Covenant A Novel

POTOMAC GARDENS PROJECTS

G STREET ON 12TH, WASHINGTON DC


What do we got?”

Metropolitan Police Department detective Lucas Tyrell drove in a characteristically sedate fashion along a deserted G Street. Streetlights above drifted past against an overcast dawn sky that sealed in a sweltering blanket of late-summer heat. Beside him sat Detective Nicola Lopez, reading from a notebook.

“Search request from the DC Housing Authority on an abandoned town house opposite the projects. Neighboring residents have reported unpleasant odors.”

Tyrell winced, his black skin creasing around his eyes as he turned onto 12th. He looked in the rearview mirror to see a pair of brown eyes watching him from the rear seat. Bailey, his four-year-old dachshund, tilted his head and flopped an ear to listen to his voice.

“Who’s down there?” he asked Lopez as he cruised toward ugly apartment blocks weathered by years of neglect.

“Kaczynski and his guys are on site, coroner’s got jurisdiction. An FBI incident team’s on its way under Axel Cain.”

“Cain,” Tyrell muttered, as though he had something unpleasant in his mouth.

“Can’t have everything.”

Tyrell watched from the corner of his eye as Lopez glanced over the paperwork, a strand of black hair dangling in front of her face. She was petite and slim, with butter-smooth skin, a third generation Latino from down on the gulf. Tyrell, on the other hand, was obese. Like two-hundred-eighty obese. Most all the detectives at the First District Station joked that if Tyrell ever caught a criminal red-handed, the perp had better hope that Lopez was the one to pin him down.

Nicola closed the file in her lap.

“It’s probably just another crack den.”

“Never reach a conclusion without first evaluating all of the evidence,” Tyrell cautioned. “Most everybody does that and they usually get it wrong.”

“This is it,” Lopez said, gesturing ahead. “Twelve fifty-five G Southeast.”

Four MPD cruisers were parked across the road, incident tapes cordoning off the last in a row of abandoned town houses. The cruisers’ lights flashed like nightclub beacons in the pale dawn. A few dark-skinned faces appeared on balconies on the projects opposite, smoking and wiping sleep from their eyes but watching with interest.

“Let’s go see what’s up,” Tyrell said, and turned to look at Bailey, who whined softly. “Now, you stay here and guard the wheels, ’kay, boy?”

Tyrell levered himself from the car, pausing to catch his breath before leading Lopez through the police cordon. A cheerful-looking officer by the name of Kaczynski walked toward them.

“Hope we didn’t get you guys up too early,” he said, glancing at the thin sheen of sweat glistening on Tyrell’s brow. “Warm enough for ya?”

Tyrell shook Kaczynski’s hand and gestured to Nicola.

“Detective Lopez, Lieutenant Terry Kaczynski. Any news from the inside?”

“Nothing,” Kaczynski admitted, smiling at Lopez in a manner that suggested the only thing he’d ever successfully flirted with was rejection. “We’re just waiting for you to show us the way.”

“What we’re here for,” Tyrell said without fanfare, wiping the sweat from his brow with a tissue.

“Best get on with it then,” Kaczynski said with a shrug. “If there’s anyone inside lookin’ to give us trouble, they can’t have missed this goddamn circus.”

Kaczynski turned and cleared the way for them to the windowless front door of the town house. Tyrell glanced at the trees growing outside the row of abandoned buildings, gnarled branches concealing the clapboard houses and their mangled chain-link fences. Dense weeds thrived in long-abandoned gardens. Living opposite the Potomac Gardens projects with its drug trade and gang warfare had driven the occupants out long ago.

He could see that the front door of the house was blanketed with a kaleidoscope of sprayed tags and gang colors, the signature of misled youth on a citywide scale. Mara Salvatrucha 13 was the dominant gang in the District, an assortment of El Salvadoran gunrunners and drug dealers who had migrated across America over the past twenty years. Brutally violent, they complemented the local peppering of Crips, Bloods, Surenos, and La Razas fighting for turf as far out as Prince George’s and Maryland.

The two detectives drew and checked their weapons one more time before Tyrell nodded to a tall, robustly built young officer. The officer hefted a black iron ram from where it had been leaning against the sidewalk.

“You guys take the upstairs,” Tyrell murmured as Kaczynski took position outside of the door. “No heroics this mornin’, ’kay?”

The young officer’s face was taut as he lifted the ram. Tyrell aimed at the door, Lopez covering his shoulder and flank. He checked everything one last time and raised the barrel of his pistol once, twice, and then with a final jerking third movement.

