by J. A. Jance
“No, thanks,” he replied. “I'd better get home.”
I'm sure I was sound asleep before he reached the floating bridge.
CHAPTER
28
I woke up Tuesday morning, tired but with a renewed sense of purpose. Roger Bear Claw's grief had catapulted burning transients out of the realm of the inconsequential. Years of discipline took over, bringing focus and motivation. Ginger, Mona, and Wilson were Hal's bailiwick. Teresa Smith and a dead John Doe were mine.
By seven-thirty I was at my desk. Peters stopped by on his way to the courthouse. He dropped a newspaper onto my desk. “Thought you'd want to read Max's column,” he said.
It was there in lurid black and white, all about Ginger Watkins' murder. He told the whole story, including the blood-alcohol count, speculating what conversation she and Wilson might have shared over those last few drinks. Columnists speculate with impunity. They also rationalize. Cole's conclusion was that Wilson had taken his own life after destroying those responsible for the deaths of his wife and child. With typical tunnel vision, he ignored the fact that Mona Larson had never served on the parole board.
The moral of the story—and with Max there is always a moral—was couched in snide asides about inept law-enforcement officers. No one was exempt—from the Washington State Patrol and the San Juan County Sheriff's Department to the Pasco City Police. There was, however, one notable omission. J.P. Beaumont's name wasn't mentioned, not once. Evidently Ralph Ames' threat of libel had struck terror in Max's black little heart.
Peters was still there when I finished reading the article. I tossed the paper back to him. “Where the hell does he get his information? Huggins swears there's no leak in his department, but the stuff about the throttle linkage was known only by Huggins, Rogers, me and the killer.”
Peters shrugged. “It doesn't really matter, does it? Wilson's dead; the case is closed. Maybe now you can get your mind back on the job. I should be done with the Sage case by noon.”
After Peters left, Al, Manny, and I did a quick huddle. “So who's got a grudge against bums?” Manny asked.
“Every taxpaying, law-abiding citizen,” Al Lindstrom grumped. Al is a typical hard-working Scandinavian squarehead with a natural aversion to any able-bodied person who beats the system by not holding down a real job.
Al and Manny went to the Pike Place Mission for another talk with Roger Bear Claw, while I was dispatched to Harborview Hospital to check on the surviving John Doe. Before I had a chance to leave my desk, the phone rang. It was Hal Huggins. I tried to check the annoyance in my voice. “It's about time you got around to calling me.”
“Lay off, Beau. I'm up to my neck. It's just as well Wilson's dead. The county couldn't afford two first-degree murder trials.”
“You're sure Wilson did it? All three of them?”
“Absolutely. Didn't you hear about the note?”
“Vaguely. But exposure? People don't just go out in the woods and wait to die. Besides, it hasn't been cold.”
“Who knows? Maybe he fell in some water. That'll do it. Look, Beau, I'm not calling the shots, the coroner is…. By the way,” he added, “we found his car parked on a side street in Prosser. The note was there.”
“How long had it been there?”
“I can't tell you that. We're trying to reconstruct Wilson's movements from the time he left Orcas. So far we're not having much luck, but there's no doubt the note is his. The prints check. Handwriting checks. What more do you want?”
“What about the chicken?”
“Oh, for God's sake, Beau, lay off that chicken. Maybe he didn't plan to kill them when he left home; but after he did, he couldn't very well go back without getting caught, not even to eat his chicken or feed his goddamned cat.”
“So you're closing the case?” I asked.
“Not completely. As I said, we're still retracing his movements from the time he left Orcas until he showed up in the river.”
“How long has he been dead?”
“Old man Scott says two to three days at the most.”
“Not 'Calls It Like I Sees ‘Em’ Scott!”
“That's right. One and the same. He's still Benton County Coroner. He's up for reelection next week.”
