Fixed in Fear (13 page)

Rita read off her notepad. “Jerry Costigan, aka Jerry Kaufmann, Jerry Cougar, and Johnny Costigan. Forty-two years old. Born in Vancouver. First arrested twenty-six years ago for stealing gas out of a neighbor's car. Followed that up with a long list of arrests for everything from grand theft auto to strong-arm robbery to battery. Released four months ago after completing a seven-year stretch for assault with a deadly weapon. Stabbed a parking attendant nineteen times when he wouldn't let him pull a lost ticket scam. The boy lived, but apparently it came awfully close to a murder charge.”

“Knives,” Larry said, his eyes bright with excitement. “Just like the weapons used in the sweat lodge.”

“Where'd he do his time?” Mort asked.

Rita referred again to her notes. “Monroe Correctional Complex.”

“My God! I know that place.” Larry turned to Mort. “Carlton, Abraham, and I go there to parole hearings. That's the same prison where Kenny Kamm is held.” Larry spun to face Rita Willers. “The man who killed my wife is in that same prison.”

Mort held Willers's gaze, falling into a law enforcement communication that needed no words.

“Could be,” Mort said. “Man's been in prison a long time. Three people always testifying against him whenever he gets a chance to make parole.”

Rita stood and crossed over to lay a hand on Larry's shoulder. “If Kamm's getting even, you and Abraham Smydon might be on his target list. Where could you go? Think of a place no one would expect you to be. A place where no one would know who you were.”

Larry gave her a weary smile. “Rita, once you've been on
Oprah,
there's no such thing as anonymity. Besides, I'm not hiding.” He looked toward Mort. “Abraham's seventy-five. Hale as a horse yet, nonetheless, seventy-five. He should have some protection.”

“Everybody take a deep breath. Lots of people run through the prison system. This could be nothing more than a coincidence. Rita, let's you and I take a drive out to Monroe. I'll ask Jimmy to call Abraham and, without going into too much detail, urge him to stay safe. We don't need him going off half-cocked and spoiling the investigation.” He turned to his friend. “You take precautions, too, Larry.”

L. Jackson Clark stood and held Mort in a no-nonsense gaze. “How's this for a plan? For the next few hours I'm with you two. Kenny Kamm murdered my wife. If this son of a bitch has an issue with me, he can look into my eyes and tell me directly.”

Mort glanced over to Rita, who nodded her understanding. He looked back at Larry, unsure of what pain might lie waiting for his friend if he sat across the table from his wife's killer. What he saw in Larry's eyes assured him that whatever came, it would pale when compared to Helen's murder.

Reluctantly, he nodded. “Okay,” Mort said. “Let's everyone do what they need to do to free up their morning. I'll make some calls. Meet back here at nine o'clock.”

He watched them both leave his office and felt an odd buzz deep inside him. It felt like a warning. Like maybe he was about to step on a trail leading to something a smarter man would let be.

The bell rang and Mrs. Drennan called out to her first-grade class. “Seat time, everyone. Here we go.” The young teacher started to hum the theme from a well-known quiz show. That thirty-second stretch of music warning contestants they were in Final Jeopardy. Fourteen six-year-olds joined in on the singing and quickly made their way to small work tables scattered around the large Seattle Urban Day School classroom. They all knew the rule. Be at your assigned seat before Mrs. Drennan got to the final beat of the song. There was no “or else.” The talented teacher had made it enough of a game that the children found pleasure just in the doing. Sure enough, every child was in place by the last note. Even Nathan Briarley, and that kid took too long doing everything.

Hayden Grant took her seat at the table of four she'd been assigned to two weeks earlier on the first day of school. This was her spot, closest to the window and not five steps from the big whiteboard where Mrs. Drennan illustrated the daily lessons. Hayden shared her worktable with Bella Wasserman, whom she was absolutely, 100 percent certain would become her best friend. The two of them loved to run at recess until their legs burned, and Hayden was sure it was just a matter of time before Bella invited her to her house and showed her that new puppy she was always bragging about. Cindy Meadows was a tablemate, too. Cindy was nice enough, but Hayden thought she spent way too much time looking at herself in that little mirror she kept tucked inside her reading workbook. Cindy didn't think Mrs. Drennan knew about the mirror, but Hayden had seen the look on their teacher's face a couple of times. She knew. Cindy's parents were in for an earful at the next conference day.

