My Sister's Grave

by Robert Dugoni

  Tracy had been focused on those forty-three cases, reviewing the HITS forms on file. After an hour, she’d considered three more of the cases. None seemed promising. She closed the laptop and leaned back against the pillows. “Like searching for a needle in a haystack, Roger.” The cat was already purring.

  Tracy envied him.

  CHAPTER 33

  Friday afternoon, Tracy’s phone vibrated as she and Kins drove west across Lake Washington on the 520 floating bridge. Traffic was heavy with people trying to get downtown. Tall cranes jutted high above the darkened water on floating platforms, helping construct a badly needed second bridge parallel to the first one, but screwups in the concrete pontoons that would keep the second bridge afloat had delayed completion until sometime in 2015.

  Tracy checked her most recent calls and saw that she’d missed two previous calls from Dan. She called him back.

  “Hey,” she said. “Sorry I missed your calls. We’ve been running around today tracking down witnesses and talking with experts about the rope in that murder in North Seattle.”

  “I got a surprise this afternoon.”

  “A good surprise or a bad surprise?”

  “I’m not sure. I was in court most of the day, and when I got back to the office I found a copy of Vance Clark’s Opposition to the Petition for Post-Conviction Relief in my fax machine.”

  “They filed early?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Haven’t read it yet. Thought I’d call you first and let you know.”

  “Why would he file early?”

  “It could be he decided to keep it simple, make the Court of Appeals think the petition lacks merit. I won’t know until I read it. Anyway, it sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

  “Email it to me and we can talk more about it tonight at dinner.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Dan said. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just some things to take care of. Okay if I call you later?”

  “Sure,” Tracy said. “We’ll talk tonight.” She hung up, uncertain what to make of Dan breaking their date. Though initially concerned about it, she’d begun to look forward to it and where it might lead. She’d planned to buy a couple of Dick’s hamburgers—the $1.39 variety—and serve them at her apartment just to tweak him.

  “New development?” Kins asked.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said, new development?”

  “They filed the opposition to the petition. We weren’t expecting it for another two weeks.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Don’t know yet,” she said, still hearing the uncertainty in Dan’s voice.

  CHAPTER 34

  Dan O’Leary tilted back his head to apply eyedrops. His contact lenses felt glued to his corneas. Outside his bay window, rain fell in the shafts of yellow light from the street lamp. He had the window open so he could listen to the storm as it rolled in from the north, bringing the sodden, earthy smell of rain. As a boy, he used to sit at his bedroom window watching for lightning strikes over the North Cascades, counting the seconds between the strike and the clap of thunder exploding across the mountain peaks. He’d wanted to be a weatherman. Sunnie had said that she thought that would be the most boring job on the planet, but Tracy had said Dan would be good on television. Tracy had always been that way, even when other kids had treated him as the dork he’d sometimes been. She’d always stood up for him.

  When he’d seen her at Sarah’s memorial service, alone, his heart had bled for her. He’d always envied her family, so close and loving and caring. His house had not always been that way. Then, in a relatively short period of time, Tracy had lost everything she’d loved. When he’d stepped to her side at the service, it had been as her childhood friend, but he also could not deny he had been physically attracted to her. He had given her his card in hope that she might call him, and come to see him not as the boy she’d known, but as the man he’d become. That hope had faded when she had come to his office and asked him to review her file. Strictly a business meeting.

  Later, he’d invited her to his home out of concern for her safety, but seeing her again, he hadn’t been able to help hoping that something might spark between them. When he’d wrapped his arms around her to putt the golf ball, something had stirred inside that he had not felt in a very long time. He’d spent the past month tempering those feelings with the realization that Tracy remained deeply wounded and was not only vulnerable, but distrustful—about Cedar Grove and everything and everyone she associated with it. Dan had suggested the Chihuly glass exhibit and dinner to remove her from that environment, then realized that he’d placed her in an awkward dilemma. Did she invite him to spend the night or did he get a hotel? He’d sensed that he was rushing her, that she wasn’t ready for a relationship, and that she had enough on her plate with the recent discovery of Sarah’s remains and now the potential for another emotionally draining hearing.

  He’d also had professional concerns. Tracy was not his client. Edmund House was his client. But Tracy had all the information Dan needed to prepare properly for the post-conviction relief hearing, should a court of appeal grant House that right. Under the circumstances, Dan thought it best to remove any undue pressure on Tracy and bow out of their date until they were both in a better place and time.

  Sherlock grunted and twitched, asleep beside Rex on the throw rug in front of Dan’s desk. Dan had begun bringing the dogs to work after Calloway’s threat to impound them. He didn’t mind. They were good company, except for the fact that every noise caused them to bolt upright and race into the reception area barking. For the moment, at least, they were quiet.

