Death of an Intern (3 page)

F
riday evening, heavy clouds intermittently blocked out the sun as Jerry drove us across the National Mall to Constitution Avenue. I'd had an easy day at work and had chosen not to say anything about my pregnancy. I was relaxed and looking forward to the party. The Vice President of the United States would be celebrating his parent's fiftieth wedding anniversary at the State Department.

We went west on Constitution to 22nd Street, and then turned right toward the State Department, adjacent to George Washington University. Both were located in the area fondly called Foggy Bottom. A little to our west was the Kennedy Center, Georgetown, and the Potomac River.

Jerry maneuvered our SUV into the line of limos and elitist vehicles, inching toward the valet at the ceremonial entrance. I'd never been much for pomp and puffery, but Jerry had slowly brought panache into my life. However, I was not totally comfortable with it, and occasionally I checked my feet to be sure I wasn't wearing running shoes.

Jerry was used to going to formal gigs, and I always knew they would become a part of my life too. Secretly, I liked going to an occasional
dress-up.
It gave me the opportunity to shake off the grit of the streets and the grime of poverty that occupied so much of my time. I didn't consider myself a slouch, owning three going-out dresses that were in excellent taste, thanks to Jerry's aunt, who introduced me to Sachs, Nordstrom, and Neiman Marcus.

In the ironies of life, the State Department was only a half mile from where the African-American woman's nude, butchered, and eviscerated body had been found Thursday morning. ID'd by her mother, Thalma Williams had been pregnant, her fetus stolen.

I thought of my own situation. How could somebody be so sick? What would they want with a fetus?

As with seemingly every place in Washington, we went through metal detectors along with showing our IDs and invitation. Inside, Judith Fisher, press secretary to the Vice President, greeted us. She didn't know us, but her smiley greeting did not indicate that. Fisher knew we were attending as Ralph Morgan's guests. “It is so good to see you. Mr. Morgan is in the Versailles Room.” There was no need for directions. We followed the crowd.

The ambiance was nineteenth-century museum/palace. It displayed hundreds of artifacts from famous people and events. A definite tone of aristocracy and royalty permeated, displaying affluent Americans' predilection for good old-fashioned snobbishness and a love of royalty.

We browsed the paintings, antique vases, desks, sofas, chairs, oriental carpeting, drapes, and assorted bric-a-brac, and then entered the ballroom, keeping an eye out for Ralph. People were mostly in little clusters. I was surprised at the number of nicely dressed young people. Just showed where I hung out.

We ambled, staying out of the main stream for fear of being sucked in, but did stop for a drink. Jerry got some white wine and I a glass of tonic water. We perused an opulent buffet table and selected some few morsels. This would be dinner for us. I spied a large, tiered cake set off to one side of the room, waiting its turn.

The small band suddenly launched into a fanfare and the room went immediately silent. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Vice President of the United States and Miss Tracy Grayson.”

A bustle of activity occurred in a far corner of the room. Secret Service agents preceded a parade of people led by VP Frederick “Rick” Grayson, holding the hand of a teenage girl. His daughter? They were followed, I assumed, by the honorees, Roger and Sally Grayson. The sounds of “Ruffles and Flourishes” marched them in under a large banner that read “Happy 50th Anniversary Mom and Dad.”

Applause greeted the party, and comments buzzed around the room: “What a way to celebrate your fiftieth,” “He looks wonderful,” “So eligible,” etc.

“There's Ralph with two men.” Jerry nodded his head off to his left.

“You don't see family parties like this back in Wisconsin,” I chided.

“Just smile and be gracious. This is my gig,” he said softly.

“No problem. I don't write for the social page,” I replied coyly.

“Thankfully your tape recorder is home,” he said, looking out over the crowd.

I gave him a poke. The Vice President apparently was not going to say anything to the crowd. Jerry nudged me. “Here comes Ralph.”

“Son-of-a-gun, you actually came,” Morgan said. Although about the same age as Jerry, he was giving way to middle-age.

They half bear-hugged each other. “We both had the same night off.”

“Good to see you two.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “You know how many invitations he's ignored?”

“You're blowing it, pal. I told her this was a once-in-a-lifetime invite.”

They laughed. Ralph explained what would be happening. We were free to roam, do as we liked, as long as it didn't raise the eyebrows of the Secret Service.

“Any chance Laura and I could meet the Vice President?”

“You haven't…not even when he was in Congress?”

“Nope.”

“Well, come on. The Graysons are very easy people to know, solid mid-America.”

We moved quickly through the milling people, but I caught questioning expressions from several as we were being escorted toward the
power.

I whispered to Jerry. “Watch out, we're being stared at.”

“Mr. Vice President,” Ralph said.

The VP turned to us. “Ralph.”

“May I have a moment, sir?”

“Certainly,” he said, giving his full attention to Ralph.

