by J. A. Jance
“There has to be some connection between Josh and Rachel,” I told Mel. “Once we find that, we’ll be close to pulling the whole thing together.”
“Right,” she agreed. “We need to go at it from both ends. How about if I come back to Packwood tomorrow and start working my way through the girls whose names Conrad Philips gave us. You can work the Olympia end.”
Talking to Josh’s fellow summer-school students was the place to start, but I didn’t expect to find a bunch of exemplary students enrolled there.
“Right,” I said. “You get the regular kids from Packwood while I’m stuck with the juvenile-delinquent types who are about to flunk out of school.”
“Want to trade?” Mel asked.
“No,” I said. “That was just pro forma grumbling. You’ll do better with the girls and I’ll do better with the rough and tough boys.”
“I wonder if Todd’s made any progress on tracking down the source of that file,” Mel said.
We both looked at our watches. It was long past midnight. Even though we knew Todd worked all hours, it wasn’t fair to call in the middle of the night and risk waking Julie.
“We’ll check with him in the morning,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We made it back to the Dreaded Red Lion, as Mel and Harry I. Ball both call it, without incident. We rode up in the elevator. I stripped off my clothing and fell into bed. Two cups of late-night coffee had absolutely no impact on my ability to fall asleep. I took a pair of Aleves and was out cold before Mel ever emerged from the bathroom. I probably could have slept for several more hours, but the jangling landline telephone in our room jarred me awake minutes after 6:00 A.M.
“Just had a call from Sheriff Tyler down in Lewis County,” Ross Connors said without preamble. “They’re in the process of recovering a body from a water-retention pond north of Centralia. Looks to be a young female.”
“Rachel Camber,” I said.
“That would be my guess,” Ross said. “I want you and Mel there on the double.”
“What?” Mel asked sleepily.
“It looks like Ardith Broward is going to get her wish and have a body to bury after all.”
Mel sat up in bed. “They found her? Where?”
“The Lewis County Sheriff’s Department is in the process of dredging the body of a young female out of a retention pond north of Centralia. Sheriff Tyler thinks it’s probably Rachel. Ross wants both of us there ASAP, so give me first crack at the bathroom. I’ll take my car; you take yours.”
The term “on the double” is more applicable in terms of my getting up and out than it is to Mel. Fortunately, the ice-pack treatment we had applied to her hand had helped enough that she’d be able to drive herself once she was ready to go. I was back on the freeway and headed south with a cardboard cup of hotel-lobby coffee in hand less than fifteen minutes after Ross rousted me from a dead sleep.
Just north of the Harrison exit in Centralia lies an unnamed body of mostly muddy water that supposedly keeps pollutants from a nearby abandoned gravel quarry from getting into the water table. As I came around the long freeway curve at Ford’s Prairie, I caught sight of a clutch of emergency vehicles gathered at the far north end of the pond. I exited I-5 and made my way there as best I could with the GPS bleating plaintively, claiming that I was “off road” and in an area where “turn by turn directions” were not possible.
Once on the scene, I found several Lewis County Sheriff’s vehicles along with an ambulance and a Lewis County coroner’s meat wagon. A guy still wearing a dripping wet suit was in the process of helping two other people load a zippered body bag onto a gurney. There was a parking place next to the coroner’s van. I guess it’s simply the nature of the beast, but relations between the attorney general’s office and the Lewis County coroner haven’t always been any more cordial than relations with Larry Mowat, the coroner’s counterpart up in Thurston County. When I saw Sheriff Tyler standing outside one of his patrol cars, I approached him instead of going to the coroner directly.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Not well,” Tyler said. “We’ve got ourselves another dead girl. This one looks a lot like Rachel Camber, but I doubt it’s her. Mid-teens, brown hair. Sounds like the same MO.”
“Bruising on her neck?”
Tyler nodded. “And dead before she went into the water. We located a spot about a hundred yards south of here where we think she was rolled out of a vehicle and dumped.”
