Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  “Amen,” Del said.

  Vera waived him off, looking embarrassed but pleased by the attention. Everyone followed Faz’s lead and raised a glass. “Salute.”

  “I also want to say that I don’t like this place much,” Faz said. “It gives me the heebie-jeebies, but we all know we got a job to do.” He looked to Tracy. “This is our room now, Professor. Nobody calls it ‘the Bundy Room’ no more. This is the Cowboy Room.” He raised the glass again. “So here’s to you, Professor. Whatever it takes. We’re all in.”

  This time, the others stood, raised their wineglasses, and said, “Salute.”

  Tracy smiled and raised a glass of water.

  As with Nolasco’s decision to send the Nicole Hansen investigation to the Cold Case Unit, whatever he’d hoped to accomplish by leaking the OPA investigation, or by convincing someone higher up that the tip line was a good idea—and Tracy had no doubt he’d been behind those decisions—it had backfired. The men and women in the room were experienced detectives. Tracy didn’t have to say a word to them. They knew what they were up against. Unwritten rules had been broken. And every cop knew that when the rules were broken, you did what you had to do to protect your back, and the backs of those you worked with.

  CHAPTER 30

  The day had dawned clear and cold, with billowing brilliant-white clouds drifting across an otherwise sun-drenched sky. Beth Stinson’s North Seattle neighborhood had a different feel in daylight, tranquil and inviting, peaceful. It was an older neighborhood. Dan noticed a few two-story remodels, but most of the homes were one-story ramblers, likely built in the 1960s. The cherry trees and the foliage in the front yards were mature, and there were no street lamps or sidewalks. The lawns simply sloped to the edge of the road.

  The prior night, when Dan had driven here to simulate the conditions an eyewitness would have encountered trying to identify Wayne Gerhardt the night of Beth Stinson’s murder, the neighborhood had not seemed as inviting. The only light came from a few lawns and porches. JoAnne Anderson claimed in her witness statement that she awoke around two thirty in the morning and got out of bed to get a drink of water. She did not recall what, if anything, woke her, but said at her age she got up twice a night to use the bathroom. She said she retrieved a glass from the kitchen cupboard and, while filling it with tap water, looked out her window and “thought” she saw “someone” outside Beth Stinson’s home.

  Dan had arrived just after midnight and parked across the street from Beth Stinson’s home. He assumed Anderson’s kitchen to be the rectangular window to the far right. From it, Anderson had an unobstructed view of Stinson’s home, but that view was across her own yard, the two-lane street, and Stinson’s front yard. In addition, Stinson’s driveway, where Anderson claimed she saw Gerhardt, was located at the far south of that property, as far from the kitchen window as possible.

  Sitting in his truck, it was difficult for Dan to estimate the distance, but he found it hard to believe Anderson could have positively identified anyone, even wearing glasses, on a night which she’d testified had been overcast with a light rain.

  Nevertheless, after reading Anderson’s trial testimony, Dan had a better understanding of why Gerhardt’s public defender may have convinced Gerhardt to accept the State’s plea deal. At trial, Anderson had testified with much more confidence than her witness statement would have otherwise indicated. She had been much more certain she’d seen a man with light-colored hair, whom she described as the height of a tree just to the south of Stinson’s garage. That tree, an immature evergreen, had measured six feet three. Gerhardt was six feet two and a half. On cross-examination Gerhardt’s counsel had gotten Anderson to admit she could not “specifically recall” if she’d put on glasses before she went to get a drink of water. Unfortunately, Anderson had also testified that she “must have.” It was one of those answers trial attorneys dreaded, because you couldn’t anticipate what a witness might say to any follow-up question asking her to explain why she “must have.” Chances were it would only reinforce to the jury what she claimed to have seen. Gerhardt’s attorney had chosen not to take that risk.

  For Tracy’s sake, a part of Dan had hoped his nighttime drive to the site would confirm JoAnne Anderson’s testimony that she got a good look at Wayne Gerhardt and had no doubt he had been the killer.

  Dan sighed. “Damn,” he said and pushed out of his car. He made his way up the cement walk. The yard looked to be emerging from winter—green shoots sprouted in the planter boxes and the trees were showing the first buds of cherry blossoms.

  The woman who answered the front door fit the description in the file. Nine years older, Anderson looked matronly in a white V-neck sweater, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. She appeared to be of Asian heritage. Dan took immediate note of her glasses—plastic-framed and turquoise in color. He gave her his most disarming smile.

  “JoAnne Anderson?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “My name is Dan O’Leary. I’m sorry to be knocking on your door without the courtesy of a phone call.” Most people found it easier to hang up a phone than to slam a door. “I was hoping I might ask you a few questions about something that happened here almost ten years ago.”

  “Beth Stinson’s murder,” she said. “And it happened nine years ago. It won’t be ten years until this April 20. You don’t forget something like that.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Dan said.

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Dan O’Leary. I’m from Cedar Grove.”

  “Cedar Grove?” she asked.

