Justice Denied (3 page)

“Good,” Ross said. “Glad to hear it, because we seem to have a little problem, and you may be able to help.”

So he wasn’t here about Mel and me after all. I breathed what I hoped was an inaudible sigh of relief. “What kind of problem?” I asked.

“Does the name LaShawn Tompkins mean anything to you?”

It took a minute but then I remembered. LaShawn was a hotshot, tough-guy gangbanger who had gone to prison years earlier for the rape and murder of a teenage prostitute. I recalled that some time in the last year or so, after sitting on death row for years, he had been exonerated through newly examined DNA evidence. After his release, the state had declined to retry him. Tompkins’s release had been a huge media event, and his subsequent wrongful-imprisonment settlement had caused a storm of controversy that was now the centerpiece of what looked to be a knock-down, drag-out battle in the upcoming campaign to elect a new King County prosecutor.

I nodded. “Isn’t that the guy the do-gooders managed to spring from death row last year?”

“The very one,” Ross agreed.

“What about him?”

“Someone shot the shit out of him last Friday evening,” Ross said. “Plugged him twice, once in the stomach and once in the
heart when he opened his mother’s front door over in the Rainier Valley.”

That didn’t sound so unusual to me. In fact, it’s pretty much same old, same old. A guy gets out of prison, comes back, tries to go back to doing whatever he did before he went to the slammer. He soon finds out that times have changed. New thugs have taken over his old territory and his old contacts, and they don’t like him encroaching on what they now regard as theirs.

“Turf war?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Ross said. “Maybe not. That’s what I’d like you to find out for me.”

“Why?” I said.

For the first time since he’d sat down in my office, Ross looked uncomfortable. “I really can’t say,” he said. “Or rather, I won’t. Not at this time. And given the fact that there have been leaks in my office before…”

I nodded. We both knew too much about those.

“I’m not about to put anything in writing,” he continued. “Not in an e-mail. Not in a letter. Not in anything official. At this point it’s strictly an informal inquiry.”

I wanted to ask how come, but I thought better of it. Ross gave me an answer anyway—a partial answer.

“It may be nothing at all. Then again, it could be a big deal,” he added. “Until I have a better handle on what’s going on, I don’t want to leave any kind of a paper trail.”

It was more of an answer than I probably deserved. It was also as much information as I was likely to receive. “Got it,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do. So this is under the radar?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Can I use your name?”

“Let me know first.”

“Reports?”

“Nothing written,” he said. “Nothing that goes through channels and across desks. I’ve cleared it with Harry, so he knows you’re on special assignment. I’ll check with you off and on in the next few days and see how it’s going.”

For the first time I wondered if LaShawn Tompkins’s murder didn’t have something to do with whether Ross Alan Connors himself would stand for reelection.

“So I’m your secret agent man?” I asked.

Ross nodded. “For the time being. I’ve got a good crew of people here,” he added. “All of them are hand-picked, and all of them trustworthy, but you and I have a history, Beau. I’m counting on your discretion in this matter.”

“Okey-dokey,” I said. “You want discretion, you’ve got discretion.”

“Thanks,” he said. “And that includes your special friend, by the way,” he added as he rose to his feet.

It was a long way from what I had expected and deserved, but it was clear Ross knew all about Mel and me, and now I knew he knew. And not telling Mel about what he had asked me to do would put me between a rock and a hard place.

Ross pulled the door open. As he stepped into the corridor, he turned and looked back at me. “Life goes on, doesn’t it,” he said.

That throwaway comment covered a lot of territory. Ross Alan Connors and J. P. Beaumont did have a history, one that included the pain of losing wives to suicide. This was the second time now that Ross had come to me personally when he needed
something handled under the radar. In the world of SHIT, I was indeed Ross’s secret agent man. He had just given me the handshake.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, it does.”

F
or a long time after Ross Connors left my office, I sat there and contemplated what it all might mean. Obviously, by limiting the scope of the investigation into LaShawn Tompkins’s death to one officer and by disallowing any kind of a paper trail, the A.G. seemed to be looking for a certain amount of deniability with regard to whatever his interest might be in the homicide of a now-exonerated killer. I also gave some careful thought to what I would tell Mel when she got around to asking, as she inevitably would, what the hell was going on.

