Second Watch (21 page)

“As soon as that happens, you’re hoping he’ll come after you.”

I nodded.

“Which means I’m going to the funeral, too.”

“I hoped you would,” I said. “You’ll be the eyes in the back of my head.”

“I’ll be good for more than just eyes,” she said.

The food was delicious. We scarfed it down as though we were starving. Over dinner I told Mel about Rosemary Mellon’s discovery of what was most likely never-tested physical evidence in the Monica Wellington case.

“She thinks she can get a DNA profile?” Mel asked.

“Yes.”

“How long.”

“Best-case scenario five to ten days; that’s if she can walk it around whatever backlog the crime lab has at the moment.”

“Did you call Ross?” Mel asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “The Sammamish cases aren’t really ours.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

“I didn’t see anyone from S.H.I.T. at the press conference.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Mel allowed. “And just because it’s not officially our case doesn’t mean Ross couldn’t pull strings and grease wheels. Call him. Give him a heads-up. That way, when Rosemary walks her samples over to the crime lab, they’ll be looking for them. They won’t come as a surprise.”

That was one of the things I had come to appreciate about Mel. I always looked at bureaucracy as an insurmountable obstacle. She always looked for ways to make it work.

We were still sitting at a dining room table laden with dirty plates when I took out my phone and called the attorney general.

One of the best things about working for the AG, at least this particular AG, is that Ross gives us access. Everyone who works for Special Homicide has his home number along with his office and cell phone numbers, too. When we need him, we can reach him.

“Hey, Beau,” he said. “You still in the hospital? I’m coming to Seattle tomorrow, and I was planning on stopping by.”

“They cut me loose,” I explained. “I’m at home. So is Mel. If you want to stop by here sometime tomorrow, you’re more than welcome.”

“She did a great job for us in Bellingham,” Ross said. “Harry couldn’t be happier. The police chief up there has always been a pain in his butt, and now she owes him big-time. Couldn’t be better.”

“Mel isn’t why I’m calling,” I said. “It’s about that cold case in Seattle.”

The slight hesitation in his voice told me Ross Connors already knew a lot about it. “The one that got the detective killed?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s the one. Detective Ainsworth told me that evidence from the Wellington homicide—evidence that should have been there—had been removed from a secure Seattle PD evidence storage facility. She also discovered that some possibly relevant microfiche data, Seattle PD HR data, had been tampered with. The evidence tampering didn’t make it as far as the M.E.’s office, however, because earlier this morning, Rosemary Mellon located some tissue samples from back then, samples from the Wellington case. She’s going to submit them for DNA profiling. I was hoping to enlist you in doing something to speed the process along.”

“To say nothing of paying for it, right?” Connors asked. “You know as well as I do that DNA profiling is expensive, but if what you’re telling me is true, shouldn’t the cost of any relevant testing be coming out of Seattle PD’s Internal Affairs budget instead of mine?”

“That’s something else we both know,” I countered. “If Internal Affairs is calling the shots and paying the fare, the testing is going to go to the end of the crime lab backlog rather than to the front of it.”

“When was this case again?”

“The homicide itself happened in 1973. It’s the first case I ever worked for Homicide, and it was never solved. My partner back then, Milton Gurkey, and I worked the case sporadically between then and 1975, when we were told in no uncertain terms that spending any more effort on it was a waste of time and resources. That’s when we finally let it go. I don’t ever remember getting back to it. Then, without our knowledge, the case was deemed officially closed in 1981.”

“You were never notified of that?”

“Never.”

“And all of this happened long before any kind of DNA profiling capability,” Ross said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Who closed it?”

“I don’t know. Delilah may have discovered something about that. If so, she didn’t clue me in.”

“But now, Rosemary thinks she can pull something usable off the samples she has?”

“Yes. Whoever was able to manipulate records inside Seattle PD wasn’t able to work the same kind of disappearing act inside the M.E.’s office. According to Rosemary, the samples in question have been locked away in cold storage all this time. She’s confident that it’ll work.”

Ross sighed. “All right,” he conceded. “I’ll call Rosemary and tell her to submit her samples to the crime lab under S.H.I.T.’s name and that she should contact my office on Monday to get an official case number. I’ll also call one of the supervisors down there and let him know this is urgent.”

“Thanks, Ross,” I said. “Solving this case will mean a lot to me.”

“I’m a little puzzled about why it came up in the first place. What put it back on the front burner after all this time?”

“I did,” I answered. “I guess it’s been festering the whole time. Lying around in the hospital for a couple of days brought it to the surface.”

That was close enough to the truth to sound plausible, and I let it go at that. It’s something my mother used to tell me. Quit while you’re ahead.