“So she wasn’t killed here?”
“No sign of it.”
“How long has she been dead?”
Tyler shrugged. “So far we don’t have an exact time of death, but the coroner’s initial estimate is that this victim has been dead for less than twelve hours. That means she was still alive yesterday afternoon when you were in my office showing me the video of Rachel being strangled.”
Sheriff Tyler continued. “Same age, same victimology, and same MO, but this has to be a different girl unless Bonnie’s way off about the time of death.”
“Bonnie?” I asked.
“That’ll be Bonnie Epstein, the new Lewis County coroner,” Sheriff Tyler said. “Dr. Bonnie Epstein.”
Tyler’s emphasis on the doctor part was designed to get my attention.
“Do you think she’d mind if I take a look before they haul the body away?” I asked.
Tyler shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But you should know that Dr. Epstein doesn’t take kindly to having people looking over her shoulder.”
“In other words, do so at my own risk. Does Dr. Epstein realize Special Homicide is involved?”
“If she does, it’s not because I’ve told her,” Tyler said. “And I also failed to mention that this incident might well be related to Josh Deeson’s death up in Olympia, which, in case you’re interested, is front-page news all over the state this morning.”
The suicide of the governor’s grandson was bound to be big news. It also meant that Mel’s and my ability to conduct our operation under the radar was about to come to a screeching halt.
I looked back toward the coroner’s van and saw they were getting ready to load the gurney into the back of the vehicle.
“I guess I’ll go try my luck.”
Tyler smiled and shook his head. “You do that,” he said. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter 16
With Sheriff Tyler’s words of caution in mind, I approached Dr. Bonnie Epstein with my ID wallet in hand and my missile defense system fully operational.
“Excuse me, Dr. Epstein,” I said. “If you could give me a moment.”
She whirled around. She was nearly as tall as I am and wore her long dark hair in a frizzy style Mel and I refer to as the light-socket wave. She was dressed in a kind of orange jumpsuit with the word CORONER stenciled across the back. Unfortunately, in other jurisdictions, that same jumpsuit with slightly different stenciling probably works very well as jail inmate attire.
When we were face-to-face, I saw that the zipper on the front of the jumpsuit wasn’t zipped up far enough to cover completely some very impressive scenery. Bonnie Epstein had the kind of cleavage that encourages men to gaze longingly in that direction. I’m old enough to understand how entrapment works and smart enough to disregard the bait. Instead, I looked directly into Dr. Epstein’s glacially blue eyes.
Turning away from the loading process, she favored me with an appraising glance. “And you are?” she asked.
The question was asked in full push-back fashion. As soon as she opened her mouth, I knew she was from New York City. Other people with more East Coast experience could probably hear those three words and be able to identify the speaker’s exact borough, by being able to differentiate between the accent of someone from the Bronx, for example, or from Queens. All I could tell was NYC somewhere. That knowledge told me a lot about the culture clash between Sheriff Tyler and the coroner. It also made me glad that I had looked into her eyes and nowhere else.
“My name’s J. P. Beaumont,” I said, handing her my identification wallet. “I work for the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team.”
She studied my information and then handed it back. “It says here you work for S.H.I.T.”
I tried to take the long view of the situation. She was probably relatively new to the state. I had no idea how she had come to be in rural western Washington, which seems like the exact antithesis of New York City. I wondered if she had come here on purpose, or had she arrived unwillingly? It was possible that she had been dumped in Washington at the end of a marriage that hadn’t worked out to anyone’s satisfaction, but she was here now, and she needed to learn to play by western Washington rules.
The longer I work for Special Homicide, the less patience I have with that tired old S.H.I.T. joke. This morning in particular, without having had enough sleep, breakfast, or even my morning dose of Aleve, I was in no mood for joking around.
“I’d like to get a look at the victim before you haul her out of here.”
