shelter and the printing company, homicide police and technicians from the Mobile Crime Lab worked around the body of a young man lying in the community garden at Oglethorpe Street and Blair Road. Uniformed officers and yellow tape kept the workers, speculating among themselves and calling friends and loved ones from their cells, away from the scene.
Detective Bill “Garloo” Wilkins, working the midnight-to-eight at the VCB, was on the tail end of it when the call came in from the dispatcher after the anonymous tip. He drove to the community garden with Detective George Loomis, a slope-shouldered man who had grown up in the Section Eights near the Frederick Douglass home in Southeast. Wilkins would be the primary on the case.
As Wilkins and Loomis worked the scene, Gus Ramone arrived at the VCB offices for the start of his eight-to-four. Rhonda Willis, who liked to come in early, have her coffee, and map out her day, was already at her desk. As usual, they discussed their plans for the shift, as well as any violent-crime activity that had occurred since they had last been on. The unidentified gunshot victim found off Blair Road was mentioned, along with the fact that Garloo Wilkins had caught the case. Ramone had the arraignment of William Tyree on his plate, and Rhonda was to testify in a drug burn case she had closed several months earlier. Ramone wanted to try and catch an interview with a potential witness to a homicide before she went off to her job at the McDonald’s over by Howard U. Rhonda agreed to go with him, then ride together over to the Judiciary Center on 4th and E.
The potential wit, a youngish woman named Trashon Morris, turned out to be less than helpful. She had been seen in a club on the fringes of Shaw, hanging closely with a young man who was wanted in a killing later that same night. The young man, Dontay Walker, had been beefing at the club, witnesses said, with a guy who was later found shot to death inside his Nissan Altima on 6th, south of U. Walker was being sought in connection with the killing and so far was in the wind. But when Ramone questioned Trashon Morris, catching her on the way out the door of her apartment building, she could not remember any kind of argument in the club or anything else, seemingly, about that night.
“I don’t recall it,” said Trashon Morris, never looking Ramone in the eye nor acknowledging the presence of Rhonda Willis. “I don’t know nothin about no beef.” Morris had extralong, loudly painted fake nails, large hoop earrings, and big hair.
“Had you been drinking much that evening?” said Ramone, trying to determine her credibility in the unlikely event that she would regain her memory and be called to testify in court.
“Yeah, I’d been drinkin. I was in a club; what you think?”
“How much?” said Rhonda.
“Much as I wanted to,” said Morris. “It was a weekend and I’m twenty-one.”
“People say you left the club with Dontay Walker.”
“Who?”
“Dontay Walker.”
“People gonna say what they want to.” Morris glanced at her watch. “Look, I gotta get to work.”
“You got any idea where Dontay’s been layin up since that night?” said Ramone.
“Who?”
Ramone gave her his card with his contact information. “You see Dontay again, or you hear from him, or something comes to mind that you forgot to tell us, give me a call.”
“I gotta get to work,” said Morris, and walked the sidewalk toward the Metro station down the block.
“Cooperative type,” said Ramone as he and Rhonda went to an unmarked, maroon, MPD-issue Impala parked along the curb.
“One of those ghetto fabulous girls,” said Rhonda. “My sons better not think about bringing home something looking like that, ’cause you know I’ll hit the reject button.”
“She’s just mad because her mother named her Trashon.”
“You name it, it’s gonna become it,” said Rhonda. “One of those self-fulfilling prophecies you hear about.”
At
Detective Bill “Garloo” Wilkins, working the midnight-to-eight at the VCB, was on the tail end of it when the call came in from the dispatcher after the anonymous tip. He drove to the community garden with Detective George Loomis, a slope-shouldered man who had grown up in the Section Eights near the Frederick Douglass home in Southeast. Wilkins would be the primary on the case.
As Wilkins and Loomis worked the scene, Gus Ramone arrived at the VCB offices for the start of his eight-to-four. Rhonda Willis, who liked to come in early, have her coffee, and map out her day, was already at her desk. As usual, they discussed their plans for the shift, as well as any violent-crime activity that had occurred since they had last been on. The unidentified gunshot victim found off Blair Road was mentioned, along with the fact that Garloo Wilkins had caught the case. Ramone had the arraignment of William Tyree on his plate, and Rhonda was to testify in a drug burn case she had closed several months earlier. Ramone wanted to try and catch an interview with a potential witness to a homicide before she went off to her job at the McDonald’s over by Howard U. Rhonda agreed to go with him, then ride together over to the Judiciary Center on 4th and E.
The potential wit, a youngish woman named Trashon Morris, turned out to be less than helpful. She had been seen in a club on the fringes of Shaw, hanging closely with a young man who was wanted in a killing later that same night. The young man, Dontay Walker, had been beefing at the club, witnesses said, with a guy who was later found shot to death inside his Nissan Altima on 6th, south of U. Walker was being sought in connection with the killing and so far was in the wind. But when Ramone questioned Trashon Morris, catching her on the way out the door of her apartment building, she could not remember any kind of argument in the club or anything else, seemingly, about that night.
“I don’t recall it,” said Trashon Morris, never looking Ramone in the eye nor acknowledging the presence of Rhonda Willis. “I don’t know nothin about no beef.” Morris had extralong, loudly painted fake nails, large hoop earrings, and big hair.
“Had you been drinking much that evening?” said Ramone, trying to determine her credibility in the unlikely event that she would regain her memory and be called to testify in court.
“Yeah, I’d been drinkin. I was in a club; what you think?”
“How much?” said Rhonda.
“Much as I wanted to,” said Morris. “It was a weekend and I’m twenty-one.”
“People say you left the club with Dontay Walker.”
“Who?”
“Dontay Walker.”
“People gonna say what they want to.” Morris glanced at her watch. “Look, I gotta get to work.”
“You got any idea where Dontay’s been layin up since that night?” said Ramone.
“Who?”
Ramone gave her his card with his contact information. “You see Dontay again, or you hear from him, or something comes to mind that you forgot to tell us, give me a call.”
“I gotta get to work,” said Morris, and walked the sidewalk toward the Metro station down the block.
“Cooperative type,” said Ramone as he and Rhonda went to an unmarked, maroon, MPD-issue Impala parked along the curb.
“One of those ghetto fabulous girls,” said Rhonda. “My sons better not think about bringing home something looking like that, ’cause you know I’ll hit the reject button.”
“She’s just mad because her mother named her Trashon.”
“You name it, it’s gonna become it,” said Rhonda. “One of those self-fulfilling prophecies you hear about.”
At
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