The Yoga Store Murder (9 page)

At the moment, it was background noise the detectives tried to ignore. They had to figure out what to do about suspect Keith Lockett, who’d been booked in the jail just six hours earlier. Detective Dimitry Ruvin was still hopeful, citing the comments Keith had made at the hospital, and at least some of the bloodstains—the dry ones—found on his clothes. “He might still be our guy,” he told Drewry. “Or maybe he’s not the guy in the store. Maybe he’s the lookout. But what a big, freaking coincidence if he’s not.”

“I’m just not feeling this guy,” Drewry replied.

Still, Drewry wanted to get a sample of Keith’s DNA. To do so, he and Ruvin had to convince a judge to essentially allow them to swab the inside of the suspect’s mouth. As Ruvin started typing up the affidavit request, however, he quickly came to the challenging part: building his argument that Keith was a viable suspect. He summarized the homeless man’s criminal record and what tipsters had said about him. Ruvin studied his notes from their 1:00 A.M. interview. He watched portions of the video. Neither added much to his argument.

Keith’s alcohol charge was so minor he wouldn’t be locked up long. And, sure enough, Drewry heard from the jail that Keith had just been released on his own recognizance and climbed into a taxi headed for Suburban Hospital. Over at Ruvin’s cubicle, others hovered over his shoulder, offering suggestions on what he should say. “Everyone leave him the fuck alone,” Drewry said, “and let him type the search warrant.”

Drewry wanted to talk to people who knew Keith. He headed to Bethesda Cares, the homeless day center that provided the free lunches and donated clothes. Pulling up to the place, a half mile from Bethesda Row, Drewry could see how the nonprofit had smartly blended itself into the streetscape, just 100 feet from a restaurant that offered $40 rib eyes and nightly jazz. It was set back from the street, recessed under a five-level parking garage. Drewry walked into Bethesda Cares and spoke with people who knew Keith. He learned more about his boxing career, and the lasting effect that might have had on his ability to stay on task. Yes, Keith could be rude. But from everything Drewry was hearing, he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer either. Drewry asked for some clothes he could give to Keith, which he received, figuring it was the least he could do after seizing the bloody ones the night before.

Outside the yoga store, police officials and county prosecutors gathered for the press conference, set to begin at 3:00 P.M. Manger, the chief, wanted to confer with others about exactly what he’d say. But he couldn’t do so amid the reporters, so the officials ducked inside the yoga store, where crime-scene investigators were still at work in the back. Manger knew how serious the whole situation was, but once he saw the luxury athletic garb, he couldn’t help thinking—his wife would probably love this stuff.

Starks, the media-affairs captain, reviewed for the group that lululemon athletica and its founder were pledging $125,000 in reward money. Federal Realty had chipped in another $10,000. Manger went over what he was going to say with Gillespie, the major crimes commander. Seemed safe enough, Gillespie told him.

The contingent walked back outside. Starks made a few opening remarks, stumbling over the store’s name: “lululemon athleta athletica.” He introduced Manger, who provided the more exact timeline from three nights prior: how at 9:45 P.M. two employees had left the store; a short time later, one realized she left something behind; at 10:05 P.M. they went back in. “We believe that the two suspects in this case followed them in just seconds after the two victims entered the store,” Manger said, describing the suspects as two men wearing dark clothing, gloves, and ski masks. “What occurred next was that the two victims were beaten, sexually assaulted. One of the victims was beaten to death.”

In past high-profile murder cases, if Manger knew the killing wasn’t random, he didn’t hesitate to tell the public, knowing how instantly calming that could be. But he couldn’t do so here. Still, in front of the bank of TV cameras, Manger tried to at least let the public know his department was on the case. A team of detectives was working around the clock, he said, and they hoped to solve the case as quickly as possible. “We have good solid leads that we’re following up on,” he said.

As Manger spoke to the reporters, Ruvin was making his way to a courthouse eight miles away, carrying an affidavit laying out why a judge should let them get Keith Lockett’s DNA. Ruvin tracked down the judge on duty to review such matters, got his signature, and hustled down two floors to see a prosecutor who’d let him use a fax machine. Ruvin zapped the document to a number Drewry had given him for a machine at the emergency room, where Drewry grabbed it. And for the second time inside of twenty-four hours, he found himself waiting for Keith Lockett to finish up with a doctor. At 4:55 P.M., the detective was allowed in to see him. Drewry handed him the clothes, and Keith willingly opened his mouth to let Drewry scrape the inside of his cheek for DNA. Drewry had no doubt in his mind: the guy didn’t do it.

