Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2)

by Robert Dugoni

  The side closest to JoAnne Anderson’s house. Gerhardt would have been facing Anderson’s direction each time he walked out Stinson’s front door.

  “Was there dirt on that side of the house?”

  “Yeah. I tracked in a little bit. She wasn’t upset or anything. She just rubbed at it a bit. She wanted to replace the carpet with hardwood floor.”

  “Did you see anyone when you went outside?”

  “The neighbor across the street was gardening. She’s the one who testified. She said she saw me that night. She didn’t.”

  “Was she wearing glasses when you saw her?”

  “I don’t remember that. She testified that she wore glasses, so I suppose she was. I remember she was wearing one of those wide sun hats, you know, the kind that droops down to shield the face.”

  “Did you wave to her, greet her in any manner?”

  “No.”

  “What were you wearing?”

  “Same thing I always wore for work. Gray pants, blue shirt.”

  “So you weren’t wearing coveralls?”

  “I slipped them on when I had to go under the house.”

  Dan scratched two lines beneath his note that JoAnne Anderson had seen Gerhardt in coveralls that afternoon.

  “What kind of boots?”

  “Timberland.”

  “How thick were the soles?”

  Gerhardt held his fingers two to three inches apart.

  “How tall are you, Mr. Gerhardt?”

  “Just under six three. Why?”

  Dan continued scribbling. “JoAnne Anderson said the man she saw that night was the same height as the tree in the yard. Nine years ago the tree was six feet. With your work boots on, you would have been closer to six five.”

  “She’ll say it was dark, that she couldn’t see all that well.”

  Dan smiled, and for the first time a light seemed to shine in Wayne Gerhardt’s eyes.

  “Why’d you plead if you didn’t do it, Wayne?”

  Gerhardt shrugged. Then he dropped his gaze. When he looked up, his eyes were watering. “Felt like it was stacked against me, you know. The woman picking me out of a lineup and then at trial.” His chest shuddered. The man was struggling to hold on. “My attorney said I didn’t have a chance. He said if I didn’t take the deal, they’d go for the death penalty. He said there was evidence I raped her before I killed her and they’d say that was an aggravating circumstance.”

  “Did he say what the evidence was?”

  “DNA.”

  “Did he talk to you about getting the DNA evidence tested?”

  “He said if they found my DNA, they wouldn’t make the deal—that the prosecutor wouldn’t be able to justify it to his boss and then the plea deal would be off the table. It was a mistake. I was young and scared.” He wiped away an errant tear. Then he sat up and composed himself. “I shouldn’t have pled. I’ve been trying to get someone to take my case for years. I’ve written to the Innocence Project at UW and back East, just about everywhere.”

  “What about your attorney?”

  “He’s the reason I’m in here. I haven’t heard from him in years. You got any ideas?”

  “A few. We could seek a post-conviction DNA analysis. A judge can order the testing on his own now.”

  “Why would a judge do that?”

  “He wouldn’t, not unless I gave him a very good reason.”

  “You got one?”

  “Let me ask you, Wayne. Did you tell anyone you were going to be working at Beth Stinson’s home? I mean, who would have known that you were there that afternoon?”

  Gerhardt thought a bit. “My supervisor. Some of the other techs. I would have radioed it in that I was making the call. Could have been any number of people at work.”

  Dan wrote a few more notes.

  “Why’d you ask me that?”

  “Simple logic, Wayne. If you didn’t kill Beth Stinson, someone else did. Maybe someone who knew you were at her house that afternoon.”

  “Sounds like a long shot.”

  “Could be.”

  “You think it’s enough to get the DNA tested?”

  “Not by itself, but I’m working on it.”

  Gerhardt didn’t smile or otherwise react. He just sat, staring through the plexiglass. After almost ten years, Dan didn’t doubt the man’s hopes had been crushed too many times.

  CHAPTER 35

  The crowd of reporters began hurling questions as soon as Tracy and Kins stepped from their car into the motel parking lot.

