I had to read the article quickly, since Griffith was obviously growing impatient:
* * *
Like the letter first disclosed by the Oregonian last week, the one received yesterday arrived in an unremarkable white envelope bearing a Roseburg postmark. The writer again claims that he—and not Jesse Taylor and Margaret Landry—strangled Jamie Zimmerman. In this new letter, however, the writer maintains that Zimmerman’s murder was just the beginning in what has become a string of grisly murders, scattered throughout the Pacific Northwest and previously believed to be unconnected. He also claims responsibility for a brutal rape that is the basis of the trial of Frank Derringer currently being held in the Multnomah County Courthouse.
Calling himself the Long Hauler, the writer identifies himself as a long-haul truck driver from Oregon whose travels across the country have made it easy for him to kill five women undetected.
* * *
I was surprised by the graphic detail reprinted verbatim in the paper. At one point, the author explained that killing Zimmerman had ignited an insatiable desire in him to kill. Six months after he strangled Jamie Zimmerman, he couldn’t withstand the temptation anymore, so he picked up a prostitute at a truck stop in Ellensburg, Washington, and strangled her with a leather belt while he orally sodomized her. I kept reading.
* * *
Explaining his self-declared pseudonym, the writer says, “All the good ones had a name. Son of Sam, Boston Strangler, Green River Killer. Unless you think of something better, you can just call me the Long Hauler.”
In addition to detailed descriptions of the murders of Jamie Zimmerman and four other women, the writer also describes his involvement in a violent sexual assault upon a victim he refers to as “the girl who was dumped in the Gorge last Feb[ruary].” He claims that, as he had done prior to and since Zimmerman’s murder, he went with a friend to look for a prostitute to share.
He says, “I knew we were going to kill the girl when my friend couldn’t [achieve an erection]. He started working her over and it brought out the urge in me. Maybe the Gorge is my lucky spot. That couple took the fall for me after I did Jamie, and now the cops think some other guy did the other girl. I guess the bad luck is that this time she lived. (Ha-ha.)”
The writer’s description of the incident closely matches the crime for which Frank Derringer is currently on trial. Derringer is accused of raping a thirteen-year-old girl and leaving her for dead in the Columbia Gorge with an unidentified accomplice. During his trial, Derringer has claimed to be the victim of a mistaken eyewitness identification. Because of similarities between the offense and Zimmerman’s murder, Derringer has suggested that the crimes were committed by the same person or persons.
* * *
I reached the end of the front page text of the feature story and opened the paper to jump to the continuation. Apparently, the writer gave detailed descriptions of the five murders, but the Oregonian was declining to publish any potentially identifying information until law enforcement officials verified its authenticity.
An exasperated sigh from Griffith reminded me that I was supposed to be rushing. I closed the paper back to the front page and looked up at him.
“I’m sorry, Sam. Was I disrupting your reading?”
“I was getting through it as quickly as I could,” I said. “So the paper agreed to keep the details quiet until we figure out if this guy’s for real?”
Griffith didn’t hide his annoyance. “Yeah, IA’s trying to find any cases matching up to what this guy says. But I wouldn’t concern yourself with that right now.”
I wanted to ask him why the bureau’s Internal Affairs Division would be investigating a potential serial killer, but I could tell Duncan wasn’t in the mood to answer any more of my questions.
“What are you willing to tell me about this thing with Forbes?” Duncan snatched the paper from my hand and gave it a couple of hard creases, exposing a smaller sidebar on the front page, then handed it back to me. “That,” he said for emphasis.
Dan Manning was a little shit. That was all I could think when I found myself staring at the headline:
* * *
DA–DETECTIVE RELATIONSHIP CLOUDS DERRINGER CASE
The deputy district attorney prosecuting Frank Derringer is involved in a romantic relationship with a lead detective in the investigation of the murder of Jamie Zimmerman and the rape of which Derringer is accused, the Oregonian has learned.
Samantha Kincaid of the Drug and Vice Division of the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office is handling the current trial against Derringer, who is accused of raping and attempting to murder a teenage girl last February. The defense has raised the possibility that the crime was committed by the person or persons who murdered Jamie Zimmerman three years ago.
The Oregonian has learned that Detective Charles Forbes, Jr., of the Major Crimes Team of the Portland Police Bureau, has spent multiple nights with Kincaid at her home since the beginning of the Derringer trial.
Forbes is a member of the team that investigated the case against Derringer. He was also a central figure in the prosecutions of Jesse Taylor and Margaret Landry, who have been convicted of Zimmerman’s murder. Forbes, the son of former Governor Charles Forbes, was the only witness to statements by Landry that incriminated her and Taylor in the murder.
When contacted for comment, Lisa Lopez, Derringer’s lawyer, raised concerns about the objectivity of the District Attorney’s Office. “Mr. Derringer has been trying to tell the police and the District Attorney’s Office that there is something seriously wrong here. One girl is dead and another one brutally assaulted,” Lopez said. “While the real assailant runs free to write taunting letters to the media, the Portland Police Bureau’s Major Crime Team is so eager to close cases that they’re going after innocent people like Mr. Derringer. If the prosecuting DDA is having a romantic relationship with this particular detective, I have real questions about the fairness of the process.”
