Death of a Washington Madame (4 page)

The body, already showing signs of rigor, lay on the
blood-soaked mattress of her elaborate carved wood four-poster bed. The lower
part of the body was naked and configured in such a way as to suggest rape. A
white satin nightgown, soaked with blood from neck to mid-section had been
rolled above the waist.

Beside the body was a comforter, also bloodstained, but in
such a way to suggest that it had been thrown over the body after the killing.

The woman's eyes were open, still reflecting the terror
crazed look of her last moments. The face, a mask of death, seemed more
youthful than the body and on closer inspection Fiona noted the tiny scars of
the surgeon's knife along the hairline near the temples. The woman's trademark
hair, as suspected, had been died jet-black.

The bedroom was large. On both sides of the bed were
antique end tables, on one of which was a glass in a saucer and the dregs of
what looked like milk, which coated the glass.

Above the bed was a large painting of a young woman in
jodhpurs caressing the neck of a horse. In the background of the painting was a
meadow on which were pictured a gaggle of hunting beagles ready for the sound
of tallyho. The woman, obviously, was a younger version of Mrs. Shipley,
extraordinarily beautiful in the full flush of youth. There were also other
paintings in the room, mostly pastoral scenes of vaguely familiar country in
various seasonal stages.

To one side of the room was yet another large painting,
this one of a seated figure of a little boy wearing a black velvet jacket over
a white shirt with a Buster Brown collar. In short pants, he was pink cheeked
and cherubic and wore an amused expression, just short of a sunny smile.

It was the kind of stylish painting once fashionable among
the very rich which Fiona remembered seeing in the homes of her wealthy
friends. Son and heir was the title that jumped into Fiona's mind. Undoubtedly,
it was of William Shipley Jr., aged four or five.

A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling giving the room
a baroque feeling embellished by two massive heavily varnished twin still lifes
of what seemed to Fiona of Italian origin, depicting elaborate exotic flowers
against a dark background. To one side of the room was a sitting area with a
small couch and two chairs facing a round marble topped low table.

On the wall next to the sitting area was a large breakfront
inside of which was a display of porcelain figures. Various pieces of polished
antique furniture graced the room on which were framed pictures of Mrs. Shipley
with a number of past Presidents and Washington celebrities. Others recorded
the life of her son, from babyhood to his gubernatorial inaugural in which he
was shown taking the oath of office.

Fiona and Gail had secured the scene and Flanagan's techies
had already arrived and were busy with their chores, dusting for prints, taking
pictures, gathering and bagging potential evidence. The maid and manservant,
both older, obviously retainers of long standing, shaken and pale with
apprehension waited in the kitchen in the company of one of the uniforms. Fiona
had already talked to them briefly.

"Entry?" the Eggplant asked, shorthand for how
did the killer enter the area. It was always a remarkable transformation when
the Chief appeared at a crime scene. Normally harried, often emotional and
subject to temper outbursts, in the presence of a homicide scene he became
extremely subdued and spare and direct in his speech. He maintained this
composure even when he faced the media, before whom he was determined to
project an image of authority, competence, self-assurance and seriousness. The
man, after all, was campaigning for the top police post and Fiona suspected
that he had spent hours practicing this assumed role before a mirror.

From experience, Fiona knew the form in which she was to
provide the information. Just the facts, Ma'am.

"Broke in a door that leads to the basement,"
Fiona replied. "Slid his hand between the bars, broke the glass and opened
the door from the inside."

"Between the bars?"

"The perp apparently had small hands," Fiona
said.

"A kid?"

"Maybe."

"And then?"

"He moved through the basement then up the stairs to a
door that opened near the staircase on the ground floor. Then he moved along a
rear corridor to the kitchen then to a door that took him up the back
stairs," Fiona continued, reading from her notes. "These big old
houses have backstairs, originally to accommodate servants of the upstairs,
downstairs variety. He proceeded up these stairs, onto the second floor, to the
master bedroom, where the victim was lying in bed, reading. Looks like multiple
stab wounds and a rape."

The Eggplant shook his head in disgust.

"Time?"

