Missing Justice (10 page)

“So she picked up lunch on Sunday and ate at home by herself. Great. All that work, and the credit card records don’t get us any closer than we were the other night.”

“Did I say I was finished, Kincaid? Damn, girl, anyone ever tell you you’re a glass-half-empty kind of woman? I haven’t told you about the autopsy yet.”

“The ME’s done already?” It usually took a couple of days.

“It’s been a light week so there’s no backup. He made the cuts first thing this morning. Report should be finished tomorrow, but I just got off the phone with him a minute ago. You want to continue to interrupt me, or do you want to get to the good stuff?”

“Consider me quiet.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll get in what I can. Anyway, cause of death is what we assumed: blunt force trauma to the right side of the head. He was having some difficulties with time of death, though. He couldn’t use some of the factors that help when the body’s fresh. It had clearly been awhile, because she was cold.”

“How long does that take?” I asked.

“That puts us back to yesterday. But things get tricky past that window. And they were even trickier in this case, because we were right about her being moved. I’ll spare you the details, but the ME’s got a problem interpreting things like bloating and bugs when he doesn’t know what kind of environment the body was in. We couldn’t tell him if she was inside, outside, wet, dry, in a heater, whatever.”

So

“Patience, woman. See, you were about to say, “So he can’t tell us the time of death,” right?”

“Maybe.” Definitely.

“See, now, that’d be an inaccurate statement. ME calls and tells me he might have to give us a wide window for time of death unless I know when she ate last. At the time he called me, I didn’t, but, you see, now I do. And the ME tells me she died within one to three hours of eating noodles, which he found in the stomach contents. Assuming she ate the food around twelve-thirty, she died between one-thirty and three-thirty.”

“Broad daylight.”

“You got it. Makes an abduction off the street less likely but still possible.”

My phone beeped, indicating that another call was coming through. The name of the DA’s secretary flashed on the caller ID screen. I let the line go to voice mail.

“What else?” I asked Johnson. “Was she raped?”

“Unclear. Looks like she was naked when she was hit. The ME says there was no spatter on the clothes, either low or high velocity, which he’d expect to find. But there was brain matter and blood transfer like smears inside the sweater, as if it was pulled on afterward. Also, he found spermicidal jelly in the vaginal canal, but no boy juice and no substantial tearing. No skin under the nails, no sign of a fight.”

“What’s all that mean?”

“Means she probably had sex, but it might or might not have been rape. The stuff he found was the spermicide nonoxynol-9, which conics on most condoms. There was a time when that would’ve ruled out a rape, but things have changed since the bad guys learned about the DNA databank. And if she was just trying to get through it alive, she might not have fought back.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe it’s not a sex crime at all, and the coroner found something left over from consensual sex.”

“Right. So I need to follow up with the husband and see what he has to say.”

“How much are you going to tell him?” I asked.

“Nothing. If it’s about to go public for some reason, we’ll get to them first. Other than that, it’s on a need to know basis. I’ll ask him the last time they had sex and what kind of birth control they use. He’ll no doubt draw some inferences about that and ask me if she was raped, but I’ll tell him what I’m going to tell the rest of the family, which is the truth: We don’t know.”

“How about Melvin Jackson? Have you had a chance to talk to him yet?”

“Who’s that again?”

“The evicted guy? Wrote mean, threatening letters? I gave you the file yesterday.”

“Right. Sorry, we’ve been juggling a lot here. When we broke the news to the family last night, I asked them if the name sounded familiar, but they didn’t think Clarissa ever mentioned him by name. We haven’t followed up yet with Jackson, but it’ll happen.”

“Very good. Anything else?”

“You know, we’re also checking on everyone close to the vie. I even checked out our girl Susan Kerr. At the museum all day setting up for a fund-raising auction, then schmoozing all night, just like she said. So we’re working from the victim out, but Jack and I agree we also need to take the location into account.”

These were standard investigative approaches. On the assumption that the crime isn’t random since they rarely are police look to the aspects of the offense that are unique. That usually means investigating everything there is to know about the victim. Victim’s a working girl? Most likely killed by a trick or her pimp. Dealer? Probably a transaction gone bad or a robbery.

