by Gregg Olsen
I had checked for a criminal history on Jim Truitt and he was clean. Not even a traffic citation. I didn’t see a bunch of alcohol in his house. As far as I know, he wasn’t a drunk or an addict. I’m convinced that Leann’s mom betrayed her, lied to her, just as my mom had done to me my whole life. We share a similar history.
I’m here to get justice for both of us.
Twenty-Three
It’s barely seven in the morning. I sit at my desk making computer inquiries while regretting the whisky from the night before. I am wiped out and didn’t sleep much. I have no doubt that I’ll pay all day for that. I hear Nan down the hall yammering with excitement that the donuts Sheriff Gray brought in include an apple fritter. Her favorite. To bring a dozen donuts without a fritter for Nan was to commit a major offense in an office that deals with homicides and other crimes.
It dawns on me that Nan wields a lot of power in the office. I think the sheriff is afraid of her. She’s the passive-aggressive type who gets even without one being even aware.
Silly me. I thought I’d given you that file.
He didn’t leave a number.
Oh. I thought the apple fritter was mine. I guess I was mistaken.
I turn my attention to the case. Jim Truitt said his daughter was tending bar in Port Townsend. There are more than a dozen bars in Port Townsend—even more in the surrounding area. Lucky for me, I try the Old Whiskey Mill on Water Street only a few calls in.
That’s where Leann worked.
The Old Whiskey Mill started life in the late 1800s as a hotel, the grandest in Port Townsend, at a time when the town was betting on being the terminus for the railroad, a distinction that went to the other side of Puget Sound, Seattle and Tacoma. Several businesses had been tried in the ground floor of the building, but none seemed to draw the money needed to keep it afloat. Then two sisters tried a bar. It was a hit, especially with law enforcement types, and the Old Whiskey Mill was off and running.
I spoke to a bartender who was filling in for Leann and gave him the bad news that she wasn’t returning to work. He was sorry, but he couldn’t tell me anything about her. Next, I talked to the owner, who told me Leann had worked there for only a month. She’d come to them from a coffee shop somewhere. The owner didn’t know which one and she hadn’t filled out a job application.
So how did her father know she was working in a bar if he wasn’t keeping track of her like he claimed?
I pull up more from the criminal database. Turns out, Steve Bohleber has a criminal record out of Indiana. He wasn’t a farmer, unless he farmed marijuana in Indiana, and it’s still illegal there. He did three years in Pendleton, a maximum-security prison in Indiana, for aggravated assault. He attacked a policeman. The policeman went to the hospital with a concussion. Steve went to prison. He was lucky to get prison.
The arresting officers were too kind.
Now he was in the wind. No one, including his parole officer, knew his whereabouts. No one cared. Except me.
Joe Bohleber has never been a farmer, either. He was arrested a couple of times for fraud and money laundering. To my way of thinking, it wasn’t a big leap to see him blackmailing Truitt. With what, exactly, I wasn’t sure.
There is something going on between those two. But what?
I check out Jim Truitt too. Newspaper archives are a great place to look for rich creeps like Truitt. He is barely a blip in the Port Townsend Leader. He was involved in some kind of land scheme over near Fort Flagler Historical State Park. The paper mentioned him as one of the investors. Interestingly, Joe and Steve Bohleber purchased the properties where they had their fishing cabins from a company where Jim Truitt was a partner.
They’ve done business before.
They both lied to me.
Lying to me is a serious mistake.
I also discover a stack of paperwork and get a good start on requesting placement information from Olympia regarding the adoption of Leann’s baby. Jim Truitt is a man with connections. Money. He knows people as well as spirits. He may have found a home for the child himself.
It is, after all, his child.
He didn’t strike me as a man who gives up anything that he owns. He found a place for his pregnant daughter to live and then paid her rent. He kept her at arm’s distance but still controlled her. He bought his wife a beach house in St. Lucia but still keeps track of her.
He is someone I’ll have to keep my eye on.
I get coffee from the breakroom and consider a donut from the box on the counter. Pass. I hear Nan regaling the records clerk with a story about her daughter’s latest achievement. I tune it out and return to my desk.
I start with the state adoption agency. After thirty minutes or so I realize I’m not going to get into the system without leaving evidence behind. The Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office doesn’t have clearance to do a search for mothers, much less placement information.
Sheriff Gray comes through the office with a paper cup of something and a greasy bag of fast food. It’s a big bag for breakfast, but he is a big man. Or at least his belly is getting that way. He sees me looking at the bag and comes over to my desk.
“I brought breakfast.”
Sure you did.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask.
He opens the top and the smell of fried onions comes at me. He takes out something wrapped in greasy paper. “I got you a double sausage with onion and pickle from the street vendor. Sorry I didn’t get you a malted milk shake, but I couldn’t carry it all.”
“And I turned down a donut in the breakroom.”
Sheriff is married to a nurse he met at the hospital after he had a mild heart attack. He’s overweight and, despite his constant complaining about dieting, I’ve never seen him eat anything resembling healthy food.
He lays the greasy-paper-wrapped sandwich on my desk and says, “Let’s keep this to ourselves.”
