Every Fear

by Rick Mofina

  Almost a year sober now, and he was doing great. Hell, Jason was proud of him. He was a different man. He’d taken early retirement from the brewery, and a few courses to chase a dream of his own. Becoming a private investigator. And it was happening for him—an agency run by an old cop buddy had taken him on.

  Jason’s thoughts returned to the newsroom and the fact there was no overnight note from Astrid. Strange. While she’d never hidden the fact that she hated the night police beat and struggled on breaking news, she’d always left an overnight note. Except this time. Something wasn’t right.

  He went back to the scanners.

  “All units on the Ballard situation, we’ve got a possible pedestrian injury accident. Stand by for confirmation.”

  “Seventy-six. Have you got paramedics rolling? Ten-four.”

  He flipped to a fresh page in his notebook, then jotted notes as he spotted Astrid’s bag at her desk, which adjoined his.

  Strange.

  Her shift ended at 2:00 A.M.; she shouldn’t be here. Maybe she’d forgotten it last night. He inventoried the large newsroom with its rows of half-walled cubicles, computer terminals, desks cluttered with towers of newspapers, reports, cafeteria plates, cutlery, and assorted crap.

  Virtually empty. Nobody came in at this hour.

  Nobody else in Metro, Business, Sports, Entertainment, or Lifestyles. A few copy editors worked alone on advance pages but they were far off from him, like sentries at distant posts. The editorial assistant was floating around and had left him a note from the assignment editor, who was going to be late because he’d blown a tire.

  A door flew open.

  He turned to his boss’s glass-walled office to see Astrid Grant march to the cop desk. She opened her bag, then used both hands to thrust belongings from her drawers into it as if the building were on fire.

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  Her face and eyes were red.

  “I’ve been fired.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Ask dickhead.” She nodded to the Metro editor’s office. “Stupid damn tanker crash. I’m fed up with Rain Town. I’m going home to L.A.”

  Astrid grabbed her bag and hurried off, putting a hand to her face. He started after her but was stopped by the scanners.

  “All units in the Ballard area. Update. Possible pedestrian injury now reported as a hit-and-run. Seventy-six, what’s your ETA?”

  “Seven maybe ten. Can we please confirm the address again?”

  “Ten-four.”

  The dispatcher repeated the address over the air and Jason jotted it down. Hit-and-run? This could turn into something. Watching Astrid disappear toward the elevator he focused on the call, preparing to jump on it.

  “Wade!” Spangler, the Mirror’s new Metro editor, summoned him.

  Jason refused to leave the scanners. Not now. He waved off his boss.

  Nobody waved off Fritz Spangler. He ran the Mirror’s largest editorial department. He controlled the professional lives of nearly one hundred people. Spangler was a son of Seattle who’d started with the Post-Intelligencer before moving to New York City and the Daily News. He’d worked his way up from One Police Plaza to assignment editor before being headhunted by the Mirror.

  He returned to Seattle with a mandate to reverse the paper’s melting circulation by driving an agenda for hard news and exclusives.

  The Mirror hadn’t won a Pulitzer Prize since the early 1990s. Even Jason’s exclusive from last year had failed to earn a nomination. For Spangler, Jason’s big story was old news and old news didn’t cut it.

  In fact, no story was ever good enough for Spangler. No reporter ever performed to his standards. Some four months ago, when Spangler arrived, thirty reporters worked in Metro. Word was, Spangler had orders to cut the number to twenty-two. His presence made staffers feel like swimmers who’d spotted a dorsal fin.

  Spangler rarely spoke. He wore button-down shirts and never loosened his tie. His skin was wrapped tight around his head, accentuating his skull, making his eyes wide as if he were always pissed off. That was how he looked when he materialized at Jason’s desk. Statue still and mute. Not a word about firing Astrid as he stood there listening to the scanner transmissions.

  “All units, in Ballard. That report of a pedestrian hit-and-run is confirmed on scene. Mother with baby—”

  Spangler shot Jason a look.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “Because it’s breaking now.”

