by Lee Semsen
“In the ten years I’ve lived here, I’ve never heard anyone talk about Charles Evans.”
“They were trying to spare your feelings,” said Bennings.
“I’ve never had any feelings about Mr. Evans,” said Inch, “except to wonder why he resigned. And I haven’t thought about that, either, not until now.”
“You’re not fooling me, Abe,” said Bennings.
“Pretend I’m the honest man in this conversation, Doc. All I want to know is whether Evans’s resignation had anything to do with his murder.”
“I just told you why he was murdered,” said Bennings.
“Assume that you’re wrong,” said Inch. “I know that goes against everything you believe about yourself, but try.”
In the end, Bennings told the story straight enough, and he seemed to know more about the affair than anyone else Inch had talked to. The case that had gotten Charles Evans fired hadn’t belonged to him; it had occurred within the city limits, which meant that the Walla Walla Police Department had had jurisdiction. A girl had been killed while crossing the street on the way to school; the driver of the vehicle had stopped briefly after hitting her and then sped away. Only one other person had seen the accident, a boy about the same age as the victim, and he’d been so traumatized by what he’d witnessed that he hadn’t been able to tell the police anything except that the car was red and the driver was a woman. The accident had been front-page news the morning after it had happened, but then it had been forgotten. After a month, Sheriff Evans had begun his own inquiry, believing that the city police weren’t doing enough or that they were deliberately stalling. Apparently he had carried out his investigation without the cooperation or even the knowledge of the chief of police, because when the chief had discovered what Evans was doing, he had complained to the county commissioners.
“So,” said Bennings, “I don’t have to tell you what happened after that. The commissioners called him in; they asked him to cease and desist; he refused; they told him that if he persisted he would be disciplined; he said he would persist until the case was resolved; they said they wouldn’t allow him to do that; he said they couldn’t stop him; they asked for his resignation; and he gave it to them.”
“There must have been something about the case that was more important to Evans than keeping his job,” said Inch.
“You ought to be able to guess what it was,” said Bennings.
“The girl who was killed reminded him of his daughter?” said Inch.
“Same age, same first name,” said Bennings. “Killed the same way; hit and run.”
“You’d think the commissioners would have been more sympathetic,” said Inch. “Any idea why they treated him so harshly?”
“No, I never found out,” said Bennings.
“How did you find out the rest of it?” said Inch.
“From Charlie himself. I knew the man, Abe; I worked with him for … well, longer than I’ve worked with you.”
“How well did you know the deputy?”
“The old man or the girl?” said Bennings.
“She’s 36 now, Doc,” said Inch.
“She was just a kid then,” said Bennings. “A tough one, too, except where Charlie was concerned. She worshipped that man. Used to sit at her desk just staring at him, and he wasn’t the handsomest man in the world. But she was a good police officer, or so Charlie said.”
“She must have known that he was getting himself into trouble with that hit-and-run,” said Inch.
“There wasn’t much he did that she didn’t know about,” said Bennings.
“She didn’t tell me about it, though. I asked her why Charles Evans resigned, and she said she didn’t have a clue.”
“Maybe she was trying to protect him,” said Bennings.
“From who?”
“From you, Abe,” said Bennings. “From you.”
Chapter 3
Between 10:00 and 10:10 the following morning, Inch took three phone calls in quick succession. The first was from Jody Graham, returning the call Inch had made an hour earlier. If he had more questions, she said, she was willing to answer them, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to come to his office; could they meet for lunch instead? Not today, she had a 1:00 appointment with an attorney; evidently Charlie had left her something in his will. Inch agreed to meet her at noon Thursday at the Stone’s Throw Café.
The second call was from Gregory Luke, inviting Inch to a memorial service for Charles Evans. Not a funeral, he was quick to add, but a gathering of friends so those who had known him and worked with him could tell stories and share memories. Would Inch like to attend? The ceremony would begin at 8:00 Friday morning. Inch thanked him for the invitation and said he would be there.
The third call, which lasted twice as long as the first two put together, was from Robbie Robertson. After their previous conversation, Robbie said, he’d become curious about the reasons behind Evans’s resignation, and he’d started digging through some old files down in the morgue, and he’d found a typewritten copy of an editorial essay that, as far as he could tell, had never been published. The essay was titled “Who’s Watching the Commissioners?” and in it, the writer criticized the county commission for conducting too much of its business in executive session and cited several recent actions the commissioners had taken “out of the public eye,” including “the resignation of Sheriff Charles Evans, which was forced on him for no apparent reason other than the commissioners had the power to do so.”
“Can you tell why it wasn’t published?” said Inch.
“I can’t even tell whether anybody read it,” said Robertson. “There are no marks on it, not even a dirty thumbprint.”
“Who wrote it?” said Inch.
“Someone named Jason Moore. He must not have worked here very long; no one in the office remembers him.”
“Another puzzle for Driscoll,” said Inch. “Would you send me a copy of the essay?”