By the time I was off the phone, Mel had cleared the table, put away the leftovers, and started the dishwasher. Pouring herself a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge, she made her way to her favorite spot in the unit. For me, the best spot in the house was my recliner, but for Mel it would always be the window seat in the living room with its 180-degree view of Puget Sound, from the grain terminal to Safeco Field. In the far distance, the snow-denuded Olympics stood as a jagged dark dividing line between the fading blue of the water and the darkening evening sky.

“Marge is a good cook,” Mel observed as I joined her on the window seat.

“She’s also a capable nurse and an adequate driver,” I said.

“Does that mean you’re keeping her on?”

“For the time being. Having her looking after me and driving me around will give both of us some freedom of action.”

Mel leaned her head against my shoulder. “I’ve had plenty of freedom of action lately. I’m looking for a little togetherness.”

“I know,” I said, “but once you go back to work, I’ll be stuck. I’ll go crazy. You’ve never seen me with cabin fever. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Mel cuddled closer. “Oh well,” she said, “if you’re keeping Marge around, I hope you’ll be making it worth her while.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t think you’ll be hearing any complaints on that score.”

We sat on the window seat together while she told me about the mess she had encountered in Bellingham. The problem was, I had been up too much that day and I had also overdone it. I could tell that sitting there with my legs hanging down wasn’t a good idea because my ankles were swelling inside my knee-high compression socks. Once Mel finished her wine, I took the last of my pills and we went to bed. Mel was lying beside me reading when I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

I didn’t dream about Monica Wellington that night, but if I had, I think she would have been smiling.

CHAPTER 17

T
he next day was Monday. One of the perks about working for Special Homicide is that it really is primarily a nine-to-five gig. There are exceptions to that, as Mel’s recent sojourn in Bellingham clearly showed, but that’s more the exception than the rule. We work complicated cases where we’re called into situations to serve as backup investigators rather than primary ones.

In other words, we generally work Monday through Friday. That was why, when I spoke to him the night before, Ross had assured me that he’d get the case number updated on Monday. There’s a good reason for the delay. Ross is a good guy, but he’s not a cop. He’s a politician and a bureaucrat, in addition to being a complete technophobe. It’s only recently that his longtime secretary, Katie Dunn, has been able to convince him that answering e-mail on his own wouldn’t kill him.

And so, although Ross is the captain of the ship and calls the shots, Katie is the experienced executive officer who keeps things working behind the scenes, and Katie is anything
but
a technophobe. I suspected that after our conversation, Ross had most likely called Katie and told her to assign a S.H.I.T. squad case number to the Monica Wellington homicide. He may have gone so far as to leave a message for her, but I’m willing to bet any amount of money that he didn’t send a text.

And because Katie is a truly dedicated public servant, I didn’t doubt that as soon as she received the message requesting a case number she immediately logged on to the AG’s secure server and assigned one. I didn’t call Katie at home to ask if she had done so. Instead, while Mel was out on her early-morning run, I called Rosemary Mellon. It was only a little past seven, early enough that I was relatively sure Rosemary wouldn’t have already hit the sack after her shift ended at six.

“How’s it going?” Rosemary asked.

I was up, had gotten myself dressed, and was comfortably ensconced in my recliner with a cup of coffee when I made the call. “Not bad,” I said. “How are things with you?”

“You must have pulled some strings,” Rosemary told me. “I had the case number in my hands by nine o’clock last night, and I was able to drive the specimens over to the crime lab as I was leaving work this morning. Not only were they expecting it, they said they’d get right to it.”

In other words, Katie Dunn had come through like a champ.

“What’s the case number again?” I asked. “I’m sure I could call Katie and get it, but . . .”

Rosemary read it off to me with no hesitation. Being given a case number was like being handed the keys to the kingdom.

I’ve already told you that I love my iPad, but to do actual work, we’re encouraged to use our official S.H.I.T. laptops. I hefted mine off the floor by my chair and was just logging on when Marge and Mel came in together. That was a little disconcerting. It was like the two of them were operating on some mysterious mutual wavelength.

Mel went to shower. Marge, unasked, brought me another cup of coffee. “You got yourself dressed?” she asked suspiciously. “Pressure stockings included?”

“Yes,” I said. “That sock applicator is a miracle.”

“All right,” Marge said grudgingly. “That’s good. The missus asked for scrambled eggs for breakfast. The PT lady called and said she isn’t coming today, so once you eat and take your meds, you and I will have a go at that running track.”