  “You should be out the door.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Collecting his notebook and his cell phone, Jason turned to Spangler, stood toe-to-toe with him, then nodded to the tear-sheets displaying his old exclusive on Karen Harding.

  “Just to remind you, I’m not Astrid. I know how to do my job.”

  Spangler eyeballed him.

  “Go out and prove it then. This paper needs to kick some ass.”

  Jason held his fire long enough to let Spangler know he didn’t fear him, he’d faced much worse and had the scars to prove it.

  “Seventy-six, dispatch.”

  “Seventy-six.”

  Breathless officers were shouting over wailing sirens.

  “Dispatch, from paramedics, the victim’s injuries are life-threatening! It’s real bad! She might not make it to hospital! Better alert Homicide!”

  3

  Sitting in an unmarked Chevrolet Malibu, Seattle Homicide Detective Grace Garner sipped raspberry tea from a commuter cup bearing the slogan, “Vengeance is mine, like this mug.”

  A present from her all-male squad.

  It followed the real gift they’d given her the first day she’d joined the unit. The moment she’d stepped into the enclave of testosterone, she was escorted to a full-scale skeletal replica of a shooting victim.

  “Detective Garner”—a grizzled bull exchanged conspiratorial glances with the rest of the squad—”tell us how we’ve determined its gender to be female.” She studied the plastic bones amid sniggering, outwaiting the old cop until he provided the answer. “Because her head’s got a hole in it,” he said.

  Grace smiled politely, ignoring the laughter. When it faded she said, “Pelvic opening’s too narrow.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Your victim here’s a male. With a hole in his head!”

  The only person laughing now was the sergeant, Stan Boulder. He’d been watching from the back of the room.

  Grinning at the memory, Grace looked at the parade of toddlers holding on to a rope near the daycare, next to the apartment where she was staking out a possible witness in a cold case.

  The kids were adorable.

  Would she ever have one? Not likely. And why not? Because she was alone, that’s why. This was the life she’d made. Or, the one she’d let happen to her since that day.

  Although she rarely admitted it, she traced her solitude to the day Roger Briscoe wore an eerie expression, a kind of know-it-all sneer, as he strode into Mr. Lorten’s English class. Mr. Lorten had written two words on the blackboard—Joseph Conrad—looked at his students, and said, “Today, we’ll start on Heart of Darkness, Conrad’s master—”

  A firecracker pop. Mr. Lorten’s head snapped. He fell to the floor with Roger Briscoe standing over him, gripping the handgun he’d taken from the hiding spot in his mother’s china cabinet—behind the gravy boat, next to the Jack Daniels.

  “Not today, Lorten.” Roger Briscoe then turned and pointed the gun at his classmates. “Today, you’re going to learn about my pain. Pay attention, maggots. There will be a test.”

  There were screams.

  Desks scraped and toppled in the stampede to the door. Someone pulled the fire alarm. Deafening ringing and a second shot. “Nobody move!” Roger Briscoe yelled, “Today, I’m God!”

  Girls sobbed, boys cursed. Everyone cowered. But not Grace Garner. Calm washed over her. She was not afraid as she inched toward him, looking directly into his eyes.

  “Roger, please
put the gun down.”

  “No.”

  “Please. Why are you doing this?”

  “You know why, Grace.”

  “Roger, please. You don’t want to hurt any more people.”

  “Yes, I do. I want to hurt everybody.”

  He pointed the gun at her.

  “I want to hurt you.”

  Two members of the wrestling team, small, quick boys, got Roger Briscoe down, smashing the gun from him, pinning him until the sirens started in with the alarm, until it all became one prolonged scream. One she could never silence. She’d never forget Mr. Lorten’s eyes staring wide at the ceiling.

  They were closed in his casket.

  The school, the city, and the Seattle Police Department gave her and the wrestlers awards for bravery. For preventing a tragedy from claiming more victims. That was when she’d decided to become a cop.

