Every Fear Page 17

Had it gone bad, it might’ve started him drinking again.

  Fortunately, Krofton knew Boulder and stood up for Jason’s dad. Calls were made. The agency explained things to Sinclair and calmed him down after his meeting with the FBI in Detroit. In the end, Krofton was cool with it all because he said it proved his agency was topflight in investigations, helping the police on a major case and all. It made the agency look good.

  Jason had just begun polishing the last few paragraphs when his line rang.

  “Wade.”

  “It’s Grace Garner. You got a minute?”

  For a second or two he guessed at the reason for her call. Maybe an ID had been made?

  “Sure.”

  “Not over the phone. Someplace quiet for a face-to-face.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, it won’t take long.”

  Pete Anthony’s Grill was a twenty-four-hour Greek diner. Slivered into a south downtown sidestreet amid warehouses near the waterfront, it was almost out of sight.

  It had a low, black-beamed ceiling, black oak paneling, dark hardwood floors, and lights that dropped down low, creating halos over each table.

  Grace was alone in a back booth, private with high-back seats, stirring tea. After settling in across from her, Jason checked his watch, then ordered a Coke.

  “What’s this about?”

  “You’ll keep it totally off the record?”

  “Depends. You called me.”

  “It has to be off the record. Nothing I say here is used. We never had this meeting.”

  “Fine.”

  “Your word.”

  “Yes.”

  “I trust you. After meeting your editor and everything that happened before and after, I still think we could work together.”

  “Did Boulder send you?”

  Offense flashed in her eyes.

  “No one knows I’m here.”

  He searched her face for any hint of an ulterior motive. Looking into her eyes, up close like this, was nice.

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “Look, I want to try to work together on this. You impressed the unit with the stuff you come up with. Sure, it ticks them off, but you dig. Today, with your dad, well.. .sorry about that.”

  “You’re not playing good cop to Boulder, are you, Grace?”

  “Would you drop that?”

  “Got an ID on Brimerley?”

  “No, that won’t come until tomorrow. After an autopsy.”

  “Any idea who she is, her story, that kind of thing?”

  “No.”

  “You guys find sneakers, like the kind you pulled out of the abduction in Ballard?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “Any trace of Dylan Colson?”

  “Nothing yet, everything’s preliminary, the CSI people are just getting started. Tell me, what do you think about the Colsons?”

  Grace’s question surprised him.

  “I don’t know. By all accounts they seem like fine, upstanding people. Why?”

  Grace shrugged.

  “How’s Maria doing? She going to survive?”

  “Family’s talking about last rites with a priest. Don’t you dare print that.”

  “Why are you asking me about the Colsons? What do you suspect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how does this homicide factor into everything? You think someone killed your Jane Doe for her license plates?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well.” Jason glanced at his watch. “It’s been nice, Grace.”

  “Wait. I need to ask you something, a favor.”

  “You can ask.”

  “If you get a tip at the paper, will you consider sharing?”

  “As long as you do the same for me?”

  Grace nodded.

  “As long as it doesn’t risk my case. Listen, we may have something coming, like before, only bigger this time, and I want to work with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something we need to put out.”

  “You want to use me.”

  “No. I want to work directly with you.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at him for a long, lingering moment.

  “Your reporting on this case is strongest and it’s my feeling that the people behind the abduction and murder follow your stories closely.”

  Jason listened.

  “Through you, I think we can communicate directly to them.”

  He stared at her, at the stress and intensity in her eyes.

  “Jason, I’m risking a lot here. I’m a lead detective on a multiagency investigation with the FBI. This has to stay just between me and you.”

  “You won’t even tell Boulder?”

  “No. And you don’t tell Spangler.”

  “Just you and me, Grace. Deal.”

  They shook hands. It was the first time they’d touched. Something passed between them as Jason detected the promise of a smile on her face.

  36

  The morning after Jason Wade found the murdered woman on Brimerley Lane, her naked corpse lay on a stainless steel tray in the autopsy room of the King County Medical Examiner’s Office.

  It was in the Harborview Medical Center, downtown near the bay. Posted on the wall outside the Chief M.E.’s office was a credo. Part of it went, “The innocent shall be exonerated; murder shall be recognized.” Grace Garner considered it now as she looked upon the victim.

  Female. White. Five feet five inches. One hundred twenty-one pounds. Approximately thirty years of age.

  Who was she?

  Her ID still had not been confirmed. Fingerprints taken from her corpse were being bounced through AFIS, the Washington Highway Patrol, and a number of other databases. Eight possibles had surfaced, none confirmed. To ensure a visual match hadn’t been missed, Grace pushed for the prints to be reprocessed.

  She also traced the Toyota’s VIN number to point of purchase. It lead to a series of subsequent private sales that ended with Dorothy Mae Hall, the eighty-nine-year-old woman who owned the house.

  Dorothy Mae Hall’s profile offered no leads on family that would point to the murder victim. The possibility that aliases were used, or identities stolen, was one theory.

