by J. A. Jance
“Once my father was declared dead and the insurance money finally came through, she and Jack, her new husband, bought a place up in Leavenworth,” she said. “Just outside Leavenworth,” she added. “I guess I shouldn’t call Jack a new husband. He’s been around for a long time. They celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary next year. That’s fifteen years longer than she was married to Daddy.”
So Mrs. Cosgrove hadn’t spent much time waiting around for her missing husband to show up or playing the grieving widow. If they’d finally gone to the formality of having her former husband officially declared dead, it seemed to me as though someone in the world of officialdom should have noticed the transaction and removed Anthony Cosgrove’s name from the list of officially missing persons.
DeAnn apparently read my mind about her mother’s unseemly matrimonial haste. “Mom and Jack got married in January of the following year,” she said. “I don’t like the man much—never have. He’s an overbearing jerk. And we had our issues, especially when I was a teenager. That’s why I ended up living with my grandmother—my father’s mother—down in Kent most of the time I was in high school. But by then there was money coming in from Social Security, so it didn’t seem like I was a burden.”
“But you said there was insurance?”
DeAnn nodded. “Quite a bit,” she said. “Some of it was group insurance and the rest of it was stuff Daddy owned. There was one smaller policy that was just for me. Donnie and I used that to make the down payment on this house.”
Insurance proceeds are often the motivator in homicide cases, but not in this one. A payout accompanied by a seven-year delay seemed unlikely, but it was still worth checking into.
“What’s your mother’s name?” I asked.
“Lawrence,” DeAnn answered. “Carol Lawrence. And her husband is Jack. Like I said, they live up in Leavenworth now. If you want to talk to them, I can get you the phone number, but I don’t see that it’ll do much good. I doubt they could tell you any more about what happened than I can.”
I made a note of their names anyway. I didn’t bother taking down the phone number. I knew if I needed to reach them I’d be able to locate Jack and Carol Lawrence’s phone number—listed or not.
I was about to put my notebook away, but then I looked at DeAnn Cosgrove and could see she wasn’t done talking. Maybe after years of not talking about it, she was ready.
“Anything else you can tell me about your dad?” I asked.
“I was always surprised that he went fishing that weekend,” she said. “As far as I know, he hadn’t ever gone before. He didn’t even like fish that much. What he liked were airplanes. He loved airplanes.”
“You mean as a hobby?”
“As in every way. That’s what he did, you see. He worked for Boeing, too, designing airplanes. I’m not really sure what he did there. I wish now I’d been older so I could have known which planes he worked on and what he did. Maybe I’ve ridden on one of the ones he helped design.”
“You probably have,” I said.
“I hope so,” she replied. I put the notebook in my jacket pocket. “So what happens now?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I may check with the people down at Mount Saint Helens and make sure that they haven’t learned something we don’t know about. And I may want to speak to your mother as well. What about your grandmother, the one who lived in Kent?”
“Grandma died last year,” DeAnn said. “Daddy was her only son, just like I’m my father’s only child. That’s the other reason I’m glad we kept my name. Grandma made me promise that I’d keep her ashes so that if they ever found my father, he and she could be buried together. She’s out in the garage,” she added. “Up in the rafters.”
When I stood up to go, DeAnn expertly eased the two sleeping kiddos off her lap without disturbing either one of them. Then she rose from the floor with an easy grace that my gimpy knees could never have tolerated.
“Thanks,” she said as she showed me to the door. “And please tell your boss thank you for me, too. It means a lot to know that someone still cares about my father after all this time—that someone’s still looking for him. It means more than you know.”
The last thing I did before I left was to hand her a business card. “This is how you can reach me,” I said, jotting my cell number on the back. “That way, if you happen to think of something you may have forgotten…”
“Okay,” she said, stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans. “Thanks.”
