by J. A. Jance
Harry went off on another rant. Mel calmly bit off another hunk of toast. “Absolutely,” she said finally. “That’s the impression we got from Sheriff Tyler—that the murder happened elsewhere. This is just a dump site.”
There was another long pause during which Mel listened to Harry while sipping her coffee and pouring herself another cup from the carafe the waitress had left on the table. I couldn’t help noticing that the knuckles on the back of her hand provided an interesting study in bar-brawl-worthy bruises.
“Yes,” Mel said brightly, nodding in my direction, as though expecting my wholehearted agreement. “Of course. We’ll be glad to give her the message. Sure thing, and we’ll keep you posted, too.”
Mel ended the call.
“What message?” I asked. “For whom?”
“For Dr. Epstein,” Mel said. “Who else? This case now involves three separate jurisdictions. Dr. Epstein called and gave Harry a ration, so Harry called Ross to pass it on, and Ross called Sheriff Tyler. Upshot is, what goes around comes around. Special Homicide is now in charge of this investigation. You and I are primary.”
“What are we supposed to do, spend the whole day sitting around Chehalis with our hands in our pockets waiting for Dr. Epstein to get around to doing an autopsy so we can witness same?”
“No,” Mel said with a grin. “It’s much better than that. Ross is faxing Sheriff Tyler an order expressly forbidding Dr. Epstein from performing the autopsy and remanding the custody of the Centralia victim to the King County medical examiner’s office in Seattle. You and I are expected to drive to Packwood, give Rachel’s folks the bad news, and then bring them to Chehalis, where we’ll ask them to identify the remains as is and before the body is transported to Seattle.”
“As is?” I asked. “You mean without cleaning her up at all?”
Mel nodded. “As is,” she confirmed.
“That’ll be hard on them,” I said.
“Yes, it will be, but Ross believes it’s the only way we can be confident that all potential trace evidence is properly preserved. He’s heard some things about sloppy workmanship and corner cutting in Dr. Epstein’s morgue, and this case is too important to risk bumbling it. Once the ID is complete, King County will send someone down to take charge of the body. They’ll transport it, examine it for evidence, and perform the autopsy. The fax should be in Sheriff Tyler’s hands sometime in the next twenty minutes. Dr. Epstein will not be pleased.”
Mel’s deadpan comment caught me with a mouthful of not-quite-swallowed coffee. “Pleased!” I sputtered. “The woman is going to have a cow!”
“Yes, she will,” Mel agreed with a grin. “And I’m only too happy to help facilitate the delivery.”
“So we wait for the fax.”
Mel nodded again. “In addition to that, Ross is making arrangements with a Lewis County judge to issue a search warrant for the Browards’ place in Packwood, as well as their telephone records.”
“Do we need a warrant?” I asked. “Once they know Rachel is dead, chances are they’ll give us permission to search her room anyway.”
“That’s true,” Mel said. “You and I don’t think the Browards are involved in what happened, but Ross wants to cover that base just in case. He’d rather we go there armed with a warrant than without one.”
Mel and I left the restaurant in both cars. That made for a slight detour in our plan for the day, but overall we were working the same program. First Mel and I would take the Mercedes to Packwood, where we would give Ardith and Kenny Broward the bad news and bring them to Chehalis for the official ID ordeal.
With four people in the car, my Mercedes was a better choice for that part of the trip than Mel’s Cayman, and the two hours going and coming would provide ample opportunity for us to do a long informal interview. After the ID, I would drive the Browards back home to Packwood, and Mel would drive herself there in the Cayman. That would leave her free to execute the search warrant and then spend the remainder of the day backtracking on Rachel’s Packwood friends while I drove to Olympia to start the same process with friends, acquaintances, and classmates of Josh Deeson.
At the Lewis County Sheriff’s Department we waited in a small lobby just outside Sheriff Tyler’s office while he finished up with what his secretary told us was an important phone call. When he finally emerged, he was carrying several pages of faxed documents and grinning from ear to ear.
