A Cold Dark Place (19 page)

It was as difficult a call as a detective can ever make,
aside, of course, from the bone-chilling one that comes in
the middle of the night and begins with, "I'm sorry to be
phoning you with this news. Your child was involved in a
very serious car accident . . ."

Olga Morris had never imagined the verdict would have
been split, though the four long days of deliberation had sent
a surge of worry through her system to the point of near
overload. Dylan Walker was guilty; she knew it with every
fiber of her being. He was a cold-blooded killer. He was a
killing machine in an appealing package. Dylan Walker was
no more human than that. He'd been found guilty, thank
God, but despite the best efforts of a prosecution that had done
its homework, he was only convicted of a lesser chargetwo counts of second-degree murder.

This is ludicrous, Olga thought. Since when did binding a
couple of women with wire, wrapping their bodies like
pupae, and dumping them in a river to escape detection look like anything but first-degree murder? The TV and newspaper pundits exalted the defense for punching holes in the
case by bringing in the other possible suspect, but even more
so for getting it into the heads of some jurors that Dylan
Walker had never planned to murder anyone. That it was
some kind of accident. What were they thinking?

When the jury filed in, Olga nearly did a double take in
the defendant's direction.

For a nanosecond she was all but certain that Walker had
winked at juror number 4, a leggy brunette who drank in the
defendant with her big blue eyes.

What in the world is going on here?

That and the verdict were a sucker punch to the gut.

How did this happen?

Olga didn't speak to any of the reporters hovering around
the courthouse stairwell. Not that any really wanted to speak
with her. After the flurry of gasps and running for the doors,
those with mics and notebooks wanted to talk to the defense-not anyone associated with the prosecution. The man
with the trail of dead beauties was a bona fide star, the big
media "get"

Olga retreated to her office on the first floor of the Meridian Police Department. She was almost in tears and she
pulled out the Walker case file. It was thick, dog-eared, and
dirty a year after she'd compiled most of its contents. The pictures of the bodies as they were first found along the sandbar
still roiled her stomach. It was all so utterly senseless. Inside, she found Shelley's mother's phone number in Olympia.
Mrs. Smith was shaky when she got on the line.

"I'm afraid the news is mixed, Mrs. Smith. I'm terribly
sorry. I didn't want you to hear it on the TV first"

There was a long pause. Olga could hear the mother of a
dead girl brace herself by sitting down. It was a good idea.

"I heard they came back with a verdict," Shelley's mom
said. "What did they say?"

Olga Morris felt like a complete loser, like she'd failed
the woman on the other end of the line. She had promised to
call with the verdict, but now regretted it. At the time she was
sure the verdict would have gone completely in the prosecutor's favor. That was before the defense used the tragedy of
the Ticen suicide to diffuse the truth.

"Like I said, mixed," she began, tentatively, still searching
for words that would ease a broken heart. None, she knew,
could ever be found. "Two counts of second-degree murder."

Olga waited, but Mrs. Smith just breathed softly into the
line.

"I'm so, so sorry. Shelly and Lorrie deserved so much
more than that"

Mrs. Smith finally spoke. Her words were measured, but
there was an underpinning of loathing coming from deep inside. She was fighting it, the kind of churchgoer that she was.
But it was undeniable. "Both girls are in heaven now. And
after seeing how the world is up in your part of the state, I'd
say they're both better off for it. Shame on a system that lets
a man steal two beautiful lives as if they were nothing."

The words pierced Olga's broken heart. She knew they'd
failed those girls. Now the worst kind of human being-the
kind who can only mimic compassion or approximate the affect of humanity-was getting the biggest break of his life.

"As I said, I'm so, so sorry."

The line went dead. Mrs. Smith had hung up without saying good-bye.

Two weeks later insult was added to injury when sentence
was passed. Twenty years to life for each girl's death. The
absolute blow: The sentence was concurrent. Dylan Walker
would likely see the light of day.

"Ready?" Tina Winston looked suspiciously at Bonnie
Jeffries standing in the doorway wearing her nearly threadbare quilted bathrobe. "You don't look it."

Bonnie was perplexed. She drew her robe belt tighter and
opened the door wider to let Tina inside.

"God, you can be so obtuse, Bonnie."

Tina breezed into the foyer and shut the door behind her.
"We're going up to Meridian today, right?" Tina put her hand
on her hip and regarded her friend impatiently. She was
nearly giddy. She tried to fake a frown, but she was obviously so excited about something she couldn't even be in a
teasing mood.

"Dylan Walker wants to meet me. He sent me a personal
letter." Without taking her eyes off Bonnie, now sitting on
the living room sofa, Tina unclasped her Louis Vuitton handbag. With the flourish of a waiter presenting some fabulous
meal under a crystalline dome, she handed Bonnie an oversized envelope.

It was addressed to Tina Winston. The return address was
D. Walker, c/o Whatcom County Jail, Meridian.

"He actually wrote to you?"

Tina grinned broadly. "Finally. I sent him at least three
notes of encouragement throughout that travesty of justice
up there in Meridian." She slid down next to Bonnie and, unable to wait a second longer, pulled the letter from the envelope like it was a Christmas present she'd been dying to open.

"This is stupid, Tina," Bonnie said flatly.

"Maybe you won't think so when you read it."

Bonnie was skeptical, but she put on her red-framed readers anyway. Dylan Walker's handwriting was surprisingly crisp,
nearly feminine. It looked almost as if he'd never developed
a style of his own after learning penmanship in third grade.
Ascenders and descenders were perfect in form and angle.

