Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [2]
“Preliminary ones.”
“And you leave them alone in there to get their formal stories straight?”
“Hatch, I—”
“Get back in there!”
Jackson avoided Hall’s exasperated look as she left the room.
“The nine-one-one call came in at ten thirty-seven,” Jackson said. “Somebody in the building said she heard noises in here, like a fight. That pins down time-of-death.”
“She’s warm but starting to cool,” said the ME. “It didn’t just happen. I’d say two, two-and-a-half hours ago.”
“Maybe the lady waited a while to make the call. Go ask her, Jackson.”
Jackson returned minutes later. “You were right, Hatch,” he said. “She says she heard the fight going on around seven, seven-fifteen, but her husband didn’t want to get involved.”
“So what made her change her mind at ten-thirty-seven?”
“She says she knew she’d never get to sleep without doing something.”
“Her husband with her?”
Jackson nodded.
“Tell Mary to take them back to their apartment to get their statements.” He called over one of the crime scene techs who’d started to mark blood spatter on the carpet with small tent cards. “Where’s your evidence bag?” he asked.
The tech went to where he’d dropped it on a chair and brought it to Hatcher. The veteran detective led Jackson to a corner where they wouldn’t be overheard. He placed the camera, the tape it contained, and the ten marked videos into the bag and handed it to Jackson. “Take this back to headquarters and wait for me there. Don’t let it out of your sight. Understand? You show it to nobody until I get there.”
“You don’t want me to log it in?”
“You catch on quick, Jackson. Go on, move.”
Hatcher went to the living room, where Mary Hall was about to escort the husband and wife back to their apartment. He waited until they were gone before addressing the only other person in the room, the building’s superintendent, a beefy Hispanic man with pockmarked cheeks and a tic in his left eye.
“Tell me about the lady in there,” Hatcher said, nodding toward the bedroom.
“Miss Curzon? What about her?” His English was good.
“How long has she been here?”
“Must be two years now.”
“She sign a lease?”
“Sí. Everybody does.”
“Don’t sí me, José. You’re in America, so speak American. English.”
The super’s expression mirrored his confusion, and fear.
“How much she pay you on the side?”
He stared blankly at the detective.
“Come on, José, don’t give me that dumb look. You knew she was turning tricks. She’s a puta, right? A whore. How much she pay you to look the other way?”
“Oh, no, no, sir, you are wrong. I do not care what the tenants do as long as they don’t bother nobody else. I say live and let live.” He forced a smile in the hope it would indicate sincerity.
“How much every month? A couple of bills? Five?”
“I told you that—”
Hatcher closed the gap between them, his face now inches from the super’s. “You’re lying to me, scumbag. That’s a crime, pal. I’m going to look into every corner of your life, and when I come up with what I know I’ll find, you’re going to be dead meat. Tax fraud. Obstructing justice. Lying to a cop. In the meantime, we’ll go to MPD and have a nice, long chat.”
“Sir, I—”
“You stay in this room until I’m through in there. You hear me?”
The super nodded.
Hatcher returned to the bedroom, where the ME was finishing up his initial examination. “Blunt force trauma,” he told Hatcher, “and apparent strangulation. Can’t tell which one killed her until we autopsy.”
“No weapon?” Hatcher asked.
“That’s your department, Hatch. From what I can see of her wounds, whoever did it used his hands. I’d say he was pretty pissed off.”
One of two uniformed officers who’d been first to arrive at the scene entered the room. Since the arrival of the detectives, he’d been stationed in the hallway to keep the curious at bay. His partner had taken up a position downstairs at the building entrance. Hatcher ordered them to remain at the scene and to make sure no one entered the apartment. “There’ll be reinforcements soon to canvas the neighborhood and the rest of the tenants.”
He rejoined the super and told him to