“You two really know how to make my day,” he said, handing the paperwork over to Mel. “It’s about time someone put that woman in her place. Call me after you finish IDing the victim. If it turns out to be Rachel, Judge Andrews will sign off on the search warrant and you’ll be able to take that back to Packwood with you.”
“Will do,” Mel said.
I thought we’d be able to walk from the sheriff’s office to the morgue. No such luck. The morgue was nowhere near the rest of the Lewis County government complex. Instead, it was up a steep hill and in the basement of a local hospital. We used both cars for the drive there as well.
Standing in the hospital parking lot and looking out over downtown Chehalis, I realized that it wasn’t nearly as hot as it had been the previous two days. A low-pressure system had blown in off the ocean the night before. Instead of clear blue skies overhead, there was a pleasant cover of gray with a hint of moisture in the air. My favorite kind of Seattle summer day—gray and cool and damp with no rain.
Mel got out of the Cayman armed with her paperwork. We both knew what was written there would send Dr. Epstein into a spasm. I’m sorry to admit it, but I was actually looking forward to this confrontation.
Mel must have caught the slight grin on my face. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I hate to think about how many guys in Homicide used to sit around talking and dreaming about leaving Seattle PD behind and finding themselves a nice little job in some quiet burg where they’d be immune from politics. But that’s what this whole thing is with Dr. Epstein—a lesson in small-town politics.”
“Yes,” Mel said. “And if you ask me, small-town politics are worse. They’re more personal because everybody knows everybody else.”
Two minutes later we were ushered into Dr. Epstein’s office. She wasn’t happy to see us.
“We haven’t started yet,” she said brusquely. “I told you I’d call when I had the autopsy results.”
Mel smiled and put the fax down on Dr. Epstein’s shiny wooden desk. “No,” she said. “I’m afraid we’ll be the ones calling you.”
Mel seldom gets mad at me, and it’s a good thing. When she’s mad, she can be a ring-tailed bitch. Dr. Bonnie Epstein had done the unforgivable and had made Mel Soames mad.
As Dr. Epstein read through the fax, her cheeks flushed deep red.
“Ross Connors can’t do this!” she declared at last, spinning the papers away from her. They fluttered off the edge of her desk and landed on the floor. I reached down, collected them, reassembled them, and turned them into a neat stack.
“Yes, I’m afraid he can,” Mel said. “I believe we mentioned that to you earlier this morning. He’s the chief law enforcement officer in this state. What he says goes.”
“Who’s his boss, then?” Dr. Epstein wanted to know. “The governor? I’ll call her next.”
“Go right ahead,” Mel said. “But I have a feeling the governor is a little busy this morning. I doubt she’ll be taking calls from anyone, let alone you.”
“But—”
Mel continued as if Dr. Epstein hadn’t opened her mouth. “Mr. Beaumont and I are on our way to Packwood to pick up Rachel’s parents so they can come and do the official ID. You’re to instruct your people to unzip the bag for them, or you can do it yourself, but that’s it. You’re to do nothing else with the remains, especially no cleaning. The M.E. in Seattle will be responsible for collecting and processing all evidence.”
“Rachel?” Dr. Epstein asked, plucking that single word out of what Mel had said. “That’s her name, Rachel?”
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“Yes,” Mel said. “That’s most likely our victim’s name—Rachel Camber of Packwood.”
Our victim, I noted. With those two words she laid out the ground rules and took possession of the case.
Dr. Epstein didn’t go down without a fight. “It’s my job to notify the victim’s family,” she objected. “What was that name again, Camber? How do you spell that?”
“C-A-M-B-E-R,” Mel said, carefully calling out the letters one by one.
About then, I found myself feeling a little sorry for Dr. Epstein. She wrote the letters down quickly, without any idea that Mel Soames was cheerfully handing her a dead-end deal.
