Shadows of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  Working my way through the fruitless search, one thing becomes clear: the Onion King may have visited often, but he never slept here. That in itself is telling. He was an associate of the dopers, but he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t the type to sleep on a dirty mattress with needles strewn about. Mostly he just showed up, came into the house, occasionally sat, and then left.

  The big question is, why?

  The even bigger question is, does it have anything to do with the women?

  I’m guessing not.

  Tacoma PD finishes with the second floor and finds two more subjects. They clearly had better hidey-holes than the first five. One, an emaciated female, was folded up inside a large hamper. She’s probably eighteen or nineteen years old but looks a hard thirty. The sores on her face and arms are raw and red, and she picks at them even as they try to cuff her, the drugs muddling her mind so that she believes bugs are crawling under her skin.

  She can’t get them out, no matter how hard she picks.

  The second detainee is Hector … who was found in a wall.

  At some point long before our visit, he’d managed to carve out a section of drywall and make a little niche for himself. It was in a section that was double-walled with two-by-sixes, and since Hector is rail-thin it hid him well. The hole was covered with a large, vertically hung Mexican flag in such a way that you’d never know what was behind it. If he hadn’t started whispering to himself, they might not have found him.

  As they hustle Hector down the stairs, he’s complaining that the small baggie of meth in his pants pocket isn’t his. When one of the Tacoma officers asks what it was doing in his pocket, Hector doesn’t miss a beat, stating, “These aren’t my pants.”

  Apparently—or at least according to Hector—the pants belong to his friend “Bob.” He can’t remember Bob’s last name, his phone number, his address, or where he might be right now, but he’s absolutely certain those are Bob’s pants.

  The officers are familiar with Bob. They contact people all the time who are wearing Bob’s pants or Bob’s coat or Bob’s shirt. One or two guys have even been known to wear Bob’s underwear.

  Bob’s got a lot of clothes.

  And if it’s not Bob, it’s Jim, or John, or Steve. There’s always some nebulous friend getting his buddies in trouble, intentionally or otherwise. If Bob was real, no one would associate with him because of all the trouble he causes.

  Bob’s an ass.

  * * *

  I climb the stairs to the second floor and quickly scout the three bedrooms. The Onion King was here, but long ago. There’s no fresh shine. We spend a few minutes looking around, pause in Hector’s room to admire his hole-in-the-wall, and then return to the first floor.

  Sergeant Johnson is sifting through a battered twelve-by-twelve cardboard box at the kitchen table, picking at the items inside. As we approach, he upends the box onto the table and what must be two hundred credit cards, passports, and driver’s licenses pour out in a heap.

  “What do you make of this?” Johnson asks.

  “Car prowls, thefts, and burglaries,” Jimmy replies.

  “Yeah, but why keep them? Credit cards have a limited life expectancy after they’re stolen, usually less than a day, depending on when the victim discovers the theft and reports it. Passports and driver’s licenses are good if you’re into identity theft, but this group”—he looks behind him at those gathered in the living room—“they don’t look smart enough for that.”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “We’ve come across some pretty clever crooks. It’s amazing how much work someone will do to avoid … you know, work.”

  Johnson snorts, turning up the corner of his mouth into a smile. “I suppose, but these guys are traveling far and wide.” He picks up a license. “This one is from Seattle.” Grabbing another, and then another, he reads them off. “Olympia, Gig Harbor, Tukwila, Enumclaw, Kent, Renton, Bellevue—one out of ten is from Tacoma, the rest are from places an hour or two away.”

  “Maybe she can explain,” I say, dipping my head in Peggy Camp’s direction.

  “We need to talk to her anyway,” Jimmy tells the sergeant. “We’ll add this to our list of questions.”

  Escorting Peggy from the living room to what might once have passed for a family room, we sit her down in a shredded recliner that stinks of cat urine—real cat urine this time, not meth. She’s too large for a single set of handcuffs, so the officers had double-cuffed her. Jimmy checks the handcuffs after she’s seated to make sure they’re not poking into her back.