“I'd like to introduce my attorney, friend, and fellow alum, Jerry Fields.”

The VP extended his hand. “Mr. Fields.”

They shook. “My wife Laura,” Jerry said.

“Mrs. Fields,” the VP said with a slight nod.

An instant chill ran through me on the “Mrs. Fields” assumption.

“Mr. Vice President, is the pretty young lady your daughter?” I asked.

“She is. Hey, Frankie,” the Vice President called to a woman. “Meet Ralph's attorney Jerry Fields and his wife Laura.”

“I hope Ralph doesn't keep you too busy, Mr. Fields,” the woman, who I recognized as the VP's twin sister, said.

“Keeps me out of trouble so he won't have to defend me,” Ralph laughed.

The VP slid away. The twins were about Jerry's age, give or take. A cluster had convened around us, people anxious to know who we were.

“What a wonderful way to celebrate your parents' anniversary,” I said.

“We know people in high places,” Frankie Grayson replied with a smile I found to be a little forced. Laughter instantly boiled up around us. “Enjoy yourselves,” Grayson said and abruptly moved away.

Ralph filled the void, turning our attention to some young women. “These ladies work for Vice President Grayson. Sarah, I'd like you to meet my attorney Jerry Fields and his wife Laura. He's a good man to know.”

“Hi,” Sarah said. No handshake.

Ralph pulled in three others. “Meet Janet, Kat, and Lisa.”

We greeted all around. I noticed a pin on Janet. “I love the pin you're wearing.”

“It was my grandmother's,” Janet replied.

I heard Jerry whispering to Ralph, “Laura got the word; we're expecting.”

“A baby!” Ralph blurted out. “Son-of-a-gun, it's about time.”

Others close by overheard this. Some gave their congratulations.

“You just found out?” Janet asked.

Ralph gave Jerry a friendly nudge. “It took you long enough.”

I saw a shadow cross Janet's face as she said, “It's always people who want it the most who have the trouble.”

“We've been trying—it just took awhile,” Jerry said to Ralph.

“I know,” I said. “The worst thing for me is I'll have to cut back on my work.”

“Oh? Is that for a special reason?” Janet asked.

Dance music began, and Jerry tugged my arm. “You up for a little…” and he gave a little twirling gesture with his fingers.

“Only the slow stuff.”

“I'm proud of you,” he kidded. “You're getting into the spirit very easily.”

“Yeah well, we'll see when the first hot story comes my way.” I turned to say goodbye to Janet and noticed tears in the young woman's eyes. “Everything all right?”

“What? Oh sure. Good luck with your baby.”

Jerry towed me off to the dance floor. As we danced, I saw Janet had rejoined the other two women. They were standing with the Vice President. Jerry twirled me and we were swallowed up by the other dancers. The band played seamlessly as we enjoyed our rare dance. During a pause, we sidled off the dance floor. I nudged him, nodding toward the buffet. “I'm not cooking tonight.”

We had just started munching when the band emitted a brassy fanfare. The Vice President, with microphone in hand, greeted everyone and introduced his mother and father to tumultuous applause.

The VP flashed his brilliant smile. “I hope everyone is getting enough food.”

Applause and laughter broke out. Grayson's happiness for his parents was magnetic. The main party moved to the cake to make their ceremonial cut.

Neither of us cared for any sweets, so we edged toward the exit. Outside, Jerry held on to me lovingly. I leaned against his warmth, feeling very lucky. The valet went off for our SUV. It was a lovely night, but the forecast called for wind and rain late Saturday.

S
aturday began lovely, but became gloomy midday and thundershowers had been forecast for late afternoon. Janet wished she could have stayed home, curled up with a good book instead of having to drive into Washington on the weekend. She crossed the Potomac River on Memorial Bridge, then drove east on Constitution Avenue. The same route she took every morning on her way to the White House.

Only today, she was not going to work. She had arranged to meet with Tishana Rice, who lived with her mother in Northwest. Janet was pregnant and needed a checkup, but wanted to go to a place where she wouldn't run into anyone who knew her. Tishana knew an inner city clinic, which she had once used.

She and Tishana had met during a training session. They had lunched together soon after, and despite coming from entirely different worlds, they liked each other from the outset. They also respected each other's choice about pregnancy. Janet had decided not to go against her parents' pro-life beliefs. Tishana had been pregnant at twenty and chose abortion.

Janet had grown up in Des Moines, Iowa, and Tishana in Washington, D.C. Tishana didn't know any more about public Washington than Janet did, which struck them both so funny. Janet turned off 13th Street onto Irving, where Tishana lived. She spent a few minutes visiting with Tishana's mother before departing for the clinic with Tishana.

It was a short drive. Janet finally found a place on the street a block and a half from the clinic. They scurried through the rain. Inside, Janet was pleased with the comfortable, homey, and well-kept interior. She waited while Tishana went into another part of the building.

