TRIAL BY FURY
J.A. JANCE
Dedication
To Will, who used to be the strong, silent type.
Contents
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1
I was hung over as hell when Detective Ron Peters…
CHAPTER 2
An army travels on its belly. J. P. Beaumont can go…
CHAPTER 3
Peters bailed out of the office at about four-fifteen.…
CHAPTER 4
I led Joanna Ridley into a small, private waiting room…
CHAPTER 5
One of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest…
CHAPTER 6
The murder of a prominent man is always news. The…
CHAPTER 7
We took the signed search form back to the Public…
CHAPTER 8
I’ve never faced a tougher audience. Browning was right. Those…
CHAPTER 9
I could probably get away with saying that I went…
CHAPTER 10
There’s only one thing to do with that many Girl…
CHAPTER 11
By the time Joanna drew away from me and I…
CHAPTER 12
After the waiter set down her coffee, Candace Wynn took…
CHAPTER 13
St. Agnes of the Hills School sits well back from…
CHAPTER 14
Sister Eunice spent the next half hour on her knees…
CHAPTER 15
There was a lot to think about on the way…
CHAPTER 16
I put Joanna Ridley in her car and told her…
CHAPTER 17
Peters drove us to Wheeler-Dealer Barker’s Bellevue Ford, which…
CHAPTER 18
When I stepped away from the locker, Andi Wynn was…
CHAPTER 19
Joanna Ridely dropped me back at Mercer Island High School…
CHAPTER 20
My alarm went off at seven, and the phone went…
CHAPTER 21
Peters went back to the Public Safety Building. During my…
CHAPTER 22
On Friday afternoon, traffic in Seattle is a nightmare. We…
CHAPTER 23
I don’t know why I bother having a clock in…
CHAPTER 24
The Foster Golf Course in Tukwila was the only place…
CHAPTER 25
Cautiously, and without holstering my .38, I gave the place…
CHAPTER 26
We went back into Candace Wynn’s apartment, eventually, after the…
CHAPTER 27
We raced to the high school, only to find ourselves…
CHAPTER 28
When I walked back to the Porsche, old man trouble…
CHAPTER 29
The only thing to do was to find Candace Wynn’s…
CHAPTER 30
It took exactly thirteen minutes to drive from Ballard Community…
CHAPTER 31
It took three illegal turns to get off the freeway…
CHAPTER 32
I started the engine in the Porsche. Instantly, a mantle…
CHAPTER 33
Ames had talked to Mrs. Edwards while I was telling…
EPILOGUE
The next few weeks were a blur. I camped out…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE
OTHER BOOKS BY J. A. JANCE
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
CHAPTER
1
I was hung over as hell when Detective Ron Peters and I hit the crime scene at ten after eight on a gray and rainy Seattle Monday morning. Peters, my partner on Seattle P.D.’s homicide squad, was quick to point out that it could have been worse. At least I had some hope of getting better. The black man lying behind the dumpster at the Lower Queen Anne Bailey’s Foods didn’t.
He was dead. Had been for some time. The sickish odor of decaying flesh was thick in the air.
Partially wrapped in a tarp, he lay propped against the loading dock, the whole weight of his body resting on his shoulders, his broad head twisted unnaturally to one side.
The human neck is engineered to turn back and forth and up and down in a multitude of combinations. This wasn’t one of them. I didn’t need the medical examiner’s officer to tell me his neck was broken, but it would require an autopsy to determine if a broken neck was actually the cause of death.
Fortunately, the medical examiner wasn’t far behind us. Old Doc Baker, his full head of white hair wet and plastered flat on his head, turned up with a squad of youthful technicians. Baker supervises departmental picture-taking and oversees the initial handling of the corpse.
Crime-scene etiquette comes with its own peculiar pecking order. In phase one, the medical examiner reigns supreme. Baker barked orders that sent people scurrying in all directions while Peters and I stood in the doorway of the loading dock trying to keep out of both the way and the rain.
The store manager, with a name tag identifying him as Curt, came to stand beside us. He chewed vigorously on a hangnail. “This is real bad for business,” he said to no one in particular, although Peters and I were the only people within earshot. “Corporate isn’t going to like it at all!”
I turned to him, snapping open my departmental ID. “Detective J. P. Beaumont,” I told him. “Homicide, Seattle P.D. Is this man anyone you recognize?” I motioned in the direction of the dead man.
It was a long shot, checking to see if Curt recognized the victim, but it didn’t hurt to ask. Every once in a while we get lucky. Someone says sure, he knows the victim, and provides us with a complete name and address. Having that kind of information gives us a big leg up at the beginning of an investigation, but it doesn’t happen often. And it didn’t happen then.