  “How’s that?” he asks, but she just glares at him.

  We choose not to sit, because … well … it’s a drug house. Instead, I move away and lean against the wall while Jimmy crouches in front of Peggy, close but not close enough that she can catch him with a swift kick.

  When Jimmy starts in on his questions, I’m encouraged. She seems to want to talk after all, vigorously telling him where to go and what to do with himself and what he can do to her. Jimmy seems receptive to her suggestions, nodding and smiling at her like she just told a funny story about her stinky cat.

  This just pisses her off and she reminds him where he can go and offers new suggestions on what he can do once he gets there.

  “She don’t live here!” Peggy finally barks.

  A long string of accomplished profanity escapes her chapped, depleted lips, while Jimmy just stares at her, a tired look replacing the dutiful smile on his face. There’s disdain in the subtle way he shakes his head.

  When her tirade reverberates to its ultimate end, she takes a couple deep breaths, slumps her shoulders in resignation, and asks, “What did the little whore do now?”

  “She got herself into a bit of trouble,” Jimmy replies. It’s not exactly the truth, but neither is it a lie. He can’t tell her she’s dead, mostly because she’ll shut down and we won’t get a thing out of her, but also because we have no proof that she’s dead.

  “She had some squatters, you know?” Peggy offers up.

  “Squatters?”

  She tries to lift her hand but is quickly reminded of the cuffs. “In her head. She had voices talking to her, other people living in her head who didn’t belong; squatters.” She shifts her bulk in the chair and adds, “Least she wasn’t lonely,” and then laughs at her own joke.

  Jimmy watches her in disgusted silence for a long moment. “Was she being treated for it?” he finally asks.

  Peggy exhales brusquely through her lips, like he just told a whopper. “Treated? Yeah, she was being treated for it; treated like the crazy little bitch she is. She had some quack-jack doctor downtown, last I knew.”

  “And when was that?”

  “A year ago; maybe longer. She’d get a prescription and then sell the pills, though I don’t know who would want to buy psycho pills, but people will crush and snort just about anything these days.”

  “Did you know that her boyfriend reported her missing?”

  “He said she was missing, came around here about five, six months ago pretending to look for her, but she ain’t missing. He just said that because I was pissed when she stole seventeen dollars and some”—she pauses—“when she stole seventeen dollars from my purse. You want to find her, just go ask around and see who she’s whoring with.”

  She’s calmer now, watching Jimmy as he makes a few notes. I notice her posture changes and she shifts herself into a bit of a slanted lean in the chair, extending her ample legs and then crossing them at the knees.

  “You’re a handsome one,” she says as Jimmy continues to write. “Are all FBI special agents so … special?” She shunts her head to the side and rolls one shoulder down, searching for sexy but failing at every curve. She’s twenty years, seven teeth, and two hundred pounds past average, so sexy is a hard goal to hit.

  Jimmy ignores the overture; it’s not the first time he’s been propositioned by someone in cuffs. “Do you have anything that might contain her DNA?”

  “Like what, honey, bloo
d or something?”

  “No, a toothbrush would do—or a hairbrush that has strands of her hair present.”

  “I got none of that.” She gives Jimmy a how-am-I-doing look, and asks, “So, you married? I see the wedding ring, but I figure you wear that to keep the women away, right? Not that it would matter if you were. Know what I mean?”

  Jimmy smiles at her, if for no other reason than to keep her talking. “Would you mind if we get your DNA?” He produces what looks like a giant Q-tip inside a clear plastic tube, sealed inside a sterile plastic envelope.