Five minutes later, WUSA, a CBS affiliate, led its evening broadcast with an update on the case, one of a series of reports on TV, online, and in print from the news conference. “Tonight, police hope a six-figure reward will help lead them to the masked men who killed a store employee and sexually assaulted her coworker,” anchorwoman Anita Brikman said. “A huge reward tonight for the arrest and conviction of the Bethesda yoga store killers.”

The report flashed to a striking, smiling photo of Jayna, dressed in a baby-blue tank top. She, too, had been sexually assaulted, coanchor Lesli Foster said, before the report cut to footage of Manger outside the yoga store. “We have no indication at this point,” the chief said, “that this was anything but a random crime of opportunity.”

SECTION II

BRITTANY AND JAYNA

Brittany Norwood’s stay at the hospital turned out to be relatively brief. Doctors stitched the cuts to her forehead and right hand. The CT scans and other tests came back negative. On Sunday night, thirty-six hours after she arrived, a policeman walked Brittany and her family members to their car. The twenty-eight-year-old’s identity remained shielded from a growing national audience following the story, but among Brittany’s friends, word had quickly spread that she was the survivor.

“I’ve been freaking out all day,” one of them said by text message. “Tell me when you’re ready for a visit.”

“I thank the goodness of God that you weren’t killed,” another said by voice mail. “I just hope you are somewhere safe. Send me a sign or give me a call, okay?”

“I just want you to know how much I love you, chica!” a coworker texted. “You are AMAZING!!!”

Liking Brittany was easy—she was quick-witted, self-effacing, and energetic. She liked to round up friends for 7:00 A.M. “Boot Camp” exercise workouts, or 6:00 P.M. happy hours, and she encouraged their efforts to build careers in high-pressure Washington. And she attracted a string of accomplished boyfriends and lovers: a U.S. Secret Service agent, a college professor, a political pundit who regularly spoke on TV news programs, a dentist. To her large family, she was a conduit of good humor, the one who made sure everyone was coming in for the holidays.

Brittany was born outside Seattle on May 19, 1982, the sixth of nine children to Earl and Larkita Norwood. The family lived twenty miles south of Seattle, and went to Catholic mass. The Norwoods worked hard to surround their kids with middle-class comforts like a two-story house in a safe suburban neighborhood, soccer camps, or even private schools when they could afford them. They paid $1,170 a month to rent a 2,400-square foot home in Federal Way’s planned community of Twin Lakes, with curved streets, parks, and private security patrols.

Brittany’s dad, Earl, scratched out a living as a furniture upholsterer. The shop he managed sat amid other small business: auto-body garages, sign makers, steel fabricators, and the like. He worked long hours—lights on by 7:00 A.M., still on after 7:00 P.M.—and would take on just about any project. Don Brown, the owner of a nearby machine shop, recalled Earl showing up with a battered chair that he’d just received from a customer.

“This thing is beyond hope,” Don told him.

Nevertheless, Earl asked him to fabricate metal support bars for the chair’s interior. Don did so, relatively easily, and brought them to the upholstery shop. “You owe me a sandwich,” he told Earl, who insisted on paying him $25. Don stopped by later to see the rebuilt, reupholstered chair. “That’s gorgeous,” he said. Years later, after the two became close friends, Don walked into a breakfast place fifteen miles away and found Earl inside, finishing a night’s worth of booth reupholstering.

“Little far from home,” Don said.

“I’ll take my trade anywhere,” Earl told him.

One customer, Mary Jo Reintsma, got to know Earl well enough to talk about their families. “When he talks about his kids,” she remembers thinking, “he glows.”

But at $33,000 a year, all of his hard work didn’t keep pace with the cost of raising nine kids. During the 1990s, as Brittany became a teenager, her parents went through two personal bankruptcy proceedings, at one point listing $91,513 in debts that included money owed on prep school and university tuition, plus doctor and hospital bills. The couple also listed just $7,800 worth of personal property, including a 1985 Audi sedan and a 1986 Ford van.