There was a boy at Hayden's table: Ben Reggles. Everybody called him Bingo. He was always helping the teacher hand out papers and collecting crayons when art time was over. Bingo didn't want to be sitting with the girls any more than the girls wanted him to be sitting with them. But Mrs. Drennan said everybody had to mix it up. She said it was so they'd know they're all alike. But as much as Hayden thought Bingo was okay, she knew that the paste-eating, leg-bouncing boy was
nothing
like her.

Hayden looked back over her shoulder to the three-person worktable by the classroom door. She saw Hadley straightening the strap of the uniform of the girl sitting beside her. Penny O'Malley was taller than everybody else in the first-grade room. Except for Mrs. Drennan, of course, and Penny almost came up to
her
shoulder. Penny walked stooped over all the time. Hayden figured she was trying to make herself shorter. But it didn't work. All it did was mess with her uniform straps. After Hadley fixed her up, Hayden saw her reach over to hold hands with Maya Hawkins. They played finger games and giggled until Mrs. Drennan announced it was time for News of the Day. Hadley let go of Maya's hands and glanced toward her twin. Hayden gave her a wink and turned to face the front of the room. The school day had officially begun.

Mrs. Drennan announced that the day was Thursday. She gave the date and told them two very interesting things that happened on that day long, long ago. Hayden liked this part of the morning ritual. It set her mind spinning to think of things happening before she was even alive. She wondered, as Mrs. Drennan talked about kings and inventions and great discoveries, if there were six-year-old girls around during those times. Had they known what was going on and did they grow up to do great things themselves? Then Mrs. Drennan told them the day's schedule. First they'd do math, Hayden's favorite subject. They were doing amounts and she couldn't look at anything these days without wondering how many quarts or cents or inches something was. Then would come reading. Hadley was better at reading than she was, but Hayden loved it when Mrs. Drennan pulled a book from that big shelf behind her desk and read to them. After reading would come art and recess and history and lunch and quiet time and science and then more math. They'd end the day with a visitor coming in to tell them how Seattle got its name.

“I'll give you a hint,” Mrs. Drennan said. “It has to do with a great Native American tribal chief…and how nobody could pronounce his name!” Hayden giggled along with the rest of the first graders. A lot of times she had trouble saying words. Hadley made fun of her every now and then about it. Today they'd learn about other people with the same kind of trouble.

“Bingo?” Mrs. Drennan asked. “Can you and Jilly come up here to pass out this morning's math sheets, please?”

The classroom door opened just as Bingo and Jilly scraped their chairs back and stood. The room erupted in squeals of delight as two fairy princesses waltzed into the room. Each one carried a low and wide box.

“What is this?” Mrs. Drennan asked in that way grown-ups do when they're acting like they don't know what's going on but really they probably planned it in the first place. The princesses weaved their way through the worktables. One had blond hair, like Hayden. She was dressed in a shimmering blue gown that reminded Hayden of Cinderella. She waved her magic wand above the children's heads as she made her way to the front of the room. The other princess had black curly hair, like her friend Bella Wasserman's. She wore a silver dress that glistened in the light like it was made of ice. She had a magic wand, too. And she waved it just like the blue princess. Hayden looked back to see her sister waving her hands in the air as if she had a wand all her own.

The princesses stood on either side of Mrs. Drennan. They held a finger over their lips, telling the children to quiet down.

“Why are you visiting us today?” Mrs. Drennan asked. Hayden figured she knew exactly why they were there. And she figured it had something to do with those boxes.

“We bring a
very
special gift for the class.” The Blue Princess set her magic wand on the teacher's desk. “Because it's a
very
special day.”

