Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

“Thanks for coming. Right this way, sir.”

Henry couldn’t believe the way people dressed these days-like they just didn’t care. Hell, even when he had been drinking, he’d tucked his shirt in.

They went down a long, spacious corridor that was lined with dark mahogany doors to executive offices and meeting rooms with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that offered views of Seattle’s skyline. Henry read the plates looking for Ethan Quinn’s office when they came to an open office area and a sea of low-walled workstations. They took a labyrinthine route through it before stopping at one cramped cubicle.

It was about eight by eight with fabric-covered walls reaching nearly seven feet. They were covered with calendars, schedules, regulations, snapshots of a Hawaiian vacation. A young woman, beaming while holding a baby in her arms. Another shot of a happy, healthy golden retriever. A flag with a peace symbol.

The computer’s monitor was laced with small yellow notes, the screen saver showed U2’s latest CD cover. Next to it, an assortment of well-used reference books on investigative techniques. The red message light on the phone was blinking. Stacked files teetered on the desk, threatening to bury the phone as the man began sifting through them.

“Excuse me,” Henry said, “but where am I meeting Mr. Quinn? In the call he said he had something to show me and wanted to meet here?”

“Oh, man,” he extended his hand again. “I’m Ethan Quinn.”

“You’re Ethan Quinn?”

Quinn nodded and began removing files from the chair at the small table.

“Yes. And this won’t work. Let’s duck into an empty meeting room. Can I get you a coffee?”

After stopping at the staff kitchen, they went to a spacious boardroom, with a view of Seattle’s business district, Elliott Bay, and the mountains in the distance. They set their mugs at one end of the polished table and Quinn plopped down the bundle of files he’d toted.

“Mr. Wade, let me explain a bit,” Quinn said. “I’m a subcontractor, a loss-recovery agent, and I specialize in forgotten, written-off cases.”

Henry nodded.

“It’s not news that with the emergence of DNA and breakthroughs in technology, a lot of old criminal cases are being pulled out of the archives and cleared.”

“Cold cases.”

“Exactly. Now, I’ve got one that goes back a bit.” Quinn slid a page with the date and a summary to Henry. “An armored car with U.S. Forged Armored Inc. had just completed a sweep, picking up receipts from supermarkets and retail outlets at malls. In all, it had a load of some $3.3 million.

“The crew’s last scheduled pickup was at the Pacific Consolidated Savings amp; Financial Bank at a strip mall in Lake City. At the time, U.S. Forged Armored Inc., was using routine route scheduling which was easy to learn, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wade?”

Henry nodded.

“Well,” Quinn sipped from his mug, “as you know, the truck was hit at the bank. Armed robbers overwhelmed the two-man crew, wounding both guards. The guards survived but couldn’t offer any details on the suspects. I know those were different times, but quite frankly it’s beyond me how U.S. Forged Armored Inc. secured armored-car cargo coverage with such a serious cash-in- transit risk. Crazy, huh?”

Henry shrugged.

Quinn continued. “A Seattle police car was within four blocks when it got the call and responded to the heist in progress. One of the suspects panicked, took a bystander hostage, and engaged in a shoot-out with two Seattle officers just as others arrived on the scene. Unfortunately, the bystander was killed. The medical examiner’s final report seems to have gone astray due to a flood in the records room. However, a draft was inconclusive. I’m checking with King County Court archives.

“In any event, the other suspects fled with the cargo. The hostage-taker, Leon Dean Sperbeck, was arrested, admitted guilt to second-degree murder to avoid the death penalty, yet he had refused to divulge who his accomplices were. There was no jury trial. The judge gave him a twenty-five-year sentence.”

Quinn flipped through his notes.

“Virtually no details were obtained on the other suspects. The FBI and Seattle robbery had no substantial leads. Nothing emerged. It’s believed two others were involved and they got away with the $3.3 million. Now, American Eagle paid out on the claim. It also reached an out-of-court settlement with the family of the victim for $1.8 million. So all in all the company took a wicked hit of some $5 million.”

Quinn took another sip of coffee.

“That’s a huge pile of money for back in the day. For any time, really. We’re talking some serious cash. That’s where I come in. I comb through files like these in an effort to recoup the loss. I get paid a basic daily rate and a percentage of any funds I recover. And while it could come into play, the reward for information leading to the recovery of any funds still stands.” Quinn steepled his fingers and looked hard at Henry. “I think you know where I’m going with this, don’t you, sir?”

A bead of cold sweat rolled down Henry’s back.

Henry and Vern Pearce were the two responding officers.

This kid-with his Elvis sideburns-was good. He’d done his homework. Henry swallowed. It was all coming at him full bore.

“Sure, that was our call, Vern Pearce and me.”

“I know. And from what I understand, sir, it’s taken a toll.”

“It has.” Henry looked at the skyline. “It was a lifetime ago. So what do you think I can do about it now?”

“The fact that Sperbeck never rolled on his partners suggests to me that he took the fall for his cut when he got out, right?”

“I suspect he’s due for release soon.”

“That’s the thing, he’s already been released.”

“What?”

Quinn passed a folder bearing the Washington Department of Corrections seal to Henry. “Here’s his DOC file. Seems Leon behaved himself inside, paid his bill in full. He was released several months ago.”

“Really? But he’d still have a Community Corrections Officer. Besides, the FBI would be your best bet to help you with your theory. They’re the lead jurisdiction.”

“The FBI did help me.”

Quinn slid a photocopy of another document. A single page. Handwritten and signed by Leon Sperbeck. An evidence tag indicated it was from National Park Service Rangers.

“It’s a suicide note.”

It was short, printed in block letters, conveying Sperbeck’s despair, his loneliness, his inability to find work, feeding his isolation and shame over his crime.

…NO FUCKING POINT IN GOING ON I’LL CLEANSE MY SOUL IN THE RIVER AND START OVER IN THE NEXT LIFE…

After Henry had read it, Quinn said, “Sperbeck left it nailed to a tree near Cougar Rock at Mount Rainier National Park, then disappeared into the Nisqually River. Although his body still hasn’t been recovered, the FBI and DOC verified that Sperbeck wrote it.”

Quinn slapped a glossy photograph on the table.

All the spit dried in Henry’s mouth. His heart pulled him back through time as he stared into the face of his nightmare. The demon his shrink had urged him to confront all those years ago was staring at him.

You must face him, Henry, or you’ll be consumed by what happened.

There he was.

Leon Dean Sperbeck of Wichita, Kansas. Staring back from his arrest photo, taken over twenty-five years ago. Coal-black eyes burning with defiance. Another photo slapped on the table. Sperbeck’s recent offender- release photo.

Sperbeck had barely aged.

“I get the feeling that you doubt that Sperbeck is dead?” Henry said.

“In this job you do a lot of research on suicide notes. In some studies, experts were unable to distinguish between genuine suicide notes and fabricated ones.”