kinda scared. Every time a new family would move into the neighborhood — and if they weren’t white, which they usually weren’t — Rollie would say something to me about how he hoped we weren’t gonna start getting a lot of crime and drugs in the neighborhood. But I never heard him goin’ around sayin’ nigger, nigger. Nothing like that.’

It took the cops about twenty minutes to get there, two cocky young guys in a patrol car. They told DeMarco and Netty to wait for them on Rollie’s porch, then walked quickly through the house. They couldn’t have spent more than five minutes inside the place. As one of the cops was calling for the medical examiner, DeMarco asked the other one, ‘Will they do an autopsy on him?’

The cop shrugged. ‘Not my call,’ he said. ‘But what would be the point, a fat guy with his hand on his heart?’

And rest in peace, Rollie.