“What day is it?” Mrs. Drennan asked. Hayden wished she'd knock it off and just show what was in the boxes.

The kids starting shouting out, all at once and all over one another. “
It's someone's birthday!” “There's no school today!” “We're having another field day!” “Somebody's mom had a baby!”

“Tut, tut!” The Silver Princess waved her wand. “When you're quiet we'll tell you. And we'll show you what's in these boxes.”

The room fell instantly silent.

The Blue Princess pulled a bundled scroll out of a pocket in her billowing skirt. She made a big deal of unrolling it and holding it in front of her. Hayden knew this meant it was a proclamation. She'd seen people in movies about a time her dad called
The Olden Days
hold papers like that. That's always how you do it when you're about to read something very important.

“A special treat for a special day,” the Blue Princess read. “A special family day. A day when an aunt, who loves her nieces very much…” The Blue Princess took her time drawing out the word
very.
It was like how people talk to babies, Hayden thought. And there were no babies in that classroom.

“Wants them to know how dear they are to her and how very sweet she thinks they are.”

The Silver Princess opened her box and the room got noisy again. The most beautiful cupcakes Hayden had ever seen were inside it. Each was iced with a different pale shade. Hayden knew that twelve made a dozen, and it looked like there were more than a dozen in that box. She wondered what the word for the next measurement up was. She'd ask Mrs. Drennan when math class finally started. The frosting was piled high and decorated with sprinkles and sparkles. The Silver Princess walked around the room, offering each student a cupcake. Every student took one, and no one had to be reminded to say “Thank you.”

Then the Blue Princess opened
her
box. Small milk boxes with attached straws were handed out as she walked through the room. Hayden popped her straw into her box and took a long swig. She'd chosen a pale green cupcake with sparkles of white and the palest blue. It looked like a mermaid should jump out of it. Hayden looked back and saw Hadley had chosen a pink cupcake. That was just like her. Hadley liked everything and anything pink. Sometimes Hayden thought you could paint dog poop pink and Hadley would think it was the cutest thing ever.

The students gobbled their cupcakes. Nothing like this had ever happened in school before. She remembered they'd all had to have their parents sign a note saying it was okay to have treats and what were okay, but they'd never actually had one before. Hayden was just glad everybody's parents gave the okay to have a cupcake and milk.

“Finish up, class.” Mrs. Drennan ate her own cupcake. Its frosting was the color of sunshine. “Let's say goodbye and thank you to the lovely princesses.”

A chorus of appreciation rang out. The two princesses curtsied in response. The Silver Princess held her finger to her lips one last time and pulled out another scroll.

Not another proclamation,
Hayden thought.
It's time for math.

“There's no mystery who to thank for these treats.” The Silver Princess sounded like she was saying something very important. “Look no further than to the sweetest girls in the room. These cupcakes honor Hadley and Hayden Grant. Given with much love by Aunt Allie.”

Hayden's jaw dropped. Bella, Cindy, and Bingo all reached across the worktable to pat her on the back. Hayden looked back to where her twin sat. Hadley's eyes were wide, and her smile was even wider.

Hayden looked around the classroom. Everyone was smiling and waving. Even Mrs. Drennan gave her a pat on the head as she escorted the princesses out of the room. Hayden thought of her papa and when they'd met Aunt Allie the day before. Papa told them to run back to Mom. He said it was ten-zero.

A dangerous situation.

“You sure you're up for this?” Mort tried one last time to dissuade Larry from accompanying Rita and him to the Monroe Correctional Complex. They were going to interview Kenny Kamm, the man who'd murdered Larry's wife. The same man Larry, Abraham, and Carlton made sure never had a chance to be granted parole. That was smelling like a motive to Mort, and he and Rita needed to know exactly what Kamm had to do with Carlton's death.

Larry opened the door and climbed into the backseat of Mort's Subaru. He said nothing as he buckled himself in, closed the door, and sat with his hands folded in his lap.

