The Night Gardener

'Nice message to send the kid,' said Ramone.

'Mm-huh,' said Rhonda.

They entered a three-story apartment building of brick and glass and went up an open stairwell to the second floor. They stopped at a door marked 202.

'My hand's tender, Gus,' said Rhonda.

'What'd you do, drop your wallet on it?'

'Give it the cop knock, will you?'

Ramone made a fist and pounded his right hand on the door. He did this several times, waited, and did it again.

'What is it?' said an annoyed female on the other side of the door.

'Police,' said Ramone.

The door opened. A young woman wearing short shorts and a sleeveless pajama top stood before them. She was voluptuous and toned but had unhealthy skin and skin tone. She had a diamond stud in her nose and the remnants of glitter makeup on her face. Her eyes were swollen, and one cheek held the markings of a pillow's edge.

'Shaylene Vaughn?' said Rhonda.

'Yes?'

'We're with the Violent Crime Branch of MPD. This is my partner, Sergeant Ramone.'

'May we come in?' said Ramone. He had been holding his badge out for her to see. Shaylene nodded, and they went inside. The living room was empty except for a full ashtray on the carpet and a single plastic chair.

'Is Darcia Johnson in?' said Rhonda.

'She somewhere, but she's not here.'

'Where?'

'She been stayin with her boyfriend.'

'Who is that and where does he live?'

'I don't know, really.'

'You don't know his name?'

'Not really.'

'Mind if we have a look around?' said Ramone.

'Why?'

'Looks like you just woke up,' said Rhonda. 'Could be she slipped in while you were sleeping. Maybe she's in the back or somethin and you aren't aware of it.'

The girl lost her innocent face, and for a moment hate flashed in her eyes. Then she lost that, too, as quickly as it had come, as if it were mandatory that she use every item in her emotional toolbox. She swung her head sloppily toward the back of the apartment. 'She ain't here. Go ahead and see, you want to.'

Ramone went to the galley-sized kitchen, and Rhonda went back to one of the bedrooms. Both stepped warily, but not from fear. The apartment stank of various kinds of smoke and spoiled food.

In the kitchen Ramone saw open boxes of sugar-rich cereal but no other edible goods. He opened the refrigerator, which held no milk or water and only one can of orange soda. Roaches stood in the sink, their antennae wiggling, and on the electric stove top, where a dirty sauce pot sat. Half-eaten fast food had been dumped in a trash can filled to the rim.

Ramone joined Rhonda in a bedroom. On the floor was a mattress topped with distressed sheets and a couple of pillows. A large-screen television sat on a stand, pornographic DVDs scattered around it. CDs were stacked near a portable stereo on the carpet. Also on the carpet were thongs, sheer tops, and other articles of cheap-looking lingerie.

Rhonda made eye contact with Ramone. They moved into the second bedroom, a mirror image of the first.

Back out in the living room, Shaylene Vaughn stood sullenly. Rhonda took out her pad and pen.

'Who pays the rent here?' said Rhonda.

'Huh?'

'Whose name is on the lease of this apartment?'

'I don't know.'

'We can find out by calling the rental company.'

Shaylene tapped her hand against her thigh. 'Dominique Lyons. He pays for it.'

'I thought you didn't know his name,' said Rhonda.

'I just now remembered.'

'You have a job. Can't you afford to pay it?'

'Me and Darcia give him the money we make from the club. He holds on to it for us.'

'Is he Darcia's boyfriend?' said Rhonda. 'Is he yours?'

Shaylene stared at Rhonda.

'Does Dominique have a street name, anything like that?' said Ramone.

'Not that I know.'

'Where's he stay at?'

'Huh?'

'Does he have an address?'

'Said I didn't know.'

'Where were you late last night… say, after midnight?'

'Dancing at the Twilight till, like, one thirty. And then I came home.'

'Alone?'

Shaylene did not answer.

'What about Darcia?' said Rhonda.

'She was working there, too.'

'Was Dominique at the Twilight as well?'

'Maybe he was. He could have been.'

'Do you know a Jamal White?' said Rhonda.

Shaylene looked down at her bare feet and shook her head.

'What's that?' said Rhonda.

'I know some Jamals. I ain't know their last names.'

Rhonda breathed out slowly and handed Shaylene her card. 'My number's on there. You can leave a message, day or night. I'm looking to speak to Darcia and Dominique. You're not going anywhere, are you?'

'No.'

'Thanks for your time. We'll be seeing you again.'

'Take care,' said Ramone.

They left the apartment, glad to breathe fresh air, and got back into the Ford.

'Trick pad,' said Rhonda, settling under the wheel. 'That's all that is.'

'And you think Dominique Lyons is their pimp.'

'Maybe. I got to run him through the system first, see what he's about.'

'Jamal White falls in love with a dancer-slash-ho, her pimp doesn't like him cutting into his girl's action, and boom.'

'I like it so far.' Rhonda stared out the windshield. 'At one time that girl in there was a baby that someone held and sang to at night.'

'If you say so.'

'And look where she is now. Not that I blame her for giving her love to a man. You know, devoting all my time to my sons and this job, it's easy for people to forget that I'm still a woman. Even a Christian woman like me, well, every once in a while I have the need for some penis.'

'For real?'

'This Dominique Lyons fella, though, he must have one special penis. I'm talkin about the kind of penis that could make a girl dance naked in a bar and give up her hard-earned money to him at the end of the night. The kind of penis that could make her prostitute herself in a roach-infested crib with no furniture or food or drink, and make her feel like she's a loyal queen. I'm sayin, that must be some extraordinary penis.'

'Okay.'

'Gus?' Rhonda Willis turned the key on the Ford. 'I do not need that kind of penis.'

Holiday and cook were parked in the Town Car three houses down from a white-sided ranch-style home in Good Luck Estates, a clean middle-class community off Good Luck Road in the New Carrollton area of Prince George's County. A late-model Buick sat in the driveway. The curtains of the house were charcoal gray and drawn closed. 'He doesn't live but ten minutes from my own house,' said Cook. 'Makes it real convenient for me to drop over here and watch him.'

'Tell me about him,' said Holiday.

'Reginald Wilson. He'd be close to fifty now.'

'You say he was a security guard?'

'At the time of the killings, yes. We were interested in men who could be mistaken for cops because of their uniforms.'

'Why him?'

'After the third murder, we questioned all the security guards who worked in the area, and then, on the second round, went back to those who lived in close proximity to the victims. Wilson was a guy I personally interviewed. There was something missing in his eyes, and I backgrounded him. He had done some brig time in the army for two incidents of violence, both against fellow soldiers. He managed to come out with an honorable discharge, which allowed him to apply to the MPD and the P.G. County force. Neither would take him. His intelligence wasn't the issue. In fact, he scored highly there. He had flunked the psychiatric.'

'I'm with you so far. Good IQ, bad head. So now he's gonna show the police force they made a big mistake by, what, killing kids?'

'I know,' said Cook. 'It's a stretch. I had no evidence of anything, to tell you the truth. Not even a pedophilic history at that time. Just a hunch that this guy was wrong. I felt like I had seen him before, maybe at one of the crime scenes. But my memory wasn't helping me out. Neither did the killer. Remember, there were no fibers found on the bodies, not even human hair follicles or fibers from the carpets of homes or cars. No foreign blood cells. No tissue under the fingernails. The bodies were clean. The only thing left behind was semen in their rectums. And there wasn't a way to match that 'cause there was no DNA testing in eighty-five.'