Alex Cross, Run

For better or worse.

CHAPTER

50

A NEW LOW

Posted by RG at 11:52 p.m.

Sometimes I’m surprised at the depths to which the Metropolitan Police Department will sink. Yesterday evening was a good example. My own criticisms of Detective Alex Cross (see sidebar, here) are well known. Despite his reputation as a superior investigator—which he may well be—Dr. Cross is also a prime example of the kind of wolf in sheep’s clothing that pervades that department.

Click here for an audio recording of my encounter with Detective Cross just yesterday. See what you think for yourself. I was attempting to report on the latest in a series of murders, of young hustlers in and around Georgetown—the so-called River Killer case (for which the MPD has no reported progress, by the way). At the time of the incident, I was in the parking lot at Lock Seven of the C&O Canal, off of Clara Barton Parkway. I’ve Google mapped it here, and marked the police perimeter as it was established, along with the spot where my encounter with Detective Cross took place. As you’ll see, I was well within the allowable area for press and other onlookers. There is no question of trespass in this case.

I will, however, admit to having a concealed recording device during our conversation. It’s something I always do in my dealings with MPD, as a backup, but this was the first time it’s ever proven necessary. Click here to listen to the encounter. What you’ll hear is me interacting with Detective Cross, followed by a brief struggle in which he took the handheld recorder I was carrying and threw it deep into the woods, in the direction I’ve marked with an arrow on the above-mentioned map.

What I hope is coming clear here is a growing—I’d say overwhelming—body of evidence that the MPD is badly in need of a little housecleaning. This is the kind of police behavior I’ve heard about in places like Egypt, and Libya, and China. Is it really what we want here at home?

As always, I encourage you NOT to take my word on any of this. Look into it for yourself. See what other people are saying. See what you think. If you’d like to share a comment or observation about the work MPD is doing, click here.

And remember—the police work for you. Not the other way around.

CHAPTER

51

WHEN I GOT HOME JUST BEFORE SEVEN THAT NIGHT, THE HOUSE WAS disconcertingly quiet. There was no Wii from the living room. No Nikki Minaj playing behind some closed door. No pounding feet on the stairs.

Instead, what I found was Bree sitting in the kitchen with Stephanie Gethma

Something was up.

“Alex, come sit down,” Bree said. She looked tense, and touched my hand as I pulled out a chair to join them.

“What’s going on? Where are the kids?” I said.

“Ja

“What about Ava?” I said. “Is she okay?”

“A patrol cop brought her home this afternoon,” Bree said. “He found her in Seward Square, passed out on a park bench.”

The news hit me like a punch in the gut, but one that I was already half expecting.

“Passed out?” I said.

“With pupils like pin dots.”

That meant opiates. OxyContin, possibly, although Ava didn’t have that kind of money. Maybe fentanyl, which was cheaper and easier to get but also harder to control. My cop’s mind couldn’t help ru

“Nana’s upstairs with her now,” Bree went on. “She’s just sleeping. We’ll have to do a urine test in the morning.”

I nodded and looked down at the table. All of a sudden, it felt like July 1989 all over again. That was the last time drugs had haunted this house.

My brother Blake had been an addict. He’d shown up on Nana’s doorstep one night, dope sick and begging for help. Nana called me in my dorm at Georgetown and asked me to come home, which I did. It was a long, sweaty twelve hours, but we got through it. Nana was like an angel of mercy. I just helped out where I could.

What I didn’t know then was that it would be the last time all three of us were together. Blake promised to stick with the rehab program Nana found for him, but he quickly skipped out and disappeared. The next we heard was on the morning of September 2—another cop at the front door. Blake had been found in an Anacostia flophouse, dead from a heroin overdose.

Now, sitting here, I couldn’t help feeling terrified for Ava. She wasn’t Blake, obviously. But it was also true that Nana and I had done all we could for my brother, and it still wasn’t enough.

“So, what now?” I asked Stephanie.

“Counseling, for sure,” she said. “Maybe treatment. It depends on what Ava has to say for herself. We need to find out how long this has been going on, and if she’s dealing with an addiction here. Also, if you can find out where she’s getting her drugs, that could be a good step toward doing something about it.”

“We’ve had her on a short leash,” Bree said. “There’s been a little trouble lately.”

“Drug trouble?” Stephanie asked.

Bree and I looked at each other. “We weren’t sure,” she said. “But I guess we are now.”

“Well, as long as you’ll have her, Ava’s best off staying right here. I’ll let her rest tonight, but I’d like to see her tomorrow. And I’ll be making more frequent visits to the house. How are Wednesdays and Saturdays for you?”

“Fine,” Bree said.

I felt like I was still trying to catch up. My head was too crowded. When I looked up again, Stephanie and Bree were both looking back at me.

“I’m sorry—what?” I said.

“Wednesdays and Saturdays,” Stephanie repeated. “Is that okay for you, Alex?”

“Yes. Of course,” I said. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make it work.”

CHAPTER

52

“YES. OF COURSE. WHATEVER IT TAKES. WE’LL MAKE IT WORK.”

Ron Guidice slid the headphones off his ears and sat back. He’d heard all he needed to. The rest of the conversation could go to the hard drive.

In the meantime, it sounded like Alex was getting it coming and going these days. This was exactly what the electronic surveillance was for. There was only so much of a story Guidice could build without some kind of inside line on Alex’s home life. It was working out perfectly, in fact.

Guidice marked the time on a legal pad next to his computer and had just started typing up some thoughts when a knock came from the hall.

“Ronald, honey?”

“Come in,” he said, flipping the laptop closed.

When his mother opened the door, she had baby Grace held in the crook of one arm. A white cloth diaper was draped over her shoulder. The nipple of a small Evenflo bottle showed over the top of her housecoat pocket.

“Emma Lee says she wants daddy to tuck her in tonight.”

“No problem,” Guidice said.

When he got to the door, though, Lydia didn’t move. She just stood there, filling the frame with her considerable girth. It was her own version of passive-aggressive, putting herself in the way like a cow on the tracks. She obviously had something on her mind.

Guidice steeled his patience. It wasn’t clear yet whether his mother was going to need a little stick, or a little carrot. Maybe both.

“What is it, Mom?” he asked.

“Did you call the police yet?”

“No,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, I do worry about it,” she said, absently rocking the baby. “I mean…” Now she dropped her voice to a whisper, as if anyone else were listening. “How do you even know she’s yours?”