  “What you want my DNA for?” Peggy asks, suddenly defensive. “I haven’t done nothing.” The sexy pose is suddenly gone, and her eyes dart around trying to figure a way out of this. “You want to link me to some crime I didn’t commit. I seen that stuff on TV.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Jimmy assures her. “We’ll be testing your mitochondrial DNA. That’s different from the DNA they use to identify suspects. Mothers and daughters share the same mitochondrial DNA, but it can’t be used to identify a specific person.” He gives her the layman’s version of DNA, dumbing it down and stripping out all the technical jargon.

  “So, they can’t use it to convict me of nothing?”

  Or something, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Correct,” Jimmy replies, forcing a smile.

  Peggy remains unconvinced, and as she opens her mouth—I’m sure to say no—Jimmy cuts her off. “Your daughter has landed herself in some real trouble, Mrs. Camp—”

  “Miss Camp,” she corrects.

  Jimmy nods. “We need this sample to help her,” he continues. “Now, it sounds like you two aren’t on the best of terms, but she’s still your daughter. Before you say yes or no, I want you to think back to when she was first born, to her first birthday, or the day she first called you Mom. Ask yourself what you would be willing to do for that Sheryl.”

  The statement carries weight; visions of better days with a different little girl. And as Peggy Camp thinks back to the girl that, for a time, was her daughter and best friend, the one who was her only comfort and joy through some very rough times, her eyes fill and she lowers her head, giving a slight, affirming nod.

  Before she can change her mind, Jimmy opens the buccal swab and asks her to look up. “I’m just going to rub this up and down on the inside of your cheek,” he explains.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called a buccal swab.”

  “Like a belt buckle?”

  Jimmy smiles at her. “They only sound the same. This one is just for cheeks.” He prompts her to open her mouth and then scrapes the cotton tip up and down on the inside of her left cheek and repeats it on the right. Extracting the swab, he pulls the end of the stick and retracts the cotton tip back into the plastic container without touching it, and then seals the end.

  * * *

  It’s after six when we leave the Tacoma house. One of the K-9 units uncovered a substantial stash of both meth and heroin hidden in the floorboards. With all the drug residue and paraphernalia throughout the house, it’s a miracle the dog could pinpoint a single, specific location, but somehow he managed.

  Since this was initially our show, our soup sandwich, we couldn’t just head home and leave the Tacoma guys with all the work. Sergeant Johnson was happy for the help, and if we ever have reason to come back to Tacoma, I have no doubt he’ll be right there in our corner.

  We’re just passing through Seattle when Jimmy’s phone rings.

  It’s Nate.

  Though Jimmy doesn’t bother to put it on speaker, I can tell something’s wrong. They talk briefly, and he asks Nate to forward everything he has to Diane. Tells him we’ll be in touch in the morning.

  “What?” I say as he disconnects.

  A dreadful mask clouds Jimmy’s face as he shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. He stares straight ahead, a hard look weaving his mouth, nose, and eyes together, like one struggling with difficult emotions and losing.

  “We’ve got another missing girl,” he finally says.

  I hear the words.

  I hear the silence that follows.

  I hear a countdown clock start ticking in my head.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Friday, December 19

  Jimmy and I somehow arrive at Hangar 7 the next morning before Diane—unusual for her as she’s almost always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Her absence leaves the place feeling a bit hollow, or out of tune, like a radio with the channel not dialed in quite right.

  The long mahogany table in the conference room is entirely covered by reports, photos, and other case information, so Jimmy and I start poking through it. We’re careful to replace each page or folder exactly where we found it so as not to disrupt Diane’s system … which is a good way of ensuring we don’t disrupt Diane.

  “Looks like BrightPath paid off,” Jimmy says, hoisting a manila folder aloft and then laying it open in his hands as he begins to sift through. We have time to skim a handful of reports before the hangar door opens and we see Diane scurrying in our direction, her purse in one hand and yet another stack of folders in her other.

  She makes for the stairs to her office, but then sees us through the glass wall of the conference room. With a look of surprise mingled with embarrassment, she changes direction in mid-pace and blows into the room like a northeaster.