As I walked back to the Mercedes parked just outside the small front yard with its plastic Big Wheels and swings, I had a whole new idea about that daunting list of missing persons. Every single one of them had left behind family members for whom life had gone on. There were children and grandchildren who had never seen those missing people. There were parents who had died with their child still lost to them. And there were spouses who had been forced to move forward on their own, making the best of the hand they’d been dealt.
Everybody at SHIT had sneered when Ross had announced his missing persons directive, but having met DeAnn Cosgrove and witnessed her pain, I could see that this was a situation where the attorney general was right and everybody else was wrong.
CHAPTER 3
After leaving DeAnn Cosgrove’s place in Redmond I started back to Seattle and then thought better of it. Since I was going to be approaching the LaShawn Tompkins situation pretty much without portfolio, I needed to track down whatever information was out in public—as in the news media. Since Mel and I had been gone all weekend, whatever had been on local television or radio news had passed me by. As for newspapers? That’s another story.
In the old days, I never subscribed to one. I bummed them, used, in restaurants and coffee shops so I could work the crossword puzzles, but as far as having one show up outside my door on a regular basis? Never. Until Mel Soames turned up in my life, that is.
She’s a news junkie. She listens, watches, and reads. I finally got tired of her griping about not having a morning paper. When I said fine, let’s have one, then, she went ahead and ordered two—both the Seattle Post-Intelligencer and the Seattle Times. (Give the girl an inch and she thinks she’s a ruler.)
We are, however, newspaper-compatible and divide our consumption into two separate but unequal parts. I own the crosswords; she reads everything else. If she came home and discovered I had been scrounging through her dead newspaper collection for actual news, she would know at once that something was up. Instead, I stopped off at the Starbucks on Rose Hill, bought myself a latte, settled into one of the easy chairs, and logged on to the Internet to read the weekend newspapers online.
LaShawn Tompkins’s murder had indeed been big news over the weekend. Not so much on Saturday when the victim’s name had yet to be released and the death had been reported simply as a shooting in Rainier Valley. No biggie there. But by Sunday, word was out. In the Sunday paper, which is still supposedly a joint endeavor by the staffs of both the Times and the P-I, there were three separate stories, all viewable on the virtual front page—one about the murder itself, one rehashing the flawed case that had sent LaShawn to prison years earlier, and a third under the byline of my old nemesis, columnist Maxwell Cole.
Max and I have never been friends. A very long time ago, however, we were fraternity brothers when we were both students at the University of Washington, known locally as the U. Dub. Everything was fine until he showed up at a mixer with a cute blond girl named Karen Moffitt. Much to Max’s dismay, Karen and I hit it off immediately, and eventually we ended up getting married. Years passed. Karen and I eventually divorced and she subsequently died, but Max has never gotten over the fact that I stole her away from him in the first place. I think his long-running feud with anyone and everyone at Seattle PD is symptomatic of his long-running feud with me. But then maybe I’m suffering from delusions of grandeur on that score.
Naturally, I harbor no ill will at all about any of this. Right. Of course not. Whic
h is why I read Max’s piece first. It was prominently placed, right there below the virtual fold.
LaShawn Tompkins: 1975–2005
A life transformed; a life destroyed
by MAXWELL COLE
Special to the Times
LaShawn Tompkins was nineteen years old when he was arrested and charged with the brutal rape and murder of a fifteen-year-old prostitute named Aleta Princess Jones. He was twenty-one when he was convicted of aggravated first-degree homicide and sentenced to death. He was twenty-eight when DNA analysis of the evidence in that flawed case caused him to be released from his cell on death row with no new charges filed against him. Now, at age thirty, he’s dead, gunned down execution-style in the doorway of his mother’s Rainier Valley home.
I’ve always been amazed how Max can dredge up yesterday’s news and turn it into fodder for one of his bleeding-heart columns for which someone actually pays him money. I could tell from the opening paragraph this one would be no exception.