While she was rattling pots and pans in the kitchen, I went back to my computer. I e-mailed myself a copy of the list Delilah Ainsworth and I had constructed—the list that included everyone I could remember who had been involved in the Monica Wellington homicide investigation. Mac MacPherson had been one of the first names on that list. And he was now the first to come off it. I was amending that list with addresses and phone numbers wherever possible when Mel joined me in the den.

“I’m working on an interview list,” I told her.

Reading over my shoulder, she scanned through it. “Who’s Sister Mary Katherine?”

“She was the principal at Saints Peter and Paul, a Catholic school on Magnolia where Donnie and Frankie Dodd, the two boys who were the closest thing to eyewitnesses, were students.”

“They’re the kids who pointed you in the direction of the barrel in the first place?”

“Right. The problem is, the school closed in the early nineties. And the Dodd family seems to have disappeared into thin air. I remember they moved away a couple weeks into the investigation, but I have no idea where they went.”

Marge called from the kitchen, announcing that breakfast was served.

In preparation for going in for surgery, Mel and I had put together a shopping list of what we thought we’d need. Since I’d been using the walker Marge had brought along to the hospital, the new one was sitting in the bedroom, pristinely unused. Thinking that canes were somehow more civilized and dignified than a walker, we had also purchased a pair of very colorful metal ones. Those I had stowed in the corner behind my chair. When it was time to go eat, I surprised everyone, including myself, by walking from the den to the dining room with my two canes.

Rather than being happy about the situation and giving me attaboy points, Marge put both hands on her hips and scowled at me. “Did Ida Witherspoon say you were ready to graduate from the walker to canes?”

“No,” I told her. “I said I was ready.”

She shook her head. “Be that as it may, you’d better believe that when it’s time to do the running track, we’ll be using the walker.”

I didn’t argue the point then or later, after breakfast, when it was time to head downstairs. Using the canes to get from the den to the dining room was one thing. Doing much more than that wouldn’t have worked. The irony of making my way halfway around a “running track” on a walker wasn’t lost on me, but by the time we finished that single partial trip I was glad to have that instead of the canes. Note to self: Marge was right today; I was wrong.

When Marge and I came back into the unit, I told her that I thought Mel and I could manage on our own for the rest of the day and that she should consider taking the remainder of the day off. I found Mel sitting cross-legged on the window seat working away at her computer.

“Find anything?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Sister Mary Katherine Donnelly is retired and living in a convent in Las Cruces, New Mexico.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Saints Peter and Paul Catholic School may have closed in the early nineties, but alumni from there have a very active Web site. When I put in the names for Frank and Donald Dodd, I got cross-referenced to Francis and Donald Clark. Donald is listed as deceased. According to this, Francis, Frank, currently lives in Yakima.”

I thought about that for a moment, trying to remember the details of the two interviews with the redheaded twin boys, first that day in the patrol car and again later, at school, with Sister Katherine hovering in the background. In both instances, one of the boys—Donnie, I believed—had done most of the talking.

“Like I said, they left town a couple weeks into the investigation,” I said. “My understanding at the time was that their mother was remarrying. From the name change, I would guess that their stepfather adopted them. If Donald is deceased, does it say what he died of, or when?”

“I’m looking for a death certificate right now,” Mel said. I waited in silence, letting her do her search.

“Wait,” she said. “Here. This has to be him: ‘Donald Curtis Dodd Clark, born in Seattle on December 14, 1961. Died February 12, 1999. Cause of death: multiple injuries sustained in a two-car accident.’ ” There was another pause, and more typing. “Okay,” Mel said, “the other driver in the accident was cited for DUI. According to the obituary, Donald’s survivors are listed as his mother and stepfather, Amelia and Howard R. Clark of Yakima, and his twin brother, Francis, along with several nieces and nephews.”

I started to say something, but Mel held up her hand. “Wait,” she said. “Let me check something else.”

Again I waited. Mel is great at doing computer searches, and I was happy to leave this to her. “Okay,” she said several minutes later, “this is interesting.”

“What?”

“I just checked the birth certificate records. Donald and Francis Dodd were born to Amelia Dodd at Providence Hospital in Seattle. The father is listed as unknown.”

That was surprising. But then, given Amelia’s supposed occupation, maybe not. Still, I remembered the home. It hadn’t been really upscale, but the place had been neat and clean—not a slum by any means. And, at the time, the boys had been attending a private school rather than a public one, and tuition there didn’t come cheap.

“It’s interesting all right,” I agreed, “but is it interesting enough to go hightailing it over Snoqualmie Pass to chat up the surviving brother? What about the mother?”

