At Rope's End

by Edward Kay

  Maclean had a small Bluetooth earpiece that allowed her to hear Verraday, who was watching via a Skype link from behind the two-way mirror. Maclean would have liked to have him in the room. But if anybody had noticed his presence—and chances were good that in the interrogation rooms, either the chief, the homicide captain, Fowler, or one of his cronies would see him—the effect would have been explosive. This case was volatile enough as it was.

  “Mr. Griffin,” said Maclean. “I’ve done a lot of research on you during the past day, and there are some things I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me before that you your father committed suicide?”

  Jason looked at her gravely. “Because it’s still a very painful memory for me. It’s not exactly something that’s easy to talk about. Besides, it didn’t seem relevant.”

  “Didn’t seem relevant? Doesn’t it seem odd that people who are close to you have a habit of committing suicide?”

  “Detective, there’s no call to speak to my client that way,” said Tarleton. “He has suffered a great deal in the past year.”

  “That’s okay,” said Jason. “She’s just trying to do her job.”

  Then he turned to Maclean.

  “Yes, it’s true that I’ve had more than my fair share of tragedy. First my father, then Cody. But my mother always taught me to believe in myself and in the value of hard work. So I’ll get through this, just like I got through the trouble with the family business.”

  “Well, here’s another detail for you to consider. We’ve examined the coroner’s report regarding your father’s death. And I’ve gotten a second opinion. My ballistics expert thinks the coroner missed some important details. The powder burns and the angle of the bullet are right on the edge of what would have been impossible for anyone to do themselves without having had help. Bottom line is that it was sloppy work by the coroner. And by the killer, whoever that was. So we’ve reopened the case.”

  “Are you suggesting that I killed my own father?” asked Jason.

  Tarleton touched him lightly on the arm. “You don’t have to respond to this line of questioning, son.”

  “Okay, time to unglue him,” whispered Verraday. “Mention the land now.”

  “Well you certainly had a reason to,” said Maclean. “Your father was running the business into the ground. That was why he sold the twenty-acre retreat that your family owned on Suquamish Island. For cash flow. But you had an even more important reason for not wanting him to sell it, didn’t you?”

  Jason sat there with an uncomprehending expression on his face.

  “You see,” continued Maclean, “I checked with the new owner of the land, an Ellen Williams. She told me that a realtor has been calling her every three weeks with an offer to buy. So I asked her who this realtor was, and I spoke to him to find out who he was representing. Are you going to make Mr. Tarleton guess who the mystery person is, Jason, or should I just tell him?”

  Jason Griffin shrugged. “So I put in an offer. I grew up there. I have a lot of fond memories from the family cottage.”

  “Nail him!” whispered Verraday.

  “I bet you do. And we’re going to dig up every one of those fond memories of yours until we have all the evidence we need to put you on death row.”

  Jason Griffin smirked, his personality suddenly shifting to belligerent. “You don’t have shit,” he said.

  Maclean brought out a photo of a border collie.

  Griffin looked vaguely amused. “What’s with the dog, Detective?”

  “I’m glad you asked. This is a cadaver-sniffing dog belonging to the State Patrol. His name is Torch. He’s successfully located bodies that have been buried for more than two decades. He’s also found remains as small as a single vertebra.”

  Maclean pulled out another photo, this one an aerial shot of a heavily treed island. “I think you’ll recognize the island in this aerial photo. Shouldn’t be hard, since by your own admission, you have so many fond memories of it.” She pointed to a large waterfront parcel of land marked off with red ink. “This is the recreational property that your father sold to Ellen Williams. We flew Torch and his handler up to Suquamish Island this morning to start looking for your other victims. The ones you used to fly out there in your floatplane before your father sold that too, along with the island property, so shortly before his conveniently timed ‘suicide.’”

  Tarleton looked apoplectic. “This is outrageous,” he thundered. “You don’t have proof of anything, Detective. Just circumstantial evidence for crimes that you can’t prove even exist.”

  “Really? Well then let’s talk about that Dodge Charger Hemi instead.”

  “What?” snorted Griffin.

  “You said it was at an upholstery shop.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re lying, Mr. Griffin. I had a patrol car do a drive-by of your mother’s home this morning. What do you think they found?”

  Jason didn’t answer.

  “There was a covered vehicle carrier in her driveway,” continued Maclean. “One that was exactly the right size to have a Dodge Charger in it. So we got a warrant and executed that warrant right before we picked you up, so you and your mom wouldn’t have time for a little emergency conference. And what do you suppose was in that trailer but a vintage Dodge Charger worth a lot of money.”

  “Detective, that vehicle is lawfully registered to my client. Where are you going with all this?” asked Tarleton.

  “Hold on, Counselor. I think you’ll find this interesting. So Jason, you lied about the car being at the upholstery shop. It was at your mother’s house.”

  “That’s not a crime,” said Tarleton. “He probably just didn’t want you and your horde pestering his poor mother.”

  “No, Counselor, I don’t think that was the reason. I think it had more to do with the fact that the VIN number, which I checked this morning, indicates that your car came equipped with a 318 V-8, not a 426 Hemi?”

