“
L
uke Terrell. Luke Terrell.” The motel clerk repeated his name as she shuffled nervously through her registration cards for Detectives Hank Stralla and Raife Ansboro.
Terrell had not returned to Seattle.
He was among the group of Karen Harding’s friends who had stayed overnight to distribute more fliers this morning at stops along I-5 to Blaine. They had checked into the same Bellingham motel where Marlene and Bill Clark were staying; where Stralla and Ansboro were now waiting with poker faces until the woman at the front desk said: “He’s in room twenty-three.”
“Thank you,” Stralla said.
The two big men filled the narrow hall as they headed to Terrell’s room. Before this day ended, Stralla wanted answers from him. Arriving at room 23, they heard voices coming from the other side of the door. They listened for a moment. Ansboro rapped softly on the door.
After it cracked open, a woman said, “Yes?”
Stralla and Ansboro flashed their badges and identified themselves.
“We’d like a word with Luke Terrell,” Stralla said.
The chain was unhooked and the door opened wider. The woman was in her twenties, jeans, T-shirt, blond, pretty. Judging by the color, length, and cut of her hair, Stralla pegged her as the woman in news pictures comforting Luke Terrell at the Benton County murder scene. Well, well, well. Stralla exchanged a quick silent glance with Ansboro.
“He’s in the shower but he’ll be done soon,” she said.
“Can we come in and wait, please?”
She moved aside.
Terrell stepped from the bathroom, hair damp, unshaven, dressed in faded jeans and a flannel shirt. He stopped when he saw the two visitors, then nodded. “Do you have some news?”
“No. Actually, we need your help. We’d like you to come to our office. If that’s all right with you.”
“Your office?” Terrell’s anxious eyes went to the woman.
“We need to clear up a few small matters.”
“Why not just ask me here? We’re heading out to put up more fliers.”
“We’d prefer you come with us.”
“Maybe you should go,” the woman said. “It sounds important.”
“All right.”
“We’ll take my car,” Stralla said.
A fine rain was falling.
The wipers and talk about the Seahawks and Mariners filled much of the silence during the drive downtown. The interview room had a chrome-legged table with a wood veneer top. Two hard-backed chairs on either side. On one wall there was a mirror, about four feet by four feet. The room was painted off-white. The fluorescent light in the tiled ceiling hummed.
“Have a seat.” Stralla slapped his file on the table.
“Do you have any leads?”
“Nothing substantial.”
Terrell pulled out a chair, put his arms on the table, clasped his hands. He pressed his thumbs together, moving them back and forth until he felt Ansboro’s eyes on him.
“Nervous?” Ansboro asked.
“I haven’t been sleeping much.”
“That blonde’s cute,” Ansboro said.
“Carmen? She’s a good friend.”
“I betcha.” Ansboro winked.
“What’s this? What’s going on here?” Terrell asked.
“Tell us what happened that night you spoke with Karen,” Stralla said.
“I’ve told you everything. We talked and everything was fine.”
Ansboro’s hand slapped the table.
“Liar!”
Terrell stared at the detectives. Stralla held up a copy of Karen’s phone records. “If everything was fine, why did you call her fifteen times after your first call?” he asked. “Nine that night and six the next morning?”
Terrell gauged the intensity in Ansboro’s face and in Stralla’s questions, blinked several times, then swallowed.
“We argued, all right?”
“Speak up.”
“We argued. First, about her charity work with her church group. It took so much of her time, we were never together.”
“You wanted her to stop?”
“I was getting worried, she was spending more time in shelters, soup kitchens, street missions, she dealt with a lot of ex-criminals and creeps.”
“Any one in particular give her trouble?”
“No. I don’t know, then that argument led to another one about her plan to go to Africa.”
“What about it?”
“I got thinking about how dangerous it was for aid workers, how the experience would change her and that she wouldn’t want to marry me when she came home. I told her I didn’t want her to go because it would be over for us if she went. I told her she had to make a choice. Africa or us.”
“You pressured her to make a choice that night?”
Terrell nodded.
“She cried. She said I was wrong and begged me not to force her into this type of decision.”
“Then what?”
“She left.” Terrell closed his eyes. “Then I realized I was being stupid. That I was wrong. After I hung up, I called but she didn’t answer. I tried her cell but it must’ve been off. I let things cool overnight. I called in the morning. I called a lot. Still no answer. So I went to her place to beg her forgiveness, but she was gone.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this at the outset?”
“I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed?”
“Ashamed that possibly the last words—” His voice cracked. “That possibly the last words I spoke to Karen were spoken in anger. That I’m guilty of making her run off that night. I couldn’t bear anyone knowing that I may have been responsible.”
Stralla exchanged a look with Ansboro, and then they glared at Terrell for a long moment before Ansboro said, “Bull. Shit.”
“Excuse me?”
Stralla pulled a page from his file.
“You live in Loader Village, right?” Stralla said. “We all know what goes on there, especially in Block D.”
Ansboro stood and drew his face to Terrell’s.
