The First Victim

by Ridley Pearson

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  ‘‘I’m on the set in a minute,’’ Stevie said, giving herself a way out.

  ‘‘This won’t take long.’’

  ‘‘We met at the cemetery, right?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Daphne took a seat in one of the two padded swivel chairs that faced the bright mirror, but she turned to face Stevie, who in profile continued working with the blush. ‘‘Iwanted to talk about Melissa. Anything you can provide us . . . It’s all a help to the investigation.’’

  ‘‘Such as the videotapes?’’

  ‘‘Evidence is LaMoia’s department. I’m more interested in her habits, lifestyle, friends, relationships—that sort of thing.’’

  ‘‘You’re a shrink?’’

  ‘‘A psychologist.’’

  Stevie nodded, congratulating herself. ‘‘Ididn’t have you pegged as a cop. This is making a lot more sense to me.’’

  ‘‘The thing about a missing persons case, Ms. McNeal, is that there are often leads that don’t get pursued for one reason or another. We know this from hindsight. From the—’’

  ‘‘—cases where they don’t come back . . . are never found,’’ Stevie completed.

  ‘‘We believe Melissa is still alive. That she’s either in hiding, or has been abducted, but that she’s alive.’’

  ‘‘And you base this on?’’

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  ‘‘The fact that we haven’t found her body,’’ Daphne said bluntly, stunning the other woman. ‘‘They’re using violence to make statements. Why would they treat Melissa any differently?’’

  ‘‘Because she’s a reporter.’’

  ‘‘Is that what you think?’’ Daphne questioned. ‘‘You think it’s a passport of some sort? Don’t believe it, Ms. McNeal. They don’t make those kinds of distinctions. They’re sending messages. The easiest way to send you a message is to deliver Melissa’s body.’’

  ‘‘Maybe they know me better than that,’’ she said, leaning back and turning her face to the mirror. ‘‘It would only incite my wrath.’’

  ‘‘It’s not incited already?’’ Daphne said, suspiciously. ‘‘I don’t believe that. You know what Ithink? Ithink you’re not sleeping, not eating well. Ithink you’ve probably been looking long and hard at a bottle of wine, maybe drinking a little more than usual. You lie awake thinking about all the ‘what ifs.’ You blame yourself. You blame her. You blame us. And none of it goes away.’’

  Stevie blinked furiously, trying to discourage the tears that threatened. She took a deep breath trying to contain herself. ‘‘You’ll excuse me,’’ she said, ‘‘Ihave to be on the set.’’ She averted her face while she returned the blush brush to the Formica countertop.

  ‘‘Tell me I’m wrong.’’

  ‘‘What is it you want?’’ Stevie said, stopped at the door, her back to Daphne.

  ‘‘You’ll blame yourself even more if you withhold information from us. Ican help you deal with the grief, Ms. McNeal. It’s what Ido. You may be convincing yourself otherwise at the moment—the police are incompetent; the police don’t play fair—all the arguments neatly worked out. Professional ethics. Or maybe you think the case isn’t ours to give away, that it’s the INS, only the INS, who can help you. So you put your eggs in that basket.’’ She paused. ‘‘How am Idoing?’’

  ‘‘You think too much.’’

  ‘‘Professional liability. What’d you have for dinner last night? Breakfast, this morning? When was your last glass of wine? It’s red wine, isn’t it? Expensive, Ibet. But you’re drinking alone. And how’s that feel? Not very good, Ibet.’’

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  ‘‘We’re done here.’’ She couldn’t will her arm to open the door. She stood there, her back to the woman. Frozen.

  ‘‘You find yourself missing people—not just Melissa, but your family, your last relationship, anyone and everyone who’s gotten close . . . who is close.’’

  Stevie shook her head violently.

  Daphne continued, unrelenting. ‘‘The INS oversees illegal immigration—no question about it. But a missing persons investigation? That’s us. Would I hand you a sports story? And what about the INS? If you’re the one running illegal aliens into this country, into this port, who’s the first person you need on your payroll, the first person you must compromise? Do you think we missed that? Do you think we’re sharing every lead with Coughlie and Talmadge? Why should we do that until we know more about them? And that takes a while, believe me.’’

  ‘‘Turf wars? This is supposed to be news to me? You people fight your petty games while the investigation stagnates. I’ve seen it a hundred times from the other side of that anchor desk. That adoption ring last year—same thing happened there, right? One hand not washing the other. Same old story.’’

  ‘‘Not turf wars, Ms. McNeal. Cautious is all. We’re careful about to whom we go volunteering information. Are you?’’

  Stevie turned then and faced her. ‘‘I’ll tell you what—let’s just do our jobs: You find Melissa; I’ll report it as news when you do. End of discussion.’’

  ‘‘We have a solid lead we’re pursuing,’’ Daphne said. ‘‘The woman in the grave. In death, she told us something.’’

