Dead Wrong

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Cronin was the one who'd stalked the Pattons, determined to have revenge for what he claimed Chief Ed Patton had done to his family.

  "Sure. Just a day or two ago I was telling…someone about my bike being set on fire."

  His father didn't miss the hesitation, but he didn't comment, either. "We had to figure out who could have reason to hate any of the Pattons. Thanks to your grandfather, we found plenty of folks.

  "For example. A woman told us about this idiot of a boyfriend of hers who came up with a scheme to get her back after she'd booted him. He wanted to heroically rescue her, so he decided to torch her place, then 'happen' to be passing and dash in. She heard him outside and called 911. She knows Ed Patton got there in plenty of time to see the boyfriend pouring gasoline all over the back porch of her place. She saw Patton sneak around the side of her house. Long pause. He apparently didn't do a damn thing to stop the fool from lighting a match. Burned himself to a crisp, of course. She came out and ol' Ed nodded at the guy and said, 'Can you identify him?' She's puking because the guy is just melting on her lawn—you can imagine what that smelled like—and Ed laughs and says, 'Guess you can't recognize him now, can you?' That story pretty well summed him up."

  "My God."

  Jack's face hardened. "What I didn't know, back before your mom took off, was that Ed would start to hanker to see someone hurt, and, damn, he had three girls he'd terrified into silence. Meg always made excuses for a broken arm or the bruises or the painful way she'd hold herself for days on end. Me, I bought it hook, line and sinker."

  "They never told anyone."

  "Nope. That's not uncommon. Their mother had taken off, and they didn't have anyone else. Besides…Ed Patton was a hero! Nowadays, he'd be kicked off the force for any one of the things he did, but then people just thought he was tough on crime. Only pansies had sympathy for the criminals. With their dad the police chief, who was going to believe three girls?"

  Will knew some of this history, but it had never been presented so bluntly to him before. He imagined his mother sixteen years old and pregnant, knowing if she told her father he wouldn't just be angry and disappointed, he would beat her bloody. Even that, she'd always said, wasn't why she ran; she ran because what scared her most was the idea of him doing to her child what he'd done to her and her sisters. Worse yet, influencing him to grow up to become the same kind of man her father was.

  It hadn't been herself she was protecting. It was him.

  Slowly, he said, "Mom raised me knowing that I was the most important thing in the world to her, that she'd do anything for me."

  Brown eyes somber, his father let the silence ride.

  "I got here to Elk Springs, and suddenly I had you, too, trying hard to make up for all those years when I didn't have a father. And there were your parents, Aunt Abby, Aunt Renee, Uncle Daniel teaching me to ride his cutting horses. Except for the little hitch when Mom ignored me long enough to fall in love with Scott, I felt like a prince. Everybody was so set on enfolding me in the family, giving me every experience I'd never had." He shook his head.

  "Are you saying we spoiled you?"

  He met his father's eyes. "I'm saying somewhere along the way I got arrogant. I started thinking the world revolved around me."

  The ruts he'd noticed earlier in his father's face deepened. "You were a good kid."

  "Sure I was. Because everything went my way."

  His father mulled that over, sizing Will up. "Is this by way of being an apology?"

  Will shifted in his seat. "I was working up to it."

  "Have you said any of this to your mother?"

  "That's a little harder."

  "She's the one who needs to hear it most." Jack took a long swallow of coffee, then shifted gears. "I hear you dated Karin Kristensen, too. Will, I'm sorry."

  Will felt his face stiffen. "Dating me was apparently the biggest mistake those women ever made."

  "It may have nothing to do with you."

  He lifted his cup and swallowed in turn, needing the moment to collect himself. "What are the odds of that?"

  "Meg has tied the three murders together."

  "I know she's been talking…"

  "Detective Giallombardo noticed in the report from Gillian's autopsy that pubic hair identified as being from three men were found on her body. Somehow we all got distracted from that at the time."

  "Three?" he repeated, dazed.

  "I suppose nobody wanted to say anything to you. Ricky Mendoza's attorney should have jumped on those extra hairs."

