by J. A. Jance
I found Sue already in the car when I showed up back at the Mustang, shaking my head in frustration. "Nothing?" she asked.
"Less than."
"Are you ready to give up and call it quits?"
"I guess," I admitted. "For the time being. We sure as hell aren't getting anywhere doing this."
By the time we got back to the Isolde, the crime-scene perimeter had been narrowed. The official off-limits area was now small enough to allow people access to other boats along the dock. While crime-scene investigation is important, it wasn't the only business that needed to be conducted on Dock 3 of Fishermen's Terminal that cold November morning.
We returned to the scene of the crime and learned that Audrey Cummings had already loaded Gunter Gebhardt's body into her gray van and had taken him back to the Medical Examiner's Office up at Harborview Hospital to await an autopsy. Janice Morraine was busy lifting prints from the guardrail of the boat. With her glasses pushed up into her hair and with her brows furrowed in concentration, Janice was making her way along the rail of the boat, examining what she saw there under a beam of light from the wand of an Alternative Light Source box.
An ALS, as it's called in the trade, is an expensive but handy crime-fighting tool that allows crime-scene technicians to locate and lift prints from places and materials-tire irons, for example-where previously they would have been impossible to detect. Everything Janice did was under the watchful eye of the arson investigator, Lieutenant Marian Rockwell.
Janice didn't seem at all happy with that arrangement. I guess it goes with the territory. I suspect she's like a lot of people I know who spend their lives peeling back progressively worse layers of humanity's dark side. Most of us are loners who don't do well when it comes to working under the scrutiny of a closely observing audience, not even an admiring one. And I knew from personal experience that Janice loses all patience with anyone or anything that gets in the way of crime-scene progress.
When Janice glanced up and caught sight of Sue and me standing together on the dock next to the Isolde, she scowled. "Now what do you two want?" she demanded irritably.
I knew better than to take her exasperation personally. "Just looking for a progress report," I returned lightly.
Janice Morraine was not amused. Without stopping what she was doing, she motioned curtly with her head in Lieutenant Rockwell's direction. "Why don't you ask her?" Janice suggested. "She seems to be standing around with nothing to do but watch me."
With a number of people working on one homicide team, it stands to reason there'll be fireworks sooner or later, but this was much sooner than I would have expected. Marian Rockwell raised one eyebrow at Janice's surly comment, but she didn't rise to the bait.
"I've already collected my samples," Marian said reasonably. "It'll take lab verification, of course, but I'd say this was a communicating fire with two points of ignition. One of them was in the lower bunk on the starboard side. The other was on the victim's clothing itself. My first guess is that the accelerant was charcoal lighter, but it's too soon to tell about that for sure."
"What two places?" Sue Danielson asked with a puzzled frown.
"The mattress was lit first and allowed to get a good blaze going. That's the main source of ignition. The man was poured down with flammable liquid, probably about the same time the mattress was lit, but the victim didn't catch fire until sometime later, until after the other fire got going good. Eventually, because of the fumes, flames flashed over from the bunk area to his clothing. When that happened, that poor bastard was history. It looks to me as though terrifying him was as important as killing him. And if whoever did it was hoping to use the fire to cover up the murder, they didn't do a very good job of it."
Isolde was riding low in the water. We were talking over the rumble of supplementary bilge pumps that had been pressed into service. They were hard at work purging the fish hole and engine room of all the excess water that had landed there as a result of the fire hoses.
Their ominous rumble was almost as dark as the thought that entered my head. "You said terrify. Do you think the victim was conscious when the first fire was set?" I asked.
Sue Danielson shot me a quizzical look. "Does that matter?"
I shrugged. "It seems like if he was, he could have called out for help. Isn't there a chance someone might have heard him?"
Janice Morraine and Marian Rockwell exchanged meaningful looks. "I'm sure he was unconscious part of the time," Janice said. "At least I hope he was. But even if he had been wide awake when the fire was set, he wouldn't have been able to say a word."
"Why not?"
Janice sighed. "Because somebody whacked off the poor bastard's family jewels and stuffed them in his mouth, that's why! Now will you two please get the hell out of here and let me concentrate on what I'm trying to do?"
"You bet," Sue breathed. "We'll be glad to." And she hustled off down the dock. I followed more slowly, with my hands stuffed deep in my pockets. If I could have crossed my legs, I would have.
"It's hard to imagine hating someone that much," I said to Sue, when I found her leaning against the Mustang. Marian Rockwell was there as well.
Sue nodded. "It sure as hell goes a step beyond the usual execution-style killing," she said.
"What it says to me," I added, "is that Gunter Gebhardt made himself an enemy. A serious, son of a bitch of an enemy. And someone with that kind of hard-assed grudge shouldn't be all that tough to find. People don't keep that kind of feud secret."
"All we have to do is ask the right questions, right?" Sue asked with just the smallest hint of sarcasm.
"Right," I answered.
I'm sure Sue Danielson had heard one version or another of this speech several times before. That's the big disadvantage of being the new man…person in Homicide-all the old-timers figure they have to take you to raise.
