In the Clearing (27 page)

“Tell that to my bosses. Our amenities are a decade-old coffeemaker.”

“I have to tell you I was dismayed to get your phone call, Detective. I don’t see how Darren’s death could have anything to do with anything.”

“I understand.” Tracy rolled back one of the black leather chairs from the table, and the two women sat. “And I’m sorry to bring up a difficult topic.”

Martin favored silver and gold bracelets that rattled each time she moved her arm or lowered it to the glass table. “It was a long time ago, Detective,” she said. “But you never really move on from something like that. You try, but there are always reminders.”

“How long were you married?” Tracy asked, hoping to put Martin more at ease by asking a simple question.

“Twenty-one years.”

“You met in college?”

“At the University of Washington; we were in the engineering department together.”

Martin’s answers continued to be short and direct. Tracy decided to cut to the chase. “It appears your husband had a good job at Boeing. You have a good career here. I’m guessing from your address at the time that you had a nice home.”

“Darren had demons,” Martin said, anticipating where Tracy was going. “I wasn’t aware of them when we got married, and he kept them in check during the early years of our marriage.”

“What kind of demons?”

“He didn’t sleep well, for one.” She paused. “He didn’t sleep. He didn’t
like
to sleep. He stayed up late, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to get up again at three. Three to four hours was a good night for him. Eventually, that takes its toll.”

“Do you know why he couldn’t sleep?”

“He
said
he just didn’t need that much.”

“But you believe there was something more to it?”

“He suffered nightmares. He’d wake me moaning and thrashing. When I’d wake him, he’d be in a lather of sweat, trying to catch his breath. It became progressively worse.”

“I noted from his obituary that he worked at Boeing until 1997.”

“They laid him off.” She shrugged. “He did it to himself. He became self-destructive. He started drinking at night to help himself fall asleep. Then he started drinking at lunch. There were a few incidents at work—inappropriate comments to his colleagues. I had to go pick him up several times. I finally told him I wouldn’t raise our children in that environment. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t get help.”

“Did he?”

“He went to counseling, but given the outcome, I guess you can conclude he never got the help he needed.”

“Did he ever discuss what the nightmares were about?”

She shook her head. “Not with me. He said he didn’t know. He said when he woke up he couldn’t remember anything.”

“But you said they got progressively worse?”

“Just judging from his reactions when he woke. I don’t know what they were about.”

“When did they start?”

Martin took a moment, bracelets rattling as she raised her hand and ran her index and middle finger across her bottom lip. “Not long after our first daughter was born. I spoke to his counselor about it once, after Darren was gone. She said that things from childhood could be triggered by the birth of a child. Abandonment issues, for instance . . . or abuse.”

“Did the counselor say what it might have been with respect to your husband?”

“No. And at that point I really didn’t want to know.”

“How old were your daughters when your husband took his life?”

“Rebecca was seventeen. Rachel was fourteen.”

“And you’ve
never
found out why?”

“You mean other than depression and substance abuse?”

“Did you ever ask to see his counseling records?”

She sighed. “Why? What would be the point?”

“To see if he ever said what was troubling him, what was keeping him awake at night, why he drank?”

Martin continued to rub her lower lip. “Why would I want to know?” she said, voice and demeanor soft, but her eyes almost challenging Tracy to give her a reason. “What good would come from knowing,
if
it was anything?”

“You’d have an answer.”

“Maybe not an answer we want.”

“I understand—”

“No.” Martin raised a hand. Her blue eyes bore into Tracy. She sounded tired. “I don’t think you do, Detective. No offense, but I’ve had a lot of people over the years tell me that, and until you’ve been through it, you have very little credibility making that statement.”

“My sister was murdered when she was eighteen. I was twenty-two. Two years later, my father, overcome with grief, shot himself.” She paused just a moment. Her intent was not to make Tiffany Martin feel bad, but to find common ground. “I went twenty years not knowing what happened to my sister. Finding the truth was painful. Not knowing the truth was more painful.”

Martin caught her breath and looked out the window, seemingly on the verge of tears. She turned back to Tracy. “I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t assume I’m the only person who’s been through this.”

“Don’t be sorry; you couldn’t have known.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? We don’t know. Do you know how many people came up to me after and told me they’d lost someone they loved to suicide?”

“A lot,” Tracy said. “Too many.”

Martin nodded. Tracy gave her the moment. “You said this has something to do with an investigation?”

“It might,” Tracy said. “I really don’t know yet.”

“What’s the investigation about?”

Tracy saw no way to soften the facts. “A seventeen-year-old girl who went to the same high school as your husband went missing in 1976—”

“Oh God.” Martin dropped her head into her hands. “You think he killed her? Is that what his nightmares were about?” It struck Tracy that Martin had to have thought about what had troubled her husband, or at least speculated.

“No. No, I can’t say that. Mrs. Martin, this is really preliminary. The sheriff’s office concluded that the girl committed suicide.”

“And?”