Ms. Kincaid did not return calls requesting her comments.
* * *
Little shit didn’t begin to describe the enormousness of Manning’s shittiness. He had clearly called late in the day and left an innocuous message, betting I wouldn’t call back. It always sounds better when the media can say that someone didn’t return calls.
“Duncan, if I had known, I would’ve returned his call. He didn’t say anything about this angle. You can listen to the message if you want to. I saved it.”
“Oh, that’s great, Sam. That’s really going to save my neck here. ‘Hey, Oregonian, I want a retraction. Yes, my deputy’s banging this rogue detective, and yes, your reporter tried to call her about it ahead of time, but it’s really unfair that he wasn’t clearer about his angle.’”
I guess it did sound a little whiny.
“Is there any way to deny the story, Sam?” he asked. He had calmed down considerably and asked the question in a way that suggested he’d already come to accept the answer.
“No, it’s accurate,” I said, still failing to comprehend how my personal life had wound up on the front page of the paper and inside Duncan Griffith’s office.
Duncan walked around his desk and took a seat behind it. Maybe he thought I’d blame the desk and not him for what he was about to do. Maybe he just wanted a shield in front of him in case I became hysterical.
“I’m taking you off the Derringer case. O’Donnell already notified the defense and Judge Lesh this morning that the office was looking into the information published in this morning’s paper and that some changes might be forthcoming. I’m going to put O’Donnell on the case. I expect he’ll be able to get an adjournment while we figure out what the hell’s going on. O’Donnell may need to consult with you on the file, but you are officially off any case involving MCT. Do you have any others?”
I wanted to walk out. No, I wanted to throw stuff at him, break a few valuables in his impeccable office, and then walk out. Unfortunately, I also wanted to keep my job. The
reality was that I could still do more good in this rotten office without the Derringer case than I’d do at some private law firm fighting over money for energy and tobacco companies.
“The Derringer case is my only MCT file,” I said.
If someone had asked me the night before, I would’ve said I’d do just about anything to rid myself of the case: I was going down in flames and about to grovel for a plea. Now I wanted nothing more than to keep my hand in the mix, at least in some small way.
“Duncan, I think it would be a good idea if O’Donnell and I met with defense counsel together to cut a plea. If the defense thinks I’m totally out of the picture, they’ll think they’ve won. They won’t want to deal.”
“Can’t do it, Sam. You’re out. And I’m going to make it damn clear to O’Donnell not even to attempt to pressure a plea until IA tells us where we are with this guy’s letter. We got lucky that the Oregonian withheld the specifics. That letter includes extremely detailed descriptions of those murders. If IA verifies it, we’ve got a major wing nut on our hands. ‘The Long Hauler.’ Jesus Christ, what a fucking nightmare.”
It’s frustrating when people don’t listen to you, but it’s downright infuriating when you know you’re right.
“Why’s IA involved?” I asked. “I thought Walker and Johnson were leads on this.”
Griffith shook his head. “No. Too much at stake now. The first letter, anyone who read up on the Zimmerman case could’ve written it. Looked like it wouldn’t lead to anything, so the bureau thought it was good enough to keep Forbes off it. If it turns out Landry and Taylor are actually innocent, your boyfriend’s in deep doo doo. Starts to look like Landry was finally telling the truth when she said Forbes was feeding her the details.”
“But go back to what O’Donnell told the jury. Why would Chuck do that? The governor’s son can get through the ranks without framing people.”
“See what I meant about bias, Kincaid? You’re smart enough to see that the whole governor’s son angle cuts both ways. You could also say it puts pressure on him to be a star, to stand out as his own man, make it big in a way that no one could say it was because of the old man. And hey, he probably thought she really did do it. He wouldn’t be the first cop to bend some rules to make a case stronger to get the bad guys.”
It did look different from that angle. Given what I’d seen good cops do to help convict the guilty, why couldn’t I believe that Chuck might occasionally do the same? Even in high school, Chuck had resented the inherent unspoken separation from his peers that came with being the governor’s son. If that pressure had been bad as a teenager surrounded by the offspring of lawyers and doctors, what had it been like with rookie patrol officers? If Chuck felt in his gut that Landry had been guilty and wanted to bring down a freak like Taylor, might he help her along with a few details to shore up her story?
As I walked out of Duncan’s office, I could barely stomach what I was thinking. He was right. I couldn’t be objective.
* * *
Since my regular caseload hadn’t included MCT cases before the Derringer file came along, you’d think life with my run-of-the-mill drug and prostitution cases would have felt like a return to normalcy. Instead, it just felt anxiety-ridden. I didn’t think anything would feel normal to me again until the bureau finished its investigation and I could finally find out what others decided about the future of Frank Derringer and Chuck, not to mention me.
