Missing Justice (9 page)

The police would be working the crime scene for the rest of the night, but I signed out after a couple of hours, when Johnson and Walker left to deliver the news to Clarissa’s family. I don’t envy the work of a cop.

It’s not as if prosecutors don’t have bad days. Our files are filled with desperation and degradation. Even the so-called victimless cases involve acts that could be committed only by pathetic, miserable people who’ve lost all hope. Compare that to fighting over money for a banking client, and it looks like we’re doing the heavy lifting.

But, in the end, I’m still just a lawyer. I issue indictments, plead out cases, and go to trial. When it comes to the investigation, I might make some calls on procedure, but it’s the police who do the real work. They’re the ones who kick in a door when a search needs to be executed. They’re the ones who climb through the dumpster when a gun gets tossed.

And Johnson and Walker would be the ones to visit Clarissa Easterbrook’s family members tonight to tell them that their lives would never be the same again. These days, that concept is overused, as we all say that the crumbling of two towers changed the world forever. The kind of change I’m talking about can be claimed only by the families of the three thousand people trapped inside. It’s the kind of change that causes every other second of life the birth of a child, a broken leg, the car breaking down at the side of the road to be cataloged in the memory in one of two ways: before or after that defining moment in time.

From what I knew of it, everyone deals with the grief of a murder in his own way. There is shock, then rage, then depression, and ultimately some level of acceptance. But then the differences emerge. What kind of survivors would Townsend, Tara, and Mr. and Mrs. Carney become? The ones who die inside themselves and walk around each day wondering when their body will catch up to their soul? The ones seeking numbness in a bottle, the neighbors whispering about how things used to be different? The ones who run the Web sites and help lines and victims’ rights groups? Clarissa’s family still had options for the future, just not the ones they thought they had when they woke up yesterday.

Four.

By the time I returned the county’s car and caught the bus home, it was after nine o’clock and there were three messages from my father on the machine. The gist of each, respectively? How was the first day of work? I hope you’re not working late already. And, finally, You’re not working on that case with the missing judge, are you?

I promised myself I’d call my father back before bed, but not just yet. A normal person might want to veg out, watch a little TV, and hit the hay. I wanted to run.

Running is my therapy. My ex-husband called it my escape. No matter what the problem, a run always helps me see life in perspective. Plus, I still felt like I needed to sweat out the rum and mint from the sixty-seven mojitos I must have ingested poolside in Maui.

Even tonight’s short three-miler did the trick. After one mile, images of Clarissa Easterbrook’s misshapen head and discolored flesh began to slip away. After two, I stopped thinking about work entirely. By the time I got home, I was ready to call my father.

“Sammy?” he said immediately. Dad had recently discovered the wonders of caller ID as part of his constant effort to stay busy. After thirty-plus years of marriage, two years as a widower hadn’t been enough for my father to feel relaxed at home alone.

“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”

“Late night at work. I was wondering if you were OK.”

“Everything’s fine. Just a lot to catch up on since I’ve been out and with the new unit assignment.”

“I bet. So how are the people at the new gig? A step up from the bozos in the drug unit?”

As pleased as my father is that I’ve used my law degree to follow him into law enforcement, he gets frustrated by the personalities I’ve had to deal with over the years. The colorful language he uses to discuss my office is his way of showing he’s on my side.

“I guess so. The new supervisor’s this guy named Russ Frist. Seems pretty decent so far.”

“Any cases look interesting yet?”

“You know, they’re interesting, but a little depressing. I’d rather hear about what you’ve been up to. We’ve hardly talked since I got back.”

“You know me. Typical retiree stuff: a couple of movies, some gardening, a trip to the shooting range. Exciting, I know.”

“I noticed that my lawn was mowed while I was gone. Thanks.”

“No problem. It’s not like anyone else needs me. So what kept you so late at the office?”

He was trying to be subtle, but he obviously wanted to know if I was involved in what he was still following as a missing persons case.

“You probably saw the coverage on the administrative law judge. I was wrapped up in that most of the day. Actually, I started working on it last night.”