  As tortured as Stevie felt, she remained alert, hanging on Daphne’s every word. The lack of sleep . . . the loss of appetite . . . she knew too much, this woman. It felt invasive—a violation. And yet it also made her feel like someone actually understood what she was going through. Finally someone who understood. Tricks? It had to be a trick. The cops were full of them.

  Daphne said, ‘‘Our first hard evidence. We think we’ve established a time line that suggests this woman is an earlier victim—a first victim. Do you know the significance of a first victim in a crime,

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  Ms. McNeal? The first victim is generally the one who is handled carelessly. It’s only later the criminal mind thinks to start making better preparations, thinks to plan more carefully. This was sloppy. Hasty. This woman was handled poorly. That’s in our favor.’’

  ‘‘What evidence?’’

  ‘‘The thing is, we can work with you. We would like to work with you. But it would have to be in an exclusive relationship—we would have to trust each other to the point that you would not air nor share certain information, and that we, likewise, would not work with other reporters or news agencies until giving you first dibs on what we have.’’

  ‘‘And if we work this out?’’ Stevie inquired.

  ‘‘We’d want to see the videotapes—yes, of course. We’d want you to name your sources. We, in turn, would open up the autopsy prelim on Jane Doe to you. We’d share, Ms. McNeal. We’d give Melissa the best shot at coming home. The way we’re working now—well, it’s not working . . . that’s just the point.’’

  A knock came on the door. Stevie jumped. ‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ a voice said from the other side. ‘‘You’re wanted on the set.’’

  Daphne offered, ‘‘Ican help you find sleep. Ican work with you on the loss of appetite. That offer comes without precondition.’’

  ‘‘Who said Ican’t sleep?’’ Stevie barked defensively.

  ‘‘No strings attached.’’

  ‘‘I’m wanted on the set.’’

  ‘‘You can’t do this alone.’’ She added, ‘‘And the INS can’t clear a missing persons case. If they’ve represented themselves otherwise, it’s unfair to you.’’

  Stevie felt and looked paralyzed.

  ‘‘The name is Matthews,’’ Daphne reminded. ‘‘The switchboard will
put you through. My voice mail has my pager number. I’m available to you around the clock.’’ Daphne placed one of her cards next to the cosmetics. ‘‘I’m hoping you’ll call.’’

  ‘‘I’m wanted on the set,’’ she repeated. She pulled open the door and left.

  But when Daphne looked down, she noticed her business card was gone.

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  W E D N E S D AY , AU G U S T 2 6

  9 D AY S M I S S I N G

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  C H A P T E R 2 9

  The Seattle Aquarium was located out on a pier in the heart of the heavily touristed waterfront, a collection of crab and chowder houses and ferry traffic servicing the outlying islands. Seagulls swarmed fallen crumbs, picking the wide sidewalk clean. The familiar smell of suntan lotion hung in the air along with the choke of diesel fumes, a taste of salt spray and the permanent musty tang of rotting wood, indelible and almost sugary on the tongue. Boldt walked quickly, not because he was late, but because he was driven by a mounting fear that the investigation itself was late, that Melissa Chow had run out of time. Nine days—far too long. He did not accept that there was a mortal power greater than that of the Seattle Police, that whoever was behind the container shipments and the recent murders could remain a step ahead, could murder their way into silencing the sources that might open up the case. But privately, his own fear of these people was wearing him down. The ruthlessness and daring of killing the potential witnesses and leaving them for police to find reminded everyone involved that no one was safe. Not even police.

  Gwen Klein, the LSO employee, appeared to be the most recent statistic. She had failed to show up for work. She had gone missing right at the moment that LaMoia’s team had found out about her and had decided, in a failed attempt, to put her under surveillance. McNeal had run an ‘‘Employee of the Week’’ piece on News Four at Five that Boldt blamed on the woman’s disappearance. The stupidity of the press never ceased to amaze him.

  The pressure on all involved had intensified, especially on Boldt and LaMoia. Too many dead bodies. A reporter missing. Television 149

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  news turning the screws and making inroads ahead of police. There was talk of creating a task force to include SPD and the INS, although both sides were resisting. For Boldt, as he quickened his pace yet again, all of it took a backseat to locating Melissa Chow, who appeared to be not only a possible victim but also a key witness. To find this woman was to simultaneously bring down the people behind both the murders and the importing of human beings—he felt certain of it. Dr. Virginia Ammond was a tomboy in her mid-forties with a freckled Irish complexion, callused hands and a Ph.D. in marine sciences. She dressed in faded jeans rolled at the cuff and an immodestly tight T-shirt that bore the aquarium’s logo.

  ‘‘The medical examiner’s request to identify the fish scales went first to the university, but was passed on to me for confirmation.’’

  Boldt visited the aquarium regularly with his kids, the floor plan familiar to him. Ammond walked him down the descending ramp that led deeper underground and into the heart of the facility—a 360degree viewing room completely surrounded by glass and water, where fish circulated freely, lending the visitor the feeling of being submerged. She led Boldt to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and into a room where a stereoscopic microscope awaited them. She explained, ‘‘Iknow it’s an inconvenience for you to come down here, but phone calls just don’t do it for me. Now this first plate is one of the less common fish scales in the sample your people provided our department. Notice the more pointed area where the scale actually attaches to the fish, like shingles on a roof. Of particular interest to us, to you, is the more heartlike shape of this scale, along with that serrated edge. Okay?’’

