The Girl in the Woods (5 page)

“Okay, but why was it so hard to ID who these feet belonged to?” Kendall asked. “Is that going to be a problem with our foot?”

“No. I mean, not for the same reason,” Birdy said. “The ones found in the Pacific or on the Strait were compromised.” She set down her pen and met Kendall’s gaze. “More like transformed.

“It was difficult for the examiners to identify feet because they had been transformed into a waxy residue, somewhat like soap,” she said. “The buildup was caused by a lack of oxygen in the sea water and the growth of anaerobic bacteria that converted the fat into adipocere.”

As Kendall took it all in, a story came to mind.

“Like that famous case from your old stomping grounds,” she said. “The one everyone calls the Lady of the Lake.”

That Kendall had recalled a fascinating case made Birdy smile. It was one of the most baffling and interesting in the annals of Northwest crime. She stopped what she was doing.

“The Lady of the Lake,” Birdy repeated. “Yes, that’s the one.”

The Lady of the Lake was so named for a crime that had occurred in Lake Crescent, a deep chasm of water not far from where she grew up on the Makah Reservation, though decades before Birdy was born.

It started when a pair of men found a body while out fishing in the summer of 1940.

It was a woman, face down, floating on the surface.

“The woman had been hog-tied and weighted down in the icy waters where anaerobic bacteria did a number on her, turning her into a creamy, putty-colored substance that resembled soap,” Birdy said.

“That’s disgusting,” Kendall said.

“Disgusting is also fascinating, Kendall.”

“I guess you’ve got that right.”

“The discovery was a sensation,” Birdy said. “I remember studying about it in school. Picnickers and curiosity seekers swarmed the banks of Lake Crescent to see just where the Lady of the Lake had been found.”

“Right, but more to the point, however, was just how did she get there . . . and, of course, who in the world was she? That’s the stuff of a classic murder mystery, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Kendall said. “I’m grabbing at a memory now, but I can’t recall how they figured it out.”

Birdy smiled. “I remember it. In fact, I wrote a paper on it in college.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me in the least?” Kendall asked.

Birdy ignored the tease. She never forgot anything. Every case she ever studied, especially the big ones, was burned onto her brain.

“A medical student in Port Angeles examined the corpse for the police and reported that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to identify the vic. Even though she’d been preserved by the cold, deep water, she was missing her face and fingertips. A dental plate removed from her mouth was the sole clue—and eventually led to her killer.”

“Her husband, right?” Kendall asked.

Birdy recalled more details. “Yes, the victim was identified as Hallie Illingworth, a waitress from Port Angeles, married to a truck driver named Monty. No one had seen her since just before the Christmas holidays a few years before.”

Kendall watched as Birdy moved around the autopsy table.

“People were suspicious of her husband, a brute who’d beaten her black and blue, but the idea that she might have run off with another man seemed plausible,” she said.

“He was convicted, right?”

“Yes, he eventually served nine years in prison for the crime,” Birdy said.

Kendall let out a sigh. “And we think they get off too easy today. Illingworth was the worst kind of killer. He basically beat her, strangled her, hog-tied her, and tossed her into the lake to conceal his crime.”

“And he almost got away with it,” Birdy said.

“Sometimes they do,” Kendall said, thinking of the case that had been the source of so much contention in the department, the case that brought Birdy to the crime scene the previous day. Kendall lingered a bit more, before saying good-bye.

 

 

The list of what Birdy knew for sure about the foot was devastatingly brief. The victim from Banner Forest was likely female because there were traces of pink polish on two of the toenails. But really, Birdy knew, that was kind of an assumption that didn’t necessarily mean much. The foot might have belonged to a boy playing around with polish or one who simply wore nail polish for his own fashion sense. That was fine. Jumping to conclusions was not a course of action she wanted to follow anyway. The size of the foot indicated a younger person or a female. The stump was so damaged that Birdy feared no matter what equipment they had in the lab in Olympia, there was no real hope they’d be able to determine exactly how the foot had been severed from the rest of the body.

