Justice Denied

by J. A. Jance

  “What about shoe prints?” I asked.

  “What I saw would be consistent with a killer who wore booties.”

  That meant the guy was definitely crime-scene savvy.

  “Sounds like you’re dealing with somebody who’s watched way too many CSI programs on TV.”

  “There is one more possibility,” Mel ventured after a pause. “Maybe our killer is a cop.”

  Unfortunately, given the circumstances, that conclusion wasn’t at all outside the realm of possibility.

  “That would certainly explain why Ross Connors is involved.”

  “Wouldn’t it just,” Mel agreed. With that, she once more reached for her phone.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ross Connors’s SHIT squad is the first place I’ve ever worked that isn’t all hung up on everybody going through channels and across desks. I find that very refreshing. Yes, Harry I. Ball runs our unit, but Ross values the handpicked people he’s chosen as his investigators and he trusts them. He’s made it abundantly clear that we all have direct access to him whenever and wherever we deem it necessary. So it didn’t surprise me that the call Mel placed was to the attorney general. Nor did it surprise me when he called her back five minutes after she left him a message.

  She gave him a brief rundown of what Kessleman had told her, then she started hedging. “I suppose I could meet you at the office or else my place in Bellevue in about twenty minutes.”

  Mel paused while he said something in return. After a glance in my direction, she replied, “Ten minutes? Sure. That’ll be fine. One of us will be downstairs to let you in.”

  To my astonishment she was blushing as she closed her phone. “So who told Ross we were living together?”

  “I sure as hell didn’t!” I exclaimed.

  “Well, somebody did,” she said. “He’s at a meeting at the Fairmont. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “He’s coming here?” That did surprise me. The mountain usually doesn’t go to Muhammad, and the fact that he was coming to Belltown Terrace for a late-evening personal visit meant something was up—something that couldn’t wait until regular business hours.

  With only ten minutes’ worth of warning there wasn’t time to stand around speculating about it. I’m on the wagon. Have been for years. Washington State attorney general Ross Connors is definitely not on the wagon. Anything but.

  In the old days—the pre–Melissa Soames days—an unexpected evening visit from him would have necessitated my knocking on my neighbors’ doors in search of a borrowed cup of spirits. Now that Mel was living here, however, we had a moderately decent wine cellar. The best I could do was offer Ross a glass of wine from a twenty-dollar bottle of imported French Bordeaux purchased from Mel’s wine merchant of choice—Costco.

  While Mel went downstairs to collect our visitor I opened the bottle, set out some glasses, and poured myself a tonic and tonic over ice.

  When Ross showed up, he looked surprisingly distressed and I could tell he’d already had a drink or two. “This is ostensibly a condolence call,” he said brusquely as Mel led him into the room. “Other than that, no meeting has taken place. Got it?”

  So Beverly Jenssen was still providing cover—this time for the A.G. himself.

  “Got it,” I said. I poured him a glass of wine. He took a long sip without really tasting it.

  “So let’s go over this Kates thing again,” he said to Mel. “From the top.”

  He listened without comment as Mel recounted the story. “Any ideas?” he asked when she finished.

  “Beau and I were speculating just before you got here,” Mel replied. “We’re wondering if maybe Kates’s killer could be a cop, or at the very least someone with a law enforcement background.”

  Ross shifted uneasily in his chair, and since he had appropriated my recliner, I knew it wasn’t that uncomfortable. “Could be,” he said. Then he sighed and continued. “Our killer could be a cop or an ex-cop or maybe even a correctional officer who’s systematically targeting ex-cons who did their time in Washington State. We need to know if this is an inside job. That’s why I put both of you on the two separate cases—with Mel running the sexual-offender roundup and you on the LaShawn Tompkins incident. That way, if the two cases do link up, I’m hoping to localize the problem.”

