One Last Kill (Tracy Crosswhite), page 5
“According to Therese, a juice box and Goldfish solve the world’s problems. But we do need to teach her social skills besides pummeling boys,” Dan said. “You want bedtime duty or cleanup?”
“Having cleaned up once, I’ll take bedtime duty.”
Daniella went down easily, no doubt tired after her big day at day care. When Tracy came downstairs, Dan was seated in the living room with two small glasses of port wine. “Wine and milkshakes. I feel my stomach curdling already,” Tracy said.
“This is that port from Portugal we had the other night at that restaurant. I found it at the local liquor store.”
Tracy sipped her port. It wasn’t a strawberry milkshake, but it was sweet. “Sorry about the tears earlier.”
“What’s going on?”
“I guess it’s just lingering anger from being unable to get all those who were on the Last Line’s payroll.”
“I assume you mean Chief Weber.”
“The chief called me into her office first thing this morning—never a good sign. She wants me to solve the Route 99 serial killings.”
“Those killings must be twenty-five years old,” Dan said.
“Nearly thirty since the first,” Tracy said.
“Didn’t you tell me Johnny Nolasco ran that task force?”
“I did—when I was investigating the Lisa Childress disappearance. The killings were one of four investigative pieces she worked at the time of her disappearance.”
“So why does Weber think you can do what Nolasco couldn’t?”
“I’m not sure she thinks I can, but she needs the publicity of the PD going after another big case to strengthen her argument to get city council funding, and I’m relevant because of my recent cases.” Tracy sipped her port. “I tried to talk her out of publicly reopening the investigation. When I couldn’t, I shifted strategy and asked that she assign Faz to work with me. He worked the task force as a young detective. She got me help, but it isn’t Faz.”
About to sip his port, Dan lowered his glass. “Don’t tell me.”
“She assigned Nolasco.”
“That’s bullshit, Tracy. She’s just trying to make your life so miserable you’ll quit.”
“And doing a good job of it. If I succeed, Nolasco will take the credit. We know that. If I fail, the failure will fall squarely on my shoulders. He won’t have my back. He said as much this afternoon. But that’s not what I’m most worried about. What I’m most worried about is Weber poking a stick at a sleeping dog.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I hunted the Cowboy, I learned a lot about these psychopaths. They have huge egos. With each murder they get more emboldened and don’t believe they’ll be caught. The Route 99 Killer went dormant years ago, but before he did, he changed his victims from sex workers on the strip to four middle-class women living in the suburbs. Nolasco believes he was challenging them by upping the ante.”
“And you think it’s better to let a sleeping dog lie.”
“No, I think it’s better to not let the sleeping dog know you’re there. Weber is using me and my reputation to help secure funding, but I’m worried this killer could see SPD’s reopening of the investigation as a challenge to kill again.”
“You told her this?”
“And Nolasco. Neither conversation went well.”
Dan set down his port. “Okay. Let’s not play the ‘what if’ game. You don’t know if the killer is even still alive. If he’s alive, and he hasn’t killed in twenty-five years, it could mean something else intervened, maybe prison, or some form of counseling or medication. The odds, after so many years, are he isn’t going to kill again, aren’t they?”
“Odds exist because people bet. And in this case, if we bet and lose, we’re talking about someone’s life.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t have much choice. If I fail to follow orders again, I’ll be dismissed, and no doubt someone else will take up the investigation. Not to pat myself on the back, but if anyone is going to catch this guy, I want to be that person.”
“So, you’re going to do it.”
Tracy nodded. “If he’s out there, Dan, I’m going to nail his ass. Not to show up Nolasco, or to make Weber look good to the city council, or to feed my incredibly large ego . . .” She smiled but the humor faded. “I’m going to nail his ass for all those young women he murdered, and to bring closure to their families. He’s going in either a coffin or a prison cell. His choice, if and when the time comes.”
“Well . . . at least we know from which side of the gene pool Daniella gets her anger-management issues,” Dan said.
CHAPTER 6
Thursday, July 9, Present Day
Seattle, Washington
The following morning, Tracy entered the conference room beside the press briefing room. Weber and Nolasco were present, though neither said much to her or to each other. Shortly after Tracy entered the room, Seattle’s newly elected mayor, Charles Garcia, entered. A Latino Republican, Garcia did not see eye to eye with several council members’ politics and the push to defund the police. Garcia grew up in a rough Seattle neighborhood and attended the University of Washington on a football scholarship, playing on the offensive line during the university’s heyday. He graduated with a degree in business and ran a successful company before his plunge into politics. He had promised to decrease crime in downtown Seattle, especially violent crimes and property crimes that had driven many businesses out of King County. He also sought to hire and train more officers, particularly officers of color, and to get more of those officers out on the street. His presence at the press conference highlighted the importance of the upcoming budget battle pitting him and Weber against the city council.