  “It’s up north, in the Cascades.”

  “I know where it is. We used to take the kids up every summer. Do you know Ross Lake?”

  “I’ve fished it many times.”

  “We had a floating cabin on the water.”

  “You must have gotten in early. I hear they want your next of kin just to get on the wait list.”

  Anderson smiled. “Forty years ago it wasn’t so difficult. Who did you say you worked for?”

  “I’m an attorney. I take an interest in these cases,” he said, straddling the line between truth and misrepresentation.

  “What kind of interest?”

  “I look at the evidence and determine if it was sufficient to convict the person.”

  “But Wayne Gerhardt confessed.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Has he recanted?”

  “Mr. Gerhardt was facing a death sentence. I’m reviewing the evidence.”

  “You mean like the Innocence Project?”

  “You’ve heard of it?” he asked, still straddling the line.

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “May I ask a few questions?”

  Anderson shrugged. “I suppose.” She did not invite him in.

  “You told the detectives that you got up in the middle of the night and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “You said you couldn’t be certain whether you’d put on your glasses.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “But at trial you said, ‘I must have.’ Why did you believe you must have?”

  “Well, that’s a long time ago to try to remember a detail like that.”

  “I realize it’s been many years. Only if you remember.”

  “I suppose I said it because I couldn’t have seen him without them. I couldn’t see you clearly without them.”

  “Do you recall what your vision was nine years ago?”

  “No different than it is today, fortunately.”

  “And what is that, do you know?”

  “Not a clue.” She looked past him to the street. “Is that your car?”

  “Yes, that’s mine.”

  “I can read the license plate just fine.” She removed her glasses. “Now it’s just a blur.”

  “So because you were able to see Wayne Gerhardt,” Dan said as he turned and pointed, “who I believe you said you saw standing near
that far corner of Beth Stinson’s home—”

  “That’s right.”

  “You concluded you ‘must have’ put on your glasses. Is that right?”

  “That’s where I saw him.”

  “So you assumed you had your glasses on.”

  “Not an assumption. I had to have had them on in order to see him.”

  They were going in circles, which would have likely been the outcome had the defense attorney pursued this line of questioning.

  “Did the detective who came to speak with you show you any photographs and ask if you recognized the person you saw that night?”

  “Detectives,” she said. “There were two of them.”

  “Did they show you photographs?”

  “Not the first time. The first time I told them I couldn’t be sure I saw Mr. Gerhardt. I didn’t want to be responsible for convicting an innocent man unless I was certain. A person doesn’t want that on her conscience.”

  “And did they come back and show you photographs?”

  “The younger detective, he had an unusual name . . . I can’t recall it now. Anyway, he asked if I would come to the police station for a police lineup.”

  “And you did that?”

  “At first I wasn’t going to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t feel comfortable.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “The man I saw looked just like the man in the photograph the detective showed me.”

  “How many photographs did the detective show you?”

  “Just the one,” she said.

  “And they showed it to you before you went to the police station and identified Wayne Gerhardt in the police lineup?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So you were convinced you saw Mr. Gerhardt.”

  “I didn’t know his name.”

  “But you identified him.”

  “I was pretty sure.”

  Dan tried to keep his voice even. “Still not a hundred percent?”

  “I don’t think we can ever be a hundred percent about something. I felt better about it when I found out that Mr. Gerhardt had no alibi and that he’d been at Beth’s house that afternoon.”

  “Did the detectives tell you that?”

  “That’s right. And then I remembered I’d seen the Roto-Rooter truck in Beth’s driveway earlier that day.”

  “Did you see Mr. Gerhardt that day also, or just the truck?”

  “I saw him.” She pointed in the general direction of her yard. “I was weeding that planter, and I’d sat back to take a break and he walked out the front door. He was putting his tools and equipment in the back of the van.”

  “You had your glasses on?”

  “Oh, yes. The only time I take them off is to go to bed.”

  “So you got a good look at him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “What did I say in my statement?”

  Dan feigned ignorance. “You know, I don’t remember what you said.”

  “I think I said he was wearing blue coveralls with a white-and-red logo on the back.”

  “Are you talking about when you saw Mr. Gerhardt that afternoon?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “And the man you saw that night, what was he wearing?”

  “It was the same man.”

  “Right. What was he wearing?”

  “I don’t remember that. It was too dark.”

  JoAnne Anderson had testified at trial she saw Wayne Gerhardt wearing the same blue coveralls. Dan didn’t doubt that she had, but he was convinced it was that afternoon, and not that night.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. I won’t take up anymore of your time.”

  “I hope I’ve been helpful. I’d hate to think I sent an innocent man to jail.”

  “We all would,” Dan said.

  CHAPTER 31

  Tracy and Kins sat in a lobby that had all the charm one would expect in a federal office building—functional furniture and off-white walls with black-and-white prints of other Seattle government buildings. Nolasco had set up a morning meeting with an FBI profiler. Tracy was certain he’d done it just to spite them, after what he had to know had been a very long night. Neither of them had bothered to go home. To add insult to injury, the profiler was now keeping them waiting.

