by Berkom, DV
“Is it possible you didn’t know your son as well as you thought?” Sam asked.
I added, “Lisa kept her oxy habit a secret from both Sam and me, so that’s why he’s asking.”
John nodded. “That’s a fair question. Jason was our only child, and the three of us were very close. We talked candidly about everything, including sex, drugs, and alcohol. In fact, his mother and I were lenient when it came to alcohol and soft drugs. As long as he and his friends imbibed responsibly and did so in our home, then he was free to experiment as long as no one got behind the wheel until the effects had worn off.”
“We believed that a more liberal approach removed the ‘forbidden fruit’ aspect of drugs and alcohol, reducing the lure by making them commonplace.”
The earnestness in Ellen Whitmore’s voice told me that she was clinging to the correctness of her decision. I couldn’t argue with her—her stance seemed logical. Thing was, people didn’t always act logically. I glanced at Sam. His expression was unreadable, as usual.
“Do you have a copy of the autopsy report?” he asked.
Ellen nodded and slid a large envelope across the table toward him. Sam pulled out the report and began to read.
A moment later he said, “This says there wasn’t any heroin in your son’s system and no puncture wounds were found.”
“Exactly.” John Whitmore crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face.
“We told the authorities that Jason had never used heroin, but they didn’t believe us, even when we assured them he had a phobia about hard drugs,” Ellen Whitmore added. “They assumed he’d switched to fentanyl because of the high and had taken it orally instead of shooting up in order to hide his addiction.”
The officers who responded to Lisa’s overdose had thought the same thing until we contacted Mac to explain our concerns. They added our information to the report.
“Do you have a list of Jason’s friends and their contact information? Maybe a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.” Ellen rummaged through her purse and pulled out a handwritten list on a piece of paper, which she slid across the table. “I copied the contact list on his phone and checked the online accounts on his tablet, too.” She took a deep breath and tried to smile while blinking back tears. “I’m sorry. It was difficult to scroll through our son’s virtual life. Like a lot of young people his age, he was an open book. He posted everything.”
“Would it be possible for us to have access to those social media sites? There might be useful information there.” Sam’s gentle tone had the right effect. Both Ellen and John nodded their assent.
“Please. Anything that will help.”
“Well, then, if we’re in agreement,” Sam said, rising to his feet, “I’ll print up the contract for the hours and fee that we discussed on the phone, and we’ll get started.”
***
Between visits to the hospital to see Lisa, and working our other cases, Sam and I spent the next two days combing through Jason Whitmore’s social media accounts, gaining a more complete picture of the twenty-year-old. Jason had taken a “gap year” after he graduated high school to backpack across Eastern Europe with a buddy before enrolling in college. Along with the usual cat videos and political posts, his feeds were filled with photographs of his travels. He also had hundreds of friends from all over the world, many of whom he apparently met while overseas.
Ellen Whitmore had been right—Jason was an open book. He’d posted several times a day and kept a blog while traveling. Sam and I divvied up his posts and the comments from his friends and gleaned a couple of promising leads. But it was when we started cross-referencing his phone contacts with his online friends that we hit pay dirt.
Bobby “the Barracuda” Branford was by far the main responder to Jason’s posts, across all accounts. I would have categorized his activity as stalking. The guy inserted himself into Jason’s life in every way possible—likes, smiley faces, comments, shares—he was like a specter on every post. Like many insecure people, in his comments he alluded to knowing dangerous players in the criminal underworld and bragged that he derived much of his income by doing things for them. I say insecure because if Bobby had actually been as deeply involved with organized crime as he claimed, he’d have been warned to knock off the public posts, or they would have stopped it for him. No way would he have been allowed to continue hinting at his connections. Not unless his “friends” were as new to the game as he appeared to be.
Sam put the phone down and leaned back in his chair. “That was Ellen Whitmore. She says Jason never mentioned anyone by the name of Bobby, and she definitely didn’t remember anything about a barracuda person. Her words.”
“That’s odd, given how close they say they were to Jason.”
There’d been dozens of calls and text messages logged between Bobby’s phone number and Jason’s. Interestingly, a long gap appeared where his contact with Jason abruptly ended and re-started just prior to Jason’s death. The same gap showed up across each of Jason’s accounts.
I had a theory about Bobby’s sudden absence.
“I’ll lay odds that our friend Bobby was experiencing our fine prison system from the less desirable side of the bars.”
It made sense. According to his posts, Bobby held criminals in high regard. It was a matter of time before his bragging caught up with him, whether by someone calling his bluff, or by attracting the attention of an actual criminal. Either way, to save face Bobby would have to put up or shut up.
“Possibly. Or, Jason could have deleted the exchanges between them. I called Jax. He’ll be here tomorrow morning. Maybe he can tease more information from the phone or the tablet.”
One of the best in the business, Jax was our go-to high-tech guy in a city where you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting an IT expert. Lucky for us he preferred smaller, freelance jobs, shunning the giant high-tech colossi that dominated the Pacific Northwest. Not that the big corporations hadn’t tried to hire him. He just wasn’t interested in what they had to offer.
