Instead, Fiske pulled himself out of the car and into the muggy air, and entered the building at 300 Indiana Avenue, home to the D.C. Police Homicide Division. After passing through security and being directed by a uniformed police officer, he stopped at a desk. He had tried his father once again from the morgue, but still no answer. Frustrated, he was now also worried that his father had somehow found out and was on his way up here.
He looked down at the card the attendant at the morgue had given him. “Detective Buford Chandler, please,” he said, looking down at the young woman behind the desk.
“And you are?” The sharp angle of her neck, and her superior tone, immediately made Fiske want to stuff her in one of her own desk drawers.
“John Fiske. Detective Chandler is investigating my brother’s . . . my brother’s murder. His name was Michael Fiske.” She stared at him, no recognition on her features. “He was a clerk at the Supreme Court,” he added.
She glanced at some papers on her desk. “And somebody killed him?”
“This is the Homicide Division, isn’t it?” She settled her gaze back on him, her look of annoyance pronounced. He continued: “Yes, somebody killed him” — he glanced down at the nameplate on her desk — “Ms. Baxter.”
“Well, what exactly can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Detective Chandler.”
“Is he expecting you?”
Fiske leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Not exactly, but — ”
“Then I’m afraid he’s not in,” she said, cutting him off.
“I think if you put a call into — ” Fiske stopped and watched as she turned away from him and started typing on her computer. “Look, I really need to see Detective Chandler.”
She typed as she spoke. “Let me educate you on the situation here, okay? We have lots of cases and not too many detectives. We don’t have time for every drop-in off the street. We have to have priorities. I’m sure you can understand that.” Her voice drifted off as she looked at the computer screen.
Fiske leaned forward until his face was only a couple of inches from the woman. When she looked around, they were eye to eye. “Let me make you understand something. I came up from Richmond to identify the remains of my brother at Detective Chandler’s request. I did that. My brother is dead. And right about now the medical examiner is cutting a Y incision in his chest so that he can lift out his insides, organ by organ. Then he’s going to take a saw and cut an intermastoid incision like a wedge of pie through his skull, right about here.” Fiske made an imaginary cut along Ms. Baxter’s head with his finger, overcoming a very strong impulse to snatch up a handful of the woman’s permed blond hair. “That’s so he can lift out his brain and trace the path of the bullet that killed him and perhaps get some shell fragments. Now, I thought I’d come and have a chat with Detective Chandler and see if he and I can come up with some leads on who might have killed him.”
She said coldly, “Well, that’s not your job, is it? We have enough problems without family members getting involved in police investigations. I’m sure Detective Chandler will be in touch if he needs you.” She again turned away from him.
Fiske gripped the edge of her desk and took a deep breath, trying his best not to lose it. “Look, I can understand the caseload problem you must have here, and the fact that you don’t know me from Adam — ”
“I’m really busy right now, sir. So if you have a problem, I suggest you put it in writing.”
“All I want to do is talk to the man!”
“Am I going to have to call a guard, or what?”
Fiske slammed his hand down on the desk. “My brother is dead! And I would really appreciate if you would take that piss-poor attitude you’re wearing and replace it with just an ounce of compassion. And if you can’t force yourself to mean it, lady, then just pretend.”