As a child, LaShawn was a bright student who got good grades and a series of Sunday school perfect-attendance records from his neighborhood church, the African Bible Baptist Church. By junior high, though, Sunday school was a thing of the past. He was running with the wrong crowd—a much older crowd—that automatically put him on the wrong side of the law. By fifteen, he had dropped out of school, had several juvenile offenses on his record, and was on the fast track as an up-and-coming lieutenant in the local Crips organization. From there it was only a short hop and a skip to death row.
Yes, Sunday school kiddo goes bad. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Had I been reading a hard copy of the story, I would have been tempted to wad up the newspaper and pitch it across the room. There was no way, however, I was going to throw my laptop, so I gritted my teeth and kept reading.
“Despite being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, LaShawn used the time in prison to turn his life around completely,” says Mark Granger, executive director and pastor of the King Street Mission where Tompkins had worked as a counselor since his release from Walla Walla two years ago.
“After being wrongly convicted, he could easily have become hardened and bitter. Prison, especially a death row existence, tends to do that. Instead, LaShawn devoted his life to Christ and to helping those he considered less fortunate than himself.”
Yes, and the crippled shall walk and the blind shall see, I thought. So which one of those “less fortunates” plugged him full of lead?
It was his wrongful conviction in the death of fifteen-year-old murder victim Aleta Jones that put LaShawn Tompkins on death row. According to Philippa Jones, Aleta’s mother, LaShawn had, in the years since his release, gone out of his way to befriend her and other members of Aleta’s family.
“Two months ago, on the anniversary of her death, we held a prayer vigil in my daughter’s honor. LaShawn was right there with us the whole night,” Ms. Jones said. “I’m sorry he got sent to prison for something he didn’t do, and I’m real sorry he’s dead. He was a good man.”
That’s why detectives investigating Tompkins’s apparent homicide are so puzzled by his violent death last Friday. “As far as we’ve been able to learn, Mr. Tompkins has had zero involvement in criminal activity since his release from prison,” says one Seattle homicide detective close to the case who wished to remain anonymous.
That last comment caught my attention. I wondered which Seattle PD detective Maxwell Cole had managed to cozy up to and co-opt now. The people at Media Relations are the ones who are supposed to talk to reporters. Homicide detectives, even anonymous ones, are expected to keep their mouths firmly shut.
Tompkins had come to his elderly mother’s home on Friday, as he did twice every day, morning and evening, to check on her, to help dispense her medications, and to prepare her meals. There was no sign of forced entry. Indications are that Mr. Tompkins willingly opened the door that allowed his killer access to the home.
“Shawny went out into the kitchen to heat up my Meals-on-Wheels mac and cheese,” said the victim’s bereaved mother, Etta Mae Tompkins. “The next thing I know he was lying there on the floor by my front door with blood everywhere. He was such a good boy, and he was doing the Lord’s work. The only good thing about this is that I know my son was saved and he’s gone home to Jesus.”
Ms. Tompkins may be sustained by faith in this difficult time, but the same can’t be said for many of her Rainier Valley neighbors, who fear some new killer now stalking their streets.
Ms. Janie Griswold, who has lived next door to Etta Mae Tompkins for the past twenty-five years, is very disturbed by what happened last Friday. “It’s one thing for drug dealers to go around killing other drug dealers,” she said. “But when they can walk right up to someone’s front door and just start blasting away, it’s scary.”
Attorney Amy Duckworth, who now works for Gavin, Gavin, and Plane, a Bellevue area law firm, was one of a number of students who worked on LaShawn Tompkins’s case as part of the Innocence Project, an organization devoted to post-conviction examination of DNA evidence. It was their efforts that revealed Mr. Tompkins had been wrongly accused and wrongly convicted.
“I was there in Walla Walla the day LaShawn walked out of prison,” a tearful Ms. Duckworth said in a telephone interview. “It was so inspiring. He just hugged me and thanked me for everything we had done. He was glad to have a second chance. We all put so much work and effort into this, and now to have him end up murdered is a real tragedy.”