“Amelia Ann Dodd Clark was born in Yakima General Hospital on March 24, 1941. Died of natural causes, again in Yakima, on July 5, 2002.” There was a pause. “Here’s the obituary. ‘Ms. Clark, well-known throughout the Yakima area for her efforts on behalf of underprivileged children, died at her home surrounded by loved ones on July 5, 2002, after a long battle with diabetes. She is survived by her loving husband of twenty-nine years, Howard B. Clark, and by her surviving son, Francis. Her beloved son Donald preceded Ms. Clark in death. Services are pending. The family suggests that donations be made to Amelia’s Fund in care of Tri-City Bank.’ ”

“So there you have it,” I said. “The hooker with the heart of gold gets out of the life, marries someone from out of town, and goes on to live with him for decades and, in the process, becomes a beloved and upstanding member of the community. Who says happily ever after doesn’t happen?”

Mel gave me a scathing look. “Just because there’s no father listed on the birth certificate, you’re assuming that the mother was a hooker?”

“That was the general impression,” I said. “In fact, one of the neighbors, a Mrs. Fisk, told us as much at the time.”

I had forgotten to add Mrs. Fisk’s name to my list earlier, but I did so then.

“Sounds like gossip to me,” Mel declared. “Mean-spirited gossip.” With that, Mel slammed shut her computer and went in search of more coffee.

I could tell at once that I had stepped in something, although I wasn’t sure just what. I suppose that there are times when sisterhood is
still
powerful. By impugning Amelia Dodd Clark’s reputation, I had somehow offended Mel, thereby making it less than likely that Mel could be persuaded to accompany me (make that drive me) on a day trip across the Cascades to Yakima to track down Frankie Dodd Clark. If I hadn’t just put my foot in my mouth, I might have been able to make the case for taking in some autumn leaves along the way. I knew that ruse wasn’t going to cut it now.

Left to my own devices, I went back to my list and started making calls, starting with Larry Powell.

Lawrence Powell was still a detective when I first landed in Seattle PD’s Homicide unit, but during most of the years I worked there, he was the captain in Homicide and also the guy in charge. I called his listed number in Saddlebrooke, Arizona, a place Google Maps told me was somewhere north of Tucson. The woman who answered the phone said to me, “Hang on.” Then, speaking to someone else she added, “Sweetie, it’s for you.”

Larry Powell had been Captain Powell for so long that I had a tough time wrapping my mind around the idea of him being anybody’s “sweetie,” but when he came on the phone, I recognized his rich baritone at once.

“Who’s calling?” he asked.

“It’s J.P.,” I said. “Beau.”

“How the hell are you?”

“Great,” I said. “How about you?”

“Can’t complain,” he said, “although my golf score’s gone to crap. What are you up to? Still hanging out with Ross’s S.H.I.T. squad?”

There’s something about law enforcement. It’s a tight-knit community. You may leave it, but it stays with you wherever you go. The people you once worked with pay attention to where their fellow officers go and what they do.

“Yup,” I said. “I’m still there. What do you hear from Watty these days?”

“Not much. He moved to South Carolina. Told me he needed to stretch his pension. He said between pinching his pennies in Mexico or South Carolina, he picked the latter since he never learned to speak Spanish. I doubt he’s learned Southern, either, but that’s beside the point. He says that because he’s a senior he can pay off his property taxes by working in some office or another. I wish they’d start a program like that here.”

“You got a number for him?”

“Sure,” Larry said. “But what’s this all about—Mac MacPherson taking out that female detective?”

As I said, it’s a tight-knit community. Word had traveled fast.

“Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact it is. How did you find out about it?”

“I just got off the phone with Melody, Mac’s ex-wife. She’s really broken up over what happened. She can’t believe that even dead drunk, he’d do something like that. It’s pretty hard for me to believe it, too.”

“You mean you’ve stayed in touch with her?”

“With Melody? Sure. She was a close friend of my first wife, Marcia, and they stayed in touch after we left Seattle. Melody’s father had ALS, so she knew firsthand what Marcia and I were going through. After Marcia died, Melody was supportive of my getting on with my life, and now she and Joanie, my second wife, are good friends, too. In fact, when she was feeling lower than a snake’s vest pocket after the divorce was finalized, we invited her to come down and stay with us for a couple of weeks.”

“Did she ask for the divorce or did he?” I asked.

“Melody’s the one who filed,” Larry said, “and who could blame her? She stuck with the man through a lot when other women might have turned tail and run. She was with him all through the aftermath of that terrible accident, the one where he lost his legs. What she couldn’t stand later, and what finally drove her away, was the idea of having to sit around helplessly and watch while he drank himself to death.”

“I should probably give Melody a call,” I said, “but I don’t have a number.”

Larry gave it to me without a moment’s hesitation, and threw in their son’s number for good measure.