It happened at lunchtime as we were driving through rain-washed sunshine to the Men’s Wearhouse in downtown Bellevue. “So what did Ross Connors want?” she asked. “Barbara
told me the two of you were in your office for a closed-door meeting for a very long time.”

We were in the BMW and she was driving, so she wasn’t looking at my face when I answered. There’s a good reason I don’t play poker. My face is always a dead giveaway of whatever’s in my hand.

“Just chewing the fat,” I said casually. “I don’t think he’s ever gotten over what happened to Francine.”

“His wife?” Mel asked, shooting me a questioning look.

All that had happened before Melissa Soames had turned up at SHIT. I nodded, hoping she’d go back to watching traffic instead of watching me.

“That’s understandable,” Mel said. The fact that she swallowed my lie without a moment’s hesitation made me feel that much worse.

I had held out some hope that in the process of actually buying the damned tux I’d somehow manage to jar loose a little more information as to the whys and wherefores of my needing one. No such luck. Other than telling the alterations lady that we needed to have the tux in hand by Friday evening, Mel didn’t let slip any additional details. By then I was in far too deep to ask.

After my ordeal by tux (the first one I ever purchased as opposed to rented, by the way), we hurried across the street to the California Pizza Kitchen to grab some lunch. Mel knows her way around downtown Bellevue the same way I know my way around downtown Seattle. The place was bright, busy, crowded, and noisy, which suited me just fine. I hoped that Mel would be preoccupied enough with her surroundings that she’d stop giving me the third degree about Ross’s special project. Fat chance.

“So what are you up to later?” she asked.

“I have an MPT interview set up for this afternoon,” I said. “Once that’s over, I may end up having to go directly from there into Seattle.”

“So I’m on my own for getting across the water tonight?” she asked.

“Looks like.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I had forgotten. I have a board meeting tonight. I’d need to bring my car home anyway.”

That’s when it finally dawned on me. Mel had been drafted onto the board of SASAC—the Seattle Area Sexual Assault Consortium. (Who makes up these names?) Their annual fund-raising auction was scheduled for Friday night. Since she’s on the board, not appearing simply wasn’t an option, and that’s why I needed the tux. But my relief was short-lived.

“What about Beverly?” Mel prodded. “Did you call her yet?”

“Not yet, but I will,” I promised.

“If you go see her tonight, be sure to take that picture of Kyle along. I left it on the hallway table with the rest of the mail.”

I was eager to move away from the uncomfortable subject of visiting my grandmother. “What does your afternoon hold?” I asked.

Mel rolled her very blue eyes. For weeks she’d been working on a county-by-county analysis of violent crime. She’d been complaining about it for that long as well.

“As of this morning,” she said, “I’m suddenly charged with creating a catalog of violent sex offenders, which is, if you ask me, a long way away from our primary mission.”

“A catalog?” I asked.

She took a bite of her pasta salad and nodded. “More like a survey,” she answered. “For the past five years. Ross wants to know where Washington’s released sexual offenders have been—where they went once they got out of jail and where they are now. Oh, and he also wants it ASAP.”

Considering Mel’s extracurricular activity with SASAC, I could see why Ross Connors had drafted her for that particular job.

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“Doesn’t it just,” she agreed glumly. “I guess I’ll be letting my fingers do the walking.”

We had paid up and were headed toward the door when, over the noise of rattling crockery, I heard someone call, “Melissa! Oh, Melissa.”

I turned and saw someone—a blonde—waving frantically from a table on the far side of the cashier stand. “Is that someone you know?”

Mel’s face broke into a smile. “Come on,” she said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. It’s Anita.”

Mel tends to refer to her friends by first names only. I knew that Anita was somehow related to SASAC, but in that moment I couldn’t have remembered how for any amount of money.

Anita Nolastname stood up, held out a diamond-bedecked hand, and proffered a smooth perfumed cheek for an expected kiss. She was upper thirty-something, pencil-thin, and drop-dead gorgeous.