Chuck had been suspended from all MCT investigations and put on temporary assignment to patrol. Since detectives don’t work patrol, the police union was filing a grievance, claiming that Chuck had essentially been demoted without a hearing. The union’s interest was to make the bureau’s staffing as inflexible as possible, so the bureau has to hire new bodies whenever it has a shortage in any single area. The bureau was fighting the beef, claiming that the change was a simple reassignment, since Chuck’s salary hadn’t been docked. Chuck, of course, wasn’t given a say in any of it and was back on patrol, angry but cognizant of the fact that he could have been suspended.
Personally, I’d rather be suspended. Maybe if I’d boinked the entire Major Crimes Team, I’d be one of those lucky public employees who got suspended for a couple of years with pay until a lengthy investigation resulted in my return to full employment with no discipline other than an extended paid vacation. But sex with just one detective left me where I was, back with my drug and vice cases.
Lopez had agreed to an adjournment. True believer that she was, she wouldn’t have acquiesced unless she thought the delay would help Derringer. Based on that, I tried telling O’Donnell that the time was ripe to approach the defense with a decent plea agreement. But he refused, reminding me that the boss had ordered him not to pressure a plea until the police determined whether the Long Hauler was for real.
O’Donnell had continued to surprise me with relatively decent behavior. He agreed that I’d handle communications with Kendra and Andrea about the case. Even though I suspected he did it to save himself the work of victim handholding, I was grateful that Kendra wasn’t going to have to hear about the turn of events from someone other than me.
* * *
The night after I’d been kicked off the case, I had taken Kendra out to dinner and did my best to explain why the case was being set over. I wanted desperately to answer all her questions about what was going to happen, whether Derringer was still going to go to jail, why some “stupid” letter had to affect her case, and everything else she asked me as she played with her food. All I could do was tell her not to give up hope. We’d have to wait and see.
We both kept up a good front, but the signs of demoralization were clear in her untouched plate.
Now that the case was over, there wasn’t much of an official role for me to play in Kendra’s life. I talked to her about enrolling in the LAP teen program. Learning Alternatives to Prostitution was intended for court-mandated treatment of criminal defendants, but anyone could enroll. I’d already contacted them, and a counselor had told me she could get Kendra a volunteer tutor to help her with school and Kendra could participate in weekly group therapy sessions. Sometimes the “therapy” took the form of activities like painting and gardening, but those might be just the things Kendra needed to reenter life as a somewhat regular thirteen-year-old.
* * *
Now, Monday morning. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be acting like a lawyer. I spent the afternoon returning phone calls and covering grand jury hearings. One guy I indicted definitely earned the dope-of-the-day award, if not the year. The defendant marched into the lobby of Southeast Precinct to report a fraud and pulled fifteen ounces of heroin and a scale from his gym bag. Turns out the seller charged him for a pound. Outraged by the one-ounce shortage, the defendant thought the police would help him get what he called “reparations.”
Ordinarily, this would have carried me through the day. But even the reprieve from crank calls, break-ins, head cracks, and brown Toyota Tercels wasn’t enough to make me appreciate my return to the mundane. I couldn’t keep my mind off the so-called Long Hauler and his claim of responsibility for the attack on Kendra. Something just didn’t feel right about it. I needed to get more evidence against Derringer, so I could trash him no matter what the Long Hauler’s story turned out to be.
I decided to take a little detour on the way home from work. I wouldn’t even say that I decided to do it; it was more like my body willed me. Right after my usual merge onto the I-5 from the Morrison Bridge, I noticed the exit sign for the Lloyd Center mall. I reminded myself of how good I’d been about following Duncan’s orders. I thought of the trouble I’d be in for snooping around, the way O’Donnell’s nostrils would flare in anger if he found out, and the possibility that it was all a waste of time anyway. The next thing I knew, I was parking my Jetta outside of Meier & Frank in the Lloyd Center parking lot and walking into the handbags department.
Now, if this had been a premeditated case of meddling into affairs that were no
longer mine, I would have checked Kendra’s purse out of the evidence locker and taken it with me to the counter. But since this was impromptu meddling, I was left describing the purse to the nitwit at the counter.
Nitwit was about seventeen years old. Her blond hair tumbled out of the knot at the back of her head like a fountain designed by someone on a heavy acid trip. From the bottom up, everything she wore was irritating: platform sandals that made my feet wince, jeans slung low enough to reveal a navel ring and bony hips, and a tight belly shirt that evidently operated like a tube of toothpaste, pushing all her bodily fluids into her head and retarding the firing of her synapses.
My badge, ID, and lengthy explanation of what I was looking for and why were apparently lost on her, because she seemed to think I was browsing around for a new handbag.
And, of course, everything she said ended with a question mark. “We don’t really have any bags by Esprit right now? But we have, like, a ton of black leather purses, OK? We have some really cute Nine West purses over here? And there’s some on sale over there? But I really like these Kate Spade ones?” I was beginning to think she was an evil robot, programmed to prattle on about purses until her frosty-pink lip gloss dried up.
I explained it to her a few more times. I wasn’t interested in buying a new purse. I was from the District Attorney’s Office working on a criminal investigation and needed to know whether they carried a certain black leather purse by Esprit last autumn.
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