The hardships seemed to have little effect on how the Norwood kids were cared for. One neighbor, Lesley Rogers, who had three kids of her own, took full notice of the Norwood kids when they stood outside her front window at the school bus stop. They were always on time, backpacks full, and dressed in the right jackets, hats, and gloves for the sometimes tricky Pacific Northwest weather. “Well-scrubbed,” was her first thought.

In time, one of the Norwood daughters asked Lesley if she needed a babysitter, a question Lesley and her husband didn’t take lightly because their ten-year-old son had epilepsy. In front of her was a girl who smiled and looked directly in her eyes, like a kid raised well. By then Lesley also had met her parents. Sure, she said.

For a while, it worked out well. Then a younger Norwood girl started coming over also. She seemed different, not only from her older sister but her other siblings as well. Brittany seemed to always be tagging along, and looked down when she spoke. Maybe it was shyness. A few babysitting sessions later, Lesley feared it was something else.

Her husband kept a bowl of change on his nightstand, a pile of coins that would slowly grow until it overflowed and finally needed attention. Now, though, the pile was getting smaller. Even more concerning was what happened inside their walk-in closet in the bedroom. There, hidden behind clothes on a shelf, Lesley kept a purple bag filled with jewelry. It was inexpensive, costume stuff, but had belonged to Lesley’s late mother, and she liked to take the bag out periodically, look at the jewelry, and remember her mom. When she did so, about half of it appeared to be gone.

Nothing had happened when it was only Brittany’s older sister coming over. Now? Lesley thought about it. Maybe Lesley had just misplaced some of the jewelry and her husband had grabbed change without thinking about it. Neither seemed at all likely. But the lack of proof outweighed bringing the matter up with Brittany’s parents. Who am I to do that? Lesley thought, knowing the struggles she had just raising three kids, and knowing how respectful the other Norwood children had always been. Lesley felt she had only one choice: she simply quit asking Brittany’s older sister to babysit.

Brittany attended Saint Vincent de Paul, a private elementary school, but for high school, she enrolled in Decatur High School, a public school with about 1,400 students, including two of her older siblings. Her brother Chris served as vice president of his senior class, and went on to graduate with a degree in electrical engineering at Seattle University. Her sister Marissa was a brilliant soccer player before blowing out her knee, but impressed her coaches even more by still coming out to cheer for the team. She was a member of two high school volunteer organizations. “I love to give back to those less fortunate!” she wrote in a yearbook, where she was also voted her class’s “Next Oprah Winfrey” before going on to graduate from the University of Maryland.

Brittany was also a stellar soccer player, making the varsity soccer team as a freshman, and playing in games immediately. In class, she was rarely the first to raise her hand, but almost always knew the right answer. She developed an outgoing personality that attracted friends, and had a signature style: chic T-shirt, designer jeans, and a sharp pair of Nikes, all touched off by lavender-scented, Johnson & Johnson baby lotion. “She was beautiful,” a close friend remembers.

Not much seemed to bother Brittany, particularly the high school social dramas around boyfriends and breakups. She could just let things go, seeing little need for students she considered “fakes.” Many times she found herself the only African American in a group of students, but plenty of other races and ethnicities were present, and Brittany and one of her friends joked about being “Ebony and Ivory,” a tribute to the Stevie Wonder–Paul McCartney song.

Her friends came to see Brittany’s house as one of smiling welcome. “Hi sweetheart, how are you?” her mom would ask, walking up with a big hug. The place was decorated with furniture that was more comfortable than fancy. The kids shared rooms, and always seemed to be looking out for each other. To one friend, whose parents had split up at the time, “It was what a family was supposed to be.”

Others shared that impression. Brian vanBlommestein, Brittany’s coach at a high-end soccer club, the F.C. Royals, had come to expect a certain set of questions from parents: What practice drills will you use? How good will the team be? Why isn’t my kid playing more? With the Norwoods, it was always simple and more personal: “Hi, Brian. How are you doing?” They showed up to all of Brittany’s games, often with three or four of their other children.

Brittany was slight, topping out at five feet three inches tall and 120 pounds. But she never complained at practice, could run extremely fast, and preferred playing defense to scoring goals. Brittany fearlessly tackled anyone, the result of growing up playing the game around older brothers. She helped lead the F.C. Royals to the state title, and played for her high school team.