“Jeez, Sam. The minute I saw the news this morning, I knew it. Do you really need to be on a case like this one right off the bat?”

“Those are the kinds of cases I’m working on now, Dad. Major crimes tend to come with the territory in the Major Crimes Unit.”

“Very clever, wiseacre. But you know this isn’t the usual territory. You’re going to be right in the middle of the firestorm, cameras all over you. Nothing will bring out the crazies faster. Did you ask your office to put you on something else until you get used to the new rotation?”

“No, Dad, and I don’t plan to. This is my job; you should be proud of me for getting promoted. I didn’t become a prosecutor to handle drug cases the rest of my life.”

My first excursion from my standard drug and vice caseload had finally come last month when I had prosecuted a psychopath for the rape and attempted murder of a teenage prostitute. By the time the case was closed, a couple of nut jobs had broken into my house, bashed me on the head, and killed the former supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit. I’d avoided a similar fate only because I’d forced myself to become a good shot years ago when my ex-husband insisted on keeping a gun in our apartment. My father may have been a lawman himself, but he hadn’t gotten used to the idea of his little girl shooting her way out of trouble.

“I am proud of you, Sam,” he said, “but maybe you should hold off on something so big. You’re finally out of the spotlight after the Derringer case. This one’s going to put you right back out there. For all you know, this judge has run off on a lark. She’ll be home safe and sound, and you’ll end up the target of some obsessed freak who saw your picture one too many times in the paper.”

“Well, this is what I want, OK? And, anyway, she didn’t run off, as you say. They found her body today. She’s dead. It’s a murder case. Does that make you feel better about me handling it?”

I should’ve stopped then. I’d already gone too far. But I was tired, stressed out, and angry for reasons I couldn’t even understand.

“There’s no way I’m walking away from a case like this,” I said. “Maybe you hung up OSP and ran off to the forest service, but I’m sticking it out.”

I apologized immediately, but the words were still out there. I was too young to remember the switch, but I knew Dad had quit the Oregon State Police to become a forest ranger when I was still a kid. My mother had never been particularly comfortable as a cop’s wife. You never knew when that expired tag you pulled over on highway patrol was going to belong to a guy running from a warrant, thinking to himself, I’m never going back.

I had vague recollections of my parents’ hushed arguments behind their bedroom door about Dad’s job. At the time, I had no idea what they were all about, but in retrospect, and in light of the timing, I gathered that Mom had put the screws to him.

And so Dad had let go of his law enforcement dreams to patrol Oregon’s national forests until his retirement just last year. He enjoyed the steady outdoor hours and his federal pension, but I knew he sometimes wondered what he’d missed out on in the career he left behind for his family.

“I just want you to be proud of me, Dad. When you treat me like a little girl, I feel like I’m not in control of anything in my life.”

“You know I’m proud of you, Sammy. Of course I’m proud of you, not just for your work but for everything you’ve accomplished. I’m sorry I even brought this up. This isn’t about you,

it’s about me; I forget sometimes how strong you are. But you’re my only family left, kid. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Why hadn’t I seen it that way before? “Nothing’s going to happen. Hey, a couple psychopaths came after me, and I still turned out OK.” We both laughed. “Seriously, Dad, I am so sorry for what I said. I snapped at you because, honestly, I’ve got some doubts myself about how I’m going to learn to get through days like this one. I went out to the crime scene this afternoon, and seeing her body I can’t stop thinking about it. But I really want this assignment. I’ll probably do more than my fair share of whining about it,” I added, “but I want to feel like it’s OK to do that around you without you telling me to take myself off the case, all right?”

“In other words, the old man needs to lay off.”

“Dad “

“I’m kidding,” he said, cutting me off. “Get some sleep now, OK? You must need it after the day you’ve had.”

I was still feeling guilty about my little tirade. “Can I come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“You know you don’t need to ask. You can even bring the it runt.

He was referring, of course, to Vinnie. Dad had taken him in while I was gone, saving me from a choice between the kennel and sneaking Vinnie into the hotel.

