Fixed in Fear (4 page)

“Sam Adelsburg, age forty-eight, resided right here in Enumclaw.” Rita Willers read the list of victims from the folder in front of her. “Owner of Tall Oaks Lodge and spiritual guide for the sweat lodge ceremony. Then there's Carlton Smydon, sixty. Lived in Seattle, no known occupation. Oscar Vargas, age thirty-one. Recently released following seven months in Pierce County jail for narcotics possession. Last known address was in South Tacoma. Monica Doyenne was a thirty-six-year-old elementary school teacher from Leavenworth. According to the folks at the lodge, she shared a room with thirty-eight-year-old Audrey Moe. Audrey was also a teacher at the same school and died alongside her colleague.” Chief Willers closed the file and looked up toward Mort. “You got any initial thoughts on what may have happened out there in that field?”

“I know what I've read in the papers and what you've told me just now. I'm here to learn and to help any way I can.”

“No hunches at all?” she asked. “No place your gut tells you to look first?”

“Vargas had a drug past. From what I've read, the scene was brutal.”

Rita Willers raised an eyebrow. “You've been to mass murder scenes that
weren't
?”

Mort felt a tug of embarrassment at his careless remark. “What I meant to say is people with drug involvement leave themselves open to dangers that are just part of doing business. Turf, money, distribution, you name it. Competition can get fierce. Vendettas can be ugly.”

“The kind of ugly we saw at the sweat lodge. So you'd start with Oscar Vargas?”

Mort nodded. “Good a place as any, I'd say.”

Rita Willers stared at him for several seconds. “I expect this department to be a full and equal participant in this investigation.” The chief's tone suggested she wasn't sure she could trust him. “If you're harboring any ideas of turning Enumclaw into some running gag back at the Seattle PD, you can turn around now. This isn't Mayberry and I'm not Barney Fife. I hold no illusions about you being Eliot Ness, either.”

Mort understood Rita's sensitivity about her town. Sleepy Enumclaw's last brush with notoriety was back in 2005 when Kenneth “Mr. Hands” Pinyan made headlines when he died after receiving anal sex from a horse. Mort had driven through this small town often enough over the years, but he'd never met Enumclaw's chief of police before today. He was certain any woman who could rise to the rank of chief while still in her early forties wouldn't be impressed by his big-city credentials. Mort was equally sure Rita's five-three, 110-pound frame didn't help her much in the ultramasculine world of police work. Her reputation among King County law enforcement was sterling. She'd be a partner he could count on. They had five people dead in a spiritual exercise gone bad. The chief would naturally have her radar up for anyone looking to turn this into tabloid fodder.

“You were expecting someone from Sheriff Barton's team. I get that,” Mort told her. “But I asked for this assignment. I've worked with jurisdictions outside Seattle before. I could give you names if you want to call and learn how I operate on someone else's turf.”

Chief Willers declined the offer. “I know your work, Detective Grant. Your cases are big and I read the papers. I know you're a good cop.” She lifted her chin and stared at him. “What I don't understand is why
you
? Why
now
? Things so slow in Seattle you need to come here to make headlines?”

Mort let the dig pass. “I've got a great team handling things in Seattle. I have a personal interest in this case. I'd appreciate the opportunity to lend a hand.”

“You connected to one of the victims?”

Mort pointed to a chair and asked if he could sit. She nodded her permission. “A friend of mine is related by marriage to a man killed in the sweat lodge. His late wife's uncle. They were close. He asked me to see what I could do to help find the killers.”

Chief Willers reached for her pen. “Killers? What makes you sure we're looking for more than one?”

She was testing him. He'd do the same thing if he was in her shoes. “Five people in a tight space. That's a lot of arms and legs defending against whatever was coming at them. No way one guy takes down five. There're two assailants at least.”

Willers nodded. “You said
guys.
You certain we're not looking for a couple of women?”

“Like I said. Five folks facing a threat like that in a tight space are gonna put up a fight. I understand the owner of the lodge—one of the victims—goes by the name Tall Oak. And from the way my friend describes his wife's uncle, he wasn't exactly small, either. No offense intended, but I don't see women overpowering five frantic people.”

