Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

  She looked up at us from the tile floor, removing her hand from the

  brush to push her bangs from her forehead. The brush stayed entangled

  in poor Griffey's coat. "I was just wondering whether I should show

  this to you. I thought he felt a little crusty downstairs when I was

  petting him, but it looks like he's actually got something dried on his

  coat back here."

  Johnson knelt down and looked more closely at the side of Griffey's

  hip. Then he reached into an interior pocket of his suit jacket,

  removed a latex glove, and slipped it over his right hand.

  "Do you mind giving us a second, Ms. Carney?"

  Tara seemed surprised by the request but left the bathroom, closing the

  door behind her.

  "Looks like clay or something," Johnson explained, "like he brushed up

  against it here on his side."

  "Shit. We should have gotten the crime lab over here immediately when

  the Fletchers called."

  I was beginning to panic. Why the hell hadn't Johnson been on top of

  this? "Wasn't obvious," he said, responding to the unspoken question.

  "Until you're certain what you're dealing with, it's hard to decide

  what kind of resources to put into it. Considering the small chance of

  any evidence off the dog, plus the likelihood that we're dealing with a

  runaway wife, and it's a tough call."

  It made sense, but it didn't excuse the fact that we nearly allowed

  Tara Carney to take the source of what might be our best piece of

  evidence so far and soak him in a bathtub.

  Johnson flaked some of the beige paste from Griffey's coat into an

  evidence bag, then marked it with his name and the date using a Sharpie

  pen.

  Shit. What else had we missed? "I think we should go ahead and get

  the crime lab out here and search around Taylor's Ferry. Everything

  about this feels bad."

  "Your call," he said, pulling out his cell phone.

  This new gig was going to take some getting used to.

  Two.

  By 7 a.m. the next morning, I was watching my first Major Crimes Unit

  case unfold on television. Nothing like an attractive, professional,

  missing white woman to satisfy the hunger of the viewing masses.

  I sat in the eighth-floor conference room of the Multnomah County

  District Attorney's Office, location of the office's only TV set,

  flipping channels in a futile attempt to track the coverage. Out of

  principle, I boycotted the Fox affiliate for running the tagline case

  of a real-life Cinderella? in a graphic beneath the talking head. I

  finally gave up and settled on the local morning show, which seemed to

  be covering the story in the most detail.

  Cut to some guy named Jake Spottiswoode, so-called field correspondent,

  also known as the kid right out of college who gets sent with his

  Columbia Gore-Tex jacket into the rain.

  "Good morning, Gloria. Behind me in southwest Portland is the home of

  Dr. Townsend Easterbrook and his missing wife,

  Administrative Law Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Dr. Easter-brook

  reported the mysterious disappearance yesterday evening, shortly after

  returning from a day of surgery at OHSU.

  "Residents of this quiet neighborhood are fearing the worst," Gore-Tex

  continued, "since learning that one of Judge Easter-brook's shoes was

  discovered in the street on Taylor's Ferry Road last night. That

  discovery was particularly ominous given that the shoe was found only

  half a mile from where her dog was found earlier in the night, alone

  but still on his leash. The community is helping police in the search

  effort and say they still hold out hope that Judge Easterbrook will be

  found safe and unharmed. We've been told that the family will be

  coming outside any minute to make a statement."

  "Jake, what can you tell us about what Clarissa Easterbrook might have

  been doing before she disappeared? Was she walking the dog?" Watching

  Gloria Flick lean forward and dramatically furrow her brow, I

  remembered why I never watch this show. Gloria Flick was annoying as

  hell.

  While Flick continued to feign concern, Gore-Tex explained that the

  police had refused to rule out any possibilities. Although this was

  formally a missing persons case, they were moving forward on the

  assumption that foul play might be involved. Trying to fill air time

  before the press conference, the rain-soaked rookie correspondent

  touched upon Clarissa's position with the city. "We're hearing,

  Gloria, that Clarissa Easterbrook, as an administrative law judge, is

  not the kind of judge that many of us would envision, in a courthouse,

  presiding over trials. Rather, she hears appeals from the

  administrative decisions of city agencies. Because many of those

  matters are considered routine and, in fact, somewhat bureaucratic,

  police are discouraging the media from speculating that Judge

  Easterbrook's disappearance could be related to her official

  position."

  The viewing public was spared any further attempt to explain the boring

  work of an administrative law judge when Clarissa Easterbrook's family

  assumed its place behind a podium that had been set up in the

  Easterbrook driveway.

  Joining Tara and Townsend were an older couple I imagined were

  Clarissa's parents, along with a woman I didn't recognize. Townsend

  tentatively approached the mike. Make that about ten mikes. Unlike

  Tara, he had changed clothes, but the bags under his eyes were every

  bit as pronounced.