Given the circumstances, it seemed likely that Dr. Epstein might try to beat us to the punch and contact Rachel’s parents before Mel and I had a chance to do so.
We both knew that wasn’t going to happen. Ardith Broward hadn’t been Ardith Camber for a very long time.
Chapter 17
Dr. Epstein was in the process of attempting to call Governor Longmire when Mel and I left her office. On the way out of town, we stopped at a drugstore and stocked up on batteries for the cassette recorder Mel keeps in her purse. Fortunately she keeps a supply of extra cassettes tucked in there as well.
The trip to Packwood was still the same distance as it had been the day before, but somehow knowing where we were going made it seem shorter.
“We must have done all right with the locals yesterday,” I said. “At least it wasn’t necessary to send Deputy Timmons along to look after us.”
“Are you going to tell Kenny and Ardith, or will I?” Mel asked.
“We could always draw straws,” I suggested.
“No,” Mel said. “We’ll play it by ear.”
As we drove through Randle we noticed that there were no motorcycles parked in front of the Bike Inn, and a red-and-black CLOSED sign hung on the door. I had no idea who owned the bar. As far as I knew, Ardith was an employee. It struck me as a kind gesture on the owner’s part to have closed the place down for the day in honor of the tragedy playing out in Kenny and Ardith Broward’s lives. Once we arrived in Packwood, however, I was downright impressed.
Kenny and Ardith’s yard was full of motorcycles—two dozen or more, along with a collection of woebegone minivans and pickup trucks. People milled around on the porch, where a washtub full of ice, beer, and sodas was the center of attention. Out in the front yard, someone was lighting up an old-fashioned charcoal grill.
You could tell the motorcycle guys from the loggers by the way they were dressed, leathers as opposed to overalls and flannel shirts. A collection of kids dressed in shorts, some of them barefoot, clambered over the play structure. And even without stepping inside the house, I knew that it was full of neighboring women who had probably covered every available flat surface with a collection of casseroles and potluck-worthy hot dishes. Packwood was a small town, and the folks had gathered there together to show their respect and offer their condolences in time-honored small-town fashion.
In a way, this was surprisingly similar to the people who had come to the governor’s mansion once news of Josh’s death had leaked out. Friends had gathered there, too, offering sympathy and support, but that had been a far better dressed crowd; the vehicles involved had been more expensive; and to my knowledge, none of the guests had come to the governor’s mansion with a covered-dish casserole in hand.
Everyone paused and watched with interest as I squeezed into one of the last available parking spots. When Mel and I stepped out of the vehicle, Conrad Philips—the high school principal and the only visible black man in attendance—extricated himself from the group around the charcoal grill.
“Did you find her?” he asked.
I nodded. He understood the implications. What we had to say wouldn’t be good news.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go get them.”
Philips disappeared into the house and returned a few moments later with Kenny and Ardith in tow. Mel and I had agreed we’d play this one by ear, but I don’t think either of us had anticipated that we’d be speaking to the Browards in front of this kind of audience. The silence in the yard was absolute—like the silence in the Bike Inn the day before—only bigger, much bigger, and far more attentive.
As Conrad Philips led the bereaved parents through the throng of people, I was struck by how they looked—broken, red-eyed, and hopeless. They had tried to prepare themselves for the bad news. Now they faced it together.
“You found her?” Kenny asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We believe so. The body of a young woman was found floating in a retention pond north of Centralia early this morning.”
Ardith swayed slightly on her feet and then buried her face in her hands. Kenny reached out to steady her, holding her upright, while somewhere in the nearby trees a bird of some kind began to sing. That’s what I’ll always remember about the scene—Ardith Broward weeping, the bird singing in the background, and everyone else waiting and watching in utter silence.
When Ardith quieted, Mel stepped forward and took one of Ardith’s hands in hers.
“The body has been taken to the morgue in Chehalis,” she said quietly. “If you and Mr. Broward don’t mind, Mr. Beaumont and I would like to drive you there to see if you can identify the remains. And, of course, we’ll bring you back.”