“No offense taken.” Rita Willers reopened the file on her desk. “Which victim was your friend's family?”

“Carlton Smydon.”

Rita ran her eyes down the list of victims. “The black guy?”

“He has a house in Seattle. Carlton was raised here. He travels a lot but visits several times a year.”

“Fits with the lodge's ID,” Rita said. “They had him checking in with a well-stamped passport. Your friend from around here, too?”

Mort nodded. “He's a professor at Seattle University. L. Jackson Clark.”

Chief Willers's eyebrows shot up. “The philosopher guy?
That
L. Jackson Clark?”

Mort sometimes had to remind himself his longtime friend was famous. “That's the one. He prefers to be called Larry. And it's more religious studies than philosophy.” Mort shrugged. “Personally I don't get the difference, but he seems to make a big stink about getting it right.”

“I've seen him on television a couple of times.
Charlie Rose.
” Rita Willers smiled and Mort caught a glimpse of a soft loveliness she needed to conceal on the job. “Barbara Walters once. I liked him. He made a lot of sense. Always promised myself I'd read his books one day, but I never seem to find the time.” Her smile ended and she was again all business. “Your friend pull some strings to get you assigned?”

“He asked me to do what I could to find out what happened. Carlton Smydon was his only link to his late wife.”

Chief Willers was silent for a moment. Mort got the impression he was on a job interview and the boss was trying to decide whether to make him an offer. She slapped the folder shut and tossed it to him. “Let's get started,” she said.

In less than ten minutes Mort knew everything she had on the killings.

“So you've identified the five bodies and came up short on the missing two.” Mort flipped through the file. “They were registered at the lodge as Sam and Ernie Andrews.”

Rita nodded. “Said they were brothers out of Moses Lake. But they weren't asked for any ID when they checked in so there's no way of knowing where they're actually from.”

“Yet Carlton Smydon was asked to produce his passport.” Mort let the insinuation hang in the air.

“My guess is the desk clerk was new on the job.” The look in Rita's eye warned she wasn't interested in being distracted by any racial inferences.

“What did you learn from Moses Lake?” Mort asked.

“What you'd expect. There's a few Andrews families. But no Sam or Ernie. No one matching their description.”

Mort handed her back the file but asked for his own copy. “So we know there were at least two bad guys. Any sign of a vehicle up at the sweat lodge?”

Rita shook her head. “The site's pretty remote. Only tracks in came from the van the resort used to drive the participants up there. It's September. Ground's hard. But I caught a trail heading east. Two sets of footprints.”

Mort studied Rita's jet-black hair, square jaw, and razor-sharp cheekbones sitting directly under dark eyes. “You a natural tracker, are you?”

She waited a moment before answering. “Salish Indian. Educated here in town, but I stay close to my roots. Like I said, the two walked east. They caught a well-traveled logging road about three miles from the sweat lodge. Eighteen-wheelers churn up that road a couple times an hour. I lost their trail.”

“They probably had a car stashed. Or someone was waiting for them.”

“Can you introduce me to your friend?” Rita asked. “L. Jackson Clark…Larry…whatever he likes to be called.”

Mort was disappointed. “Let's stick with the case, Rita. When we've caught the bad guys I'll get you an autographed copy of his latest book. How's that?”

She held him with a searing glare. “Take another look at the coroner's preliminary report, Detective Grant. You'll see I have five corpses with slashed throats. Your friend's uncle also had his eyes stabbed out. You may want to start with the drug dealer, but my gut's telling me different. Gouged eyes…now that's something you don't see every day. To my way of thinking, Carlton Smydon was the target, and the other four were just unlucky bystanders. Even the kid who did drug time. Now, I could be wrong, but these murders are on my turf and you're down here assisting. So we're going to follow my hunch first. As such, I'd like to know your buddy's ideas about who might have had Carlton Smydon in the crosshairs.” She got up and opened her office door. “Tomorrow's okay. Today's better. And, Detective…around here they call me Chief Willers.”

Mort called Larry as soon as he pulled out of Willers's parking lot. Larry said he had a lecture to give at noon, but he'd cancel it.

“Finding Carlton's killer is my priority. Does Chief Willers want me to meet her in Enumclaw or will she be in Seattle?”