Money had never been Jax’s raison d’être. Freedom, women, and hacking were.
Sam asked a contact in the Washington Department of Corrections to run a search for Bobby Branford, and I hunted down his place of residence. The closest I got was an older sister living across Puget Sound in the city of Bremerton. When I called, she told me she’d be home that evening and to come between six and seven.
“I think I’ll take a trip to Bremerton to talk to the sister.” I checked the ferry schedule online. The 4:20 would get me there with plenty of time to do reconnaissance. “Don’t hold dinner for me.”
“Take the rig. I can catch a ride home.”
Sam tossed me the keys to the Tahoe. “See you tonight.”
Six
I BARELY MADE the busy commuter ferry—mine was the last vehicle loaded. The boat got under way and an hour later I was headed to Bobby Branford’s sister’s house.
A city of roughly 40,000 people situated on the Kitsap Peninsula, Bremerton is surrounded by salt water and towering trees. Home to the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, the town’s heyday was during the Second World War when it boasted a population of over 100,000 shipbuilders, support personnel, and their families. Now a major hub for retired as well as active-duty Navy personnel and highly skilled tradesmen and women, whenever a ship pulled in for repairs or retrofitting, Bremerton’s population swelled for the duration of the assignment.
I pulled into the driveway of a well-kept, World War II-era cottage—a square, one-story house with a hipped roof, clapboard siding, and shallow eaves. The single-car garage took up a third of the lower level directly below a large picture window. An added carport shaded the driveway and currently sheltered an older model Chevy Malibu. The front yard was a riot of pink and purple blossoms adorning the mature rhododendrons ringing the perimeter.
I climbed the front stoop and rang the doorbell. A minute later, the door opened and a woma
n holding a sleeping baby on her hip appeared. She had cornflower blue eyes and hair the color of weak tea pulled back in a messy ponytail, and wore a bubblegum pink T-shirt under a loose pair of overalls. Her expression was a cross between curious and wary.
“Dora Trask?” I smiled and held up my business card. She nodded. “I’m Kate Jones. We spoke on the phone earlier?”
Dora squinted at the card. Recognition registered in her eyes and she opened the door.
“You’re here about my brother. C’mon in.” She stepped back to let me pass and closed the door behind us. “Go ahead an’ sit anywhere there’s space.”
The house smelled of mothballs, cats, and pepperoni, and the living room looked like a cat five hurricane had recently blown through. Magazines, newspapers, dirty dishes, and children’s toys splayed across the floor, with more scattered on top of a blue velour couch, matching recliner, and tweed loveseat. The lone coffee table practically groaned under the weight of unopened mail. Brightly colored sippy cups and empty beer cans really pulled the place together. After the meticulous yard, the hoarder’s paradise was a surprise.
I picked my way past the precarious stacks of celebrity magazines, old newspapers, and tabloids to the couch and shoved aside a plastic laundry basket filled with what I assumed were dirty clothes. Dora walked over to one of the recliners and with her free hand shoved a stack of papers to the floor before taking a seat. The baby didn’t stir.
“Whad’ya want to know about Bobby?”
My eyes watered and I cleared my throat. The inch-thick cat hair on every surface and epic stench of a dirty litterbox combined with the unseasonably high pollen count of an early spring, was threatening my oxygen habit.
“The firm I work for has been hired by the parents of a friend of Bobby’s to investigate their son’s death. Your brother was one of the last people he communicated with before he died, and I’m following up to see if Bobby might have information we could use.”
“What’s the friend’s name?”
“Jason Whitmore.”
“I don’t think I ever heard Bobby mention him. How’d he die?”
“It’s been ruled an overdose. They found fentanyl in his bloodstream.”
Dora’s wary expression returned. “I’m pretty sure my brother wasn’t close friends with this Jason character. Bobby ain’t into drugs.”
“By the looks of Jason’s online accounts, they knew each other pretty well.”
She shrugged. “Well, whatever. I ain’t seen Bobby in months. Not since he got popped for jacking Cookies Tavern. For all I know, he could be dead.”
Not exactly what she’d told me on the phone, but I let it pass. It did, however, explain Bobby’s online absence.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
She gazed at the ceiling and cocked her head as she thought. “End of February.” She stared at me without blinking, as if challenging me to contradict her.
“I’m sorry.” I leaned forward, careful not to bump the stack of papers next to me. “This morning you said he owed you money.”
Dora gave a harsh laugh and then replied, “He does. His ass was usually in trouble, and I always bailed him out. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut, for one thing. Always braggin’ on himself. That didn’t set too well with his boys.”
“His boys?”
“He hung out with a couple’a gangsta types. You know, hardcore wannabes.” She shrugged. “This ain’t LA, that’s for sure.”
The baby roused, gurgling and kicking her tiny legs as she stretched her arms above her head, miniature fists testing the air. Dora rocked her gently and dipped her head. The kid burst into a delighted smile and reached for her mother’s hair. Dora shook the strands out of reach and smiled. “Well, look who’s awake. Li’l happy baby.” She glanced down at the child with obvious affection and cooed, “Are you my happy Missy? Yes you are.”