“You think there’s a clue hidden in it somewhere?”
“Probably not,” said Inch, “but it might suggest a pattern. The commissioners may have been trying to hide something when they fired Mr. Evans.”
“A government conspiracy at the lowest levels,” said Robertson. “There’s the Pulitzer I’ve been waiting for all my life.”
Driscoll hadn’t left messages for any of the Stacy Reeds he’d tried to reach by telephone yesterday; instead, he’d taken the numbers home and called them in the evening – but not, he was careful to point out, until he’d rinsed the dishes and read his son a bedtime story.
“Actually,” Driscoll said, “I read him seven stories. Mouse Tales, the entire book. It was one of my favorites when I was a child.”
“So Abraham likes it, too?” said Inch.
“Well,” said Driscoll, “he likes me to read it to him. I don’t think all of it makes sense to him yet. He asks the same questions every time I read it.”
“Do you always give him the same answers?”
“Of course, sir. With children it’s important to be consistent.”
Inch was wondering how old a child needed to be to understand that a question can have more than one correct answer or no correct answer at all, when Driscoll asked, “Did your father read to you when you were a child?”
Inch had to think before he answered that. “Not very often,” he said. “My mother did, every night until I learned to read for myself.”
“Did you have a favorite book?”
“I don’t know,” Inch said. “Maybe The Runaway Bunny. My grandmother always read that one, though. My mother wouldn’t read it because it made her cry.”
“So she was sentimental, sir, like you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that, Driscoll, and maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Shall I tell you about my conversations with the Stacy Reeds?” said Driscoll.
“I think it’s time you did that,” said Inch.
“There isn’t much to tell,” said Driscoll
.
“Then you’ll keep it short?” said Inch.
“Of course, sir. As you’ll recall, I had four working numbers.”
“I remember, Driscoll.”
“I succeeded in reaching three of them last night. The first was a 44-year-old man –”
“How do you know his age?”
“I asked him,” said Driscoll. “A 44-year-old man living in Omak. He had lived in Omak all his life, and he’d never been to Walla Walla. Never even driven through it. Wasn’t sure where it was.”
“Not geographically gifted, evidently,” said Inch.
“No, sir. He had been to Spokane, he said, and once he’d driven over the North Cascades Highway to Arlington, but it was July and it was raining, so he’d turned around and gone home –”
“Not our man, then,” said Inch.
“No,” said Driscoll. “He was sure he’d never known a Charles, Charlie, or Chuck Evans.”
“Let’s hear about number two,” said Inch.
“Right. This was a 19-year-old woman living in Cheney, a student at Eastern Washington University. Born in New Rockford, North Dakota, and moved with her parents to a farm near Fairfield when she was ten.”
“Downwinder country,” Inch said.
“Yes, sir. I suppose land was cheap.”
“Probably not as cheap as in North Dakota.”
“Probably not. She had been to Walla Walla once, a year ago when she applied to Whitman. She said I was lucky to live in such a pretty town.”
“Nice to hear,” said Inch.
“I thought so, too, sir. But I don’t think she’s the Stacy Reed we’re looking for. She spells her name with an ‘i,’ she said, but her grandmother bought her a new cell phone for her birthday in August, and her grandmother insists on spelling her name with a ‘y,’ which Staci hasn’t done since she was ten years old –”
“Shall we move on to number three?” said Inch.
“Sorry, sir. Number three was a 75-year-old man living in Starbuck. At first, I thought I’d found him –”
“But now you’re not so sure?” said Inch.
“I don’t see how he could be the man we’re looking for, sir,” said Driscoll. “He moved there only five years ago –”
“I’ve heard of people moving away from Starbuck,” said Inch, “but never to it.”
“He struck me as sort of a recluse. He said the only reason he has a phone is because he has COPD and might need to call for medical assistance.”
“I doubt if there’s any medical assistance within an hour’s drive of Starbuck,” said Inch. “A veterinarian, maybe.”
“When I pointed that out, sir, he hung up on me.”
“Did you ask him if he knew anyone named Charles Evans?”
“Earlier in the conversation. He said he never had been, and never would be, friends with anyone who wore a badge.”
“What about number four, the one you didn’t reach?” said Inch. “Did you leave a message?”
“Yes, sir. But I couldn’t tell if the number belonged to a man or a woman. It’s a Spokane exchange. I could call the Spokane Police Department and ask them to check the address –”
“That can wait, Driscoll. I have a feeling we’ll be working this case for a long time.”
On Thursday morning, Driscoll greeted Inch with the news that he’d discovered the whereabouts of Jason Moore, the man who had written the unpublished critique of the Walla Walla County Commission ten years ago. After a stint at the Seattle Weekly he had graduated to the Seattle Times, where he now reported on state politics. Inch called the paper; Moore was in Olympia covering the governor’s press conference; did Inch want his cell phone number? Inch said no; just ask him to call me when he returns, either here at the office, or if it’s late, at my home.
