In the Clearing (10 page)

He found himself looking down on an oval-shaped clearing, an amphitheater of green and brown. It looked like something man-made, but he was certain it was natural. For one, no stumps littered the sight to indicate that it had been logged. And two, who would have bothered?

The tire treads stopped at the top of the hill, with nothing on the downhill side until the flat area at the bottom, where the ground looked like it had been torn up good. Buzz’s heart started to pound with a rush of adrenaline, which had nothing to do with the exertion from climbing the hill. He turned and hurried back down the way he’d come, using his forearms to push the foliage aside where the path narrowed.

When he reached his patrol unit, he opened the passenger-side door and hit the button on the glove box. It sprang open, ejecting the Instamatic camera and the extra rolls of film.

CHAPTER 8

T
racy made two detours on her way to the Justice Center on Monday morning. First, she drove to the King County Medical Examiner’s Office on Jefferson Street, in an area of Seattle referred to as Pill Hill because of the abundant number of hospitals and doctor’s offices, and the blood bank. She met Kelly Rosa in the building lobby. Rosa had been the forensic anthropologist in charge of exhuming Sarah’s body from its shallow hillside grave and performing an analysis of the remains. She and Tracy had known one another for several years and had become close working cases together.

“Is that it?” Rosa asked, meeting Tracy in the lobby.

Tracy handed Rosa an envelope containing a copy of the coroner’s report on Kimi Kanasket, which included the photographs.

Rosa opened the package and slid out the report, holding it at arm’s length. “Lord, is this some kind of eye exam? What year is this?”

“1976.”

“You said it was old. Klickitat County? No medical examiner. It was likely farmed out to a local pathologist.”

“That’s what I figured.”

Rosa took out the photographs, considering them a moment before sliding them back into the envelope. “It’s going to be a while,” she said. “I’m testifying in that Carnation matter, and we’re pretty backed up here.”

Everyone in Seattle knew what Rosa meant by “the Carnation matter.” After years of legal delays, a woman and her boyfriend were on trial for the brutal murder of the woman’s entire family on Christmas Eve. And while Rosa worked for the King County medical examiner, she was also available to all thirty-nine counties in Washington State.

“I understand,” Tracy said. “I don’t need it tomorrow.”

“You said she was swept away in a river?”

“That’s the scenario.”

“I know a guy,” Rosa said. “Worked with him once on another case where a body was found in a river. Let me take a look, and then I’ll decide if we should bring him in or not.”

“Sounds good,” Tracy said.

“He’s not bad to look at either,” she said, smiling. Then the smile faded. “Maybe one of these days we’ll work an easy one together.”

“You wouldn’t be involved if it was an easy one.”

From the medical examiner’s office, Tracy made her second detour, to the King County Courthouse on Third Avenue. The sheriff’s office was located in room W-116. Kaylee Wright, a senior crime-scene analyst—known in the profession as a “sign-cutter” or “man-tracker”—was at her desk, which was rare. Ordinarily, Wright spent much of her time out looking for bodies in remote locations, or teaching classes around the world on the science behind sign-cutting and its relevance in modern forensics. Tracy didn’t have to be convinced. She’d witnessed Wright’s work firsthand. Wright could tell not only the types of shoes the victim and perpetrators were wearing, but where each had stepped and who’d stepped there first. She could even tell from analyzing blades of grass if the person had been standing or sitting or lying on the ground.

At five eleven, Wright was one of the few women in law enforcement taller than Tracy, and she maintained the build that had made her a college volleyball player. When she and Tracy worked cases together, like the shooting of a Russian drug dealer in Laurelhurst several years back, they were referred to as “Salt and Pepper” because of Tracy’s light complexion and blonde hair and Wright’s darker complexion and black hair.

Tracy handed her the envelope. “These are the originals. The negatives are in the front of each pack.”

“I’ll keep them safe,” Wright said, opening one of the envelopes and flipping through a few of the photos. “1976. I was two then.”

“So was I,” Tracy said.

“They look like good shots, given what the photographer was working with back then. I’m guessing from the quality and the date stamp that whoever took these used an Instamatic of some sort. You sure you don’t want to give me a hint about what I’m looking at?”

Tracy wanted Kelly Rosa’s and Kaylee Wright’s analyses to be completely independent and not influenced by anything Tracy told them, though admittedly she didn’t know much at this point.

“I’m not certain what’s depicted or why,” Tracy said. “I’m hoping you can tell me.”

Wright slid the pack of photographs back into the envelope. “All right. I like a challenge. How soon do you need it? I’m leaving for a conference in Germany tomorrow.”

“Must be rough,” Tracy said. “Berlin?”

“Hamburg. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds—meetings and panels every day. I intend to sample several German beers.”

“Barry going with you?”

“Did I mention there will be German beer?”

“So it’s working out?”

“We’ll find out. They say it’s a good test if you can stand each other while traveling in a foreign country. How are you and Dan getting along?”

“So far, so good.” Tracy checked her watch. “I better get in. Kins and I pulled that murder in Greenwood, and he carried the burden while I was away this weekend. Enjoy Germany. Hoist a beer or two for me.”

The city had recently begun calling the Justice Center building “Police Headquarters.” “Justice Center” apparently now referred to the adjacent building on Fifth Avenue that housed King County’s municipal court. To Tracy and the veterans, though, the SPD building would always be the Justice Center. Whatever the name, one thing that hadn’t changed was the volume of Vic Fazzio’s gravelly voice and New Jersey accent when Tracy stepped off the elevator onto the seventh floor. She heard Faz well before she entered the A Team’s square-shaped bull pen.