Only three counties in Washington—King, Pierce, and Whatcom—have medical examiners. All the rest rely on an antiquated county coroner system. Whoever runs for office is elected without any consideration of qualifications. Garfield Scott had earned both his nickname and a permanent place in the Bungler's Hall of Fame when he declared a man dead of a heart attack, only to turn him over and discover a knife still buried in the victim's chest.
“Can't you get another opinion? What if Wilson's been dead longer than that, like since before Mona died?”
“Dammit, Beau. I already told you, I'm not calling the shots. There's an election next week, remember? Scott would never hold still for a second opinion.”
I changed the subject. “Who went to Maxwell Cole with Ginger's murder?” I asked.
There was a moment's pause. “I don't have any idea.”
“Somebody did,” I told him grimly. “It's front-page stuff in this morning's P.I.”
“Not anybody from my department, I can tell you that!” Huggins' hackles were up, and so were mine. He attempted to smooth things over. “Thanks for all your help, Beau.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said. Obviously he didn't.
On my way up to Harborview, I tried to shift gears from one case to another. The same intensive-care nurse stopped me. “He can't talk to you,” she snapped. “He's dying.”
“Look,” I said wearily. “Can he communicate at all?”
“He can nod and shake his head. That's it.”
“Even that may tell me something. Someone else died last night, a woman. She never made it as far as the hospital. Without his help, the toll could go higher.”
She relented a little. I could see it in the set of her mouth.
“Please,” I wheedled, taking advantage of her hesitation. She glared at me, then marched briskly down the hall, her rubbersoled shoes squeaking on the highly polished tile floor. I stood there waiting, uncertain if she was throwing me out or taking it under advisement. She came back a few minutes later carrying a sterilized uniform, booties, and a face mask. Wordlessly, she helped me don compulsory ICU costume.
“You can see him for five minutes. No more.”
One look convinced me that Teresa Smith was a hell of a lot better off for dying on the spot. What little was visible of the man's puffy face was fused in a featureless mass of flesh that bore little resemblance to a human being. Tubes went in and out his arms and throat. His breathing was labored.
“He's awake,” the nurse said, although I don't know how she knew that. “We call him Mr. Smith.”
I stood by the bed, astonished by my revulsion. I'm a homicide cop. I'm supposed to be used to the worst life can dish out. Five minutes left no time for niceties. He was dying. I think he knew it.
“I'm a cop, Mr. Smith. A detective. They'll only let me talk for five minutes. Somebody else got burned last night, up on First Avenue. We think it's the same guy who burned you. Can you help us?”
There was no response. I couldn't tell if he heard me.
“Did you see anyone?”
He nodded, so slightly, that I wasn't sure he had moved.
“Someone you knew?”
This time there was no mistaking it. The mass of flesh moved slightly from side to side. The answer was no.
“One person?”
A minute nod. We were playing hardball Twenty Questions. Every question had to count. There wouldn't be any second chances, not with this Mr. Smith.
“Male?” Another nod. He groaned with the effort.
“Young?”
He nodded again, barely, but his breathing changed. The nurse took me by the arm. “Enough,” she said firmly. “He's fallen asleep. You've worn him out.”
She led me outside the
intensive care unit, where I shed the sterile clothes. “Thank you,” I said. She bustled away without acknowledgement. She was a tough old bat, but nobody with the least tendency to a soft heart could work there.
Back in the office I had a despondent Peters on my hands. “They convicted her,” he said. “Not Murder One, but a minimum of twenty years for killing that worthless bastard. What the hell ever happened to justice?”
“Sometimes there's no such thing,” I told him. “So get to work.”
We did. We spent the afternoon with Manny and Al. The information that it was somebody young, probably a kid, constituted the first tiny break in the case. One kid, one young punk, who liked to burn people up. Who was he? Where was he from? Was he black, white, Asian?
Back to questions, always questions. The consensus was that, whoever he was, he wasn't a regular inhabitant of the downtown area. This wasn't your usual drunken brawl over a half-consumed bottle of Big Red. Fights over booze are generally harmless—a little gratuitous bloodshed among friends. This was deliberately malicious. And deadly.
