Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (8 page)

“Thanks for the advice to the lovelorn,” I told him brusquely. “If you don't mind, next time I want some, I'll cut out the middleman and go straight to Ann Landers.”

My comment put an end to that particular conversation, but I had thought about it for days afterward. When I wasn't able to resolve it on my own, I had discussed it with Lars Jenssen, my AA sponsor. I was hoping, of course, that he would tell me Ralph was way off the beam. He didn't.

“I've noticed that myself,” he said. “It's like you meet a woman and before very long, you start building a case—picking out all the things that are wrong with her. Telling yourself why it would never work.”

“Maybe I just don't want to be tied down again.”

“That's a good one,” Lars had said with a laugh.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It's a nice, shiny excuse, picked right off the shelf. Sounds all right first time you hear it. But believe me, if an answer's that easy to come by, it's not the real answer. If I was you, I'd dig deeper.”

I hadn't really done much digging, but I could see that I was doing it again. Sitting there in Macrina, I had come up with a whole litany of things that were wrong with Cassandra Wolcott
before
I even met her.

My second cup of coffee was still half full when I pushed it away. “Check please,” I said. “I just remembered. I'm due at a meeting in half an hour.”

I left Macrina and headed north on 1st. Rather than turning east on Broad to return to Belltown Terrace, I walked two blocks farther and stopped in front of Lars Jenssen's four-story affordable-housing walk-up, the Stillwater Arms. Lars, twice retired—first from the navy and later from Seattle's fishing fleet—is the mainstay of my home AA group—the Regrade Regulars—which meets at a once-thriving restaurant and bar a few blocks back up 2nd. I rang Lars' apartment from the security phone next to the outside door. As usual, it took several rings for him to answer.

“Ja,” he said. “Who is it?”

“Beau. You going to the meeting tonight?” I asked.

“Ja, sure,” he told me. “Yust getting ready to leave right now. You downstairs?”

“I am, but if you want me to, I can go get the car and come back to pick you up.”

“What's wrong with walking?” Lars demanded. “I'm eighty-one. I'm not dead yet, and I'm sure as hell not so stove up that I can't walk that far. I'll be right down.”

Lars Jenssen's sole concession to age is a knobby walking stick he's taken to using in the past few months. We strolled the six blocks back uptown, reveling in the balmy spring weather. The meeting's drunkalogue that night was from a guy named Tommy. He had been coming to meetings for some time, principally to have his court-ordered attendance sheet signed. Tommy's lack of enthusiasm had been pretty apparent to all concerned. When it came time for sharing, he'd never said much.

Everybody who goes to AA walks in the door figuring his or her story is unique. Over time, though, all the stories begin to sound strangely alike. The details of each downward spiral may vary slightly, as do the reasons people finally go looking for help, but the broad outlines are much the same. When Tommy started to talk that night, I wondered what had finally pushed him over the edge.

The particulars weren't long in coming. He told the usual story of early experimentation with hard-core drinking along with the ability to drink prodigious amounts without appearing drunk, but those days were long gone. In the past few years the ability to hold his liquor had disappeared. As a result, in less than two years he had amassed a total of four DUI arrests as well as several domestic-violence runins with his wife. A wily defense attorney had helped Tommy beat all the charges except the last one. That judge had called a halt. He had sentenced Tommy to the King County Jail for six months, five of which were suspended on the condition that he seek treatment for anger management, and attend mandatory AA meetings.

Tommy had come to the meetings still steeped in denial and still harboring the unrealistic belief that now that he was sober, he'd be able to talk his wife out of divorce. Not true. Much to his surprise the divorce had become final the previous Friday. His first instinct had been to go out and get roaring drunk. He was in a bar waiting to order when something he had heard at one of the meetings came home to him. “You've got to do it for yourself. Yourself and nobody else.” He had left the bar without ordering a drink and had found his way to a meeting instead. For the first time, Tommy was coming to grips with the painful reality that both his wife and kids were gone for good.

I recognized the words. “You've got to do it for yourself” was one of Lars Jenssen's stock phrases. As Tommy ended his story, I caught Lars' eye and winked. He replied with a discreet thumbs-up. When the meeting was over, I had to wait around while Lars went up to Tommy and talked to him.

“Somebody else in need of a sponsor?” I asked when he finally came away.

Lars nodded. “Poor guy,” he added, as we made our way down the stairs. “Why is it we're all so dumb that we never realize we've got ourselves a good woman until after we've lost her?” Seven years earlier, Lars' wife Aggie had finally succumbed to the ravages of Alzheimer's disease.

Up against the backdrop of what was going on in Larry and Marcia Powell's life as well as what had happened to Sue Danielson and her kids, Tommy's story had hit surprisingly close to home. “I'm sure you're right,” I responded. “It's stupidity plain and simple.”