  Acceptance of the probability that Mendoza in fact hadn't killed Gilly had been seeping into Will's mind. He hadn't let himself dwell on it yet, because that would take him places he didn't want to go. He'd have to believe things about Gilly that came hard. But this…

  "What if there were two rapists?"

  Pity softened Jack Murray's craggy face. "Do you believe that?"

  Will bent his head and looked at his hands, loosely clasped around the mug. No. God help him, he didn't believe Ricky Mendoza had had a confederate. The savage assault and the staging of the body were too personal. "No."

  "They've been talking to you?"

  "Mostly Trina. Detective Giallombardo," he amended.

  "She must be about your age," his father said thoughtfully.

  "A couple of years younger. I remember her from high school."

  "Is she sharp?"

  Will gave a rueful laugh. "You know, she reminds me of Mom. With a little of Aunt Abby thrown in. She sees right through me and doesn't hesitate to offer her considered opinion, even if it punctures my ego."

  He felt a small jolt, thinking that. Without actually articulating it, he'd spent a lifetime looking for a woman as gutsy as his mother, a woman who would sacrifice everything for someone she loved. Until now, he'd never been able to say those words: She reminds me of my mother.

  Unaware of what was going through Will's head, his father laughed. "Abby still not speaking to you?"

  "Not a word in damn near six years."

  "Ben Shea is a braver man than I am."

  "No shit," Will agreed.

  The two men laughed together.

  Jack rolled his shoulders and stretched. "Tell you what, son. Where it comes to Abby, 'I'm sorry' are the magic words."

  All amusement fled. Will heard the gravel in his voice. "What about Mom? I said things that strike me now as unforgivable. After everything she did for me…" His throat closed. It was a minute before he could go on. "I can't take those words back."

  "No, you can't." For the first time in longer than Will could remember, his father's eyes were kind. "But wishing you could, that's a start."

  A start, Will thought with a pang. That's all he asked. The easing of that reserve he saw on both his parents' faces when he was around. The pain in his mother's eyes muted.

  A start would be good enough.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LED BY LIEUTENANT PATTON, half the major case squad spent the next two days conducting interviews of Will Patton's classmates. They asked many of the same questions Trina had put to Will and came up with more names.

  Meantime, Trina hunched by the hour over her computer keyboard, courting eyestrain as she searched DMV, criminal and bankruptcy records, voter registration, firearm licenses and credit reports, laying bare the lives of every male who fell within their circle of interest.

  She also had the job of picking up the phone and leaving messages for Will, saying, "Do you remember a Miles Smith?" Or Terry Gammel, or Alan King, or Bob Linn?

  Four or five times a day, she heard his voice, either when he answered or on message. He had a distinct voice, deep, resonant, yet just a little gritty. She could imagine how compelling it would be during summations in court.

  And damn it, every time she heard it, she had flashbacks.

  I really appreciate you staying tonight. The walls were closing in. Then, invariably, her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch when she heard him say, Maybe that's why I lik
e you, just before he bent his head to kiss her cheek.

  Why had he done that? Because he thought they were getting to be friends? Or—worse yet—he saw her as sister material?

  But then she'd remember the way she would occasionally catch his gaze lowering to her breasts or lingering on her mouth. Had she been imagining things?

  She was getting really, really tired of reliving the most exciting kiss of her life. Because it was also the most boring. He'd kissed her on the cheek, for Pete's sake! She'd have scared him to death if she'd turned her head and their lips had brushed.

  Forget it, she'd order herself, and almost succeed.

  Until she had to call him again.

  He had pulled his own yearbooks out of storage and she knew he was looking up the schoolmates that she asked him about, hoping pictures would stir memories. When he called her back, he would admit that he had found the guy's face in a football team photo, but couldn't remember him.

  "Wasn't Bob Linn a couple of years behind me?"

  "One."

  He muttered something she took as a profanity. Pages fluttered. "I don't know," he said doubtfully, as he evidently studied the class photo. Then, "How can someone I don't even remember hate me?"

  "Because you never noticed him?" She closed tired eyes. "We're reaching, I know."