We hit the streets, talking to known gang leaders and toughs. The patrolmen in what the department calls the David Sector of downtown Seattle know most of the street kids by name. They guided us to the various groups, pointing out kids who would talk and kids who liked to throw their weight around. All of them could have gotten gasoline; none of them had cars.
To quote one, a scrawny-looking kid named Spike who wore a black leather vest over a hairless bare chest, “Nobody knew nothin,” although he hinted darkly that there might be a club down at Franklin High with some allegedly vicious initiation rites.
Peters and I drove to Franklin High School in Rainier Valley. The principal, a tall black former Marine, sounded more like a drill sergeant than an educator. He admitted he had some tough kids in his school, but none who would go around setting fire to sleeping drunks, he'd stake his reputation on it. I was inclined to believe him.
Driving back to the department, Peters asked me what I thought. “He seems to know what's going on with those kids,” I told him.
“Bullshit,” Peters replied. “Nobody ever knows what's going on with a bunch of kids.”
We agreed to disagree. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
I found a note from Henry Wu on my desk. “See me.”
Hank sat with his feet propped on his desk reading a copy of the International News. “What have you got?”
He put down the paper, a wide smile spreading under his impeccable mustache. “I think I've found her, Beau, in the Stadium Apartments out in Rainier Valley. You know where that is, out on Martin Luther King Way?”
“I think so.”
“My source says she lives with her aunt and uncle and some cousins out there. Your interpreter's gone?”
“Yesterday,” I said.
I must have sounded ungrateful. Hank bristled. “Look, I moved heaven and earth to get this far. Nobody rushes a grapevine.”
“I know. Sorry. It's just that Ernie had to go home.” Hank appeared somewhat mollified. “So what do you suggest?” I asked. “Is there anybody on the force who speaks Hmong?”
“Even if there was, I wouldn't advise your taking them along, not if you want her to talk.”
“What should I do then, go by myself?”
“That guy who left on the bus—Ernie…. My source recognized the name, knew who he was. He's evidently widely respected in the Seattle Hmong community. It wasn't until I mentioned him that I started getting to first base. My suggestion is that you do whatever it takes to get him back down here.”
If you call in an expert, you have to be prepared to take his advice. Henry Wu was the expert. “Thanks, Hank. I'll see what I can do.”
I went back to my desk. Peters looked up as I sat down. “What gives?”
“Hank's got a line on the hotel maid from Orcas,” I answered. I picked up the phone, ready to call Ernie.
Peters scowled. “Look, Beau, we're already on a case. Two and a half by actual count, if that guy at Harborview is still alive.”
I felt like he'd stepped on my toes. “Don't tell me what to do,” I snapped. I couldn't very well call Ernie right then, not with Peters peering over my shoulder. We spent the rest of the afternoon circling each other like a squabbling old married couple. By five, we still weren't ready to bury the hatchet.
“You having dinner with Ames?” Peters asked as we waited uneasily for the Public Safety Building's snaillike elevator. I hadn't told him Ames had returned to The Dalles. I didn't tell him then.
“Naw, he's busy,” I replied noncommittally.
If Peters was fishing for an invitation to dinner, I didn't bite. We parted company in the lobby, and I walked home to the Royal Crest. I called Ernie right away.
“I think we've found Blia,” I said, once he answered the phone. “Could you come down tomorrow if I had a float plane pick you up and take you back?”
“It won't work,” he said. “I've got a motor home to overhaul. The Hansens are leaving for Arizona Saturday. I've got that job to do and another due by Friday.”
“Nobody else can do it?” I insisted.
“I'm a one-man shop. Without me, nothing happens.”
I couldn't very well argue the point. “Call me as soon as you see your way clear,” I told him.
“Sure thing,” he replied. “Glad to.”
