Pop Goes the Weasel

on surveillance, made it worse. Now they were about to confront a cop killer.
    We hurried out of the elevator to apartment 10D. I led the way and pressed the bell. I saw what appeared to be drops of blood on the hallway carpet near the door. I noticed the blood on my hands, saw the two cops staring at the blood.
    No answer from inside the apartment, so I pounded my fist on the door. Was everyone okay in there? “Police, open up! D.C. police!”
    I could hear a woman shouting inside. I had my Glock out, the safety off. I was angry enough to kill Shafer. I didn’t know if I could hold myself back.
    The uniformed patrolmen took their pistols out of their holsters, too. After just a few seconds I was ready to kick down the door, search-and-seizure constraints or no. I kept seeing Patsy Hampton’s face, her dead, vacant eyes, the savage wounds in her crushed throat.
    Finally, the door to the apartment slowly opened.
    A blond woman was standing there — Dr. Cassady, I assumed. She wore an expensive-looking light-blue suit with lots of gold buttons, but she was barefoot. She looked frightened and angry.
    “What do you want?” she demanded. “What the hell is going on here? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve interrupted a therapy session.”

Chapter 73
    GEOFFREY SHAFER stepped into the doorway and stood a few feet behind his irate therapist. He was tall and imposing and very blond. He’s the Weasel, isn’t he?
    “What the hell’s the problem here? Who are you, sir, and what do you want?” he asked in a clipped English accent.
    “There’s been a murder,” I said. “I’m Detective Cross.” I showed them my badge. I kept looking past Shafer and Dr. Cassady, trying to spot something that would give me probable cause to come inside the apartment. There were lots of plants on the sills and hanging in windows — philodendron, azalea, English ivy. Dhurrie rugs in light pastels, overstuffed furniture.
    “No. There’s certainly no murderer here,” the therapist said. “Leave this instant.”
    “You should do as the lady says,” Shafer said.
    Shafer didn’t look like a murderer. He was dressed in a navy suit, a white shirt, a moiré tie, a pocket square. Impeccable taste. Completely unruffled and unafraid.
    Then I glanced down at his shoes. I almost couldn’t believe it. The gods had finally smiled on me.
    I pointed my Glock at Shafer. At the Weasel. I went up to him and bent down on one knee. My whole body was trembling. I examined the right leg of his trousers.
    “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, pulling away from me. “This is completely absurd.
    “I’m with the British Embassy,” Shafer then stated. “I repeat, I’m with the British Embassy. You have no rights here.”
    “Officers,” I called to the two patrolmen who were still outside the door. I tried to act calm, but I wasn’t. “Come here and look. You see this?”
    Both patrolmen moved closer to Shafer. They entered the living room.
    “Stay out of this apartment!” The therapist raised her voice close to a scream.
    “Remove your trousers,” I said to Shafer. “You’re under arrest.”
    Shafer lifted his leg and gave a look. He saw a dark stain, Patsy Hampton’s blood, smudged on the cuff of his trousers. Fear shot through his eyes, and he lost his cool.
    “You put that blood there! You did it,” he yelled at me. He pulled out an identification badge. “I am an official at the British Embassy. I don’t have to put up with this outrage. I have diplomatic immunity. I will not take off my trousers for you. Call the embassy immediately! I demand diplomatic immunity. ”
    “Get out of here now!” Dr. Cassady yelled loudly. Then she pushed one of the patrolmen.
    It was just what Shafer needed. He broke free and ran back through the living room. He rushed into the first room down the hallway, slammed the door, and locked it.
    The Weasel was trying to get away. It couldn’t happen; I couldn’t let it. I got to the door seconds behind him. “Come out of there, Shafer! You’re under arrest for the murder of Detective Patsy Hampton.”
    Dr. Cassady came screaming down the hall after me.
    I heard the toilet flush in the bathroom. No, no, no! I reared back powerfully and kicked in the door.
    Shafer was pulling off his trousers, standing on one leg. I tackled him hard, knocked him over, then held him facedown against the tile floor. He screamed curses at me, flailed his arms, bucked his lower body. I pushed his face