In the Clearing (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 3)

by Robert Dugoni

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Human Resources,” Tracy said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tiffany Gallentine had become Tiffany Martin, a director of business development at Microsoft, and Tracy heard the unease in Martin’s voice when she introduced herself on the telephone as a Seattle detective—she left out the word “homicide”—and asked for a few moments of Martin’s time.

  “What’s this about?” Martin had asked.

  “I have a few questions about your late husband, Darren Gallentine.”

  “What?” Martin sounded both relieved and confused, and maybe a bit irritated. No doubt her initial concern upon hearing the words “Seattle Police” and “detective” had been for her current husband and/or her daughters. Still, getting a call out of the blue from a detective wanting to talk about your husband who committed suicide was not likely at the top of anyone’s list of fun things to do. “My husband shot himself fifteen years ago.”

  “I understand the topic is probably painful, Mrs. Martin, and it isn’t my intent to inflict any undue pain, but I have some questions that might be relevant to a matter I’m looking into in Klickitat County.”

  “I don’t understand how that could be. My husband shot himself in our home in Issaquah.” Martin’s tone was a mix of relief and befuddlement.

  Tracy was honest. “I’m in the initial stages of an investigation and was hoping for just a few minutes of your time.”

  This was the moment people found an excuse to say “Now is not a good time,” but Tracy was betting Martin—a professional woman likely used to difficult conversations and with limited free time—would prefer to rip off the Band-Aid and get the conversation over with rather than spend an afternoon or day stewing about it.

  “I have a few minutes at three thirty,” she said. “After that, I’m on conference calls the rest of the afternoon, and I leave tomorrow on a business trip.”

  Martin’s office was located in one of the buildings on the company’s West Campus in Redmond. After stopping at the visitor center for a map and directions, Tracy parked in a designated visitor’s area and hurried along a footpath. She had never been to Microsoft headquarters, a sprawling complex of buildings and acreage that very much reminded her of college, with fountains, a lake, grass playing fields, and young people walking around dressed in jeans and tennis shoes and carrying backpacks.

  Tiffany Martin was not so casual. Dressed in cream slacks and a gold top, she met Tracy in a glass-and-concrete lobby. Though she had to be at least midfifties, Martin’s hairstyle and makeup made her look younger.

  She handed Tracy a visitor’s pass and said, “You need that to get in.” She then escorted Tracy into the building as quickly as if she were trying to get a crazy relative out of public view.

  Martin chose a conference room with a modern theme, not surprising for a technology company whose success depended on being forward-thinking. The walls were white and covered with what looked to be Japanese prints, the carpet a utilitarian gray. Martin pulled out a chair at the glass conference table, but Tracy walked to the windows with a view of the heart of campus.

  “I wouldn’t get any work done with all these distractions.”

  “You learn to tune them out,” Martin said in a crisp tone. “And you don’t have a lot of free time.”

  Tracy had not been looking for an answer. She was hoping small talk might help Martin relax. Her eyes and mouth were pinched so tight Tracy thought something might pop.

  “Must be nice to have it available, though,” Tracy said.

  “It helps people to be more efficient,” Martin said, joining Tracy at the window.

  “Tell that to my bosses. Our amenities are a decade-old coffeemaker.”

  “I have to tell you I was dismayed to get your phone call, Detective. I don’t see how Darren’s death could have anything to do with anything.”

  “I understand.” Tracy rolled back one of the black leather chairs from the table, and the two women sat. “And I’m sorry to bring up a difficult topic.”

  Martin favored silver and gold bracelets that rattled each time she moved her arm or lowered it to the glass table. “It was a long time ago, Detective,” she said. “But you never really move on from something like that. You try, but there are always reminders.”

  “How long were you married?” Tracy asked, hoping to put Martin more at ease by asking a simple question.

  “Twenty-one years.”

  “You met in college?”

  “At the University of Washington; we were in the engineering department together.”

  Martin’s answers continued to be short and direct. Tracy decided to cut to the chase. “It appears your husband had a good job at Boeing. You have a good career here. I’m guessing from your address at the time that you had a nice home.”

  “Darren had demons,” Martin said, anticipating where Tracy was going. “I wasn’t aware of them when we got married, and he kept them in check during the early years of our marriage.”

  “What kind of demons?”

  “He didn’t sleep well, for one.” She paused. “He didn’t sleep. He didn’t like to sleep. He stayed up late, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to get up again at three. Three to four hours was a good night for him. Eventually, that takes its toll.”

  “Do you know why he couldn’t sleep?”

  “He said he just didn’t need that much.”

  “But you believe there was something more to it?”

  “He suffered nightmares. He’d wake me moaning and thrashing. When I’d wake him, he’d be in a lather of sweat, trying to catch his breath. It became progressively worse.”

  “I noted from his obituary that he worked at Boeing until 1997.”