Next, she looked at the leafy humus that the crime scene tech Sarah Dorman had collected to see what if anything had been left behind. She ran the forest soil under a field of UV lights to see what, if any, biologicals were present, though she knew that test would yield very little that was helpful.

Soil might look dead, but it was full of living things.

As she expected, it glowed like a photograph of the Milky Way.

Under a scope, she searched for any overt particles that might be out of place given the context of the foot’s discovery in the middle of Banner Forest.

The sword fern that Sarah had dug up and brought to the lab had just begun to sprout new fronds with its fuzzy crown unfurling slightly. The budding fronds were like a perfect bird’s nest with a clutch of soft brown eggs.

Birdy looked for hair, for fibers, for anything that might not belong in the dirt and on the fern.

Again nothing.

The foot was put back into the cooler and her assistant would see that it was properly transported to Olympia. She’d wondered about those feet on the shore years ago. She had to admit that she considered only for a split second that the foot found by the school kids might be related to something like that.

And yet, a foot in the forest was far, far different. It had been exposed to air and all the handiwork of the larvae. The feet on the coast were distorted, but preserved.

Birdy looked at the fern. She did not consider it of any evidentiary value, and she didn’t want it to die. She went over to her sink and filled a bright orange Home Depot bucket with water and stuffed the plant into it.

She went to the locker room to shower and dress. Her scrubs were deposited neatly into a basket next to the door. The water doused her body and she let it run over her face, closing her eyes and wondering about the foot from Banner Forest. She sensed it had belonged to a girl, a young woman. It had danced. It had run. It had tapped to the music. And someone for some sick reason had sought to take it from the body and carry it to the woods for a cruel and unceremonious disposal.

Those questions and more came to her as the water, nearly scalding, splashed down over her shoulder-length black hair. The questions above all others were the ones she would always ask whenever a patient showed up on her autopsy table.

Over and over she’d ask as she thought about the violence that men reserve for female victims:
What mistake did he make? What evidence did he leave behind?

She turned the faucet to the off position and reached blindly from the shower around the corner for a towel. She was going to miss many things when she went to the new building in Bremerton, but the grime of that old shower was not among them.

T
he place on Olalla Valley Road was notorious among those who lived in the area or passed by it on a regular basis. It wasn’t the site of a colossal accident, though it always brought that kind of rubbernecking. So much so, in fact, that a driver had once been so distracted she ran off the road and sunk her SUV deep into a cattail-ringed ditch.

It was the house and the yard. Or rather what its owner had done to them that caused all the distraction and disdain.

If a home could be a train wreck, this was a Burlington Northern catastrophe.

The place had started its days as a charming little farmhouse when it was built in 1914. Old postcards from the time prove that in glorious, rich sepia tones. The original couple who built it—James and Delia Christensen—had farmed strawberries and then later chickens on twenty-five acres that stretched from the road to a small spring-fed lake in the back of the property. It had once been idyllic, a place of pastoral beauty.

That was a long time ago. Owners had come and gone. With each one, an addition, a change, a pockmark was deposited unceremoniously on what had been so lovely and serene.

In the early 1990s, Tess Moreau, the great granddaughter of the original owners, had settled into the old farmhouse. The acreage around the place shrunk as parcels were sold off. The accumulation of things collected over the years began to constrict and overtake the yard. In time, it appeared that the only parts of the earth near the house that felt the rays of the sun were a pathway from the mailbox on Olalla Valley Road to the front door. Everywhere
and
anywhere were piles of trash, garbage, and debris.

Outsiders who passed by mocked Tess and wondered how anyone could live in such a state of filthy confusion, but those who knew her held a more sympathetic view. Tess had lost her husband and a daughter in a car accident when she was only twenty. She raised another daughter, Darby, by herself on her income as a records keeper at the women’s prison in Purdy, about seven miles away. At work, no one knew what her situation was like, because she never invited anyone over. She always looked tidy. She followed the rules of her job with the kind of precision that indicated an understanding of doing things the proper way. Her desk was devoid of personal effects outside of two photographs, both of her daughter. Those portraits were put away each night.

And yet, all of that was a kind of mask for what was going on at home.

