Second Watch (7 page)

There were several more telephone calls from well-wishers after Scott’s. They came in one after another. By then the meds I had taken earlier were kicking in and I was ready to stop talking. How many times can you say “I’m fine” without sounding curmudgeonly? When the occupational therapist finally showed up with her walker, I was more than ready to leave the phone in my room and do another forced march down the hall. Once that was over, I was happy to go back to bed, where I did myself the favor of first taking myself out of circulation by pulling the plug on my bedside phone and then switching off my cell.

I slept for a while before they woke me up for lunch. At that point I was beginning to feel bored, so I switched on the TV set. Nothing was on. My iPad was under lock and key in the closet, so I asked the next nurse who came to check my vitals to get it out for me.

People who know me well understand that I had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the computer age, first protesting the existence of cell phones and then trying to cling to a typewriter when Seattle PD was switching over to computers. So the idea that I would fall in love with my iPad was not exactly a foregone conclusion, but when Kelly and Scott teamed up to give me one for Father’s Day this year, I was hooked. I’ve even taken to doing my crossword puzzles on it.

In this instance I wasn’t looking for crossword clues. I wanted to know about whatever happened to Hannah and Eugene Wellington in the years since their daughter’s lifeless body had been found in a barrel of stale grease at the bottom of Magnolia Bluff. I had met them at Monica’s funeral, and going to her memorial service in the picturesque town of Leavenworth was one of my first official detective duties when I moved up to the fifth floor.

As soon as I googled the words “Eugene Wellington, Leavenworth, Washington,” the first link was to the man’s obituary:

Eugene Harold Wellington, a lifelong Leavenworth resident, succumbed after a brief illness. For many years he and his wife operated the Apple Inn outside Leavenworth before it was lost to a forest fire. Services are pending with Wiseman Funeral Chapel. Mr. Wellington is survived by his wife of fifty-five years, Hannah; his son, James; and three grandchildren. He was preceded in death by his beloved daughter, Monica.

What rocked me about that was how little there was of it—a whole life summed up in less than a hundred words. I remembered Eugene as a tall, powerfully built man whose rugged six feet six frame seemed crushed by the terrible weight of losing his daughter. At the funeral, just as Watty had told me about the trip to the morgue, Eugene was the one who sobbed inconsolably all through the service, while his tiny wife had sat stoically beside him, like a dry-eyed sparrow poised to take wing.

Letting the iPad drop onto my chest, I lay there recalling every detail of that first grueling week, the beginning of my career in Homicide.

CHAPTER 6

I
nitially, Karen had been thrilled when I gave her the news of my unexpected promotion to the rank of detective. Her pleasure quickly dimmed when she learned how much money I had spent in my unauthorized shopping spree at the Bon. And she was even less pleased when she found out that, as a detective, I’d still be pulling hours that weren’t remotely related to bankers’ hours. I’m not sure why, but Karen had somehow assumed that homicides happen and are investigated on a nine-to-five basis, Mondays through Fridays only. Not so.

“We’ve got a conference on serial killers down in Olympia this weekend,” Detective Powell had told me when he stopped by to see me late Wednesday afternoon. “It’s all hands on deck because they’re bringing in a guy from the FBI to teach the class. We’ve all signed up and paid to attend, so you’re elected to do funeral duty for Monica Wellington.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you show up at the funeral and at any reception following the service. It means you’re polite to the family members. You let them know we’re sorry for their loss and we’re working the case, but while you’re there, you keep an eye out for anything that seems off or anyone who seems off, too. You do not let on that you’re a greenhorn. You wear a suit and tie. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, wondering all the while how long it would take for my tiny pay raise to make up for the upgrade to suits and ties required by my new status as a detective.

There’s a uniform allowance for cops on the street. There’s no such thing when you’re working in plainclothes out of the fifth floor. At that stage in my life, I didn’t actually own a suit, unless you counted the baby blue tux I wore when Karen and I got married. Even if it still fit, the tux wasn’t going to cut it for a funeral. But I also knew that if I was going to get a suit and have it altered in time to wear it to a funeral on Saturday, it had to be purchased that very day—before I went home and gave Karen the news. So that’s what I did. Fortunately, it turned out there was still enough room left in our Bon charge account to make that work.

By the time I broke the news to Karen that I would be spending all of Saturday driving to and from Leavenworth to attend a funeral followed by a reception, my wife was barely speaking to me. She stuck Scott in my lap, told me she was going to the store, and why didn’t I figure out what we were having for dinner for a change. Cooking has never been my strong suit. I rose to the occasion by opening a can of SpaghettiOs, to which I added some frozen hamburger that I had thawed out and fried. When she came back from the store, Karen ate my slightly burnt offering without comment. I could tell she was neither pleased nor amused, although it was the best I could do with Scott screaming bloody murder the whole time I was trying to cook.

