by Gregg Olsen
She hands me a set of typed sheets. It’s the report I just asked for. I don’t know how she manages to type so fast with a fractured wrist.
“I didn’t put anything in there that can lead anyone to Gabrielle or her son,” Ronnie says quietly. “I’ve got another report with all of that information saved on a thumb drive. I don’t want someone getting into my computer.”
Ronnie has been sitting at a vacant desk since coming on board. She was originally only here to do a rotation through the various sheriff units. She would have been with us a week at most but my last case changed that. She is still a reserve deputy, but I think Sheriff Gray has other plans for her. She doesn’t have her own computer and has had to work off of the office server. I need to get her a password so she can protect her things. I think of doing that because of Nan and the fact that someone is stalking me. Which means they could be stalking Ronnie as well.
“Ronnie, you need to keep alert until this is over. I don’t want a repeat of last month.”
“That wasn’t your fault, Megan. If you hadn’t been there…” The shocked look on her face is real. “I owe you my life. Do you think the killer is coming after you?”
I do. I’m torn between not panicking her and keeping her aware enough to not become a victim. She’s a grown woman and so I decide to tell her enough to keep her on her toes.
“Let’s step outside.”
She follows me outside. I want to get a little distance between us and Super Nan. We walk out to where I found the cigarette butt, the candy wrapper and the lace underwear.
“This is where I found that stuff on Monday.”
She looks back toward the office. She had seen the picture collected from the crime scene. “The person taking the picture was here,” she says.
“I’m guessing. But if they were, look how out in the open this is. Anyone could have seen them.” But I didn’t.
“They weren’t too worried about being noticed,” she says.
“Or they didn’t look suspicious in the least. We have to consider that the person who took the picture is one of us.” I don’t know that, and I don’t even think that, but I want her to be souped-up alert. The expression that crosses her face tells me I’ve done my job in that regard. We’ve already run into that scenario once.
“I don’t want to talk much in the office. And I don’t want to leave anything out on the desks until we have a better handle on what we’re dealing with.”
“I understand. I won’t make copies until we’re ready to go to the sheriff. Have you told him your concerns?”
The sheriff knows what my concern is. He knows I’m going to keep this below the radar if possible. I don’t want anyone to put me together with Monique’s past. I still don’t know where Michael Rader fits in, if at all. He’s a wild card. I wouldn’t put it past him to be setting me up for Monique’s murder. He knows about me. He could be the one leaving my picture everywhere. The fact that Dan has the same pictures worries me.
“While I call Dr. Andrade, I want you to do something for me. As discreetly as possible.”
She picks up a notepad from my desk and a pen.
“Michael Rader,” I say. “He’s a white male, middle-aged, may be in law enforcement somehow.”
She raises an eyebrow at that last.
“Gabrielle gave me the name,” I tell her, and that’s not a lie. “See what you can find, and this is just between us.”
“Of course,” Ronnie says.
I call Dr. Andrade.
Thirty-One
I was put through to Dr. Andrade immediately. Normally the secretary would have asked questions and said the doctor would call me back.
“Andrade here, Megan.”
“You wanted me to call. Have you done the post already?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Do you know who this woman’s doctor was? Did you find any prescription bottles at the scene?”
“We didn’t find anything at the scene. I searched her home in Tacoma and didn’t find any prescriptions there, either. Hang on a minute.” I call out to Ronnie. “Can you look through the address book for any doctors?”
To Dr. Andrade I say: “Ronnie found her address book and she’s looking for doctors now. It may take a few minutes.”
Ronnie dutifully flips pages. The address book is quite thick.
“That Ronnie’s a firecracker,” Dr. Andrade says.
I’ll bet he never says that about me.
“Why do you need to know about a doctor? Did you find something I need to know about?” As far as I knew, Monique was in perfect health, except for taking Xanax. I’d stolen her Xanax when I was there a few years back. I thought it would be a weapon. Poison.
Ronnie found a doctor’s name in Tacoma. I provide it to Dr. Andrade and he repeats it back.
“I’ll give them a call,” he says.
“Tell me how she died.” I wasn’t letting him off the line that easy.
“Exsanguination,” he says.
“She bled out.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you need to talk to her doctor?”
“Megan, it may be nothing. I’d like to check with them first before I commit.”
I’ve caught him making mistakes on his reports before. He has a mind like a steel trap, and just as unforgiving. I need to know what he has. “Tell me what you think. I won’t hold you to it. It might have bearing on what I do next.”
Dr. Andrade let out a breath. “Okay. Fine. But you understand that there might be a simple explanation. In any case, the cause of death was loss of blood.”
I waited.
“There was an agent in her system that I’ve never run across before. All I can tell you right now is that it has paralytic properties. Like succinylcholine. That’s what they use sometimes for surgery.”
“Can you spell that for me?”
“I can’t tell you what it is. I’m just saying it’s a paralytic like succinylcholine.”
“Please. I just want to keep it in my notes.” He spells it for me. “Do you have any idea how it got in her system?”
