Betrayal of Trust (11 page)

“Actually, I'm not a crime scene dolt,” she replied, giving the last three words an emphasis I recognized as nothing short of menacing. “I'm still a detective, and I work for S.H.I.T., too, right along with Mr. Beaumont here. If you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell out. There's a captain with the Washington State Patrol downstairs talking to the governor. Her name is Joan Hoyt. Give her your information. When we're ready for you to come pick up the remains, we'll have Captain Hoyt give you a call.”

Had I said the very same words, the results might have been quite different, but since the orders seemed to come from an entirely unexpected quarter, they threw Mowat for a loss. He didn't know quite how to react. He looked uncertainly from Mel to me and then back at Mel again.

“You can't talk to me that way,” he complained. “It's disrespectful.”

“Sorry,” she said with a shrug.

Mel said the word “sorry,” but with her, tone of voice is everything. I understood exactly what she meant, as in, “Too bad. I just did talk to you that way.” She wasn't sorry in the least.

Mowat stalked across the room and wrenched open the door. The three CSI guys were still waiting in the hall. From the way they were chuckling among themselves, there could be little doubt that they had heard the whole exchange. What's more, they had evidently loved every word of it.

“Weren't you a little tough on the poor guy?” I asked Mel in an undertone once Mowat was gone.

“Are you kidding?” she said. “When I was down here in Olympia working on a special project, that guy tried to put the make on me.”

“In that case,” I replied, “you weren't nearly tough enough.”

The Washington State Patrol crime scene team entered stage left. It was made up of three guys—three experienced guys. They may have come into the room laughing at Dr. Mowat's expense, but they got over it in a hurry and went to work. Someone higher up the food chain had given them marching orders. This was the governor's mansion. The dead boy was the governor's stepgrandson. The team had been told to do what they had to do, process the scene, take their photos, be respectful, and get the hell out.

I noticed they took particular care in untying the end of the necktie rope from the doorknob. One of the CSI techs coiled it as gently as possible and then stowed it in a waiting evidence bag.

People assume that you have to have a hard surface to collect fingerprints, and they did check every hard surface, but that's yesterday's technology. I knew from past experience that it might well be possible to collect usable fingerprints from the silk ties, too. More important, however, there was almost certain to be DNA evidence caught on the material. The problem was, in addition to trace evidence from Josh and from whoever might have worn the ties long in the past, there was probably also DNA evidence from the EMT who had cut down the body.

One of the techs was in charge of taking photos. Every time he snapped a picture, Mel used her little digital camera to photograph the same item. She took the photos while I took notes that would explain each of the photos for easy reference. The WSP crime scene photos would be the official ones—the ones that would be part of any legal proceeding. They would be available to us in good time, which is to say eventually or whenever the state patrol got around to giving them to us. Mel's photos would fill in the gap and give us working copies we could use in the meantime.

As far as I was concerned, the watch was possibly the most important piece of evidence in the room. I was dying to see if it was the supposedly missing graduation Seiko. I didn't make a fuss about it because I didn't want to give away our prior involvement. Instead, I waited patiently while the photographer finished with his pictures of the body.

Since someone had cut Josh down, we all understood that the pictures of the body in situ probably weren't all that important. Still, everybody played along and went through the entire protocol charade all the same.

“Okay,” the photographer said at last. “I'm done. You can call the M.E. back anytime.”

“First I need to see the watch,” I said.

Obligingly one of the techs turned Josh's wrist over so the face of the watch was visible. My distance vision is fine. It's up close where I need reading glasses, and I was able to read the logo with no difficulty—Seiko. Just yesterday, Josh Deeson had told us that the watch he'd been given for graduation was lost. Now, inexplicably, it was back.

On pieces of property, especially watches and cameras, sales receipts and serial number information can often be verified if you go to the trouble of digging far enough. If this really was the supposedly missing watch, then where had it been while it had been among the missing, and how had it been returned?

The crime scene photographer leaned in and took a close-up photo of the watch with his camera. As soon as he moved out of the way, Mel did the same thing with hers.

The crime scene guys were packing up to go when the door swung open again. I was amazed to see Gerry Willis standing in the hallway. His face looked gray. He had abandoned his wheelchair on the ground floor. He was panting and leaning heavily on a walker. It had taken tremendous effort on the First Husband's part to make it all the way up to the third floor. I doubted Governor Longmire had any idea of where he was or what he was doing.