When I hung up, Vinnie turned away from me, still pissed off about the temporary abandonment. He caved when I headed up the stairs, though. By the time I hit the sheets, he had grabbed his Gumby doll and jumped in with me.

No matter how important the missing person, an investigation moves more quickly once the body is found.

Dennis Coakley, who had been dragging his heels yesterday, had hurried to a slow crawl. I got his message first thing Tuesday morning: “I heard the terrible news about Clarissa and wanted you to know I’m still working away here, the highest possible priority. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

We’d see about that.

I also had a message from Susan Kerr, who clearly moved at a much faster clip. “Hi, this is Susan Kerr. Obviously, I’ve heard the news, and I won’t even bother trying to tell you how horrible the night was for everyone. I think the reality is still setting in for all of us. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I’ll be helping Clarissa’s family with arrangements they’re obviously not in the best state right now to pay attention to all the details. Tara’s doing OK, definitely a help to her parents. Townsend, on the other hand well, quite frankly, I’m worried about him. In any event, I’m doing what I can, so, if you need anything from anyone, please feel free to call me. Anything at all.” Before she hung up, she left every possible number where she might be located.

Susan was dealing with death by taking charge. My mother had been the same way. The few times she’d lost anyone and I mean anyone: a neighbor, a cousin, her father she went straight to work. Call the funeral director, the insurance companies, the creditors. Prepare frozen casseroles and lasagnas to store for the family. It was like she had a death checklist, full of tasks to keep her busy until the body was in the ground.

Watching my mother in action, I had never understood her motivation. Did she need to stay distracted from the death itself? Was it a means of obtaining control over a world that felt unpredictable? Or was it just an earnest desire to help those who weren’t as strong as she was? Whatever Susan Kerr’s motivation, I was glad someone close to Clarissa could play that role. Having seen Townsend attempt to deal with the mere possibility of his wife’s death, I couldn’t imagine what the confirmation of his worst fears had done to him.

I replayed the message to scribble down her phone numbers, then went on to the next voice mail. “Hi, Samantha, Susan Kerr again. Just wanted to let you know I think I’ll go ahead and call Duncan, just to make sure you’ve got all the support you feel you need, OK? Thanks, Samantha. I appreciate having someone devote her personal attention to my friend.”

I wasn’t surprised that someone with Susan Kerr’s resources already knew my boss. If she wanted to make sure he was giving me all the support I deserved, I was all for it.

With the voice mails out of the way, I called Johnson to check in.

“We broke the news to the family last night. The parents and sister first, then the husband. Nothing unusual. The sister gave us the official ID while we were working on the search.”

“The husband didn’t have a problem with it?”

“No. We explained that a search of the vies house is standard and that we had a warrant. He said he understood that the investigation needed to proceed.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing that means anything yet. We took bank records, credit card statements the usual stuff that sometimes means something down the road. But we already knew from the walk through the other night that we weren’t going to find any obvious signs that she’d been done in the house.

“Chuck and Mike came through on getting records for the recent credit card charges and cell calls. We’re still working on getting the toll records for the home phone.

“We’ve got a charge at Nordstrom on Saturday. Adds up to the items we found in the shopping bag, plus the pants and sweater she was wearing on Sunday. The only charge after that was on Sunday, right after noon, at the Pasta Company.”

I knew the place. Or places, I should say. The Pasta Company is a popular local chain.

“Which one?” I asked, since I could think of six or seven locations off the top of my head.

“Terwilliger and Barbur.” Made sense. Only a mile or so from the Easterbrooks’.

“I sent a patrol officer over there with her picture. A couple of employees said they recognized her because she’s in there a lot, but no one could place her there for sure on Sunday.”

“There’s no way to know if she was alone?” I asked.

“No, but she probably was. One order of linguine in browned butter, no tip. A carry-out order, it turns out. Walker drew short straw and got trash duty. Duly noted beneath the sink: one empty Styrofoam container from the Pasta Company.”