Out on the sidewalk, Lars paused and leaned on his stick. “I couldn't have asked for a better woman than Aggie,” he said thoughtfully. “It makes me sick, sometimes, to think how I treated that poor woman. Every once in a while, I wish God would give me another chance. I'd like to think I'd do better by her.”

Before I could comment one way or the other, the cell phone in my pocket shrilled. “Not that thing again,” Lars grumbled. “Whoever invented those confounded cell phones ought to be shot—no, make that tarred and feathered. Phones in houses is one thing, but out on the street, there ought to be a law against 'em.”

“Hello?” I said, ignoring him.

“Beau? It's Sue.”

“What's going on?”

“Chuck Grayson just called me.”

Sergeant Grayson was Watty Watkins' night-shift counterpart on the desk at Seattle Homicide.

“So? What did he want?”

“He says there's someone down at the department demanding to talk to one of the detectives on the Seward Park case.”

“At this time of night?”

“That's what I said. The problem is, I can't leave the house right now. I hate to play the mother card, Beau, but with everything that's going on right now, I don't want to leave the boys…”

“Don't worry about it, Sue. It's no trouble. I can be there in ten minutes.”

“You're not going to mind if I flake out on you this time?”

There was something in the sound of her voice—a worrisome tremor—that bothered me. “Are you okay?” I asked. “What's going on?”

“It's just that I told the boys my decision about not letting them miss school. They're both a little upset with me right now. I don't want to leave them alone.”

“They'll be okay eventually. In the meantime, you stay where you are. I'll handle whoever's down at the department.”

“Thanks, Beau,” she said. “I owe you. Call me when you finish up and let me know what's happening.”

“It might be late.”

“Don't worry,” she replied. “I doubt I'll sleep much tonight anyway. I'll call Grayson back right now and let him know you're on your way.”

She attempted to keep her response sounding offhand and upbeat, but the worrisome undertone I had noticed before was still there.

“Sue,” I said. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine. Really.”

Like hell you are,
I thought, but I didn't challenge her on it. If she was caught up in some kind of confrontation with her kids, no wonder she couldn't talk.

“Okay, then,” I told her. “No matter how late it is, I'll give you a call as soon as I get back. In the meantime, hang in there.”

“Thanks,” she said with a wary laugh. “I'll do my best.”

Lars and I had been walking while I talked on the phone. When I ended the call, we were already in front of Belltown Terrace.

“Sorry about that, Lars,” I said. “Duty calls. If you want to come in with me, I can give you a ride back to your place.”

“Forget it,” he grumbled. “I'd rather walk. When I'm by myself, at least I can walk in peace without the damned phone ringing every step of the way.”

W
hat's the scoop?” I asked Chuck Gray son once I made it to Homicide's home on the fifth floor. “Where's the person I'm supposed to see?”

“Her name's Darla Cunningham,” Chuck told me. “I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of stowing her in your cubicle.”

The truth of the matter was, I did mind. I don't like having stray people hanging around my office. “Great,” I growled irritably. “Makes perfect sense. Why not leave someone connected to one of my cases alone in my office? That way he or she can paw at will through whatever's out.”

My grousing didn't seem to make much of an impression on Sergeant Grayson. “Maybe you should consider not leaving things out,” he said pointedly. “In fact, until the desks and cubicles in Homicide become deeded property, you might actually make a practice of putting your stuff away. Besides, when I needed a place to put Ms. Cunningham, both interview rooms happened to be occupied.”

Behind me the door to the outside corridor swung open. I turned to see Paul Kramer stagger inside lugging a stack of boxes. “Hey, Beau,” he said. “Mind giving me a hand with these before I drop something?”

It took a second or two for me to realize where he was heading—Captain Powell's Fishbowl. Too stunned to object, I took the top box off the pile and then followed him into the office. I stood to one side while Kramer placed the other boxes on top of the desk. After collecting the one I was carrying and placing it with the others, he turned to admire his newly acquired territory.

“What do you think of my new digs?” he said with smug satisfaction oozing from every pore. “Isn't it great?”

“Unbelievable!” I replied.

I had learned that handy response years before in a sales seminar sponsored by Fuller Brush when I was working my way through school. Said with enough fervor, the word “unbelievable” can convey two diametrically opposed opinions. Something can be either unbelievably good or unbelievably bad, depending on your point of view. It's likely Chuck Grayson understood I meant the latter. Paul Kramer was so thrilled with himself at that point he didn't even notice. My one-word piece of sarcasm sailed cleanly over his head, missing the target completely, which is probably just as well.

“So far this is only an interim assignment,” he continued with oblivious enthusiasm. “But if I play my cards right, maybe I can make it permanent. Wouldn't that be something?”

