“You gave her the name of that counselor?”
“I called and set up an appointment for her, but getting her to go is another thing altogether. We both know I can’t force her.”
“How are the boys handling it?”
Del shrugged. “They’re coming home from school and sitting on the couch eating chips and salsa and watching TV. Their homework isn’t getting done.”
“Are they even going to school?”
“I’m getting their butts there, but after three in the afternoon, I don’t know who’s keeping an eye on them. Little League will be starting soon. I have to get them signed up and take them to tryouts next weekend.”
“You should coach them.”
Del scoffed at the suggestion. “Yeah, right, that would be a sight, me in baseball pants.”
“You were a good ballplayer. God knows you’d be better than the twenty-something-year-old dads who think their nine-year-old is destined for the major leagues.”
Del had been a good ballplayer, a catcher with a rifle for an arm, and he’d never have his own son to coach. “I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.” He sipped his coffee, which was tart. “I’m thinking of moving in. I can continue to sleep on the couch.”
“You on a couch? That’s more ridiculous than you in baseball pants.”
“Just for a couple weeks. Until my sister gets back on her feet.”
“Why don’t you take some time off, Del? You’re burning the candle at both ends. Get your sister into counseling and get everything square. I’ll handle this.”
Del stood. “I’m at my best when I’m working, you know that. I got to be doing something or I’ll go stir-crazy.”
“You’re not even supposed to be working this case. I am. You’re just along for the ride, remember? That was the deal.”
“I’m fine, okay? I understand the rules.” Del sipped his coffee. “I convinced her to let me into Allie’s bedroom last night.”
Faz arched his eyebrows. “Did you get Allie’s cell phone?”
Del nodded. “And her computer. But no one knew her passwords. I dropped them off with TESU this morning,” he said, referring to the Technical and Electronic Support Unit. “I signed in everything under your name, so we’re good. They’re breaking them down and will send everything over to Mike when they’re finished,” he said, meaning Mike Melton of the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab.
“Why?”
“I trust him.”
“You want to go through the records yourself, don’t you?”
“My niece.”
Faz grimaced. “Which is why you shouldn’t. Let me go through the records.”
Del checked his watch but didn’t answer.
Faz sighed. “You get a subpoena for her cell phone records?”
“Working on it.”
“Anything else in the room?”
Del thought again of that moment when his sister had unlocked Allie’s bedroom door. His sister wouldn’t go in, wouldn’t even open the door. She just unlocked it and walked back to her room. Del went in feeling like he was walking into a time capsule, like he did each time he walked into a room with a dead body. Everything was as Allie had left it—the syringe and spoon she’d used to melt the heroin that killed her, the BIC lighter, the plastic bag. He’d gathered it all and sent them off to the toxicology lab at the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab to be processed. The Latent Print Unit at SPD would examine the bag for fingerprints. But there were other things too, personal things in the room—Allie’s underwear and shirts scattered on the floor, stuffed animals, and posters. He sat on the end of her bed and wept.
Del shook his head. “Broke my heart going into that room, knowing she was gone and never coming back. I held that kid in the palm of my hand when she was born. All the birthdays and holidays.” He shook his head to shake back his emotions. “She had so much going for her. She could have done anything.”
Faz spoke softly. “She was addicted, Del. It don’t discriminate.”
“No, it doesn’t. That shit was right there on her dresser beneath her posters of Shania Twain and Justin Bieber.” He bit his lower lip. Then he got angry. “I don’t get it, Faz. How does a little girl go from being so innocent to shooting that crap into her veins? It’s hell on earth. That’s what her counselor said. Literally, hell on earth.”
“I don’t know, Del. I just don’t know.”
Stuart Funk entered the waiting room like a man searching for his lost child, frazzled and in a hurry. That was typical for Funk. So was his attire. The King County Medical Examiner always wore a long-sleeve, button-down shirt, khaki pants, and thick-soled rocker shoes that Faz had dubbed Frankenstein boots.
“Sorry for the delay,” Funk said. “We had two overdoses last night.”
“Together?” Del asked. “Same crime scene?”
Funk nodded. “Same scene.”
Finding two overdoses at the same crime scene was indicative of a highly potent drug or a drug cut with something toxic, making it lethal.
“Heroin?” Del asked, his tired brain kicking into gear.
“Yes,” Funk said, shaking his head. “That’s ten overdoses already this week. Only one made it out of the ER alive.”
“Where? Where were the two bodies you found last night?”
“North Seattle.”
Del glanced at Faz, then asked Funk, “How old were the victims?”
“Midtwenties,” Funk said. He checked his watch. “Come on back.”
Funk led them down the hall into his cluttered office. Papers lay scattered across the desk along with a half-full cup of coffee and a brown bag lunch. The office was a lot like Funk; his appearance always seemed a little scattered—his hair not completely combed, the lenses of his oversized glasses smudged, shirttail not completely tucked into the waistband of his pants, but there was no mistaking that Funk was very good at what he did. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk without hesitation, despite the clutter, and handed a copy to Del.
“These are the results of the toxicology tests.”