Within a few minutes, Tishana returned with a middle-aged, African-American woman dressed in a white nurse's uniform. They exchanged greetings. Tishana had called for a cab. She was meeting friends at Union Station. The thought of being in this unfamiliar place without her made Janet a little uncomfortable. However, Tishana had assured her that she would be in good hands. When the cab arrived, they hugged and agreed to meet for lunch on Monday.

Janet was almost dressed when the nurse came back into the room. “That baby's looking as good as any two month I ever seen.”

“I'm getting pressure to have an abortion, but I'm not doing that.”

“That all right, honey. We take care of you. You be fine.” She patted Janet's arm reassuringly. “Theys some things you ought to know and do. Read this pamphlet.” She handed one to her. “You seem a sensible girl. Tishana say you ain't got people here. She a smart girl, say you two is friends. Talk to her or call me if you have any worries or questions. You not alone, honey.”

“I want to have the baby and put it up for adoption,” Janet said quietly.

“What do the father say?” The nurse asked.

“Nothing. I won't be getting any help from him.”

“We got ways. We can help with him,” the nurse said knowingly.

“I appreciate that, but really we can't expect any help there.”

“You never know. We cross that bridge when we comes to it.”

Janet stood on the clinic's stoop, talking on her cell phone. Rain was coming down. A person in a hooded slicker stood on the opposite corner. Nobody else was out.

“I'm keeping the baby, Marsh—no. I'll figure that one out…I'm going to Kat's. I'll call later from there…unhuh, yeah. I'm okay…I'll call my folks next week. This is a nice place, the nurse…they'll help me all the way. Tishana will too…thanks. I know. The rain's letting up a little. I want to go, get to Kat's.”

Janet put the phone in her purse. She pulled up her collar, opened her umbrella, and walked down the steps, hurrying down the sidewalk.

The hooded person followed her from the other side of the street.

Janet reached her car and fussed with getting out her remote.

The hooded person deftly crossed the street behind the preoccupied Janet and, when the door car door opened, attacked, dropping Janet with a blow to the head. She slumped, and the attacker shoved her limp body into the car, sprawling her across the seats, and closed the door. The attacker ran around to the passenger door and opened it.

Janet was woozy, struggling to get up.

The hooded person poured liquid on a cloth and put it over Janet's mouth and nose. When satisfied the woman was unconscious, the assailant closed the door and rushed back up the street to a black van as the rain pelted down. A moment later, it was parked closely to Janet's car, with the van's side door and the sedan's door lined up.

Working quickly, the mugger pulled Janet out of her car, unceremoniously dumped her into the van, quickly closed the door, and ran around the van to the driver's side.

Janet's purse lay under the car; her keys and a pamphlet were on its floor.

The van drove off through city streets, crossed the Mall and accessed the Southwest Freeway going east. At the point where the freeway ended, the driver chose the road that led to a parking lot east of RFK stadium. The driver pulled into a treed area adjacent to the Anacostia River. The heavy rain ensured privacy.

Janet was semiconscious when the van stopped. What was happening? Her thoughts were fuzzy. She tried to move, but found she was strapped down. The gag hurt her mouth. The smell was awful. What was she in? She struggled against her restraints, hoping one would break. No luck. She wanted to plead, but the gag prevented even a cry for mercy. She was being touched. She felt something against her skin. Her clothes were being carelessly cut away. She could see very little, but it felt like she was being cut too. Oh please, just do it; rape me and leave me.

Her adrenaline surged and she lurched and yanked, contorting her body. Hands moved harshly over her body. Fingers entered her vagina. She felt a sensation, but it was not one of pleasure. Why didn't he get on with it? He seemed inexperienced. Shove it in. Do it. Get what you want from me. How could God make somebody like you?

Cynical laughter filled the van. She felt cold metal on her breast. Pain shot through her. She felt the blade hit bone. Her nose clogged, she could barely breathe. She felt warm trickles down her sides. Why?

She strained with everything she had, hoping to break loose. Her yell was only a muffled gargle. She was choking. She twisted and wrenched her body. She heard more grating laughter. Why was this happening? Searing pain came from her lower abdomen. She was losing all feeling.

Her energy was waning. She was being murdered!

There would be no baby. She prayed through the pain that her mother and father would forgive her. She felt horrific, excruciating pain in her groin and heard more hideous laughter. Finish me! Her blurred eyes searched to see who—she was losing consciousness.

The blade's point was against her chest. Pain exploded in her, and then there was nothing.

In the near dark, the killer made more incisions into the limp torso. Deep cuts. The assailant wanted more from this woman.

Once finished, the killer opened the rear of the van and shoved the carcass out onto the muddy ground. The rain whipped in on the killer. It felt good. A cleansing of a cleansing. The eviscerated body lay face down in the mud. Her back showed no signs of the gruesome brutality, the butchery hidden.

The killer drove away from the desolate site.