Murder at Union Station

TWENTY

Mullin and Accurso drove to Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, fourteen acres of marshland in the northeastern portion of Anacostia Park. Created by a civil servant in 1882 with a few water lilies from Maine, it grew over decades into a tranquil setting in a marginal neighborhood enjoyed by picnicking tourists, naturalists, and fledgling artists who set up their easels and attempted to capture the beauty of more than a hundred thousand water lilies, other aquatic plants, and water creatures that inhabit the park. Monet would have felt very much at home.

By the time they’d reached the park, it was also filled with uniformed police and plainclothes detectives.

The body of Leon LeClaire lay faceup, his body partially obscured by the five-foot-long platter-shaped leaves of exotic South American Victoria amazonica lilies. A small group of onlookers formed a ring about the scene, kept at a respectful distance by uniformed officers who’d been the first responders.

“Hey, Bret. How goes it?” one of the officers asked Mullin as he and his partner approached.

“Okay, okay.”

A detective came to Mullin and Accurso.

“Who made the ID on him?” Mullin asked.

“I did,” the detective, considerably younger than Mullin, replied. He handed Mullin a wallet and a passport. Mullin examined the wallet’s contents and the passport, and handed them to Accurso.

“Who decided he’s the Union Station shooter?” Mullin asked.

“I did,” said the detective. “And Warner over there. Matches the sketch, same tan suit last seen wearing. Other details fit. It’s got to be the guy.”

Warner joined them. Opening a brown paper bag, he used a handkerchief to withdraw a 9-millimeter semiautomatic Walther pistol. “Minus two bullets,” he said. “Probably match up with the ones that took down the guy at the station.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice and neat,” Accurso said. “Who discovered the body?”

Warner pointed to an elderly couple standing slightly apart from the other gawkers. Mullin went to them.

“I’m Detective Mullin,” he said, showing his badge. “I understand you two found the body.”

The woman’s fist went to her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes.

“My wife is very upset,” the husband said, “as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Sure,” Mullin said. “You were just what? Taking a walk or something?”

“We come here often in the summer,” the husband said. “It’s cooler than in the city. Very peaceful.”

Mullin glanced around and nodded. “You what, just saw him laying there?”

“Yes. At first I thought it was an inanimate object. You don’t assume right away that you’re looking at a dead body. But then-well, my wife screamed, and I realized it was a person.”

“You called 911?”

“No. We got away from here and told somebody else what we saw. He dialed the police for us.”

“Who was that?” Mullin asked, looking at others in the area.

“I don’t see him,” said the husband.

“Yeah, well. Did you see anybody suspicious around here?”

“Suspicious?”

“Yeah. Somebody who maybe was near where the body was, or somebody running off.”

“No.”

Mullin looked at the wife. She shook her head.

Mullin took their names and phone number, and rejoined Accurso and Warner.

“How did he get it?” he asked, nodding toward the victim.

“Two slugs in the back of the head-very neat, very professional,” Warner said.

That speculation was put on hold by the arrival of the medical examiner’s team, who immediately went to the body, joining evidence technicians photographing the deceased from various angles and collecting soil samples.

“Get that weapon over to forensics,” Mullin told Warner, “and tell them it’s a priority.” To Accurso: “Nothing we can do here, Vinny. Let’s head back.”

They’d walked halfway to where they’d parked their car when a remote truck from WTTG pulled up, and reporter Joyce Rosenberg and her two-man crew jumped out of the vehicle.

“Hi, Detective,” she said. “Joyce Rosenberg, Fox News.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Mullin said.

“Is it true?” she asked. “You’ve got the Union Station shooter?”

“Could be. Not sure.”

“Down there?” she asked, pointing to the crowd congregated by the Victoria amazonica lilies.

“Yeah, but it’s off-limits.”

“Give me a statement,” she said, indicating to her crew to focus on her and Mullin.

“No statement,” he muttered.

She ignored him and said to the camera, “This is Joyce Rosenberg at the Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, where police feel they’ve solved yesterday’s Union Station murder. With me is Detective Mullin of the MPD.”