  He refocused on Vance Clark’s Opposition to the Petition for Post-Conviction Relief. His intuition that Clark had filed his opposition early in order to insinuate to the Court of Appeals that the petition had no merit had been correct. Clark had kept his arguments simple. He’d stated that the petition failed to show any impropriety in the prior proceedings that would warrant a hearing to determine if Edmund House should get a new trial. He reminded the Court that House had been the first individual in the state of Washington to be convicted of first-degree murder based solely on circumstantial evidence because House had refused to tell authorities where he’d buried Sarah Crosswhite’s body, though he’d confessed to killing her. Clark had written that House had instead tried to use the information as leverage to force a plea, and that he should not now benefit from that strategy. Had House advised authorities of the location of Sarah Crosswhite’s body twenty years ago, Clark concluded, any exculpatory evidence could have been introduced during his trial. Of course House had not done so because it would have been conclusive evidence that he’d committed the crime. Either way, House was guilty. He’d received a fair trial. Nothing that Dan had introduced in his petition for post-conviction relief changed that.

  Not a bad argument, except it was completely circular, premised upon a court accepting that House had confessed to the murder and used the location of the body as leverage for a lesser sentence. DeAngelo Finn had done a poor job cross-examining Calloway on the lack of a signed or taped confession, which would have been any defense attorney’s first plan of attack. Finn had compounded his mistake by putting House on the witness stand to deny confessing, which had put his credibility at stake and allowed the prosecution to successfully argue that House’s prior rape conviction was now fair game, allowing them to question him about it at his trial. That had been the death knell. Once a rapist, always a rapist. Finn should have moved to exclude the introduction of House’s alleged confession as circumspect due to the lack of any supporting evidence and highly prejudicial to House’s case, avoiding the entire fiasco. Even if the motion had been denied, House would have established strong grounds for an appeal. Finn’s failure to do so, regardless of the exculpatory evidence found at the grave, was itself a
basis for a new trial.

  Sherlock rolled and lifted his head. A second later, someone rang the reception bell.

  Sherlock’s nails clicked on the hardwood, Rex close behind, followed by a chorus of barks and baying. Dan checked his watch, started for the door, then paused to pick up the autographed Ken Griffey, Jr., baseball bat that he’d also started bringing to the office.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sherlock and Rex had pinned an African-American man with his back against the door. The man looked and sounded seriously intimidated. “The sign said to ring the bell.”

  “Off,” Dan said, and both dogs obediently stopped barking and sat. “How’d you get in?”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  Dan had taken Sherlock and Rex out earlier in the evening to conduct their nightly business. “Who are you?”

  The man eyed the dogs. “My name is George Bovine, Mr. O’Leary.” Dan recognized the name from Tracy’s files even before Bovine continued, “Edmund House raped my daughter, Annabelle.”

  Dan leaned the baseball bat against the side of the reception desk. Thirty years earlier, Edmund House had been convicted on a charge of sex with a minor and served a six-year sentence. George Bovine had testified during the sentencing phase of House’s trial, after his conviction for the murder of Sarah Crosswhite. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “I drove from Eureka.”

  “California?”

  Bovine nodded. Soft-spoken, he looked to be in his late sixties, with a gray, close-cropped beard and studious tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a maroon golf cap and a V-neck sweater beneath a jacket.

  “Why?”

  “Because this is a matter to be handled in person. I intended to try to see you tomorrow morning. I only stopped by to make sure I had the correct address, and saw the lights in the window. The door to the building was unlocked, and when I came upstairs, I noticed the lights that I’d seen from the street were coming from your suite.”

  “Fair enough, but it doesn’t answer my question. Why did you drive all this way, Mr. Bovine?”

  “Sheriff Calloway called me. He says you’re attempting to secure a new trial for Edmund House.”

  Dan began to understand where this was headed, though he was surprised Bovine had been so forthright. “How do you know the Sheriff?”

  “I testified at Edmund House’s sentencing.”

  “I know. I’ve read the transcript. Did Sheriff Calloway ask you to convince me not to represent Mr. House?”

  “No. He simply told me you were seeking a new trial. I’ve come on my own.”

  “You understand why I have trouble believing that.”

  “All I ask is for a chance to speak with you. I’ll say my piece. I won’t say it twice. Then I’ll leave you be.”

  Dan considered the request. He was skeptical, but Bovine sounded sincere. He’d also just driven eight hours and not tried to hide the purpose for his visit. “You understand I have a confidential relationship with my client.”

  “I understand, Mr. O’Leary. I’m not interested in what Edmund House has to say.”

  O’Leary nodded. “My office is in the back.” He snapped his fingers and the two dogs turned and sped down the hall. Inside Dan’s office, they retook their spots on the throw rug but remained upright and alert, ears perked.

  Bovine removed his jacket, still glistening with drops of rain, and hung it on the rarely used coatrack near the door. “They’re awfully large, aren’t they?”

  “You should see my food bill,” Dan said. “Can I offer you a cup of stale coffee?”

  “Yes, please. It’s been a long drive.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “Black,” Bovine said.

  Dan poured a cup and handed him a mug and the two men settled into chairs at the table beneath the window overlooking Market Street. When Bovine raised his mug to take a sip of coffee, Dan noticed a tremor in his hand. Outside the window, the rain sheeted across the sky and beat hard on the flat roof, pinging as it funneled through the gutters and downspouts. Bovine lowered his mug and reached into his back pocket to remove his wallet. His hands shook even more as he struggled to pull photographs from their plastic slips, and Dan wondered if perhaps he had Parkinson’s disease. Bovine set one of the photographs on the table. “This is Annabelle.”