Rita looked at Mort. “That looks like a
yes
to me.” She settled herself into the passenger seat as Mort held Larry's gaze and considered the hell pit his friend might be walking into. Then he got behind the steering wheel and backed the car out of the police parking lot. Forty-three minutes later he pulled into the visitors' parking lot of the MCC.

It had been a near-silent drive.

The three of them left the Subaru and walked to a metal-roofed cinder-block kiosk. Mort greeted the uniformed guard. “Mort Grant, Seattle PD. Rita Willers, Enumclaw PD chief. And this is Dr. Clark. They know we're coming.” The guard collected each of their IDs.

Mort surveyed the scene as the officer checked his clipboard. A fifteen-foot metal fence topped with coils of razor wire encircled the prison campus. A cluster of foreboding boxlike buildings with little space for windows stood fifty yards in front of them. Towers were positioned around the perimeter. Even from a distance on that cloudy morning, Mort could see rifle barrels pointed at the ground below. The guard nodded and pressed a button, and the gate slid open just wide enough to allow the three of them access onto the property. They walked forward on a weed and gravel path until another tall fence blocked their progress. The gate behind them closed. Mort heard the metallic clang of its lock before the gate in front of them opened, allowing the trio to walk onto the prison grounds.

They entered through the main visitor's reception and faced similar start-stop practices as they made their way deeper into the facility. Rita and Mort surrendered their service revolvers. They each had their bodies scanned by handheld metal detectors. Finally, a heavy door was unlocked and the warden greeted them, ready to take them to the interview room where Kenny Kamm was waiting.

Mort shared a few pleasantries with Warden Robert Linton as they walked down halls with green walls and highly polished concrete floors. Linton had been a beat cop for two years before making the switch to corrections, and Mort remembered him as a levelheaded man more interested in resolving issues than escalating them. He imagined that trait served the warden well as he oversaw an institution housing nearly five hundred medium- and maximum-custody offenders, many of whom would live the majority of their days inside the prison. Despite its age, the building was spotless, a testimony to both the tight ship Linton captained and the dedication of the trustees plying mops and cleaning rags over every surface.

Larry remained silent. Rita walked behind him. She, too, said nothing, but Mort knew she was keeping her attention on Larry, ready to respond at the first sign that the situation was becoming too much for him.

They came to a stop in front of a door with a wired glass window. Warden Linton slid his ID badge into a reader mounted next to it and it clicked open. “He's all yours. I got two COs with him. Kamm's three-point secured, but they'll be right outside the door should you need 'em. You want us to record this?”

Mort shook his head. “I don't see the need to bother with that. We'll have our notes. If he says something interesting we may come back asking for a video, but for now I think we're good.”

They entered the room. Rita thanked the two correctional officers standing behind the shackled inmate and closed the door behind them while Mort watched Larry. Although his friend had attended Kamm's entire trial and never missed a parole hearing, those encounters would have been sterile, limited, and remote, with Kamm surrounded by lawyers or advocates and speaking only what he'd been scripted to say. This would be the first time Larry would be across the table from his wife's murderer. The first time he'd be able to speak directly to him.

Mort monitored Larry's reaction to the broad-shouldered man in the orange jumpsuit chained behind the metal interview desk. Like his face, Kamm's head was closely shaved. Only a dark shadow of stubble suggested he'd once had hair. Scar tissue grew in patches up his well-muscled arms, evidence of burned-off tattoos. His skin was pale, the result of twenty-five years spent under fluorescent lights, with only forty minutes each day for breathing outside air.

Larry stood behind the table, his eyes scanning Kamm. Mort saw his jaw churn at the sight of the web of heavy chains encircling the murderer's waist, hands, and ankles before they connected to the lock on the concrete floor. When he seemed to have his fill, Larry was the first to sit. He chose the chair at the center of the table, directly across from the man who'd smashed his young wife's beautiful face into an unrecognizable bloody pulp.

“Why?” Larry's voice was firm. “Why did you kill Helen?”

