“
A
religious guy in an RV?”
The morning after the hooker had told Jason Wade about the man bothering Roxanne Palmer, he was sitting next to Carl McCormick at his desk in the
Spokesman-Review,
telling him about it.
“First time I heard this one.” McCormick leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen to his chin. “And she never told the police?”
“Nope.”
“Strange, you’d think she’d want that out. For safety, for her friend.”
“Seems she was in a bad way with major problems. Hates cops. So I don’t know how much weight to give it.”
Intrigued, McCormick shrugged, then glanced at the time.
“I’m sorry, I won’t be able to help you today. I’ve got to cover a trial.” He tore a page from his notebook with names and numbers for Jason to chase down.
The day and that night were a washout. Jason couldn’t flesh out the hooker’s RV information. He tried to find her again but failed. And the others working the Track wouldn’t talk. No doubt their pimps had warned them to shut up, he reasoned, collapsing on the bed in his room, which carried the foul air of cigarettes and his frustration. He was done here.
The next morning Jason checked out of the Big Sky Suites, gassed up his Falcon, got on I-90, and headed back to Seattle.
The long drive would give him time to think about his situation at the
Mirror
and his old man. Something good had come out of this trip. His anger toward his father had subsided. He had to help his dad bury his mother’s ghost, he thought, as he was visited by a ghost of his own. A sudden memory of Valerie, sitting beside him in the Falcon, her window down, wind teasing her hair. Smiling from behind her sunglasses.
She vanished when his cell phone rang.
“Jason, it’s Carl. Where are you?”
“On I-Ninety. About twenty minutes from Sprague.”
“Listen. I just heard there was a meeting the other day on Roxanne Palmer’s murder in Kennewick. The FBI was there and cops from other jurisdictions.”
“You know from where? Sawridge?”
“Don’t know. But this could mean they’ve got something to widen the scope.”
“Like what—another body, a suspect maybe?”
“Don’t know. It could be major, or it could be an ass-covering exercise. I’ll try to find out more. Anyway, I know it’s a detour, but given that you’re kinda headed that way—”
“You read my mind,” he said.
A few hours later, Jason’s Falcon came to a stop at the Benton County Justice Center in Kennewick. He went to the sheriff’s office intending to find Lieutenant Buchanan or Detective Kintry. The receptionist was on the phone. He looked at some outdated copies of
Time
magazine, flipping through a story on Middle East tensions while listening to the receptionist’s end of her conversation.
“I understand, Mrs. Larssen, but Lloyd’s in Richland and Brad’s in Benton City. And the others are out doing interviews on the case. Uh-huh. Well, maybe the coroner can help you. He might know if you’re clear on doing anything like that on your property. That’s right. Morris Pitman, I can transfer you to his office now.”
Finished with Mrs. Larssen, the receptionist smiled at Jason.
“I was looking for the coroner.”
She called ahead, then pointed the way to Morris Pitman’s office.
“Excuse me.” He knocked on the open door, pulling Pitman’s attention from his desk. “Apologies for not calling ahead. I’m Jason Wade, a reporter from Seattle.”
“Oh yes, your name’s familiar,” Pitman went to a file on his cluttered desk with news clippings. “Ah, here. You’ve been writing about the Palmer case for the
Mirror.
”
“Yes.”
“Move those boxes and have a seat, Jason.”
Pitman was a friendly, confident man, who unlike many public officials, didn’t fear reporters. Maybe he’d open up a bit.
“I understand there was a meeting here the other day on the case?” Jason asked.
“There was, but I can’t disclose what was discussed or who attended.”
“Was it about Roxanne Palmer’s case?”
“I’d love to help you, Jason, but really, I’m not at liberty to release any details about an ongoing homicide investigation. It’s really up to the detectives investigating the case. Perhaps they’re going to put out a statement for the press.”
“I see.” Jason nodded, stalling to think of another way to try to get Pitman to help him. “Is there any aspect you could comment on in general terms?”
While Pitman reviewed reports in a file folder, Jason noticed the stack of textbooks on the credenza behind the coroner. A lot of interesting titles, one or two seemed familiar. He started jotting some of them down for color.
“No, not really.” Pitman closed the file and smiled. “If that’s all, I have to get to my work.”
“It’s just that I was in Spokane researching Roxanne Palmer, you know, to see if her case is linked to Karen Harding, the Seattle student, or any others. I was hoping somebody knowledgeable might point me in the right direction.”
“Certainly, you’re just doing the work of a good reporter.”
“I heard of this meeting, so I—well.”
Pitman had a warm smile that hinted that he was comfortable with Jason, but that he was not an official who leaked information.
“All I can tell you is that you strike me as a smart journalistic investigator who knows if he’s on the right track.”
Jason’s eyes met Pitman’s. Something passed between them. Maybe this was Pitman’s way of letting him know something. Jason returned his smile and, standing to leave, nodded at the books.