  After college, where she’d achieved the highest grades, she’d considered applying to the FBI before deciding on the Seattle Police Department. She’d worked the street, was decorated for tackling a fleeing suspect who’d wounded a teller during a bank robbery; scored high in every course and had proven herself. A few months ago, despite grumbling by old-school detectives, she was handpicked to join Homicide.

  This was her story so far.

  A smart cop, isolated from the world with only her work and her ghosts for company. Well, she thought, sipping her tea, maybe she didn’t want to be alone anymore. Maybe she could hear her clock ticking as she watched the little cutie-pies go by her window. Oh, enough of this poor me crap.

  “Earth to Grace.”

  Detective Perelli stared at her from the passenger seat.

  “Sorry, Dom. What’d you say?”

  “I said, looks like our guy’s a no-show. We’ll give it another ten, fifteen, then go back downtown. Clear up some paperwork.”

  “Sure.”

  “By the way, I’m hearing that Jake in Robbery has got two tickets for Sunday’s game. Expect a call.”

  “Quit trying to fix me up.”

  “Afraid I can’t do that. Look at you, all googly-eyed watching those kids. You’re giving off signals.”

  “Signals?”

  “Like life’s passing you by.”

  “What?”

  He swallowed some cold black coffee.

  “We’ve been partnered, what, ten months? And you know all about me. Eighteen years on the job, the last eight in Homicide. Wife, three kids, mortgage, and a bad back, makes me a part-time bastard.”

  “You got a point to make?”

  “You never open up to me like you’re supposed to.”

  “Like I’m supposed to?”

  “Part of the code.”

  “What code?”

  “Perelli’s code.”

  “You’re a nosy mother hen, Dominic.”

  “What’re you, like twenty-eight, twenty-seven, right?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Nobody makes Homicide that young. Not in my world. You’re different. Know what the guys in Robbery told us about you just after you came to us?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re a sad young woman and we should find you a man to make you happy. Now take Jake in Internet Crimes, a bit of a computer geek, but so was Gates and look where—ouch.”

  Grace’s elbow in Perelli’s ribs ended his teasing just as her cell phone rang.

  “Garner.”

  “It’s Boulder. We got a woman in Ballard struck by a vehicle. Hit-and-run. Paramedics say she’s not going to make it.”

  “Who’s the primary?”

  “You are, Grace. You and Dom haul it to the hospital now. Try for a declaration.”

  She reached into her blazer for her notebook, checked the time, and started logging.

  “Where’d they take her?”

  “Swedish. Ballard campus. Do what you can there, then hook up with Schaeffer and Berman at the scene. I’ll get right back to you with her name and family details.”

  “All right.”

  Grace turned the ignition, then pointed to the dash cherry. Perelli fished it out.

  “And Grace,” Boulder said, “the FBI will be on this too.”

  “The FBI? Why?”

  “Whoever ran her down abducted her baby boy.”

  A dying declaration is the last statement given by a crime victim. Grace knew it could make a case. She had taken one a few months back from an armored-car guard shot during a heist near the airport. Before he died, he described his shooter’s belt buckle. It helped lead to the suspect and an arrest.

  During the drive to Ballard, Perelli made calls for updates and more information on the victim. Some fifteen minutes after receiving Boulder’s first call, Grace wheeled the Malibu off Barnes Avenue and into the ambulance entrance. Inside Emergency, the desk nurse pointed them to the room where they’d taken Maria Colson. Halfway there, Grace and Perelli came upon two nurses rolling her gurney into a large elevator. They stepped into the car with them.

  “Sorry, no visitors,” the older nurse said.

  Grace flashed her badge.

  “We need to talk to her as soon as possible.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” the nurse said. “She’s unconscious. She’s suffered a head injury. We’re taking her to OR.”

  The hospital sheet barely covered the woman who lay before them. Grace studied the young mother, dressed in the same clothes she’d slipped into to go to the corner store with her baby for milk and bread. Her white sneakers, her faded jeans, which were now torn and smeared with dirt. Her Mariners T-shirt, now ripped and soaked with blood. Fingers that earlier had caressed her son, Dylan, were now covered with lacerations. An IV tube ran from her arm, a clear oxygen mask cupped her face, which was darkened with a web of abrasions.