He probably had plenty of second chances, I thought. This one turned out to be his last second chance.
And so, while friends and coworkers grieve over the death of LaShawn Tompkins and while investigators try to piece together what happened, plans are moving forward on funeral services that are expected to be held sometime later this week—most likely at the King Street Mission where he worked.
To have a young life redeemed and then so senselessly lost is, I believe, a peculiarly American tragedy.
I was about to go on to the next article when my cell phone rang. As soon as I saw the Queen Anne Gardens number on the readout, my heart fell. Lars Jenssen is an old-fashioned kind of guy. He doesn’t like cell phones, and I knew he would call me on mine during work hours only as a last resort and for the worst possible reason.
“It’s Beverly,” he said.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Ja, sure,” Lars answered. “It’s pretty bad. I hated to call and worry you, but I t’ink you should probably come now.”
Lars is an old Norwegian, a retired halibut fisherman, whose accent gets markedly worse the moment he comes in contact with a telephone.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Driving down 405, I called Mel at work and told her what was going on. “I’ll let everyone here know,” she said. “If you want me to, I’ll drop everything and meet you there.”
“No,” I said. “That’s all right. I’m okay.”
Which wasn’t exactly true. This was hitting me very hard. Beverly Jenssen was my last surviving elder. She and my grandfather had been estranged from my mother and me for many years both while I was growing up and long into adulthood. My grandfather, a man of unbending principles and scant human kindness, had thoroughly disapproved of the fact that my mother had not only gotten herself pregnant outside the bonds of holy matrimony but had also adamantly refused to “do the right thing” and give me up for adoption. It was only in the past ten years or so—and long after my mother’s death—that I had established a connection with them at a time when my hard-nosed grandfather had been on his last legs.
It was then, after all those years, that I had learned how my grandmother, forbidden by her husband to have any contact with either my mother or me, had faithfully followed as many of my exploits as she could. She had kept voluminous scrapbooks that included clippings of everything to do with J. P. Beaumont. Some had been as early as Cub Scout endeavors. They included high school athletic competitions
and later news mentions drawn from my long career at Seattle PD. There had been copies of Scott’s and Kelly’s newspaper birth announcements as well as a mention of Karen’s and my divorce proceedings. Wifely duty had kept Beverly from contacting me against her husband’s wishes, but seeing those secret scrapbooks, ones my grandfather had known nothing about, had told me everything I needed to know about Beverly Beaumont’s selfless love and constancy.
And then she met Lars. That had been an incredible bonus for all of us. Widowed by then, Beverly had come to help out at the memorial service for my late partner, Sue Danielson. Somehow my grandmother and Lars, my AA sponsor, ended up doing dishes together in the party-room kitchen at Belltown Terrace and had hit it off. They had married within months of meeting, and everything had been fine. Until now.
At Queen Anne Gardens I parked in the visitors’ lot and then signed in. “She’s not in their apartment, you know,” the desk clerk told me. “She’s been moved to our Care Center.”
Euphemistically speaking, Care Center was assisted living code for ICU. I thought they should have called it IWU—intensive waiting unit. There were two beds in the room, but only one was occupied. Lars, leaning on his cane and staring off into space, was seated next to Beverly. When he saw me he smiled and made an effort to rise.
“Sit,” I told him. “What’s happening?”
He shrugged and sank back down. “She’s sleeping now,” he said. “But she was asking for you earlier. That’s why I called.”
I looked at Beverly sleeping. I had never before seen her without her false teeth. That alone made her seem less dignified and far frailer. Somehow she appeared to be much smaller than I remembered, even though I had seen her only a few days earlier, shortly before Mel and I left for Ashland. At the time she had still been in their apartment. There she’d had Lars to see to it that she got wheeled back and forth to the dining room and to make sure she was eating. I doubted she was taking much nourishment now.