“I can’t tell you yet. I found a needle mark on the skin of her neck. I’ve taken a biopsy of the neck muscle where the injection—if that’s what it is—was placed to see if I can find the same chemical. I sent it to the crime lab but it’ll be a while before they get back to me.”
“Were there any other injuries?” I ask, as if being skinned isn’t enough.
“I didn’t find any broken bones. There were no abrasions or cuts on the skin that would indicate anything other than the skin being removed. I can tell you this: whoever did this is a professional with a blade. I don’t know many surgeons who could have done that to her. It had to be a very sharp instrument. I would say a scalpel, but there are indications that it was a longer blade. Maybe six or seven inches. Like a fillet knife. A damn sharp one.”
He pauses and I can tell he has something else to say. I wait, not knowing where he’s going with all of this.
“Megan, if the chemical is a paralytic like succinylcholine she would have been conscious but unable to move. She may have been alive when her skin was removed. The pain would be so great that she wouldn’t have stayed conscious for long, but she might have lived until she bled out.”
My heart is still in my chest and my throat tightens. I feel dizzy and take several breaths before the world is back in focus. His words run through my mind like a song you can’t stop thinking of.
She may have been alive when her skin was removed.
The bastard paralyzed her and then sliced her skin from her body. It’s personal. It’s more than that. It’s a threat.
To me.
Thirty-Two
We’re back in the office. Ronnie gives me the address book. I’m going to make the calls she already made and the ones she might have missed. I might get lucky if someone remembers something after the first call.
Ronnie is going to run Michael Rader down. If she can’t find him
, I can supply things I know about him and tell her it came from Gabrielle.
“Gabrielle didn’t give you much to go on. There are forty-two Michael Raders in Washington. Five of them are females. ‘White male’ narrows it down to thirty-one. ‘Middle-aged’ I take to mean older than thirty and younger than fifty. There are fourteen that fit. Maybe we can get a better description from Gabrielle, since she gave you the name.”
“I don’t think she’ll be any help. She said her mother told her the name at one time or other and she thought Monique was afraid of the man. She gave Gabrielle the description that I gave you in case he bothered her.”
Ronnie pauses and looks up from her notes. “I can tell you that none of the Raders I found have police records. If that helps.”
It doesn’t.
I know that Michael was a correctional officer. I can call the prison and see if he’s still employed there. I can get his personal information from their personnel. I’ll tell them I’m doing a background check for a car loan. Or I can have Ronnie do that, but I’d have to tell her what prison.
My phone rings again and I don’t recognize the number. “Detective Carpenter,” I say.
“This is Gabrielle. Have you found out anything?”
“Not much right now, Gabrielle. How are you doing?”
“As good as can be expected with what’s going on.”
“I don’t need to know where you are; I just want you to be safe.”
“Thank you for coming to let me know in person. I haven’t told my son what’s going on. If I tell him his grandmother is dead, he’ll wonder why I’m here and not making funeral arrangements. I’ll have to come home soon.”
“I understand. Call me before you do any traveling, okay?”
“I’ll do that, but can you keep me informed, please?”
“Yes. I have a question. The coroner needs to know what medications your mom was taking. There was nothing at the”—I almost say “crime scene”—“house she had rented. And there were no medicines at her house in Tacoma. Do you know if she was taking anything?”
“She wasn’t on any medication.”
“Are you sure?”
“She used to take something for depression. When Leanne’s killer was… gone, she found she didn’t need it anymore. She was busy with her work, and it seemed to be enough. Why?”
“The pathologist found a chemical in her blood. He was just wondering if it was a prescribed medication.”
“My mom would never take an illegal drug, if that’s what they think.”
“I’ll tell them what you’ve told me. They’re trying to get an identification of the chemical right now. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. This is a new phone. Should I call Clay and give it to him? He was so nice.”
Clay? I wonder just how nice he is. “No. Not for now. We will keep it safe. Just call me when you plan on returning and I’ll pass it on to Detective Osborne. It’s better if fewer people have it.”
“Thank you. Remember your promise.”
“I will. Is there anything you need?”
“Just this guy dead.”
Before she can disconnect I say, “By the way, what did your mom say about Michael Rader? Did she have any contact with him after that one time?”
Silence fills the line as she thinks for a moment.
“No. At least I don’t think she did. But he scared her. Really scared her. She said you would know more about him than she would.”
Monique was right about that. Except I had run from Michael Rader. I’d never faced him. And then I never tried to find him again. It’s my fault that Monique is dead. I have to own that.
I ask one more question. “Can you give me a better description of Michael Rader? Any little thing your mom might have said.”
“She said you might have a better description than she did. She was pretty shook up after talking to him. All she could think of was that he might come after me and Sebastian.”
“That helps. I’ll be in touch. If you feel unsafe, you should call me.”
She promises and we disconnect. I hand Ronnie the phone number to store in her phone.
Just in case.
Ronnie looks at me expectantly. She’s still standing at my desk. I say, “He works at a prison. She can’t remember which one, but she thinks her mother said the women’s prison in Gig Harbor. He’s in his forties.”
