One Last Kill (Tracy Crosswhite), page 4
Nolasco was the more convenient scapegoat.
“I will let Johnny Nolasco, the task force’s lead detective, discuss specifics,” Clarridge said, his cue for Nolasco to step forward and absorb the first lash. But the initial question was directed to Clarridge.
“Chief Clarridge, given the differences between this victim and the other nine, including the location of this killing, what leads you to believe it is the same killer? And is your appearance at this press briefing indicative of those differences?” The questions on everyone’s mind had come from a female investigative reporter for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
“The nature of the victim has not and will not dictate the resources we are devoting to finding the killer,” Clarridge said. “We formed this task force more than a year ago, and we have held regular press briefings.”
“But this is the first press briefing you’ve attended,” the reporter said.
Childress. The reporter’s name is . . . Lisa Childress. An odd duck, Nolasco recalled, but not afraid to ask tough questions.
“Not true,” Clarridge said. “I held a press briefing to announce the formation of the task force and the department’s devotion of resources with the sole intent of finding the killer. That intent hasn’t changed.”
Clarridge, who flushed when angry and had a drinker’s nose, glowed a splotchy red. He signaled again, with a bit more urgency, for Nolasco to step to the podium. Nolasco dutifully did so.
“Detective, are you certain this killing was by the same person who killed the other nine victims, given the differences in the victim and the location of this killing?” Childress asked.
“We are,” Nolasco said. “I am not at liberty to discuss specifics, but I can assure you the killer is the same person who killed the other nine victims.”
“Is that because of the nature of the killings—strangulation? Or is there something else linking all the victims?”
“The cause of death is one consideration. Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss evidence at any of the crime scenes or the task force’s investigation.”
“So it’s evidence at the crime scene? DNA?” Childress asked.
“Again, I won’t comment on specifics,” Nolasco said, internally chastising himself for his sloppy answer.
“Why has this task force been unable to catch this killer?” another reporter asked.
“The killer doesn’t want to be caught,” Nolasco said. “These are not crimes of passion or anger. Serial killers have no relation to their victims, which is precisely why they choose them, and why they are so difficult to catch.”
“Do you have enough resources?” Childress asked.
Nolasco hadn’t had enough, not until that morning. Clarridge had approved several additional detectives and forensic experts to join the team. “Absolutely,” he said. “The department only has so many bodies to direct to one investigation, but resources have not been an issue.”
“What do you have to say to the families of the nine victims who have waited for closure?” a television reporter for KRIX Channel 8 said.
Nolasco saw this as a moment to take a stand for his team. He would not fall on his sword to save the brass’s collective asses. “We’re doing everything we can to find this individual. My task force, these detectives, are working tirelessly around the clock. We have not and never will forget any victim—the daughters, spouses, and sisters of the surviving family members. It’s what sets us apart, why we volunteered for this difficult job. We empathize not only with the families’ pain of having lost a loved one, but their pain of being in limbo. We will continue to move forward and, as Chief Clarridge said, to devote as many resources as possible to solving these crimes.”
“How confident are you that you will catch this individual?” the television reporter asked.
“All I can say—” Nolasco started, but Clarridge cut him off.
“This task force will find the killer,” Clarridge said, cashing a check on Nolasco’s bank account. Then he doubled down. “Count on it.”
CHAPTER 5
Wednesday, July 8, Present Day
Seattle, Washington
Tracy sought and received Chief Weber’s permission to work directly with the Public Affairs Office, where she spent the rest of her day setting up the social media page for the thirteen victims. She forwarded photographs of the victims, short biographies, and the dates and locations where the women’s bodies had been discovered to her contact and requested the page also include a tip line. She called the detective who had manned the Lisa Childress tip line and confirmed she was available to monitor this one. Tracy would have Nolasco clear the assignment with the detective’s sergeant. The page would be up and running in a matter of hours.
Next, she contacted the victims’ families, those she could reach, to inform them that the investigation would again be actively pursued and told them of the Facebook page. She got a variety of responses—from tears of joy and thanks to skepticism and hostility.
Then, she ran down Dwight McDonnel’s current address—a rented home in White Center, a suburb twenty minutes south of downtown Seattle and associated with a high crime rate. McDonnel had also lived in Ballard, Wedgwood, and two neighborhoods north of Seattle. She checked to determine if there had been any unsolved murders of young women in those areas during the dates McDonnel lived there. She did not find any.
She then turned her attention to Levi Bishop, who had returned to Washington from Twin Falls, Idaho, where he had moved after his parole for a domestic violence conviction. Tracy called the Twin Falls Police Department and spoke to the detective sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Unit under the Operations Division. The sergeant told her the department had a short list of unsolved murders dating back one hundred years, checked the time frame Tracy provided, and said there were no unsolved murders of young women. He said he’d check with other departments nearby and report back.