Believe me, I already suspected Karen’s job of stay-at-home mom wasn’t easy, but that evening’s meal made it blazingly clear to all concerned.

On Thursday I left the domestic warfare at home and showed up on time and properly dressed, Homicide style, on the fifth floor. Watty directed me to a cubicle near his that gave evidence of having been recently vacated by someone else—clearly someone who smoked, as there was a dusting of cigarette ash everywhere and a faint whiff of smoke still lingering in the air.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Watty told me. “Go down to the motor pool and check out a car. I’ll meet you out front on Third.”

Welcome to the world of being the last guy in. I had already been warned that I was automatically on tap to do the grunt work, and that was fine with me. I knew that was what it would take to learn the ropes. When I showed up in the garage, I more than half expected Phil Molloy, who ran the motor pool, to give me the business about it.

“So you’re out of squad cars and into unmarked,” he observed. “Who are you working with?”

“They haven’t assigned me a partner yet. I’m working a case with Detectives Watkins and Powell.”

“You’re lucky,” Molloy said. “They’re both good people.”

I sat in the passenger load zone on Third Avenue for the better part of fifteen minutes before Watty finally put in an appearance.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Saints Peter and Paul Catholic School on Magnolia to have a talk with Donnie and Frankie Dodd,” Watty replied. “You’re the one who brought up the path question yesterday, so it’s only fair that you’re there when we talk to them. Do you know where Saints Peter and Paul is?”

I shook my head.

“It’s on the far side of Magnolia Village,” Watty told me. “Just head over the Magnolia Bridge and turn right.”

Magnolia Village was the name of the neighborhood’s central shopping district.

“We’re going to talk to them at their school?” I asked, heading the patrol car in that direction. “Without their mother being there?”

Watty favored me with an owlish look. “Mac and I already tried talking to them with their mother in the room,” he replied. “We didn’t get anywhere that way, so now we’re going to try talking to them alone.”

It seemed like a good time to change the subject.

“How much does tuition to a private school cost?” I asked.

“Funny you should ask,” Watty replied. “I wondered that myself, and I already checked. It’s seven and a half thousand dollars a year per kid.”

I whistled. “Fifteen thousand a year? That’s a lot of money. How does a single mom afford something like that?”

“Good question,” Watty said.

I was still mulling it over when we arrived at the school and parked in a designated visitor parking slot. A sign on the door directed all visitors to report to the office, which we did. Moments later we were in the presence of Sister Mary Katherine, a tall bony woman in a severe black skirt and starched white blouse with a black-and-white veil pinned to short, graying brown hair. She examined Watty’s ID badge thoroughly through gold-framed glasses before handing it back to him.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” she asked.

“Detective Beaumont and I are hoping to have a word with two of your students, Donnie and Frankie Dodd.”

Sister Mary Katherine glared briefly at me. It was the first time I had heard the word “Detective” attached to my name, but if she had asked to see my badge, I would have been stumped. The only ID I had still referred to me as “Officer Beaumont.”

I was relieved when she turned back to Watty.

“What about?”

“The boys were instrumental in helping us find a body over the weekend,” Watty said. “I spoke to them on Sunday, but a few more questions have come up.”

Sister Mary Katherine studied us for a moment longer. “On one condition,” she said.

“What’s that?” Watty wanted to know.

“That I stay in the room while you speak to them. These are my students, after all,” she added. “I won’t have them pushed around.”

“Fine,” Watty agreed.

With that, Sister Mary Katherine reached for the intercom button on her desk. “Miss Simmons,” she said. “Please ask Donnie and Frankie Dodd to come to the office.”

I noticed she didn’t have to specify in which classrooms the boys might be found. I had the sense that this wasn’t the first time the two red-haired brothers had been summoned to the office—and that it wouldn’t be the last. I expected them to show up together, but they didn’t. When the first one arrived, he was already protesting his innocence.

“Whatever it is,” he declared, “I didn’t do it and neither did Frankie.”

“It’s all right, Donnie,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “You’re not in trouble. These two detectives would like to speak to you and your brother for a few minutes.”

I was glad the good sister could tell them apart. In a pinch, I wouldn’t have been able to.

A minute or so later Frankie slouched into the room. Without a word, he settled onto a chair next to his brother to await whatever was coming. Yes, they had definitely been summoned to the principal’s office on more than one occasion.

“Do you remember me from the other day?” Watty asked.

Both boys nodded. Neither of them met Watty’s questioning stare.

“What about Detective Beaumont here?” Watty asked.

They both glanced in my direction and then delivered tiny simultaneous nods.

Watty launched straight into the heart of the matter. “I’ve been going over Detective Beaumont’s report. I believe you mentioned you’re not supposed to go down onto the pier or onto the railroad tracks. Is that correct?”

Again both boys nodded in unison.

“But you do go there.”