Weber turned on her personality when Garcia entered. Following introductions and a general discussion of the morning’s events, she concluded with “After the mayor speaks, I will stress the significance of our renewed efforts to find the Route 99 Killer and resolve cold cases in general, then turn the podium over to the two of you. Any questions?”
Tracy questioned why Weber was potentially baiting a serial killer, but she swallowed those words.
Local media packed the pressroom, not surprising given the presence of both the mayor and chief of police, but also because the briefing came on the heels of Tracy’s recent and heavily publicized successes. Garcia took the podium first. A big man, he looked like he could strap on pads and still hit someone. Then he walked. Or rather, he limped, from a balky knee and back.
“Thank you all for coming out today,” Garcia said to the media. He reiterated his campaign pledge to reduce violent crime and the backlog of rape cold cases, and return business to downtown Seattle. “Seattle law enforcement is committed to bring justice to victims of violent crime, to punish those responsible, and to bring closure to families,” he said, then mentioned restoring Seattle as the Pacific Northwest’s Emerald City.
Garcia stepped back and Weber, in full-dress uniform, stepped forward and thanked the mayor. “The Seattle Police Department under my command has pledged to reduce crime and to resolve cold cases. With the latter in mind, this year I appointed Detective Tracy Crosswhite to the SPD Cold Case Unit.”
That statement was not true. Tracy had been reassigned to the Cold Case Unit by Nolasco upon returning from a PTSD medical leave after hunting a killer in Cedar Grove. Nolasco had filled Tracy’s position on the Violent Crime Section’s A Team with another female detective. Cold Cases, technically within the Violent Crimes Section, had been Tracy’s only option.
“Detective Crosswhite’s distinguished career includes three Medals of Valor. She also has experience apprehending serial killers, including the killer known as the Cowboy. Since taking over the Cold Case Unit under the direction of her captain, Johnny Nolasco, Detective Crosswhite has resolved more than twenty cases, including the abduction and murder of fourteen young women by two sadistic serial killers in North Seattle that also resulted in the rescue of three women.”
Not surprisingly, Weber made no mention of Lisa Childress or the illegal acts of the Last Line drug task force. Beside her, Nolasco cleared his throat. Tracy could smell his aftershave and sense his displeasure. Both made her queasy.
“Today, I am pleased to announce Detective Crosswhite, under my auspices, will undertake to resolve the thirteen Route 99 serial killings perpetrated between 1993 and 1995.” Weber turned from the podium. “Captain Nolasco.”
As the chief turned, a voice called out. “Chief Weber?” Tracy recognized Greg Bartholomew’s nasal whine. The Seattle Times’ police and courthouse reporter heaved himself from his chair and tugged at his well-worn blue sports coat. “Is the assignment of Detective Crosswhite to the Route 99 killings in anticipation of the Seattle Times’ series of articles documenting those murders and the Seattle Police Department’s failure to find the killer?”
Weber had clearly anticipated the question. Bartholomew had a history of negativity and a reputation for throwing gasoline on any fire.
“The series of articles to which you make reference was certainly a motivating factor in our decision to reopen the investigation, but SPD’s primary motivation is to bring closure to the families of those thirteen victims, not to appease the media,” Weber said.
“Is there new evidence to justify reopening those cases?” a female voice called out. Tracy recognized the voice, but it was out of place and unexpected. She was shocked to see Anita Childress standing at the back of the room.
“I’ll let Captain Nolasco and Detective Crosswhite answer those questions,” Weber said.
In other words, she’d put Nolasco and Tracy before the firing squad to dodge their bullets.
Weber gave Tracy and Nolasco a no-mistake-about-it glare to get to the dais.
Nolasco stepped to the microphone. “We are not at liberty to discuss specific evidence,” he said in answer to Childress’s question. “With advances in forensic sciences, this was the right time to reopen our investigation.”
“There hasn’t been a killing in twenty-five years,” Bartholomew said. “Is this a case about closure for the families or about SPD rectifying a failed investigation?”
