Cold Case (9 page)

T
hat afternoon Barbara went to city hall, where she called on Lieutenant Floyd Dressler, an investigator in Assaults, who was in charge of the attempted murder of David Etheridge. His desk was on the side of a large, overcrowded, noisy room. Too many separate conversations made a background level of sound that waxed and waned but never ceased, and was punctuated with the ringing of telephones.

In his fifties, a stocky man who had five sons, and talked about them at every opportunity, Dressler had seemed to become sadder year by year, as if he had seen too much and was having trouble keeping himself distanced from it. Earlier he had not been willing to talk about Etheridge's assault, but now that Barbara was David's attorney of record, he was cooperative.

“Dr. Lester Colfax will be his primary care physician,” Barbara said. “All decisions about questioning Mr. Etheridge will be made by him, and depend entirely on Mr. Etheridge's condition. Of course, no questions unless I'm present.”

“Okay,” Dressler said. “Our main concern is whether he saw anyone, or if he'd had real threats. You know what I mean, not just letters to the editor, but in person, e-mail, phone.”

“I'll let you know as soon as he's up to answering questions,” she said. “Probably in a few days. How much do you know at this stage about the attack itself?”

“Not a lot. He left the lecture at Buell Hall with a few others at about nine forty-five or a little after, possibly as late as ten. They went out a side door to an alley with little street lighting. They separated at the corner, and he headed for his apartment, probably got in the neighborhood ten or fifteen minutes later. A resident was walking his dog at eleven-fifteen, spotted him and called nine-one-one.”

He shook his head. “The primary weapon was an oak rod of some sort, maybe a heavy cane, something like that. Caught him in the back of the head, skull fracture, out cold instantly. The rest of the damage was by kicks in the side, arms, ribs.”

Barbara shuddered at the image it brought to mind. “Hard shoes? Boots? Fibers?”

“In the lab. We'll get a report in a few days. It looks like leather shoes. That's all I can tell you about them.”

“Any idea about how many were involved?” Barbara asked.

“I think just one.”

She didn't press him for reasons. He was good, with a lot of experience in assaults, and if he thought one, he was more than likely right. One extremely vicious, cruel attacker.

After a few more minutes, and when Dressler began to talk about his youngest, Joey, and his prowess in softball, Barbara thanked him and left, to return to her own office.

She sat at her desk for a long time, trying to think of possible ways the three points of a triangle might be connected, even if separated by more than twenty years. Three murderous attacks, two successful, one nearly successful in the same small sample of humanity. Too coincidental, she argued with herself, but there didn't seem to be a way to make all three hold together. The methods were too different. Killers tended to use whatever method worked the first time. But it would be difficult to strangle a grown man, and Robert's gun had been left behind and was not available for David's attack. On to method three. She shook her head as once more the triangle collapsed into three separate lines. David's attack was especially brutal in a way the other two had not been. Kicking an unconscious man, breaking ribs, puncturing a lung was too different. If the attacker had thought David was already dead, kicking him was somehow even more horrendous, maniacal even. In her mind the sides of the collapsed triangle became heavy oak staves. If the first two deaths proved to be connected, it was credible that the attack against David was what the police had decided—a hate crime.

That afternoon, Shelley tapped on Barbara's door, opened it a crack, and said, “Got a few minutes?”

Barbara waved her in. “All I have is time right now. What do you have?”

“Not a lot, but a few things. I have copies of every newspaper article I could dig out, and I tracked down Jill's roommate.”

“Great,” Barbara said.

Then, sitting in the comfortable chairs at the lovely inlaid table, Shelley pointed to a folder she had put on the table. “Copies of the articles,” she said. “Apparently the night Jill was killed her roommate was working a six-to-midnight restaurant shift. Jill was taking a nap when she went to work, and when she got home by twelve-thirty, Jill was not there, and she went straight to bed, thinking that Jill was still at the party. And that's all she knew about it. At the party, no one knew when Jill left. The few remaining at the party cleared out by one. No one saw any kind of trouble brewing, heard anything to indicate hard feelings of any sort, and so on. Just a fun party and a good time had by all.”

Shelley spread her hands. “As you might guess, the investigators weren't telling anything worth listening to. A newspaper account, unconfirmed, said they found a loose key in Jill's pocket and it was to David Etheridge's apartment. Jill was strangled, death between midnight and three in the morning. Of course, no one saw or heard anything. And that's about all, with variations and repetitions.”

“God, I wish I had that police file,” Barbara muttered. “Okay, anything else? What about the roommate?”

Shelley nodded. “Olga Trenval Maas. She's a teacher in Richland, Washington, originally from Medford, where her father is a Baptist preacher. She was married some years ago and there's a thirteen-year-old daughter.”

“Was married? No longer?”

“No. Divorced. She's a single mom now. She kept her married name, Maas, probably because of the daughter. Less complicated that way.”

“Okay,” Barbara said. Grinning, she added, “I wonder how hard it would be to commit a little theft at city hall? Pinch that old police file.”

Solemnly Shelley said, “Ski masks, trench coats, black gloves, a getaway car with the motor on, a submachine gun or something. Probably not all that hard.”

Barbara laughed and picked up the folder. “Beat it before I start plotting. Accessory before the fact can be a serious charge.”

Barbara scanned the various articles, but Shelley's report had touched on what few details the investigators had released, and the rest was speculation, opinion pieces, demands to clean up the university area of the homeless, the transients, the panhandlers. She gazed at the name Olga Maas, her address in Richland, Washington, and her phone number.

She called the number. When the phone was picked up, a blast of music and giggles all but drowned out the voice at the other end.

