Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

  records."

  "Ooh, baby, that's very hot and lusty."

  "No more of that," I said. "Call me later, OK?"

  "Ball's back in my court?"

  "For now," I said, and hung up.

  When I finally got to the point where I was supposed to go . 18 miles

  and then turn right for .07 miles, I nearly ran into the yellow crime

  scene tape.

  PPB had used the tape to close off the entirety of what the sign

  declared was a state-of-the-art office park, coming soon. A young

  officer stood at the foot of a gravel road leading to the construction

  area. I flashed my District Attorney ID, and he described the several

  turns I'd need to make around the various office buildings.

  The day was beginning to lose its light, and the bureau's crime scene

  technicians were erecting floods at the edge of a wooded area that

  surrounded the new development. I could see Johnson and Walker were

  already here, talking to some of the techs. I parked behind one of the

  bureau's vans and prepared myself for Clarissa Easterbrook's corpse.

  I'd seen four dead bodies in my life. One was my mother's, two were in

  my living room last month, and one was on my first and only homicide

  call-out. On that one, I'd been lucky enough to draw a fresh OD.

  Depending on how the events leading to her death unfolded, Clarissa

  Easterbrook could have been dead up to 35 hours.

  Johnson met me at the car and we walked toward the woods. I could tell

  from the surrounding area that the developer had clear-cut the old

  growth that must have previously covered these hundred acres or so.

  When we reached the end of the clearing, Johnson turned sideways and

  stepped carefully through the trees. I followed and, just a few feet

  later, saw what used to be

  Clarissa Easterbrook, still in her pink turtleneck and gray pants. A

  lot of good that piece of investigative work had done.

  In novels, there's often something beautiful or at least touching about

  the dead. A victim's arms extended like the wings of an angel, her

  face at peace, her hand reaching for justice. This was nothing like

  that. Clarissa Easterbrook's body was laid on the dirt, face up. The

  right side of her head was gone, and I could find nothing poetic about

  it.

  The only worthwhile observations to be made about the corpse were

  scientific. I initially focused on the disfigurement of her head, but

  Johnson pointed out the discoloration on what remained of her face.

  Purple streaks stained the left edge of her face and neck, like

  bruising against skin that otherwise looked like silly putty. "Looks

  like someone moved her."

  When blood is no longer pumped by a beating heart, it settles with

  gravity to the parts of the body closest to the ground. Clarissa

  Easterbrook was on her back now, but immediately after her death she

  had almost certainly been lying on her left side.

  I watched as crime scene technicians methodically photographed and

  bagged every item that might potentially become relevant to our

  investigation. A candy wrapper, several cigarette butts, a rock that

  looked like it might have blood on it. These items meant nothing now,

  but any one of them could prove critical down the road. I looked at

  Clarissa's body again, surrounded now by all this construction and

  police work, and swore I'd find whoever did this to her.

  I gave Johnson and Walker the file on Melvin Jackson's case that Dennis

  Coakley had copied for me at City Hall. I also gave them approval to

  file the standard search warrant application used after a homicide to

  search the victim's house. We agreed, though, that they'd continue to

  take it easy on Townsend unless the evidence started to point to him.

  The police would be working the crime scene for the rest of the night,

  but I signed out after a couple of hours, when Johnson and Walker left

  to deliver the news to Clarissa's family. I don't envy the work of a

  cop.

  It's not as if prosecutors don't have bad days. Our files are filled

  with desperation and degradation. Even the so-called victimless cases

  involve acts that could be committed only by pathetic, miserable people

  who've lost all hope. Compare that to fighting over money for a

  banking client, and it looks like we're doing the heavy lifting.

  But, in the end, I'm still just a lawyer. I issue indictments, plead

  out cases, and go to trial. When it comes to the investigation, I

  might make some calls on procedure, but it's the police who do the real

  work. They're the ones who kick in a door when a search needs to be

  executed. They're the ones who climb through the dumpster when a gun

  gets tossed.

  And Johnson and Walker would be the ones to visit Clarissa

  Easterbrook's family members tonight to tell them that their lives

  would never be the same again. These days, that concept is overused,

  as we all say that the crumbling of two towers changed the world

  forever. The kind of change I'm talking about can be claimed only by

  the families of the three thousand people trapped inside. It's the

  kind of change that causes every other second of life the birth of a

  child, a broken leg, the car breaking down at the side of the road to

  be cataloged in the memory in one of two ways: before or after that

  defining moment in time.

