No Way to Die (2 page)

She nodded. A “380” is Seattle Police Department code for a suicide. Like most cops, Johnson had mixed feelings about suicide investigations. On the one hand, a suicide MOD—manner of death—made her job easier, easier than a homicide, anyway. Looked at from a workload perspective, this was good. But personally, she always felt the price was too high. When she came upon a dead person, she always hoped that the victim hadn’t killed himself. Suicides disturbed her—they were completely senseless. The guy probably had a wife and maybe kids. Now, they were left to deal with the aftermath.

“I hate ’em, too,” she said. Then she added, “Someone called the ME, I suppose?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Good,” she said. “Then let’s have a look.” She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. “Say,” she called out to one of the other police officers. “Would you guys drive over by the main entrance and block the road that enters this parking lot? No one comes in or out except the ME and his transport team. Look for 'em—they’re usually in a white van. Use your heads now.” They nodded, hopped in their squad car, and sped off down the access road.

Matthews led her to the Lexus. “The scene’s been secure since we got here, and the accountant says no one was here from the time he called until we arrived.”

Johnson nodded.

He continued. “I took a look through the passenger window. The paramedics got here just after I did. They had a glance through the driver’s window and confirmed he was dead.”

“How’d they do that? They touch the body?”

“Uh,” he hesitated. “No—I don’t think they needed to. The exit wound on the left side of the guy’s head is pretty big. A good part of his brains are spattered against the window there.”

Johnson nodded again. “Okay,” she said grimly. She studied the car for a second, and then said, “Pictures?”

“I shot forty or fifty with my digital camera,” he answered.

“Good,” Johnson said. “You get me copies, okay?” She looked through the passenger window. “Is that a note?” she asked, pointing to an envelope on the dash.

“That’s the first thing I thought,” Matthews said. “We didn’t touch it, of course.”

Johnson opened the door and took the envelope from the dash. She opened it and pulled out a note.

“Katherine—I’m so sorry to leave you like this, but there are too many problems with money and with the business. I can’t keep going anymore. Love, Tom”

* * * *

The investigation at the scene continued according to an established set of procedures. One of these was that in all cases involving death by suspicious or violent causes, a King County Medical Examiner was called to the scene. He arrived at just before eight o’clock. After introductions were made, the ME conducted a preliminary examination of the body just as it was found. He took his own photographs and carefully documented the position of the body in the vehicle. He made several measurements with a tape measure and recorded them for later use in a final, post-autopsy report. While he did this, Johnson spent the next forty minutes processing the scene for her reports. More photographs were taken. Jerry Carlson was interviewed and his statement taken. A gun—a large-caliber revolver—was recovered from the floor of the car. It was tagged and placed into an evidence bag. The note and envelope were placed into a separate evidence bag. No other evidence of any type was available.

At 8:30, the white van with the ME’s transport team arrived and waited for Johnson and the ME to finish their respective investigations, which happened shortly thereafter. At 8:45, the body was released to the transport team. The two technicians began the process of loading the corpse into a black transport bag in preparation for movement to the ME’s office, where a routine autopsy would be conducted.

“Detective Johnson,” the ME said as he watched the transport technicians load the body, “from what I can see, I’d say that the preliminary cause of death appears to be massive trauma caused by a single perforating gunshot wound to the right temple, probably by a large-caliber handgun. Manner of death initially looks to be suicide. I’d also say that it looks like your witness is probably correct—the time of death is very recent—within a few hours. If he says he heard a gunshot at six thirty or so, I can believe that. Initially, I don’t see anything suspicious at the scene. Anyway, we’ll do an autopsy and get the results back in a few days. I’ll issue you a case number and send you a report.”

“Thanks,” Johnson said. “Here’s my card. I don’t see anything that would lead me to disagree with anything you just said. I’ll do some background checking, and then I’ll just wait for your report. My guess is that unless you come up with something in the autopsy, we’ll probably end up calling this one a suicide.”

* * * *

Johnson had released Jerry Carlson earlier, after she’d finished his interview. He was feeling much better by then. An officer drove him back to his own car in a squad car. Now, with the body gone, the witness released, and all the on-site investigations complete, Johnson took one final look at the empty Lexus. “Thomas Rasmussen,” she said, studying her notes. She’d pulled his wallet from his pocket and had Matthews snap a picture of his driver’s license before the body was transported. “Thomas—why’d you go and do something like this? Money?” She shook her head. So senseless. “Stupid,” she said. “Thomas—this was no way to die.”

She thought for a second, and then grimaced and shook her head. “Officer Matthews,” she called out.

“Ma’am?”

“The scene’s all yours, Officer. Make sure the car gets to the impound lot.”

“Roger that,” Matthews said. Johnson left.

* * * *

Matthews had already called in a tow truck, and it was standing by, waiting for the signal. When he gave the go-ahead, the driver hooked up the Lexus and swept up the glass. By nine thirty—just three hours after the shot was fired—the parking lot was reopened to the public as if nothing had ever happened.

MONDAYS ARE MY lazy days—at least from a training perspective, that is. When it comes to hauling my butt out of a warm bed at oh-dark-thirty, lacing on my running shoes, and hitting the pavement—if it’s Monday—I don’t do it. Here’s the deal.

I’m a serious runner, and I follow a pretty rigid full-time training program year-round, rain or shine. The program for each day is different, designed to work out a particular aspect of my game—speed, endurance, strength, and so on. The intensity of the training program varies depending on the time of year. The common denominator, though, whatever week of the year, is that Mondays are always “recovery” days. In other words, I get to sleep late and not feel guilty about it.