  “They laid him off.” She shrugged. “He did it to himself. He became self-destructive. He started drinking at night to help himself fall asleep. Then he started drinking at lunch. There were a few incidents at work—inappropriate comments to his colleagues. I had to go pick him up several times. I finally told him I wouldn’t raise our children in that environment. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t get help.”

  “Did he?”

  “He went to counseling, but given the outcome, I guess you can conclude he never got the help he needed.”

  “Did he ever discuss what the nightmares were about?”

  She shook her head. “Not with me. He said he didn’t know. He said when he woke up he couldn’t remember anything.”

  “But you said they got progressively worse?”

  “Just judging from his reactions when he woke. I don’t know what they were about.”

  “When did they start?”

  Martin took a moment, bracelets rattling as she raised her hand and ran her index and middle finger across her bottom lip. “Not long after our first daughter was born. I spoke to his counselor about it once, after Darren was gone. She said that things from childhood could be triggered by the birth of a child. Abandonment issues, for instance . . . or abuse.”

  “Did the counselor say what it might have been with respect to your husband?”

  “No. And at that point I really didn’t want to know.”

  “How old were your daughters when your husband took his life?”

  “Rebecca was seventeen. Rachel was fourteen.”

  “And you’ve never found out why?”

  “You mean other than depression and substance abuse?”

  “Did you ever ask to see his counseling records?”

  She sighed. “Why? What would be the point?”

  “To see if he ever said what was troubling him, what was keeping him awake at night, why he drank?”

  Martin continued to rub her lower lip. “Why would I want to know?” she said, voice and demeanor soft, but her eyes almost challenging Tracy to give her a reason. “What good would come from knowing, if it was anything?”

  “You’d have an answer.”

  “Maybe not an answer we want.”

  “I und
erstand—”

  “No.” Martin raised a hand. Her blue eyes bore into Tracy. She sounded tired. “I don’t think you do, Detective. No offense, but I’ve had a lot of people over the years tell me that, and until you’ve been through it, you have very little credibility making that statement.”

  “My sister was murdered when she was eighteen. I was twenty-two. Two years later, my father, overcome with grief, shot himself.” She paused just a moment. Her intent was not to make Tiffany Martin feel bad, but to find common ground. “I went twenty years not knowing what happened to my sister. Finding the truth was painful. Not knowing the truth was more painful.”

  Martin caught her breath and looked out the window, seemingly on the verge of tears. She turned back to Tracy. “I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t assume I’m the only person who’s been through this.”

  “Don’t be sorry; you couldn’t have known.”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it? We don’t know. Do you know how many people came up to me after and told me they’d lost someone they loved to suicide?”

  “A lot,” Tracy said. “Too many.”

  Martin nodded. Tracy gave her the moment. “You said this has something to do with an investigation?”

  “It might,” Tracy said. “I really don’t know yet.”

  “What’s the investigation about?”

  Tracy saw no way to soften the facts. “A seventeen-year-old girl who went to the same high school as your husband went missing in 1976—”

  “Oh God.” Martin dropped her head into her hands. “You think he killed her? Is that what his nightmares were about?” It struck Tracy that Martin had to have thought about what had troubled her husband, or at least speculated.

  “No. No, I can’t say that. Mrs. Martin, this is really preliminary. The sheriff’s office concluded that the girl committed suicide.”

  “And?”

  “With advances in technology, we can review old cases in ways that weren’t possible in 1976. We can evaluate the evidence differently. That’s all I’m doing at this point.”

  “And does the evidence indicate she didn’t commit suicide?”

  “Some experts think that it might.”

  “And you think Darren might have had something to do with it?”

  “Let me back up. The case was investigated by a young deputy sheriff. He left behind a file. In that file were a couple of articles and a picture of your late husband with some of his classmates.”

  “What was the picture of?”

  “Your husband and his teammates in their football uniforms.”

  “Why would that be in the file?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here, to see if there’s a reason.”

  “Did you ask the deputy?”

  “He’s dead. I’m trying to follow up on what he left behind. Your husband’s name was one of the names I ran through our computers. That’s all it is at this point.” Tracy didn’t tell Martin that she was the low-hanging fruit because she was local. She tried to quickly get the interview back on track. “Did your husband visit Stoneridge often?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Never?”

  “I don’t recall a single time.”

  “Were his parents still living there while you were married?”

  “Until they died.”

  “And he never expressed a desire to go and visit?”

  “We had holidays at our house in Issaquah. Our home was bigger and could better accommodate the family. They could spend the night. His parents’ house wouldn’t have fit everyone. They were simple people. His father worked for city maintenance. They liked to come up here and see the kids.”

  “What about to visit his high school friends? Did your husband ever see any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever meet them?”

  “He said he wasn’t close to any of them.”

  “So he didn’t communicate with any of them?”

  “I’d never met them.”

  “What about reunions?”

  “He never went.”

  Tracy found all of this odd, given that Sam Goldman had described Gallentine as one of the four conquering heroes who would have remained a minor celebrity in his hometown. In her experience, things like winning championships also could forge lifelong friendships.

