J. Jance - Betrayal of Trust

“Thank you, Marsha,” I said. “Good thinking.”

Mel was already out of the chair and slipping on her shoes.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Come on,” I said. “We’ve gotta go. It’s Josh Deeson. He may have committed suicide last night. Olympia PD is responding, but since it’s the governor’s mansion, they’re deferring to the Washington State Patrol. Governor Longmire decided to call us in as well. It’ll be a horse race to see who gets there first.”

We took the Cayman. Mel drove and I called Ross Connors’s cell phone. That’s one of the things I like about him. His people, even the grunts out in the field, have access to the big guy, and I was able to get right through. But with the blue bubble on top of Mel’s car, we got to the governor’s mansion in no time, sooner than I was able to finish explaining to Ross what was going on.

“No!” the AG gasped when I related my bad news.

“The local cop shop is citing jurisdictional issues and has stepped down in favor of the Washington State Patrol.”

“I’ll call the head of the WSP and tell them we’ll be working on this with them. It’s a good thing Governor Longmire called you,” Ross said. “Give me a minute. I’ll get back to you.”

Ross ended the call. I got out of the Cayman and followed Mel up the paved brick driveway that led to the governor’s mansion. There were a couple of city cop cars parked out front and a WSP command car as well. If an ambulance had been summoned, it had already come and gone. In its place was a van with an insignia that said “Thurston County Medical Examiner.”

A baby-faced kid decked out in an Olympia PD uniform, who looked far too young to be on the job, opened the door. Mel showed him her badge.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re the ones the governor wants to see. She’s in her office.”

He gestured toward the study. When we knocked on the door frame, the governor motioned us in through the open door.

Between her tearful phone call a few minutes earlier and now, Marsha Longmire had managed to compose herself. She had donned her official look, in both clothing and expression, that announced to all comers: “I am the governor and I am in charge.” That maybe impressed the unsophisticated kid manning the front door, but I wasn’t as awed by the surroundings as he was. Besides, I glimpsed the gratitude on Marsha’s starkly pale face when Mel and I first walked into the room.

I caught the look and I read the message: Governor Longmire didn’t want any cops in her home, but she had decided we were okay-the best of a bad bargain.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

Since Ross had ordered us onto the case, doing anything less would have been dereliction of duty, but I didn’t tell her that.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “What happened? Who found him?”

“Zoe,” Marsha answered. “When he didn’t come down for breakfast, I sent her up to get him. And there he was. The way she screamed. .” Marsha paused and shook her head. “It was terrible. I’ve never heard a sound like that. She’s in shock. I called our family doctor. He’s going to come by and give her something.”

“He hasn’t yet?”

“No,” Marsha said. “He’s on his way, but as far as I know he hasn’t arrived.”

“Is there anyone else here besides Zoe?”

“No, it’s just the three of us. Giselle spent the night at her dad’s place.”

Mel stood up. “Where’s Zoe right now?”

“She’s up in her room on the second floor,” Marsha began, “but I’d rather you didn’t-”

“We need to talk to her now,” I explained, interrupting her objection. “If the doctor gives her something to settle her down, it may also remove some important detail from her memory of the scene.”

“All right,” Marsha said reluctantly. “Turn right when you get off the stairs. It’s the room at the end of the hall.”

As Mel left the room, my phone rang. It was Ross. “I need to take this,” I told Marsha. “It’s the AG.”

She nodded and waved, but I’m not sure she was really paying attention.

“Are you at the mansion?” Ross asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Please give the governor my condolences,” he said.

I held the phone away from my ear. “Mr. Connors says he’s sorry for your loss.”

Marsha nodded, but again she didn’t seem connected to my words.

“Here’s how this is going to go down,” Ross continued. “S.H.I.T. will handle the investigation, but we’ll be using state patrol crime scene investigators. It’ll be a joint case.”

It was also going to be a big case. I understood Ross’s thinking. It was better to spread the responsibility around. If the case turned into a blame game somewhere along the line, that could be spread around as well.

“Where did it happen?” Ross asked.

“Upstairs in his room. It’s on the third floor.”

“Is there anyone there right now?” Ross asked. I relayed the question to Marsha Longmire.

She sighed. “I believe the M.E. got here a few minutes ago.”

“Did you hear that?” I asked Ross.

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “The Thurston County M.E. isn’t one of my favorite people. If that yahoo is on the scene, you’d better get your butt there, too.”

I excused myself to the governor and then, bad knees or not, I ran all the way up the stairs to the top floor, to Josh Deeson’s floor.

M.E.s and cops are supposedly on the same side, but we’re not necessarily on the same page. Medical examiners want to know how someone died. Homicide cops want to know who did it and why. Medical examiners are concerned with bodies. They’re not concerned with preserving crime scene evidence. Cases often turn on the smallest particles of trace evidence. For that reason, crime scenes have to be treated with great reverence and care. The items found under those circumstances need to be handled like fine, fragile antiques.

Some M.E.s are great, but some end up being the proverbial bulls in a china shop.

Unfortunately the Thurston County M.E., Larry Mowat, falls in the latter category. And since Olympia is both the state capital and the Thurston County seat, Ross Connors most likely had had enough dealings with Mowat to know whereof he spoke. I had met Mowat at various conferences, but I knew him primarily by reputation, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

I stopped outside the door long enough to slip on a pair of crime scene booties and a pair of latex gloves. Mel and I keep a ready supply of them in our vehicles so we can slip them into our pockets at a moment’s notice. I found Dr. Mowat sitting on the edge of Josh’s bed-his carefully made bed. The M.E. wore neither booties nor gloves. He was staring down at the dead boy, who lay on the floor between the open closet door and the closet itself.

As Marsha had already explained, a makeshift rope had been manufactured by stringing together a whole set of out-of-date neckties. They had been tied with knots that would have done an Eagle Scout proud. It wasn’t surprising that a kid obsessed with instruments of torture and death would be able to fashion an impressive noose for himself, one that had done the job for which it was intended.

Josh was clearly dead, but his stiffly spiked hair remained perfectly intact. I had a feeling someone-his grandfather, most likely-would come along and flatten out those spikes before Josh Deeson was laid in his final resting place.

I noticed something else, too. He was wearing a wristwatch-a good-quality wristwatch with a stainless-steel band. I would have had to turn Josh’s hand over to see if it was his graduation-present Seiko, but I didn’t. Until the crime scene photos had been taken, I didn’t want to touch anything at all.