Mullin looked at her, smiled, and shook his head.

She consulted notes: “We understand the suspect’s name is Leon LeClaire, from Haiti and carrying a French passport.”

Mullin’s expression changed from bemusement to surprise. He looked quizzically at Accurso, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Shut that thing off,” Mullin ordered, indicating the camera and microphone. She gestured for the crew to comply and followed Mullin out of earshot of the others.

“Where the hell did you get that information?” he growled at her.

“A source,” she said.

“What source?”

“Oh, come on, Mullin. You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Yeah, the press and confidential sources and all that. Shield laws.” He leaned close to her face. “Did MPD leak it to you?”

She took a few steps back. “No comment,” she said, smiling. “Look, Mullin, you’ve always been square with me, and I’ve never screwed you. Level with me. I have it right, don’t I? He’s from Haiti, name is LeClaire, carries a French passport?”

Mullin nodded.

“So why would this LeClaire shoot an old Italian guy in the back of the head in Union Station?”

“I don’t know,” Mullin said. “Hey, as long as you’re asking all these questions, Ms. Rosenberg, how about answering one of mine?”

“If I can.”

“The guy who told you the name of the victim at the station, you know, the guy you mentioned on your newscast.”

“What about him?”

“Who is he?”

She laughed. “I’d love to know.”

“So would I. You got a good look at him?”

“No. Just a passing glance.”

“But you kind of know what he looks like. Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Tell you what. How about giving a description to one of our sketch artists?”

Her laugh turned to a giggle. “Me? Give a description to a sketch artist?”

“Yeah. You see, Ms. Rosenberg, I’d like to know who he is, too. I’d like to find him.”

“Why? Why is he important?”

“Once I find him, I’ll figure that out. Game?”

“Sure. Now, am I right about the guy down there in the weeds?”

“They’re lilies.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Thanks.”

“What time can you come by headquarters tomorrow?”

She started to suggest first thing in the morning, but remembered her nine o’clock date with Tim Stripling. “The afternoon,” she said. “Around three?”

“I’ll be there.”

The medical examiner’s people carried the covered body of Leon LeClaire on a stretcher up to the parking lot and slid it into the back of their van. Two uniformed officers remained at the scene, now cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. The WTTG crew videotaped the action while Joyce Rosenberg provided commentary. Mullin and Accurso waited until the police vehicles and the TV truck left the parking lot before getting in their own car and driving off.

“What was that about with the reporter?” Accurso asked.

“Her sources are good, Vinny.” He explained his plan to have her meet with an MPD sketch artist the next afternoon.

“You really think it’ll help find this guy?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s worth a shot.”

They spent what was left of the day at headquarters filling out their reports.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” Mullin said when they were finished.

“A rain check, Bret,” Accurso said, gathering his things. “Katie and I have plans this evening.”

“Yeah, sure. See you in the morning.”

Mullin stayed at headquarters after his partner departed. Aside from arranging for a sketch artist to be available the next afternoon, he accomplished little until leaving at eight, pretending to read files and make notes until it was late enough to face his loneliness. He stopped at Lauriol Plaza, where he downed margaritas on the outdoor terrace and filled up on beef fajitas. He considered swinging by the Market Inn, where an old friend, a jazz pianist, appeared nightly, but thought better of it once he was in the car. He was too tired, aided by the alcohol, to extend the night. He went home, fed Magnum, got out of his clothes-his feet hurt, especially one on which he’d developed a painful hammertoe-and sat in his recliner, fighting to stay awake through the news on TV.

“… MPD has verified the victim’s identity as Leon LeClaire, Haitian-born and carrying a French passport. His last known residence was New York City. Fox News has also learned that LeClaire matches the description of the man accused of being the shooter in the recent Union Station murder. And exclusive sources tell me that MPD interest in the so-called mystery man-who told this reporter at the scene of the Union Station murder the name of the victim before anyone else knew it-has intensified.”

The camera pulled back to a wider shot; Mullin and Accurso could be seen in the background.

“I’m Joyce Rosenberg reporting.”