used to stop in once in a while on my way home. The Greek behind the stick was a kid then.”
“When was that?” said Lucas.
“The early seventies, when I was a patrol officer in Four-D.”
“You grow up in D.C.?”
“No. I was raised over in Cheverly. You know why I picked the MPD? It paid two hundred dollars more a year than the PG County police. And in the District I could become an officer at twenty years old. They didn’t require any college then, either. I wasn’t about to sit in a classroom. I was ready.”
“So, patrol in the Fourth District,” said Lucas, trying to move it along.
“Yep. Worked K-Nine for a while after that. I was good with dogs. Then I moved over to Six-D, where the action was. They made me a sergeant. I worked patrol first, then Tact. Then I got my own investigative squad. Tim McCarthy was one of my detectives. Good guy, real good character.”
“You guys were on homicides?”
“No. We investigated crimes that were serious but not homicides. Unarmed robberies, B-Ones…”
“B-Ones?”
“Burglary Ones. Dudes who break into houses. Dangerous guys, much more serious than burglars who do warehouses and commercial properties. We also assisted the sex squad when they went after multiple offenders.” Gibson patted his breast pocket, jonesing for a smoke. “That squad I had was a good bunch. This was in the mid to late eighties. The low years. You’re too young to remember.”
“I know about it.”
“Four hundred and some homicides a year, all kinds of violent shit, a big piece of it east of the river. The Mayfair-Paradise homes alone, Christ. The Jamaicans came down here from New York, got off the train at New Carrollton, and took over the crack trade. Auto pistols, Mac-Tens, you name it. That was when the department switched over from the thirty-eight to the Glock, ’cause we couldn’t compete with the firepower on the street. Anyway, eventually I made lieutenant, got shipped off to Seven-D, and then Two. That was a cakewalk. That’s where I ended my career as an LT. Like, twelve years ago.”
“So you couldn’t have known Larry Holley.”
“You mean the kid. He was a baby when I was in uniform.”
“You said-”
“I said this was about Holley. I didn’t say anything about Larry.”
“You lost me,” said Lucas.
“First things first. McCarthy called me to say you two had a meet. But I didn’t get any information from him and he doesn’t know that we’re sitting here. I’m not gonna do anything to jam Tim up.”
“I get it.”
“I’m not here about the kid,” said Gibson. “I’m here to talk about his father. Richard Holley.”
Lucas had no idea where this was going, but Gibson had his attention. “Go on.”
“Richard came on the force during that hiring binge, when the Feds mandated that the MPD bring on police in numbers because of the crack wars and the homicides. Some of those people turned out to be good police. Some of them were plain unqualified. They must not have background-checked Richard Holley too good, ’cause he was a real cumsack. Came up with some drug dealers west of North Capitol and south of Florida, down around O and N, the area around Hanover Place. First time I heard about Holley, a sergeant from Vice came into my office and made some inquiries. Holley was a patrolman at the time. This guy had suspicions that Holley was pointing out vice officers when he was off duty to his little knothead buddies from the neighborhood. After that I had my eye on him.”
Lucas had opened his notebook and was taking notes. Gibson stopped talking and watched him.
Lucas looked up. “You mind?”
“That’s fine. One thing you should know: I hear Richard goes by Ricardo now. He might even have legally changed his name. You know why? He’s a P-hound. Real liberal in that way, celebrates diversity and all that shit. Likes all the women, any kind of color he can get, long as it’s pink inside. Asshole probably thinks he can score more Spanish pussy with a name like Ricardo. I mean, he’s black, allegedly, but he doesn’t look like any black guy I ever saw. Weird-lookin dude. With that fucked-up poof of hair he had, and his long nose. The guys used to call him Rooster.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t like that.”
“Yeah, but fuck what he didn’t like.” Gibson killed his beer, caught the eye of the bar’s sole waitress, and put up two fingers in the air. “One night Holley was Ten Ninety-nine in a patrol car over by Forty-second and Dix, near Fort Mahan Park.” Gibson looked at Lucas’s notebook. “Ten Ninety-nine means he was riding alone.”
“I know what it means.”
“This is what Holley told the investigators: He pulled over to speak to a young man who was sitting on a bench and looked suspicious. Holley exited his vehicle and approached the subject. At that time, he said, he spotted narcotics and ancillary narcotic materials on or around the bench and ordered the subject to stand. Holley said that there was a flash of light and extreme pain in his hip and he knew he had been shot. He went down, the subject stood and fired twice more, Holley returned fire, and the subject fled.”
“Holley was okay?”
“The round went in his side and came out his ass, but it did some permanent damage. At the scene, Mobile Crime recovered a vial of rock, an empty pint of Bacardi and a plastic cup, tinfoil, match pads, and a napkin.”
“You got a good memory.”
“I know. A daylight search of the area recovered a Charter Arms five-shot thirty-eight with partially shaved numbers, two live rounds, and one spent round lying under the hammer. The assault weapon. Holley said that he had an extended mag in his service weapon. Twenty rounds, one live in the chamber. But when the techs checked out his weapon, it was fully loaded. No expended casings were found at the scene.”
“So the suspect fired and only one round took effect in Holley. Holley never returned fire like he said. Why would he make up that story when it could be easily checked?”
Gibson shrugged. “To make it more dramatic. To say he had more guts than he did. Or maybe because he’s a professional fucking liar.”
“Did they find the shooter?”
“I’m getting to that. I volunteered the services of my squad. Even though Holley was an asshole, he was still police, and when you shoot a police officer it’s a hot case. We wanted it.”
The waitress arrived, placed two beers on the table, and picked up the empties.
“Thank you, darlin,” said Gibson. He showed her his white teeth. When he looked back at Lucas he had lost the smile. “Fingerprints found on the objects at the scene were unusable, and the ATF search on the weapon was negative on account of the shave. Holley met with an MPD artist, and a composite drawing was made of the suspect. Holley said the shooter had a strong body odor, so we distributed the drawing to the area homeless shelters. The media, TV and the papers, they got it as a crime-of-the-week, which meant it was heavily publicized. I’d like to tell you that it was keen detective work that made the case, but as usual we were hoping for someone to come forward with information. The first tip we got was bullshit. A source said a dude she knew had bragged about shooting a police, but when we busted in his door in those homes down around Half Street, it was nothing but a pipe pad. We did find a nine-millimeter in the oven, but there was no link to this particular crime. Then, sixteen days after the event, we got a Crime Solvers tip that a guy named Curtis Dickerson had done the shooting. The source said Dickerson was staying in a crib down in Potomac Gardens. We do a little research, he’s got hard priors, we get a photo, show an array of photos to Holley, he pops Dickerson out of the array. That night, me, Tim McCarthy, and this other detective, Ballard, we go to Dickerson’s apartment. Dickerson’s not there. We stake out the place from the parking lot; Dickerson doesn’t show. It’s late; we go home, plan to return with some heavy hitters.”
“And?”
“We should’ve stayed.”
“What happened?”
“The next day, we come back with a no-knock warrant. We didn’t have to use a battering ram ’cause the door had already been busted in. Dickerson’s inside, shot to death, facedown on his bed. One in the back of the head.”
“You think what?”
“Holley somehow got hold of Dickerson’s address. I think he killed him or had him executed by his