But crimes have also been solved by focusing on location. Who, for example, would know the layout of the home from which the sleeping child was kidnapped? A neighbor. Maybe a handyman. And here Johnson made a good point. The Columbia Gorge and Forest Park were the locals’ favorite body-dumping destinations. Who would find their way to the edge of a previously nonexistent office park?

“Do we know who the future tenant is?”

“There isn’t one. It’s one of those ‘if you build it, they will come’ things.” In recent years, Portland’s suburbs have enticed out-of-town firms to relocate operations to this area with the promise of tax subsidies, an educated workforce, and ready-to-go infrastructure. “We’re going over lists of the usual suspects within a two-mile radius of the crime scene and the Easterbrooks’. Jack’s working on getting a list of workers at the construction site. There’s a couple different unions and subcontractors involved, so it’s taking a little longer than we’d like. We’re also looking at old police reports involving any incidents along Taylor’s Ferry Road. It’s mostly car prowls and a few robberies.”

“Page me if you need anything,” I said. “As soon as I’m done screening custodies, I’m going to review Clarissa’s files.” Unfortunately, no one at City Hall knew that yet.

“We can send someone over for that,” he offered, assuming I had permission to go in.

“No, I better do it. I’ll be able to get through them faster.” “I’ll try not to take that personally, Kincaid.” “Hey, law school’s got to be good for something, right?” A decent morning at work never lasted long. When Johnson and I were done, I retrieved the message from Duncans secretary. The boss wanted to see me.

Duncan was tan as ever, despite the rain. He had to be closing in on fifty, but in appearance the guy was strangely age-ambiguous: a full head of white hair, the kind of wrinkles that are “distinguished,” and a movie star smile that in my presence has left his face only once.

“How was Salem?”

“Useless as always. Legislators just don’t get what we’re trying to accomplish. I was down testifying yesterday about drug courts. The liberals don’t want to see anyone go to prison on a drug case, and the law-and-order types want to lock ‘em all up, whether it works or not. But you’re done with drug cases now, aren’t you?”

“Looks like it,” I said. “Thank you again, Duncan, for giving me a chance in Major Crimes.”

“Well, I know it’s what you wanted. You might not remember this, Samantha, but you told me that the first time I met you. It’s the only time a job candidate has ever admitted wanting to prosecute murder trials. Most people try to hide that kind of ambition.”

“You asked me what appealed to me about being a state prosecutor after having served as an AUSA, and I told you the truth. The feds rarely get a murder case.”

“Still, it showed you had balls, if you can excuse the phrase.”

“You might not believe this, sir, but that’s not the first time I’ve heard that particular compliment. Some day we might even get a gender-neutral word that captures the same gravitas.”

“See, that’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about. You showed that same personality during your initial interview. When you choose to, you can say what you mean and still be very charming.”

When I choose to. For now, I chose to ignore the backhanded part of the compliment. But if he didn’t get to the point soon, that voluntary charm of mine was going on strike.

“I asked you to go with the police to the Easterbrook home on Sunday for a reason. You’ve proven that you’ve got a real compassion for victims, and I know you’ve got the ability to be diplomatic and to show this office in its very best light. I also thought it was a chance for you to ease into the new rotation with an MCT call-out.

“But I assumed at the time that Clarissa Easterbrook would turn up. Obviously, she did not, and as a result of my decision you’re now on one of the highest profile murder cases we’ve had in a long time. If we’re going to take you off it, we should do it sooner rather than later. Less disruption for the family and for MCT.”

“I don’t want to be pulled off,” I said. “I’ve already talked to Russ about this, and he’s going to oversee as necessary.”

“My concern isn’t with your experience or your skills. You’re a terrific attorney.”

“But you have a concern?”

“Susan Kerr called me today,” he said, sitting back into his chair and steepling his fingers.

“She told me she was going to. I take it you know her?”