"Would have to be sometime after ten last night. The
man who worked for her said she usually got into bed at ten. He always brought
her a glass of hot milk around ten. She was in bed, he told me, reading the
bible. She always read the bible before she went to sleep. The book was on the
floor." She pointed to the glass and saucer.

"Was she alone in the house?"

"No. The man sleeps downstairs in a room off a
corridor next to the entrance to the back stairs. The maid was off."

"You say he slept near the back stairs. Didn't he hear
anything?"

"He's pretty deaf, wears hearing aids on both ears
which he takes off when he goes to sleep."

Fiona had followed the path of entry from the basement
level, then up the back stairs, which were thickly carpeted. She had tested the
possibility of squeaks or vibrations that might have awakened the man, but
found the steps extremely quiet.

"And the maid?"

"The maid, a black woman, takes Thursdays off. Visits
her sister's family in Southeast Washington. A nephew drove her home late. He
dropped her off and she let herself in with a key. She saw and heard nothing
amiss, went directly to her room on the ground floor in the back of the house,
and went to bed. She got up around seven, prepared the breakfast, and went
upstairs about eight with a tray to Mrs. Shipley's room. She calls her Madame.
House is run with old-fashioned rituals. Anyway, she went up, put the tray on a
table, then opened the blinds."

"Like in those old black and white movies," Gail
interjected.

"Opens the blinds, sees what she sees, screams. Roy is up by then, his hearing aids in place. He hears her screams, runs up."

"Roy?"

"That's his name," Fiona said. "Like the
maid, Gloria, another old retainer. Roy's the one who called 911. Brought the
uniforms."

"Who covered her?"

"Probably him," Fiona said. "They're both
still shaken. We'll talk to them some more when they calm down. We did manage
to get a few details."

"Anything taken?"

"According to the maid, everything seems in its place,
except for the big gold cross she wore around her neck."

Fiona looked toward the body and the Eggplant's gaze
followed.

"She said the victim wore this big gold cross around
her neck, even when she went to sleep. As hysterical as she was, she noted
this. I checked. He apparently didn't pull it off, but removed it by slipping
it over her head. Maybe he found religion after he did it. An epiphany."

"Nothing else? No money? No jewelry?"

"Her pocketbook was opened, the contents spilled.
Nothing in it but lipstick, change purse with a few pennies. No wallet. The
maid told us that she kept the wallet in her desk drawer. There's a small
office adjoining the bedroom. It was still there."

"And no jewelry missing?"

"Nada. As far as we know now."

"Nothing missing in any of the other parts of the
house?"

"Hard to tell, but the maid doesn't think so and
there's no evidence that the perp went into any other rooms. Just here,
backstairs, basement and out the way he came in."

"What's upstairs?"

"One additional floor, the third. The maid said she
never goes up there. No one has for years. Just closed guest rooms."

"And nothing taken," the Eggplant mused, shaking
his head and directing his gaze through the windows. Looking out, Fiona could
see TV crews setting up their equipment and a knot of reporters forming on the
street in front of the entrance to the house. The Eggplant turned and faced
her.

"No security system?"

"Oh they have one, but they haven't activated it in
years."

"In this neighborhood?"

"According to Roy," Fiona said shooting a glance
at Gail. "They had Marshall."

"Marshall?"

"The dog. He apparently died last week," Fiona
said.

"Better than any security system," Gail said.
"They probably got used to having him around and let the security system
slide."

"Actually," Fiona said. "According to Roy, they haven't had any trouble. Roy thinks it's because the drug dealers don't want
anything to call attention to the neighborhood."

"I don't buy that," Gail said. "More like a
big house such as this is perceived as being well protected."

"Until last night," the Eggplant said, shaking
his head.

"We're wrapping. This baby is ready for the
freezer," Flanagan interrupted. He was a florid faced man with red hair starting
to go gray. He had been with MPD for more than twenty-five years and was
fighting the idea of retirement. Everyone knew he was a man who articulated the
prejudices of the past, and since it was a given, he was tolerated
affectionately, a kind of outspoken bigot whose speech carried a message of
prejudice of which there was no evidence in his actions.