  From what I knew of it, everyone deals with the grief of a murder in

  his own way. There is shock, then rage, then depression, and

  ultimately some level of acceptance. But then the differences emerge.

  What kind of survivors would Townsend, Tara, and Mr. and Mrs. Carney

  become? The ones who die inside themselves and walk around each day

  wondering when their body will catch up to their soul? The ones

  seeking numbness in a bottle, the neighbors whispering about how things

  used to be different? The ones who run the Web sites and help lines

  and victims' rights groups? Clarissa's family still had options for

  the future, just not the ones they thought they had when they woke up

  yesterday.

  Four.

  By the time I returned the county's car and caught the bus home, it was

  after nine o'clock and there were three messages from my father on the

  machine. The gist of each, respectively? How was the first day of

  work? I hope you're not working late already. And, finally, You're

  not working on that case with the missing judge, are you?

  I promised myself I'd call my father back before bed, but not just yet.

  A normal person might want to veg out, watch a little TV, and hit the

  hay. I wanted to run.

  Running is my therapy. My ex-husband called it my escape. No matter

  what the problem, a run always helps me see life in perspective. Plus,

  I still felt like I needed to sweat out the rum and mint from the

  sixty-seven mojitos I must have ingested poolside in Maui.

  Even tonight's short three-miler did the trick. After one mile, images

  of Clarissa Easterbrook's misshapen head and discolored flesh began to

  slip away. After two, I stopped thinking about work entirely. By the

  time I got home, I was ready to call my father.

  "Sammy?" he sa
id immediately. Dad had recently discovered the wonders

  of caller ID as part of his constant effort to stay busy. After

  thirty-plus years of marriage, two years as a widower hadn't been

  enough for my father to feel relaxed at home alone.

  "Yeah, Dad. It's me."

  "Late night at work. I was wondering if you were OK."

  "Everything's fine. Just a lot to catch up on since I've been out and

  with the new unit assignment."

  "I bet. So how are the people at the new gig? A step up from the

  bozos in the drug unit?"

  As pleased as my father is that I've used my law degree to follow him

  into law enforcement, he gets frustrated by the personalities I've had

  to deal with over the years. The colorful language he uses to discuss

  my office is his way of showing he's on my side.

  "I guess so. The new supervisor's this guy named Russ Frist. Seems

  pretty decent so far."

  "Any cases look interesting yet?"

  "You know, they're interesting, but a little depressing. I'd rather

  hear about what you've been up to. We've hardly talked since I got

  back."

  "You know me. Typical retiree stuff: a couple of movies, some

  gardening, a trip to the shooting range. Exciting, I know."

  "I noticed that my lawn was mowed while I was gone. Thanks."

  "No problem. It's not like anyone else needs me. So what kept you so

  late at the office?"

  He was trying to be subtle, but he obviously wanted to know if I was

  involved in what he was still following as a missing persons case.

  "You probably saw the coverage on the administrative law judge. I was

  wrapped up in that most of the day. Actually, I started working on it

  last night."

  "Jeez, Sam. The minute I saw the news this morning, I knew it. Do you

  really need to be on a case like this one right off the bat?"

  "Those are the kinds of cases I'm working on now, Dad. Major crimes

  tend to come with the territory in the Major Crimes Unit."

  "Very clever, wiseacre. But you know this isn't the usual territory.

  You're going to be right in the middle of the firestorm, cameras all

  over you. Nothing will bring out the crazies faster. Did you ask your

  office to put you on something else until you get used to the new

  rotation?"

  "No, Dad, and I don't plan to. This is my job; you should be proud of

  me for getting promoted. I didn't become a prosecutor to handle drug

  cases the rest of my life."

  My first excursion from my standard drug and vice caseload had finally

  come last month when I had prosecuted a psychopath for the rape and

  attempted murder of a teenage prostitute. By the time the case was

  closed, a couple of nut jobs had broken into my house, bashed me on the

  head, and killed the former supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit. I'd

  avoided a similar fate only because I'd forced myself to become a good

  shot years ago when my ex-husband insisted on keeping a gun in our

  apartment. My father may have been a lawman himself, but he hadn't

  gotten used to the idea of his little girl shooting her way out of

  trouble.

  "I am proud of you, Sam," he said, "but maybe you should hold off on

  something so big. You're finally out of the spotlight after the

  Derringer case. This one's going to put you right back out there. For

  all you know, this judge has run off on a lark. She'll be home safe

  and sound, and you'll end up the target of some obsessed freak who saw

  your picture one too many times in the paper."