  “How bad?” Perelli asked.

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  “How long will she be in surgery?”

  “Hard to say, at least a few hours.”

  “She say anything at all about what happened?”

  “Not to us, she’s been out.”

  “What about on the way?” Grace asked.

  “Try the paramedics. They’re still here.”

  The elevator stopped. The nurses rolled Maria Colson out. Grace and Perelli caught up to the paramedics in the cafeteria.

  “She was in rough shape when we got to her,” one of them said. “Non-responsive. Sometimes they talk in the ER, but it’s usually incomprehensible because they’re in shock.”

  Grace and Perelli returned to Emergency and corralled some of the staff who’d first stabilized and prepped Maria Colson for surgery. None of them recalled her saying anything, except one trauma nurse.

  “I heard her uttering something.”

  Grace’s pen was poised over her notebook.

  “She was out of it, but it was like, ‘Why are they taking my baby?’’’

  “They,” Grace repeated. “Are you certain she said ‘they,’ as in more than one?”

  “Yes, ‘they.’”

  “Not ‘he’ or ‘she’?—but ‘they.’” Grace pressed. She needed the nurse to be absolutely sure.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  A commotion coming from the hall interrupted them. The detectives stepped from the office to assess it. They went to the reception desk where two nurses were contending with a distraught man.

  “Maria! Where’s my wife? Maria!” he shouted.

  “Mr. Colson,” a nurse said. “Sir, we’re taking care of her.”

  His navy work pants were stained with grease, his flannel shirt was untucked. Stubble covered the dark worry lines cutting deep into his weathered face. His eyes were rimmed red with intensity.

  “Mr. Colson.” Grace took his arm gently. “I’m Detective Garner, this is Detective Perelli. The doctors are helping Maria right now, they’re doing everything they can.”

  “Let me see Dylan. Is he hurt bad? Where’s my son?” />
  “No one told you?” Grace asked.

  “Told me what?” Lee Colson’s nostrils flared with his heavy breathing. “My dispatcher radioed my truck, she said Maria and Dylan were in an accident and they were taken here. Somebody tell me what the hell’s going on!”

  Grace traded glances with the others.

  “You better come with us,” she said.

  4

  Pulling out of the Mirror parking lot, Jason double-checked the address in his notebook, then charted the fastest way to the scene.

  Elliott to 15th, north over the bridge to Shilshole and bang—you’re there. Pushing his 1969 red Ford Falcon twenty miles over the posted limit, he couldn’t leave the newsroom politics behind. Spangler had no sense of the depth of his staff. He regarded everyone in Metro as backwater bumpkins, compared to reporters in New York.

  Jason rubbed the scar carved under his jawline, his prize for getting too close to a story. Confirmation of his investigative skills, but it meant squat to Spangler, who probably had him in his crosshairs. Just like Astrid.

  To hell with it.

  Crossing the Ballard Bridge over Salmon Bay, Jason thought it was too bad about Astrid. But the fact was, she constantly missed stuff on the scanners and at scenes, always charging in with demands, failing to find real news.

  Observe, absorb, and squeeze gently for information, that’s the way to operate, he reminded himself as he pulled up to the scene. Yellow tape cordoned off the street in front of Kim’s Corner Store. Next to it there was a growing knot of bystanders, press, and police cars. Cross talk spilled from radios as emergency lights splashed the buildings with red.

  Jason parked half a block back. Heading toward the reporters clustered near the tape, he came upon an unoccupied patrol car—and an opportunity. Like most major forces, Seattle police used the Computer-Aided Dispatch system to transmit information to cars equipped with Mobile Data Computers. No one was around to see him bend down, steal a glimpse of the MDC monitor to check it for any data.

  Maria Jane Colson.

  104 Shale St.

  Lee William Colson.

  104 Shale St.

  There was more but he couldn’t see it clearly. Memorizing the information, he moved off without anyone noticing. He stepped between two news vans then wrote everything down. Shale was close by. Before he could consider it further, a commanding baritone voice distracted him.