  As the attending surgeon at the state's teaching hospital, Townsend was

  probably used to speaking to a crowd. But today he seemed focused on

  merely making it through the notes he carried to the podium. His voice

  lacked affect, and he didn't look up once from his reading:

  "My wife, Clarissa Easterbrook, has not been seen since six o'clock

  yesterday morning. She disappeared somewhere between then and last

  night at approximately six-thirty p.m." when I returned home. We

  believe she was wearing a pink silk turtleneck sweater, charcoal-gray

  pants, and black loafers, one of which was found on Taylor's Ferry

  Drive early this morning. Our dog was discovered last night in the

  same area, near the Chart House restaurant. We are asking anyone who

  may have seen her, or seen anything in that vicinity that might be

  related to her disappearance, to please call the police immediately.

  Clarissa, we love you and we miss you, and we want you to come home to

  us safe.

  "Behind me are Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney; her parents, Mel and

  Alice Carney; and her dearest friend, Susan Kerr. On behalf of all of

  us, I'd like to thank everyone who is helping in this search effort.

  Members of the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District

  Attorney's Office were here late last night, and the media have been

  great about getting Clarissa's picture out there and asking for

  information. We're very grateful for all the support and concern that

  has been shown for Clarissa and our family. Thank you again."

  Whoever wrote the script was savvy enough to know how to play the game

  of political in
stitutions. Appear supportive of the police department

  and the DA's office early on, and you'll have all the more leverage

  down the road if you threaten to turn. Reporters were shouting out

  questions now, but there wasn't much for Townsend to add. Yes, it was

  certainly possible that something might have happened to her while she

  was walking the dog, but the police were not ruling out other

  possibilities. No, there hadn't been any ransom demands or other

  communications about the disappearance.

  Once the family retreated into the house, the station ran more pictures

  of Clarissa and repeated the description of her clothing. Nordstrom

  had come through. From the montage of photographs at a picnic with

  Townsend, at Cannon Beach with Griffey, on the lap of a shopping-mall

  Santa Claus with Tara I began to feel I knew this woman. She was aging

  gracefully, keeping her hair blond but neatly bobbed, allowing the

  wrinkles to show beneath a light dusting of makeup. And in every

  picture she had the same big, generous smile that had greeted me the

  one time I had met her at a women's bar conference a couple of years

  ago. I couldn't bear to watch.

  As I was clicking the TV off, Russell Frist stuck his perfectly

  salt-and-peppered head into the conference room. "Welcome back,

  Kincaid, and welcome to the Unit. The boss tells me you're in the

  thick of things already."

  The District Attorney must have called Frist first thing this morning.

  Recently appointed supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit, my new boss had

  a reputation for screaming at other lawyers and making them cry, but

  also for being a good prosecutor. I had vowed to keep an open mind

  about him, but sitting there beneath his gaze, I found myself

  intimidated. At six foot three and a good two-twenty, Frist put in

  enough time at the gym to test the seams of his well-cut suit.

  It wasn't surprising that Frist referred to the trial unit that

  prosecuted all person felonies as "the Unit." He'd been handling major

  crimes for at least fifteen years, so other kinds of cases had no doubt

  stopped mattering to him long ago.

  "Looks like it," I said. "When he sent me out to the Easter-brooks'

  last night for some hand-holding, I don't think either one of us

  thought it was going to turn into something like this, literally

  overnight."

  "Well, we should talk. Give me about fifteen minutes, then meet in my

  office?"

  Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get any actual work done, so I

  continued making my way through the pile of mail that had accumulated

  over the past month. As un pampered county employees, we usually have

  to take care of our own office moves when we change rotations, but

  someone had been nice enough to relocate my things from my old office

  down the hall at the Drug and Vice Division to what used to be Frist's

  office in major crimes.

  Everything, that was, except for my black leather, high-backed swivel

  chair. A good office chair is nearly impossible to come by when you

  work for the government. Most of the chairs around here had ceased

  being adjustable years ago and had funky-smelling upholstery fit for

  the county's HAZMAT team. About a year ago, I had spent four full

  months sucking up to the facilities manager, begging for a decent

  chair. The campaign was not my proudest moment; let's just say it

  involved me, a lunchtime knitting class, and a decade's supply of ugly

  booties for the woman's baby.

  Now someone had taken my vacation as an opportunity to run off with the

  spoils of my labor. The culprit clearly lacked two essential pieces of

  information. First, I would stop at absolutely nothing to get that

  chair back. And second, I'd have no problem proving ownership. The

  day I got no, make that earned- my chair, I committed vandalism against

  county property by scratching my initials in a secret spot and vowing

  we'd be together forever.

  But for now, I was stuck with a sorry-looking lump of stinky blue tweed

  on casters.