Disappointed, I hung up. Outside it was raining a steady fall drizzle. I put on a waterproof jacket and walked to the golden arches at Sixth and Westlake. I picked up a Big Mac and an order of fries to go. Peters would have pitched a fit if he'd glimpsed my evening menu.
Back at the house, I set the table with my good dishes and dined in solitary splendor. Bachelors are allowed their small eccentricities. After dinner I settled into my old-fashioned recliner and let my mind wander.
Maybe the guy who sent us to Franklin had been playing some game of his own, creating a wild-goose chase among the predominantly minority kids there. I was smart enough to recognize that the suggestion played on our own prejudices. Maybe our bum-killing fanatic was to be found at the other end of the spectrum, concealed among the well-heeled kids of Bellevue or the North End.
It was a thought that merited further consideration. Meantime, all we could do was keep looking for that rarest of all birds, the eyewitness.
The discipline of focusing on one issue at a time pushed Ginger and Sig and Mona and Wilson further and further into the background. I had to leave them alone until Ernie could return to Seattle.
For the time being, inconsequential as they might seem, three dead transients took precedence. Harborview Hospital had called the department to say that Mr. Smith was no more. My interview with him had been his very last opportunity to give us any help.
I fell asleep in the chair and didn't wake up until morning. That's something else bachelors can get away with. I'm not sure the good outweighs the bad.
CHAPTER
29
My back was broken when I woke up. In my youth I could sleep all night in a recliner and not have it bother me the next day. Maybe I'm getting old.
I was in the bathroom, my face slathered with shaving cream, when the phone rang. I hurried to answer it, Colgate Instant Shave smearing into the holes of the mouthpiece.
“Did you know?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
“Know what?”
“That Ginger was—” Tom Lander's voice cracked.
I waited while he got hold of himself. “I knew,” I said grimly, silently cursing Homer and Darrell Watkins and Hal Huggins and J. P. Beaumont for not having broken the news to Tom earlier.
“Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to read it in the paper?”
I didn't have an answer. I had known he wasn't told, but I had shut the knowledge out of my mind.
“Was it Wilson?” he continued doggedly.
“That's what Hal Huggins thinks,” I countered.
“What do you think?” he demanded.<
br />
“I don't know.” It was an honest answer.
“You could have told me.”
“I expected Homer or Darrell would do that.”
“They didn't.”
I felt like I owed him something, but not enough to lapse into idle speculation about thawing chickens and hungry cats and extra keys. “Look, Tom, I'm following up on some leads. I'll be in touch if I find anything out, okay?”
“Why should I believe you?”
“No reason,” I answered. “Because I asked.”
“All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But was she really drunk, or was that just part of the story?”
“Her blood-alcohol count showed she had been drinking, enough to be drunk.”
“Oh,” he said, disappointment thick in his voice.
“Why, Tom? What does it matter?”
“It's personal,” he replied and hung up.
I went to the bathroom and finished shaving, thinking about Maxwell Cole. I couldn't help wondering how he had gotten his information, particularly since Huggins was so sure it hadn't come through his department. I decided to pay a call on Max, for old time's sake. I called the P.I. He wasn't in and wasn't expected before ten.
I checked the phone book. Bingo. Maxwell Cole. It gave a Queen Anne phone number but no address. I dialed. He sounded groggy.
“Hello, Max. This is Beaumont. I want to talk to you.”
“To me? How come?”
“Just a couple of questions. Can I come over?”
“I guess.”
“Good. What's the address?”
He gave me a number on Bigelow North, an old-fashioned street strewn with fallen chestnuts and mounds of moldering leaves. The house was an eighteen-nineties gingerbread type set among aging trees and crowned with leaded glass gable windows. It surprised me. I had always figured Max for the swinging hot tub and cocktails type. This hardly fit that image.
I pulled up and parked. Before I could get out of the car, Max blustered out the front door and down the walk. He heaved himself into the Porsche.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.