Inch arrived at the Stone’s Throw Café shortly before noon. The restaurant was nearly empty, and he chose a booth near the back and ordered a cup of coffee. Jody Graham came in at 12:05, in the midst of a crowd of downtown workers seeking a break from whatever they’d been doing for the past four hours. When she saw him, she walked over quickly but didn’t sit down; instead she said, “I usually sit by the window. Do you mind moving?” Inch said No, of course not, and picked up his coffee cup and followed her over to a table just inside the entrance. A waitress appeared a second later and asked Jody if she wanted her usual order. Jody said yes, but with extra salad dressing. Inch ordered a Reuben sandwich, and the waitress hurried away again.
“You seem to be well-known here,” Inch said.
“I eat at this restaurant two or three times a week,” she said. “I always get good service. I think they like having me here because the uniform discourages the other customers from getting rowdy.”
“It doesn’t look like a rowdy place,” said Inch.
“Today they have two customers in uniform,” she said. “Otherwise somebody would have started a food fight by now.”
Inch thought that was worth a smile, so he produced one.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me here,” she went on. “I wanted to be somewhere familiar. I’m feeling at a disadvantage.”
“Why?” said Inch.
“Because I don’t know what you’re going to ask me this time.”
“I’m not entirely sure, either,” said Inch.
She peered at him for a few seconds. “I think you know exactly what you want to say. So go ahead. Start the interrogation.”
“You don’t want to order first?” said Inch.
“I want to get it out of the way so I can enjoy my lunch.”
“All right,” said Inch. “I talked to John Bennings Tuesday evening.”
She frowned. “The old medical examiner? About what?”
“He told me Charles Evans was asked to resign because he was interfering in an investigation that was out of his jurisdiction.”
“What investigation was that?”
“A seven-year-old girl killed in a hit-and-run,” said Inch.
“I remember that case,” she said after a pause. “You understand why it bothered Charlie, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Inch. “I might have felt the same in his place. Anyway, Bennings said Mr. Evans told him that the chief of police complained about it.”
“He called Charlie when Charlie first took up the case,” she said, “but I don’t think he called to complain. It was more in the nature of ‘are you sure you have time for this?’”
“Bennings said the chief filed a complaint with the county commission,” said Inch.
“And he heard that from Charlie?”
“That’s what he told me,” said Inch.
“Bennings used to kid around a lot,” she said slowly.
“He’d had his little joke earlier in the conversation,” said Inch. “He was telling it straight.”
“And you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you this two days ago and save you the trouble,” she said.
Inch nodded.
“Well,” she began, “assuming that old Bennings was telling the truth –” she paused – “then Charlie must have been lying.”
“Why would he do that?” said Inch.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It wasn’t like him to lie. Maybe he didn’t want Bennings to know the real reason he resigned. Maybe I’m flattering myself to think that he would have told me if he’d been fired for working on the Reed case –”
“The Reed case?” said Inch, louder than necessary.
“The little girl who was killed,” said Jody Graham. “Her name was Emily Reed.”
“Do you remember her parents’ names?”
“The father’s name was Darren …,” she trailed off.
“And the mother’s?” said Inch.
“One of those names that can belong to either a man or a woman. Like Sandy. That wasn’t it, though.”
“Stacy?” said Inch.
“That’s it,” she said. “Good guess.”
Inch shook his head. “It wasn’t a guess.
Stacy Reed is the name Mr. Evans listed as his emergency contact on his application to the casino. We’ve been trying to find her.”
“She probably moved. Got divorced. Changed her name.”
“That would explain it, of course,” said Inch.
“So Emily Reed’s mother was Charlie’s emergency contact. That hurts.” Jody Graham didn’t sound hurt, but Inch believed her.
“He may have continued to work on the case after he resigned,” said Inch.
“I’m sure he did,” she said. “Charlie never left anything half done. That doesn’t mean Stacy Reed had to be the first to know if he got hit by a bus or whatever.”
“But you’re sure that he wasn’t forced to resign because he was trespassing on city police territory?” said Inch.
“If that was the reason,” she said, “it was a different case. I remember the chief coming over to the office to talk to Charlie about the Reed investigation. More than once, too. He was glad to have his help.”
“Maybe someone else complained,” said Inch. “Maybe they thought that Mr. Evans was neglecting his duties because he was spending too much time on a case that wasn’t his responsibility.”
“If somebody thought that, they were wrong. Other than the few times the chief came by, Charlie never worked on that case except during his off hours.”
“Did they ever find the driver of the hit-and-run?” said Inch.
“I don’t know,” she said.
They were interrupted by the arrival of their lunches. Inch assumed that Jody Graham would prefer to eat her meal in silence, but she took a few bites and then put down her fork and said, “So you’re not going to cite me for withholding evidence?”
“If you’re willing to swear that what Bennings told me isn’t evidence,” said Inch. “I wish you’d told me about Stacy Reed, though. Driscoll’s been chasing her all over eastern Washington.”