“Sometimes,” Donnie said.

On Sunday both boys had been equally communicative, but here—perhaps because they were operating under Sister Mary Katherine’s steely-eyed stare—Donnie seemed to have assumed the role of official spokesman.

“And do you always go up and down the same way?” Watty asked.

“I guess,” Donnie said.

“So there’s, like, a regular path you follow?”

Donnie nodded, more emphatically this time.

“And you were on the path when you found the barrel?”

This time the two boys exchanged glances before Donnie answered. “I think so,” he hedged.

“The funny thing is,” Watty said, leaning back in his chair, “I spent all day Monday out at the crime scene. There’s a path, all right, but it’s nowhere near where you found the barrel.”

“But we saw it from the path,” Frankie put in. “It was right there in plain sight until we pushed it on down the hill.”

Watty ignored the interruption and stayed focused on Donnie. “Is that true?” he asked. “Or did you go looking for it because you already knew it was there?”

“We found it when we were coming back from the movie,” Donnie said. “That’s all. We found it, and then we opened it, and then we called you.”

“How did you open it again?”

“We used a stick to pry off the lid,” Donnie declared.

“And where did you find the stick?” Watty asked. “Was it just lying there on the hillside?”

“Yes,” Donnie answered. “We found the stick right there.”

I could see where Watty was going with this. The barrel had been found in a blackberry bramble. The stick the boys claimed they had used to open the barrel had looked to me like a branch from an alder tree, none of which were anywhere in evidence.

“That’s not what the marks on the barrel say,” Watty told them. “They say you’re lying about that.”

He just dropped that one into the conversation and let it sit there. The two boys exchanged glances, squirmed uneasily, and said nothing.

“If you know more than you’re saying,” Sister Mary Katherine said, inserting herself into the interview, “then you need to tell the detectives what it is.”

In other words, it was okay to push Sister Mary Katherine’s students around if she was the one doing the pushing.

“We used a crowbar,” Donnie admitted finally, after a long, uncomfortable pause. “We only said we used the stick.”

“Where is the crowbar now?” Watty asked.

“We dropped it in the water down by the pier when we went to use the phone.”

“And where did the crowbar come from in the first place?”

“Our mom’s garage.”

“And how did it get from the garage to the barrel?”

“We took it down the hill on Sunday morning, while Mom was still asleep.”

“Which means you already knew the barrel was there,” Watty concluded.

This time both Donnie and Frankie nodded.

“How?”

“We saw the guy who dumped it,” Frankie said, speaking for the first time. “On Saturday night, we were outside.” He paused and gave Sister Mary Katherine a wary look.

“Go on,” she ordered.

“We had stolen some of Mom’s cigarettes,” he said. “The house next door is empty. We were hiding in the backyard, smoking, when a guy drove into the yard in a pickup with a camper shell on top of it. He drove as far as the end of the driveway. He got out of the truck and pushed something out of the back. When he rolled it out onto the ground, we could see it was a barrel.”

“What kind of pickup?” Watty asked.

“I don’t know,” Frankie said.

“It was a Ford,” Donnie put in.

“Color?”

“It was sort of dark, but we couldn’t tell much about it because it was late at night.”

“How late?”

Donnie shrugged. “After midnight. That’s why you can’t tell our mom. She’d kill us if she knew we were sneaking out of the house when she thought we were in bed.”

“And that’s why you made up the story of finding the barrel on Sunday?”

Donnie nodded.

Watty settled in closer, giving the two boys a hard look. “This pickup truck you saw. Had you ever seen it around before?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“No.”

I’ve heard that twins often develop forms of communication that can pass between them in utter silence. I was suddenly under the impression that that was exactly what was going on here. They were both lying about something, but I couldn’t figure out what. I think Watty was getting the same message. Ditto Sister Mary Katherine.

“God knows when you’re not telling the truth,” the good sister remarked.

Both boys flushed beet red. “Please don’t tell our mother,” Donnie begged. “Please. We’ll be in big trouble.”

“So when did you take the crowbar from the garage?” Watty asked.

I closed my eyes and envisioned the house they lived in—a small 1940s vintage brick house with a detached single-car garage at the end of a narrow driveway. The house next door was an exact copy. When they were built, they were probably considered affordable housing for GIs returning from World War II.

“Like I said. We did it in the morning, before she woke up.” Donnie was back to doing the talking for both of them. “We knew there wouldn’t be time to open the barrel before we went to church. That’s why we decided to do it later. We told Mom we wanted to see
Charlotte’s Web,
even though we didn’t. We got in line at the Cinerama, but as soon as she drove away, we caught a bus back to the Magnolia Bridge. That way we knew we’d have plenty of time to open the barrel before we were supposed to get home. The next showing didn’t start until four thirty.”

“What did you think you’d find when you opened that barrel?” Watty asked.