  “Good morning,” Jimmy and I say, our greetings overlapping and echoing.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Diane blusters. “I was up late going over the files. The alarm clock went off, but I must not have heard it.”

  “Did you get enough sleep?” Jimmy asks, looking her up and down.

  She gives him a searing stare and then glances at her watch, only to realize she left it on the vanity at home. “What time is it?”

  “Eight forty-five.”

  “Then I got about five hours,” she replies tersely. “More than enough.”

  It doesn’t look like enough, but neither Jimmy nor I are stupid enough to put the thought into words. If she saw herself right now she’d probably flip, so we’ll keep her away from mirrors until she’s finished with the briefing.

  “You could have slept a little longer,” Jimmy says. “A few hours aren’t going to hurt the investigation.”

  She waves off the concern with a flick of her hand. “I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. Besides, all the heavy thinking should be behind us.”

  Jimmy and I exchange a hopeful glance, but before we can ask her for the Onion King’s home address, she plows on. “I see you’ve been perusing the stacks. Would you like to continue, or do you want the CliffsNotes version?”

  “CliffsNotes,” we say in unison.

  * * *

  With words and images, Diane introduces us to twenty-six-year-old Melinda Gaines, who parted with friends on Wednesday night and hasn’t been seen since. A copy of the Tacoma police report lies unopened on the table before her as she recites the details of the skimpy file. “SPD believes it was well organized, precise, and swift in its execution.”

  “And they know that how?” Jimmy asks.

  “Because she walked home from a place just blocks from her home on a well-lit street, yet no one saw or heard anything. From what the police report says, this is a neighborhood where people look out the window if a door slams too hard or a car backfires, so if she’d gotten off a scream, someone would have noticed. But like I said, no one saw or heard anything.”

  “Where was she coming from?”

  “A place called Biscuits. She was meeting a couple friends. They’ve both been interviewed and said it was just a normal evening. A couple guys asked them to dance, but they weren’t interested. Melinda drank Sprite and was happy and stone sober when she left.”

  “And just vanished,” I add.

  Diane lifts an eyebrow and nods.

  “Nothing else?” I say. “No creepers hanging around, guys eyeballing them, or getting offended if they would
n’t dance?”

  “No,” she replies, glancing at her notes. “The girls said one guy was a sniffer, but that’s about it.”

  “Sniffer?”

  She nods. “He was talking to Melinda at the bar, before they moved to a table, and when she looked away he leaned over and smelled her. It’s not uncommon, I suppose, though usually they’re looking at you when they do it and follow it up with a compliment on your perfume.”

  “Odd, though, right?”

  “It’s odd only because, according to her friends, Melinda wasn’t wearing perfume; though I suppose he could have gotten a whiff of body lotion, hair spray, dryer sheets—who knows?”

  Standing suddenly, I start sifting through the piles, knocking two of them over and making a mess of the third before Diane grabs both my hands and demands, “What are you looking for?”

  “The Charice Qian report.”

  Releasing me, she holds up a finger, looking for a moment like my mother, and moves down the table to a folder near the end. “Charice Qian,” she says as she hands it to me.

  It takes me a couple minutes, but I find what I’m looking for in the transcript of Charice’s second interview. Diane and Jimmy have moved on without me by this time, so I place the open folder in front of Jimmy, underlining a passage with my finger.

  He reads the sentence and then the paragraph. Then he backtracks and starts two paragraphs up, rereads it just to make sure he hasn’t missed something, and then reads the relevant sentences aloud: “I was on the ground and he pulled me toward him by the leg, dragging me right up to the bars on the cell. Holding me at the ankle and under the knee, he smelled my leg. He smelled down the whole length of my lower leg, the way you do to see if meat has gone bad.”

  I cross my arms and lean back against the glass wall. “So maybe he’s not just a sniffer—at least a normal sniffer, if there is such a thing.”

  “Well, he’s not a cannibal,” Diane replies.