Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [8]
Mae knew how to handle him, however, or at least felt she did on most occasions. It was all a matter of tapping into his gentle, caring side, a side few knew he possessed. Sure, they’d argued on many occasions, and there were times that she’d felt belittled. But those times never lasted long. She’d wait for him to say something he considered clever and amusing and laugh heartily, which seldom failed to defuse the situation. Walter Hatcher was, as she often told her kids and friends, a good man in a lousy job, seeing the underbelly of society, responding to grisly murders and brutal rapes, young punks killing one another over a marijuana cigarette or a pair of sneakers. He tried to pass off those experiences as simply part of the job: “If it got to me, I wouldn’t do it.”
She knew better. It affected him deeply; how could it not? There were times when he came home with the smell of death on his clothing, even spots of blood. No one, she knew, could spend his or her day in those circumstances without it leaving its mark.
She wished he’d stayed with Vice and not transferred to Homicide two years ago. Not that the vice squad spent its days with a better class of people. Far from it. He would tell her of arresting pimps and prostitutes whose lives were, as far as she was concerned, dredging the bottom of the human condition, spreading disease and destroying families. Gambling rings took money from men and women who couldn’t afford to lose it, their rents and food money tossed down the drain while their families suffered. All of it, her husband told her, fed the coffers of organized crime, funding its drug trade and the thousands of addicts whose lives were ruined. “Victimless crime?” he would say, snorting at the mere suggestion. “Nothing but victims.”
Would he follow through on what he’d said that morning and leave his job behind, walk away in one piece and with his head held high for having made Washington a better, safer city? She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that he would, before a stroke or heart attack or cancer dashed that dream.
FOUR
When Jackson and Hall arrived at headquarters on Indiana Avenue a little after noon, they were told that Hatcher was in a meeting upstairs with the white shirts. They passed the time talking with other detectives until Hatcher walked into the room at twelve-thirty.
“What’s up?” Hall asked.
“Nice outfit,” Hatcher said to Hall, referring to the black slacks and sweater she wore. “Goes nice with your black hair.”
“Thanks.”
Hatcher looked at Jackson. “You ever wear anything besides that jacket with the patches on the sleeves?”
“No,” Jackson replied, tempted to say that Hatcher’s suit looked like he’d slept in it.
“Here’s the drill,” Hatcher said. “Our esteemed leaders looked at the tapes, at least the portions I flagged for them. That cop at the academy, Mary, is Al Manfredi. There’s somebody else we didn’t recognize.” He consulted a note he’d written. “Lewis Archer. He’s a well-connected lobbyist with hooks into the White House. So, it looks like we’ve got a few jerks to interview.”
“Where do we start?” Jackson asked.
“With Congressman Slade Morrison, champion of the people of Arizona. I want you to call his office, Mary, and set up an appointment.”
“Why me?”
“A woman’s less threatening.”
Jackson saw the wisdom of having Mary make the call, but doubted that it had been Hatcher’s idea. More likely it came from one of the chiefs with whom Hatcher had been