  “So what?” sneered Griffin.

  “So the engine serial number of the Hemi now installed in your car indicates that it originally came from a 1971 Dodge Challenger down in Eugene, Oregon. Apparently two men came to test drive it a few months ago. Since the car was worth almost $100,000, the owner, one Paul Schmidt, quite understandably wanted to ride along. For some strange reason, instead of leaving their own vehicle at the home of the Challenger’s owner, one of the men test drove the car while the other man followed behind in their vehicle. An hour later, when Mr. Schmidt hadn’t returned home, his wife became concerned. And apparently she had reason to be, because Paul Schmidt’s body turned up a week later, in a backwoods canyon, burned beyond recognition. The Dodge Challenger was never recovered.”

  “Look, I bought that Hemi in good faith from somebody Cody knew. I had no idea it was hot or I never would have bought it.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” said Maclean. “The wife of the owner was watching from the kitchen window when her husband went out to meet these two young men. She couldn’t get a good look at their car or plate number, but there was something about them she didn’t like. She’s already identified Cody as one of them. And she has agreed to be flown up here to pick you out of a lineup. In fact, she’s here as we speak. Now, your mother had your car with the stolen engine stored at her property. That makes her an accessory.”

  “This is bullshit,” said Jason.

  “My client is right, Detective. This is ridiculous.”

  “Well, the judge didn’t think so, because he’s issued an arrest warrant for your mother. And she’s in custody right now.”

  Jason’s jaw tightened.

  “Keep working him over about his mother,” whispered Verraday. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him flinch. She’s the way in.”

  “I looked in on her right before this interview,” said Maclean. “There are some pretty nasty crack whores in that holding cell with her, let me tell you. And a Criplette who seems to be taking quite an interest in her. We’ll try to
keep them separated, but it’s pretty full in there today. Hard for the jailers to keep an eye on everybody, you know? Could take a while to process the papers before she can post bail and head home.”

  Jason looked angry now. “Leave my mother out of this. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Maclean. “We’ll have to keep her here for questioning.”

  “I’m about to send you a text,” whispered Verraday. “You know what to do.”

  Maclean’s cell phone buzzed. She pulled it out and checked the display.

  “Just got a text from the search site. That dog that you think is so funny? It found a hot spot up there on the property your family owned until very recently. So we’ll be bringing a backhoe in on a barge tomorrow morning. It will cost the taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars, but we’ll find every last one of those bodies, I promise you, Mr. Griffin. And the more money it costs the taxpayers, the more likely it is that the district attorney will go for the maximum penalty. That means that unless you decide to tell me the truth now, the only decision you’ll have left to make after you leave this room is whether you’d prefer to be executed by hanging or lethal injection. It’s your call. And by the way, I’m going to subpoena your mother as a witness. I want her to give me a little tour of the family retreat, so when the bodies of your victims start coming out of the ground, she can see what her precious little boy has done.”

  “That’s enough!” said Tarleton testily. “You don’t have a single shred of hard evidence.”

  “Oh, and one other thing, Jason. You showed me a rental contract for a car up in Port Angeles. Only twenty miles on the odometer when you brought it back the next morning. The manager at the Red Lion noticed it parked just outside the office all night. He says you spent about an hour down by the shore, watching the waves roll in. Said you looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  “I told you about that already.”

  “I know you did. You made sure everybody saw you drinking your wine before going back into your room. And you made sure they saw your rental car parked there all night. Right by the main entrance to the hotel. I’m wondering if there was something wrong with that car?”

  “Where is this going, Detective?” asked Tarleton.

  “Patience, please, Counselor. This won’t take much longer. Mr. Griffin, was there something wrong with that rental car?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you rent a second car? One from a place right in town, not from the agency at the airport where you rented the car you parked at the hotel? And since you’re so careful about claiming expenses for the company on your Visa card, why did you pay for the second car with cash? Was it so that there wouldn’t be an electronic paper trail? Because the only way I found out that you rented a second car was by calling every car rental agency in Port Angeles and e-mailing them a photograph of you. Fortunately they had all the records on file, including the in and out mileage on the odometers. The nice young woman on the counter told me that you put a lot of miles on that car for a one-night rental. Two hundred and ninety-four miles to be precise. Exactly the distance from Port Angeles to Issaquah, with a little stopover at Cody’s apartment to plant the evidence after you lured him to that trail and pushed him off the edge. So despite what you wanted people to believe, you were not in your hotel room all night, Mr. Griffin.”

  Jason Griffin put his hand on Tarleton’s arm. They whispered to each other, then Tarleton turned to Maclean.

  “Would you bring in the district attorney, please?”

  * * *

  District Attorney Kirk Weder arrived and before he’d even settled into the seat next to Maclean, looked directly at Tarleton.

  “Okay, what’s the offer?”

  Tarleton leaned forward. “My client is willing to plead guilty to the murders of Helen Dale, Rachel Friesen, Alana Carmichael, Cody North, Paul Schmidt, as well as five other Jane Does, whose bodies he will locate for you on Suquamish Island, on the condition that you do not seek the death penalty and that you do not charge his mother as an accessory or subpoena her to be a witness.”

