Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [20]
Vargas-Swayze was directing uniformed officers at the K Street entrance to the spacious downtown park when Wilcox pulled up. A half-dozen marked police cars, their red lights flashing, were parked haphazardly along the street. Wilcox started into the park but was stopped by an officer. “He’s okay,” Vargas-Swayze said, waving him through.
He followed a sloping footpath leading toward the park’s central fountain, passing a series of benches beneath tall trees that made it a favorite fair weather brownbag lunch spot for office workers. The cynosure was a bench not far from the fountain. On it was sprawled a woman’s body, illuminated by the dancing beams of flashlights wielded by uniformed cops. A handbag that appeared to be made of straw or some other woven material was on the ground in front of the bench.
Wilcox attempted to get closer, displaying the press credential tethered to his neck, but was kept away by another uniform. He looked around for Vargas-Swayze, who was nowhere to be seen. As he squinted to get a better view of the body, additional uniformed police arrived, accompanied by a couple of EMTs. Save your mouth-to-mouth for someone who can benefit from it, Wilcox thought.
A young man and woman in white lab coats with EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN emblazoned on their backs and carrying crime-scene investigation kits joined the EMTs. Wilcox knew them from dozens of other homicides he’d covered in the District. Vargas-Swayze walked into the scene and came to Wilcox.
“Know anything yet?” Wilcox asked over the cacophony of walkie-talkie and cell phone chatter. Two cops unrolled yellow crime scene tape and began to cordon off the immediate area.
“No.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“Over there.” She pointed to a middle-aged man and younger looking woman sitting on a bench a dozen yards from the victim. A uniformed officer stood guard over them, arms folded across his chest.
Vargas-Swayze left Wilcox and went to where the crime scene investigators had begun scouring the ground surrounding the body. They were joined almost immediately by another face familiar to Wilcox, an assistant from the medical examiner’s office. Wilcox had forged a friendship of sorts with this doctor, had done him a few favors over the past years, including securing a summer intern slot at the Trib for his teenage daughter. The ME waved to Wilcox before approaching the woman’s lifeless body. He placed his hand on her neck and cheek, but withdrew it as though it had been hot to the touch. Holding a flashlight of his own, he more closely examined her face and neck. As he did, the techs began photographing the scene using digital still and video cameras.
The ME motioned for Vargas-Swayze to accompany him to a spot outside the roped-off area. Wilcox made his way in that direction, too, but kept a respectful distance until they’d finished their conversation. “Got a minute?” he asked, looking at Vargas-Swayze for a sign that she wouldn’t prohibit him from questioning the ME. “Strictly off the record,” Wilcox added.
“Looks like a homicide,” the ME said, moving to where Wilcox stood, “unless she decided to hang herself from the nearest tree. Of course, she wouldn’t have ended up on the bench if she had.”
“Hang herself? That’s how she died?” Wilcox asked. “Asphyxiation?”
“That’s my guess at this juncture,” said the ME. “The autopsy will be more specific, but judging from the fingernail marks on her throat, I’d say somebody choked her to death.”
“How long do you figure she’s been dead?” Wilcox asked.
“Not long. An hour maybe. We’ll know more after the autopsy. Speaking of that, I’d better get going.”
The ME joined the EMTs as they put the lifeless body into a body bag and removed it from the park.
“Any ID?” Wilcox asked Vargas-Swayze.
“Yeah, but not for you, Joe.”
“Forget the name for now,” he said. “I know the drill. I saw you talking with the cop who had her purse. Come on, Edith, give me something about her. I’ll sit on it