Kenny Kamm turned his brown eyes toward Mort. “Am I allowed to know the reason for today's visit?” His voice gave no trace of confrontation. He sounded like nothing more than a curious man.

Mort took the seat to Larry's left. He introduced himself and Chief Willers. “The man asked you a question. While it's not the purpose of our visit, I'd say he's entitled to an answer.”

Kamm considered his response for several seconds. Then he nodded and looked Larry in the eye. “I don't have an answer.” His tone was soft, as though he acknowledged responsibility for his crime but was respectful of the fact he'd never begin to know the magnitude of the pain he'd caused. “I remember a night of wild drugging. Meth, ludes…and a whole lot of tequila. There was probably more, but I don't remember. I was up there for the old man's party.” Kamm looked toward Mort and Rita, in case they didn't know the context. “Abraham Smydon.” He nodded to Larry. “Your wife's father. I'd picked up some work down on his boats. Word went out there was extra money to be had if anybody wanted to go on up to the island and help set up the party. Hauling ice, setting up tents and chairs. Moving the portable toilets around. That kind of thing. Only requirement was a strong back.” Kamm dropped his gaze. “I don't have much, and back then I had even less. But strength? I had that all right. Probably too much.” He paused. “Physical strength, that is.”

Larry looked like a man unconvinced. “Did you have accomplices in the kidnapping? Or did that great physical strength of yours allow you to overcome Helen all on your own?”

Kamm looked toward Mort, as though verifying he was allowed to speak. Mort pointed to Larry.

“Answer the man.”

“Like I said when I was arrested, I don't know nothing about any kidnapping. I don't know nothing about that night except I was there to party. Next thing I know I wake up in the gully of some forest. I don't have a clue how I got there or even how long I was flat out in that ditch. But I was covered in blood.” Kamm lifted his hands as much as the chains allowed and looked at them, as if to reenact seeing Helen's blood for the first time. “I thought maybe a bear had gotten me. There was so much of it. All over my clothes. My boots. Everywhere. I remember running my hands over my body. I seemed in one piece. My head was on fire with pounding pain, but I was used to that back then. That was how I felt every morning when I woke up from a night spent doing what I wished I hadn't.” His voice softened. “But that never stopped me from doing it the very next night. Again and again.”

L. Jackson Clark, the man who advised world leaders and preached the power of love and forgiveness, stared at Kenny Kamm through narrowed eyes. He held his hands firm against the tabletop. Mort wondered if it was to keep them from curling into fists.

“I pulled myself up out of that gully and started walking.” Kamm hunched one shoulder then another, trying to find a comfortable spot within his confines. “I remember the sun was warm. I figured it was sometime in the late afternoon. I just picked a direction and kept putting one foot in front of the other. After a while I heard what I thought was a car. Couple of minutes later I heard it again. I thought maybe it was a road so I walked toward the noise. Sure enough, I found myself climbing up a berm, leaving the forest behind me, and walking on asphalt. I don't know what I was thinking, but I stuck my thumb out, hoping for a ride back to the motel Abraham's event planner had us staying at. A couple of vehicles passed me by. Can't blame 'em. I must have looked a sight. Next thing I know three squad cars come racing down that country road right at me. Officers got out. Guns drawn. Screaming at me to hit the dirt. Turns out the good folks who'd passed me stopped to drop a dime on some blood-soaked loser hitchhiking out in the woods.”

“You're not telling me anything I didn't hear at the trial.” Larry's voice was thin but even. “I need to know why. Why did you kill my wife? Did you know her?”

Kamm studied him a moment. “No, sir. I did not. I seen her a time or two. With her father. Down on the docks. But that's all. Never was introduced or nothing like that.”

“Then why?” A hint of a plea entered Larry's voice. “You've taken so much from me. Can you please give me a reason?”

Kamm squirmed again in his chair. He glanced up at Rita and Mort, then dropped his gaze to his chained hands. The three waited in silence until he lifted his eyes back to Larry. Mort figured no one was in a hurry. They'd wait a year in that interview room if that's what it took for Larry to get an answer to the question Mort knew ate away at his soul.