“Why, you must be the unparalleled Beau Beaumont,” the woman said with a smile. “I’m Anita Bowdin. Mel talks about you all the time, by the way. Says you’re wonderful.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything I hear,” I told her. When I glanced in Mel’s direction I saw she was blushing, and I have to confess that the idea of Mel’s talking about me in my absence put a smile on my face.

“So you’re coming on Friday?” Anita continued.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, faking for all I was worth with what I hoped sounded like sincere enthusiasm. “Got my tux and everything.”

“Good boy,” Anita said. “See there? You’re every bit as wonderful as she says. And you’ll be at the board meeting tonight?” she asked, turning to Mel.

“Yes, I will,” Mel answered.

We didn’t say anything more until we were back in the BMW.

“So you talk about me when I’m not around?” I asked innocently.

“Don’t press your luck, buddy,” Mel returned. “Wouldn’t miss it!” she repeated, mimicking my delivery. “You’re such a liar I’m surprised you weren’t struck by lightning.”

“As a matter of fact, so am I,” I said, and we both burst out laughing.

When we arrived back at the office I got into my own car and headed out for my interview with DeAnn Cosgrove.

For years I went along with the self-congratulatory prejudice that causes people who live in downtown Seattle to maintain that the east side of Lake Washington is nothing but a vast residential wasteland. Driving across the lake and becoming instantly and hopelessly lost is a point of honor for some confirmed city dwellers. Now that I work in south Bellevue, however, I’m gradually getting over it. With the help of my newly
purchased GPS, I had no difficulty making my way to the residence of DeAnn and Donald Cosgrove on the western edge of Redmond.

The house was one of a number of small neat family homes tucked onto a quiet cul-de-sac. A tiny fenced and well-maintained front yard was graced by a number of plastic vehicles and a small swing set. When I rang the bell it was answered by a woman in her early thirties who carried a relatively new baby on one hip while being trailed by a pair of what looked to be three-year-old twins.

DeAnn Cosgrove had the wan, distracted look of someone suffering through months of sleep deprivation. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with distinct traces of baby burp dribbling down one shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a ragged ponytail. Looking at her reminded me of Kelly. When we’d seen my daughter down in Ashland, she’d looked a lot like that, too—weary beyond words.

“J. P. Beaumont,” I said, holding out my ID. She glanced at it with no particular interest. “I’m with the Special Homicide Investigation Team,” I added. “Are you DeAnn Cosgrove?”

“Yes, I am,” she said, nodding. “Come in. Please excuse the mess.”

She was right. The house was messy—not dirty but cluttered with laundered but unfolded clothes piled two feet deep on the couch, with the dining room table covered by a snarl of papers, and with a minefield of toys littering the carpeted floor. That, too, reminded me of Kelly and Jeremy’s place, for many of the same reasons. Taking care of kids doesn’t leave a lot of excess time for anything else, most especially housekeeping.

“I meant to shower and have this all picked up before you got here, but…” she began.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “I just came back from visiting my daughter and son-in-law down in Ashland. They have small kids, too.”

DeAnn gave me a sincere but haggard smile and then swiped an easy chair free of plastic toys so I could sit down. Then she settled into a rocker. Without practiced aplomb, she unbuttoned her blouse, covered herself with a tea towel, undid her bra, and began nursing the baby. She accomplished this while at the same time trying to cajole the twins—two impish little boys—into picking up their toys and putting them in a nearby toy box.

“So what’s this about my dad?” she asked.

I glanced at the name on the folder I was carrying. The missing person’s report for Anthony David Cosgrove had been filed by someone named Carol Cosgrove on May 19, 1980. DeAnn, the daughter, had been listed on the form by name.

“Who’s Donald, then?” I asked. “Your brother?”

DeAnn shook her head. “No,” she said. “Donnie’s my husband. Cosgrove’s my maiden name. When Donnie and I were getting married, I told him I wanted to keep my name just in case Daddy ever showed up and came looking for me. Luckily for me, Donnie’s a really practical guy. He said it made no sense to have more than one name in our family, so he changed his name to mine. His dad didn’t like the idea very much, but Donnie said he was marrying me, not his father.”