“It’s hard not to know her when you’ve got a public life in Portland. Bert Kerr had his hand in everything, a big fund raiser for progressive causes. I remember when I first ran for this office, he bought me an eighteen-year-old whiskey at Huber s and asked me what I was going to do as district attorney. He wasn’t happy with the typical sound bites; he pressed me on everything: standing up to the police about reverse drug buys, the death penalty, improving the quality of life for neighborhoods. When we were done and I’ll never forget it he said, “You’re about as good a man as we’re gonna get for a job that puts human beings in cages.” A month later, he raised $40,000 for my campaign on a single night.

“Susan don’t call her Sue or Susie was his new wife back then, and you can bet the tongues were wagging. She was probably about your age, and, my God, she was wild. Everyone assumed she was in it for the money and would be banging the pool boy on the side. But once people talked to her, they just fell in love. She never tried to act like something she wasn’t. And she came through for Bert in the end. He was a mess his last couple of years, and she worked her tail off to make sure no one knew it. A good friend of mine told me that by his last days she was basically running the show, signing his name, doing whatever she needed to create the appearance that Bert was still going strong. So, yeah, she can throw her weight around with the best of them, but I have a lot of respect for her.”

“What did she say about the case?”

“She said she appreciated the police coming to her home for her convenience. She was also pleased to have an attorney on the case so early. Less likely to have any problems that way. She wanted assurances you’d be free to oversee things, which I. of course, gave her.”

“But?”

He chuckled. “Always jumping to the bad news, aren’t you? As far as buts go, this one was minor. Let me ask you: Where is this investigation heading? Is the husband a suspect?”

“Not at this point. He hasn’t set off anyone’s hunch bells yet, and he’s alibied at OHSU all day Sunday. But he’s not cleared, either, so it’s natural that the police are still keeping him in mind.”

“Susan was concerned about the tone of the questions about the victim’s marriage. She got the impression that the police might be looking in only one direction.”

I tried to assure him that the police, if anything, were leaning against the husband as a suspect. I told him about Melvin Jackson and the search for any sex offenders near the crime scene.

“Why did the police ask Dr. Easterbrook to take a polygraph last night?”

“They didn’t. They’ve mentioned the possibility, but we haven’t made a decision about whether that’s the right way to go yet.”

“Maybe you’ve got some mixed signals. Susan Kerr tells me that the police, in addition to being very curious about the state of the Easterbrooks’ marriage, asked the husband for a poly last night, just minutes after telling him that his wife’s body had been found. That’s why she was upset enough to call me.”

“Shit. Well, she didn’t mention it to me, and she just left me a message this morning.”

“She thought it would be best not to put you in an awkward position between her and your detectives, so she brought her concerns to me.”

“I don’t know what to say, Duncan. I’ll ask the MCT guys about it.”

“Good. I need you to be the woman you’re being today on this, Samantha, the person who came in here for your interview; not the hothead who puts a line of attorneys outside my door complaining about bad behavior.”

It has never been a line: a slow dribble, maybe. “I only know how to be one person, sir.”

“Dammit, Sam. You know what I mean. I’m just warning you, you’re dealing with some very influential people on this one who don’t look kindly on mistakes. In addition to Mrs. Kerr, you’ve got Townsend Easterbrook. Let me be clear: If he’s the guy, you crush him. But not until there’s good reason to. He’s not your typical perp who’s used to being thrown against the car and frisked for looking the wrong way. He’s the chief administrative surgeon at OHSU. For Christ’s sake, the man singlehandedly got the hospital’s pediatric transplant wing off the ground again after everyone wrote the project off as dead. He’s Mother Teresa with a penis.”

“So you’re asking me to give these people special treatment.” It wasn’t a question.

“If you could even begin to think like a realist, you’d know I was asking you to give them the expected treatment.”

There was no use putting up a fight over this, since I’d already been treating Townsend and Susan “as expected.” I assured him I got the message, loud and clear.

Back at my desk, I put in a page to Johnson. Why hadn’t he told me about the polygraph? My phone sat silent, though, as I finished screening duty with just a few more strokes of the pen. I couldn’t wait here all day for him to call it was time to get my hands on Clarissa’s files.