  “Is it the Cowboy, Detectives?”

  “Is it another dancer?”

  “Detective Crosswhite, do you have a profile of the killer?”

  As with the other murders, the room was located far from the motel office. Tracy did not immediately enter the room, in the corner of the one-story L-shaped layout. She stepped past the door to where the walkway continued to the back of the building, which led to a side street off Aurora. Kins joined her. “I don’t think he’s parking in the parking lot,” she said. “That’s why we’re not getting any hits for the license plates. I think he’s parking on adjacent streets and walking.” She called over the patrol sergeant and asked that he string crime scene tape around an area at the back of the building. “Maybe CSI can find a shoe impression, cigarette butt. Anything.”

  She and Kins signed the log and stepped inside the room. “Oh no,” Tracy said, seeing the victim. She was small-boned, with red hair. They didn’t need to check for her dance card. She had been one of the dancers they’d spoken with in the Pink Palace greenroom.

  Hours later, back in the Cowboy Room, Tracy found messages stacked up on her desk from Nolasco, Bennett Lee, and Billy Williams. A detective named Ferris had also called, from OPA. She threw that message in the garbage. The tip line was ringing nonstop, and the task force couldn’t keep up with the calls. Everyone was expressing frustration at being chained to their desks and not in the field getting things done. It would take weeks to track down all of the leads, and getting more manpower was off the table; Nolasco was carefully managing the budget while waiting for Tracy to fail.

  Someone had added a new photograph to the wall. The redhead was Gabrielle Lizotte, stage name, “French Fire.” Twenty-two years old, she’d danced for two and a half years at the Pink Palace, mostly the club on First Avenue where Tracy and Kins had interviewed her. Prior to that, to Tracy’s surprise, Lizotte had danced at the Dancing Bare, and Tracy was beating herself up that she had not asked the dancers if any of them had known Nicole Hansen. Faz and Del were running Hansen’s picture back to the Pink Palace before heading to the Dancing Bare to ask about Lizotte’s time there. Ron Mayweather was comparing a list of current Pink Palace employees to current and past Dancing Bare employees and running down the names of anyone who’d made an appointment with Lizotte online through the Pink Palace’s website. The Dancing Bare did not have a website.

  Tracy walked to Kins’s desk. When he’d finished his call, she nodded for him to follow her out of the room. Shutting the door behind themselves, they stood in the sallow light of the stairwell, surrounded by the stale smell of damp concrete. Somewhere below them, footsteps echoed on the metal stairs and a door slammed shut.

  “What’s up?” Kins asked.

  “I think she knew him. I think they all knew him.”

  “Knew him how? A customer? Nash?”

  “He’d certainly have some leverage if they said no, and he’s connected to everyone but Nicole Hansen.”

  “So is Taggart,” Kins said. “And maybe Gipson. And all the employees.”

  She agreed. Her theory only ruled out David Bankston. No one at the Pink Palace or the Dancing Bare had picked his photograph out of a montage.

  Ron Mayweather stuck his head out the door. “Tracy? Bennett Lee’s on the phone. Says he really needs to speak to you.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Mayweather closed the door.

  “What makes you think they all k
new him?” Kins said. “That thing with Angela Schreiber renting the room for longer than an hour?”

  “That started it,” she said, “but now I’m starting to wonder why would Gabrielle Lizotte go? You saw how scared she was the night we talked to her. She didn’t want to leave the greenroom.”

  “It’s worth considering,” Kins said. “But we ran the employees.”

  “Could be a regular, somebody online.”

  “He’d use an alias.”

  Tracy agreed. “At least we finally have some connection to Nicole Hansen if Gabrielle Lizotte danced there.”

  Kins exhaled loudly. “I guess it ain’t nothing.”

  They stepped back into the room. Tracy picked up her phone.

  “I need a statement for the media,” Lee said.