“SPD has nothing to rectify,” Nolasco said. Tracy, well familiar with Nolasco’s moods, could hear anger leaking into his tone.
Bartholomew poured more gas onto the flames. “You were the lead detective on the task force that failed to catch the killer, Captain Nolasco. Do you perceive this renewed effort as a resolution for the victims or for yourself?”
The muscles in Nolasco’s jaw undulated. Chewing nails.
Before Nolasco could spit them out, Tracy stepped forward. Nolasco gave her a sideways glance, like looking at a dog he wasn’t sure he could trust. “Every serial killer is difficult to catch. They do not desire to be caught, and they make great efforts to leave behind no evidence that would lead to their apprehension.”
“But you successfully caught the Cowboy, Detective Crosswhite. What was the difference?” Anita Childress had just lobbed Tracy a softball. Ordinarily, Tracy would have been grateful to catch it, but with Nolasco already suspicious, Childress’s presence at the conference, and her question, did not help.
“Timing and luck,” she said, to deflect any perceived praise that could reflect badly on Nolasco. “I had the backing of my captain and my department and a dedicated team. We also caught the Cowboy years after the Route 99 serial killings, which allowed us to utilize advancements in the forensic sciences. If I may—” Tracy signaled to the detective who created the Facebook page, and those behind Tracy stepped aside. The detective put up photographs of the thirteen victims and gave SPD a plug for its robust social media presence used to generate tips.
Tracy’s deflection worked. Subsequent questions focused on the missing women and the current investigation. Tracy was glad she had spent time with the individual files. By calling specific victims by name, it gave a personal touch to the long-dormant case.
Then Bartholomew fired another flaming arrow. “What do you say to the argument that SPD’s motivation to find the killer relates to the fact that his last four victims were middle-class women living in Seattle suburbs?”
Knowing she’d get this question, Tracy had prepared. “I’d say the statement ignores the fact that every one of these women is marginalized simply because of her gender. The large percentage of murders, unrelated to gang violence, are young women killed by spouses, boyfriends, or someone they knew well. What this investigation says is SPD has not forgotten any of these thirteen women, regardless of their race, their profession, their age, or their socioeconomic status. It is our intent to find justice for each and every one of them.”
She hoped her response put the question to bed once and for all.
Mayor Garcia stepped forward. Nolasco and Tracy stepped back. Garcia thanked those attending for coming and ended the press conference. Tracy looked down at Anita Childress and gave her a signal to hang around. She went back into the conference room to briefly discuss the morning’s events. Garcia emphasized he wanted the killer found, and Weber guaranteed Tracy and Nolasco would do so. Nolasco did not acknowledge Tracy for coming to his aid before he departed, and she didn’t expect that he would.
After the room had cleared, Tracy walked back to the pressroom to meet Anita Childress, but another woman intercepted her.
“Detective? I’m Angela Waylon. My daughter was Cathy.”
Tracy had spent time with the file. Cathy Waylon had become addicted to painkillers. Her parents spent thousands on rehabilitation, but Cathy had eventually left home and walked the track.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Waylon.”
“My husband is sick with cancer. I’d like him to pass knowing that his little girl is finally at rest.”
Tracy felt her heart breaking. “I’m going to do everything I can to give you that opportunity, Mrs. Waylon.”
“Back in the nineties, the task force seemed to forget my daughter and the others like her. They seemed only interested in the last four victims. Can you tell me my Cathy won’t be forgotten?”
“I promise I won’t forget.”
Angela Waylon nodded, but she left looking anything but certain.
Tracy approached Anita Childress. The two women did not embrace in a public setting. “I overheard,” Childress said. “I can’t imagine working under that kind of pressure.”
“Not pressure. Motivation,” Tracy said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Childress smiled. “It’s tougher to re-create a history than either my mother or I thought,” she said. “I love my mother, but we found we had little in common, save for our mutual desire to remember the past. I could. She couldn’t. We decided it was more important for me to look forward.”
“Are you okay with that?” Tracy asked.
Childress shrugged. “I was treading water down there, so I came back here, talked to Bill Jorgensen, and got my job back. I see you’re looking into another of my mother’s investigative files.”
“In a way I guess I am,” Tracy said. “How is she? How’s her memory?”
Childress shook her head. “She doesn’t remember much, and my attempts to get her to do so just upset her. It was like talking about a person she had never met. This is better. I call her a couple times a week and I’ll visit, but not to discuss the past.”