“Lot of interesting stuff there.”
Pitman turned to the books.
“This, oh yes, all part of my homework.”
“On the case?”
“As I said, you’re a smart journalist.” Pitman shook Wade’s hand.
A
few miles west of Kennewick, Jason replayed the coroner’s cryptic words.
“You strike me as a smart journalistic investigator who knows if he’s on the right track.”
Was Pitman trying to tell him that he was on the right track? He looked from the highway toward the Yakima River. He didn’t know. Taking in the Horse Heaven Hills to the south and the Rattlesnake Hills to the north, he realized he wasn’t far from Hanna Larssen’s ranch and his instincts urged him to take advantage of his location.
All right.
He exited the highway for the location where Roxanne Palmer’s remains were found.
What the hell?
Standing at her door, Hanna Larssen remembered Jason.
“You’re the fella from Seattle who caused a fuss after you talked to me and printed that story.”
Larssen’s old shepherd, Cody, ambled to the door to greet Jason with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen in a dog.
“But I quoted you accurately. Ritualistic is the word you used.”
“I did and it’s true. I’ve got no truck with you. But Buchanan and Kintry didn’t like that kind of stuff being known.”
“Did they give you a hard time about it?”
“Tried to. But I don’t work for them. Last time I checked, they’re on the county payroll. So they work for me. And this is a free country. I’ll say what I please to whomever I like.”
Jason nodded, happy to let Larssen blow off steam since it wasn’t directed at him. Then he followed the old woman’s mournful stare to the horizon. “I’ve seen a lot of sickening things in all my years,” she said, “but I’ve never seen anything like what I saw out there that day. Had some bad dreams about it. I’ve never gone back since and I don’t think I’ll ever go down there again. Cody tenses up near the path. I want to get flowers planted there, out of respect for that poor girl. Then fence the section off.”
Jason said nothing, letting her finish.
“So what brings you by after all the hubbub?”
“Well, I wanted your permission to go out to the scene.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, almost defensively.
“Why?”
“I’m hoping to write a news feature on this case, and how it might be linked to a missing Seattle college student. I need to get a sense of the scene. You know, see it for myself, to be accurate.”
Cody yawned as Larssen considered his request.
“There’s not a thing down there. The police are all finished. Took everything away.”
“I know.”
“You still want to go down?”
“Yes.”
“Just you by yourself ?”
“Just me.”
She glanced back to the hills, where she found her answer.
“Drive along the path until it ends at the creek.”
“Thank you.”
“Just bear one thing in mind. Be respectful. A young woman died out there.”
Jason drove at a funereal pace along the soft grassy path that rose, dipped, and twisted as it sliced deep into Larssen’s property. The entire Yakima Valley was brooding as massive clouds played with the light, darkening the vast land, concealing the sun, then ushering it back, but only for a moment at a time.
Birds tweeted as they flitted close to the earth where wildflowers nodded in breezes that made the tall grass hiss, like a chorus of whispers. This path and terrain could easily accommodate an RV. Progressing along, he soon understood that he was following the trail of a killer with his victim to the killing ground. What thoughts had gone through Roxanne’s mind as she looked upon these very hills with their pretty flowers leading to what must have seemed like the edge of the world? For she must’ve known why he had taken her so deep into isolation.
No one would hear her screams for help.
If she was able to scream.
Jason crested a hill overlooking a series of small buttes and the creek in an isolated coulee. Here, the path wound down. It was a little rough so he descended slowly, threading his way until it brought him to the flat grassy bank of the creek.
He killed the Falcon’s motor, got out, and began inspecting the area. Over the babble of the running water, a crow cawed. Was that a welcome, or a warning? Jason shrugged, spotting something some forty or fifty yards down the way.
The aftermath of forensic work.
Large parts of the area had been identified with bright orange fluorescent paint sprayed into the ground. Large rectangle sections of soil had been meticulously excavated akin to an archeological dig.
Jesus.
A gust lifted dirt into Jason’s face and he failed to turn in time. Fine grit found his eyes, making them tear. It took a moment for him to clear his vision and resume taking stock of the site.
One spot appeared to bear the stain of blood-soaked soil still. No, that couldn’t be. Had to be wrong about that, Jason thought, blinking away more grit. He walked slowly around the area as more breezes kicked up from the creek bed. He felt a sense of serenity that failed to betray the magnitude of the horror that had taken place here. A murder scene had been transformed into a memorial site.
And soon Hanna Larssen would cover it with flowers.
Jason took his time. There was little to see. Nothing had been left. He sat on a large boulder, pulled out his notebook, and started recording every observation, sensation, and detail about the place, the wind snapping his pages as he wrote.
Jason raised his head from his work and rubbed his eyes for a few moments. That’s when he saw it. A small yellow object. Some thirty, forty yards down the bank. He started for it. A small yellow patch wedged among the rocks, flapping in the wind like a frantic finger beckoning him.