This explains why at oh-six-thirty on the fifth of March 2012, I was sitting at the dining room table in my apartment overlooking Lake Union, wearing pajamas and drinking coffee. I was looking outside, watching the rain fall against my patio door instead of pounding uphill and feeling the same rain hit me in the face. Don’t get me wrong—I
like
the rain. If I didn’t, I’d probably be wise to find another place to live. I’m used to it, and running in the rain doesn’t bother me at all. But sitting in the warm apartment, drinking coffee, and surfing the net on my iPad isn’t so bad either—a bit of a treat, actually.

I have a habit of turning on the TV to one of those cable news channels that continuously scrolls the headlines across the bottom of the screen. Then I turn the sound off so I don’t have to listen to the perpetual drone of the announcers. Instead, I turn some music on low. This particular morning I was listening to an old acoustic standby—Bruce Cockburn’s
Dancing in the Dragon’s Jaws
.

I heard the shower kick on in the bathroom down the hall across from my bedroom. The smell of coffee filled the room. All in all, a very nice Monday morning. Then my phone rang. Caller ID: my dad. Wondered why he was calling so early.

* * * *

“Hey, Dad,” I said, as I turned the music down a notch just as “Wondering Where the Lions Are” started.

“Morning, Danny. I wake you up?”

“Yeah, right.” This was a joke. He knows I’m an early riser.

He chuckled. “How was your weekend? Did you have a good time?”

I’d spoken to him on Friday and told him that I’d be “unavailable” over the weekend and would have to miss a Sunday morning breakfast we’d scheduled earlier. “You bet,” I said, recalling a very nice weekend indeed.

“Anyone I know?”

“Stop prying, Pop,” I said. I heard the shower doors slide open, and then, a moment later, a voice from the bathroom was singing loudly, “Wondering Where the Lions Are.” I smiled. Doesn’t get much finer than a beautiful woman singing in your shower to start off your morning. “You know I’ll fill you in when you have a need to know.”

He laughed again. “‘Need to know,’ huh? You act like
I’m
the one who was in the army. Well,” he continued, “you never were one to kiss and tell, were you?”

“You know me too well, Pop.”

“You bet,” he said. “Say, I’ve got something you might be interested in.” Ah, I didn’t think he’d be calling at six-thirty in the morning just to check up on my weekend.

“Shoot.”

“While you were off enjoying yourself, I was contacted over the weekend by a client. She’s actually quite a young woman, but I’ve had a long-standing relationship with her family—her parents, to be precise. Did I ever mention the Berg family to you?

“Berg?” I said, mulling the name over, trying to recall hearing it. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“Well,” he said, “our family’s known the Bergs for a long time. Karl Berg was a client of your grandfather’s first. Then I took over when your grandfather retired.” My dad’s a fourth-generation Seattle lawyer. There’s been a Logan attorney in Seattle continuously since 1892. I was supposed to be the fifth generation, but I opted for the army instead—a move that continues to confound my extended family to this day, especially given my current career choice as private investigator. Not to worry, though: I have three cousins who are members of the firm. The Logan place at the bar is secure.

“I think I might remember that,” I said, vaguely recalling the name. “Didn’t the Bergs have something to do with furniture?”

“That’s right,”Dad said. “Very good. Karl Berg founded the Seattle Furniture Expo in the mid-fifties. He grew it into the largest furniture retail operation in the Northwest—he was big here. Also in Spokane—even Portland. Karl sold the business to a national chain in the mid-eighties. He had a good run. I represented them in the sale. He and Ingrid retired then and started spending a lot more time with their daughter, Katherine."

“Katherine came along a little later in life for Karl and Ingrid. They were probably in their mid-forties when she was born in—” he paused to remember, “—in 1974, I think. Katherine was their real joy—a godsend for them. Once they retired, they traveled and generally enjoyed life with their daughter. Sadly, both Karl and Ingrid have passed on within the last five years.”

“No other siblings?” I asked. “Katherine’s the sole survivor?”

“Yes, that’s right. She’s the last of the original Berg family—in Seattle, anyway. The good news is that Katherine got married to a fine man and bore two beautiful children of her own. So I guess you could say the line goes on.”

“That’s good,” I agreed. “But you said ‘the good news.’ Sounds like you’re about to hit me with some ‘bad news’?”

“Sadly, yes,” he said. “Does the name Thomas Rasmussen ring a bell?”

“Thomas Rasmussen?” I closed my eyes and concentrated. “Yeah. Isn’t he the tech guy that killed himself in Discovery Park a couple of weeks ago?”

“Correct. It pains me to have to say it, but Thomas Rasmussen was Katherine’s husband and the father of their two young children.”

The line was quiet for a second. “Geez,” I said. “I’m very sorry to hear that. That’s got to be a tough burden for Katherine to carry.”

“It is. As the sole inheritor of her parents’ estate, she’s very well off financially, of course. But emotionally, it’s very tough. As you say, it’s a hard thing to have to deal with.”

“I can’t even imagine,” I said. “Bad enough when a husband dies. But to lose someone to suicide has to create all kinds of issues in the minds of those left behind.”

“Indeed. Which brings me to the point of the call,”Dad said.

“And that is?”

“Katherine’s not convinced it was a suicide.”

This got my attention. “Really? What makes her feel that way?”

“I’d rather she told you yourself,” he said. “I want you to hear it the way she told me, word for word—not secondhand.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. “When do you want to meet?”

“I apologize for the short notice, but how about breakfast at eight o’clock?”

“Eight o’clock this morning? As in the eight o’clock that’s just a little more than an hour from now?”

“Exactly.”

Fortunately, I didn’t have anything pressing this morning. Besides, my dad sends us quite a bit of business. For that (and other reasons), I owe him big-time. Not to mention the general fact that he’s always been a pretty cool dad, and I go out of my way to help him whenever I can. “Where’d you have in mind?”