It was clear that almost twenty-five years later, DeAnn Cosgrove was still grieving for her absent father and hoping against hope that someday he would return. That kernel of knowledge was enough to break my heart. It put a personal human spin on an assignment that had been, up to that point, nothing but a list of names.

“Sounds like your husband’s got a good head on his shoulders,” I said.

An odd expression flitted across DeAnn’s face. “Yes,” she agreed finally. “Yes, he does. But you still haven’t told me. What’s this about? Why are you asking questions about Dad after so many years?”

“It turns out there are literally hundreds of unresolved missing persons cases in this state that have gotten zero attention…”

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“I work for the Washington State attorney general, Ross Connors. He’s asked my agency, the Special Homicide Investigation Team, to go through those cases and see if by cross-checking we can bring some of them to a close.”

“I’ve heard about cases like that,” DeAnn offered. “Cold cases where they eventually figure out that an unidentified body somewhere else is someone who’s been missing for a long time.”

“Yes, so if you don’t mind…”

But I didn’t even finish asking the question before DeAnn Cosgrove launched into her story. “It happened the day Mount Saint Helens blew up,” she said at once. “Daddy went fishing that weekend and never came home.”

The day Mount Saint Helens blew up. If you lived in Washington State or even anywhere in the Pacific Northwest at the time, those words conjure a day you remember—a beautifully clear Sunday morning in late spring when the mountain—one some Native Americans referred to as “Louwala Clough,” or Smoking Mountain—suddenly roared back to life after being quiet for 123 years. The initial blast caused a huge avalanche and sent up an immense overheated cloud of three-hundred-degree pumice and
ash that killed every living thing inside a two-hundred-square-mile area.

“So your father was one of the fifty or so people who died?” I asked.

“The actual number was fifty-seven,” she said. “Daddy wasn’t ever counted in that official number because they never found any trace of him—no sign of him or his vehicle. But Mount Saint Helens is where he had told my mother he was going that weekend—he said he was going fishing on Spirit Lake.”

I had gone camping on the edge of that pristine lake myself years ago—long before the mountain blew up. In advance of the actual eruption—between the time of the first sizable earthquake underneath the mountain in March and when the first big eruption happened on the eighteenth of May—I remembered reading about a curmudgeonly old guy—memorably named Harry Truman—who had told interviewers that if the mountain ever exploded, he’d just go out on the lake in his boat and wait it out. There was only one problem with Mr. Truman’s plan—the lake was vaporized in that initial explosion, and so was he.

It seemed likely to me now that if Anthony David Cosgrove had been anywhere near Spirit Lake at the time, he had most likely met a similar fate. But I remembered, too, that investigators had found traces of many of the human tragedies left behind in the volcano’s aftermath. Etched in my memory were images of eerie shells of burned-out vehicles still smoldering in the devastated wilderness and testifying to the fact that for the people trapped inside those vehicles, there had been no escape.

In the decades since then, though, Mount Saint Helens and the surrounding area have been subjected to an almost microscopic
examination as scientists study both what happened back then and what’s happening now. The area where millions of board feet of timber were felled in one cataclysmic blast is now an ongoing laboratory of Mother Nature at work, reclaiming that which she has previously destroyed.

With that in mind, it seemed strange to me that no fragment of Anthony Cosgrove’s vehicle had ever been found. Still, there was always an outside chance that something had surfaced and no one had bothered to notify his daughter. Bureaucracies are notoriously dim when it comes to taking the feelings of individuals into consideration.

By then the baby seemed to have fallen asleep. She held him to her shoulder, burped him, and then went to put him down somewhere out of sight. The process made me wonder a little. I knew that Kelly had nursed Kayla when she was a baby. Kyle, on the other hand, seemed to be a bottle baby. When we had been down in Ashland, I had noticed this and wondered about it, but there are things fathers can ask and things they can’t. This was one of the latter.