by Gregg Olsen
He sounds about as delightful as his older brother, Alex.
Sheriff Gray goes on: “He was investigated by the prison’s internal affairs office and was being watched closely. Not closely enough, as it turns out, because four prisoners died in a one-week period. The autopsy showed they had ingested some type of poison. That was six months ago. A full investigation of their deaths was launched by the prison. Rader wasn’t a clear suspect in any of these deaths so he was just kept under scrutiny. Then the story got around that Rader had words with each of these prisoners.
“Were these reliable sources—the stories—or prisoners that already had a grudge?” I ask. I can’t believe I’m asking this because I want him to be guilty. Yet, if he was abusive to prisoners, they may have set him up to get even.
“It was other prisoners talking at first and then two guards came forward and admitted that Rader had been involved in breaking up an altercation in the cafeteria. The four prisoners were the main ones fighting and two of them went to the medical office with cuts on their heads. The two guards admitted that they’d lied for Rader and said the prisoners did that while fighting, but the cuts were from Rader’s club. He’d asked the guards to cover for him, but Internal Affairs put the screw to them and they gave him up.”
“So why wasn’t he arrested for aggravated battery?” I ask.
“You’ll like this,” he says. “The video from the cafeteria on the day of the fight somehow disappeared. The guards then changed their stories and said they’d only implicated Rader because they were being threatened by the investigators. Both guards were suspended, but Rader was still untouched.
“He put in for a transfer to another prison. His reason was that he was being harassed by Internal Affairs. The superintendent turned down his request and assigned him a desk job away from the prisoners. Rader quit.”
“So that’s it?” I ask. “They’re not going to pursue him for the deaths. The murders?”
“Megan, I want him to be guilty as much as you do. But there was no physical evidence and there was no way to prove Rader had brought poison into the prison.”
“What was the poison?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Cyanide. They found it at the autopsy, but by the time they knew it was a poison that killed them, the cells had been cleaned out and other prisoners were in them.”
“And there were holes in the video when they checked to see if Rader went in their cells before they died?”
“Yes. Rader will never get a job with corrections again. Or any law enforcement agency, for that matter. He was suspended twice for excessive force but both times it was only a day or two and a fine. It pisses me off that no one put the word out on this guy. He could have been living here, pulling the same kind of shit on anyone that got in his way.”
I can hear anger in Sheriff Gray’s voice. I’m pissed off, too, but for a different reason.
“If Marley finds what I think he will,” I say, “I should have enough to take him into custody.”
Sheriff Gray goes quiet. Not good.
“What?” I ask.
“Megan, even if the lab says this is the same type of chemical that was in Delmont’s system, it won’t prove he poisoned her. You don’t have anything showing motive. Why did he kill her?”
I can’t tell him everything I know. I don’t dare. If I don’t, a murderer will walk free. Rader will win again. But even if I spill my guts, it will only hurt my getting a warrant. I’ll look as bad, or worse, than him.
And there’s the fact that Rylee was never found. She’s supposed to be dead. The only thing I can hope for is a DNA match that positively puts him at the scene of Monique’s murder. I need to go back and search the motor home again. Look for any type of knife. If he’s home, he’ll fight. If he does, I can take a dying declaration from him. My word against a dead man’s.
I zone back in. Sheriff Gray is calling my name.
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
He’s quiet again. Long enough to worry me.
“Sheriff?”
I hear his chair squeak. He’s sitting up. “Megan, when this is over, we need to have a talk.”
I don’t ask about what. I know. I hoped this day would never come.
“Thanks for trusting me,” I say.
“No problem,” he says.
Before he hangs up I ask, “By the way, did you ask the Clallam County Sheriff if there were any murders like the Delmont case?”
He sighs. “I’m not stupid. I told him about our case. If he had anything, he would have told me.”
“Right,” I say. I don’t think he’s stupid. I just want to be sure.
Forty-Eight
Marley Yang is walking Ronnie to the car. His hair is more stylish than the last time I saw him. His clothes a cut above his usual Macy’s menswear. He gives me a knowing smile and comes to my window.
“I knew you’d be wanting to know,” he says, “so I’m delivering it verbally in person. I’ll send the report tonight, but Ronnie said you needed to know right away and she didn’t think she’d remember everything.”
I almost laugh out loud but choke it back. Ronnie is a manipulator. Maybe as good as me. “Okay.”
“First of all, I’m not even going to address the black lace panties. I have them if you want them back.”
I don’t. It was mean to send them, but you never know if it’s evidence until it isn’t. Except in this case.
“The cigarette butts have two separate DNA. Neither DNA matches any of the other evidence. I sampled the lipstick on the coffee mug Ronnie found in the victim’s permanent residence. Good catch, by the way.”
When he says this he gives Ronnie a big smile. No doubt he thinks flattery will get him to third base. He’s not even on the bench yet.
He sees I’m still waiting for him to tell me about the fruit.
“I’ve positively identified the fruit as Annona cherimola or simply cherimoya. You find it in Central America. Colombia, Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, Peru or tropical regions. Spain, even. It’s known as custard apple because of the very sweet taste. It doesn’t grow around here and it would be almost impossible to try.”
