Mystery on Capitol Street

A Hannibal Jones Short Story

Austin S. Camacho

There was no reason to think the guy wrapped in a blanket needed killing but Hannibal very nearly finished him that night.

Neither the light snow nor the ugly traffic two days before Christmas was any excuse for his bad judgment. His investigation in Baltimore yielded a nice fee that would let him get his girl Cindy something really nice for Christmas this year. But by midnight his brain was feeling mushy.

He wanted to get home that night so that he would have all of Christmas Eve day to search for the perfect thing. But he screwed up and went west on the beltway when he should have gone east. That’s what led him off the Beltway at the first exit and into the heart of The District heading south.

Groggy and frustrated, racing down North Capital Street trying to beat a red light, he suddenly found a man framed in his headlights. It was a white guy with pale and sickly skin, wrapped in a blanket for want of a coat. One of the city’s many homeless, Hannibal figured, unsteady on his feet and reacting way too slowly. Hannibal yanked the wheel hard right and floored the Volvo’s brake pedal. He didn’t miss the man by much, and didn’t miss the fire hydrant at all. The impact wasn’t enough to pop his air bags, but his heart spasmed as he realized he could have crushed the stranger in the street. He watched the man stagger off into Rock Creek Cemetery and tried to catch his breath.

By the time his near victim was lost behind the sheet of drifting snow, Hannibal had accepted the facts. He was too tired to drive home safely. He managed a three-point turn and drove back to a motel he passed a couple of blocks earlier.

The Capitol Inn motel was a generic but homey little place. The thin young desk clerk with the afro jumped when Hannibal walked in. The tee shirt under his silver angel medallion marked him as a college kid.

“Relax,” Hannibal said. “I’m just looking for a room.”

The kid paused, staring. Hannibal figured he’d never seen a black man with hazel eyes before.

Hannibal said, “They’re real, and I’m beat. A room, please?”

“Sorry, man,” the desk clerk said. “We’re all full up. Not one vacancy.”

“No room at the inn, eh? I think I’ve heard that story before. Come on, man, help a brother out. If you can’t find me a bed I’ll have to crash right here in the lobby, and that chair don’t look none too comfortable.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” A tall brunette with high Latin cheek bones stepped in behind Hannibal . Even under the black wool coat he could see that her figure was robust but not out of control.

“But Mrs. Cruz, every room is booked,” the desk clerk said. “Christmas rush and all that.”

“Maybe, Mitchell, but this is my motel and I won’t turn this man away,” she said. “What if he gets into an accident on his way home? Sir, we have a small attic room that we don’t usually rent out but it does have a bed and a dresser. You can have it for a reduced rate.”

Hannibal matched her warm smile with one of his own and reached for his credit card.