“That’s great. Do you want me to call them?”
“Can you see if you can find a directory first? Maybe you can find something about the prison that will mention him in a news release or other activity.”
“Good idea, Megan.”
Of course it’s a good idea. I’ve been doing this since you were shopping for expensive clothes or getting your hair styled.
Thirty-Three
Ronnie went home at the end of the shift. Sheriff had gone to some Civitan thing and wasn’t going to be back. Nan left after looming over my desk, asking if we were getting anywhere with the murder. I told her an arrest was imminent. I figured I’d see myself quoted on the news tonight.
I went home, where I changed into jeans and a Washington State University T-shirt.
I slip my shoulder holster on. I take a kitchen chair and shove the back under the front doorknob. I would put salt on all the window ledges—salt is supposed to repel ghosts—but I don’t think it would keep the ghost of my past outside. I’ve learned from experience that if someone wants in your house, they will find a way. I’ve done it myself. I also know that no matter how hard you try to keep the past out of your mind, it will come back. Through dreams, or worse, through people.
With a box of wine on the edge of my desk, I fill a plastic Solo cup nearly to the rim. The box of tapes and the player are already out and waiting for me. The little spools on the cassette tape look like greedy eyes, hypnotizing me, drawing me in.
I am getting nowhere with this case. My gut is telling me it is someone very close to Alex Rader. Each clue points to the same person: Michael Rader.
It’s evening, and I imagine Ronnie is settled in, having a drink herself. Or watching The Bachelor. I don’t watch much television except for the news. It’s all delusion and lies and I already have enough of that in my life.
I decide to phone Ronnie.
“Megan. I was just thinking about calling you.” She sounds excited.
“Did you find something?” My heart beats harder.
“I found a news article involving someone named Kim Mock. He apparently was arrested and charged with murdering a Megan Moriarty almost twenty years ago. He was killed in prison. But the interesting thing is there is a newspaper photo of him being transported from jail to prison. Guess who is transporting him?”
“Michael Rader,” I say.
“Not only that, but when Mock was killed in prison, Michael Rader is the corrections officer who found the body.”
Of course, I already knew this. I knew Michael had Mock killed by other inmates—or did the job himself—because Moriarty’s family began questioning if the police had arrested the right guy.
“That’s great, Ronnie. We’ll get into it more in the morning. Take some time off and chill. We’re going to be busy getting all the paperwork together.”
My phone dings.
“I just sent you the picture from the article,” she says.
I pull the picture up. It’s Michael Rader all right. I came across the same picture years ago after Monique told me about him.
“Good work, Ronnie. I talked to Gabrielle. She remembered her mom said Michael had a brother named Alex Rader. He’s a cop. Can you add that to your research list?”
“I’ll get on it first thing in the morning. I’m going to have drinks with Marley and I’ll find out what the crime lab is doing.”
I thank Ronnie and end the call. I’ve lied to her before but I hate that I do it with such ease.
The tapes with all my secrets call to me and I select one regarding Shannon Blume’s murder. I hope to find
some answers in the past. If nothing else they help me think of who I was and who I’ve become. I slot the cassette, refill my wine and wait for the tape to begin.
Dr. A: Why were you in Kent? Staying at a Best Western, you said.
Me: Yes. I wanted to find out what happened to Leanne, Shannon, and Megan. I found a story in the paper about Shannon Blume’s murder with a picture of the Blumes’ home. A homeless guy named Steve Jones was arrested and convicted for Shannon’s murder, but I knew it wasn’t him. It was my bio-father.
I remember finding the Blumes’ home and how it looked just like it did in the online newspaper article. It was a single-story rambler with white shutters and matching window boxes. In front was a monkey puzzle tree that had grown nearly as tall as the roofline.
Me: There was a photo of Don and Debra Blume in the story. I found the house easily and peered through the window of the garage. Two cars were there. One was a Ford Focus, like the one I was driving. My mother had taught me how to manipulate people. To be what they needed me to be. I thought I would act as though I loved my car or hated it, depending on whatever they said about theirs.
The tape goes silent. I’m thinking of what I want to reveal.
Dr. A: Take your time.
Me: Mrs. Blume answers the door with a wary but kind smile. I tell her I’m with the North Bend Courier newspaper. I ask if she had heard about our series on Marilee Watson who was murdered last year. I tell her my editor wants me to do a new series about how people cope after a tragedy and ask if I can talk to her and Mr. Blume.
She said, “You can’t cope after a tragedy, Miss?…” She searches her memory for my name, and I hand her a business card I’ve stolen from the newspaper office.
I say, “I’m Tracy Lee. That’s the point of my article. My aunt Ginger was killed in a car wreck and I know it’s not the same as what happened to Shannon, but my mom has never gotten over it, either. I’m including my thoughts about that in the article too. But it can’t be about me.”
I wonder if I remind her of her own daughter. If she thinks I’m too young for the job. If she’s just having a bad day. Maybe every day after you lose a child to murder is a bad day.