  “Not a good time, Bennett. I’ve got the next-up detectives bringing in all the witness statements now, and the phones are ringing off the hook here.”

  “Yeah, well, Nolasco says the Chief is pushing him for something. What about that profile?”

  “I told you I’m going to need some time to put it together, Bennett, and I’m telling you right now it will be generic.”

  “When will you have it?”

  Kins turned from his desk, phone pressed against his chest. “David Bankston. He says he’ll come in.”

  “When?” Tracy asked Kins.

  “I need it yesterday,” Lee said.

  “Today,” Kins said. “After his shift ends. I’ll call Ludlow and see if she can do a polygraph.”

  “What?” Lee asked.

  “I have to call you back, Bennett.”

  “Tracy, when can I—?”

  “I’ll call you back.” She hung up and listened as Kins confirmed the time with David Bankston for late that afternoon.

  Kins hung up. “We’re doing great aren’t we? The one suspect we can’t tie to the dancers and he’s the one willing to take a polygraph.”

  “What about reaching out to Santos about her coming to have a look at him, get her suggestions on the type of questions to ask?”

  A patrol officer answering phones turned from her desk. “Detective Crosswhite? I got a caller says she’ll only speak to you.”

  “Tell her she’ll have to speak to you.” Some callers asked to speak to Tracy because they saw her as some type of celebrity and wanted to inject themselves into her investigation. Independent forensic companies and profilers were calling to offer their services. A well-known psychic had called, certain she could assist. One guy had even called just to ask Tracy to dinner.

  “I’ll handle Bankston,” Kins said, checking his watch. “Can you take care of the statement for Lee?”

  Tracy’s cell rang. Caller ID indicated it was the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. She answered. “Mike?”

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  Tracy looked at her watch. “I’m not sure when I can get down there.”

  “I’m in the building, next door at the AFIS examiner’s office.”

  She turned to Kins, but he was back on the phone.

  “I’m on my way.”

  The patrol officer put the phone to her shoulder as Tracy started for the door. “Detective?”

  “Take a message. Tell her I’ll call her back. Get as much detail as you can.”

  Melton met Tracy in the lobby of room W-150, the office of the regional AFIS examiner, and led her to one of the labs in the back. Tracy greeted Sherri Belle, whom she knew from prior cases. Veronica Watson’s purple handbag rested on a table, smudged with traces of the gray aluminum powder used to lift fingerprints.

  “I ran the victim’s purse in the tank,” Belle said. “We got five usable prints. Three belong to the victim. Two produced a positive hit for a Bradley Taggart. Mike says you know him.”

  “Taggart was the victim’s boyfriend,” Tracy said. She could think of a hundred different reasons why his fingerprints would be on her handbag and recalled Shereece saying Taggart treated Watson like an ATM.

  Perhaps sensing that Tracy was not impressed, Melton nodded to Belle. “Tell her.”

  “The Latent Print Unit was able to match the print to a partial we lifted from the dresser in the motel room.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The detectives still on duty strained their necks trying to get a good look at Amanda Santos as Kins escorted her from the elevator through the seventh floor of the Justice Center.

  “Can’t promise anything,” he said, reaching for the coffee in the tiny kitchenette.

  “I work for the federal government,” Santos said. “Tar would taste better than some of the coffee I’ve had.”

  They took their cups to the A Team’s bull pen and sat at the table in the center, reviewing the questions that Santos had recommended the polygraph examiner, Stephanie Ludlow, ask David Bankston.

  “Let me ask you,” Kins said. “Suppose he’s guilty. Why would he agree to do a polygraph? Do these guys really think they can beat it?”

  “Some might, but most don’t think that way. They don’t beat it using schemes or techniques. They beat it because they have no remorse for what they did; they think their actions were perfectly justifiable.”

  “Then why take the test?”

  Santos shrugged. “Hard to know. Bundy couldn’t help himself. He fancied himself a lawyer, thought he was smarter than everyone, and didn’t think he’d get caught. These guys will keep scrapbooks with newspaper clippings. Some keep trophies.”