  Weder leaned in toward Maclean. They exchanged whispers. He turned back toward Tarleton and Jason Griffin, who was now staring at the floor.

  “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The Bellingham was busy that night, and it was only by calling ahead and saying that it was a special occasion that Verraday was able to reserve the two wingback chairs by the fireplace. Out of sheer curiosity, he had arrived four minutes before the appointed time. But as he looked down the length of the bar, he could see Maclean’s Burberry coat already draped over the back of the chair. How she always arrived first was one mystery that he’d have to wait for another occasion to solve.

  Maclean smiled as she saw him approaching. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her before. She was wearing a cowl-neck sweater dress over black leggings, and her hair was down. She was definitely off duty. The same waiter who had served them the other night came by their table as Verraday took his seat.

  “The usual, folks?” he asked with that easygoing, confident smile.

  Maclean nodded. “Please.”

  “Sounds good,” said Verraday, happy to be recognized and treated like a regular on his second visit.

  “Coming right up,” said the waiter as he left to get their drinks.

  “So?” asked Verraday. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. You have stories to tell. And I want to hear them.”

  Maclean grinned broadly.

  “Well . . . the captain and chief are pretty pleased. I’ll be doing a press conference with them tomorrow morning to announce that Jason Griffin has confessed to the killings. And they’re already talking promotion.”

  “Well, they should be. You’re the best homicide detective they’ve got. Congratulations. Did Jason have anything more to say?”

  “Yeah. I pumped him for everything he had to make sure that the confession stuck. He was even more devious than I realized. That empty apartment had been empty since the day that Cody arrived in Seattle. Jason kept it as a dummy address so that he could stall if anyone ever tried to interview Cody. The apartment we searched was Cody’s real home. Though all the evidence was planted there only after Jason killed him. He didn’t miss a thing. When Helen Dale pleasured Cody in the cockpit of the plane, it wasn’t just a generous boss handing out employee benefits. He retrieved the semen from the tissue that Helen used to clean up and put it on Rachel Friesen’s panties so that he could implicate Cody if he ever needed a scapegoat. As for Alana Carmichael, Jason had the Cupid’s arrow hidden away just like you said he would. The kill room was the office. Soundproof and quite chic looking, as you are aware. He had a Berkley horse with soft leather restraints hidden in the ceiling. And the radiator repair tubs were where he washed his victims. Then he used the van to dump their bodies afterward. End of story.”

  “And thank God it is,” said Verraday. “Well done.”

  “You too. Great work, James. You’re a mind reader.”

  “You flatter me, Detective. But I’m no mind reader. Just a neurotic, hypervigilant guy who’s found his niche.”

  The moment he said it, he regretted uttering those words. He realized he didn’t want her thinking of him that way, even in jest.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, smiling. “Not completely anyway. So what’s up for you after this?”

  “Got the big midterm exam coming up,” replied Verraday with a hint of sarcasm. “And that’s about it in the way of excitement. Things are going to seem dull going back to university life after being around you. Other than that, you know what they say about academia. It’s publish or perish. I’m doing some new research on psychopathy and memory. I’m wondering if a psychopath’s memory function works differently than it does for the rest of us. I’ll have to devise some tests, then find some willing psychopaths. Fortunately or unfortunately, there’s always a ready s
upply of them on hand. So that’s my life. What about you? After the press conference, what’s next for the newly promoted Detective Maclean?”

  “I don’t have any new cases. Not as of tonight anyway, and I hope it stays that way at least until tomorrow. But working with you on this has piqued my interest in some cold cases. We have three hundred on file. I think I’ll dust a few of them off and see what I can find out.”

  “What about Fowler?”

  “Word is he’s being bumped off homicide. They’re going to do a Robson with him, bury him someplace in the department where he can’t cause any trouble. Some minor administration role. I would have preferred that he’d been kicked off the force, but that’s not going to happen. Not yet anyway.”

  “Well, it’s a start. Maybe there’s karma after all. So does your mom know that you busted a serial killer?”

  “I sent her a quick e-mail to tell her we’d cracked a big case. I’m going to see her tomorrow after the press conference. I’ll give her the details then.”

  “She’ll be proud of you.”

  Maclean laughed, almost shyly. “Oh, yeah. Everybody on her floor at the hospital will hear about it. That’s my mom.”

  “You two are close.”

  “Yeah. I see her at least once a week. She’s one of my best friends. How about you and your dad?”

  “I don’t see him that often,” said Verraday. “It’s hard to explain, but he keeps a distance between himself and everybody else. I mean, we love each other, though he’s not the type to say so. He’s old school, you know? He was never the same after my mom was killed. I mean, he kept it all together. Made sure that Penny got physio and that we both went to school and had lunches and clothes and everything. But he became withdrawn. Spent most of his evenings drinking down in the man cave. Still does.”

  Maclean nodded.

  “He must have loved your mother a lot though, for it to have affected him so much.”