Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [1]
Hatcher called headquarters to run the name. Her history was brief. Ms. Curzon had twice been arrested for prostitution four years ago when she worked for one of D.C.’s myriad escort services. She’d paid a fine—or someone did—and she walked.
Matt Jackson turned his attention to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves from which Hatch had lifted the photograph. The deceased’s reading selection was eclectic—leather-bound editions of classics, potboiler fiction, and a dozen erotic novels lined up next to six volumes on sexual practices. Jackson smiled as he read the spine of one in the latter grouping, Kosher Sex. He pulled it down, saw that it had been written by a rabbi, and returned it to its place on the shelf.
Sections were reserved for home decorating books, murder mysteries by big name authors, and for biographies of a variety of famous names in business, politics, the military, and religion.
“The well-read hooker, huh, Matt?” Hatcher said, joining his young colleague in perusing the books. His eyes eventually went to the top shelf, twelve inches below the crown molding that separated the wall from the ceiling, where ten videotape boxes stood nestled in slots provided by a blue, faux-leather slipcase designed for that purpose. They were too high up to reach. “Grab that desk chair,” Hatcher instructed. Jackson dragged it over, stood on it, and handed the slipcase down to Hatcher.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Jackson said, pointing to a small video camera that had been partially concealed by the tapes, its lens tilted down in the direction of the bed.
“Grab that, too,” Hatcher ordered.
Jackson gave the camera to Hatcher, jumped down from the chair, and joinedhim in reviewing what was written on the spines of the tapes.
Hatcher looked at Jackson and grinned. “Look’ee here,” he said, referring to the neatly handwritten notations on the videos. Each indicated a span between two dates, followed by initials.
“You don’t figure the lady was a movie producer, too, do you, Jackson?”
Jackson’s thought matched Hatcher’s. Had the deceased prostitute videotaped her trysts with paying customers? If so, was it possible that she’d captured her own murder on tape?
Hatcher’s laugh was a mirthless low rumble. “Maybe we got lucky.”
“It would be nice.”
“It would be better than nice. It would be a home run.”
“Two are missing,” Jackson offered, referring to empty slots in the slipcase that was designed to hold twelve tapes.
“Maybe business was slow,” Hatcher said. He opened the compartment of the camera and retrieved a tape. A quick examination showed that approximately half of it had been used.
They turned as the third member of their team, Mary Hall, entered, followed by crime scene techs and a D.C. medical examiner.
“Took you long enough,” Hatcher said to the young, prematurely balding ME in the white coat.
The ME ignored him and went directly to the body. One of the techs began making a video recording, circling the body to capture it from a variety of angles.
“What do we know?” the ME asked Jackson.
“One of her neighbors called nine-one-one, said she heard noises from the apartment. She got hold of the super and he used his key to get in.”
“How long ago?”
“We got the call forty-five minutes ago.”
The ME knelt next to the victim and leaned close to examine the injuries to the back of her head, and to the one side of her face that was visible. “This is the way you found her?” he asked no one in particular.
“If you mean did anybody move the body,” Hatcher said, “the answer is no.”
The ME moved to the other side of the deceased.
“Somebody beat her up pretty good,” Jackson said to Mary Hall, who’d come to his side.
“And strangled her,” said the ME, pointing to bruising on her neck. He stood and surveyed the room’s disorder. “She didn’t go down easily.”
“Where are the super and the other tenants?” Hatcher asked Hall.
“In the living room.”
“You get statements from