The police officer lunged forward and slammed the ram into the door with all of his impressive physical strength. A dull crash echoed across the projects, the door splintering but holding firm. A chorus of whoops and obscenities drifted down from the balconies behind them. The officer swung again and the door smashed open, hanging from one twisted hinge.

Tyrell rushed forward into the darkened maw of the house.

“Police! Stay where you are!”

Tyrell’s voice was muted by the narrow hallway ahead, lost in deep shadows. He crept forward into the darkness, Lopez close behind. An intense blanket of heat cloaked the inside of the house, sweat drenching his skin and trickling beneath his shirt.

“Police! Stay still, face down on the floor!”

The silence taunted him as he caught the sickly sweet aroma of putrefaction drifting on the air. The walls of the hall were bare but for a few tattered scraps of paper hanging entombed in gossamer webs, the carpet thin and caked in the filth of ages. Tyrell advanced toward a passage at the end of the hall that opened left and right.

He gestured to the left, and Lopez silently shifted position against the left wall as Tyrell moved to the right, crouching down as she remained upright. The drill was ingrained into their respective psyche with the same intensity as the will to breathe. Without words, their weapons whipped simultaneously into the open corridors, each covering the other.

“Clear,” Tyrell whispered.

He covered Lopez as she moved left to the edge of a kitchen littered with spilled pans, tubs, and cutlery. The odor of congealing mold mingled with the musty, stale air. He watched as Lopez took a breath and then whirled into the kitchen, sweeping the boxlike room with her weapon.

“Clear.”

Tyrell turned and moved back down the hall. Another open door ahead led into what he presumed was the living room, while one to the left led into a bedroom. The sickly stench of decay became stronger, and a dull humming sound sent a spasm of disgust rippling down his throat.

He turned, sweeping the bedroom with his pistol. A bare mattress lay upon the rusting springs of a double bed. Shredded curtains dangled limply from a small window, accompanied by the bodies of several dead rodents on the floor, tiny white teeth gaping from mortified bodies.

“Clear.”

The smell was overpowering now, and Tyrell already knew that his weapon was unlikely to be discharged. Still, he kept it trained ahead of him as he moved to the edge of the doorway, Lopez covering his back.

With a final breath that felt as though it coated the back of his throat with something slimy, Tyrell lunged into the living room and stared into the half darkness.

The room was dominated by two sagging couches. Plates of half-eaten food littered a table amid a crumpled sea of crushed beer cans and empty packets of potato chips. A handful of cockroaches scampered over rotten morsels of food. The hum of blowflies filled the room, a chorus of life flourishing in the presence of death.

Three bodies sprawled naked across the couches. A handful of syringes lay discarded around them, while others dangled awkwardly from the blackened veins of bare arms or were wedged between lifeless toes. Crack pipes lay scattered on the thin carpet. Tyrell’s voice was raspy with repulsion as he called out.

“Property clear, three dead.”

He holstered his pistol before gingerly stepping across the grisly scene, donning latex gloves, and opening the curtains. The pale morning light filtered reluctantly into the room, illuminating the corpses and their attendant swarms of flies.

“Jesus,” Lopez murmured, clearly struggling to prevent her breakfast from making a dramatic reappearance as she put on her own gloves.

“You’ll get used to it,” Tyrell said quietly, surveying the scene.

Kaczynski appeared in the doorway and winced. He was followed by a tall, portly man with mousy hair and a pockmarked face whose frame filled the doorway. He stood there, his jaw chomping loudly on a piece of gum until he saw the corpses and caught a whiff of their scent.

“Christ’s sake,” he muttered in disgust, covering his nose and mouth with one hand.

Tyrell ignored FBI special agent Axel Cain, who gathered himself together as he surveyed the scene.

“Crack den it is then,” he said. “Coronor can take it from here.”

Tyrell didn’t reply, staring at the bodies. Lopez turned to Cain.

“We’ll need forensics. Make sure nobody else comes in here until they’ve finished up.”

“The District doesn’t have a forensic department,” Cain said with an oily smile. “They’ll have to go to Quantico.”

“That’ll take months,” Lopez pointed out.

Cain shrugged without interest as his lips began grinding around his gum again. “I don’t suppose these dudes are in any rush.”

“We’ll handle it,” Kaczynski said. “Lucas, you done here?”