“It would be something all right,” I agreed, edging toward the door.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Kramer added. “There's still one more load in my office upstairs. Would you mind helping me lug it down…”

“Sorry, Kramer,” I said. “I'm all tied up at the moment. There's someone waiting for me in my office.” With that, I bolted out of the Fishbowl and headed down the narrow corridor that leads to the cubicles.

The last thing I wanted to do just then was interview a potential witness. Paul Kramer calling the shots from Captain Powell's desk was an unthinkable joke. The whole idea of having him in charge made me want to gag first and shove my fist through a wall of Sheetrock second. From the first day Kramer had shown up on the fifth floor, everyone in Homicide had pegged him for the brown-nosing, ass-kissing jerk that he was. The problem was, we had all deluded ourselves into thinking that his strategy wouldn't work. We had convinced ourselves that the brass upstairs couldn't possibly be that stupid, but it seemed now that they were. They had fallen for Kramer's snow job. The son of a bitch was going to be my boss. As Bette Davis would have said, we had better fasten our seat belts. “Unbelievable” hardly covered it!

Wanting to regain my composure before entering the cubicle, I paused in the empty corridor and peered in through the open door. A woman was seated on the chair next to Sue Danielson's desk. At first glance, she appeared to be fast asleep. Her eyes were closed. Her head was propped against the wall behind her. Hands with long graceful fingers lay folded loosely in her lap.

“Ms. Cunningham?” I asked.

Almond-shaped, gray-green eyes blinked open and her head came up. With no momentary confusion or sign of transition, she went from being totally relaxed to being totally alert. “You must be Detective Beaumont,” she said, rising and holding out her hand. “I'm Darla Cunningham.”

Darla Cunningham's light brown hair, parted in the middle and utterly straight, hung almost to her narrow waist. She was dressed in a well-tailored business suit—a charcoal-gray blazer and matching skirt. A muted plaid pattern had been woven into the lightweight wool. The suit combined with a cream-colored silk blouse and low heels were a statement in upward mobility. The only piece that didn't quite fit the businesswoman image was the bone-and-bead choker necklace that encircled her long slender neck.
Upwardly mobile Native American,
I told myself.

Expectantly, she scanned the empty doorway behind me. “Where's Detective Danielson?” she asked with a frown.

“Sue isn't coming,” I said. “It'll just be the two of us.”

“Oh,” Darla Cunningham said, sounding oddly disappointed.

“Won't you have a chair, Ms. Cunningham? Then, if you don't mind, I'd like you to tell me what this is all about.”

Frowning still, she resumed the chair. For a moment or two she said nothing.

“Is there some particular reason you were interested in speaking to Detective Danielson, Ms. Cunningham? If you aren't comfortable speaking to a man, I could possibly arrange for another female detective…”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “That's not necessary. I'll be happy to talk to you, but I do have a question, Detective Beaumont. Do you believe in magic?”

Homicide investigations usually call for hard work—not magic. “Let me see,” I quipped. “There's ‘Puff the Magic Dragon' and…”

“I'm not kidding, Detective,” she said. The green seemed to disappear from her eyes, leaving them the color of flint. “This is a very serious matter. Lives are at stake.”

“Well then, seriously, I'd have to say no, I don't. Not really.”

“That's too bad,” Darla Cunningham said. “It would be easier for us both if you did. Let me ask you another question. Has the medical examiner's office given you any information regarding the bones that were found in Seward Park?”

“Not so far,” I said. “We're a little backed up. Detective Danielson and I are working another case as well, at the moment. Seward Park is pretty much on a back burner while we wait for more information. A troop of Explorer Scouts was supposed to comb the crime scene over the weekend in hopes of finding more remains, as well as some clues that might help with the identification process. As of now, I have yet to hear if they found anything.”

“Would you mind calling the medical examiner's office for me?” Darla asked. “I tried, but no one would talk to me or give me any information. I need to know, Detective Beaumont. It's a matter of life and death.”

If the ME's office had seen fit not to give her any information, it seemed wise to follow suit. “What kind of information are you looking for, Ms. Cunningham? What exactly is your connection to this case?”

“I may be able to help identify the victim.”

“Is it a relative of yours?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“What then?”

“Before I tell you anything more, I'd like to know one thing. Call the medical examiner's office and find out whether or not the bones belong to one of the People—to an Indian, I mean. If they do…”

“Depending on what kind of remains were found, the ME's office may or may not be able to tell…”

“Please,” Darla interrupted. “Just ask them. See what they say. If they say no, then obviously I'm wrong. If they say yes, I promise I'll tell you everything.”

Puzzled and more than a little impatient, I reached for the phone. Years of working homicide have indelibly imprinted any number of telephone numbers in my memory bank. The number for the King County medical examiner is right at the top of the list.