  “Jeffrey Dahmer.”

  “Exactly. Ridgway went back and had sex with the bodies after he knew he was a suspect. He even agreed to have his house searched, because he’d already had the carpet torn out and replaced and knew the detectives wouldn’t find anything. He thought it would exonerate him. Personally, I don’t think we’ll ever figure these guys out.”

  The phone on Kins’s desk rang, and he answered it. “I’ll be right down.” He hung up. “That’s him,” he said to Santos.

  Kins greeted David Bankston in the lobby and endured an uncomfortable elevator ride. Bankston stared at the metal doors.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Kins said.

  Bankston gave him a quick glance. “Sure. How long will it take?”

  “Shouldn’t be too long. How old is your daughter?”

  “She’s two.”

  “The terrible twos. That’s a joyful time for every parent.”

  “Yeah,” Bankston said, keeping his gaze fixed on the doors.

  “Did you talk to your wife?”

  “What about?”

  “Coming in here.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Didn’t mention it?”

  “No.”

  When Kins walked Bankston to the soft interrogation room, Bankston saw Santos sitting at the table and hesitated. He turned to Kins. “Where’s Detective Crosswhite?”

  “She’s involved in another matter,” Kins said.

  “They took her off the case?”

  “This is Santos,” Kins said, deliberately avoiding the use of the term ‘agent.’” Santos had come to the door. She offered her hand, but Bankston turned again to Kins. “I thought I was meeting with Detective Crosswhite.”

  “Was there something in particular you wanted to tell Detective Crosswhite?” Kins asked.

  “She asked about the rope, whether we can track the shipments.”

  “Did you find something out?” Kins asked, though he already knew the answer, because Mayweather had been going through the store’s inventory and had been complaining it was like trying to find an honest man in Congress. Mayweather had also gone through Bankston’s purchases using his employee discount, which did not reveal polypropylene rope.

  When Bankston didn’t immediately answer, Kins said, “Why don’t we sit down?” For a moment Bankston looked uncertain. Then he walked in, and they sat at a round table.

  “What did you find?” Kins asked.

  “What?”

  “About the shipments, what did you
find?”

  “They can track the inventory. They use bar codes. They can track where the inventory is shipped, to which store. Once the shipment arrives, it’s inventoried at that store, which means they can track sales from that store.”

  “But only if the person used a credit card,” Kins said.

  “Not necessarily. They have these rewards programs people can sign up for. They get credits even if they use cash. But they have to provide a phone number.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Kins said. They had, but doubted the Cowboy was providing a phone number. “That’s a good tip.”

  Bankston nodded. “And I was thinking, you know, that the stores have cameras all over the place, so you could maybe go through the videos, find out if someone was buying rope on the day that the women were killed.”

  Kins nodded and looked to Santos. “Another good suggestion. I can tell you were at the Academy. You think like a cop.”

  “The police academy?” Santos asked.

  “David was a recruit before he joined the Army,” Kins said, noting that Bankston was rubbing his hands on his thighs.

  “Is that right?” Santos said. “Why did you decide not to become a police officer?”

  Bankston directed his answer to Kins. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “Why was that?” Santos knew. The answer was in Bankston’s file. Kins wondered if she was pushing him to see how quickly Bankston might anger.

  “I messed up the physical.” He looked to Kins. “So how long before the examiner is ready?”

  “The Academy can be rough,” Santos said. “How many times did you try?”

  Bankston sat back, eyes focused on the floor. “Just once. I figured no point trying again.” Again he looked to Kins. “How do we start?”

  “The examiner is getting the room ready. It shouldn’t be long.”

  Bankston looked to Santos. “You’re not the examiner?”

  “No.”

  “The room’s down the hall,” Kins said. “Let me go over the procedure while we’re waiting, David. Are you nervous?”

  “Why?”

  “Stressful situation,” Kins said. “It would be natural to be a little nervous.”