“You’re saying the thing was brought in here from another country?” I ask.
“You can probably buy it on Amazon,” Ronnie adds.
“She doesn’t mean from the Amazon,” Marley adds, and grins as if he’s made a joke. It’s not funny.
“The skin of the fruit is what’s important, though,” Marley says. “If it is crushed and put into liquid form—say, like the loaded syringe Ronnie found—it is highly poisonous and has paralytic properties. Like anesthetic only more potent. The liquid in the syringe is a match for the chemical we found in the victim’s system. Like I said, it has paralytic properties that would render someone unable to resist. Enough of it would kill. I’m trying to get a baseline for the exact amount it would take to cause death. I’ll let you know when I know.”
I hate to ask this. “What about the candy wrapper and the melted syringe?”
He gives me an unhappy look. “The candy wrapper didn’t have DNA. The syringe, however, had trace amounts of the same chemical as the loaded one Ronnie found. If there was DNA, it was destroyed by the heat when it melted.”
“Cyanide?”
“The rat poison is cyanide. The granules collected with the seeds is cyanide—rat poison. There was no cyanide in Monique Delmont’s system. There wasn’t any cyanide in the syringes.”
Ronnie beams at Marley. “He’s so smart.”
Marley actually blushes. “I’ve got to get back.”
I nod and he turns to Ronnie. “Still on for tonight?”
“You bet,” she says. “Megan should come too.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in the way.” The minute I say it I know it’s the wrong thing to say. I should have said I’m coming down with Ebola.
Anything plausible.
“You won’t be in the way, Megan,” Ronnie says. Her eyes
plead with me to come to her stupid dinner. Marley’s eyes are warning me not to interfere with his third-base play.
“I’ll be there,” I say. I can piss Marley off now. He’s Ronnie’s project.
“Marley is going to call with a time and place and then I’ll call you,” she says to me. “This is so exciting. I’m getting promoted and my two best friends are going to help me celebrate.”
Besties? If that’s true, she’s worse off than I am.
“We need to head back to Port Hadlock,” I say. “Thanks for the quick work, Marley. You are a genius. I knew we could count on you to help solve this case.” Some of that is true, but the rest is smoke and it doesn’t hurt to say nice things now and then. Especially if it gets you favors in the future.
Marley gets a peck on the cheek from “Red” and I put the Taurus in gear before I vomit. I drive away from the crime lab thinking about what I might have missed today. It will be late when we get back to the office and Ronnie is celebrating her hiring as a deputy tonight. I will have to spend some time in the office typing out the affidavit for the search warrant and it will mean tickling some words.
Not outright lying.
“Marley is so sweet to buy the dinner tonight,” Ronnie says.
“Sheriff Gray always has a little party in the office when we hire a new deputy or staff person,” I say. “He’ll probably do it the day you’re sworn in.”
“Thanks, Megan. You’re a good friend.”
“I need you to call one more person, Ronnie.”
“We didn’t go see Dan Moriarty. I’ve got his number in my notebook.”
Next she’ll be finishing my sentences. “When you call, put it on speakerphone. I’m going to let you do all the talking. It’s good experience.” And I don’t want to chance him remembering me. I don’t think he will, because he’s only interested in a woman’s body and not her voice.
Ronnie looks up the number and dials.
A thought hits me just then. No cyanide in her system. Or inside the syringes. So why were the syringes hidden in with the cyanide? Why was the rat poison there in the first place? The obvious answer to the presence of rat poison was rats. But a motor home that expensive shouldn’t have an infestation.
“Hullo,” the voice answers Ronnie’s phone. He sounds sick, or drunk or both.
“Mr. Dan Moriarty?” Ronnie asks.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“I’m Deputy Marsh with the Sheriff’s Office. I want to ask a few questions.”
“Deputy?” He sounds a little freaked. “What is this? I haven’t done anything. I’m obeying the court restriction for house arrest and staying home. You can check my monitor.”
Ronnie looks at me.
“I can see you’re at your home, Mr. Moriarty. That’s not why I’m calling. I need you to answer some questions.” She can’t ask why he’s on house arrest because she’s supposed to know that. Besides, it’s not important.
She sounds more authoritative. Less unsure. He’s a captive audience and prone to answer any question put to him, thinking we are part of the people monitoring him. I wish Ronnie could look up the reason for the house arrest but I’m driving and she’s on the phone.
“Mr. Moriarty, I’m looking into a case where phone harassment is taking place.”
“’S’not me. Someone sayin’ it’s me?”
“No, Mr. Moriarty. I need you to listen. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He still sounds drunk or drugged. He didn’t sound this way back when I talked to him about his daughter’s murder. He was on a health kick that time. Getting in shape and all that. I wonder what’s happened.
“Mr. Moriarty, I know your daughter was killed many years ago.”
He says nothing, but I can hear his breathing become heavier and faster. I hate this part. Bringing the past into someone’s life when they’ve already been hurt beyond understanding. But it’s necessary.