Coming to it, he recognized a one-foot section of plastic crime scene tape, which the wind had pushed into some rocks. He stared at it absently, disappointment and frustration nearly crushing him. Why couldn’t he get a single break on this story? He’d put everything he had into it.
Shoving his hands into the front pocket of his jeans, he turned to go. Then he noticed something else just as a terrible wind blew, marshaling thick clouds above him, turning the sky to near night.
What was this?
Jason blinked and bent down to something with words printed on it. It was a slim rectangle. About five inches long, one inch in width, shimmed tight into the rocks, as if hurled there. He reached for it.
A bookmark.
Where the hell did this come from?
It was torn, creased and difficult to read. Words were missing. “Twist” and “Books” were the only ones he could make out.
What was this? Probably nothing. Local teens had partied down here. That’s what the local paper had reported. He continued examining it. Maybe it was something, a link to something.
Better hang on to it.
Jason put the wrinkled bookmark in his pocket, headed back to his Falcon and the long drive back to Seattle.
M
arlene Clark dabbed a tissue to her eyes while taking a final walk through Karen’s apartment in Seattle. Bill was loading their bags into their car, giving her time alone to face the fact they were returning to Vancouver.
They had spent the last several days here awaiting word, any word, on Karen. Staying in her apartment helped Marlene feel closer to her. Stronger, as they did all they could to find her. They had worked with church organizations, missing persons groups, community associations, and Karen’s friends. They helped make calls, posters, update the
Find Karen
Web site, and gave interviews to the press. Marlene’s heart had jumped each time a phone rang in the apartment. Her cell. Bill’s cell. Karen’s home phone or cell.
Please let it be her.
But search efforts and poster campaigns had yielded little as media interest faded.
The hardwood floor creaked as Marlene took a last look at Karen’s bedroom. Her landlord had refused to accept several postdated checks from Marlene and Bill to cover Karen’s rent.
“This is her apartment and I’m keeping it open for her,” she said, insisting Marlene keep a set of keys.
Bill had arranged to pay all of Karen’s bills months in advance. Karen’s neighbors in the building took in her plants.
“To make sure they don’t die,” one neighbor said before immediately apologizing for her choice of words. “Forgive me, I’m so sorry.”
In the bedroom, Marlene fought her tears as she looked over her sister’s belongings. Her dresser, her quilted duvet, and her throw pillow. In the closet she touched Karen’s clothes, her shoes, the boxes of cards and treasured keepsakes. When she found a picture of Karen smiling in Luke Terrell’s arms, her face tensed.
Marlene wrestled with her anger. Luke’s lies, his drugs, his whoring. The fool didn’t realize that Karen was the best thing he had going for him and he’d blown it. Didn’t he know how sensitive she was? How trusting and loving she was? And she wanted to marry this man! This jerk who’d broken her heart, driven her into a nightmare.
Marlene covered her mouth with her hand.
Detective Stralla had said there was little they could do with Terrell. They could try obstruction charges, but they wouldn’t go anywhere. Even though he admitted the cocaine was his, it was a small amount and a first offense. They probably couldn’t prove a trafficking charge. But think of the fallout on Karen’s case if it were made public. People would write her off as a drug dealer’s girlfriend.
All Terrell did was help them establish Karen’s true state of mind when she disappeared and fill in some blanks on the evidence. Time and further investigation by the Seattle PD and the DEA would tell if his drug debt led directly to Karen’s disappearance.
Marlene went to the living room, to look out the big bay window at downtown Seattle, the Space Needle, and the mountains.
Her cell phone rang.
“Hi, Mommy.” It was Rachel, her seven-year-old daughter.
“Hi, honey.”
“Did you find Aunt Karen today?”
“No, we’re still looking.”
“Are you coming home yet?”
Marlene swallowed hard, glancing around the silent apartment, before shutting her eyes.
“Yes, sweetheart, Daddy and I will be home tonight.”
“Love you. Oh, wait, Timmy’s coming on.”
Marlene heard her children sing out I love you in unison.
“Love you too with all my heart.”
Marlene’s chin crumpled after she hung up. Bill returned and held her. Their children were pulling them back to Vancouver. Over the past few days the kids were not sleeping, their nanny had told Marlene. Then Detective Stralla told them going home, even for a little while, was not a bad idea.
He’d made his suggestion the other day when he came to the apartment after his meeting with other investigators in Benton County. It was confidential, at this point. The Benton meeting was an exchange of information and theories with detectives with similar cases, to confirm any patterns. “So it’s just as well you go home and see your children,” Stralla said.
Now, as she prepared to leave, Marlene felt defeated. Her body shook as Bill held her. It took several minutes before her tears subsided. She nodded to her husband that she was ready. One last look, then Marlene stepped into the hall, pulling the door to her sister’s apartment behind her, and closed it with a soft click.