  “Did your husband ever mention to you that he won the state football championship his senior year?”

  Martin’s face was blank. “I knew he played football. He never said anything about winning a state championship.”

  “Does it strike you as odd that he wouldn’t mention that?”

  “I don’t know. Not really. Sports weren’t really Darren’s thing. I mean, he liked to watch, go to an occasional game, but he wasn’t a fanatic.”

  Tracy thought about that a second, which was a mistake, because it gave Martin a chance to look at the clock on the wall. “I need to go,” she said, standing quickly. “I have a conference call.”

  “I’m assuming you were the personal representative of your husband’s estate,” Tracy said.

  “I was.”

  “You would have access to his counseling records.”

  Martin shook her head. “I’m not going there, Detective.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t have to. If you could just get them—”

  “For what—to possibly ruin my children’s recollection of their father more than it’s already been ruined? You don’t even know if there’s a connection. I’m not going to do that to my kids and grandchildren without good reason. Darren’s death was traumatic for them. They were just kids. I’m not taking them back there.”

  Tracy was down to her final argument. “There’s another family to think about, Mrs. Martin. A family who didn’t get to see their daughter grow up, a family who is still without all the answers.”

  “They’ll have to find their own closure, Detective, just like we did. It’s a horrible thing, and I’m sorry, but I won’t do that to my daughters and to my grandchildren. Now, I’m sorry, but I’m out of time. I’ll walk you out.”

  Tracy left Martin a business card and drove back to the Justice Center. Foremost on Tracy’s mind was Martin’s statement that Darren Gallentine had never mentioned winning the state football championship, though they’d met just a few years after that historic feat, and at a time when Tracy would have thought it would remain a bragging point in any young, testosterone-driven athlete’s life. Darren Gallentine wanted no part of it, apparently, and he wanted no part of Stoneridge, not even to visit his parents, and despite having departed a hero. Darren Gallentine’s mind seemed to have no room for glory-days reminiscing, too cluttered with whatever nightmares tormented his sleep, made him turn to the bottle, and eventually led him to take his own life. Tracy wondered if those nightmares had to do with what happened to Kimi Kanasket.

  Tracy’s cell phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. Caller ID indicated it was Michael Melton at the crime lab.

  “I just sent you my report,” he said. “I thought I’d give you the Reader’s Digest version.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “The tire that made those impressions was a B.F. Goodrich 35x12.50R15,” Melton said. “It was an all-terrain tire popular back then for trucks and off-road vehicles, so there were millions in circulation. Now, you want the bad news?”

  “I thought that was the bad news. Let me guess—the make and model of the tire on the white truck in the photographs is different than the tires that made the impression,” Tracy said.

  “We were able to work with the negatives you provided for the truck,” Melton said, “but I could only get a partial on the model, nothing on the make.”

  “What can you tell from the partial?”

  “The size of the tire on the truck matches the size of the tire that made the impression, but there wasn’t enough to determine the make or the model.”

  “So we don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could be m
ore definitive.”

  Kins turned from his computer the moment Tracy stepped into the bull pen, stood, and handed her two sheets of paper.

  “Bingo,” he said, pointing to the first of two e-mails. “Angela Collins was talking to a real estate agent about selling the house. He e-mailed her appraisals.”

  “When was this?” Tracy asked, searching for the date of the e-mail.

  “The same week she bought a gun.”

  “Did you talk to this guy?”

  “Just got off the phone with him; he says she asked for an appraisal and said she was thinking of selling first thing after the holidays. That would have been within days of the trial date,” Kins said.

  “Maybe before the divorce was even final,” Tracy said. “I knew she was fixing it up to sell.”

  “Which would have violated the agreement.”

  “But only if Tim Collins was still alive. This could show premeditation.”

  “Maybe,” Kins said. “I’m going to take a drive over there. I want to lock this guy down. You want to go with me?”

  Tracy’s cell phone rang. “Hang on.” She fished through her purse and retrieved her phone. Caller ID indicated Jenny Almond.

  “You’re probably calling for an update,” Tracy said.

  “Actually, to give you some news,” Jenny said. “I just heard through the grapevine that Earl Kanasket is in the hospital.”

  Jenny wouldn’t be calling to tell her Earl had a stomachache. “What happened?”

  “I heard he had a seizure. The son took him in, but apparently against Earl’s wishes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called the hospital and spoke with his doctors.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “He’s breathing on his own now, but he’s refusing any extraordinary lifesaving measures. Doctor said Earl told them he’s prepared to leave this world and be with his wife and daughter.”

  Tracy thought of Élan Kanasket saying that his mother had gone to her grave not knowing what had happened to Kimi, and his prediction that his father would do so as well. She didn’t much care about proving Élan wrong; she cared more about putting Kimi to rest for Earl while he was still breathing. The window to do that had just narrowed significantly.