Deciding it best not to leave a stone unturned, she also looked up the third living and not incarcerated suspect, Alex Bright. Bright had moved to Pierce County, Georgia, for work, but he, too, had moved back to Washington State, living just outside Spokane. Tracy contacted the Blackshear Police Department and the Office of the Sheriff in Pierce County and again provided details. They, too, did not have any recent unsolved murders of young women. Tracy wondered if Bright had relatives in the area. If so, he could have traveled home from Georgia, killed another victim while visiting, then departed. She wouldn’t rule him out just yet.
All three men were now in their midfifties to early sixties. Other reasons killers stopped were medical conditions, injuries, and old age. She made a note to check the suspects’ medical records.
Finally, Tracy set up an interview for the next morning with Amanda Santos, the FBI agent and profiler she and Kins used in the Cowboy investigation. She emailed Nolasco with the time and location of that meeting, figuring he wouldn’t attend since he thought profilers were “bullshit,” and she also provided him a summary of what she had accomplished.
He responded with one word. “Okay.”
Tracy was about to shut down her computer for the day and head home when her desk phone rang. An inside call. She figured it was Nolasco.
“I’ve arranged for a press release to go out this evening stating you have reopened the Route 99 investigation,” Chief Weber said. “I’ve also arranged for a press conference tomorrow morning. I want you to be there.”
Tracy’s gut told her this was the wrong move. “I’d recommend against a press conference, Chief Weber, all due respect.”
“I want the public to know it is our intent to find the killer and bring closure to the victims’ families.”
No, Weber’s intent was to capitalize on Tracy being a three-time Medal of Valor recipient and on her recently publicized cold case successes. Tracy hated the publicity, especially for Weber’s intended purpose. She believed the focus should be on the victims and their families, whom she had already called. She knew Weber wouldn’t be persuaded by that argument, so she tried something much more practical and worrisome.
“I’m concerned that if the killer is still alive,” she said, “and not incarcerated or incapacitated for some reason, he might view a press conference as a challenge by SPD and resume his killing. Captain Nolasco believes he changed his victims to middle-class women to increase publicity.”
“That cat’s out of the bag as soon as the Times runs its first article,” Weber said, dismissing Tracy’s concerns without thought and confirming Tracy’s suspicions.
“The Times running articles is not the same as SPD broadcasting it is reopening its investigation. Why not just advise the press that the investigation remains active, and we’re doing everything we can to find the killer and bring closure to the families?”
“The press briefing announcement is already up on the blotter.”
Tracy pulled up the SPD’s public blotter on her computer and only needed to read the headline to confirm her worst fears.
Cold Case Detective Tracy Crosswhite to Hunt for Route 99 Serial Killer
She quickly scanned the article. Not only did the headline and the first few sentences omit any mention of Nolasco, they read like Tracy would clean up his task force’s mess.
This would not go over well, which, Tracy suspected, was also Weber’s intent.
“Chief, do not make this personal.”
“I don’t do personal. This is strictly police business. What’s done is done.” Weber sounded like a Roman official washing her hands after issuing a death sentence. Reasoning with her was a waste of breath.
Tracy disconnected and called Nolasco’s desk phone, eyeing the time in the corner of her computer. Nolasco answered on the third ring. “Crosswhite,” he said.
“Did the chief get ahold of you?”
“No. Why?”
“You need to call her—”
“Hold on. Another call.”
“No, Captain, don’t—”
But Nolasco had placed Tracy on hold. She hung up and quickly left her office, hurrying down the hallway, dodging people to get to Nolasco’s interior office. She knocked once and pushed the door open. Nolasco had his desk phone to his ear, his coloring already flushed and the look in his eyes fierce.
“Yes. I’ll be there. Ten a.m.” Nolasco hung up the phone.
“I told her it was a mistake, the police blotter, the press conference. I told her it was a mistake.”
“What blotter?”
Tracy winced. But Nolasco would see the announcement eventually. Better now when she had the chance to explain she had nothing to do with it. “Weber had an announcement put up on SPD’s police blotter.”
Nolasco hit the keys on his keyboard and his eyes shifted left to right, reading. He pursed his lips so tight his mustache covered them. Then he swore under his breath.
“I had nothing to do with this. I tried to call you—”
“To rub it in?”
“To get you to talk sense into Weber. Forget for a minute what it says about me. It reads like a challenge to the killer.”
“The killer is dead, Crosswhite,” Nolasco said. “Dead or incarcerated. This isn’t about feeding his ego. It’s about feeding yours.”
“What? I tried to stop her.”
“Bullshit. I know all about your and Weber’s relationship. So do a lot of other people here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How Weber comes down to your office to genuflect before the great Tracy Crosswhite; you don’t think I know you butter her bread by solving cases and helping her get funding from the city, and she feeds your ego with medals?”
The Times had run articles on Tracy’s uncovering of the illegal activities of the drug task force, but Tracy had no evidence, beyond the word of a former drug dealer, to prove Marcella Weber had her hands in the pot of confiscated money, and the Times wasn’t about to print speculation and innuendo. No one within the department, save for Faz and Del, knew Tracy had confronted Weber and tanked their relationship.