I haven’t eaten since yesterday, but I pass. I know about keeping secrets. He has kept enough of mine.
Ronnie comes in the office and looks as if she were fresh from a spa. I feel like I’ve gone a few rounds with an MMA fighter, but she is alert, smiling, and chattering. When I put her to bed last night she was zonked. If I’d had as much to drink as she had, I would hurl at the smell of grease.
Sheriff Gray looks at the bag, at me, at her, and takes another sandwich out. “I got enough for you too. But don’t tell Nan.”
Or his wife.
I gesture for Ronnie to pull up a chair. She does, sits, and unwraps the still-steaming hot double sausage, onion, and pickle piece of heaven. Today she’s wearing a modest outfit, blue blouse, light jacket, gray slacks, and low-heeled shoes. Her nails are trimmed but now painted a bright fire engine red.
“I’ll be in my office,” the sheriff says. “Before you go anywhere, I want an update. I am the sheriff. I’m supposed to know what you’re doing.”
I detect a hint of accusation in his tone and suddenly I feel defensive.
“I updated you yesterday when we knocked off,” I say.
“You didn’t tell me you talked to Jim Truitt.”
“I did too,” I tell him. “It’s in your box.”
I put it there a half hour ago. I just don’t tell him that.
“Let me rephrase that. You didn’t tell me it was that Jim Truitt.”
“So what about him?” I am surprised that he is making a big deal of this. So what if Truitt is rich. Sheriff Gray has never pulled his punches—or mine—before.
“Let’s just say you should go easy on him, Megan.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“Is he important?” I ask, already aware of the answer.
“He’s a big contributor. He supports a lot of police events. Buys equipment when the county can’t.”
Or won’t, I think.
“Funny you should bring him up, Sheriff. We need to talk to you about him. Maybe we should go into your office for some privacy?”
He gives me a
little scowl. Not a big one. Just a touch.
“I think that would be a wonderful idea, Detective Carpenter.”
Uh-oh. I’ve pissed him off. He’s never called me that. Ronnie and I follow him to his office. He motions for Ronnie to pull the door closed. We all sit. His chair squeals.
WD-40 isn’t the answer.
Losing about fifty pounds is.
“Jim Truitt might be a big police supporter, Sheriff. That’s great. We can always use more support. But he’s something else too.”
I pause. It’s like laying down a winning hand, even when the game is just getting started.
“Two things,” I say. “He’s quite possibly a child molester. He might also be our killer.”
“There’s a lot to unpack there,” he says, narrowing his gaze at me. “A lot of supposition.”
“I can’t prove he’s the father of Leann’s baby. But I’m working on it. The thing is, I don’t have authority to get the adoption records. If I can find the baby, I can get DNA comparisons with Bohleber and Truitt.”
Ronnie pipes up. “If he lied about the baby, it gives him a motive for her murder.”
Sheriff Gray is thinking.
“Maybe he hired someone to kill her?” he suggests. “Maybe finding the baby won’t matter. And you will still need DNA from Truitt and Bohleber for comparison. Do you think they’ll cooperate?”
Hell no, I think.
“Yes,” I say.
Twenty-Four
Nan knocks and sticks her head in the doorway of the sheriff’s office.
She hates being excluded and uses every opportunity to edge her way into the know.
This time she has a legitimate reason.
“I got something for you,” she says, handing a printout to me. She lingers a second, looking at the food on the desk and giving the sheriff a dirty look before shutting the door behind her.
“You’re going to get coal in your Christmas stocking this year, Sheriff,” I say.
His eyes widen. “Me? I’m telling her Ronnie brought the stuff in.”
Sheriff is light on his feet when he wants to be. I look at the printout and my eyes bug out.
“What?” he asks.
I return to my desk, drink some cold coffee, and get busy on the phone. Ronnie is on the computer pulling files on the names from the printout. An hour later we meet up in the sheriff’s office again.
He has a worried look on his face. His sausage burger is only half eaten and still on the wrapper on his desk.
“Is it as bad as it looks?” he asks.
I’m holding the printout Nan gave me. Parts of it are highlighted in yellow. I read from it.
“Two confirmed murders. The oldest is from two years ago. Both are bodies they matched to missing persons’ reports. I only asked for VICAP data from Jefferson, Clallam, Thurston, Mason, and Kitsap Counties. I didn’t ask about the other side of Puget Sound. There could be others if we widen the search.”
My eyes meet the sheriff’s and Ronnie’s for a second before I go on.
“Their injuries match what happened to Leann. Both women were strangled. Both had their necks broken. Multiple broken bones. Marks on the wrists, ankles, and neck like in our case. The one from two years ago says the cause of death was exsanguination. Apparently she was pregnant, and the baby was cut from her. I called the detectives working the cases. The old case is in Clallam County. The newer one is from six months ago in Kitsap. I’ll set up meetings with them.”
I look up from the printout. Sheriff has a sick look on his face. Not the sandwich, I think.
“The case in Clallam is a woman named Margie Benton,” I say. “She went missing and her body was found two weeks later. The one in Kitsap is Dina Knowles. She vanished and was found murdered a week later. And get this: both women were around Leann’s age and size and had red hair.”