“And I’d like to win the grand prize on American Idol,” she said. “But you know how it goes—wish in one hand, crap in the other, and see which hand gets full first.”
“I’m with the attorney general’s office,” I said. “I’m here at his request. This case may be connected to a related homicide.”
“This is a Lewis County homicide . . .” she began.
“It’s a Washington State homicide,” I corrected. “Ross Connors is the chief law enforcement officer in the state of Washington. He’s also my boss.”
Mel chose that moment to arrive. I don’t know how she got dressed and ready that fast, but she did.
“What did I miss?” she asked.
“Who’s this?” Dr. Epstein asked.
“My partner,” I said. “Melissa Soames. She works for the same guy I work for.”
“Is there a problem?” Mel wanted to know.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Bonnie Epstein said. “This is my jurisdiction and my case. I don’t appreciate having people I don’t know come horning in on what I’m doing and second-guessing my every move. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll go ahead and transport the victim to my morgue. Once I’ve completed the autopsy, I’ll be more than happy to give you and your boss the results. In the meantime you, your partner, and your boss will all have to take a number and wait.”
While the coroner was delivering this speech, Mel was reaching into her purse. As Dr. Epstein ended her tirade, Mel extracted one of the photos of Rachel Camber and passed it in front of the good doctor’s nose. Bonnie Epstein was quick, but not quite quick enough to cover the jolt of recognition that instantly passed across her face. Sheriff Tyler had noted the similarities between this new victim and Rachel, but the disparity in the timing of the two deaths had caused him to discount the connection. Dr. Epstein instantly assumed that the girl in the photo and the girl on her gurney were one and the same. Now so did we.
“If you know who she is, you have to tell me,” Epstein said, reaching for the photo. “As the coroner, it’s my job to identify the victim and notify the family.”
By then Mel had already slipped the photo back into her purse. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I understood you weren’t interested in working with Special Homicide on this. Cooperation is a two-way street.”
“But you’re interfering in the investigation of a homicide.”
“Yes,” Mel said. “There’s apparently a lot of that going around this morning. But I regret to inform you, Dr. Epstein, that before my partner and I can provide any information regarding the victim’s identity, you’ll need to go through official channels, too.”
“Give me the attorney general’s name and number,” Dr. Epstein said. “I’ll give him a call.”
Shaking her head, Mel dug in her purse. I knew exactly where this was going and how it was going to turn out.
“Unfortunately,” Mel said, “there aren’t any shortcuts. Before you can talk to the AG, you’ll need to speak with our immediate supervisor. Here’s his name and number.” Mel handed Dr. Epstein a business card.
“Come on, Beau,” Mel said. “We’ve got places to go and things to do.”
We were almost back to our separate cars before Dr. Epstein looked down at the card in her hand. I saw her lips move as she read the words printed there. “Harry I. Ball.” She looked up and glared at us. “Is this some kind of joke?” she yelled.
“No,” Mel called back. “It’s not a joke.”
But of course it was—a very old S.H.I.T. squad joke, and being able to turn it loose on Dr. Epstein made the whole morning seem a little brighter. I realized that old jokes are just fine as long as you personally aren’t the butt of them.
When we reached our vehicles, I was going to tell Mel thank you, but she was already on the phone with Barbara Galvin back at the Squad B office in Bellevue.
“That’s right,” she was saying. “Her name is Dr. Epstein. She’s a royal pain in the butt. She’s going to want to talk to Harry about our helping her identify her homicide victim. The longer you can stall her, the better.”
There was a pause. “What are we going to do in the meantime?” Mel looked at me and grinned. “With any kind of luck, Mr. Beaumont here is going to buy his partner some breakfast.”
We drove back to the Harrison exit and ate a farmer’s breakfast at the Country Cousin, one of I-5’s longtime roadhouse destinations. My only regret was that it was breakfast time—far too early for the Country Cousin’s signature fried chicken. I had to make do with chicken-fried steak instead.