  Mel gave me a look. Hers said clearly, “Who the hell is LaShawn Tompkins?” which meant that whatever more Ross might say in that regard was going to put me in deeper—in the other kind of shit—with Melissa Soames.

  Hoping to divert her attention, I spoke up. “Are you saying you think we’re dealing with two separate issues, or one?”

  Ross nodded. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but it’s possible they’re not separate at all.”

  He peered bleakly at Mel over the rims of his glasses—the one in his hand and the pair perched on his nose. “The report you sent me yesterday morning, prior to finding Mr. Kates’s body, indicated you had found six dead victims. Let’s assume for argument’s sake that the two guys who ended up in the irrigation canal in Phoenix really were involved in a drunk-driving incident and their deaths aren’t related. But the rest do seem suspicious, not so much when taken individually—as I’m sure was intended—but certainly when taken together. So what have you learned so far?”

  “Les Fordham is the victim from down near Roseburg,” Mel answered. “Arson investigators found nothing amiss with any of the gas appliances or gas lines in the trailer. The burners were simply left on without being ignited. Eventually enough gas built up inside the mobile home for the pilot light on the hot water heater to set it off. Roseburg effectively closed the case by assuming it was suicide, but Fordham’s parole officer swears his client was doing well. He had a good job and a new girlfriend. There was nothing going on that would account for his committing suicide.”

  “Any note?” Ross asked.

  “No note,” Mel told him.

  “What about the guy on Chuckanut Drive?” Ross asked.

  “That would be Ed Chrisman,” Mel answered, without having to resort to looking at the notebook she had retrieved from her briefcase. “That, too, was officially designated an accident. The problem with that is that when the vehicle was recovered, it was still in gear. How many times in your life did you get out of a car to take a leak and leave the damned thing in drive?”

  Mel’s question was directed at Ross, but I was the one who answered.

  “Never,” I said.

  Ross nodded, reached for the bottle, and poured himself a second glass. I didn’t say anything, but my concern must have been obvious. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing at me. “I have a car and driver waiting downstairs.” Then he turned back to Mel. “What about the others?”

  Mel scanned her notes. “Frederick Jamison died of an accidental overdose in Pocatello, Idaho. Ray Ramirez succumbed to the same thing in Helena, Montana.”

  “Were each of those cases thoroughly investigated?” Ross asked.

  “I can’t say one way or the other,” Mel answered. “I certainly don’t have access to all the files at this point, but my guess is probably not. They were labeled suspicious deaths. The reports I’ve seen so far are pretty sketchy. Maybe whoever did this counted on that—on the idea that local authorities wouldn’t expend a lot of time, energy, or expense in resolving these cases. After all, who gives a damn about one dead crook more or less?”

  Clearly Ross Connors did. These guys were all dying on his watch.

  “Someone else is bound to pick up on this and start making connections. It’s going to explode once it hits the media,” he said glumly. “At that point there’ll be hell to pay regardless of who’s actually doing the killing here. And guess who’s going to have to shoulder the blame?”

  For the better part of twenty years Ross Connors had navigated Washington State’s stormy political seas with apparent impunity. I suspect that, for the first time, he was encountering a crisis that could leave him vulnerable. That explained his wanting to keep our inve
stigation under wraps, at least in these preliminary stages.

  “So what we need to know is who is behind this,” Ross said. “Who he is and how he’s locating and targeting his victims.”

  “Finding them is easy,” Mel said. “So far all the dead guys on my list are sexual offenders with their addresses posted on the Internet.”

  “But that doesn’t explain LaShawn Tompkins,” Connors said. “He wouldn’t be on any registered sexual offender list because he’s not a sexual predator per se since he was actually exonerated on the rape charge.”

  “If he’s not listed,” I said, “maybe his death has nothing to do with the others.”

