J. Jance - Betrayal of Trust

Mel and I exchanged glances. We had both been in this very room earlier that afternoon and had heard Josh tell us the watch was lost. How was it possible that it turned up so soon after that discussion? And where had it been in the meantime?

I looked around the room, where everything was neat as a pin-where absolutely nothing was out of place. Josh Deeson had come to this house with next to nothing. He hadn’t lost his mother’s Bible. It didn’t make sense that in all this excessive neatness he had somehow misplaced a relatively expensive watch that had to have counted as one of his prized possessions. Then again, since it came from his grandfather, maybe Josh hadn’t prized it all that much after all.

“Can I have it?” Gerry asked. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to keep it.”

Just then all those years of being a homicide cop kicked into overdrive. “I’m sorry, but you can’t have it right now,” I said. “It’s still part of the crime scene. We were about to bag it and take it into evidence, but I’ll make sure it gets back to you.”

“Promise?” Gerry asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I promise.”

The CSI guys were still in the room and they had been taking in every word of the conversation. Without being asked, one of the techs obligingly slipped the watch off Josh’s wrist. He placed the Seiko in a glassine bag and then passed it along to the guy who was keeping the evidence log.

Gerry looked back at Josh’s still body. “What happens next?” he asked.

“The M.E. will have to come collect the body,” I told him.

“And then an autopsy?” Gerry’s voice cracked over that last word. Josh’s voice had cracked because he was a boy becoming a man. His grandfather’s voice broke because now that transformation would never happen.

“Yes,” Mel said gently. “Under the circumstances, an autopsy is required by law.”

Gerry shuddered. “I see,” he said.

Then, heaving a sigh, he grabbed hold of the handles on the walker and pulled himself upright. “I’d better be going,” he said. “Before Marsha figures out I’m gone.”

Suspicions confirmed. Governor Longmire had no idea that Gerry had made the long pilgrimage up to the third floor, to the attic, as he had once called it.

“If you’ll give us a couple more minutes to finish packing up, Mr. Willis,” one of the CSIs said, “we can give you a hand getting back down the stairs. And then I’ll let Captain Hoyt know to send the M.E. and his guys back upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Gerry said. “That would be a big help. I think getting back down the stairs on my own might be more than I can handle.”

So much for the guys the medical examiner had scathingly referred to as the CSI “dolts.” I’d take one of them over Dr. Larry Mowat any day of the week.

Once they took Gerry with them and headed downstairs, Mel and I were left alone for the first time in the better part of an hour.

“What do you think about the note?” I asked.

“He was planning on dying,” Mel said. “If he did this because he was involved in the strangulation of that girl, it seems to me that he would have stepped up and accepted responsibility instead of denying it. On the other hand, if he didn’t do it, why commit suicide? What was it he couldn’t stand anymore?”

It was gratifying to know that Mel and I were on the same wavelength.

“Did you talk to Zoe?” I asked.

Mel shook her head. “The doctor got there too soon. He said he was giving her a sedative and wouldn’t let me hang around. I did talk to Todd, though. He says he has a photo for us. He sent a jpeg with pretty reasonable resolution to my computer. I used my air card to send it to Katie Dunn. I asked her to run us off a couple hundred copies. I have a feeling we’re going to need them. But what’s the deal with the watch?”

“The watch was missing for a period of time. If someone else had it while it was MIA,” I said, “what’s the best way to carry a watch?”

“On your wrist,” Mel answered.

“So maybe whoever had the watch made that same mistake? I’m sure the crime lab will find Josh’s DNA stuck between the links. With any kind of luck, someone else’s DNA will be stuck there, too.”

“But these are kids,” Mel objected. “What are the chances that their DNA will be in any of the databases?”

“What are the chances that we’ll find the same DNA and/or fingerprints on that blue scarf?”

“Got it,” Mel said with a smile. “Because one of the people pulling on that scarf was also wearing the watch, but if the kid’s prints aren’t in the system, that still won’t help us.”

That’s what happens in investigations-you take two steps back for each step forward.

Dr. Mowat turned up about then carrying a body bag and bringing with him two beefy assistants.

“It’s about time,” he grumbled. “I’ve had my guys waiting downstairs for damned ever.”

We stayed long enough to see the body zipped into the bag and loaded onto a gurney. I didn’t envy the two assistants the job of taking a loaded gurney back down the stairs. I also didn’t envy their having to work for Mowat.

Mowat started to follow the gurney down the hallway. When my cell phone rang he stopped, waiting, I suppose, to see if the call had anything to do with him.

“How’s it going?” Ross Connors wanted to know.

“They’re just now picking up the body.”

“So that jerk Mowat is there?” he asked.

“At the moment,” I answered.

“And it’s definitely suicide?”

“Sure looks like it.”

“I got off the phone with Katie a few moments ago,” Ross continued. “Tell Mel that the copies of that photo she asked for are ready.”

“Do you want us to stop by and pick them up?”

“No,” Ross said. “I don’t want either one of you anywhere near the office down there. Since the WSP crime lab people were on the premises, people will most likely assume they’re handling the investigation. I want to leave it that way for the time being. Of course, that’s counting on some discretion from Larry Mowat, which is probably leaning on a bent reed.

“Anyway, I told Katie to put the photos in an envelope and leave them for you at the desk at the Red Lion. And as for the garbage. .”

I had been so tied up with the crime scene investigation that I had somehow assumed that my garbage-sorting detail had gotten lost in the shuffle. Not so.

“I had one of my friends empty the garbage cans in question into a pair of tarps. He’s taken them to one of those self-storage unit places just off the freeway down in Tumwater.” He started to dictate the name and address.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me write this down.”

Once I had pen in hand, he gave me the information.

“Go in, ask to speak to the manager on duty. That’ll be Rebekah Ming.” It was an unusual name, and he had to spell it out for me. “Show her your ID, tell her Ross sent you,” he continued. “She’ll give you the key.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s exactly how I wanted to spend the rest of my day.” I didn’t say “sorting garbage” aloud because Dr. Mowat was right there, listening to every word.

“Right,” Ross said cheerfully. “That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

“Not enough,” I grumbled. “Maybe it’s time I asked for a raise.”

“Just be sure you get to the storage unit before five,” Ross said. “That’s when Rebekah goes off duty, and she’s my guy, if you will. She also knows about what’s being dropped off there. When you finish going through the stuff, she’d like you to drag everything that’s left out to their Dumpsters and get rid of it. With it being summer and all, they don’t want that stuff left inside overnight attracting vermin.”