Tyrell remained silent for a few moments, looking around the room before nodding vaguely. “Sure Terry, just give me a few minutes.”

Cain rolled his eyes. “It’s a bust, let’s get this place swept clean.”

Tyrell took a few careful paces amid the detritus on the carpet, skirting the table in the center of the room. He crouched down beside one of the bodies, the corpse’s dark skin graying with decay. Reaching out, he lifted the man’s lips with a plastic spatula and peered into his mouth.

“Jesus,” Cain choked, “I’m sure he flossed before he took his ticket out of life.”

Tyrell moved to another of the corpses and then to the third, performing the same task with each before finally standing up.

“What’s up?” Lopez asked. “You smell somethin’?”

Tyrell ignored Kaczynski’s chuckle. “This wasn’t a crack den.”

“It sure as hell wasn’t a frat party,” Cain said.

Tyrell gestured to the bodies.

“One crackhead ODs himself, I can handle that. Three at once, simultaneously and naked? That’s pushing it.”

Tyrell saw Cain shake his head wearily.

“Isn’t the first time. These losers probably tripped each other out all night before going off the edge in some kind of binge. We’re wasting our time, let’s go.”

Cain left the doorway, covering his nose with his hand. Nobody followed.

“This guy’s mid-thirties at least,” Tyrell said, “not classic crack-addict age.”

“Profiling shows addicts come in all shapes and sizes, and he could have gone out on crystal meth and not crack,” Kaczynski countered, but his tone conceded the point.

Tyrell crouched down again beside one of the bodies, motioning for Lopez to join him.

“Tell me what you see, Lopez.”

“No tattoos or major scars, no gang colors like the other two,” she said. Tyrell nodded, and her tone became more thoughtful as she placed a gloved hand on the corpse. “No rigor mortis.”

“Exactly,” Tyrell agreed, “and decomposition has begun.”

“Rigor mortis only lasts a few hours,” Kaczynski said, moving closer, “which would mean they died yesterday evening latest. What else?”

Tyrell looked at Nicola, who shook her head. Tyrell gestured to the arms of the corpse.

“Puncture wounds and evidence of drug abuse on the arms, but look here.” He pointed to the backs of the hands. “This one shows signs of intravenous medical procedures like saline drips.”

Kaczynski squatted down alongside Lopez and looked at the marks.

“Homeless people often check into clinics with various ailments, get free medical aid and so on, even substituted drug programs.”

Tyrell pointed to the undignified mouths gaping open in silent death throes.

“This guy has good teeth,” he added. “The others don’t. I’d bet he’s had dental work done and we’ll see it in the autopsy. Not the mark of the crack addict. And look at this”—Tyrell pointed to the man’s index finger, where a pale band bisected the dark skin—“he could have been married long enough for the ring to have marked and—”

Tyrell stopped, holding the hand still as Kaczynski stared at him.

“What?”

Tyrell turned the hand over, examining the fingertips.

“They’re darkened, see?” he asked, showing the tips to them both and shaking his head in confusion as he looked at the feet and saw the same discoloration. “It looks like frostbite.”

“Frostbite?” Kaczynski echoed. “Are you kidding? It’s been eighty degrees or more across the District for two weeks. Ain’t nobody gettin’ frostbite round here.”

Tyrell frowned. “You got any ideas as to what the hell else it could be?”

“Decay of some kind?” Lopez hazarded. “Livor mortis?”

“It’s in the toes too,” Tyrell pointed out, “and the legs are elevated on the couch, which rules out livor mortis.”

“Maybe circulatory distress during overdose?” Lopez said.

Kaczynski shrugged. “What are you suggesting? It’s a setup? Drug-motivated homicide?”

“I’m not suggesting anything other than that we should get forensics in and run a check for missing persons,” Tyrell said.

Kaczynski exhaled noisily. “You think that they weren’t alone?”

“You’re damned right,” Tyrell replied. “I want to hang on to this one, see what turns up. Can you get them down to the medical examiner’s office in a hurry?”

“They’re not going to push three crackheads up the list for you.”

“They’re not doing it for me, Terry.” Tyrell smiled playfully and nudged Kaczynski.

Lopez stood up and looked at Tyrell as Kaczynski left the room. “What d’ya make of it?”

Tyrell shook his head slowly, still looking at the bodies.

“Don’t know yet, but there are enough questions to make postmortems a priority. Let’s keep this one to ourselves, okay? At least until we hear back from the examiner’s office tomorrow morning.”