  Why did you kiss me? she begged silently.

  "Sorry to keep bothering you," she said, and made herself focus on her computer monitor instead of a stupidly juvenile crush that should have died a natural death years ago.

  Because she was careful, she started her computer search with friends of Will's who she knew were in town, whether they were likely candidates or not.

  Vince Baker had been in graduate school at the University of Washington when Gillian Pappas was murdered. The spring break did not coincide with Willamette College's. After all these years, Trina had no way of verifying his actual attendance that week, but considered the possibility that he'd happened to be cutting a week's class unlikely. Once he'd earned his CPA, he and Maria had come home to Elk Springs where he'd gone to work for Juanita Butte Ski Area. Five years ago, he went into business for himself and did taxes and books for local businesses. It appeared he was prospering. He and Maria had bought a house three years ago on the outskirts of town in a development Trina knew to be upscale. He and Maria owned a red Subaru Legacy and a silver Honda Civic. He just didn't fit the profile.

  She was able quickly to verify that Justin Hill had in fact competed in a freestyle World Cup skiing event in Bad Gastein, Austria, the day after Amy Owen was murdered. She crossed off his name.

  Ditto Travis Booth, who had not only competed but won a downhill race the week of Gillian's murder. A favorite of the European press corps, he'd been photographed repeatedly that week at Val d'Isere, seemingly romancing a different woman every night.

  She discovered that Billy Landon had been arrested at a Gay Pride parade in Portland for assaulting a protester representing the Christian right. Voter rolls showed him resident in Portland for the past seven years. She called his parents without identifying herself and said, "Hi, I heard Billy is home," only to be told, "I'm sorry, he doesn't get over here much. We went over to see him for Christmas. Can I tell him who called?" Trina crossed him off her list.

  Dirk Whittaker had lived here in Elk Springs since graduating from high school. His work record was spotty, and he and Marcie had been in credit counseling. He drove a Ford Explorer SUV, dark green. Worth talking to again, Trina noted.

  Jimmy McCartin proved to be more interesting. To begin with, he had a permit for a concealed weapon. He'd changed real estate firms three times—she made a note to ask him why. Most intriguingly, he'd worked in Beaverton outside of Portland and in Astoria, apparently returning home to Elk Springs only the previous summer. She believed they'd find the killer had left Elk Springs during the six years since Gillian Pappas's murder and recently returned, so finding that McCartin had done just that was the equivalent of waving a red flag. She couldn't verify whether he'd been in Elk Springs when Gillian was murdered, but she knew he hadn't gotten his real estate license until that summer. Living at home while he studied for it—that made sense. Vehicle: a brand-new black Dodge Durango SLT 4X4. Made for the treacherous winter conditions—and conveniently sized for hauling bodies. At the time of Gillian's murder, he'd owned a ten-year-old Ford Escort, but interestingly enough his parents lived less than a quarter mile from the park where her body was found. No criminal record surfaced, but that didn't stop Trina from starring his name.

  She'd interviewed Gavin Husby after Karin's murder, and found him helpful but…odd. Antsy. She found a divorce record first, in September of the previous year, from a Jennifer Ann Husby who asked for and was granted the right to have her maiden name of Ryan restored. Two domestic disturbance calls were recorded in the month preceding the divorce filing. In both cases he'd knocked the wife around. He served thirty days in the county jail for the second offense. It was while he was in jail that she filed for divorce and apparently packed up and left Elk Springs. Trina wondered how long he'd been married.

  Gavin had apparently never bothered to register to vote. DMV records showed him possessing a valid Oregon state driver's license with an Elk Springs address at the time of Gillian Pappas's murder, but shortly thereafter it expired without being renewed. Three years ago, he acquired a new Oregon license, showing an address in Portland. A year later he was in Linn County. A year after that, in Salem. He'd returned to Elk Springs sometime last spring or summer. About the same time as Jimmy McCartin, Trina mused.

  She dug deeper and found he'd lived in Washington State during the years immediately following Gillian's murder. Bellingham, up near the Canadian border, then Seattle for perhaps a year, and finally Vancouver across the Columbia River from Portland, where he moved next.

