Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [42]
CHAPTER 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