“Unlikely then she remembers anything about this file?”
“Very unlikely,” Childress said. “What is it you’re interested in?”
“A task force member leaked information to your mother about the killer’s method of killing.”
“Angel’s wings on the victims’ shoulders,” Childress said.
“And potential suspects. I’d like to find that leak and determine that person’s motivation.” Something else occurred to Tracy. Anita Childress had written the series of articles on the Last Line drug task force and Lisa Childress’s investigation and subsequent disappearance. “Are you writing the articles about the task force?”
Childress frowned. “Bill thought having the daughter of the investigative reporter who originally covered the case would sell newspapers,” she said, meaning her editor. “My mother came at the investigation from an angle no one else did.”
“You’re not going to release news of the angel’s wings carved into each victim’s shoulder; are you?”
“It was discussed, Tracy.”
“Anita—”
“But I convinced Bill the information was clearly given to my mother in confidence, otherwise she would have made it public knowledge twenty-five years ago. If it was given in confidence, we need to honor that agreement. I also told him we have an obligation to the general public, that the release of details could make apprehending the person responsible even more difficult.”
“I appreciate it,” Tracy said.
“Any new insights into the killer?” Childress asked. “Off the record.”
Tracy smiled. She didn’t always see Anita as a reporter, but Anita had inherited her mother’s curiosity. “Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know.” Her common refrain. Tracy checked her watch. She and Nolasco had a meeting with FBI profiler Amanda Santos. “Do me a favor?” she asked.
“Name it.”
“If you think of anything, learn of anything, let me know?”
“To the extent I can, I will,” Childress said. “And you’ll do the same.”
“To the extent I can.”
CHAPTER 7
Tracy had set up the meeting with Amanda Santos, but she had not told Nolasco anything more about the FBI profiler. Nolasco, like Kins, had expressed skepticism Santos, or any profiler, would provide useful information to help them find the killer. She suspected Nolasco—twice divorced, and a rutting pig perpetually on the hunt for his next date—would change his tune when he met the tall, good-looking Santos.
As they exited Police Headquarters on foot, Nolasco, who had said nothing in the elevator, paused to light a cigarette. Tracy didn’t know he smoked.
He exhaled and said, “Interesting the daughter of the woman you found happens to show up at a press conference on the subject of a soon-to-be-released series of articles.”
“Having cleaned up once, I’ll take bedtime duty.”
Daniella went down easily, no doubt tired after her big day at day care. When Tracy came downstairs, Dan was seated in the living room with two small glasses of port wine. “Wine and milkshakes. I feel my stomach curdling already,” Tracy said.
“This is that port from Portugal we had the other night at that restaurant. I found it at the local liquor store.”
Tracy sipped her port. It wasn’t a strawberry milkshake, but it was sweet. “Sorry about the tears earlier.”
“What’s going on?”
“I guess it’s just lingering anger from being unable to get all those who were on the Last Line’s payroll.”
“I assume you mean Chief Weber.”
“The chief called me into her office first thing this morning—never a good sign. She wants me to solve the Route 99 serial killings.”
“Those killings must be twenty-five years old,” Dan said.
“Nearly thirty since the first,” Tracy said.
“Didn’t you tell me Johnny Nolasco ran that task force?”
“I did—when I was investigating the Lisa Childress disappearance. The killings were one of four investigative pieces she worked at the time of her disappearance.”
“So why does Weber think you can do what Nolasco couldn’t?”
“I’m not sure she thinks I can, but she needs the publicity of the PD going after another big case to strengthen her argument to get city council funding, and I’m relevant because of my recent cases.” Tracy sipped her port. “I tried to talk her out of publicly reopening the investigation. When I couldn’t, I shifted strategy and asked that she assign Faz to work with me. He worked the task force as a young detective. She got me help, but it isn’t Faz.”
About to sip his port, Dan lowered his glass. “Don’t tell me.”
“She assigned Nolasco.”
“That’s bullshit, Tracy. She’s just trying to make your life so miserable you’ll quit.”
“And doing a good job of it. If I succeed, Nolasco will take the credit. We know that. If I fail, the failure will fall squarely on my shoulders. He won’t have my back. He said as much this afternoon. But that’s not what I’m most worried about. What I’m most worried about is Weber poking a stick at a sleeping dog.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I hunted the Cowboy, I learned a lot about these psychopaths. They have huge egos. With each murder they get more emboldened and don’t believe they’ll be caught. The Route 99 Killer went dormant years ago, but before he did, he changed his victims from sex workers on the strip to four middle-class women living in the suburbs. Nolasco believes he was challenging them by upping the ante.”