I have Sheriff Gray’s undivided attention now. For good reason. A serial killer has come to Jefferson County.
“The detectives have been sharing information and it seems that the victims have more in common. Knowles had given up a baby the year before she was killed. They both worked in bars.”
The sheriff throws the sandwich into his waste basket. “Do they have any evidence? A suspect?”
I shake my head and drop a bomb.
“They did rape kits on both women. There was physical evidence of rape. There’s no suspect.”
“Well, shoot,” he says, his face growing red. “Why didn’t we hear about this before now?”
“I kind of got the impression that the two detectives thought they would have this wrapped up before now,” I say.
That was a problem in law enforcement. One jurisdiction didn’t want to share information with another. They each felt like the case was theirs alone and they would solve it alone. Make the arrest themselves. I could relate to that. But in this case I had a bad feeling that my killer was the same as theirs. That meant we had a serial killer on the loose.
“Sheriff, I’ve asked for a DNA test on the rape kit from Leann Truitt, but you know how the lab is. I’ll call Marley, but can I tell him you want this one given priority?”
“You do that,” he says. “And tell him if they don’t get it done right quick, there will be hell to pay.”
Seriously? I am proud of Sheriff Gray being so forceful. Now I just wish he’d let me shake Jim Truitt up and see what we get. He must have been reading my mind.
“And you have my permission to turn Jim Truitt upside down if necessary and see what falls out, though I don’t think we have enough to get a warrant. See what you come up with on these other murders and I’ll see what I can do about getting a court order for DNA.”
I plan to pursue Truitt, permission or not. The sheriff already knows this but is giving me protection in case some politician comes after me. I can always count on him. Truitt seems to have some clout and I hope he won’t be able to avoid cooperating in the investigation.
“Do you need anything else from me? Any help with this?” he asks.
“I’d like to request Deputy Marsh continue to help with the investigation.”
Ronnie looks surprised, then beams in my direction.
“I insist she does,” I say.
“I’ll clear it with the training unit,” Sheriff Gray says, a slight smile on his face. “Just keep her out of the line of fire.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about political fallout or Ronnie possibly getting killed. I guess one is the same as the other. Political fallout can mean the end of a career and getting blackballed with any other agency. He knows I can protect myself.
I am beginning to think Ronnie can do the same.
Twenty-Five
It will take most of the morning for Kitsap’s and Clallam’s case files to be couriered to my office. I want to go through them page by page before I set up a meeting with the detectives. I call Marley Yang at the crime lab to see if he received the rape kit. I get the receptionist.
“I’ll have to see if Mr. Yang is in,” she says. “Can I take a number and have him call you back?”
“If he is unavailable, I guess I’ll have to, but our sheriff wants to talk to him. Should I put Sheriff Gray on? He’s talking to a judge in his office, but I can get him to the phone.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she says. “I’ll put you through to Mr. Yang.”
She leaves, the line doesn’t ring, and I don’t get the usual sappy Muzak, so I think she’s disconnected me. Finally a click.
“Yang here,” a familiar voice says. “Detective Carpenter. Put me through to the sheriff.”
“The sheriff said I should talk to you,” I lie. “He wants to know if you got the rape kit from yesterday morning. The body found on Marrowstone.”
Marley is the lab supervisor at the crime lab. I’ve seen him only once in person. He’s short, compact, with longish black hair and a wannabe goatee. He is of the generation that believes CSI is all racing around in cars or foot chases, carrying guns, sh
ooting up the bad guys, and going to a bar to celebrate.
It’s not like that. Except for the bars, of course.
“You mean you want to know. Is that it, Detective Carpenter?”
He sounds a little cross. “You got me, Marley. If it makes it a better trade, you can call me Megan from now on.”
Marley laughs, really more of a snort.
“Yes, I got the rape kit,” he says. “I know it’s a priority, along with thirty or forty other requests. I’m sorry, but you know how backed up we are.”
Here we go. I really don’t give one whit if you’re taking work home to finish it.
“I totally understand,” I say. “I get the same thing here. Can you believe a woman came in yesterday demanding that I have her car fingerprinted to prove her boyfriend had been driving it around with some other girl? She wanted the fingerprints tested for DNA. I told her no way. You guys are way too busy with major crimes.”
“Seriously?” he asks.
“I went out and threw some fingerprint powder around just to make her happy. Told her I’d get to the bottom of it.” I’m lying but he will think he owes me for not dumping something inane like that on him. Also, it sounds cool. Like I did something he’d never get away with because he’s part of the administration.
He laughs in earnest now.
“I thought you’d get a kick out of that.”
“I have no opinion,” he says, chuckling. “In fact, I didn’t even hear that. Good for you.”
I plead. But only a little. I never beg.
“Can you help me out here, Marley?”
“You said the sheriff wants this done posthaste?”
“He said to call him with the results, and he’ll relay them to me. I’m going to be all over the place interviewing people today. Maybe I could stop by later and check with you if I’m out your way?”
“I’ll be swamped, Megan.”
He’s calling me Megan, so my job kissing his ass is done here.
