Death of an Intern by Keith M. Donaldson Read Free Book Online Page A

grief would not be quelled with any soft talk. Marsha had to work through this by herself.
    I decided to look around and started with downstairs. I came back up and looked over the kitchen and living room. A fairly standard, small townhouse. The only photograph was a framed eight-by-ten of Janet and Marsha on the National Mall.
    I walked up the stairs. There was a front and back bedroom. I looked in the front room. Marsha was face down, hugging two pillows, sobbing.
    I went to Janet's bedroom, where I found many photos filling a small glass étagère, a nightstand, and a long dresser. Like in Marsha's room, the bed was a twin, this one neatly made up. A small table acted as a desk. Books, folders, a laptop, and calculator on it.
    The photos appeared to be of family and friends. Janet with two teenage girls, maybe younger sisters. I saw a photo album on the dresser. Before touching it, I took out a tissue, holding it in a way so as not to leave fingerprints. I didn't have the popular surgical gloves worn by crime teams. Not knowing how far the investigation might go, like dusting for prints, I didn't want mine popping up.
    The album revealed trophy pictures. Autographed photos to Janet from the President, Vice President, Secretary of State, and other cabinet members. Others included the Vice President with his arm around Janet, and Frances Grayson with several young women I'd met Friday night.
    Janet did a very neat job categorizing each photo. If it was not otherwise identified, a typed out strip was pasted below the picture, naming everyone and the date it was taken. That might come in handy. I took out my camera and shot a full coverage of pictures. Max may never get into this house. It might help. They had nothing right now. I also took close-ups of photos in the album.
    Three posters of music groups I had never heard of were taped to the walls. God, I was getting old. I heard Marsha moving around and put away my camera. I heard the toilet flush and went to Marsha's bedroom door, not invading her space. When Marsha came into view, she saw me.
    â€œIs there anything I can do for you?”
    Marsha had a bewildered expression. “What? Oh, I don't…who can do anything? This is horrible. Who will call her parents?”
    â€œAs I understand it, the Washington Metropolitan Police have informed the White House. They'll call the Rausches.”
    â€œWhere was she?”
    â€œIn a wooded area near RFK Stadium. Captain Walsh of MPD will make a public announcement right after he hears back from the White House. Do you remember a black woman being found under Key Bridge this past Thursday?”
    â€œI remember hearing about it, why?” Her voice was very small.
    â€œShe was found nude with no ident—”
    â€œJanet was found nude?” Marsha's voice spiked.
    â€œKilled with a knife.”
    Marsha gasped. “Some female law school students were talking…oh God…cut…her baby…oh no…”
    Baby? I went to her. “Marsha, listen please, this is important. You just said ‘her baby.' How far along was she?”
    The distraught woman shook with what I could only imagine were horrible visions of Janet's killing. I didn't want to be rough, but I needed Marsha to focus. I put my hands on her arms, bent down to be eye to eye with the sitting, quaking figure.
    â€œMarsha, please. We need your help.”
    She was dazed and looked like a drenched rag doll.
    â€œAbout two months, I think,” she barely got out.
    â€œDid Janet's pregnancy have anything to do with why she went into D.C. yesterday?”
    No answer.
    â€œMarsha. Did Janet go into Washington yesterday?”
    She gave a weak nod. “To work?”
    She shook her head. “No,” she said in a whisper, “to see Tishana.”
    Tishana? “Tishana who?”
    Marsha shook her head.
    â€œHow did she know this Tishana?”
    â€œFrom the EOB someplace. I need a tissue.”
    I found a