Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [117]
Kloss settled in, writing reports of his successful hostage negotiation the night before, while Jackson and Hall were instructed to stay away from Metro until called. They browsed shops in Georgetown and took out sandwiches and drinks from Booeymonger, which they enjoyed on a bench in a pocket park near Dumbarton Oaks. They’d said little during this mandated exile from headquarters, focusing on trinkets and clothing in store windows, and Georgetown’s passing parade of tourists and locals who crowded the sidewalks. Jackson’s cell phone rang at 2:30. He listened, ended the call, and said to Mary, “Time to go.”
The small force of police assigned to go to Walt Hatcher’s house and bring him into Metro left in two unmarked cars. Accompanying Jackson and Hall were Kloss, two detectives from Internal Affairs, and two additional detectives, who’d been recruited from the Crimes Against Persons division. One of the IA officers was in charge. Prior to leaving, he said, “We want to do this with a minimum of fuss and fanfare. Chief Carter called Hatcher, but he declined to come in on his own. He knows something’s up and might give us a hard time, but I don’t anticipate a need for force. If it proves necessary, do it quick and clean. Let’s roll.”
Jackson had often wondered where Hatcher lived, the sort of house, whether he was meticulous in keeping up his property or someone who tended to let things slide. He’d never met Hatcher’s wife, Mae, and tried to picture the sort of woman who would be married to a man like Hatcher. Was he as difficult at home as he was at work? From what Jackson knew, Hatcher and his wife had been married for a long time. A few detectives who socialized with them talked of what a sweet woman she was—“She’d have to be to put up with Hatch,” they joked—and lauded her cooking. Hopefully, their arrival at the house wouldn’t be too traumatic for her. Maybe she wouldn’t be home, he mused. That would be good.
The narrow, suburban street on which the Hatchers lived was quiet at 3:30 in the afternoon. Jackson looked left and right as they proceeded down it and saw no one. He was grateful for that. As much as he personally disliked Hatcher, he wasn’t anxious to contribute to a public humiliation of the man.
The pleasant solitude of the street changed, however, as they approached Hatcher’s address. A local ambulance was parked in the driveway.
“What’s that about?” Kloss wondered aloud.
The two police cars came to a halt at the curb and everyone exited the vehicles. They stood in a group and surveyed the scene. There was no sign of anyone. Then the front door opened and a woman came out, accompanied by two EMTs dressed in white. Kloss led the police contingent to them.
“Mrs. Hatcher?” he asked.
She seemed startled by his words. “Yes?” she said.
“I’m Detective Kloss, ma’am. Is someone ill here?”
“My husband. He’s…”
“We tried to reason with him,” one of the EMTs said, “but he won’t listen.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Kloss asked.
“Stroke, heart attack,” the second EMT replied. “He needs to get to a hospital.”
“Where is he?” the IA officer asked.
“He’s in the back of the house,” Mae responded. It was obvious she’d been crying. “I called nine-one-one when he started acting funny. He got a call from his friend, Wally—they work together—and after that his face looked sort of strange and he had trouble breathing. I pleaded with him but he won’t listen. He can be so stubborn.”
“He’s back there alone?” Kloss asked.
“Yes. He…”
Kloss cocked his head. “He what?”
“He has his gun.”
The IA cop took a fast look at the property. “”You can get to the back around both ends of the house?” he asked.
“Yes. Why are you all here?”
“We just have to ask your husband a few questions, that’s all,” IA replied.
“Is that why Chief Carter called?” she asked.
Her question was ignored as the IA instructed two of the detectives to approach the