  "Well, this is what I want, OK? And, anyway, she didn't run off, as

  you say. They found her body today. She's dead. It's a murder case.

  Does that make you feel better about me handling it?"

  I should've stopped then. I'd already gone too far. But I was tired,

  stressed out, and angry for reasons I couldn't even understand.

  "There's no way I'm walking away from a case like this," I said. "Maybe

  you hung up OSP and ran off to the forest service, but I'm sticking it

  out."

  I apologized immediately, but the words were still out there. I was

  too young to remember the switch, but I knew Dad had quit the Oregon

  State Police to become a forest ranger when I was still a kid. My

  mother had never been particularly comfortable as a cop's wife. You

  never knew when that expired tag you pulled over on highway patrol was

  going to belong to a guy running from a warrant, thinking to himself,

  I'm never going back.

  I had vague recollections of my parents' hushed arguments behind their

  bedroom door about Dad's job. At the time, I had no idea what they

  were all about, but in retrospect, and in light of the timing, I

  gathered that Mom had put the screws to him.

  And so Dad had let go of his law enforcement dreams to patrol Oregon's

  national forests until his retirement just last year. He enjoyed the

  steady outdoor hours and his federal pension, but I knew he sometimes

  wondered what he'd missed out on in the career he left behind for his

  family.

  "I just want you to be proud of me, Dad. When you treat me like a

  little girl, I feel like I'm not in control of anything in my life."

  "You know I'm proud of you, Sammy. Of course I'm proud of you, not

  just for your work but for everything you've accomplished. I'm sorry I

  even brought this up. This isn't about you,

  it's about me; I forget sometimes how strong you are. But you're my

  only family left, kid. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

  Why hadn't I seen it that way before? "Nothing's going to happen. Hey,

  a couple psychopaths came after me, and I still turned out OK." We both

  laughed. "Seriously, Dad, I am so sorry for what I said. I snapped at

  you because, honestly, I've got some doubts myself about how I'm going

  to learn to get through days like this one. I went out to the crime

  scene this afternoon, and seeing her body I can't stop thinking about

  it. But I really want this assignment. I'll probably do more than my

  fair share of whining about it," I added, "but I want to feel like it's

  OK to do that around you without you telling me to take myself off the

  case, all right?"

  "In other words, the old man needs to lay off."

  "Dad "

  "I'm kidding," he said, cutting me off. "Get some sleep now, OK? You

  must need it after the day you've had."

  I was still feeling guilty about my little tirade. "Can I come over

  for dinner tomorrow night?"

  "You know you don't need to ask. You can even bring the it runt.

  He was referring, of course, to Vinnie. Dad had taken him in while I

  was gone, saving me from a choice between the kennel and sneaking

  Vinnie into the hotel.

  When I hung up, Vinnie turned away from me, still pissed off about the

  temporary abandonment. He caved when I headed up the stairs, though.

  By the time I hit the sheets, he had grabbed his Gumby doll and jumped

  in with me.

  No matter how important the missing person, an investigation moves more

  quickly once the body is found.

  Dennis Coakley, who had been dragging his heels yesterday, had hurried

  to a slow crawl. I got his message first thing
Tuesday morning: "I

  heard the terrible news about Clarissa and wanted you to know I'm still

  working away here, the highest possible priority. I'll call you when

  I'm done."

  We'd see about that.

  I also had a message from Susan Kerr, who clearly moved at a much

  faster clip. "Hi, this is Susan Kerr. Obviously, I've heard the news,

  and I won't even bother trying to tell you how horrible the night was

  for everyone. I think the reality is still setting in for all of us.

  Anyway, I wanted you to know that I'll be helping Clarissa's family

  with arrangements they're obviously not in the best state right now to

  pay attention to all the details. Tara's doing OK, definitely a help

  to her parents. Townsend, on the other hand well, quite frankly, I'm

  worried about him. In any event, I'm doing what I can, so, if you need

  anything from anyone, please feel free to call me. Anything at all."

  Before she hung up, she left every possible number where she might be

  located.

  Susan was dealing with death by taking charge. My mother had been the

  same way. The few times she'd lost anyone and I mean anyone: a

  neighbor, a cousin, her father she went straight to work. Call the

  funeral director, the insurance companies, the creditors. Prepare

  frozen casseroles and lasagnas to store for the family. It was like

  she had a death checklist, full of tasks to keep her busy until the

  body was in the ground.

  Watching my mother in action, I had never understood her motivation.