Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  Tracy had spent a year on the Sexual Assault Unit. “Cases negative for sperm but positive for ACP typically indicate the assailant had a vasectomy or wore a condom.”

  “And that’s probably what Nolasco and his partner assumed when they checked the box,” Dan said, “except the medical examiner ruled out a condom.” Dan read again from the report. “No exchangeable traces of particulates, lubricants, or spermicides.” He lowered the report. “Whoever killed Beth Stinson didn’t have sex with her. Nolasco or his partner checked box 102 prematurely because—”

  “They needed a motive.”

  Dan nodded. “Just like they needed a suspect. And because the defense attorney got Gerhardt to plead, none of this ever came out and they never bothered to go back and correct the form.”

  Tracy said, “So you have to talk to Gerhardt and find out who else knew he’d made a service call that afternoon and follow up on those other witness leads.”

  “Beth Stinson’s family is not going to want to relive this.”

  “I know, and I don’t blame them. But if we’re right, we’re not just talking about an innocent man in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, we’re talking about someone who might have been killing for nearly a decade, maybe longer, someone who might have killed a lot more than three or four women. And if the profiler is right, something has triggered him to kill again, and this time he’s not going to stop on his own.”

  CHAPTER 33

  He pressed the “Eject” button and looked again at the woman on the floor. Still upright, she had her eyes open, staring at him with her mouth hanging agape. She’d been more work than the others. Each time he’d thought she was dead, she’d flinch, then gasp, and come back to life. It was like one of those zombie horror movies where the zombies wouldn’t die unless they had their heads blown off. At first it had been intoxicating, but it soon got old. He just wanted her to die so he could leave. Her perfume and body odor disgusted him, and the smell of cigarettes was nauseating.

  The VCR continued to whir. Then it stopped. He reached for the cassette tape, but it didn’t come out. He pressed “Eject” again and heard a click, indicating that the tape had rewound, but again the cassette did not come out. He pressed the button repeatedly. “Come on. Come on. Come on, you piece of crap!”

  He banged his fist on the top of the machine, which caused the dresser to bump hard against the wall. He froze. He’d heard people in the room next door earlier, though it had been quiet the last hour. He lifted the flap on the VCR and peered inside. The tape was there, but it hadn’t popped up. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead and the back of his neck. Rivulets of perspiration dribbled down the side of his face from his temples.

  He looked again at the woman. She continued to stare up at him.

  “Stop looking at me,” he said. He stood and kicked her with his foot. She wobbled but didn’t topple over.

  He gripped the machine, but it was bolted to the top of the wood laminate dresser. “Like someone would steal a decades-old piece-of-shit VCR you couldn’t get ten bucks for in a pawnshop,” he said.

  He pressed the “Eject” button again, then opened and closed the dresser drawers, frantically searching for something to pry up the tape. The drawers were empty. He swore under his breath. What kind of motel doesn’t provide a pen? He removed his keys from his pocket and tried to work a key beneath the tape. This wasn’t just about sentimentality; he’d had the tape since he was a child, but he was more practical. The tape had his fingerprints all over it.

  He checked his watch. How long had she rented the room? He always gave them money for the night but found they were cheap. They’d pay for an hour or two and pocket the change. It was why he’d started to use cigarettes to burn the bottoms of their feet. They were taking too long to die, and he feared a manager would come to the room, looking for the rest of his money. He could use the tip of the cigarette without having to touch them. They disgusted him, but again there were the practicalities to consider. Any contact meant a potential transfer of evidence, a piece of hair, flakes of skin, something.

  He looked to the door. The security latch remained in place, the chain lock in its slot.

  The woman continued to stare up at him.

  He turned his back to her to focus on the problem at hand. He just needed to remain calm. He practiced his breathing exercises the way he’d been taught to center himself before a performance. Within a minute the solution came to him, and its simplicity made him laugh. He hadn’t rented the room. It wasn’t like they had his credit card or driver’s license. What did he care if he damaged the damn VCR.

  He followed the electrical cord protruding from the back, wiping at dust balls that had trapped dead bugs down behind the dresser, and pulled it from the outlet. Then he gripped the VCR by its edges and applied steady pressure until he heard the cheap laminate crack and the machine pop free.

  Time to go.

  He slid the VCR inside his gym bag, but one end stuck out. He tried a different angle, turned the machine on its side, and tried to stretch the bag, all to no avail. There was no way to fit it. He’d have to improvise. He’d always been good on his feet. His teachers had said it was one of his best talents. He tugged his sweatshirt over his head and covered the end of the VCR. It wasn’t perfect, but if he gripped the handles a certain way it looked natural. Besides, he had no other options. It would have to do. He took a final look around the room. The bed was pristine, the clothes folded neatly.

  His performance was finished.

  He pulled the ball cap low on his head, slid the leather gloves over the latex ones, and made his way to the door. He unlatched the security prong and slid free the chain, careful not to make a noise. Slowly he pulled open the door, waiting again before looking out. No one lingered on the walkway. No one stood in the parking lot. Stepping out, he quickly turned his back and closed the door, ensuring that it locked. He lifted the strap of his gym bag onto his shoulder, feeling the extra weight of the VCR but trying not to show it, and quietly walked around the side of the building.