Marian Rockwell seemed to grasp the full import of our little Homicide Squad byplay. "My job's a lot easier than either of yours," she said.
"Oh? How's that?"
The arson investigator smiled without humor. "All I have to do is figure out what kind of accelerant this crazy asshole used," she said. "That's mostly a matter of simple chemistry. Spectrographic analysis. You two have to find whoever did it and why. When it comes down to why, I'm not so sure I want to know."
With that Marian Rockwell walked back up the dock where she once more took up a bird-dog position overlooking Janice Morraine's progress. Meanwhile, Sue stood gazing at the boat, as if just looking at the Isolde long enough would somehow reveal all the necessary answers.
"How about some lunch before we tackle all this?" I asked. "My treat."
Sue Danielson looked at me as though I were speaking some strange and incomprehensible foreign language. "Lunch?" she said blankly. "I don't think I'm particularly hungry at the moment."
"Maybe not," I told her, "but the way this case is going, we'd better grab something now while we can. It's likely to be a long day."
Sue glanced at her watch. "Oh, my God. You're right. It's after one. I told Jared I'd stop by and check on him during lunch. I wanted to make sure he's tending to business."
"Let's go do it then," I said, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt. Truth be known, I wanted to put Gunter Gebhardt out of my mind for the time being.
"In fact," I added, "if you'd like to, we could invite your son to come have lunch with us. How far away from here do you live?"
"Not that far," she told me. "Just on the other side of the Fremont Bridge."
A few minutes later, we pulled up in front of a bare-bones duplex on Dayton in the Fremont neighborhood. The place was a long way from lavish, but it was in a decent, settled part of the city. From the way the yards had been kept up and from the number of older, sedan-type cars visible on the street, I had an idea that some of those homes still housed the original owners-little old people who were just now making plans to sell off their bungalows in order to enter retirement or nursing homes.
"What do you mean?"
"Compared to where you live, this place must seem like almost as much of a dive as that bum's tent back there over the railroad tracks."
I felt a momentary flash of anger. I've never made a big deal of my money, one way or the other. All I want to do is to be left alone to do my job without having to justify where I live or how. I glanced at the house. It may have been a humble little place, but a big orange, black, and brown construction-paper turkey covered the entire lower half of the front door. A lot of time and effort and love had gone into that damn turkey. Sue Danielson didn't have anything to apologize for-certainly not to me.
"You pay the freight on this place all by yourself, don't you?" I asked.
She nodded. "Such as it is."
"With or without child support?"
"Mostly without," she admitted.
"So you earn this place, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, where I live is a goddamned accident, Detective Danielson. I'm living in the penthouse of Belltown Terrace because God reached out and struck my life with lightning once, not because I've earned the right to be there. So don't give me any crap about it. And while you're at it, don't give me any crap about where you live, either. Got it?"
After a moment, she smiled slightly and nodded. "The guys down at the department are right about you, aren't they? You can be a crotchety old bastard at times."
"Damn straight! Now, are you going to go get that kid of yours, or am I?"
"I'm going, I'm going," Sue Danielson said.
And she did.
6
The instant Jared Danielson trailed out of the duplex on his mother's heels, I knew why she wanted to brain him. In fact, so did I. On sight.
He was a gangly, scrawny kid who shuffled along in unlaced high-tops. He wore a Depeche Mode sweatshirt, the sleeves of which ended several inches below his longest finger. Although early November means legitimately winter weather in Seattle, his legs were bare. His ragged jams seemed to be several sizes too large for his narrow hips.
I know the look. The oversized clothing means only one thing to me, and I was sure it sent the same insulting message to his mother. Jared Danielson was a gang wannabe.
The drooping crotch of his pants hung down almost to his knobby knees. Had I been walking behind him, I think I would have been tempted to give them a yank. It wouldn't have taken much effort to have dropped them around his ankles.
For some unknown reason, kids who insisted on wearing their baseball caps backward six months ago have now, for no apparent reason, collectively turned them bill forward. Jared Danielson was no exception. At least the maroon-and-gray Washington State University baseball cap perched on his head was turned in the right direction. The dark brown hair sticking out beneath it fell well below his shoulders, and a small gold hoop earring pierced the lobe of one ear. He sported a spectacularly black-and-blue bruise under his right eye.
I'm old enough and old-fashioned enough so that the combination of earring and shiner jarred. When I was growing up, a boy who wore earrings wasn't likely to be hauled into the principal's office for fist-fighting. I take that back. They got in fist fights, all right, but they usually weren't the ones who started them. This punk looked as if he had mouthed off to the wrong person.
Just one look at his typical twelve-year-old-tough-guy pout as Jared Danielson slouched into the backseat of the Mustang was enough to make me regret having offered to take the little ingrate along to lunch. But then, settling back into my own seat, I managed to find something positive in the prospect. Lunch with Jared Danielson was all I was in for. He was Sue Danielson's son. She was stuck with the kid for life.
"Where to?" Sue asked me, once she resumed the driver's seat.
Attempting to play the role of polite host, I turned to Jared. "What would you like for lunch?" I asked.
Jared glowered back at me and shrugged. "I dunno," he said.