  Ammond switched plates and moved him to a comparison microscope.

  ‘‘This is a side-by-side comparison,’’ she told him. ‘‘Look carefully at both scales.’’

  Boldt brought his eyes to the scope. ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘Recognize our friend?’’

  ‘‘On the left.’’

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  ‘‘Very good. Yes. And to the right?’’

  ‘‘A smoother edge. Less of a point. It’s clearer. This may sound stupid, but the one on the right looks newer.’’

  ‘‘Gold star, Lieutenant. You didn’t minor in marine biology, did you? Yes, the scale to the right is from a live silver salmon in our back tanks. The sample we received from you consisted primarily of scales from both king and silver salmon.’’

  ‘‘But not our friend?’’ he asked, using her term.

  ‘‘No. We found two such scales in the sample. They’re from a variety of Snake River coho. What’s of interest is that this particular species has been extinct for over two decades.’’

  ‘‘Run that by me again,’’ Boldt said.

  ‘‘The Snake River coho disappeared twenty-two years ago. Tens of millions of coho used to make the annual journey up the Columbia and into Idaho, the Snake River species among them.’’

  ‘‘Extinct,’’ Boldt repeated, withdrawing his police pad and making a note.

  ‘‘Exactly.’’

  She grinned. The white of her teeth gleamed against the freckled face. ‘‘Your explanation over the phone intrigues me. You collected these off a dead woman’s feet. You mentioned shipping containers, and I’d have to question that. A container in service twenty-two years? Not likely. A ship is more like it.’’

  ‘‘A cannery?’’

  ‘‘Could be. Yes. Why not? This way,’’ Ammond said, showing Boldt out of the lab.

  They walked back into the main galleries. She spoke loudly to be heard above the crowd noise.

  ‘‘Have you seen our fisheries display?’’

  ‘‘Iimagine,’’ Boldt answered.

  ‘‘The trawlers?’’ she asked, pointing.

  An entire wall had been devoted to the history of commercial fishing. It traced the earliest Native American settlements to the contemporary five-mile gill nets used by the Russians and Japanese as well as the enormous floating canneries. Text and illustrations were compli.......................... 7400$$

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  mented by cutaway models of the various vessels, and it was to one of these that Dr. Ammond led Boldt.

  ‘‘Commercial trawler, fairly common to Pacific fleets for the last twenty to fifty years with few modifications. Bigger now.’’ She pointed out the aft hold. ‘‘The catch is stored here, as it comes in. The crew then sorts, cleans and washes the catch, discarding the unwanted or undesirables, and the gutted, finished product is moved by conveyors to the forward hold.’’ She indicated a huge room that occupied most of the front of the ship. ‘‘This hold is one giant freezer. These trawlers are able to stay out to sea days, weeks or months.’’ She took a deep breath, the tomboy in her replaced by the expert. ‘‘Now given your mention of illegals, I’m inclined to see this trawler in a whole new light. Maybe the catch isn’t so good this year. Maybe I’m putting Chinese illegals in my forward hull. Maybe this is quite an old ship—a very old ship—and despite the regular cleanings the crew gives these holds, a few scales remain behind
, indicating a species of fish we haven’t seen for over two decades.’’

  ‘‘And if it’s a cannery?’’

  ‘‘That works for me. The canneries go back further than the processing trawlers. This aquarium was a cannery in its former life. Any number of structures along the shoreline in this city have been, or once were, associated with commercial fishing. From Harbor Island to Interbay, Salmon Bay to Lake Union.’’

  ‘‘You’re saying Ihave my work cut out for me,’’ he stated. ‘‘Ican’t narrow down the old canneries by the fish scales you’ve identified.’’

  ‘‘The university has catalogued the history of commercial fisheries. That would include canneries. This industry dates back over a hundred and fifty years.’’

  Boldt said, ‘‘Twenty-two years is all we care about.’’

  Her face erupted into a smile. ‘‘Let me make a few calls.’’

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  C H A P T E R 3 0

  Lacey Delgato had thick calves, no waist and a nose that cast a long shadow—behind her back, cops called her ‘‘the Sun Dial.’’

  She wore an unfashionably long black skirt zipped too tightly across her seat so that a labyrinth of intersecting folds and seams showed in an unsightly display. She had a voice like a squeeze toy, a trial attorney’s tendency to act out her words and an abrasive laugh that warned of her cynicism. Her one extravagance was Italian shoes. Her tall heels tapped out her quickened pace against the Justice Building’s marble corridor. ‘‘This individual has offered to sell the camera back to KSTV.’’

  ‘‘A digital camera?’’ LaMoia clarified. ‘‘You’re sure about that?’’