“Thanks for pushing it,” Del said. Toxicology tests came from the Washington State Toxicology Lab inside the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. They performed the tests for the entire state, which explained why it ordinarily took six to eight weeks. Given the rash of recent deaths, the time would likely have been even longer, but Funk had pulled some strings to get it done out of respect for Del.
Funk started to speak. Then, perhaps realizing this was not just another body, he stopped. “Do you want to hear this?”
“Yeah,” Del said, noticing Faz watching him. “I’m good. I’m all right.”
Funk took a deep breath. “The tests are of the blood, liver, and urine,” he said. “Tell me if I’m repeating something you already know.”
“We’re good,” Del said, but his stomach burned as if housing a fire.
Funk adjusted his glasses. “Okay. Injected heroin is quickly converted to 06-monoacetylmorphine, also known as 6-MAM, and its original compound, morphine. The 6-MAM is significantly more potent than morphine and, because it’s injected, the brain is immediately impacted. The problem is, 6-MAM is not easy to detect. In blood, it’s only detectable for about two minutes after injection. After ten to fifteen minutes, only trace amounts remain, below ten nanograms per milliliter.”
“This says twenty-two nanograms,” Faz said, reading from Funk’s report.
“Which means one of two things.” Funk looked to Del. “Either the dose your niece took was extremely potent and, as such, the 6-MAM was also potent and increased the latent levels, or your niece died very quickly after injection, which would slow and ultimately halt the metabolic processes that decompose 6-MAM.”
“I don’t know how quickly she died,” Del said. “My sister found her in the morning. That’s all I know. I talked to a prosecutor the other day who said she could have died because she injected a dose equivalent to what she’d been taking before she went into detox.”
“But you’re saying it’s also possible she could have taken heroin that was extremely potent?”
“Given the very recent number of overdoses we’ve had, including the two last night, I’d say that likelihood is very high.”
“Where in North Seattle were the latest victims?” Del asked.
“Green Lake,” Funk said.
Del looked to Faz. “Close to Loyal Heights.”
“Within minutes,” Faz said.
“And the others?” Del asked Funk.
“I’d have to look. I know one was on Capitol Hill and one was in the Central District. Both victims were older. Late twenties.”
“Did you autopsy them?”
“We did,” Funk said. “But it will be a while before the toxicology reports are back.”
“What about the two last night?” Del asked.
“Same. I’d say ninety percent chance it was heroin, given the foam cones detected.”
Del knew that heroin was a respiratory depressant that impacted the breathing function of the brain. The foam cone formed around a person’s nose and mouth from pulmonary edema fluid mixing with air in the lungs as the person’s respiration and heartbeat slowed.
Funk let out a held breath. “But with the bodies from the shooting the other night . . . We’re up to our eyeballs at the moment. It could be a while.”
Del reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny pack containing what looked like sugar. “I understand you’re busy and I appreciate everything you’re doing. I’m hesitant, but I have another favor to ask. Can you get someone to take a look at this, tell me anything about it?”
“Where’d you get that?” Faz asked.
“Allie’s bedroom.”
“I thought you sent everything to the crime lab,” Faz said.
“I did,” Del said. “This was just crap I scooped up.”
“Shit, Del.”
“Take it easy. It was just stuff on the table, not in the bag. Remnants.”
Funk took the bag and considered the contents. “Definitely not black tar.”
Del knew that Mexican drug cartels had a market on the West Coast and supplied black tar heroin—so called because it looked like roofing tar and was often packaged in plastic paper. Southeast Asia supplied a heroin called China white, which resembled cocaine and had a market on the East Coast and in Vancouver, British Columbia.
“It looks like China white,” Funk said, examining the contents through the clear bag. “But I’ve never seen it out here. If this was in your niece’s room, it would be highly unusual, and potentially problematic.”
“Why?” Faz asked.
Funk set down the bag. He looked like the wheels were spinning. “New York had a problem sometime last year with China white. They had a number of overdose deaths all within a short time of each other and all from roughly the same area. The ER rooms detected it and got the word out on the street. Eventually they determined the deaths were from a very pure heroin cut with fentanyl.”
“What’s fentanyl?” Faz asked.
“It’s a powerful synthetic painkiller sometimes used to cut heroin. The two in combination can be a potent high. They can also be lethal. Black tar, because of its consistency, is very difficult to cut with anything.” Funk held up the bag. “This stuff? We don’t see this out here.”
Del was trying to process the information, how Allie could have gotten her hands on something like China white. “Can you tell from an autopsy if the person used one or the other?”
“No,” Funk said. “Both show up on toxicology reports as morphine. The best way to know is by the product. If you found that in your niece’s bedroom, I’d say that’s what killed her.”
“Has the media called yet about the overdoses last night?” Faz asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“We need to get the word out on the street,” Faz said to Del.
“That might be the last thing we need right now,” Funk said.
“Why?” Faz asked. “People are dying.”
“We get word out of a highly potent heroin going around and it’s like moths to the light. Addicts will go looking for it. Overdoses are the best advertisement out there for the quality of the product. We might have a lot more bodies.”