"Fair enough. It's my call then. Let's try that little diner up on Forty-fifth," I said. "The one just across from the Guild Forty-five Theater."
Ever since the Doghouse Restaurant closed in downtown Seattle, I've felt like a displaced person. Over the past few months, I've auditioned a few other hangouts, but so far none of them quite measures up.
I hate to admit it, but I miss the thick gray haze of secondhand smoke. I miss the butt-sprung orange plastic booths with their distinctive, triangular tears and duct-tape patching. I miss the basic "Bob's Burger" with the onions fried into the meat. But most of all, I miss the crusty old-time waitresses who always knew how I liked my coffee and who saved me a daily collection of crossword puzzles from various abandoned newspapers.
The diner on Forty-fifth was trying hard-too hard-to achieve a "real" 1950s look and atmosphere. Their recipe for authenticity was missing several essential ingredients. What was needed was more grime, more cigarette smoke, a few nonconforming extension cords strung along the moldings, and some hash-slinging waitresses at least one of whom would have a racing form handily tucked in her apron pocket.
Jared skulked into the far corner of a booth. Sue slid in beside him. We had no more than picked up our menus when Sue's pager went off. She headed for the pay phone in the back. "Order me a burger with fries and a cup of coffee," she said on her way. "I'll be right back."
I turned to Jared, who was scowling at the menu. "What'll you have?" I asked, trying once again to break the ice.
"I dunno," he said. "A cheeseburger, I guess."
Such unbridled enthusiasm, to say nothing of gratitude. I wanted to slug him.
He avoided my gaze by staring out the window. "So what are you?" he mumbled sarcastically. "My mom's new boyfriend? Are you two going out or something?"
Boyfriend? Going out? If I had ever been tempted to cut the kid any slack, that just about corked it.
"The lady happens to be my partner," I explained as civilly as I could manage. "We're working a homicide case together. Period."
He looked at me then, his eyes angry and accusing. "Well," he said, "you're taking us to lunch. It seems like a date to me."
The waitress showed up at the booth and saved me from knocking the presumptuous little shit upside the head. I ordered burgers for Sue and me, then stewed while Jared unconcernedly ordered a cheesburger and chocolate shake. I waited until the waitress left the table before I answered.
"Look, Buster. Your mother had to squander her lunch hour checking on a smart-mouthed kid who just happened to get his butt kicked out of school for the next three days. So for the record, I'm taking my partner to lunch. At the moment, however, I seem to be baby-sitting you, and it sounds to me as if you need it."
Jared Danielson was used to dishing out free-floating hostility to any and all comers. He wasn't used to taking it, especially not from a complete stranger. My returned volley of dispassionate animosity caught him off guard.
"I hate school," he said, as though that somehow justified his rude behavior. "I hate this town. I hate my mother."
"So give her a break. Go live with your dad," I said amiably. "Good riddance. You'll be doing your mom a favor. What's stopping you?"
For a moment, his chin jutted defiantly, then his face fell. "I can't," he croaked.
"Why not?"
Jared Danielson shrugged. The tough-guy mask disintegrated. His lower lip trembled, while his eyes filled with self-pitying tears. The surly, belligerent teenager faded into something younger and much more vulnerable.
"We don't know where he is," Jared answered, while his changing voice cracked out of control. "He's supposed to pay child support, but he doesn't. He left town, and Mom can't find him. She thinks he went to Alaska."
Sue Danielson came back to the table. "You two look serious," she said, her questioning glance shifting apprehensively between Jared and me. "What's going on? What are you talking about
?"
For the first time, Jared Danielson's eyes met mine in a silent plea for help. "Football," he finally mumbled.
We were? I needed a second to take the hint. I took a clue from the WSU baseball cap still parked on his head and tried to follow his lead.
"How about those Cougs," I said, feigning an enthusiasm for collegiate football that I don't feel. "We were wondering who would win the Apple Cup this year-WSU or the U-Dub. Who do you think, Jared?"
As quickly as the boy had emerged from his hard little shell, he retreated back inside. "Who cares?" he muttered before lapsing once more into a stubborn, resentful silence, but not before I caught a glimpse of what was ailing Jared Danielson.
I never knew my own father. He died as a result of a motorcycle accident eight months before I was born. Days before he and my mother planned to elope, my father was headed back to the naval base at Bremerton after a date with her when the motorcycle he was riding skidded out of control and threw him directly into the path of an oncoming truck. He died two days later without ever regaining consciousness.
Faced with Jared Danielson's pain, I could see now how losing a parent you never knew was different from being willfully abandoned by a father you had grown to know and love. Having a parent die on you is a long way from having your father run away. One loss leaves a clean break that eventually heals. The other leaves in its wake a lifetime of hurt, of unanswered questions and emotionally charged blame.
In spite of myself, I felt sorry for Jared Danielson-baggy pants, smart mouth, and all.
I expected Sue to see right through the phony football ploy, but she seemed to fall for it. "Football," she said, sliding back into the booth. "That counts me out. Oh, by the way, that was Watty. Alan Torvoldsen called in and wants us to come by and see him sometime this afternoon."