Curt shook his head mournfully. “No. Never saw him before. But it’s still bad for business. Just wait till this hits the papers.”
“Optimist,” Peters muttered to me under his breath. To Curt, he said, “Who found him?”
“Produce boy. He’s upstairs in my office.”
“Can we talk to him?”
“He’s still pretty shook up. Just a kid, you know.”
We followed Curt through the store, deserted except for a few anxious employees who watched our progress down an aisle stacked high with canned goods. At the front of the store, he led us through a door and up a steep flight of steps to a messy cubbyhole that served as Curt’s office. From the debris and litter scattered on the table, it was clear the room doubled as an employee lunchroom.
The produce boy was just exactly that, a boy, a kid barely out of high school to look at him. He sat by a scarred wooden desk with his tie loosened and his head resting on his arms. When he raised his head to look at us, a distinctly greenish pallor colored his face. The name tag on his blue apron
pocket said Frank.
“How’s it going, Frank?” I asked, flashing my ID.
He shook his head. “Not so good. I’ve never seen anybody dead before.”
“How’d you find him?”
“The lettuce,” he said.
“Lettuce?”
“Not lettuce exactly. The produce trimmings. I was taking them out to the dumpster in a lettuce crate. That’s when I saw him.”
“What time?”
“After seven sometime. Don’t know exactly. I don’t wear a watch.”
“And you didn’t move him or touch him in any way?”
“Are you kidding? I dropped the crate and lost my cookies. Right there on the loading dock. Then I ran like hell.”
“What time?” Peters asked, turning to the manager.
“Twenty after seven. I checked when I dialed 911.”
We asked the full quota of questions, but there was nothing either Frank or his boss could add to what they’d already told us. Finally, thanking them for their help, we left the office and returned to where Doc Baker was still throwing his considerable weight around.
“What’s it look like?” I asked when he heaved himself to his feet, motioned the techs to pack up the body, and came over to where Peters and I were standing.
“Death by hanging from the looks of it,” he said. “Rope burns around his neck. That’s probably how it got broken. I’ll be able to tell you for sure after the autopsy.”
“When will you do it?” Peters asked.
Baker scowled. “Don’t rush me. This afternoon, probably. We have another one scheduled for this morning. What was it, a full moon over the weekend?”
Peters shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong, Doc. According to what I read, rapes and robberies go up during a full moon, not murders.”
Baker gave Peters another sour look. They never really hit it off. Baker didn’t have much patience with Peters’ photographic memory for everything he’d read, and Peters regarded Baker as a pretentious old fart. Young detectives who hang around long enough, however, eventually figure out that Howard Baker is a very wise old fart.
Keeping out of the cross fire, I asked, “What’s the approximate time of death?”
“Off the top of my head, I’d say he’s been dead for two days or so. I’ll have more exact information later.”
Over the years, I’ve learned to rely on Doc Baker’s educated guesses. He may be a pompous son of a bitch at times, but autopsy findings tend to verify his “top of the head” theories. I’m willing to give credit where credit is due.
We watched as technicians carefully placed paper bags over the victim’s hands to protect any trace of evidence that might have remained on his skin or under his fingernails. As they wrestled with the body, I realized this was a big man, well over six feet tall. He must have been in his late thirties or early forties. His close-cropped, wiry hair was lightly sprinkled with gray.
“Any identification?” Peters asked.
Doc Baker, observing his technicians, appeared to be lost in thought. There was a long pause before he answered. “No. No identification. Nothing. Plucked clean as a chicken. Watch and rings are gone, although he evidently wore both. No wallet. They even took his clothes, every stitch.”
Baker paused and looked at me, one bushy eyebrow raised questioningly. “Robbery, maybe?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Once the body was loaded, the next wave of technicians moved into the picture. The crime scene investigators from the Washington State Patrol’s crime lab took over the territory. The rain had solidified into a steady downpour, but the team tackled the dumpster in hopes of finding some clue that would help identify the victim.
Peters turned to me. “We’d better get busy, too,” he said.
My hangover hadn’t improved, but I knew better than to expect Peters to give me a break in that regard. He’s a man who doesn’t drink very much, and he doesn’t have a whole hell of a lot of patience with people who do.
We walked across the lot to where uniformed officers had cordoned off the area. Just beyond the group of banked patrol cars, Arlo Hamilton, Seattle P.D.’s public information officer, held forth for a group of reporter types. He raised a hand to momentarily silence further questions. Extricating himself from the group, he walked over to Peters and me.
