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corners.
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I wondered if it was hard for Christine Johnson to leave this safe, lovely
enclave to come to work in Southeast every day. I wondered what her personal
demons were. I wondered why she worked such long hours. And what her husband
was like.
Then I saw Christine Johnson's dark blue car in the driveway of a large,
brick-faced Colonial home. My heart jumped a little.
Suddenly, everything became very real for me.
I continued up the blacktop street until I was well past her house. Then I
pulled oveve who interviewed her after Shanelle Green's murder.
This is a crazy thing, I thought as I drove in the direction of her town --
Mitchellville.
Earlier that night, I'd talked to Damon about how things were going at school
now, and then about the teachers there. I eventually got around to the
principal. Damon saw through my act like the little Tasmanian devil that he is
sometimes.
"You like her, don't you?" he asked me, and his eyes lit up like twin beacons.
"You do, don't you, Daddy? Everybody does.
Even Nana does. She says Mrs. Johnson is your type. You like her, right?"
"There's nothing not to like about Mrs. Johnson," I said to Damon. "She's
married, though. Don't forget that."
"Don't you forget," Damon said and laughed like Sampson.
And now here I was driving through the suburban neighborhood relatively late
at night. What in hell was I doing? What was I thinking of? Had I been
spending so much time around madmen that finally some of it rubbed off? Or was
I actually following one of my better instincts?
I spotted Summer Street and made a quick right turn. There was a mild squeal
of tires that pierced the perfect quiet of the neighborhood. I had to admit it
was beautiful out in subur-bia, even at night. The streets were all lit up.
Lots of Christmas lights and expensive holiday props. There were wide curbs
for rain runoff. White sidewalks. Colonial-style lampposts on all the street
corners.
I wondered if it was hard for Christine Johnson to leave this safe, lovely
enclave to come to work in Southeast every day. I wondered what her personal
demons were. I wondered why she worked such long hours. And what her husband
was like.
Then I saw Christine Johnson's dark blue car in the driveway of a large,
brick-faced Colonial home. My heart jumped a little.
Suddenly, everything became very real for me.
I continued up the blacktop street until I was well past her house. Then I
pulled over against the curb and shut off the headlights. Tried to shut down
the roaring inside my head. I stared at the rear of somebody's shiny white
Ford Explorer parked out on the street. I stared for a good ninety seconds,
about how long the white Explorer would have lasted before it was stolen on
the streets of D.C.
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I had the conscious thought that maybe this was not such a good idea. Doctor
Cross didn't exactly approve of Doctor Cross's actions. This was real close to
being inappropriate behavior. Parking in the dark in a posh, suburban
neighborhood like this wasn't a real sound concept, either.
A few therapist jokes were running around inside my head.
Learn to dread one day at a time. You're still having a lousy childhood.
If you're really happy, you must be in denial.
"Just go home," I said out loud in the darkened car. "Just say no."
I continued to sit in the darkness, though, listening to the occasional
theatrical sigh, the loud debate buzzing inside my head.
I could smell pine trees and smoke from someone's chimney through the open car
window. My engine was clicking gently as it cooled. I knew a little about the
neighborhood: successful lawyers and doctors, urban planners, professors from
the University of Maryland, a few retired officers from Andrews Air Force
Base.
Very nice and very secure. No need for a dragonslayer out here.
All right then, go see her. Go see both of them, Christine and her husband.
I supposed that I could bluff my way through some trumped up reason why I had
to come out to Mitchellville. I had the gift of gab when I needed it.
I started the car again, the old Porsche. I didn't know what I was going to
do, which way this was going to lead. I took my foot off the brake, and the
automobile crept along on its own. slowly, I crept.
I continued for a full block like that, listening to the crunch of a few
leaves under the tires, the occasional pop of a small stone.
Every noise seemed very loud and magnified to me.
I finally stopped in front of the Johnson house. Right in front.
I noticed the bristle&brush, manicured lawn, and well-trimmed yews.
Moment of truth. Moment of decision. Moment of crisis.
I could see lights burning brightly inside the house, tiny fires.
Somebody seemed to be up at the Johnson house. The dark blue Mercedes sedan
was sitting peacefully against the closed garage door.
She has a nice car and a beautiful home. Christine Johnson doesn't need any
terrible trouble from you. Don't bring your monsters out here. She has a
lawyer husband. She's doing real fine for herself.
What did she say her husband's name was -- George? George the lawyer lobbyist.
George the rich lawyer lobbyist.
There was only one car in the driveway. Her car. The garage door was closed. I
could picture another car in there, maybe a Lexus. Maybe a gas grill for
cookouts, too. Power lawn mower, leaf blower, maybe a couple of mountain bikes
for weekend fun.
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I shut off the engine and got out of my car.
The dragonslayer comes to Mitchellville.
I WAS DEFINITELY CURIOUS about Christine Johnson, and maybe it was a little
more complicated than that. You like her, don't you, Daddy? Maybe? Yes, I did
like her -- a lot. At any rate, I felt as if I needed to see her, even if it
made me feel tremendously awkward and foolish. A good thought struck me as I
climbed out of the car: how much more foolish to walk away.
Besides, Christine Johnson was part of the complex homicide case I was working
on. There was a logical enough reason for me to want to talk to her. Two
students from her school had been murdered so far. Two of her babies. Why that
school? Why had a killer come there? So close to my home?
I walked to the front door and was actually glad that all the shimmering
houselights were turned on bright. I didn't want her husband, or any of the
neighbors in Mitchellville, to spot me approaching the house in a cloak of
shadows and darkness.
I rang the bell, heard melodious chimes, and waited like a porch sculpture. A
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