“With advances in technology, we can review old cases in ways that weren’t possible in 1976. We can evaluate the evidence differently. That’s all I’m doing at this point.”

“And does the evidence indicate she didn’t commit suicide?”

“Some experts think that it might.”

“And you think Darren might have had something to do with it?”

“Let me back up. The case was investigated by a young deputy sheriff. He left behind a file. In that file were a couple of articles and a picture of your late husband with some of his classmates.”

“What was the picture of?”

“Your husband and his teammates in their football uniforms.”

“Why would that be in the file?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here, to see if there’s a reason.”

“Did you ask the deputy?”

“He’s dead. I’m trying to follow up on what he left behind. Your husband’s name was one of the names I ran through our computers. That’s all it is at this point.” Tracy didn’t tell Martin that she was the low-hanging fruit because she was local. She tried to quickly get the interview back on track. “Did your husband visit Stoneridge often?”

“No. Never.”

“Never?”

“I don’t recall a single time.”

“Were his parents still living there while you were married?”

“Until they died.”

“And he never expressed a desire to go and visit?”

“We had holidays at our house in Issaquah. Our home was bigger and could better accommodate the family. They could spend the night. His parents’ house wouldn’t have fit everyone. They were simple people. His father worked for city maintenance. They liked to come up here and see the kids.”

“What about to visit his high school friends? Did your husband ever see any of them?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet them?”

“He said he wasn’t close to any of them.”

“So he didn’t communicate with any of them?”

“I’d never met them.”

“What about reunions?”

“He never went.”

Tracy found all of this odd, given that Sam Goldman had described Gallentine as one of the four conquering heroes who would have remained a minor celebrity in his hometown. In her experience, things like winning championships also could forge lifelong friendships.

“Did your husband ever mention to you that he won the state football championship his senior year?”

Martin’s face was blank. “I knew he played football. He never said anything about winning a state championship.”

“Does it strike you as odd that he wouldn’t mention that?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Sports weren’t really Darren’s thing. I mean, he liked to watch, go to an occasional game, but he wasn’t a fanatic.”

Tracy thought about that a second, which was a mistake, because it gave Martin a chance to look at the clock on the wall. “I need to go,” she said, standing quickly. “I have a conference call.”

“I’m assuming you were the personal representative of your husband’s estate,” Tracy said.

“I was.”

“You would have access to his counseling records.”

Martin shook her head. “I’m not going there, Detective.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to. If you could just get them—”

“For what—to possibly ruin my children’s recollection of their father more than it’s already been ruined? You don’t even know if there’s a connection. I’m not going to do that to my kids and grandchildren without good reason. Darren’s death was traumatic for them. They were just kids. I’m not taking them back there.”

Tracy was down to her final argument. “There’s another family to think about, Mrs. Martin. A family who didn’t get to see their daughter grow up, a family who is still without all the answers.”

“They’ll have to find their own closure, Detective, just like we did. It’s a horrible thing, and I’m sorry, but I won’t do that to my daughters and to my grandchildren. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m out of time. I’ll walk you out.”

Tracy left Martin a business card and drove back to the Justice Center. Foremost on Tracy’s mind was Martin’s statement that Darren Gallentine had never mentioned winning the state football championship, though they’d met just a few years after that historic feat, and at a time when Tracy would have thought it would remain a bragging point in any young, testosterone-driven athlete’s life. Darren Gallentine wanted no part of it, apparently, and he wanted no part of Stoneridge, not even to visit his parents, and despite having departed a hero. Darren Gallentine’s mind seemed to have no room for glory-days reminiscing, too cluttered with whatever nightmares tormented his sleep, made him turn to the bottle, and eventually led him to take his own life. Tracy wondered if those nightmares had to do with what happened to Kimi Kanasket.

Tracy’s cell phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. Caller ID indicated it was Michael Melton at the crime lab.

“I just sent you my report,” he said. “I thought I’d give you the
Reader’s Digest
version.”

“I appreciate that.”

“The tire that made those impressions was a B.F. Goodrich 35x12.50R15,” Melton said. “It was an all-terrain tire popular back then for trucks and off-road vehicles, so there were millions in circulation. Now, you want the bad news?”

“I thought that was the bad news. Let me guess—the make and model of the tire on the white truck in the photographs is different than the tires that made the impression,” Tracy said.

“We were able to work with the negatives you provided for the truck,” Melton said, “but I could only get a partial on the model, nothing on the make.”

“What can you tell from the partial?”

“The size of the tire on the truck matches the size of the tire that made the impression, but there wasn’t enough to determine the make or the model.”

“So we don’t know.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could be more definitive.”

Kins turned from his computer the moment Tracy stepped into the bull pen, stood, and handed her two sheets of paper.

“Bingo,” he said, pointing to the first of two e-mails. “Angela Collins was talking to a real estate agent about selling the house. He e-mailed her appraisals.”

“When was this?” Tracy asked, searching for the date of the e-mail.

“The same week she bought a gun.”