“Any idea who it is?” Arlo asked.
“None whatsoever,” Peters answered.
Hamilton turned back to the reporters. “That’s it. No further information at this time. The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon.” There was general groaning and grumbling as the reporters dispersed. Hamilton came back to us, shaking his head. “I got called in twice over the weekend. Here we go again, first thing Monday morning.”
“Doc Baker says it must have been a full moon,” Peters told Hamilton with a sarcastic grin.
“Right,” Hamilton replied, then strode away.
We stopped in the drizzly parking lot and looked around. Two sides of Bailey’s Foods face Seattle Center. A third side is bounded by the backs of businesses that front on First Avenue North, while the fourth side is lined with backs of apartments and businesses that front on Mercer. There was nothing to do but hit the bricks with our standard question: Had anyone seen or heard anything unusual over the weekend?
The answer was no. Time and again. Everywhere we went, from little old retired ladies to a burly night watchman who was pissed as hell at being awakened out of a sound sleep. They all told the same story. No one had heard any unusual noises. Well, maybe it had been a little extra noisy Friday and Saturday nights, but that was to be expected. After all, the state high school basketball championships were being played in the Coliseum. Aside from that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. No strange vehicles. No strange noises. Business as usual.
Except for one dead man with a broken neck. He had evidently crept into the parking lot like fog. On little cat feet.
Who he was or where he’d come from, nobody seemed to know. Or care.
CHAPTER
2
An army travels on its belly. J. P. Beaumont can go only so far on an empty stomach. On a good day. My endurance is reduced in direct proportion to the amount of MacNaughton’s consumed the night before—in this case, far too much.
By noon we had worked our way through most of the businesses and several almost deserted apartment buildings on Lower Queen Anne. Famished, I called a halt.
“We’ll come back later, after people get home from work. How about breakfast?”
Peters shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
Leading the way to the Mecca Cafe, I ordered a full breakfast and conned a sympathetic waitress out of a pair of aspirin. Peters ordered herb tea. Tea, but no sympathy.
“You drink too much, Beau,” he said.
“Lay off,” I told him.
“I won’t lay off. You were fine when you left the house. What happened?”
I had spent Sunday afternoon helping Peters reassemble a secondhand swing set for his daughters, Heather and Tracie. The girls had supervised from the sidelines. They’re cute little kids, both of them. They were underfoot and in the way, but being around them made me realize once more exactly what I’d lost. I had finished the evening at the Dog House, my home-away-from-home hangout in downtown Seattle, crying over spilt milk and singing solos with the organist. Cold sober I don’t sing. I know better.
“Guess I got to feeling sorry for myself,” I mumbled.
“Sorry!” Peters exclaimed. “What the hell for? You’re set. You wouldn’t have to work another day in your life if you weren’t so goddamned stubborn.”
“Sure, I’m set. Now that it’s too late.”
“Too late?” Peters echoed.
“Too late for me and my kids. Did I build the swing set for my own kids? No way. I was working nights as a security guard, trying to make ends meet. Karen had to ask a neighbor to help her put it up. No Little League games, no school programs. Now I’ve got both money and time,
and where the hell are my kids? In California with Karen and their stepfather.”
I dunked a piece of toast in my egg yolk and waited to see if Peters would jump me for eating eggs, too. He was quiet for a moment, stirring his tea thoughtfully. “Maybe you should join a health club, play racketball, get involved in something besides work.”
“And maybe you should give up Homicide and go in for family counseling,” I retorted. On that relatively unfriendly note, we left the Mecca and went back to work.
After lunch we spent some time in the Seattle Center Administration Office and got the names of all the security people who had worked Friday’s games. It was nice to have a list of phone numbers to work from for a change. They let us use a couple of empty desks and phones. We sat right there and worked our way through the list. For all the good it did us. None of the security guards could remember anything unusual, either.
When we left there, we finished our canvass of the neighborhood as much as possible considering the time of day, eventually returning to the car in the Bailey’s Foods parking lot. A man wearing a faded red flannel shirt over khaki pants and topped by a dingy Mariners baseball cap was leaving a nasty note under the windshield wiper.
“This your car?” he asked.
“Belongs to the mayor,” Peters said, unlocking the driver’s door.
“City cars park free on city streets,” the man continued plaintively. “Not on private property. Was gonna have you towed.”
“Look,” Peters explained, “we’re with Homicide. We’re working a case. Didn’t the store manager tell you?”
“Got nothin’ to do with the store. Parking’s separate. Good for half an hour, while you shop. That’s it. You gonna pay me or not?”
Trial by Fury (9780061754715) Page 1
