Chapter 34
Finally, the press conference is about to come on, nearly three hours behind schedule.
It’s almost seven o’clock now, twenty-four hours since news of the #BethesdaBasementBody first broke.
I haven’t been able to decide whether the delayed start is a good or a bad sign.
Maybe the surveillance footage Chad Benson teased didn’t pan out?
My palms are sticky, but not from fear. I’m excited—thrilled, even—to hear what they’ve found.
Montgomery County’s chief of police—a woman, black pixie cut, almost comically petite—stands at a wood podium in a beige room, the American and Maryland state flags hanging limply behind her.
The audience isn’t in the shot, but the thick, low roar of voices and the snapping of cameras lets you know it must be jammed wall-to-wall with media in there.
This is far and away the most successful PR campaign of my career.
It’s almost a shame I can’t claim the credit.
I lean forward from the sofa, elbows on my knees, fingers laced under my chin, pulse thumping.
“My apologies for keeping you all waiting,” the chief begins, her face stony. “We had a late development in this case that required my attention, which you’ll hear about in just a moment. But first, I want to focus on a vehicle of interest that we’re asking the community to help us locate.”
The camera feed zooms out to reveal a large TV mounted to the wall, just to the right of the podium. So they do have the footage then.
“The video you’re about to watch was taken by a Ring camera on Stonebrook Avenue, in the Grovemont neighborhood of Bethesda, three houses down from the home where, as you know, a body was recovered Monday afternoon.”
The blank blue screen switches to a still shot of a dark front porch, a strip of front lawn and empty sidewalk beyond it.
“This was recorded shortly before eleven thirty Sunday night,” the chief explains. Someone out of view hits Play.
Jack and Curt only have that old-school brass knocker, but I knew others on the block would have doorbells with cameras. The shot is dim, and Sunday night’s fog doesn’t help. But as it glides into the reaches of a streetlamp, a cherry-hued Volkswagen hatchback, headlights off, is unmistakable.
Ian clears his throat in the kitchen.
“Looks kind of like Natalie’s car,” he says, squinting toward the television as he leans over the counter.
He only got home from Pittsburgh a few minutes ago. He’s been over there making himself a turkey sandwich ever since, because I am no longer interested in preparing his dinner.
I shush him so we don’t miss anything. The video rewinds, then plays again in slow motion.
“The vehicle you see here appears to be either a Volkswagen Golf or Volkswagen GTI, red in color, with a partially visible license plate,” says the chief.
“Our investigators have reviewed hours of footage from this same camera, from the overnight period Sunday into early Monday, and only three cars in total appear.”
Wow. Imagine living on a street that isn’t the goddamn Fyre festival all night long.
“The neighbor who supplied this footage has helped us confirm that the two other cars belong to residents of Stonebrook Avenue,” the chief continues.
“This vehicle is the only one whose owner we have not yet identified, and indeed, it is the only one with a DC tag, not a Maryland one. We believe that whoever was driving it was transporting our homicide victim.”
“Jesus Christ,” says Ian. “Can you believe this is happening?”
I wave him off, eager to hear whatever the chief is about to divulge next.
“This car became even more interesting to law enforcement earlier this afternoon,” she says, “when we were made aware of a second scene—one that we believe is also connected to this crime.”
A murmuring rises from the audience, then quickly hushes. My heart bangs against my ribs.
“It is premature for me to say anything more about this second location, other than to share that we have footage of an unidentified red Volkswagen hatchback there as well. What you’re about to see was captured by a CCTV camera operated by DC’s Metropolitan Police Department.
We are confident this is the same vehicle that appears in the Stonebrook Avenue footage. ”
The shot zooms out again, then refocuses on the flatscreen hung behind the chief. Someone cues up the new video. This footage is grainier and taken from farther away. But it’s clear enough that I hear glass shattering against faux-wood floorboards in the kitchen, startling Fritter awake next to me.
Ian has dropped his bottle of IPA.
“This was taken at ten fourteen Sunday evening, in the 800 block of B Street Southeast, in the Capitol Hill section of the District of Columbia,” the chief narrates.
“Watch closely, in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Here comes the red hatchback now … and just here, you’ll see it pull into a parking spot. ”
Once Natalie’s car comes to a stop, the video pauses and jumps ahead a few frames. Now the driver’s-side door is opening and someone is getting out. The footage halts again, then cuts to a still frame that’s been magnified several times.
A close-up of a woman exiting the car fills the screen.
Her face is obscured by the graininess of the recording, plus a KN-95 mask.
She wears black leggings—thanks to the shitty quality of the footage, they almost pass as real leather—and a black hoodie pulled over her head, a chunk of light hair protruding from one side.
The effect is exhilarating.
“Please take a close look at the person of interest on the screen,” the chief instructs. “This appears to be a female of average height—five-four, five-five, somewhere in that range—with blond hair and a slender build.”
Slender!
Now the recording jumps to another magnified image.
“In this frame, you can see the same individual removing a large black suitcase from the rear of the vehicle. It appears to be similar or identical to the one we recovered from the basement of 5423 Stonebrook Avenue yesterday afternoon,” the chief says.
“Both we and our partners within the Metropolitan Police Department are asking for the public’s help in identifying this person.
” The flatscreen cuts from the shot of me, to an 800 number.
“If you think you have any information at all about this vehicle or its driver, we are asking you to call this tip line immediately,” says the chief. “I can take a few questions now.”
I peek up at Ian. He grips the edge of the sink to keep himself upright, all the color drained from his complexion.
“Margo,” he whispers, “what the fuck is going on?”