It was nearly ten o'clock on Tuesday morning. Mort turned west on Washington 164. The countryside was flat and green as he headed toward Interstate 5. He'd be in his office before eleven. “Give your lecture, Larry. Wrap yourself in the familiar before getting tangled up talking about Carlton's murder. I've got stuff back at the office. Can you meet me there at two? We'll drive back down to Enumclaw together. I'm pretty sure I stepped on the good chief's toes this morning. Delivering you personally may help smooth the waters.”

“You're mixing your metaphors.”

Mort was glad to hear the jest in his friend's voice. He hoped knowing the investigation was moving forward was lightening his burden.

“I'll leave the wordsmithing to you and let Chief Willers know we're coming. See you at two.”

“We keeping banker's hours these days?” Jimmy DeVilla walked into Mort's office trailed by the largest German shepherd ever to have been commissioned into the Seattle Police Department. “Or is life on the lake luring you away from the hustle and grime of big-city homicide?”

“One of those for me?” Mort nodded toward the two paper cups the chief of forensics held.

“Don't I always think of you?” Jimmy handed him one, sat in the chair facing Mort's desk, and popped the lid on his own cup. Bruiser, retired from the canine squad after a near-fatal gunshot wound slowed his step and robbed him of his ability to bark, settled on the floor next to him. The furry behemoth was no longer on the force, but his service record made the dog a legend who was welcomed anywhere a Seattle cop needed to be.

“You down in the valley this morning?” Jimmy asked.

“I was. Chief Rita Willers. Ever met her?”

“I gave a presentation at last year's Washington Association of Sheriffs and Police Chiefs' conference. Willers came up afterward and introduced herself. Smart woman. We ended up having a cup of coffee and discussing the finer points of DNA analysis. I told her she should apply for a spot in our shop. Bigger pond and all. She let me know she was happy where she was. I guess being chief in a small town beats rank and file in the Emerald City.”

Jimmy rested his left hand on Bruiser's neck, massaging the scar tissue below the dog's right jaw. It was a move so reflexive, Mort wondered if Jimmy was even aware he was doing it. Bruiser closed his eyes and leaned against Jimmy's chair. It would be easy for someone to assume the animal was resting. But anyone taking a step toward Jimmy would soon be introduced to this amazing creature's ability to snap to immediate attention. And should some unfortunate soul make an unkind move toward Bruiser, Jimmy would make sure they regretted they ever held the thought.

Mort realized in that moment a heart-wrenching similarity between two of his dearest friends. Larry had asked Mort to find Carlton Smydon's killer. Carlton was his last link to his dead wife, Helen. Jimmy was never without Bruiser, the dog who nearly lost his life trying to save Jimmy's fiancée, Kimberly. He watched Jimmy caress the spot where two bullets had ripped into Bruiser's throat and wondered if that move, which Mort had seen thousands of times, was Jimmy's way of staying connected to the love he lost.

“What was your take on her?” Jimmy asked.

Mort blinked himself back into the moment and realized Jimmy was talking about Rita Willers. “She's got good instincts. She knows how to control a crime scene and knows when to bring in more resources. I've not met any of her officers, but I look forward to working with her.”

Jimmy smiled the slow grin that got him both in and out of trouble. “Good-looking woman, too, as I recall. Not what you'd expect in a small-town chief.”

Mort decided to ignore Jimmy's intimation. He changed the subject. “What's been going on here?”

“You mean how we managed without you for a full three hours this morning?” Jimmy took a noisy slurp of coffee. “You'll be happy to know the streets of Seattle were quiet last night. I think it's the weather. Folks want to be outside soaking up the last of this good stuff before the October rains start. Even the gangbangers appear to be behaving. Some of the other squads may be catching stuff, but nothing to bother Homicide.”

Mort was glad to hear it. When he'd requested the assignment to support the Enumclaw police in their investigation of the sweat lodge murders, his own chief made it clear she expected his activities there not to interfere with his responsibilities as chief of homicide here. Mort had performance evaluations, recertification of several detectives, and a budget report due. Five murders out in the county were enough to fill his plate. He needed everyone within the Seattle city limits to delay any lethal activity for at least two weeks.