Back in the good old days, the phone rang and somebody answered or else you got a busy signal. Now a disembodied voice read off a menu for me to make a selection. The last choice and several more rings connected me to an actual human being.

“This is Audrey.”

Audrey Cummings is Doc Baker's fireplug of an assistant. Middle-aged and utterly no-nonsense, she's someone for whom I have the utmost respect.

“Detective Beaumont here,” I told her. “How come you're pulling a night shift? I thought once you got kicked upstairs to second in command that wasn't supposed to happen.”

Audrey laughed. “Me, too,” she said bleakly. “The problem is, we've got two people out sick tonight. Consequently, I'm filling in. What can I do for you, Beau?”

“I'm working the Seward Park bone case,” I said. “Did the Explorers come up with anything more this weekend?”

“Hang on,” Audrey said. “Let me check.”

Without actually putting me on hold, she left the receiver laying somewhere and was away from it for what seemed like a long time. In the background I could hear a radio or disc player dishing out classical music—a piano concerto of some kind. I've heard it said that Mozart makes you smart. I wondered if that was why Audrey was listening to that kind of music—in hopes of being smarter—or if it was her way to get through whatever it was she was doing just then.

“Here's the file,” she announced, coming back on the line. “Dirk Matthews was the investigator assigned to this case. Unfortunately, he's one of the ones who're out sick tonight.”

“Had he done any work on it?”

“A little, but not much. All we have so far are two femurs and a tibia. Long bones only. According to this, the Explorers didn't pick up any more than what Detective Danielson brought in last Wednesday. I can tell you that your victim is a male. Five seven or so. A hundred fifty pounds.”

“Race?” I asked.

“Native American,” she said.

I glanced in Darla Cunningham's direction. “Any idea how old he was or how long he's been dead?” I asked.

“We'd need a skull in order to estimate age,” she said. “We estimate age by looking at wear patterns on teeth. As to how long he's been dead, that's hard to tell since we don't know whether the bones were out in the open and exposed to the elements or if they were protected in some way.”

“Does that file have a case number?” I asked.

“Good grief, Beau. Your name's right here. What did you do, lose your secret decoder ring?”

She laughed at her own joke. I ignored it. “I was out of town when they assigned this one to me,” I told her. “And even though I'm actively working it, so far nobody's bothered to give me the number.”

“Don't get sore about it,” she said. “Here it is.”

After writing it down and thanking Audrey for her help, I put down the phone and turned back to Darla Cunningham. “All right,” I said. “The remains are those of a male Native American, but I suspect you already knew that.”

Darla nodded.

“Care to tell me how?” I asked.

“That's where the magic comes in. I'm not sure you're the right…”

“Try me,” I said.

“My father, Henry Leaping Deer, is a shaman,” she said.

“A shaman? You mean like a medicine man?”

“Sort of,” she said. “Only more so. If you'll pardon a math analogy, a medicine man to the tenth power.” She smiled then. Her teeth were perfectly straight and very, very white against a slightly olive complexion. “It's a long story,” she added.

I settled back in my chair. “Take your time,” I said. “I'm in no hurry.”

“My father is a Quinault from Taholah,” she said. “When he was little he got sent off to boarding school where he became friends with a classmate from the Port Madison Reservation, a boy named David Half Moon. The two of them were friends all through school. The summer between their freshman and sophomore years, they both went off on separate vision quests. When they came back to school that fall, they both had learned the same thing—that each of them was destined to be a shaman.

“After high school they went their separate ways, never seeing each other again, not until last Sunday night.”

“This Sunday?” I asked.

Darla shook her head. “No,” she said. “Sunday a week ago. That's when David Half Moon appeared to my father in a dream.”

I said nothing, but I must have shifted slightly in my seat. Darla paused. “You don't like all this mystical stuff very much, do you, Detective Beaumont?” she said. I said nothing. “Neither do I,” she continued. “I teach physics at the University of Washington. If some of my colleagues knew I was here telling you this strange story, I'd be laughed off the tenure track so fast it would make my head spin.”

“Go on,” I urged. “You were saying about your father's dream.”

“David Half Moon appeared to my father just as he was long ago when they were both boys. That's how my father recognized him. He said that some Anglo boys had taken him from the tribal burial grounds into the city. He said it was my father's duty, as David's friend and as a fellow shaman—professional courtesy, if you will—to bring his bones back where they belonged.”

“Excuse me, but I don't understand what all this…”

“Wait,” Darla ordered. “Let me finish. On Monday and Tuesday of that next week, my father tried to telephone his old friend. When he couldn't find him, he contacted some of the elders of the Suquamish tribe. That's the same tribe Chief Sealth—the man Seattle was named after—was from, by the way. When my father finally spoke to someone who had known David Half Moon, he learned for the first time that his friend died more than ten years ago of lung cancer.