Dear Tina: Your letters have been so welcome and
I'm sorry there has been delay in my response. You
cannot believe how much mail I get here. There's no
way I could answer each and every note, but your
sincerity and genuine interest in my case really
touched me. I've suffered more than any man I've
ever known. I'm not one for pity, but I have no idea
why God would do this to me. All I've tried to do is
live a good, honest life. See where it got me? Thank
you for the photo ...

Bonnie looked over the top of her glasses and made a
face. "You sent him your picture?"

Tina shrugged as if no defense was needed.

"So? Even if he's guilty which he's most definitely
not-he's headed to prison. He's not going to hurt anyone
from there. I'm more worried about him than anything. I
don't have to remind you that famous people are victimized
in prisons across this country every day. They're targets of
the riffraff incarcerated there"

Bonnie kept her mouth shut. What could she say? Dylan
Walker was not some innocent man pulled off the street and
tried for a double homicide on a whim. He was the goddamn
riffraff. Tina Winston was smitten with Walker, and he was
playing her for all she was worth, which was considerable.
She went back to reading the note. She breathed in, catching
a slight whiff of cologne, which surprised her. She didn't
think prisoners were allowed to wear cologne.

... you are lovely, if you don't mind my saying so.
You also look like the kind of person who can see into
someone's soul. I long for a friendship with someone
like you. I've added your name to the visitation list. If
you come, please tell them you are a lifelong friend. I am not allowed to meet with anyone I didn't know
before my arrest. I hate to ask you to lie, but it is
the only way. Fridays are good. I'll be here another
month before being transferred to the prison in
Shelton.

Peace, Dylan Walker

Bonnie took off her glasses and shifted her quilted bulk.
The couch creaked. She was fatter than she'd ever been and
she hated herself for it. She looked into her friend's eyes
with utter disbelief. Tina was a stunner. She had a successful
business. Her figure? She loathed it when Tina showed up in
some crop top and shorts in the summertime weather. Her
legs were impossibly long. She actually had ankles. As far as
Bonnie Jeffries could imagine, there was no one on the
planet who had more going for her than her friend, Tina
Winston.

"I'm uneasy about this," Bonnie finally said. "I don't
think this is a good idea whatsoever."

"Are you judging me?"

"No, I'm worried about you"

"Worried or jealous?"

"Jealous of your relationship with a serial killer? Jesus,
Tina."

Tina reached for the envelope and Bonnie handed it over.

"Look, I'm going up to see Dylan and I need your support. I've been there for you, haven't I? When you had problems with your car, who picked you up and drove you to the
grocery store?"

"That's hardly the same thing," Bonnie sniffed. "We're
talking about hanging out at a jail, not going to Safeway's
frozen-food aisle."

Tina giggled. "Come on," she said. "It'll be so fun"

"I can see it will be fun for you. But what do I get out
of it?"

"Lunch at the new restaurant ... and better yet, you get
to live vicariously through me"

The last words almost made Bonnie cry. She'd lived vicariously through Tina Winston for most of her adult life. But
the promise of the advertised ninety-nine-item salad bar won
out over her good sense and bruised ego.

"Okay. Okay. I'll go with you"

Tina flashed her disarming smile. "You won't regret it,"
she said. "I promise."

The jail trusty was a man in his fifties who had practically
made a second home of the Whatcom County Jail. He'd
never done anything that sent him up to Washington's prisons in Walla Walla, Monroe, McNeil Island, or Shelton. He
was what the jail called the ultimate boomerang. In time, he
was known merely as Boomer, a name that was laughable
considering his rail-thin frame. Sticks or even Humpback
would have been more apropos. He pushed a metal librarystyle cart with the day's mail from one cell to the next, passing out love letters, legal missives, and even the penny shopper.

"Want this magazine?" He said to a hollow-eyed kid in on
a drug possession charge, a misdemeanor.

The kid accepted the rolled-up magazine, a copy of Discover. "Hell no, I don't like that shit. Science kept me from
my GED. Besides, isn't that a federal offense?"

"Huh?" Boomer said, his cart now squarely in front of the
punk's cell.

The kid poked the magazine back through the bars. "Giving out someone's mail, man?"

Boomer let out big laugh. "What are they going to do?
Send me to jail?" The kid had set him up with a joke. Nice.

"All that shit for Walker?" The kid pointed to a bloated
canvas bag resting on the bottom shelf of the cart.

Boomer nodded. "Yeah, Mr. Hollywood gets more fan
mail than that twink Tom Cruise. Sends out more than anyone here, too. Should probably have a personal postmark by
now. Maybe even a stamp with his mug on it?"

The kid did his best to look cool and tough. He was neither. "Yeah, you lick the back of it and die."

Halfway down the corridor, Dylan Walker could hear the
exchange between the trusty and the young inmate. It didn't
make him angry, though if he was in closer range and he
thought Boomer and the punk knew he heard them, he'd have
put up some kind of a fight. But not then. Instead, he hurried
to finish the letter he was writing. But he was neat. He didn't
like to rush. Every stroke held some kind of power.

... I long for a friendship with someone like you.
I've added your name to the visitation list. If you
come, please tell them you are a lifelong friend.

Peace, Dylan Walker

By the time Boomer arrived at Walker's holding cell, he
had finished addressing the envelope. He wanted it to get out
in the day's mail. The letter was addressed to a woman in
Acton, California.

"Here you go, Boomer," Walker said, his smile reflecting
the dim light of the buzzing fluorescent tubes that hung from
ceiling chains over the corridor. "Just ten to go out today.
I'm behind." He laughed a little and handed over a stack of
letters, envelopes of varying sizes, postage affixed by the senders in response to the jail's request for self-addressed,
stamped envelopes for inmate mail.

Boomer opened the canvas bag and started feeding mail
to Walker. "If you thought you were behind before, meet
your future bout with writer's cramp"