  “This is crap,” Tracy said to Kins. She had worn the same clothes for twenty-four hours, hadn’t showered, felt tired and gross, and was otherwise in no mood to be kept waiting.

  “Let’s just hear her out,” Kins said, sounding as tired as Tracy felt. “Then we can get out of here before stupid rubs off on us, and get something to eat.”

  “Screw it,” she said, standing. “I’m not waiting any longer.”

  Tracy was about to tell the receptionist they were leaving when a fit-looking young woman with short hair, hoop earrings, and skin the color of rich milk chocolate walked into the lobby.

  “Detective Crosswhite? I’m Amanda Santos. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I couldn’t get off a phone call with DC.” Santos’s handshake was firm but not the bone crunching variety some of Tracy’s female colleagues employed.

  “Not a problem,” Kins said, suddenly attentive.

  Santos wore a conservatively cut but formfitting black suit, making Tracy even more self-conscious about her own haggard appearance. She adjusted the collar of the blouse beneath her corduroy jacket as Santos led them down the hall.

  “Can I offer you coffee?” she asked.

  “You can,” Kins said. “Unless you have a means to intravenously inject the caffeine.”

  When Kins glanced in Tracy’s direction, she gave him her best “Please, she is so out of your league and you’re married anyway” look.

  Kins’s smile widened.

  Armed with cups of coffee, they stepped into a conference room of fluorescent lights, ceiling tiles, and the same generic black-and-white photographs of government buildings. Santos sat behind three file folders. Tracy and Kins sat across the table from her.

  “So do you have a name for us?” Tracy asked. “Can I tell the prosecutor to swear out a warrant and we all go out for breakfast?”

  “I wish I did,” Santos said, displaying perfect white teeth.

  Of course they are, Tracy thought.

  “Unfortunately I’m not optimistic that’s going to happen anytime soon. I don’t envy you.”

  “I don’t envy us,” Kins said.

  “What makes you say that?” Tracy asked.

  “You have an organized killer. A disorganized killer is much more impulsive and haphazard. Disorganized killers make mistakes, leave fingerprints, fail to keep from being seen. Organized killers consider murder to be an art that they are trying to perfect. They don’t make mistakes.”

  Tracy thought of Beth Stinson. “What do you mean by ‘trying to perfect’?”

  “I mean they practice. Let’s start with the mechanism your killer uses to strangle his victims, which is elaborate and well thought out. It’s doubtful your killer perfected it the first time he employed it, especially since he’d have to move quickly before his victim regained her ability to struggle.”

  Tracy sat forward, ignoring her coffee. “So there could be other victims out there but possibly not killed with the exact same signature? Slight variations?”

  “There could be,” Santos said. “Organized killers try very hard to blend in, to lead seemingly stable lives. They don’t kill out of passion or anger. They’re methodical and they’re intelligent. Some have a working knowledge of police work and forensics, and, unlike other killers, they don’t tell anyone what they’re doing. They don’t want to be caught.”

  “Is that why he’s not having sex with his victims?” Kins asked. “He doesn’t want to leave behind physical evidence?”

  “It could be, but I don’t believe this is about sexual gratification.”

  “What is it about?” Kins asked.

  �
�It’s about power and control and dominance. It could be he believes the women he’s targeting are beneath him and he wants you to know this is not a sexual act.”

  “Or he could be impotent,” Tracy said.

  “I don’t think so,” Santos said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I would expect to see some other type of sexual act, penetration of the victims, something.”

  “Maybe he gets off on the torture,” Tracy said.

  “I’m sure to an extent he does, but unlike other serial killers I’ve studied, he isn’t trying to hide his victims’ bodies. He’s not taking their dance cards or IDs. He wants people to know who the ‘victims’ are and how they died. That speaks much more to someone trying to make a statement, and I think the statement is—this isn’t about sex, and he doesn’t consider them victims; he considers them bad people deserving of punishment.”

  “Is that his motivation?” Kins asked.

  “He could have multiple motives,” Santos said. “Or his motive may be evolving with each murder.”

  “If you had to offer an opinion,” Tracy said, “what would you say his motivation is?”

  “He’s hog-tying them,” Santos said. “That word originated from the hog-tying of pigs. My opinion is he’s angry and hostile toward this subgroup of women. It might also be part of a psychological ritualism or internal psychodrama directly related to some perverted fantasy. Your guy could be acting out a script in his head. When Ted Bundy was interviewed, he told the detectives every detail of his crime until the final moments of his victims’ lives. He considered those moments to be intimate between him and the victim.”

  “In what way?” Tracy asked.

  “We’ll never know,” Santos said. Bundy had been executed.

  “All right then, so what’s this guy’s script?” Tracy asked.

  “He’s interesting,” Santos said. “Despite the hostility, he uses Rohypnol to subdue his victims rather than physically assaulting them, which fits with the rope pulley system and the use of cigarettes to burn the bottoms of their feet.”