“But it’s got to be bad for business—for the suppliers, to have their customers dying,” Faz said.
“One might think that, but their customers are statistically going to die anyway,” Funk said. “And, unfortunately, there’s no shortage of new ones.”
CHAPTER 11
Tracy arrived at the vehicle processing room at the Washington State Crime Lab on Airport Way early Wednesday morning. It had been another short night for sleep. After working the night shift until midnight, and arriving home after 1:00 a.m., she’d slept a few hours, then got up early to meet Joe Jensen. She’d beaten Kins, who was also burning the candle at both ends. He’d called her cell to say he was dropping off his kids at school. They were both receiving overtime for working double shifts, which had been nice when Tracy was young and single, but now she’d trade the extra money for extra sleep and she knew Kins would too.
TCI was going over the car as Tracy entered the room. Joe Jensen greeted her, but not with a smile. He frowned and shook his head. “Somebody wiped down the car, inside and out,” he said.
“What do you mean? Are you telling me they’re not finding any prints?”
“They’re finding prints, just not where they would expect to find them.” He walked her over to the car. “For instance, the outside door handle on the driver’s side is clean.”
“What about the air bag?” Tracy asked.
Jensen slowly shook his head. “None.”
“None meaning somebody wiped it down, or none meaning it didn’t pick up any of the driver’s DNA?”
“Someone wiped it down. We’re detecting the presence of isopropyl alcohol, which is common in just about every alcohol wipe out there.”
Tracy blew out a burst of air. “Did they find any wipes in the car?”
“No,” Jensen said.
“So we know it was deliberate.”
“And sophisticated,” Jensen said, “which is why I’m having the air bag processed anyway, along with the blood on the front seat, though that will take a couple weeks—”
“You found blood in the car?” Tracy asked.
“Driver’s side. It’s a cloth seat. Whoever tried to clean it up couldn’t get it all,” Jensen said.
Tracy walked to the driver’s door, which was open, and peered inside at the seat. “Kins and I spoke to the owner of the car last night. He had a cut on his forehead, just at the hairline.”
“Did he say how he cut it?”
“He said he hit a corner of a cabinet door in the kitchen.” She thought out loud. “The problem is, it’s his car. He could come up with any number of excuses for his blood being inside it.”
“Maybe,” Jensen said. He grinned. “But this might be more difficult for him to explain.” He held up a store receipt in a sealed evidence bag. It looked to have been pressed flat after being crumpled. “We found it in the back, between the seat and one of the rear doors. It’s from a convenience store in Renton.” Jensen handed it to Tracy. “The person bought two Red Bull energy drinks on Monday night, at eight thirty-eight p.m.”
“Most of those convenience stores now have video,” Tracy said.
“If this one does, we may very well have a visual of the owner . . .”
Tracy finished Jensen’s thought. “And if it’s Trejo on the convenience store videotape, that blood in the car becomes a lot more relevant.”
Tracy picked up Kins at Police Headquarters, and they drove to the convenience store, which was just off an Interstate 5 exit in Renton. Graffiti covered the concrete masonry wall facing the parking area, along with faded and torn concert posters. Along the front of the building, the stucco and the aluminum framing around the
doors and windows had become soiled with soot from the thousands of cars passing on the freeway.
Hovering above the building, a green billboard with a white arrow directed drivers to a marijuana dispensary on the opposite street corner.
“One-stop shopping,” Kins said, eyeing the sign. “You can buy pot, cross the street, and buy Cheetos, frozen burritos, and a gallon of Coke.”
“Or energy drinks,” Tracy said.
“Definitely energy drinks.”
Kins pulled open the glass door. They each turned at the sound of a buzzer, and Tracy noted a chipped and scarred ruler impressed on the inside of the door frame to measure customers’ heights. She looked at the corners of the building and saw a lone camera mounted to the ceiling and directed at the cashier’s counter and front door.
The inside of the store smelled like a vanilla air freshener that people hung in their cars. Products cluttered the shelves, with unopened boxes at the ends of the aisles. Frozen food, soft drinks, and alcohol filled stand-up freezers along the back wall. Tracy and Kins stepped around the boxes to the counter, and Kins flashed his ID and shield to a dark-skinned young man in a light-blue smock and turban. A variety of cigarette packs and magazines surrounded him in the booth.
“Are you Archie?” Kins asked.
They didn’t need a warrant to get video from the security camera unless the store owner refused, which had never happened in Tracy’s years working Violent Crimes. A bigger concern was the store inadvertently taping over the video, which was usually on a twenty-four-hour loop. Tracy had called the convenience store after leaving Jensen to ask about a videotape. The owner said he had a system, though it was dated. He would search the tape to determine if it had been copied over. Tracy had given him the time on the store receipt to expedite the process.
“He’s in the back.” The young man pointed to a swinging door at the rear of the store. A posted sign read “Employees Only.” “He said you were coming. He’s in his office. Go through that door. It’s the room on your left. You can’t miss it.”
Close to Home (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 5) Page 8