He stood there in the open doorway staring at Josh's bare feet. That was all that was visible from behind the half-open closet door.

Of all the people in the room, Mel was the one who came to her senses first. She didn't tell Gerry he shouldn't have come all the way upstairs. And she didn't deny him entrance to the room, although, since it was still an active crime scene, she most certainly could have. Instead, she hurried to the door, took Gerry by the arm, and gently escorted him over to the bed.

“You should probably sit down and catch your breath,” she said.

Gerry Willis nodded gratefully, but before he took a seat, he reached out and smoothed the part of Josh's bedspread that Larry Mowat had left rumpled. Only when the bed was perfectly smooth again, as Josh must certainly have left it, did Gerry turn his walker around and ease himself down onto the mattress.

From that perspective, I knew that Josh's body was completely exposed. In another minute or so, the CSI guys would have covered the corpse with something, but right at that moment, they hadn't.

Gerry looked at the body for a moment, then he looked away, shaking his head sadly as tears spilled out of his eyes and dripped off his cheeks.

“Josh was meant to be a good boy,” he said hopelessly. “I failed him, just like I failed his mother.”

Chapter 11

F
ar too often in my life I've been the one to bring parents—many times unsuspecting parents—the dreadful news that their beloved children are dead—that they've been murdered by some known or unknown assailant. Most of the time, the grief they feel rises up like a huge ocean wave—an emotional tsunami—that wipes out everything in its path. Losing a child to murder is awful.

And, having lost a wife to suicide, I can tell you that the anguish I felt after losing Anne Corley was worse than anything that ever happened to me. Nothing before and nothing since has ever come close.

But this was different. This was the suicide of a child, and Gerry Willis had been charged with the care and keeping of that lost child. The poor man's understandable anguish seemed to suck the air out of the room. I didn't say I understood how he felt, because I didn't. Besides, saying something like that would have diminished us both. Mel got that, too.

“I'm so sorry,” she said softly. “Is there anything we can do?”

Gerry didn't answer her for a long time. Instead, he sat there staring at his grandson's still body and let tears flow unchecked. Finally he wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders. I thought he was going to stand up. Instead, a puzzled frown crossed his face.

“I wonder where he found it,” he said. “He hadn't worn it for several weeks. He told me he lost it, and I was pissed off about it because I paid good money for that watch. I expected him to take better care of it, but then last night, when he came to dinner, there it was on his wrist. I meant to ask him about it, but as you can imagine, last night's dinner wasn't a time for casual conversation.”

Mel and I exchanged glances. We had both been in this very room earlier that afternoon and had heard Josh tell us the watch was lost. How was it possible that it turned up so soon after that discussion? And where had it been in the meantime?

I looked around the room, where everything was neat as a pin—where absolutely nothing was out of place. Josh Deeson had come to this house with next to nothing. He hadn't lost his mother's Bible. It didn't make sense that in all this excessive neatness he had somehow misplaced a relatively expensive watch that had to have counted as one of his prized possessions. Then again, since it came from his grandfather, maybe Josh hadn't prized it all that much after all.

“Can I have it?” Gerry asked. “If you don't mind, I'd really like to keep it.”

Just then all those years of being a homicide cop kicked into overdrive. “I'm sorry, but you can't have it right now,” I said. “It's still part of the crime scene. We were about to bag it and take it into evidence, but I'll make sure it gets back to you.”

“Promise?” Gerry asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I promise.”

The CSI guys were still in the room and they had been taking in every word of the conversation. Without being asked, one of the techs obligingly slipped the watch off Josh's wrist. He placed the Seiko in a glassine bag and then passed it along to the guy who was keeping the evidence log.

Gerry looked back at Josh's still body. “What happens next?” he asked.

“The M.E. will have to come collect the body,” I told him.

“And then an autopsy?” Gerry's voice cracked over that last word. Josh's voice had cracked because he was a boy becoming a man. His grandfather's voice broke because now that transformation would never happen.

“Yes,” Mel said gently. “Under the circumstances, an autopsy is required by law.”

Gerry shuddered. “I see,” he said.

Then, heaving a sigh, he grabbed hold of the handles on the walker and pulled himself upright. “I'd better be going,” he said. “Before Marsha figures out I'm gone.”