Tess started collecting things in the early years of her broken heart and it simply couldn’t be stopped. People tried to help her, of course. A social worker from the county offices in Bremerton made a note of Tess and her state of mind in a court-ordered home visit:

After work earlier in the week on Monday, Tess Moreau looked around her house and knew that something wasn’t quite right. Everything seemed to be in its chaotic place. And yet something was missing. Darby’s book bag wasn’t hanging by the door.

She called out to her daughter.

“Honey, you home?”

Tess knew every inch of that debris-blown home. She knew what had been moved, added, subtracted. She knew if someone had attempted to organize things for her. She didn’t understand why people did that, when she had no problem finding what she needed
when
she needed it.

She followed the path she’d left between the stacks of papers, toys, kitchenware, and assorted collectibles to Darby’s bedroom and twisted the doorknob.

It didn’t take Tess more than an instant to confirm that Darby wasn’t at home. The sixteen-year-old kept her room spotless. Operating room clean. There wasn’t a paper not in its place. Clothes were put away. The bed was made.

“Darby!” she called out once more.

All mothers have a sixth sense about their children. Despite her problems, Tess Moreau was no different. She might have lived in squalor of her own doing, but she’d been imprinted with her daughter and the love she felt for her from the moment Darby was born. Tess was certain something had to be wrong.

Very, very wrong.

As Monday evening turned into night, as night turned into early Tuesday, Tess sat amid the disarray of her life with her phone clenched in her hand. She knew the right thing to do. She expected that she needed to phone the sheriff. Tears rolled down her cheeks. By calling the authorities, she knew she was opening the door for them to assess her one more time. She knew that when Darby was found, she would lose her forever. The social worker had said as much.

“Look, I know you’re a good mother. I know you have issues. Look around. You have to see what others see. But between you and me, I’d at least make an attempt to clean up the outside appearance of this place. You are just asking for someone to come here and take away your daughter.”

 

 

Tess got ready for work and made the early morning drive to the prison, but once she arrived, she could barely keep it together. She started to cry. She pretended to focus on one of the dozen sad African violets she’d been trying to revive on her desk by the window facing the sunny south side of the prison yard. She’d never considered herself a plant person, but she’d found the violets in the “free” section at Home Depot in Gig Harbor and was determined to give them a second chance with some TLC and the right amount of sunshine.

Amanda Watkins, a co-worker, noticed something was wrong and approached her.

“I don’t think all the fussing in the world will make that thing bloom again,” she said.

Tess looked up. Her eyes were leaking tears, but she said nothing.

“This isn’t about the plant, is it?” Amanda asked, inching closer.

“Darby’s missing,” she said, looking around to make sure they were alone in the prison’s records office. They were. “I don’t know where she went.”

“You’ve got to call the police,” Amanda said.

Tess turned her eyes downward. “I’m afraid,” she said, though that was only partly true.

Amanda pulled at her shoulders. Amanda was a tall woman, a little uncomfortable with her height. Her nest of unruly silver hair, almost like fine wire, didn’t help her cause to be smaller. It had a mind of its own, and that was always upward. In her fifties, she was still in search of the right look. None of her clothes fit right, and the sweater she was wearing was a case in point.

“Something could have happened to Darby,” Amanda said, giving up on the sweater.

“I know,” Tess answered. “But in case she’s run off, I don’t want to lose her.”

“Some freak might have her.”

“You don’t think I’ve already considered that?” Tess asked.

Amanda shook her head. “Considering where we work, I’d hope so. Call. Call now.”

“There’s something you don’t know about me,” Tess said.

Amanda put her hands on Tess’s shoulders once more and stared into her eyes. “I know. We all know.”

Tess let the tears fall. It was a silent cry, the kind that only allows tears to roll over cheeks and onto the floor. Quiet. No trembling lips. In many ways, the silent kind is the most heart wrenching of all the countless ways people show their hurt and grief.

“It’s all right,” Amanda said. “Call. Go home. I’ll cover you here.”

Tess went for her jacket, one of a hundred she had collected from garage sales, department store clearance centers, even one from an open box left at the Goodwill drop-off in Port Orchard.