“Ms. Maas? My name is Barbara Holloway, and I'm an attorney in Eugene. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Hold on a second,” the woman said. The background noise became fainter, and she said, “Who are you?”

Barbara repeated her introduction. “If you have a few minutes I'd like to ask a couple of questions.”

“I'm sorry. I have a houseful of girls wanting to start a cookout. I can't talk now.”

“It's about Jill Storey,” Barbara said. “Is there a good time to call you back?”

“What about Jill? Why are you asking about her?” Her voice sharpened, became noticeably colder. The background sounds became even fainter, as evidently Olga Maas was moving farther from the girls.

“I represent David Etheridge, and there is possible renewed interest in that case,” Barbara said.

“I don't understand any of this,” Olga said. “But I can't talk now. And I won't answer questions asked by a stranger over the telephone, in any event.”

A girl's voice yelled, “Mother! Can we start?”

“Oh, God,” Olga said. “I have to go.”

“I can drive up there,” Barbara said quickly. “Can we make an appointment?”

“No!” With her hand over the mouthpiece, she called, “I'll be there in a minute.” Then, speaking to Barbara she said, “Look, I'll pass through Eugene on Sunday on my way to Medford with my daughter and a friend. They want to stop in the Portland mall, but it can just as well be the one in Eugene. I can see you then for a few minutes.”

“Fine. I'll make a reservation at the SweetWaters Restaurant, right by the mall. What time do you think you'll be here?”

“I don't know. Not before three.” The girl called again, and Olga called back, “Gillian, I said I'll be there in a minute! Ms. Holloway, I have to go. Around three on Sunday at the restaurant.” She hung up.

Barbara wrote the name, Gillian Maas. Olga Maas evidently had named her daughter after her roommate, who had died nine years before her birth.

“Not a lot,” Bailey said on Tuesday morning, “and most of it's pretty mundane stuff. Aaronson's the most interesting dude in the bunch. He has a consulting business, three employees and a lot of deals under his belt. Advises about where to build a casino, where to get a tax waiver to site a new plant, things like that. McCrutchen was in on some of the deals, apparently, but the trail is hidden under layers of legalisms. Seems Aaronson has a knack of learning where commissioners are agreeable to zoning changes, and it just happens that McCrutchen served on committees that oversaw zoning rules and regulations. It would take a flock of legal experts to unravel it.” His morose expression indicated that he had gone as far as he intended in that direction.

Barbara nodded. “Anything about Storey? Her murder?”

“I know the lead investigator who handled it,” he said. “Guy named Barton. Retired ten or eleven years ago. We had a chat. Guy who did it wore cotton gloves, no prints. She wasn't robbed, and she wasn't sexually molested. She was grabbed from behind and had cotton fibers under her nails, but probably didn't put up much of a struggle. She was legally drunk. He figures the killer was interrupted, or thought he was being interrupted, and ran before he got to the money in her purse, eleven bucks. But a dopehead would have cleaned it out, or he would have taken it with him. That's as far as it got, and he doesn't remember much more about it.”

“Just one of those things,” Barbara said bitterly.

Bailey shrugged.

“Okay,” Barbara said. “I'm going to the hospital to check on Etheridge's room. But until the police make their next move, we're on hold. I have a list of the partygoers that night. About thirty of them. Maybe just a quick scan to see if anyone is worth real attention. Then nothing more for now.”

She gave the list to Bailey. He pulled himself up, picked up his duffel bag, saluted and walked out in no particular hurry.

“Anything for me?” Shelley asked.

“Nope. Back to routine for now.”

Shelley went to the door, paused and said, as bitterly as Barbara had done, “Just one of those things. Right.”

At the hospital Barbara was relieved when she was stopped at the nurse's station and asked for ID. The nurse on duty consulted a computer screen and waved her on. It was very quiet in this wing with gravely ill patients. She found the room and tapped lightly on the door before entering. Lucien Etheridge was in a chair by the bed, and rose swiftly when he saw her.

“He's really doing fine,” he said, motioning toward David, who looked terrible.

One side of his face was bandaged, as well as his head, and he was very pale, his eyes sunken.

“They made him get out of bed a while ago,” Lucien said. “And he did it. Stood right up.”

Lucien didn't look a whole lot better than his son. A cot had been provided, overcrowding the room, but at least Lucien or his wife could try to get some rest now.

“I think they always make the patient get on his feet as soon as possible. They say it helps the healing process.” She turned to David. “Hi. Your doctor said five minutes and no questions yet. Just a quick hello.”

Weakly he said, “Didn't think the next time we met, I'd be in bed, dressed in a gown.”

Barbara laughed. “I think this puts us on first-name terms, David. I really won't stay this time, but I'll be back. If there's anything I can bring, tell your dad to let me know.”

“Some videos,” Lucien said. “Maybe Charlie Chaplin, or Harold Lloyd, Marx Brothers, things like that.”

“Sure,” she said. “I'll drop some off later today, and come for a real visit tomorrow. See you later, David.”

The Buchman cottage was situated in Yachats on a high cliff overlooking the ocean. Late that Tuesday afternoon, sitting on a deck enclosed on both sides, making an effective windbreak, with only the ocean side open, Chloe had to admit that this change had been good for her. She had been nearly catatonic, haunted by nightmares about ants no matter how many sleeping pills she took. They had left her stuporous the next day, unable to think. The change had broken the pattern.

She had gone over the same figures again and again, and regardless of how she manipulated them, the results were always the same, or so nearly the same as not to matter. With the insurance she would have little more than two hundred thousand dollars. Selling off a few stocks, the Lexus, everything she could think of, would bring in more, but not enough. How long it would last she had no firm idea, but she suspected it would not be very long.