A black and white cat wandered in and wound itself around my ankles. Purring filled the room. I reached down to scratch it behind the ears and noticed something small and white peeking out from under the couch. I quickly palmed the oblong pill and sat upright. “Do you know the friends’ names?”
“One guy called himself The Terminator.” She rolled her eyes. “And the other one went by Bruce Wayne.”
“Like Batman?”
Dora nodded. “Pretty stupid, huh?” She shrugged. “Anyway, they ain’t been around since Bobby bailed.”
“Why do people refer to him as the Barracuda?” I asked.
She waved the question away. “Oh, that was just Bobby trying to be a badass. No one called him that. He was pissed when the name didn’t take off.”
A maple hutch covered with framed photographs caught my attention.
“Looks like you and your brother were close.”
“Only when he needed something.”
Time to change tactics. “Is it just you and the baby?”
Dora stiffened and her eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Just me and Missy.”
“I didn’t mean to pry. I assumed with the last name of Trask...”
“You’re wondering when my husband gets home?” Dora scoffed and shook her head as she pushed herself to her feet. “Six o’clock last year, that’s when he gets home.”
Apparently the interview was over. I stood, stifling the urge to brush off my pants. Just then, there was a clank from inside the kitchen. Dora hesitated for a moment before continuing toward the door.
She waved at the kitchen. “My other cat.” There was another clank, quieter than the first.
“Can I take a peek?” I asked, feigning excitement and heading for the kitchen. “I used to have a tabby and really miss her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She doesn’t like strangers.” Dora’s expression floated somewhere between alarm and annoyance. When I didn’t stop, she came up behind me and grabbed my elbow, bringing me up short.
“I said, that’s not a good idea.” Her tone instantly morphed from fake-friendly to threatening. The baby looked as though she was going to burst into tears.
A shadow darkened the entrance to the kitchen as a man matching Bobby “the Barracuda” Branford’s description walked into the living room.
Eyes wide, Dora opened her mouth to say something, but Bobby gave her a quick shake of his head.
“It’s okay, Dora. Let her go.”
Reluctantly, Dora released my elbow and stepped back.
“Don’t be mad at my sister. She was just trying to protect me. Ain’t that right, Dora?”
“You know it, Bobby.” Dora didn’t look like she felt one bit guilty about lying. In fact, her nonchalant expression told me her dishonesty came naturally.
“What do you want?” Bobby asked, a surly look on his face.
“I’m looking into the death of an acquaintance of yours—a Jason Whitmore.”
Bobby frowned and his mouth curled downward. “Yeah, I heard about that. What a waste.” His body tense, he moved across the room to sit on the edge of the recliner that Dora had vacated earlier. “Drugs, right?”
“Overdose.” I studied his reaction. There was something off about the guy. His body language was too considered, too precise, like he was trying to be careful not to say too much.
“Ah, man, that blows. I didn’t even know Jase liked the hard stuff.”
“I’m not sure that he did.” I leaned forward and placed my hands on the back of the couch. “What kind of relationship did you and Jason have?”
He shrugged. “Pretty casual, you know? Lots of banter.” Bobby picked at the velour armrest. “No big deal.”
“Did you guys do anything other than interact online?”
Averting his eyes, Bobby shook his head. “No. He lived in Bellevue. Kinda far to go to party, you know?”
“When did you see him last?” I asked.
“I don’t remem—” Bobby stopped himself and he narrowed his eyes for a second. “Like I said, we never met. He lived in Bellevue. That’s a different world
over there.”
“Right.” I pushed back off the couch. Dora took that as her cue. She and Missy the Happy Baby started for the door.
“Sorry to cut this short, but Missy gets cranky if I don’t feed her on time.” She gave me a fake apologetic smile.
“Of course.” I fake-smiled back at her and handed her my card. “If either of you hear of anything else that might be useful to our case, I’d appreciate it if you’d give us a call.”
Dora took the card and slid it into her front pocket. “Sure,” she said, her voice dripping with insincerity as she ushered me out the door.
Well, that was pleasant.
I glanced up at the picture window and waved at Dora, who was watching me leave. After navigating the steep driveway, I unlocked the SUV and got in. Remembering what I’d found on the floor in the house, I reached in my pocket for the white, oblong pill and studied it in my palm. The numbers 6767 were stamped on the side. The same numbers that were on the pills I found in Lisa’s purse. After handing over three of Lisa’s pills to Seattle PD, Sam had dropped off the remaining ones at an independent lab. They didn’t have the backlog that SPD did, and it was possible that we’d find out the chemical makeup sooner than the police lab. He could do the same with this one. I dropped the pill inside a small baggie I kept in the console and stuffed it back in my pocket, then started the engine and backed onto the street.
Looked like I had a long night of surveillance ahead of me.
On my way to meet Dora I’d passed a crowded park situated on a hill with a great view of her place. I drove to it and parked in the lot facing the house far enough away from the other cars so that I wouldn’t attract attention. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in a while, so I checked the nearby restaurants on my phone and decided on Thai food, since the place wasn’t too far from the park. Stakeouts were generally long, drawn-out affairs, and I was always game to compensate myself with a good meal.