Suspicions confirmed. Governor Longmire had no idea that Gerry had made the long pilgrimage up to the third floor, to the attic, as he had once called it.

“If you'll give us a couple more minutes to finish packing up, Mr. Willis,” one of the CSIs said, “we can give you a hand getting back down the stairs. And then I'll let Captain Hoyt know to send the M.E. and his guys back upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Gerry said. “That would be a big help. I think getting back down the stairs on my own might be more than I can handle.”

So much for the guys the medical examiner had scathingly referred to as the CSI “dolts.” I'd take one of them over Dr. Larry Mowat any day of the week.

Once they took Gerry with them and headed downstairs, Mel and I were left alone for the first time in the better part of an hour.

“What do you think about the note?” I asked.

“He was planning on dying,” Mel said. “If he did this because he was involved in the strangulation of that girl, it seems to me that he would have stepped up and accepted responsibility instead of denying it. On the other hand, if he didn't do it, why commit suicide? What was it he couldn't stand anymore?”

It was gratifying to know that Mel and I were on the same wavelength.

“Did you talk to Zoe?” I asked.

Mel shook her head. “The doctor got there too soon. He said he was giving her a sedative and wouldn't let me hang around. I did talk to Todd, though. He says he has a photo for us. He sent a jpeg with pretty reasonable resolution to my computer. I used my air card to send it to Katie Dunn. I asked her to run us off a couple hundred copies. I have a feeling we're going to need them. But what's the deal with the watch?”

“The watch was missing for a period of time. If someone else had it while it was MIA,” I said, “what's the best way to carry a watch?”

“On your wrist,” Mel answered.

“So maybe whoever had the watch made that same mistake? I'm sure the crime lab will find Josh's DNA stuck between the links. With any kind of luck, someone else's DNA will be stuck there, too.”

“But these are kids,” Mel objected. “What are the chances that their DNA will be in any of the databases?”

“What are the chances that we'll find the same DNA and/or fingerprints on that blue scarf?”

“Got it,” Mel said with a smile. “Because one of the people pulling on that scarf was also wearing the watch, but if the kid's prints aren't in the system, that still won't help us.”

That's what happens in investigations—you take two steps back for each step forward.

Dr. Mowat turned up about then carrying a body bag and bringing with him two beefy assistants.

“It's about time,” he grumbled. “I've had my guys waiting downstairs for damned ever.”

We stayed long enough to see the body zipped into the bag and loaded onto a gurney. I didn't envy the two assistants the job of taking a loaded gurney back down the stairs. I also didn't envy their having to work for Mowat.

Mowat started to follow the gurney down the hallway. When my cell phone rang he stopped, waiting, I suppose, to see if the call had anything to do with him.

“How's it going?” Ross Connors wanted to know.

“They're just now picking up the body.”

“So that jerk Mowat is there?” he asked.

“At the moment,” I answered.

“And it's definitely suicide?”

“Sure looks like it.”

“I got off the phone with Katie a few moments ago,” Ross continued. “Tell Mel that the copies of that photo she asked for are ready.”

“Do you want us to stop by and pick them up?”

“No,” Ross said. “I don't want either one of you anywhere near the office down there. Since the WSP crime lab people were on the premises, people will most likely assume they're handling the investigation. I want to leave it that way for the time being. Of course, that's counting on some discretion from Larry Mowat, which is probably leaning on a bent reed.

“Anyway, I told Katie to put the photos in an envelope and leave them for you at the desk at the Red Lion. And as for the garbage . . .”

I had been so tied up with the crime scene investigation that I had somehow assumed that my garbage-sorting detail had gotten lost in the shuffle. Not so.

“I had one of my friends empty the garbage cans in question into a pair of tarps. He's taken them to one of those self-storage unit places just off the freeway down in Tumwater.” He started to dictate the name and address.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me write this down.”

Once I had pen in hand, he gave me the information.

“Go in, ask to speak to the manager on duty. That'll be Rebekah Ming.” It was an unusual name, and he had to spell it out for me. “Show her your ID, tell her Ross sent you,” he continued. “She'll give you the key.”

“Great,” I said. “That's exactly how I wanted to spend the rest of my day.” I didn't say “sorting garbage” aloud because Dr. Mowat was right there, listening to every word.

“Right,” Ross said cheerfully. “That's why I pay you the big bucks.”