  Ross heaved a sigh. “But Tompkins was imprisoned here,” he said. “He may not have been guilty, but the fact that he’s out of prison now makes him an ex-con. What neither of you know is that three more dead ex-con cases turned up today—one in New Mexico, one in Nevada, and one more here in Washington, down in Vancouver. None of them would have ended up on Mel’s list because they’re not sexual predators. Two are grand theft auto and the other one is a bank robbery. Two died of unexplained drug overdoses and one of carbon monoxide poisoning in a closed garage.”

  I remembered Mel saying her cases were all over the map. These were even more so, not only geographically but also in terms of murder weapon. The more I heard, the more unlikely it seemed that we were dealing with a single killer.

  “We’ve got someone twisted here,” Ross continued morosely, “some egomaniac who’s appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner. From what you’ve told me, whoever killed Allen Kates is familiar with crime scene investigation and forensics.”

  “That’s true in the other cases as well, at least as far as I’ve perused the files,” Mel said. “In each case the assailant left behind almost no trace evidence.”

  “So he’s wily,” I said. “And careful. And he is also someone who has access to prison-release records,” I added.

  “That’s why I’m saying it’s a rogue cop,” Ross concluded. “That’s what I’ve been thinking ever since Todd brought it to my attention. Either a bad cop or a corrections worker gone postal.”

  I know all the guys who work for SHIT—at least I thought I did. But the name Todd didn’t ring a bell.

  “Todd who?” I asked.

  Ross squirmed in his seat once more. “Todd Hatcher,” he answered. “A guy who works in my office.”

  “An attorney then?” I asked.

  “No,” Ross said. “Actually, he’s an economist.”

  I almost choked on a sip of icy tonic. When I was in college I washed out of only two classes—economics and philosophy. I ended up taking incompletes in both of them. Since then I’ve looked on practitioners of either profession with a somewhat jaundiced eyeball.

  “An economist?” I croaked. “Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all,” Ross returned. “Ever heard of forensic economics?”

  Mel and I shook our heads in unison.

  “It’s relatively new,” Ross said. “Before last summer, neither had I, but then Todd turned up and told me all about it. He had just picked up a Ph.D. in economics from the University of Washington. He claimed that by doing a statistical analysis of our current and recent prison population he could create a computer model that would predict our recidivism rates, tell us how many prison beds we would need in the future—where, when, and what kind. For instance, he thinks he can sort out the exact number of geriatric facilities we’ll eventually need as our prison population ages.

  “Believe me, those kinds of studies can cost big bucks. But here was this one very motivated guy who wanted to do it for practically nothing. He had made a similar proposal for his dissertation, but his faculty adviser had turned him down. I think he came to me because he was still pissed at his adviser. The fact that the university had axed the project made him that much more determined to do it, so much so that he offered to work for a pittance as long as I gave him unlimited access to our data. Truth be known, he probably has a book deal waiting in the wings somewhere. Why wouldn’t he? He’s an economist, for God’s sake. But in terms of cost to the state of Washington, it was an irresistible offer.”

  “So you took him on,” Mel said. “An economist, not a cop.”

  “That’s right,” Ross agreed. “So I hired Hatcher. I gave him an office and a computer and turned him loose with oodles of information. Shortly after he started doing his study, however, Todd hit on an anomaly—a sudden spike in mortality rates among recently released inmates, one that didn’t fit inside the expected actuarial norms for that particular population. That’s his area of expertise, you see—demographics.”

  “How recent a spike?” I asked.

  “In the last year and a half or so. Before that, the death rates were pretty steady and followed predictable patterns. Many of those deaths were clearly age-, behavior-, or illness-related. But the dead guys in this new group are all fairly young—twenties, thirties, and forties—relatively healthy, and they all seem to have died under mysterious circumstances that aren’t necessarily homicides. Several of the deaths have been labeled simply suspicious. So I asked Todd to start looking into it. He’s been at it for only two weeks now and he’s already come up with the ones I told you about tonight as well as with the ones Mel found. You can see why I’m leaning in the direction of a cop gone bad, and if it turns out he’s someone who’s worked for me…” Ross shook his head, lapsed into a moody silence, and stared into the depths of his almost empty wineglass.