“We found the dope, Luke.”
The flicker in Terrell’s eyes, in the microsecond of hesitation, the near imperceptible muscle twitch along his jawline told them that he knew about the cocaine hidden in Karen Harding’s umbrella.
Knew all about it.
“Was that Karen’s dope? Is that what you want us to think?”
Terrell’s eyes went around the small room, searching for something he could mentally grasp to steady himself with. Finding nothing, he said: “Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Why,” Stralla said, “did you wait until now to tell us your concerns about Karen’s work with street people and criminal types?”
“Can I leave?”
“Yes, but we’d regard your departure as being uncooperative,” Stralla said.
“As in, what’re you hiding from us?” Ansboro said.
“Maybe I’d like to have a lawyer before I answer any more questions.”
“You want a lawyer?” Stralla said.
“I think that maybe I do.”
“Well, doggies.” Ansboro leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “The woman you want to marry vanishes after you argue with her, and when the police ask you for a little help, you ask for a lawyer.”
“Hold off, Raife.” Stralla opened the door for Terrell. “It’s just his way of showing how much he cares and really wants to find Karen.”
“I bet he’s showing Carmen there how much he cares.”
“I’m leaving.”
Terrell got up from the table and headed down the hall. Stralla and Ansboro followed him. At the reception area, all three men stopped. Waiting with her husband was Karen’s sister, Marlene. Upon seeing Terrell she stood, blocking his exit.
“I want you to tell me the truth about you and my sister, Luke.
The truth, do you hear me!
”
K
aren and Julie ran.
They ran as twilight pulled darkness down over the forest and the cries of unseen creatures pierced the air.
They didn’t dare stop.
Legs numb. Sides aching, lungs sore, throats dry and ragged from panicked breathing, they ran, trotted, and walked as fast at they could. Fear compelled them to keep moving. For he must surely be behind them.
Hunting.
The images of his ax, the chains, his blood-flecked hacksaw, and the echoes of the other woman’s screams consumed Karen.
Once they had fled the reverend’s campsite they followed the twisting gravel road, expecting to hear the growl of the RV behind them at any moment. They veered into the woods where they struggled through the thick growth as branches and needles tugged at their clothes and skin.
The terrain was wild with scrub, small rocky cliffs, and hills fractured with tiny cracks waiting to swallow a foot, wrench an ankle, or launch them into a dark ravine. They bought distance but paid dearly, stumbling, bruising legs, bloodying fingers. But they kept moving. At times they held hands, careful not to speak or cry out while they continually cast frightened glances behind them.
Was he behind that tree? Was he over the next rise?
Karen had no sense of what direction they were moving. No sense of where they were. As it grew darker, it became more dangerous to continue.
Karen began scouting for a safe spot to hide for the night, leading them down a slope and into a thick grove until they came to an overhang at a small rocky hillside. It had a soft, dry grassy floor, while above, a rock roof jutted out. Inside there was space enough for the two of them. Protected by the forest, it offered shelter, and safety should someone approach up the steep incline.
“We’ll sleep here,” Karen whispered.
In silence they quickly gathered leafy branches for a blanket. Baseball-sized rocks and a couple of sturdy, pointed sticks would do as makeshift weapons.
As they sat in the stillness, adrenaline flowing through them, feeling their hearts pumping, Karen reflected on mistakes she’d made. They should’ve memorized his license plate. Should’ve grabbed food and water. Or they should’ve tried to knock him out and drive away. Yes, but her first instinct, her basic human instinct, was to flee. Remain positive, she told herself. They were alive and they were free.
Karen and Julie were pressed against each other, warming themselves with their body heat in the blinding blackness. They remained alone with their own thoughts until Julie asked, “How did he get you?”
Her question took Karen back to another time, another world.
“I was going to visit my sister in Vancouver when my car broke down in a storm near Bellingham. He stopped to offer help. He seemed like such a kind man. A reverend,” she said bitterly.
“It was almost the same for me,” Julie said. “I was staying at a shelter in Eugene. He was in the dining hall. I’m good at spotting creeps and freaks, but he was so friendly, a chaplain to me.” Her voice held dismay, sounding small. “He offered me tea. Said it was in his RV. So, like a fool, a stupid fool, I went with him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
Karen tried to console her.
“Listen, our family and friends will have police looking for us.”
“No. I have no one. No one will miss me.”
Karen put her arm around her as Julie told her about the death of her parents, a life of being shuffled between foster homes, the abuse, and her heartbreaking search for her cousin in California.
“You’re not alone,” she said. “You have me. I’m your friend, and my friends are your friends. You’re not alone, you got that?”
Karen felt Julie’s head nodding slowly. Felt her spirits warm a bit, until Julie pulled away and said to the darkness:
“You said he already killed a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know much about her?”
“No.”
“What did he do to her?”
“We shouldn’t talk about it.”
“Karen, tell me. What happened to her?”
