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.
Under the wheel, he dialed Wilkins’s cell.
“Hey, Bill, it’s Gus.”
“What’s going on?”
“I think you should call the ME and order a sex kit on the Asa Johnson autopsy.”
“They’ll do it without my order.”
“Call them anyway and make sure it’s done.”
“Why?”
“We all just want to be thorough.”
“Right.”
“Anything today?”
“I spoke with the principal at Asa’s middle school. But I’m having a little trouble with the boy’s father. I wanted to go by the house and get into Asa’s room, but Terrance Johnson told me he wanted you to have a look at it first.”
“I apologize, Bill. They’ve been knowing me for a while, is all it is. I’m going to swing by their house later and while I’m there I’ll set him straight.”
“It’s my investigation, Gus.”
“Absolutely. I’ve got a few more calls to make this afternoon. We can talk when I see you.”
“All right, buddy. Take care.”
Ramone ended the call. No reason to mention the possible connection to an old, unsolved series of homicides. He told himself that it would just cloud Garloo’s mind.
Ramone headed uptown.