Jack & Jill

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 I 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 suburbia, 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.
    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 men, 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 tome.
    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