  His daughter looked to be in her early twenties, with straight dark hair and skin lighter than her father’s. Her blue eyes also indicated a mixed-race heritage. But it was not the color of Annabelle Bovine’s skin or her eyes that caught Dan’s attention. It was her utterly flat expression. She looked like a cardboard cutout.

  “You’ll notice the scar descending from her eyebrow.”

  A thin line, barely detectable, curved from Annabelle’s eyebrow to her jaw in the shape of a sickle.

  “Edmund House told the police he and my daughter had consensual sex.” Bovine placed a second photograph beside the first. The young girl in it was almost unrecognizable, her left eye swollen shut, the cut on her face caked in blood. Dan knew from Tracy’s file that House had raped Bovine when she was sixteen. Bovine started to lift his mug but his shakes had become more pronounced and he lowered it back to the table. Then he closed his eyes and took several measured breaths.

  Dan gave the man a moment before he said, “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Bovine.”

  “He hit her with a shovel, Mr. O’Leary.” He paused again and took another breath, but this time it was sharp and rattled in his chest. “You see, Edmund House was not content to just rape my daughter. He wanted to hurt her, and he would have continued to hurt her had she not found the will to escape.”

  Bovine’s face inched into a resigned grimace. He removed his glasses, wiping the lenses with a red handkerchief. “Six years. Six years for ruining a young woman’s life because someone made a mistake gathering the evidence. Annabelle was a bright, outgoing young woman. We had to move; the memories were too horrific. Annabelle never returned to school. She cannot work. We live on a quiet street not far from the water in a quiet town with little crime. It’s peaceful there. And every night we deadbolt our doors and check every window. It’s our routine. Then we climb in bed and we wait. My wife and I wait for her screams. They call it Rape Trauma Syndrome. Edmund House served six years. We’ve served nearly thirty.”

  Dan recalled similar testimony from the sentencing transcript, but hearing a father’s anguish brought the impact home. “I’m sorry. No one should have to live that way.”

  Bovine’s mouth pinched. “But someone will, Mr. O’Leary, if you do what they say you’re attempting to do.”

  “Sheriff Calloway shouldn’t have called you, Mr. Bovine. It isn’t fair to either of us. I don’t mean to in any way diminish what happened to your daughter or your family—”

  Bovine raised a hand but did so in the same understated manner that he spoke. “You’re going to tell me that Edmund House was a young man when he raped my daughter, that it occurred nearly thirty years ago, that people can change.” The thin-lipped, ironic smile returned. “Let me save you the trouble.” Bovine looked to Sherlock and Rex. “Edmund House is not like your dogs. He cannot be trained. And he cannot be called off.”

  “But he does deserve a fair trial, just like everyone else.”

  “But he’s not like everyone else, Mr. O’Leary. Prison is the only place for violent men like Edmund House. And make no mistake. Edmund House is a very violent man.” Bovine quietly picked up the photographs and slipped them back in his wallet. “I said my piece. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood and retrieved his jacket. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “You have a place to stay?” Dan asked.

  “I’ve made arrangements.”

  Dan walked George Bovine back to the reception area. Bovine pulled open the door but looked back again at Rex and Sherlock. “Tell me, would they have bitten me if you hadn’t called them off?”

  Dan petted them about their heads. “Their size is i
ntimidating, but their bark is worse than their bite.”

  “But still very much capable of causing damage, I’d imagine,” Bovine said, stepping into the hall, the door swinging shut behind him.

  CHAPTER 36

  Tracy was running on fumes, unable to recall the last time she’d slept through the night. She felt the fatigue in her limbs and heard it in her voice as she and Kins sat in the conference room with Faz and Del, updating Billy Williams and Andrew Laub on the A Team’s active files.

  During the weeks since Dan had filed his reply brief to Vance Clark’s Opposition to the Petition for Post-Conviction Relief, Tracy and Kins had retraced many of their steps in the Nicole Hansen investigation without success. They’d re-interviewed the motel owner and motel guests. They’d run latent fingerprints lifted from the motel room through King County’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System and run down hits, crossing off persons with lock-tight alibis as potential suspects. They’d spoken again to the dancers at the Dancing Bare, to Nicole Hansen’s family, to her friends, to a couple of ex-boyfriends. Tracy had created a timeline of the last few days of Hansen’s life and had identified any person with whom she’d come into contact. They’d also executed search warrants that had been spectacularly unproductive.

  “What about the employee files?” Laub asked.

  “They came in late yesterday afternoon,” Tracy said, referring to the files they’d subpoenaed of current and past Dancing Bare employees. “I got Ron getting a head start on them,” she said, meaning the A Team’s fifth wheel, Ron Mayweather. Each of the four Homicide teams had a fifth detective assigned to them for carrying out some of the more mundane tasks of investigative work.

  Laub turned to Faz. ”Where are we on the cars in the parking lots?”

  Faz shook his head. “We got bubkes,” he said. “We’re still running down an out-of-state plate in California and one up in British Columbia. We’re making nice to our buddies across the border.”