“Not enough,” I grumbled. “Maybe it's time I asked for a raise.”

“Just be sure you get to the storage unit before five,” Ross said. “That's when Rebekah goes off duty, and she's my guy, if you will. She also knows about what's being dropped off there. When you finish going through the stuff, she'd like you to drag everything that's left out to their Dumpsters and get rid of it. With it being summer and all, they don't want that stuff left inside overnight attracting vermin.”

“Yes,” I said. “I understand. I'll get right on it first thing this afternoon.”

I also understood all too well that it was going to be a dirty, smelly job.

Mel waited until I ended the call. “Okay,” she said for Dr. Mowat's benefit and again without mentioning the word “garbage.” “Let's go downstairs and see if we can interview members of the family.”

The situation on the ground floor of the governor's mansion had changed remarkably in the length of time—close to two hours—since Mel and I had gone upstairs. Time flies when you're having fun. Earlier, except for a couple of cop cars and Dr. Mowat's van, the driveway had been empty. Now it was packed with people—media people—with a full contingent of reporters equipped with camera crews and microphones. Mel's Cayman was stuck right in the middle of a traffic jam of media vans. The only way we were going to extract her vehicle was by using a winch and a crane.

Captain Hoyt of the Washington State Patrol met us at the bottom of the stairs. “The reporters are waiting for a statement,” she said, nodding toward the crowd milling outside. “Are you going to do the press conference or should I?”

“Go ahead,” I said. “By all means.”

Besides, I knew Ross Connors would have my head if I put my mug in front of a television camera.

Captain Hoyt turned to Mel as if for verification.

“Please,” Mel said. “We need to talk to the family.”

“All right,” Captain Hoyt said dubiously. “But don't say I didn't give you first dibs.”

Mel and I let her go with cheery good wishes. Once Captain Hoyt has a few bad media experiences to her credit, she might see giving a press conference in the same kind of light Mel and I do—which is right up there with going to the dentist for a root canal.

I looked toward the study. Inside I counted at least four visitors in the room in addition to Marsha Longmire. That count made for two more occupants than the room could comfortably hold. Mel and I were standing there trying to decide what to do when Gerry Willis appeared in the doorway of the dining room, two rooms away. He was still using the walker, but he looked somewhat better. Like the governor, he seemed to have gathered his resources, composed himself, and put on his “company” face. He motioned for us to come to him. I think he was still tired from his long trip up and down the stairs.

“We were hoping to conduct some family interviews,” I ventured.

“Marsha is busy with some of her big donors, Zoe's still sleeping, and Giselle is at her dad's place,” Gerry said. “That leaves only me. Come have some lunch.”

Mel and I had missed breakfast, and we had both missed lunch. The last food that had passed my lips had been the peach cobbler and ice cream at Julie and Todd Hatcher's place the night before. As hungry as I was right then, even one of Marsha Longmire's unadulterated tuna sandwiches would have been welcome. Once I caught sight of the chow laid out buffet style on the dining room table, however, I realized that it was Tuesday. A miracle had occurred. The governor's cook was back from her day off, and she had whipped up a spread that would have done most church potlucks proud.

“We expect people will start stopping by once word gets out,” Gerry said. “Help yourselves.”

And so we did. I picked up a small china plate from a stack on the buffet along with a tiny cloth napkin. Yesterday's sandwiches had been served on paper napkins. Today was different—real dishes and real napkins. The cook evidently made the food and washed the dishes.

I loaded my plate with a couple of deviled eggs, some slices of ham and cheese, some grapes from a tray heaped high with fruit, and a freshly baked biscuit still hot from the oven. On a sideboard sat a coffee urn flanked by rows of china cups and saucers. There were also rows of glassware clustered around pitchers filled with various kinds of fruit juices and iced tea. Apparently an army of friends was expected rather than just a few, but at that point Mel, Gerry, and I were the only people in the dining room.

We hadn't attempted to interview Gerry upstairs in Josh's room. For one thing, the CSI techs had been there. For another, the poor man had been too overcome with emotion. It seemed likely that this would be one of our last chances to see him alone. Once crowds of well-wishers descended on the governor's mansion, that wouldn't be possible. I set my loaded plate on one corner of the dining room table. Then I sat down and pulled out my notebook. As soon as I did so, Mel reached in her purse. I didn't have to ask. I knew she was switching on her powerful cassette recorder.