  He changed jobs at least once a year, sometimes twice, it appeared. Apparently car dealerships were always happy to snap up an experienced salesman. He always drove brand-new vehicles, traded in almost as often as he changed jobs. However, he had filed for bankruptcy when he was in Linn County. Either no one was buying cars, or he wasn't doing a very good job selling them.

  Current vehicle: a Chevrolet Duramax Diesel 4X4 crew cab. She rocked back in her chair, wondering what the payments were on it. She bet it had cost darn near $40,000. And diesel—it might have the deep-throated engine Luella Bailey had described hearing the night of Amy's murder.

  Oh, yeah, Gavin Husby deserved further investigation.

  While she was still mulling over Gavin's history, Jerry Dixon strode into the squad room, shedding outer clothing as he came. One of the detectives the lieutenant had reassigned to work on the Kristensen and Owen murders, Jerry was nearing retirement. Thick through the middle, he had skinny legs, short salt-and-pepper hair surrounding a bald pate, and ears that stuck out enough to earn him the nickname "Dumbo" Dixon.

  "Made a woman cry," he announced.

  "Who?" Trina asked.

  "Marcie Whittaker." He rolled his chair over to Trina's desk. "Turns out she doesn't actually know where her husband was the night of either murder. Works at a tire place. According to her, he claims he was helping someone rebuild an engine. She's afraid he's having an affair."

  "Did you talk to him?"

  "No, I figured I'd nail him right after work. The garage doors are open. He's definitely there."

  "Good." Trina nodded. "My gut feeling is, Dirk Whittaker isn't smart enough to have committed these murders. Our guy understands fingerprints and trace evidence."

  "Well, Dirk obviously doesn't understand women." Jerry cackled at his own wit. "But maybe he watches CSI and Law and Order."

  "Possible," she conceded. "In the meantime, do you want to come with me to talk to Gavin Husby?"

  "To offer a second opinion, or because you want back up?"

  "Both." She went off-line. "If there's time, we can talk to Jimmy McCartin, too. They're my two current favorites."

  She bra
ced herself for him to ask whether Lieutenant Patton had okayed her decision to go talk to Gavin. To her faint surprise, he didn't. He only grinned at her, face crinkling and giving him the look of a gnome. "I'm your man."

  The one good thing about this investigation was that she felt herself growing more confident by the day. When she and Lieutenant Patton closed themselves in the lieutenant's office to talk about what they'd found and where to go with it, Trina had quit hesitating before expressing her opinion or even contradicting her superior. She was starting to think she was good at this. That she didn't have to ask permission to run with an idea.

  Gavin Husby's apartment complex was a poor twin to hers: stucco and brick instead of clapboard siding and brick, but also boasting covered parking and, according to the For Rent sign, a laundry room. His huge, gleaming pickup truck with a sleek black canopy didn't belong here. The few other vehicles here midday were ten years old or more. She saw an old white Dodge Caravan with clear tape covering a broken taillight, a rusting Chevy half-ton with no tailgate and a Mercury Cougar with a cracked windshield and one flat tire.

  An unpleasant odor and the shriek of an unhappy toddler came from behind the door of the apartment below his. A woman's voice screamed at the kid, who only cried harder. Trina saw Jerry shaking his head.

  Trina would have sworn the same kid was crying and the same mother yelling as the last time she was here. Some of her enthusiasm for Gavin as serial killer evaporated. What would he do, bring victims home, then carry their bodies back out to his truck? These walls were obviously thin. The back of his pickup? Maybe. She'd noted the tinted windows. But the killer had been so careful not to leave trace evidence, would he really commit his crimes in his own vehicle, where the thrashing victim was bound to leave hair, blood and fingerprints? And even then, where would he park to be sure he wouldn't be interrupted?

  She rang the bell, and Gavin came to the door after a minute. Barefoot, he wore low-slung, baggy jeans and a thin gray ribbed tank top that bared stringy muscles. "Hey. Detective Giallombardo is back."