  Crime Scene was going 24-7 processing the house, the car, the property for anything leading to Dylan Colson and the homicide. So far, nothing had surfaced that would place Dylan at the address

  Grace needed the dead woman’s ID so she could pursue its link to Dylan’s abduction and his mother’s looming murder. Their initial canvass was a bust. Neighbors did not really know the people at the Brimerley Lane house. Or so they said. And the victim’s face was too disfigured for a photo to be of any use.

  As she adjusted her surgical mask, hairnet, and latex gloves, Grace stared hard at the corpse.

  Who are you? Why did your life end this way?

  She grappled with her questions and her own private fears that rose each time she witnessed an autopsy—especially those of women her age. It didn’t matter if they were a schoolteacher, a hooker, a lawyer, a nun, an abused wife, or a homeless heroin addict. The taking of a woman’s life forced her to secretly question her own.

  Would she die alone?

  Would she die with no children, no family, just a lonely woman too terrified to connect with anybody? Unless she did something about it, that was her destiny.

  Why?

  Because she believed the school shooting was her fault.

  Counselor after counselor had failed to purge Grace of her guilt. After all of these years, she still blamed herself for that day. God, why couldn’t she let it go? Maybe she needed to let someone into her life to help push the crap out. For a moment she thought of Jason.

  “Ready, Grace?”

  David Tanaka, the pathologist, and Al Sprung, his assistant, had suited up and were set to begin. The M.E.’s office had six other deaths to process that morning. An apparent electrocution, a suicide, an overdose, a gang shooting, an eld
erly couple who died in a house fire.

  Given that the Brimerley case was a homicide linked to the abduction of a Seattle baby and the possible murder of his mother, Grace’s client was the priority.

  Big-time.

  Tanaka, a short, intense man, and Sprung, who could be a defensive back for the Seahawks, had already put in long, hard hours. They had meticulously processed the body at the Brimerley house before it was placed into a body bag, put on a gurney, rolled into the van, and delivered to the center.

  At the M.E.’s office the body was weighed and tagged. All of the clothing was removed, then the body was X-rayed and photographed. Grace’s brow creased as she examined the woman’s chest and the scores of wounds.

  Stabbing.

  Off the top, she counted forty.

  “She’s been in the house for two weeks at least,” Tanaka said to Sprung.

  “Two weeks for sure,” Sprung agreed as they set out to work. “The rats have cleaned out her stomach, so it’s unlikely we’ll get a clear idea of its contents and her last meal.”

  Grace didn’t like witnessing autopsies. She didn’t like the coldness of the room; the smells of ammonia and formaldehyde; the odor of organs, their meaty shades of pink and red; the popping sound when the calvarium was removed, opening the skull to reveal the brain and dura; or seeing the primary Y incision in the chest as the pathologist worked through the identification, the external and internal examination of the body. She tried to keep up with Tanaka and Sprung, who also consulted the X-ray.

  “Here.” Sprung pointed a rubber-gloved finger. “A piece of the blade tip broke off around the spine. Some of the wounds, a good number, actually, went right through her.”

  Tanaka showed Grace how the victim had fought back.

  “See the defensive wounds on her hands, the deep gash in her palms. She tried to grab the knife.”

  When the autopsy was completed, Grace and Perelli met with Tanaka in his office. He had a spider plant and a huge print of Monet’s Garden Path at Giverny. He consulted his computer and worked quietly, inputting data, checking charts and other files, before his chair swiveled.

  “In my opinion, Grace, cause of death is attributed to one of at least seventy incised and stabbed wounds.”

  “At least seventy?”

  “It is impossible to count and detail them all. But I’ll break it down. There are about ten to the face and head, ten to the neck, thirty to the chest and stomach area, and some twenty incised wounds on both her hands, defensive wounds. And, as I’d mentioned, of that number, I’d estimate twenty wounds were penetrating.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Judging from the wound tracks, the cleavage, the thrust, I’d say your killer is left-handed. I’d say this was a direct-approach attack; not a blitz from behind, but a confrontational one. It would appear the victim put up a fight from the blood spray patterns. She would have sustained many of the injuries while standing, I’d say a third, judging from the entry points. The remainder would have been sustained while she was on the floor. Are you still looking for the knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s serrated, maybe an eight-to ten-inch blade, with a hilt that would have a pattern like this, see?” Tanaka drew three parallel lines. “Crime Scene might help there. And”—he pivoted to his computer and checked data—”I’d put time of death at approximately two weeks ago.”

  “But, David.” Grace looked at her notes. “At least seventy stab wounds?”

  Nodding thoughtfully, Tanaka stroked the shadow of a Vandyke on his chin.

  “It’s overkill. A frenzied attack. Indicative of someone whose rage is right off the charts.”

  Grace took a moment to absorb his analysis.

  “I’m just trying to get my head around it and decide if this woman is an innocent victim, or had some role to play in all of this.”

  Tanaka’s computer emitted a soft pong. He turned to check his e-mail.

  “Ah, this might help. Our Jane Doe now has a name,” he said, pointing at his monitor.

  Grace stood and stepped closer to Tanaka’s monitor, jotting down the info from the AFIS coordinator. Fingerprints confirmed the identity of the homicide victim at Brimerley Lane as

  Beth Ann Bannon. DOB 02/10/74

  Height: 5 feet 5 inches.

