The Night Gardener

She wasn't a cop for long. Six months of training, another month of riding with someone experienced, then a year as a rookie on patrol, and Regina had had enough. She said she realized the first week on the street that it wasn't for her. That she wanted to help people in some way, not lock them up. She went back to college, got her education degree, and taught for a few years at Drew Elementary in Far Northeast. When Diego was born, she changed up again and became a full-time mother and part-time school volunteer. In his prayers at church, Ramone sometimes gave thanks for Regina's ill-advised decision to join the MPD. Ramone knew that if he had not been walking down those stairs that day, passing by that door, and if she had not been contemplating that dive, he would not have what he had today. And to him, what he had was everything. Not that he wasn't fully capable of fucking it up.

The strange thing was, he hadn't even planned on marriage and a family, but they had come to him, and it was right. All because of the path he had taken one afternoon, and a woman who had hesitated before entering a pool. Like most folks, he wasn't always certain about the existence of a higher power, but he damn sure did believe in fate.

Ramone crossed the gymnasium floor. He caught the eye of the instructor, John Ramirez, and waited until the last recruit had gone toward the lockers. Ramirez, with a weight-room chest and arms, gave him a weak handshake and cool eyes.

'Johnny.'

'Gus. Enjoying the new job?'

'I been at it for a while now.'

'Must be more satisfying to lock up bad guys than your fellow officers, right?'

'It was all the same to me. If they're wrong they're wrong, you know what I mean?'

It wasn't true. Ramone had always known the import and consequence of going after cops who had abused their powers or committed minor crimes. But he wasn't going to let a guy like Johnny Ramirez, a hothead who had gone from street cop with insecurity issues to gym teacher with a badge, beat him up about his stint at IAD. Ramone had learned how to investigate cases there, done his job with competence but not vengeance, and used the experience as a bridge to Homicide.

'Not really,' said Ramirez. 'I really don't know what you mean.'

Generally, Ramone had not had any trouble with his fellow officers when he'd worked Internal Affairs. Most cops did not want to be around other cops who were unclean because they tainted the straight ones by association. He had never been fish-eyed by other uniforms, had never heard the words rat squad uttered in his presence, and had never had a police move off his bar stool when Ramone stepped up to the stick. IAD was a necessary element of policing, and most cops accepted it. Ramirez was a former drinking buddy of Holiday's, and he simply didn't like Ramone because of what had happened to his friend.

'Listen, I don't want take up too much of your time. I was wondering if you've seen Dan Holiday lately. If you guys were still friends…'

'Yeah, I've seen him. Why?'

'I'm just looking to get up with him. It's a private matter.'

'Oh, it's private. He runs a limo service; maybe that helps.'

'I heard.'

'But I don't have his number or anything. Shouldn't be too hard for you to find it, though.'

'Okay, Johnny. Thanks.'

'You want me to tell him you're looking for him, in case we cross paths?'

'No, don't do that. I wanna surprise him.'

Of course, Ramone knew that Ramirez would call Holiday straight away, which was why Ramone had sought him out. He wanted Holiday to think about it before he came up on him. It would eliminate the bullshit half of the conversation if Holiday knew.

'See you around, Ramirez.'

Ramone found Rhonda at the turn of the stairwell, looking at a wall covered with the framed photographs of MPD officers killed in the line of duty. She was standing before the photo of a genial young policeman she had known well when both of them were in uniform. He had been shot to death during a seemingly routine traffic stop. Rhonda's eyes were closed, and Ramone knew that she was saying a prayer for her friend. He waited until she turned to him, unsurprised at his presence.

'You get what you needed from Ramirez?' said Rhonda.

'Officer Ramirez was just telling me how much he admired my work in Internal Affairs.'

'So you're not gonna tell me.'

'Oh, all right. I was asking him out on a date. One bottle of pop and two straws, something like that.'

'Okay, then. I need to get back to the office, do some background on our boy Dominique.'

Ramone said he'd take her there.

Because of its proximity to the majority of the dropped bodies in the city, the Violent Crime Branch of the MPD was located in Southeast, but the offices of most of the other specialized units, such as Morals, Sex Assault, and Domestic Violence, were in the same facility as police headquarters, at 300 Indiana Avenue, Northwest. Ramone arrived at the building soon after leaving Rhonda in the VCB lot and picking up his Tahoe. He went straight to the offices of the Cold Case Squad.

Unsolved homicides moved from VCB to Cold Case after three years. Some homicide police disparaged the work of cold case detectives, as most of the old murders that got 'solved' had little to do with investigative prowess or forensic science and more to do with criminals offering up unexpected information in exchange for a reduction in their sentences. These same homicide detectives who felt that the cold casers hadn't earned their closes were conveniently forgetting that this was how many warm homicide cases got put to bed as well.

Ramone had no such resentment. The members of the Cold Case squad were not the sexy, sunglasses-wearing hotshots with toned bodies and beautiful faces seen on TV, but rather were middle-aged men and women with paunches, families, and credit card debt, doing a job, just like those in the VCB. He had worked with some of them in other capacities through the years.

He found Detective James Dalton at his desk. Ramone had done many favors for Dalton in the past and hoped for the same in return. Dalton was lean, with gray hair, a white dude with Chinese eyes. He had grown up in northern Montana, come to D.C. in the '70s intending to do social work, and wound up as police. He often said that he had gone from one small town to another when he moved to Washington. 'More people, same attitude.'

'Thanks for doing this,' said Ramone.

'File was already pulled,' said Dalton. 'We're waitin around on the ME's report before we decide if it's something we ought to be involved with. You weren't the only one to notice the similarities.'

'If you've been around long enough…'

'Right. File's over there on the desk. It's a big one.'

'That's what she said.'

'Huh?'

'Dumb old joke.'

'You're not the primary on this, are you?'

'Garloo Wilkins,' said Ramone. 'I knew the decedent. Friend of my son's. You mind if I look it over and take some notes?'

'Go right ahead. I'm outta here.'

Perfect, thought Ramone.

For the next two hours, Ramone read the extensive case files on the Palindrome Murders. Included in the official police reports were archived news reports from the Washington Post and a long historical piece from the Washington City Paper. Dalton had given him the opportunity by clocking out, so Ramone burned copies of what he thought he might need on the office Xerox, counter to policy. He put the copies in an empty brown file container that Dalton had helpfully left on the desk, and carried it under his arm from the headquarters building to his Tahoe.