“Did you receive hang-up calls before that happened?” Ronnie asks.
“What?” He shifts the phone around and I hear it thump where he lay it down. “Why does that matter now?” He says this as if from a distance. He sounds sober now. He’s on speakerphone himself.
“It’s important. That’s all I can say right now. I want to know if you had hang-up or strange calls back before that happened.”
Ronnie is being persistent. Firm. That’s good.
“I told the cops back then.”
“Tell me,” she says.
“Okay. Okay. Yes. There were a bunch of hang-up calls. I thought they were for Megan. But later my wife left me for another woman. I know they were for my ex. Every time I answered, they’d hang up in my ear. The bitch. Sorry. Sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry, Mr. Moriarty. Have you had contact with your ex-wife?”
I wonder where Ronnie is going with this. I haven’t tried to contact Mrs. Moriarty. She wasn’t in the picture when I was trying to find Alex Rader. It was an oversight.
“No. She died a couple of years ago. Cancer.”
“You have my condolences, Mr. Moriarty. Have you had any strange calls recently? In the last six months or so?”
“I don’t talk to nobody. I mind my own business. I stay indoors just like the damn judge… excuse me… like the judge ordered me to. I keep the ankle bracelet on and have to stay near the phone. It’s hard taking a damn shower—excuse my language—with that thing on my ankle. I can’t even pull my jeans up over it half the time.”
“Mr. Moriarty,” Ronnie says, like a patient parent to a child, “you didn’t answer my question.”
“No. I haven’t had any strange calls. Unless you count you people checking up on me all the time. I have to take the phone to the bathroom with me. I’ll be glad when this is all over.”
“So no hang-up calls? No wrong-number calls? No salespeople?”
“Well, sure. Those damn telemarketing people drive a man crazy. All the numbers are from New York or Texas. It’s always some damn foreigner wantin’ to sell me Viagra. I don’t know anyone outside of Washington and I quit answering numbers I don’t know. Unless they’re local from you guys. Why? Am I supposed to? Am I in trouble?”
“You’re not in trouble unless you’re not being honest with me.”
“I swear I’m telling the truth.”
“You have a good night, Mr. Moriarty. If you have any problems, call the Sheriff’s Office and report it right away.”
“Should I ask for you?”
Ronnie looks at me and I shake my head.
“No. Just the Sheriff’s Office. Good night.”
She disconnects. “How did I do?”
I give her a thumbs up. I’m trying hard not to laugh. I was afraid to go and talk to this guy. Now I’m glad we didn’t. But I think Ronnie could have handled him either way.
She turns in her seat, looks at me and I swear she looks like she’s sixteen and going on her first date. “Megan, what do you think about me being hired?”
I don’t know what to say. “I’m happy for you.”
“No. I mean, how do you really feel? Am I cut out for this work? I know I didn’t get off on the best foot with you. And I don’t always wear the appropriate clothes. And I may be a little too friendly with some of the guys. And—”
“Cool your jets, Red,” I say, and smile so she knows I’m not making fun of her. “You will do fine if you look, listen and learn. So far I’ve had very few things to criticize you about. And you’ve learned from those things. You may want to tone down your attire because each day is a surprise. I wear crap business clothes because of what I’ve done and seen. You might have to go in a house with a dead body that is crawling with maggots and flies, or arrest someone with lice or crabs, and not the kind that come from the bay.”
She chuckles at my unintentional humor. It makes me lighten up a bit.
“What I’m saying is you’re going to be fine. I’d work with you any day. I think I was a little harsh at first myself.” I hold out a fist and
she bumps it. I can see her eyes begin to water and it makes mine start. It’s like seeing someone yawn and you can’t help but yawn. I bite my tongue to distract myself. I’m her mentor, after all, and I can’t show weakness.
Actually, she will be fine. She’s seen me at my worst and kept her counsel. Not because she’s a suck-up but because she believes in the job the way I do it. Almost. I still will keep her at a distance about some things. I won’t ask her to do the hard things. When I kill Michael Rader, she won’t be party to that.
Forty-Nine
She watched the Taurus stop on the road earlier and considered killing Rylee then, but the redhead was in the car with her. She knew she could take Rylee but they were both armed. She hasn’t gotten this far by taking unnecessary risks.
Rylee is a killer. She overcame Alex and his wife, killed them outright, and at first she put that down to dumb luck. Rylee is anything but dumb.
She herself found Michael Rader’s motor home a month ago and has kept an eye on him. He really should have installed a better lock on the door. But he mistakenly believed if the police came for him they would have to play by the rules. A bunch of them would show up and sit for an hour or more waiting for troops to arrive. Then an hour or more waiting for a search warrant before making entry.
She isn’t a cop; Rylee is anything but a cop. The badge doesn’t change the killer in her. Rylee has the instinct of a hunter. It is an instinct she saw in her old country. She has that instinct herself.
She saw Rylee break into the motor home. She watched her bring out the little plastic bags of planted evidence. She watched her find the syringe in the grill outside. All of it went just as she had planned.