“Everyone knows?” Tess asked. She looked so hurt, so ashamed. Her eyes filled with more tears. “I didn’t know that. No one has said a thing to me about it. This whole time?”

Amanda hugged her friend.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Darby matters.”

“I know. Going home now.”

Amanda watched Tess as she turned around to leave. People had laughed and talked about her behind her back for years, but they respected her too. She was so capable, so amazingly confident about how to handle things in the records office. It seemed impossible that she could be the kind of woman who lived in a pigsty. One time, Amanda and another co-worker looked up Tess’s address in the computer at work and drove by her house in Olalla just to see it for themselves.

Amanda hated that she had done that. It was a small betrayal of someone she admired. She never told her and she wondered now if she had if Tess would have confided in her about her daughter’s disappearance.

 

 

On her way home from the office, Birdy stopped at Walmart to pick up some clothes for Elan who’d arrived with nothing more than what he was wearing and a smartphone. Guessing the teenager’s size, she selected a couple pairs of jeans and some graphic T-shirts. She nervously picked up some boxer briefs after asking a young clerk what a teenage boy would probably prefer to wear. She selected a plain black backpack and added some toiletries into the cart. She didn’t care if he was trying to grow out a wispy chin beard. She hoped that razors would give him the hint that the look wasn’t appealing now. Maybe in a year or two.

She’d talked with Summer. While the conversation was brief, it wasn’t as strained as it might have been. Summer said that Elan had been acting out and missing school and was having a hard time. When Birdy pressed her for more about the underlying cause of whatever it was that was making him difficult, Summer balked.

“No one can do anything right. You’ll see. You might think you can. Good luck with that. I bet you throw him out by the end of the week.”

It was a challenge. Birdy could feel it.

“How’s Mom?”

“As mean as ever.”

“How’s Cal?” she asked about Summer’s husband.

“Look, Birdy, you see how you can deal with Elan and I’ll do what I can here.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“That’s nice.” Her voice was tinged with sarcasm.

Birdy resisted the urge to shoot back, and it was a good thing.

Summer amended what she’d said. “I mean, I appreciate it. I have to go. Working nights at the casino.”

Birdy had texted Elan a few times during the day, but only got a few cryptic responses.

When she arrived home, she was surprised to smell something cooking that wasn’t pizza.

“I know how to cook, but you wouldn’t know that,” Elan said. “You don’t really know anything about me.”

Birdy didn’t take the bait. “I brought you these,” she said.

He took the bag and peered inside. “Thanks. You know it’s true, don’t you?” he asked.

“That I don’t know you?”

“You don’t know who my father is, do you?”

Birdy changed the subject. “Let’s eat. Smells good. What is it?”

“Lasagna,” he said.

“That’s impressive.”

Elan shrugged a little. “I don’t know how good it will be. All you had was ground turkey, which I don’t like that much.”

The lasagna was good and Elan was right. She really didn’t know him. But he knew
her
. He’d Googled every case she’d worked on. He asked thoughtful questions. He was very, very good at that.

Answering any she had for him however was not his strong suit.

She let her first condition pass. She’d find out what was troubling him and what brought him to her later.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” she asked.

“I could say that Mom’s drunk all the time and I had no choice, but that’s not really the truth. I worked last summer on a boat cooking for the crew. I can make pretty decent lasagna.”

“You can. What else?” she asked.

Elan laughed. “That’s pretty much it, Aunt Birdy. I lasted two weeks.”

Getting to know him was going to be a very good thing.

 

 

The rain had turned to ice pellets the week after the previous Christmas season. A small dark car parked outside of the house and its driver watched the figure through the window. At first, just a girl. Then her mother. The images were fleeting, but unmistakable. They were taking down the Christmas tree. Adrenaline pulsed and fear rose up. The driver held an envelope and deep inside seethed with rage for what had to be done. Too much was at stake, too much had been lost already. Over and over the voice on her cell phone spoke in a biting and harsh manner.

“You do this or I’ll ruin you. Don’t you even think about defying me! You, remember, are my bitch.”

“I don’t want to do it,” the driver said.

“I don’t want to kill you. But that’s the way life goes.”