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Chapter 144: Mrs. Anderson
Southwest District, Washington, D.C.
Charles Anderson was interviewing for a new job.
He seemed distracted, his gaze drifting past the manager toward the old apartment building across the street, the brick-red façade. The rows of windows catching the afternoon light.
The manager asked about his work experience.
Anderson snapped back to attention. He'd worked at the Riverside Hotel, he explained, and gave the detailed address, though he needn't have bothered.
The manager knew exactly where the Riverside Hotel was.
He looked up from his paperwork, studying Anderson with renewed interest. "I heard a guest was killed at the Riverside Hotel. Is that true?"
Anderson was silent for a moment, then nodded.
The manager leaned forward, temporarily abandoning any thought of dismissing him. He set down his pen. "I heard the person who was killed was a woman?"
"She was a prostitute," Anderson said flatly. "A bitch who spread her legs for anyone. As long as you paid, even a dog would do."
The manager's eyes widened. "Really?"
Anderson nodded vigorously. "Yes. Someone advised her to have self-respect, but she wouldn't listen."
Being a prostitute was high-risk everywhere, especially the kind Anderson was describing, low-end, desperate work.
The manager sighed, then asked, "Have they caught who did it?"
This time Anderson didn't answer.
The manager didn't press, assuming Anderson simply didn't know. Instead, he asked about the scene, the victim's condition, morbid details that had nothing to do with the job interview.
Most of Anderson's interview time was spent discussing the case.
The manager smacked his lips, clearly wanting more, but satisfied enough to wave Anderson toward the door. "You can start work tomorrow."
The linen room on the fifth floor had yielded almost nothing.
Theodore couldn't extract any useful information from the two softcore books and the old radio they'd found. They couldn't even confirm whether the items belonged to Charles Anderson.
Bernie suggested checking the employee locker room.
Charles Anderson matched Theodore's profile of the killer perfectly. And Theodore's profiles had never been wrong before. To Bernie, Charles Anderson was already synonymous with the killer, especially since Anderson happened to be off today, making him impossible to locate.
In Bernie's view, this meant Anderson was on the run. He was already treating him as the killer.
The hotel manager was cooperative. He led them to the employee locker room without hesitation.
Bernie pried open Charles Anderson's locker.
Inside, it was meticulously clean, not even a scrap of paper remained.
Bernie looked at Theodore. "He ran."
Theodore turned to the hotel manager. "In your background checks on employees, do you have Charles Anderson's address? Or his family situation?"
The manager shook his head repeatedly. "We only know that Charles has never been to jail and has no criminal record."
"How do you know?"
The manager looked embarrassed. He admitted he'd contacted an acquaintance in the Third Precinct's archives to help investigate the criminal record. Through another acquaintance at the Federal Bureau of Prisons, he'd checked incarceration records. All the hotel's employee investigations were done this way.
Theodore wasn't interested in his methods. What mattered was that Charles Anderson could be found in the Third Precinct's archives.
They used the hotel's phone to contact Detective Thomas at the Third Precinct, asking him to search for Charles Anderson's information.
Detective Thomas remained lackadaisical, unmotivated, unhurried. He didn't even ask who Charles Anderson was or why they needed to investigate him. He just agreed directly.
He'd completely given up.
Thanks to the Third Precinct's efficient archive management, Charles Anderson's file was located quickly. It listed an address in the Southwest District.
Washington's Southwest District had originally been like the Southeast, both slums. A few years ago, the government began extensive construction. Office buildings, commercial streets, government facilities rose from the ground one after another, spreading continuously from north to south.
The address in Charles Anderson's file was an old apartment building with brick-red exterior walls. That area belonged to an old neighborhood, not yet leveled and rebuilt.
Outside the old apartment building, across the street, stood a brand-new high-rise completed less than six months ago.
When Theodore and Bernie arrived, several construction workers were busy outside.
Bernie asked the workers and learned that by month's end, a large area including the old apartment building would be leveled to make way for new construction. The workers mentioned that many residents had already moved out.
Theodore and Bernie climbed to the fifth floor and quickly found the target apartment number. The room sat at the end of the hallway.
Theodore lightened his steps, drew his pistol, disengaged the safety, and pressed himself against the wall beside the door. Bernie held his gun with one hand, taking position on the opposite side.
Only the sound of wind whistled through the corridor.
After a moment of silence, Theodore nodded to Bernie.
Bernie raised his hand and knocked. No answer.
He knocked again.
After a brief silence, the door opened. An old woman with gray hair peered out, breathing slightly hard. After asking "Who are you looking for?" her gaze fell on the pistol in Theodore's hand.
Before Theodore could react, she let out a scream. "Robbery!"
As she yelled, she retreated, trying to pull the door shut.
Theodore blocked the door with his foot. With his other hand, he pulled out his leather credential case, flipped it open, and held it before the old woman's eyes. "FBI! Open the door!"
He pushed the door open and squeezed inside. Bernie followed immediately.
Neither paid attention to the old woman. Instead, they entered the apartment using positions learned in their selection and training tactics course.
The apartment was small, just a living room and a bedroom. Nowhere to hide anyone.
After confirming there was no danger, they holstered their pistols.
Bernie pulled out his credentials. "FBI Special Agent Bernie Sullivan." He gestured toward Theodore. "FBI Special Agent Theodore Hoover."
The old woman stood at the doorway, watching Bernie warily. She didn't introduce herself, just asked directly, "What do you want?"
Bernie asked for her name.
"Mildred Anderson."
Bernie turned and looked at Theodore.
The apartment was cramped. With both agents inside, the entire space felt particularly narrow, almost difficult to turn around in. The living room held a broken sofa against the wall, a table in front of it, and an old black wooden cabinet beyond that.
Behind the living room was the bedroom. It contained a bed pushed against three walls, with a large wardrobe on the door side. These two pieces of furniture occupied nearly the entire bedroom space, leaving only a small empty area near the doorway.
Theodore had been standing at the bedroom doorway, observing the room. Hearing the old woman's name, he looked over at her.
Mildred Anderson. Same last name, same address.
"Mrs. Anderson," Theodore said carefully, "we're looking for Charles Anderson. Does he live here?"
[End of Chapter]