“And you think it’s better to let a sleeping dog lie.”
“No, I think it’s better to not let the sleeping dog know you’re there. Weber is using me and my reputation to help secure funding, but I’m worried this killer could see SPD’s reopening of the investigation as a challenge to kill again.”
“You told her this?”
“And Nolasco. Neither conversation went well.”
Dan set down his port. “Okay. Let’s not play the ‘what if’ game. You don’t know if the killer is even still alive. If he’s alive, and he hasn’t killed in twenty-five years, it could mean something else intervened, maybe prison, or some form of counseling or medication. The odds, after so many years, are he isn’t going to kill again, aren’t they?”
“Odds exist because people bet. And in this case, if we bet and lose, we’re talking about someone’s life.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t have much choice. If I fail to follow orders again, I’ll be dismissed, and no doubt someone else will take up the investigation. Not to pat myself on the back, but if anyone is going to catch this guy, I want to be that person.”
“So, you’re going to do it.”
Tracy nodded. “If he’s out there, Dan, I’m going to nail his ass. Not to show up Nolasco, or to make Weber look good to the city council, or to feed my incredibly large ego . . .” She smiled but the humor faded. “I’m going to nail his ass for all those young women he murdered, and to bring closure to their families. He’s going in either a coffin or a prison cell. His choice, if and when the time comes.”
“Well . . . at least we know from which side of the gene pool Daniella gets her anger-management issues,” Dan said.
CHAPTER 6
Thursday, July 9, Present Day
Seattle, Washington
The following morning, Tracy entered the conference room beside the press briefing room. Weber and Nolasco were present, though neither said much to her or to each other. Shortly after Tracy entered the room, Seattle’s newly elected mayor, Charles Garcia, entered. A Latino Republican, Garcia did not see eye to eye with several council members’ politics and the push to defund the police. Garcia grew up in a rough Seattle neighborhood and attended the University of Washington on a football scholarship, playing on the offensive line during the university’s heyday. He graduated with a degree in business and ran a successful company before his plunge into politics. He had promised to decrease crime in downtown Seattle, especially violent crimes and property crimes that had driven many businesses out of King County. He also sought to hire and train more officers, particularly officers of color, and to get more of those officers out on the street. His presence at the press conference highlighted the importance of the upcoming budget battle pitting him and Weber against the city council.
Weber turned on her personality when Garcia entered. Following introductions and a general discussion of the morning’s events, she concluded with “After the mayor speaks, I will stress the significance of our renewed efforts to find the Route 99 Killer and resolve cold cases in general, then turn the podium over to the two of you. Any questions?”
Tracy questioned why Weber was potentially baiting a serial killer, but she swallowed those words.
Local media packed the pressroom, not surprising given the presence of both the mayor and chief of police, but also because the briefing came on the heels of Tracy’s recent and heavily publicized successes. Garcia took the podium first. A big man, he looked like he could strap on pads and still hit someone. Then he walked. Or rather, he limped, from a balky knee and back.
“Thank you all for coming out today,” Garcia said to the media. He reiterated his campaign pledge to reduce violent crime and the backlog of rape cold cases, and return business to downtown Seattle. “Seattle law enforcement is committed to bring justice to victims of violent crime, to punish those responsible, and to bring closure to families,” he said, then mentioned restoring Seattle as the Pacific Northwest’s Emerald City.
Garcia stepped back and Weber, in full-dress uniform, stepped forward and thanked the mayor. “The Seattle Police Department under my command has pledged to reduce crime and to resolve cold cases. With the latter in mind, this year I appointed Detective Tracy Crosswhite to the SPD Cold Case Unit.”
That statement was not true. Tracy had been reassigned to the Cold Case Unit by Nolasco upon returning from a PTSD medical leave after hunting a killer in Cedar Grove. Nolasco had filled Tracy’s position on the Violent Crime Section’s A Team with another female detective. Cold Cases, technically within the Violent Crimes Section, had been Tracy’s only option.
“Detective Crosswhite’s distinguished career includes three Medals of Valor. She also has experience apprehending serial killers, including the killer known as the Cowboy. Since taking over the Cold Case Unit under the direction of her captain, Johnny Nolasco, Detective Crosswhite has resolved more than twenty cases, including the abduction and murder of fourteen young women by two sadistic serial killers in North Seattle that also resulted in the rescue of three women.”