“I never saw.” She cleared her throat. “I only heard. We shouldn’t dwell on it. I mean, it’s horrible, but we’ve got each other and we’ve got to get to a road, a house, someone, right?”
“Yes.”
Karen suggested they take turns keeping vigil and opted to let Julie sleep first. In the chilling darkness, amid the animal noises drifting in the forest, the warmth of another human being was psychologically comforting for both women.
But alone in the night, Karen’s thoughts floated to her mother and father in Central America. Her sister, Marlene, and her family. Her boyfriend, Luke, her friends. She sent them a prayer.
I love you. I feel you with me. I’m alive. I miss you with all my heart.
Even Luke?
Yes, even Luke. Even though he’d hurt her. Even though the last thing they did together was argue. His sudden change had broken her heart. Made her doubt their relationship. Deepened her suspicions that he had taken up with that crowd at the complex where he lived. Drugs were common there. So was sex. And there were a lot of pretty girls there constantly, making Karen fear that Luke might be tempted. Because sometimes when she was with him, he let her know how difficult it was for him to hold to their decision to wait until their wedding night. She wiped her tears. And here she was preparing to go away for a year.
Had she asked too much of him?
What was happening to her?
She stared into the abyss, her head dropping, her eyes closing until finally, sleep took her.
J
ason Wade pressed his phone to his ear.
Waiting for his long-distance call to connect, he stood and went to his aquarium. Watching his fish helped him think. He had to do this. He had nothing to lose now. The line connected.
“Spokane Police Department.”
“I’d like to speak to someone in Major Crimes.”
“One moment, I’ll connect you.”
The line clicked to a Johnny Cash song, a ballad about regret.
“Major Crimes. How can I direct your call?” a woman said.
“I’m inquiring about an old case of sexual harassment. I’d like—”
“I’ll put you through to the Sexual Crimes Unit. Hold please.”
Johnny Cash came back but not for long.
“Sex Crimes. Lange.”
“Detective Lange?”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant, I’m calling from Seattle to inquire about an old sex crimes investigation.”
“What about it?”
“I’d like to know the outcome, or status, anything like that.”
“And you are?”
“Jason Wade, a freelance reporter. I’m researching a possible story.”
“You should go through our press office, Mr. Wade.”
“I know, I just thought your people in the unit might recall this one.”
“What can you tell me about it? Have you got a suspect’s name?”
“Gideon Cull. It was maybe ten years ago. He was a chaplain and guest lecturer at Tumbler River College. A female student complained that he’d sexually harassed her. I needed to know if the police took her complaint, what happened, that sort of thing.”
“Ten years ago. Spell his name.”
Wade heard Lange typing on a keyboard.
“Got his date of birth?”
“No.”
“I’ve got nothing showing. If there was a case, it could be archived in Records. Not all of our older cases have been transferred into our system. Look, we’re swamped here. Give me your number, and maybe we’ll get back to you. Or you can try Records.”
Jason hung up, realizing that he was on his own now. And without any sources in Spokane, chasing Cull’s past was going to be an uphill struggle. He needed help from someone connected in Spokane, someone he could trust. He contemplated his fish for a few minutes before a name surfaced.
Carl McCormick.
McCormick was a crime reporter for the
Spokesman-Review.
Last summer, Jason had done freelance legwork for him on the Seattle angle to a story on a Spokane armored car heist. He wrote up some color under a tight deadline about the lead suspect’s family. Got a clipping, a check, and a promise from McCormick. “Jason, buddy, I won’t forget this. I owe you big time. If ever you need help with anything, let me know.”
McCormick was a big gun who’d won several awards for his coverage of some of the biggest stories in the region, many of them becoming national stories. The Spokane Serial Killer, the Unabomber, Ruby Ridge, White Supremacists.
Jason went to his desk, sifted through his top drawer until he found McCormick’s card. Tapping it against his chin, he thought for a moment, then typed an e-mail to McCormick.
Hi there:
Hope you remember me. Last summer, I filed you material from Seattle on an armored heist. Since then I’ve been reporting for the Seattle Mirror. As you know, I’ve been writing on the case of Karen Harding, the missing college student, and Roxanne Palmer, the Spokane woman, whose body was found in Benton County.
This is confidential, but
Jason hesitated to make some calculations, regarding money, distance, and driving time, then continued.
I hope to be in Spokane soon to do more research on these cases. Was hoping you might have time to get together to point me in the right direction and possibly share information that might be mutually beneficial? Regards,
Jason Wade
After sending his e-mail, Jason went to his kitchen and washed his dishes. He grabbed his canvas suitcase from the closet in his bedroom and tossed in enough clothes for a few days. As he packed, he thought of his father. He made a mental promise to take him to A.A. when he got back from Spokane. This trip and time away from the incident would help Jason cool off. He took care of his fish, then checked his e-mail.
McCormick had already answered.
Hi, Jason:
Of course I remember you. Yes, I’ve been reading your stuff. I’d love to get together to talk about
Harding and Palmer. Below are my office, cell, and home numbers. Call me when you get in.
Cheers,
Carl