  Weight: 126 pounds Eye Color: Blue. Hair Color: Brown

  Address: 6099 60th Street N.E., Seattle, WA

  37

  After leaving the medical examiner’s office, Grace and Perelli stood at the side door of a neat-as-a-pin bungalow that was sheltered by a grove of mature trees.

  Grace was about to press the buzzer a second time when a woman in a beige sweater and matching slacks answered.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Garner, this is Detective Perelli. Seattle Police.”

  They held out IDs.

  “Police?”

  “Does Beth Bannon reside at this address?”

  “Yes. Well, she used to. Is something wrong?”

  “May we come in, please?”

  Stepping inside, Grace estimated the woman to be in her forties. She had a kind, attractive face. Intelligent eyes. Her home was immaculate, with oak floors, a sofa and matching love seat in the spacious living room where they sat. The air was pleasant with the aroma of something in the oven. Cookies? It was a relief from the autopsy room.

  “We need to confirm your name, ma’am.” Perelli opened his notebook.

  “Vanessa Harlow.”

  “And you are the homeowner here?”

  “Yes. Please, what’s this about?”

  “And where are you employed?”

  “At the university. I’m an administrative assistant in the history department.”

  Grace opened a file folder to a clear color image from Beth Bannon’s driver’s license. Not homely, not pretty either. Plain. The kind of face you’d easily miss in a crowd.

  “Can you confirm for us who this is?”

  “That’s Beth.” Vanessa nodded, her face growing pale. “I’m feeling uncomfortable and you’re making me worry. Was there an accident?”

  Grace exchanged a quick look with Perelli, then took a quick inventory of Vanessa’s tasteful home and how it smelled of baking. Taking stock of this quiet, private woman whose friend was on a tray in the cooler in the morgue, her body covered with stab wounds; knowing the savage way she’d died; how the rats had traveled from the vacant lot to feed on her corpse; and how this case was linked to Dylan Colson, Grace moved closer to Vanessa and took her shoulder.

  “There is no easy way to tell you this, but Beth’s been killed.”

  “What? No.”

  “She was found murdered yesterday.”

  “Murdered! Oh God! I don’t understand. Dear Lord. Why?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “No. Who would hurt her? This has to be a mistake!”

  Vanessa turned away but did not leave. Her soft crying and the ticking of her grandmother’s clock on the mantel were the only sounds in her house. Long minutes passed until the oven timer beeped.

  Grace rose and switched it off as Vanessa collected herself.

  “Vanessa”—Grace moved a box of tissues near her—”when was the last time you spoke with Beth?”

  “About a week ago. She called me.”

  “What did she talk about?”

  “She was worried about Dorothy. Dorothy Hall, the woman whose house she took care of. Dorothy’s in a home. She’s nearly ninety and very sick. Is that where you found Beth? In Dorothy’s house?”

  “Yes. So Beth was house-sitting for Dorothy?”

  “They’d met a few years ago through Beth’s church and became friends. That’s when Beth kind of moved out of here to take care of Dorothy’s house and things.”

  Perelli made notes, then asked, “Did Beth ever talk about Lee or Maria Colson?”

  “Lee or Maria Colson? Colson? You mean the couple whose baby was abdu
cted?” Vanessa glanced at her blank television screen.

  The detectives nodded.

  “Why? No, I don’t think she knows them.”

  “Did she ever talk about financial problems, or debts?” Grace asked.

  “No. Money was never a concern for her as far as I know.”

  “She use drugs or gamble?”

  “Beth? No.”

  “Do you know if she had any enemies, anyone who would want to harm her?”

  “My Lord, no. Beth’s a kind, gentle person. An unassuming person.”

  “Tell us about her background, please.”

  “We met several years ago at the university. She was a secretary, a newlywed. But after her marriage failed, she was devastated and I invited her to move in with me. My husband died of a heart attack years ago.”

  “What about Beth’s ex?”

  “I think he moved back to Virginia. I think he’s with the Army and may have been posted overseas.”

  “Can you get his name for us?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “They have kids?”

  “No.”

  “She remarry, or date? Any boyfriends?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell us a little more about her personality, her jobs?”

  “She’s always busy with her volunteer work, charity groups, works a lot. I think she helps at hospitals. I think she worked part-time with a temp agency. Before that, long ago, I think she worked in a law office, maybe a social service agency, and a bank. I liked having her as a roommate. We were good company for each other.”

  “Why did she move out?”

  “Well, she didn’t move out entirely. She got to know Dorothy through her charity work at the church and they became close. All of Dorothy’s family had passed and it seemed Beth was Dorothy’s only friend in the world. Dorothy loved her house on Brimerley and did not want it sold. She wanted Beth to live there and that’s what she did. Sort of lived there and here, because, well, I liked having her here too.”

  Grace and Perelli glanced around.

  “Vanessa,” Perelli said, “we’d like you to write down a list of all the places where Beth worked or volunteered. We know that several years back she worked at the Eagle Pacific Bank because that’s where she was fingerprinted.”