Not surprisingly, Weber made no mention of Lisa Childress or the illegal acts of the Last Line drug task force. Beside her, Nolasco cleared his throat. Tracy could smell his aftershave and sense his displeasure. Both made her queasy.
“Today, I am pleased to announce Detective Crosswhite, under my auspices, will undertake to resolve the thirteen Route 99 serial killings perpetrated between 1993 and 1995.” Weber turned from the podium. “Captain Nolasco.”
As the chief turned, a voice called out. “Chief Weber?” Tracy recognized Greg Bartholomew’s nasal whine. The Seattle Times’ police and courthouse reporter heaved himself from his chair and tugged at his well-worn blue sports coat. “Is the assignment of Detective Crosswhite to the Route 99 killings in anticipation of the Seattle Times’ series of articles documenting those murders and the Seattle Police Department’s failure to find the killer?”
Weber had clearly anticipated the question. Bartholomew had a history of negativity and a reputation for throwing gasoline on any fire.
“The series of articles to which you make reference was certainly a motivating factor in our decision to reopen the investigation, but SPD’s primary motivation is to bring closure to the families of those thirteen victims, not to appease the media,” Weber said.
“Is there new evidence to justify reopening those cases?” a female voice called out. Tracy recognized the voice, but it was out of place and unexpected. She was shocked to see Anita Childress standing at the back of the room.
“I’ll let Captain Nolasco and Detective Crosswhite answer those questions,” Weber said.
In other words, she’d put Nolasco and Tracy before the firing squad to dodge their bullets.
Weber gave Tracy and Nolasco a no-mistake-about-it glare to get to the dais.
Nolasco stepped to the microphone. “We are not at liberty to discuss specific evidence,” he said in answer to Childress’s question. “With advances in forensic sciences, this was the right time to reopen our investigation.”
“There hasn’t been a killing in twenty-five years,” Bartholomew said. “Is this a case about closure for the families or about SPD rectifying a failed investigation?”
“SPD has nothing to rectify,” Nolasco said. Tracy, well familiar with Nolasco’s moods, could hear anger leaking into his tone.
Bartholomew poured more gas onto the flames. “You were the lead detective on the task force that failed to catch the killer, Captain Nolasco. Do you perceive this renewed effort as a resolution for the victims or for yourself?”
The muscles in Nolasco’s jaw undulated. Chewing nails.
Before Nolasco could spit them out, Tracy stepped forward. Nolasco gave her a sideways glance, like looking at a dog he wasn’t sure he could trust. “Every serial killer is difficult to catch. They do not desire to be caught, and they make great efforts to leave behind no evidence that would lead to their apprehension.”
“But you successfully caught the Cowboy, Detective Crosswhite. What was the difference?” Anita Childress had just lobbed Tracy a softball. Ordinarily, Tracy would have been grateful to catch it, but with Nolasco already suspicious, Childress’s presence at the conference, and her question, did not help.
“Timing and luck,” she said, to deflect any perceived praise that could reflect badly on Nolasco. “I had the backing of my captain and my department and a dedicated team. We also caught the Cowboy years after the Route 99 serial killings, which allowed us to utilize advancements in the forensic sciences. If I may—” Tracy signaled to the detective who created the Facebook page, and those behind Tracy stepped aside. The detective put up photographs of the thirteen victims and gave SPD a plug for its robust social media presence used to generate tips.
Tracy’s deflection worked. Subsequent questions focused on the missing women and the current investigation. Tracy was glad she had spent time with the individual files. By calling specific victims by name, it gave a personal touch to the long-dormant case.
Then Bartholomew fired another flaming arrow. “What do you say to the argument that SPD’s motivation to find the killer relates to the fact that his last four victims were middle-class women living in Seattle suburbs?”
Knowing she’d get this question, Tracy had prepared. “I’d say the statement ignores the fact that every one of these women is marginalized simply because of her gender. The large percentage of murders, unrelated to gang violence, are young women killed by spouses, boyfriends, or someone they knew well. What this investigation says is SPD has not forgotten any of these thirteen women, regardless of their race, their profession, their age, or their socioeconomic status. It is our intent to find justice for each and every one of them.”
She hoped her response put the question to bed once and for all.