“You got a hot date, Sparrow?” Faz was saying. He liked to use the nickname bestowed on Kins when he’d worked undercover narcotics and he had grown out his hair and a wispy goatee like the Johnny Depp character in the
Pirates of the Caribbean
movies.

“You’re wearing enough aftershave, you could become an honorary Italian,” Del said.

“I’d have to put on a hundred pounds to join ‘your’ club,” Kins said.

“Like I’d be in a club that would have Fazzio,” Del said.

Faz and Del looked to have been plucked straight from central casting as bodyguards in a mafia movie like
The Godfather
. At the moment, they sat at their cubicles but with their chairs swiveled to face Kins, who was at his desk across the center workstation.

“Hey, Professor, check out our boy Joe Friday,” Faz said when Tracy entered the bull pen, referring to the suit-wearing detective from the TV series
Dragnet
.

Kins stood up from his chair holding his coffee mug. “If I had known wearing a suit was going to make the news, I would have dressed like a bum like you two.” Kins nodded to Tracy to follow him. “Brother of Tim Collins called. Wants to talk. I got a lot to fill you in on.”

Tracy turned to follow.

“Hey, Professor,” Faz called out. “I got a gas mask you could borrow for the elevator ride.”

Kins brought Tracy up to date on what had transpired over the weekend, including Angela Collins and Atticus Berkshire coming in and giving a statement. Tracy was as surprised as Kins that Berkshire had allowed it.

“There must be a reason,” she said. “Berkshire doesn’t do anything unless it helps his client or stirs the pot.”

Mark Collins lived in an upper-class section of Madrona, a neighborhood fifteen minutes east of downtown Seattle that extended from the top of the hill to the shores of Lake Washington. Collins’s stately Georgian-style red brick home was likely worth a couple million dollars in the current hot market. He answered the door in khakis and a button-down. He looked like his younger brother, though taller and thinner, and while his brother was blond, Mark had red hair.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, sounding and looking grim. He led them into a den with an impressive flat-screen TV that nearly took up an entire wall. “Can I offer you anything to drink? Coffee? Water?”

“We’re good,” Kins said. “Our condolences to you and your family.”

Kins and Faz had spoken to the other members of Tim Collins’s family the night he was shot and the following day, but Mark had been traveling. Kins got the impression that, as the oldest, Mark was the patriarch, and the others were waiting for his guidance.

Mark Collins nodded. “I heard her father is arguing self-defense.”

“That appears likely,” Kins said.

Collins shook his head. “If anyone needed some self-defense, it was Timmy.”

Other members of the family had made similar statements. “How so?” Kins asked. He’d made the contact. Tracy sat taking notes.

“Angela is incredibly manipulative when she wants something. Over the years she wore Timmy down. She wore us all down.”

“How’d she do that?”

“She picked fights with each of us until none of us could stand being around her. One time, she’d start something with me; at another, it’d be my sister or my wife or my brother-in-law. Pretty soon, Timmy would say he couldn’t come for Sunday dinners because Angela didn’t feel comfortable. What we didn’t realize is she had done the same thing with all his friends. It was her way of isolating him.”

“For what purpose?”

“To manipulate him, get him to do what she wanted. Tim became very codependent.”

“Can you give me an example?”

Collins didn’t hesitate. He’d either thought about this, or he’d told others what he was about to tell them. “Tim made a good living, Detectives. He was an engineer at Boeing, but he nearly had to file for bankruptcy because of Angela’s spending. Either he bought her a new car or a boat, or the house she wanted, or the vacation they couldn’t afford, or she’d divorce him. Tim wouldn’t say no.”

“But she filed for divorce anyway?” Tracy said.

“And we were happy she did. We’d been working on Tim to leave her for years, but he wouldn’t because of Connor. Have you met him?”

“Briefly,” Kins said.

“So you know the kid is a bit fragile. Anyway, we finally got Tim to understand that the relationship wasn’t healthy. But he made the mistake of telling Angela he intended to file for divorce, and the next afternoon she served him with papers, including all the bullshit allegations.”

“Do you think she’d already consulted a lawyer, or was this done totally in reaction to your brother telling her he wanted a divorce?” Tracy asked.

“Definitely the latter. She was angry, and when Angela gets angry, she gets vindictive. Once Tim wanted a divorce and she realized she couldn’t use him anymore, she was hell-bent on destroying him.”

Mark picked up a sheet of paper from the coffee table and handed it to Kins. “Those are people who can confirm what I’m telling you—relatives and friends of Timmy’s.”

Kins took a moment to scan the multiple names and phone numbers before handing it to Tracy. “Did your brother ever mention any physical altercations with Angela?” he asked.

“Complete bullshit,” Mark said, anger creeping into his tone. “Total, complete bullshit. Timmy never laid a hand on her and never would. He also never cheated on her. I told his attorney to ask for names. Of course Angela couldn’t produce any. The first time she accused him of abuse was after they’d separated. Timmy went to the house to pick up Connor, and Angela confronted him, angry that he wasn’t giving her enough money, even though he was complying with the court order. Tim tried to get out the door, and Angela blocked his path. He nudged her as he stepped past. Next thing he knows, the police are at his apartment and take him away in handcuffs. Angela claimed he shoved her into the door and over a table.” Collins leaned forward as if to make a point. “And here’s the scariest part about Angela—she went to the hospital to be treated for bruises.”