The Eggplant nodded and two techies came in carrying a
stretcher and prepare for the removal of the body of Mrs. Shipley.

Fiona had already called Dr. Benson's office. He was the
Medical Examiner, her closest friend in the Department. She requested a high
priority autopsy.

"Any theories?" the Eggplant asked Fiona.

"Too early, chief," Fiona said.

"We need this one, Sergeant," the Eggplant
reminded her.

"That's why we're not going to sing songs unless we
know the lyrics." She looked at Gail who nodded her head in solidarity.

Fiona's mind, at this point, was resisting theories. She
knew it would be counter-productive to move too quickly and start down the wrong
path. All they had was that a person, probably of small stature, had stabbed to
death an old woman and apparently raped her and stolen her cross and, perhaps,
nothing else. Motive, motive. It was already a mantra going through her
thoughts.

Suddenly they heard a commotion in front of the house.
Looking out, Fiona saw William Shipley and his wife emerge from a black
limousine. The Governor looked pale and somber. Madeline, in high Hollywood mourning style wore large sunglasses and a kerchief on her head. Led by a large
burly black man, who performed intimidating blocking maneuvers through the
crowd, the two moved silently through the knot of chirping reporters.

"Don't put her in the bag," the Eggplant said to
Flanagan. "Get her downstairs quick. I don't want him to see this mess.
Tell the uniforms to clear them for downstairs only. We'll get an ID of the
victim from the Governor."

Gail barked the order into her walkie-talkie.

"I'll be down in a minute," the Eggplant said,
turning back to absorb the scene.

The men discreetly laid out the body with a view to
modesty, then put it on a stretcher and covered it with a blanket. Fiona led
the way down the stairs to the hallway, an ornate area dominated by a huge Rock
Crystal chandelier. Shipley and his wife, following in the wake of the huge
black man, came in the door stopping as the stretcher reached the landing.

"It's alright," Fiona said to the uniform who
manned the door.

"Him, too?" the uniform asked, meaning the large
man, obviously a bodyguard for the couple. He was big, thick-necked,
fierce-looking and unsmiling and tailored to hide what was undoubtedly an Uzi
beneath his jacket. Probably an ex-lineman for a pro-football team, Fiona
speculated, serving the Governor and his wife as a combination bodyguard, watchdog
and professional intimidator.

"Absolutely," Madeline Newton said, addressing
herself to the bodyguard. "Clayton is indispensable." She looked
toward the black man, whose expression was impassive, her eyes hidden behind
large sunglasses. It seemed obvious that she called the shots in terms of
Clayton's duties.

Fiona nodded, despite this minor violation of the integrity
of the crime scene.

"I'm sorry Governor," Fiona said, appropriately
somber. "Too bad we have to meet again under these circumstances."
Shipley nodded, obviously shaken and grieving. Madeline, acknowledging Fiona,
bit her lip and said nothing.

Fiona lowered the blanket and uncovered Mrs. Shipley's
face. Thankfully, one of the techies had closed the terror-stricken eyes and
smoothed down the hair. The dead woman's expression seemed serene. Fiona
dispensed with the official jargon of identification.

"Mama," Shipley whispered hoarsely, his eyes
glistening with tears. His wife's hand gripped him under his arm, offering
support. She whispered some soothing words of solace into his ear. A sob
erupted in his chest. "I can't believe it. Not Mama."

Fiona steeled herself against showing any emotion, then
nodded and the men carrying the stretcher covered the victim's face and
proceeded with the body, maneuvering it out the front door. She could see the
flash of cameras begin as the body moved toward a waiting ambulance.

"This way," Fiona said to the Governor and his
wife, leading them into the great room. Clayton followed. It had seemed to be
the logical place for them to talk. Fiona, until arriving at the crime scence,
hadn't been in that room for more than twenty-five years.

She scoped it quickly, absorbing details. There it was over
the fireplace, the painting of the young soldier. And, of course, the dog
paintings and sculptures, all in exactly the same places where they had
remained, fixed in her memory. The photographs, too, seemed to have been frozen
into place, the people depicted in them now even more old fashioned, their
clothes and hairstyles quaintly out of date.