But Tracy wasn’t about to justify herself to a man who listened to reason even less than Weber did.
Nolasco gave Tracy a painful, ugly smile. “Let me tell you something, Crosswhite. This is all fine. Really. You know why? Because you won’t find the killer, not after all these years. And notoriety isn’t what you think. Not this kind. The higher you sit, the farther the fall, and the more painful the landing. And when you do fall, I’m going to be there to tell you, Weber, and everyone else: ‘I told you so.’”
Tracy left work and drove home to Redmond, east across Lake Washington. The nine-hundred-square-foot farmhouse to which Tracy and Dan had originally moved had been everything she had loved about growing up in her tiny hometown of Cedar Grove. The warm and cozy house, isolated on five acres, had felt far removed from her office. She and Dan had tried to make their remodel feel just as warm. They burned wood in the river-rock fireplace insert at night and sat with blankets on comfortable furniture reading books to Daniella, sharing a glass of wine or port, and, on occasion, making love on the sheepskin rug with the fire glowing behind the glass.
Tracy needed that place tonight, but first she needed a long run through the foothills to work off her desire to again knee Nolasco in the balls, as she had done during combat training at the police academy.
She stepped through the front door and dropped her keys in the glass bowl on the pony wall. The sound of the keys in the bowl set off the inevitable and expected alarm—Rex and Sherlock barking—and Tracy picked up Roger, her cat, just as their two Rhodesian-mastiffs barreled around the corner, leaving muddy footprints on the tile floor. Rex jumped up when he reached Tracy, putting his dirty paws on her white blouse and jeans. Roger shot from her hold, leaving scratch marks on the insides of Tracy’s forearms.
“Down. Down.” She kneed Rex to keep him from further jumping.
Both dogs were wet, and Sherlock took the moment to shake water all over Tracy and the room. Tracy gripped them by their collars and quickly ushered them to an open door leading to the backyard, nearly colliding with Therese coming from the opposite direction and calling for both dogs.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. O. I thought this door was closed. I took off their sensors to the dog door to give them both a bath. They were full of dirt from their afternoon run with Mr. O’Leary.”
The property also provided access to running trails in the surrounding foothills. So much for Tracy’s stress-release run. The cozy cottage image had also evaporated.
“I’ll get the floor cleaned up,” Therese said, then she noticed the mud prints on Tracy’s clothes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. O.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tracy said. “Giving these two a bath is a thankless job. I appreciate you doing it.” Tracy’s mind shifted to her daughter. “Where’s Daniella?”
“Mr. O took her with him to the shower. She was dirtier than the two dogs. Why don’t you get changed? I’ll keep the dogs locked outside until they dry, and get things cleaned up,” Therese said.
Tracy thanked her, removed her flats, and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. She didn’t want to run without Dan. He was her Prozac, a calming influence in her life. She heard water running in the bathroom shower and Dan singing “How much is that doggy in the window,” complete with barking, which caused Daniella to laugh uproariously, as Therese liked to say. Tracy quietly opened the bathroom door and watched her husband and daughter behind the fogged shower glass. Dan had his back to the door, holding Daniella.
After a moment, Daniella spotted Tracy. Her eyes widened and she held out her arms and kicked her legs. “Momma. Momma.”
Dan turned and smiled. “Who is it? Mommy? Mommy’s here!”
Tracy walked forward.
“You want to dry her off,” Dan said from behind the glass and held out Daniella.
Tracy shook her head, tears clouding her vision. She unbuttoned her blouse.
“Everything okay?” Dan asked.
Tracy smiled. To hell with her clothes. They needed to be rinsed before washing anyway. She climbed into the shower fully dressed and felt, for the first time all day, like she belonged.
Tracy and Dan dressed in casual clothes, and they ate dinner in the backyard beneath the “Gazebo Dan Built,” which was what Dan called the outdoor living area he and a friend had erected earlier in the summer. The name was a play on the New York Yankees’ original stadium, which was called “The House That Babe Ruth Built.” Dan barbecued hamburgers, and Tracy made French fries and strawberry milkshakes. Tracy’s father had been a strawberry-milkshake man, and she’d also jumped on that bandwagon. Strawberries tasted sweeter to her than chocolate.
Dan respected her wishes and didn’t bring up the subject of work throughout dinner. They talked about his run, and he filled in Tracy on Therese’s report of Daniella’s first few days at a day care in Redmond.
“Seems our Little Miss Strawberry Face over there is not the best sharer. She apparently smacked a little boy who took her crayon.”
“Taking her crayon isn’t sharing. It’s third-degree robbery. I’d say she was standing up for herself,” Tracy said, smiling.
“Sounds like something a cop would say,” Dan said. “Honestly? I was pleased also. I’m hoping it’s a harbinger of how she’ll respond when she’s dating, and some boy gets fresh.”
“Oh God. I don’t want to even think about that. How was the non-sharing resolved?”