Ardith looked up at Kenny as if for guidance. “Right now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“We can take our van,” he offered.
“No,” Mel told him. “That won’t be necessary.”
“All right then.”
We helped them into the back of the Mercedes. While I started the engine and backed out of the parking place, Mel removed her recorder from her purse, switched it on, and placed it on the seat beside her.
As we started back down Highway 12, Mel told them some of what we knew or suspected, but she left out a few important details—like the possibility that Rachel had been dead for only a few hours when she was found in the pond. We explained how the identification process would work. We tried to prepare them for the shock of what they would see and apologized in advance for the fact that their daughter’s body would still be in the same condition in which it had been found.
“Why is that?” Ken asked. “Why couldn’t you clean her up?”
“Because we might lose evidence in the process,” Mel said. “Evidence that could help us convict her killer later.”
“Oh,” Ken said. “All right then.”
I was content to do the driving and let Mel carry on the conversation. Somewhere along the way, Mel began explaining about the search warrant that would include both their home and their telephone.
“That reminds me,” Ken said. “I don’t know what else you’ll find, but Ardy and I went through Rachel’s room last night. We found this hidden in her jewelry case.”
He handed Mel a small business card. She looked at it and passed it to me. The design on the card showed a simple peaked roof with several stick figures gathered beneath it. The words JANIE’S HOUSE were written on the card, along with a phone number with a 360 area code. There was nothing else there, not on the front or the back.
“What’s this?” Mel asked.
“I have no idea,” Ken said. “But that’s what Rachel told me on Sunday—that she was going to Janie’s house!”
Mel took out her iPhone and began surfing the net. “It’s a drop-in shelter in Olympia,” she said. “In other words, it’s not a place where people stay, but they serve as a centralized source of needed services for homeless youth. It’s named after a girl named Janie Goodson, who was murdered in 1985 while living in a homeless camp outside of Olympia. Janie’s grandmother started it. It supplies showers, laundry facilities, meals, tutoring, and a place to hang out.”
“But why would Rachel even go there?” Ardith demanded from the backseat. “She had a home. She had us.”
I knew there weren’t any easy answers to that question. I had asked myself
the same kinds of things years ago when my own daughter, Kelly, had taken off. In her case, the answer had to do with a boy named Jeremy. Maybe the answer for Rachel was something similar, but with a far more tragic outcome. A few years down the road, Kenny and Ardith wouldn’t end up with a couple of cute little grandkids to show for all their heartache. No, the best they could hope for was having a chance to lay their daughter to rest. On the other hand, that’s more than far too many parents of runaway kids ever have a chance to do.
In any case, I knew that as soon as the identification was out of the way and the Browards were safely home in Packwood, Janie’s House in Olympia would be my next destination.
“Can you get me a street address on that shelter?” I asked.
“Can do,” Mel said. “I’m working on it right now.”
The ID session was every bit as bad as we had expected. That was due in large part to the condition of the body. But it also had something to do with Dr. Epstein, who made her displeasure known by being disdainful and condescending to the point of being rude. It was fine for her to be mad at Mel and me. We deserved it. In fact, we had gone out of our way to provoke her. Instead, she took it out on the Browards, slamming the gurney with the body bag on it into the middle of the room and then jerking down the zipper to reveal the ghastly, still mud-covered face.
“Is that her?”
“Yes,” Kenny whispered while Ardith nodded wordlessly.
“All right then,” Dr. Epstein said. “We’re done here.”
As in “Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?” If that was Dr. Epstein’s idea of bedside manner, she had done the world of medical science a huge favor by becoming a coroner rather than working with living, breathing patients. Maybe that was the path of least resistance if you don’t want to deal with customers who actually talk back. Ditto for Dr. Larry Mowat, the Thurston County M.E., although in terms of status, serving as Lewis County coroner was most likely a big step down from a position where you got to put the words “medical examiner” behind your name.
