George Pelecanos - DC Noir

Ice Hamilton had been picked up at about 4:00 a.m. that morning, operating the suspect vehicle described by the three witnesses, a black late-model Ford Crown Vic, and bearing the tag number Ruthann Sommers had jotted down just before the shooter sped from the scene. Remarkable also was that the car had not been reported stolen, which was typically the case for vehicles used in the commission of felony offenses. Ice was pulled over by two Seventh District officers when they spotted him driving the wanted vehicle on Barnaby Street, S.E., a couple of blocks away from the scene of the crime. Luckily, Ice Hamilton had not been able to produce his license, so he was placed under arrest and his vehicle was impounded. As instructed, the arresting officers made no mention of the car being the suspect vehicle in a murder case.

When he got the news, Detective Mayfield had been amazed that the cunning and elusive Teflon Thug had made such a magnificent blunder, and he was still astounded by this development, but rationalized that perhaps Ice wasn’t as smart as he had given him credit for. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time. Incredibly, pursuant to a D.C. Superior Court warrant issued posthaste through Mayfield’s connections and served within ninety minutes of Ice being taken into custody, the search of the trunk of the Crown Vic had yielded a MAC-11 and two fully loaded magazines, clothes matching the description of that worn by the assailant, and black cotton work gloves of the type the witnesses said the shooter had worn. Furthermore, ballistics tests conducted by the Firearms Examination Section — also conducted posthaste within two hours of the arrest via Detective Mayfield’s connections — had identified the MAC-11 as the weapon in the Chesapeake Street double murder, as well as tentatively linked it to a half dozen other shootings and seven other murders committed in D.C. over the last nine months. The discovery of the weapon and the ammo led to additional holding charges of possession of a prohibited weapon and possession of unregistered ammunition.

By the time Detective Mayfield interviewed Ice briefly in the Seventh District Detectives Office, the latter was only aware that he was being charged with failure to display his operator’s permit, and possession of a prohibited weapon and unregistered ammo. Mayfield nonchalantly inquired as to (1) Ice’s whereabouts on the afternoon of the previous Saturday, and (2) how he had come to be in the possession of the Crown Vic.

Ice’s answers were simple: “Hangin’ wid my boyz” to the first question, “Borrowed it from my boy” to the second. Ice didn’t even bother to ask the detective why he wanted to know. When questioned if he knew that the man he’d borrowed the car from, Carter Washington, was wanted on an arrest warrant charging him with murder, and if he knew Washington’s whereabouts, Ice replied, “Naw, I didn’t know he was wanted. I don’t know where that nigger at.”

At any rate, John Mayfield was certain that he had built a rock solid case against Ice Hamilton for the Chesapeake Street murders. The physical evidence and the statements of the three witnesses who had separately picked him out of a photo array was more than enough for him to obtain an arrest warrant and a lineup order.

Stifling a laugh, Mayfield smiled at Ice, who responded with a smirk.

“Ice,” said Mayfield.

Ice nodded. “Detective.”

“Been behaving yourself?” the detective asked.

Ice snorted. “Don’t matter if I misbehave or not. Rollers always tryin’ to pin somethin’ on me. Tryin’ Like you tryin’ this time.”

Mayfield chuckled. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

Ice glared at him. “My lawyer’ll get me off, like always.” “Oooh,” quipped Mayfield, “I’m shaking. Fact is, your very expensive lawyer, who just happens to be next door waiting to sit in on the lineup, by the way, is very, very good… but Johnny Cochrane couldn’t get you out of this one. You got sloppy this time, Ice. You should stick with knives; guns aren’t your speed.” He nodded at an officer. “Unshackle him.”

One of the CCB officers unlocked and removed the shackles from Ice’s ankles, then stepped back, keeping a sharp eye him.

Hands cuffed behind him, Ice Hamilton eyeballed the plainclothes officers donning cheesy dreadlock wigs meant to mirror his magnificent mane. He chortled and shook his head.

“You know,” said Ice, “even with them cheap-ass wigs, these lineups ain’t fair to me, ’cause of my eye color…”

Mayfield opened a paper bag and took out five contact lens cases (purchased out of his own pocket because they weren’t in the Lineup Unit’s budget). He handed them out to the police officers participating in the lineup. “Put these on, fellows. Nonprescription disposable cosmetic contact lenses. Bluish-gray in color.” He turned to Hamilton. “You were saying?”

Ice smirked and shook his head.

Detective Mayfield was more than confused and more than a little disappointed — he was concerned. He’d taken them in separately, making sure that the witnesses had no contact with each other. First Ruthann Sommers had failed to identify Ice Hamilton in the lineup, then Terri Daulby. What troubled him was how nervous each of them had been, more nervous than witnesses usually are. They were nervous and… apprehensive, yeah, that was it, apprehensive. As though someone had somehow gotten to them, threatened them. But how? How could Ice or his minions know the identities of the eyewitnesses? Certainly not through his lawyer. Ice’s attorney, C.F. Carlton, had just now become privy to this information.

If Rodney Grimes was as nervous and apprehensive as the others and failed to identify Ice, the chances were that Ice, somehow, had gotten to them. If not, Ice would be fingered by at least one of the witnesses, which was better than nothing. If so, then Mayfield would make it his business to find out how.

Mayfield tried to take away his frown and put on his best face. He opened the door to the waiting area where his last witness sat. He assessed the clean-cut and neatly dressed Rodney Grimes for a moment. Rather than apprehensive, Grimes appeared anxious. Grimes’s eyeglasses were not quite as thick as true Coke-bottle glasses, but magnified his eyes just enough for them to be called Coke-bottles, nonetheless.

There was something else, though, a feeling he couldn’t shake since he’d first laid eyes on him: Grimes was oddly familiar to him, as though he’d seen him somewhere before. He just couldn’t place him.

“Mr. Grimes,” Mayfield said, “We’re ready for you.”

Rodney Grimes replied, “Certainly,” as he got to his feet. “How’s it going, Detective Mayfield?”

“Fine,” Mayfield said flatly.

“Really?” said Grimes. “You seem… disturbed.”

Mayfield was taken aback, though he hid it. At least, he tried to. Grimes was very perceptive. “No, no. Just been working long hours. Right this way.”

Grimes followed Mayfield down the hall.

“What’s the suspect’s name?” Grimes asked. “Or is it against the rules for you to tell me?”

“No,” Mayfield said. “First pick him out of the lineup, then I’ll tell you his name.”

“Fair enough,” said Grimes.

To Mayfield’s relief, Grimes passed with flying colors. He picked Ice out of the lineup quickly and with absolute certainty.

C.F. Carlton had smiled when he saw Grimes’s thick glasses, and Mayfield knew for sure that the attorney would bring into question the witness’ vision at the trial, as well as the fact that the other two, who did not wear eyeglasses, had failed to identify Ice. Still, Mayfield had an eyewitness to the crime and a mountain of physical evidence. He had a good case that should do well in trial.