Mayor Garcia stepped forward. Nolasco and Tracy stepped back. Garcia thanked those attending for coming and ended the press conference. Tracy looked down at Anita Childress and gave her a signal to hang around. She went back into the conference room to briefly discuss the morning’s events. Garcia emphasized he wanted the killer found, and Weber guaranteed Tracy and Nolasco would do so. Nolasco did not acknowledge Tracy for coming to his aid before he departed, and she didn’t expect that he would.
After the room had cleared, Tracy walked back to the pressroom to meet Anita Childress, but another woman intercepted her.
“Detective? I’m Angela Waylon. My daughter was Cathy.”
Tracy had spent time with the file. Cathy Waylon had become addicted to painkillers. Her parents spent thousands on rehabilitation, but Cathy had eventually left home and walked the track.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Waylon.”
“My husband is sick with cancer. I’d like him to pass knowing that his little girl is finally at rest.”
Tracy felt her heart breaking. “I’m going to do everything I can to give you that opportunity, Mrs. Waylon.”
“Back in the nineties, the task force seemed to forget my daughter and the others like her. They seemed only interested in the last four victims. Can you tell me my Cathy won’t be forgotten?”
“I promise I won’t forget.”
Angela Waylon nodded, but she left looking anything but certain.
Tracy approached Anita Childress. The two women did not embrace in a public setting. “I overheard,” Childress said. “I can’t imagine working under that kind of pressure.”
“Not pressure. Motivation,” Tracy said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Childress smiled. “It’s tougher to re-create a history than either my mother or I thought,” she said. “I love my mother, but we found we had little in common, save for our mutual desire to remember the past. I could. She couldn’t. We decided it was more important for me to look forward.”
“Are you okay with that?” Tracy asked.
Childress shrugged. “I was treading water down there, so I came back here, talked to Bill Jorgensen, and got my job back. I see you’re looking into another of my mother’s investigative files.”
“In a way I guess I am,” Tracy said. “How is she? How’s her memory?”
Childress shook her head. “She doesn’t remember much, and my attempts to get her to do so just upset her. It was like talking about a person she had never met. This is better. I call her a couple times a week and I’ll visit, but not to discuss the past.”
“Unlikely then she remembers anything about this file?”
“Very unlikely,” Childress said. “What is it you’re interested in?”
“A task force member leaked information to your mother about the killer’s method of killing.”
“Angel’s wings on the victims’ shoulders,” Childress said.
“And potential suspects. I’d like to find that leak and determine that person’s motivation.” Something else occurred to Tracy. Anita Childress had written the series of articles on the Last Line drug task force and Lisa Childress’s investigation and subsequent disappearance. “Are you writing the articles about the task force?”
Childress frowned. “Bill thought having the daughter of the investigative reporter who originally covered the case would sell newspapers,” she said, meaning her editor. “My mother came at the investigation from an angle no one else did.”
“You’re not going to release news of the angel’s wings carved into each victim’s shoulder; are you?”
“It was discussed, Tracy.”
“Anita—”
“But I convinced Bill the information was clearly given to my mother in confidence, otherwise she would have made it public knowledge twenty-five years ago. If it was given in confidence, we need to honor that agreement. I also told him we have an obligation to the general public, that the release of details could make apprehending the person responsible even more difficult.”
“I appreciate it,” Tracy said.
“Any new insights into the killer?” Childress asked. “Off the record.”
Tracy smiled. She didn’t always see Anita as a reporter, but Anita had inherited her mother’s curiosity. “Not yet, but you’ll be the first to know.” Her common refrain. Tracy checked her watch. She and Nolasco had a meeting with FBI profiler Amanda Santos. “Do me a favor?” she asked.
“Name it.”
“If you think of anything, learn of anything, let me know?”
“To the extent I can, I will,” Childress said. “And you’ll do the same.”
“To the extent I can.”
CHAPTER 7
Tracy had set up the meeting with Amanda Santos, but she had not told Nolasco anything more about the FBI profiler. Nolasco, like Kins, had expressed skepticism Santos, or any profiler, would provide useful information to help them find the killer. She suspected Nolasco—twice divorced, and a rutting pig perpetually on the hunt for his next date—would change his tune when he met the tall, good-looking Santos.
As they exited Police Headquarters on foot, Nolasco, who had said nothing in the elevator, paused to light a cigarette. Tracy didn’t know he smoked.
He exhaled and said, “Interesting the daughter of the woman you found happens to show up at a press conference on the subject of a soon-to-be-released series of articles.”