  The back of the property abutted the adjacent street. He headed south one block, walking deliberately, though not rushing. He was a man coming from a workout. He took a left, then his first right. He’d parked in front of a chain-link fence enclosing a vacant dirt lot. Signs on the fence indicated the lot was for sale and zoned commercial. It was the perfect place to leave his car, far from night-owl nosy neighbors. With distance from the motel, he started to relax, though he continued to perspire. The cool air felt good on his skin and when he sucked it deep into his chest.

  He unlocked the car door with the key, purposefully avoiding using the remote, which chirped, and slid his gym bag onto the backseat. Inside, he started the car, not that you could hear it—the hybrid was silent—and pulled from the curb. Halfway down the block, he turned on the headlights and made a full stop at the stop sign before turning right. “Home free,” he said and checked his rearview mirror.

  A car turned right off of Aurora and came down the block. He checked his speedometer: 25 miles per hour. He made another full stop at the corner, checked the mirror again, and saw swirling blue and red lights.

  His heart rate spiked. His pulse began to beat at his temples. He couldn’t do anything to stop perspiring. He tried to center himself. “Calm down,” he told himself. “You’re prepared for this. You’ve rehearsed it. You’ve memorized your lines. Just stay in character and stick to the script.”

  He eased the car to the curb and watched the side mirror. A single officer exited the patrol car quickly, a good sign. He hadn’t likely run the license plate.

  He lowered the window. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  “You got a brake light out.” The officer looked like a kid, with a military haircut and an immature face. Likely a newbie, hopefully not a do-it-by-the-book type.

  “I do? Which side?”

  “Passenger side.”

  “Could I get out of the car and take a look?” Al
ways ask permission. Be polite.

  “Sure.”

  He unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out, eyeing his gym bag as he stepped to the rear bumper.

  “You want me to press down on the brake so you can see?” the officer said.

  “That would be great.”

  The officer held on to the car door and stuck his right leg inside the car, depressing the pedal.

  “Well, you’re right. It’s out.”

  “Looks like a relatively new car.”

  “Haven’t had it that long, but I bought it used. I’ll take it in today at lunch and get it fixed.” He wiped the continued flow of perspiration rolling down his temples.

  “You’re perspiring an awful lot.”

  “I take a long time to cool down after a workout.”

  He saw the officer glance at the rear seat. “Where do you work out around here?”

  “24 Hour Fitness. They have one just around the corner.” He pointed to the backseat. “I keep my gym bag in the car.” The officer shone a flashlight through the window. “Had to cut it short this morning, though. I’m on cat patrol before work.”

  “Cat patrol?”

  He stepped to the driver’s side and leaned inside the car, retrieving a small stack of fliers from the passenger seat. He handed one to the officer. “My daughter lost her cat, Angus, three days ago. She really loved that cat. He slept right on the bed beside her. I’m putting up fliers all over the neighborhood, though I’m not optimistic we’ll find him. Probably roadkill, I’m afraid, but you never know. Stranger things have happened.”

  The officer considered the flier, then handed it back. “Get that taillight fixed.”

  “I will. Thank you, Officer.” He turned and bent to put the fliers back inside the car, then exhaled.

  “Hey?”

  He rose up, turning. The officer was walking back, and he was certain it was to ask to see his license and registration. “Yes, Officer?”

  “Let me have one of those fliers. I got two kids. They’d be heartbroken if they lost their cat. I’ll keep my eye out for Angus.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Kins stood when Tracy entered the Cowboy Room the following morning. “OPA called, asking me for my statement. They’re opening a file for Taggart. I thought you said Nolasco was going to back you?”

  “He did. I guess they still have to do an inquiry.”

  “Tracy?”

  Bennett Lee was entering the room cautiously, as if worried he’d get cement dust on his blue pin-striped suit. “You’re not returning my calls.”

  “Been a little busy here, Bennett.”

  “Yeah, well, the Chief wants me to provide the press an update this afternoon.”

  “I don’t have an update for you.”

  “Nolasco says you have a profile; said you met with the FBI.”

  “You got to be freaking kidding me,” Kins said.

  Tracy shut her eyes. She’d known there had to be a reason Nolasco had sent them to talk to Amanda Santos, though she was glad he had. If Nolasco wanted the task force to fail, releasing an incomplete or erroneous profile was the next logical step. It would be misinterpreted by the media and the public to mean an arrest was imminent. When that didn’t happen, it gave the media the chance to skewer the task force. Worse, a profile would bury them under another flood of mostly useless tips, and they’d already received more than a thousand.

  Lee raised his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Sparrow. You know how it goes. When we don’t issue a profile, it makes us look like we don’t have a clue.”

  “We don’t have a clue,” Kins said.

  “The national networks are calling Seattle ‘the Killing Ground.’ I’m getting a lot of pressure here, Tracy. Nolasco says it’s making us look bad.”