School was out everywhere, so the main dining room was crowded with vacationers traveling with hordes of noisy ankle-biters, none of whom, it seemed, were ever required to stay in their seats during mealtimes. By begging, we managed to be seated in an otherwise empty section of the restaurant. Not only was it quieter, I felt we could discuss the complexities of our two co-joined cases without someone at a nearby table listening to our every word.
In the old days, we would have come up with a couple of quarters and dragged a single copy of some dead-tree newspaper into the restaurant with us. Instead, we brought in our computers, fired up our air cards, and read online versions, both of us scanning quickly to see how much of the Josh Deeson story was now common knowledge.
Finished reading, Mel closed her computer, sipped her coffee, and looked thoughtful. “If Rachel Camber didn’t die until twelve hours ago, the snuff film was a fake,” she said at last.
“So it would appear,” I said. “And an effective one at that. The first time someone made it look like someone had killed Rachel Camber. The second time they really did kill her, and not here, either,” I added. “Sheriff Tyler’s pretty sure she was murdered elsewhere and then dumped in the retention pond.”
“Yes,” Mel said. “And the ‘here’ in question happens to be partway between Olympia and Packwood, but why would someone pull a stunt like pretending to kill someone?” Mel asked. “And what does any of it have to do with Josh Deeson?”
“Our first order of business,” I said, “is making the connection between Josh and Rachel. But let me ask you this: Did you notice what happened when you showed Rachel’s photo to Dr. Epstein?”
Mel shrugged. “Yes, the minute she saw it, she knew who it was. I could see in her face that she recognized her—that the girl in the photo was the same person the diver had just dragged out of the mud puddle.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s my opinion, too. Now think back to when we showed Josh Deeson that video when we were up in his room. Do you remember his reaction?”
“Sure,” Mel said. “He was shocked by what he was seeing, just like everyone else who sees it is shocked.”
“What else?”
“He claimed he didn’t know the dead girl—that he had no idea who she was.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?”
While the waitress brought our platters of food and poured more coffee, Mel co
nsidered the question.
“Yes, I do,” she said finally.
“So do I, as a matter of fact,” I agreed once the waitress left us alone. “Josh was just a kid. If he had known who the dead girl was at the time we showed him the video, we would have seen some sign of recognition on his face, just as we both did on Dr. Epstein’s face a little while ago. Doctors are trained to keep from revealing their thoughts and feelings. Josh had no such training. If he had known who Rachel was, he would have ratted himself out.”
“But I still don’t understand what we’re dealing with here,” Mel said. “If Josh had no idea who the girl was, what was the point of sending him that video? Shock value, maybe, or some kind of joke? Maybe whoever’s behind it was hoping that someone at school, like a teacher or an administrator, would find the offending video on Josh’s phone. That would probably have been enough to land him in all kinds of hot water. He might even have been expelled. Imagine how the media would have jumped on that. The only fly in that ointment is that Governor Longmire was the one who found the video, not someone from school. And instead of being expelled from school, now Josh is dead.”
Nodding, I picked up my phone. I scanned through my call history until I found Todd Hatcher’s number. When I dialed it, Julie answered.
“You missed him,” she told me. “He had an early-morning breakfast meeting in Olympia today. He said if you called I should tell you that he’s tracking on the ISPs and that he expects to have some additional information for you by the end of the day.”
There was a click on my phone that meant a new call was coming in. I checked, saw that the caller was Harry, and let that one go to voice mail.
“Okay,” I said to Julie. “Just tell him we’re waiting to hear from him.”
By then Mel’s phone was ringing. “Hi, Harry,” she said. “What’s up?” She glanced at me, smiled, bit off a mouthful of toast, and then chewed while Harry gave her an ear-splitting blast.
“Yes,” Mel said finally when she could get a word in edgewise. “She struck us that way, too. Pushy.”