  Otherwise, the new office was a step up. In my old office, I had an

  L-shaped yellow metal desk with a cork board hutch. Now I had an

  L-shaped gray metal desk with a cork board hutch, plus a matching gray

  file cabinet all to myself. Whoever had done the move had replicated

  my old office (minus my special chair) to a T, all the way down to the

  two pictures stuck in the corner of my cork board: one of Vinnie

  gnawing on his rubber Gumby doll, the other of my parents in front of

  their tree on my mom's last Christmas.

  I met Frist as requested in his new corner office, legal pad and pen in

  hand, ready for a fresh start in a new unit, with a promotion I had

  wanted since I joined the office. It took most attorneys five to seven

  years of good work and shameless ass kissing to get into MCU, and I'd

  done it in less than three with my pride largely intact. Given my

  Stanford law degree and three years in the Southern District of New

  York at the nation's most prestigious U.S. Attorney's Office, some

  would say I was actually running behind.

  I took a seat across from Frist, trying not to think about the last

  time I was there with the office's previous tenant.

  True to his reputation, my new boss skipped the small talk and got down

  to business. "I thought we should touch base since you're new to the

  Unit and I'm still getting used to this supervision gig. You know the

  deal: we handle all non domestic person felonies, basically murders,

  rapes, and aggravated assaults. Robberies we treat like property

  crimes and send down to the general felony unit. You can decide

  whether you want to bring any files over from your old DVD caseload,

  but I'd recommend against it. You'll have your hands full enough here

  without having to juggle Drug and Vice."

  It took some concentration to focus on the substance of what Frist was

  saying. He had one of those deep voices you have to tuck your chin

  into your chest to impersonate, a common practice around the DA's

  office. He sounded like that antiwar governor from Vermont who ran for

  president, but this proud conservative ex-marine would never oppose a

  war, let alone go to Vermont. Frist was booming something at me, but

  his eyes kept darting alternately between my breasts and somewhere just

  above my forehead.

  "You're starting out with something less than a regular load. Usually

  we'd give you the cases of whoever left, but O'Donnell obviously had

  some doozies that'd be hard to start out with. So I took over his

  caseload, kept about a quarter of mine, and gave you the rest. As the

  new person, you'll be on screening duty."

  MCU's screening assignment is a notorious time-waster. Paralegals dole

  out the incoming police reports among the various trial units: major

  crimes, gangs, drugs and vice, general felonies, domestic violence, and

  misdemeanors. But to make sure that no one misses a heavy charge and

  issues it as a throw-away, any report that even arguably establishes

  probable cause for a major person felony goes to MCU for screening. The

  prob
lem is, cautious paralegals end up finding potential felonies in

  every run-of-the-mill assault. Now I'd be the one to waste hours

  separating the wheat from the chaff. So much for my big impressive

  step up in the prosecutorial food chain.

  Frist covered a handful of issues he thought I should be aware of on

  the cases I'd inherited from him, then changed the subject. "Now, as

  for this Easterbrook matter, I talked to the boss. I don't think he

  intended to throw you into the middle of things so quickly. You know,

  he figured the judge'd turn up in a couple of hours, and he wanted to

  make sure we did what we could in the meantime. But now this thing's

  looking like it's got real potential."

  When I first started in the DA's office, I was sickened by how excited

  the career prosecutors seemed to get over a juicy incoming murder case.

  I swore I'd never treat human tragedy as career fodder. But it had

  since become clear to me that attorneys who have stuck with this job

  for any amount of time handle it one of two ways: They either get off

  on the adrenaline of their files or they become apathetic. Compassion

  is a straight path to burnout. I wasn't yet to the point where I

  looked at a person's murder simply as a trial challenge, but, when I

  did, I'd rather approach my cases as a passionate competitor like Frist

  than yet another of the lazy plea-bargaining bureaucrats we keep around

  here.

  But precisely because Frist was competitive, he wanted in on this one.

  "Go ahead and ride the case solo while she's missing, but if a body

  turns up, you don't want this as your first murder."

  I opened my mouth, but Frist was all over me. "Zip it, Kincaid. I

  know you're hungry, but you can forget about running this on your own.

  And don't think I'm picking on you for being new. Or because you're a

  woman."

  Out the window went the staples of my reliable boss-fighting arsenal.

  Clearly I'd need to be more creative.

  "We always have two attorneys on any death penalty case," he explained,

  "which this may very well be, if it's a kidnap gone wrong. And

  Clarissa Easterbrook isn't exactly your typical murder victim. Every

  person out there who thinks he can benefit will be crawling up our

  asses to scrutinize every aspect of this investigation and

  prosecution."

  "Is it still my case, or should I go ahead and tell MCT to call you the