  “You know what will make us look worse, Bennett?” Kins said. “A profile that says the killer is possibly a white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five, possibly married, possibly divorced, possibly a father, possibly raised by an overly protective mother who sexually stimulated him, possibly a bed wetter, who possibly tortured small animals.”

  Lee looked to Tracy. “Can you give me anything?”

  Tracy was sympathetic, and she was about to tell Lee she would sit down and pen something out when her desk phone rang. “Hold on,” she said, answering. She listened for a moment. Her stomach gripped, and she felt her adrenaline spike. “We’re on our way.” She hung up. Kins was already grabbing his jacket. She looked to Lee. “You’re not going to have to worry about a profile today, Bennett.”

  The last time Dan had been inside the walls of the Walla Walla State Penitentiary he’d been sitting next to Tracy at a cafeteria-style table, speaking with Edmund House, a hardened prisoner with ropy muscles and bulging veins. The man who stepped into the phone booth–sized room on the other side of scratched plexiglass this time was a sharp contrast to House. Wayne Gerhardt’s prison-issued khaki pullover and pants hung from narrow shoulders and almost nonexistent hips. A thin face, prominent chin and nose, and hair the color of sunburned straw brought to mind the image of a midwestern scarecrow.

  Gerhardt pulled out a chair and sat, looking through the partition at Dan with prison-washed dull-blue eyes.

  “Mr. Gerhardt. I’m Dan—”

  “I know who you are.” Gerhardt’s voice was soft, nonconfrontational. “Everyone in here knows who you are. You represented Edmund House.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious about some of the details of Beth Stinson’s murder.”

  “You writing a book?”

  “No, I’m a lawyer.”

  “So? You writing a book? Isn’t that what every lawyer does now?” The corners of his mouth rose.

  “I’m not writing a book,” Dan said, returning a passive smile.

  “Who told you about my case?”

  “I can’t tell you that at this moment.”

  Gerhardt’s gaze narrowed. If he was considering leaving, now was the likely moment. But Dan didn’t think he would. He was betting from the man’s appearance—nothing like the mug shots in his police file—that having someone to talk to, anyone other than rapists and murderers and crazies, was probably a welcome distraction. “I’m an attorney, Mr. Gerhardt, but technically I’m not your attorney. Therefore what we say here isn’t considered protected unless you intend for it to have been a communication with me in my capacity as an attorney. So I can’t reveal everything to you, because it isn’t protected. So for now, you’re going to have to trust me.”

  Gerhardt smiled again, but this time it was more of a smirk. “The last time I trusted a lawyer I ended up in here with a twenty-five-year sentence.”

  “Will you answer my questions?”

  Gerhardt straightened and moved closer to the partition. “Only one question and one answer that matters.” His eyebrows arched, nearly touching his blond bangs. “Did I kill her? No, I did not.”

  Dan took the opening and pressed forward. “Had you ever met Beth Stinson before the day you made the service call?”

  “No.”

  “What can you tell me about that day?”

  “What do you want to know?” Gerhardt said. “I’ve had ten years to think about it.”

  “Whatever you can remember.”

  “She had a clogged toilet. I had another job before hers, and it took me longer than I thought, so I was late getting there.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “Afternoon, close to four. She was anxious, because she needed to get to work but she was afraid the toilet would back up when she wasn’t home and create a real mess. I guess it had happened before.”

  “Where did you park your van?”

  “In the driveway. She’d moved her car onto the street. It was new, and she didn’t want to get it scratched. She also didn’t want me to block her in.”


  “So she could get to work.”

  “Right.”

  “What else?”

  “She walked me through the house to the bathroom—”

  “You’re talking about the bathroom off the master bedroom at the back?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you had to walk through her bedroom.”

  “No other way to get to that bathroom.”

  “Did you touch anything in the bedroom?”

  “They said they found my fingerprints on a dresser, so I guess I did.”

  “And your fingerprints were all over the bathroom.”

  “No way to prevent that.”

  “What type of woman was Beth Stinson?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dan thought how best to phrase the question. “Was she reserved, standoffish, outgoing, friendly?”

  “She seemed all right, you know. I’d say friendly. Nice-looking, I remember that. She had on those tights, spandex, and a sweatshirt cut midstomach. Nice body.”

  “Were you able to clear the drain?”

  “Not right away. I had to go back and forth to my van for tools and the snake. Finally, I had to go at it from a trap outside.”

  “Where was Beth Stinson while you were doing this?”

  “She mostly stayed in the kitchen flipping through magazines, though she’d come in a few times to ask how it was going.”

  “She was anxious,” Dan said.

  “Like I said.”

  “Did you ever go into the kitchen?”

  “Only to tell her that the clog was farther down the line and I was going to try to get at it from outside.”

  They’d found Gerhardt’s fingerprints on the kitchen counter and used it as evidence that he’d tried to clean up a dirty bootprint he’d left on Stinson’s carpet.

  “Where was the trap?”

  “Under the house.” He looked up for a moment, remembering. “It was the north side.”