“I wish I could tell you for sure.” Kamm's voice was humble. “Like I said, I spent most of the day, every day, stoned or high or drunk back then. Most times a combination. But I haven't so much as taken a hit off a joint since the day those cops picked me up.” Kamm looked up at Rita. “And don't let anybody tell you a guy can't get stoned inside.” He turned his attention back to Larry. “When those cops told me what I'd done, I didn't believe 'em. But there was so much blood. I knew I'd done something bad. Real bad. And then all them tests come back. Teeth marks. Blood types. Fingerprints.” Tears fell from Kamm's eyes. He couldn't reach his face to wipe them away. “I had to face the fact I killed that woman. It was me. I hope to God, Mr. Clark, that you never find out you've done something…even something small or something good…I hope you never find out you really
did
something and you don't remember doing it. Because it makes you crazy. The kind of crazy that follows you like your own skin. The kind of crazy that makes you question whether you know anything at all about yourself. You just keep waiting to find out what else. What else has the monster inside you done?”

No one answered his question.

Kamm inhaled ragged gasps. “For a long time I kept myself from everybody. Just hid in my cell, doing what I had to in order to keep from getting wrote up or beat up, but otherwise steering clear of people. I kept rolling it over and over in my mind, but it was like walking into a wall that wasn't going to budge. I tried to kill myself four different times. The fourth time I did enough damage the guards had to call for help. That got me into the hospital and hooked up with a prison shrink. I didn't want nothing to do with her at first, but she's good. Patient. She waited me out and I started to talk. She got me doing some exercises that might help me come to accept what happened that night I killed your wife.”

“And?” Larry asked.

Kamm was sobbing quietly. “I never remembered a thing. I did start having dreams, though. Same dream over and over. Each time a little more clear. More detailed. Doc says maybe that's my subconscious telling me to accept things as they are.”

“You mean like repressed memory?” Rita Willers was frowning.

“I asked Doc about that. She says there's no such thing. Doc says if something really bad happens, we
can't
forget it. Says I was probably so whacked out of my skull that night no memories had the slightest chance of being laid down. But I don't know about all that science stuff. All I know is that when I have the dream, as painful as it is, I feel a little less crazy.”

“Tell me about the dream,” Larry said.

Kamm nodded. “I'd been seeing this woman from time to time back then. She was as wild as I was. Couldn't call it dating. We were both too in love with the chemicals to pay attention to anything else. But we had needs, you know? I guess we used each other to fill them. Anyway, this gal, Clara was her name, Clara DuBois. Creole gal straight out of the bayou. Never learned how she made her way up here. Anyway, she gets all het up when I tell her I'm going to be on Orcas for three days setting up and tearing down this party. She wants me to get her a gig on it, too. Tells me we can have ourselves a time out there in the woods. Course, I can't. Like I said, strong back was what they needed and Clara didn't go eighty pounds straight out of the shower. She'd been riding the needle for a few years by then and was nothing but skin over bones. I got word she OD'd about a year after that, but back then she still had some sass. So I promise her one big party before I took off. I spent every penny I earned from two days throwing salmon off a boat to buy whatever the dealer had to offer. Clara had this one-room apartment over a palm reader's place. We partied up there. She tried to get me to drop the gig. Stay with her and not go to Orcas.”

Silent tears dripped off his nose and chin. “That's another thing that drives me crazy. What if I would have done it? Just stayed with Clara…” He squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a shake. “She starts telling me tales about what happens up in the deep woods of them islands. About spirits living in the trees and the rocks. Says some of them look just like humans, but they aren't. They're demons. Out to kill the real humans and take over their bodies. I ask her, you mean like zombies? She says no. It's ten times worse than zombies. She tells me these demons are trapped in the woods, longing for the freedom of the world. If they come across a human, they trade places. Clara said they'd take me and trap me. Leave me up there in the woods while they danced a jig in my own body.”