  Now I began to fathom why Ross Connors was so gun-shy about news of our investigation getting out. A previous leak from the A.G.’s office had resulted in the death of a woman in the witness protection program—someone it had been his professional obligation to protect. I knew that failure on his part still weighed heavily on him, especially since it had eventually led to the death of Ross’s own wife. No wonder he was so concerned. If it turned out a serial killer with close to a dozen victims could be traced back to his administration, Ross’s days as attorney general were probably numbered. Still, it irked me to think that Mel and I were working as glorified fact-checkers for some hotshot economist.

  “If we discover present or former law enforcement personnel are involved,” Ross resumed after a pause, “I’ll have to bring in the feds, no question, but I don’t want to do that until I’m reasonably sure what we’re dealing with. On the other hand, we simply must put a stop to this. Yes, the victims are some pretty bad dudes, but they’ve also served their time and paid their debts to society. According to the Constitution, even scumbags have a right to due process.”

  “What about Mr. Tompkins?” Mel said.

  On the surface her question was directed at Ross, but the look she sent in my direction said otherwise.

  “What’s the story with him?” she continued. “Whatever it was must have happened before I came to town.”

  That was true. LaShawn Tompkins had been both wrongly convicted and rightly released long before Melissa Soames turned up in Bellevue as Ross Connors’s latest addition to SHIT.

  “Ask Beau here,” Ross said helpfully. “At this point I’m sure he knows far more about it than I do.”

  So I told them what I knew, pretty much. I left out the part about Kendall Jackson working with me on the q.t. as far as attempting to locate Elaine Manning was concerned. If Ross needed deniability, so did Detective Jackson. After all, he still has to survive inside Seattle PD.

  The problem was, the more I told the more I could see Mel didn’t like the fact that I had used Beverly’s death as a smoke screen to hide what I was doing.

  “I’m still hoping maybe it is a love triangle,” I finished somewhat lamely. “Maybe, when we locate the girlfriend—”

  “I hope so, too,” Ross interrupted. “But I’m not holding my breath. You can see why I turned to the two of you, though. I wanted this situation investigated with as little fuss as possible. Of all my people, you two are uniquely situated for keeping something like t
his quiet.”

  Every time the man opened his mouth he made things worse for yours truly.

  “Yes,” Mel agreed, sending yet another scathing glance in my direction. “I can certainly see why you might think that.”

  I wanted to turn the focus away from us and back onto something less dangerous—like the victims themselves. “What do our dead guys have in common?” I asked. “Were any of them locked up in the same facility?”

  “Todd is working on putting together a spreadsheet analysis of all that. As far as facilities are concerned, we have only so many prisons,” Ross said. “Since these guys were all incarcerated at more or less the same time, it stands to reason that some of them would have served time in the same facility. If it turns out they all were, then that’s another story.”

  “The irrigation-canal victims were locked up together,” Mel offered. “They were actually cell mates up in Monroe.”

  “What about their crimes? Any similarity there?” I asked.

  “With the exception of Mr. Tompkins, they’re all multiple offenders,” Ross replied. “Their crimes run the gamut of your regular felonies—grand theft auto, armed robbery, bank robbery. You name it, they did it.”

  “What about gang affiliations?” Mel asked.

  Connors shrugged. “They all had some, of course. If they didn’t have them when they went into prison, they sure as hell did when they came out. That’s one of the things Todd assures me he’s great at, data mining—once he has it. That’s where you come in, Mel. You’ll need to gather up all the information we have on these offenders from all applicable jurisdictions so Todd will be able to organize the information for us. Once we look at all the cases together, we may find there are common denominators, details no one has noticed.”

  Ross Connors reached for the bottle and emptied it into his own glass without offering any to Mel. I knew he was drinking way too much way too fast. I was glad he had a driver.