Long Time Gone (17 page)

None of that surprised me. The contents all seemed perfectly normal. What wasn’t normal was what wasn’t there—the case log. With that missing, there was no official written account of Mimi Marchbank’s murder investigation—no record of where and when the physical evidence had been gathered and no list of who had been interviewed by detectives or why. Without that background information, the physical evidence itself was virtually useless.

So where did the case log go?
I asked myself.

How long had it been missing? Had it been gone for decades—say, from the time Wink Winkler had left the department in disgrace—or was its disappearance as recent as this last Tuesday morning?

I replaced the items I had removed, and returned the box to the counter. “Did you find everything you needed?” the clerk asked.

“Absolutely,” I told her with what I hoped sounded like a hint of a swagger. “Everything I needed and more.” I walked out the door hoping that conversation, too, would be reported back to Captain Kramer.

I went home, dragged out my computer, and used my notes to type up the report I had promised to deliver to SHIT in the morning. Next I tackled the police reports I had collected on the deaths of Elvira Marchbank and Wink Winkler. It made for slow going.

Elvira had been found at the bottom of the stairs. A partial shoe print had been found on the glossy cover of a magazine that had landed close to the body. There had been no sign of forced entry; no sign of an altercation. Hair and fiber trace evidence had been collected for analysis, but that would take time. Detectives Jackson and Ramsdahl had conducted a series of interviews with people from the surrounding neighborhood, including one Raelene Landreth, executive director of the Marchbank Foundation. None of the interviewees had reported hearing or seeing anything amiss at Elvira’s residence.

With Wink Winkler there was obviously a crime scene somewhere, but so far no one had found it. Dead bodies sink. They don’t float back up to the surface until there’s a certain amount of decomposition. Wink’s body had been found snagged by a piling under a dock on Harbor Island. What that said to me was that the unknown crime scene was most likely relatively close to where the body was found and that the fact that he had come to the surface had more to do with currents and flood and ebb tide than with anything else.

Wink’s son, William Winkler III—Bill—had been interviewed twice, both times at corporate offices of Emerald City Security, the firm Wink had founded but which was now being run by his son. The first interview had occurred on Wednesday morning, when a uniformed officer had been dispatched to speak to him in regard to the missing person report called in by Wink’s assisted-living facility. The second interview had been conducted late that afternoon by Detectives Jackson and Ramsdahl. By then Wink’s body had been found and identified. Bill Winkler told them that his father had been unhappy about living in the “home” but that he hadn’t seemed either despondent or suicidal.

My spirit was willing, but the flesh is weak. Halfway through Detective Jackson’s interview with Wink’s son, I fell sound asleep. I woke up sometime later to find the loose pages of the reports scattered around the legs of my recliner. I took that as a sign that it was time to toddle off to bed.

The next morning my back was killing me. I lay in bed for a long time, drifting and dozing and waiting for the kinks to straighten out.

When I had first heard Sister Mary Katherine’s account of what had happened on that glorious day in May so long ago, I had thought Elvira Marchbank would be the only surviving person who would know whether or not the story was true. Then Wink Winkler had been added into the mix. Now, with both of them dead, I had too many years of homicide work behind me to buy into Kramer’s notion that the two deaths—an accident and a suicide—were purely coincidental.

I happened to believe that Elvira Marchbank had been alive when Sister Mary Katherine left the old woman’s home. I also believed that, as Sister Mary Katherine left, Wink Winkler had arrived. That meant that Wink was, if not the last, then certainly among the last to see Elvira Marchbank alive. Had he killed her and then rearranged the evidence so her death would appear to be an accident rather than a homicide? And what was the point of killing Elvira in the first place? What in Sister Mary Katherine’s account of Mimi Marchbank’s death was so damaging that Wink Winkler would be willing to commit yet another murder in order to avoid having that story revealed more than half a century later?

Presumably Elvira, determined to make things right, would have identified the long-silent witness who had effected Elvira’s remarkable change in attitude. And if Wink’s sole purpose had been to suppress the story, wouldn’t he have attempted to silence not only Elvira but Sister Mary Katherine as well? And what was the point in his killing himself?

Or had he? Was there another person involved in all this—another person who knew all the particulars and who was smart enough to manipulate evidence? What if Elvira had been murdered and the evidence had been doctored to make it look as though she had died of an accidental fall? And if that was the case, could the same be true of Wink Winkler’s supposed suicide? What if someone other than Wink held the gun to his head and pulled the trigger? Suicide can be successfully faked, but only if the killer is smart enough to take bullet trajectories, blood spatter, and gunpowder residue into consideration.

Half awake and half asleep, I tried to catalog everything I had learned in the last several days. I was jolted out of my half-sleep by the recollection of the photograph Sister Mary Katherine had shown me in Bakeman’s at lunch the day before—the one of her and her father posing together, with her perched on the hood of his spanking-new car.

Hurrying into the living room, I found the phone book and tracked down the number for the Department of Licensing.

After passing through the required verbal identification process, I gave the clerk the year I was interested in and the name—William Winkler.

“Which one?” she asked. “Senior or junior?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Give me both.”

And that’s when I hit pay dirt. In 1950, William Winkler Sr., the man who was evidently Wink’s father, was still making do with a two-year-old 1948 Oldsmobile Futuramic 98. William Winkler Jr., on the other hand, began the year driving a 1946 Ford Super Deluxe, but in June of 1950, he must have landed in tall cotton. Suddenly he was listed as the proud owner of a Ford Custom Deluxe two-door convertible.

Was it my imagination, or had Sister Mary Katherine’s father’s new Ford arrived at almost the same time as Wink Winkler’s? So I checked the DOL records for Sean Dunleavy as well. Sure enough, his new Ford had arrived on the same day as Wink Winkler’s. And the Dunleavys’ new address was listed as an apartment on Market Street in Ballard.

The same day? Two brand-new Fords for two guys who both were probably having a hard time making ends meet? This had all the trappings of a classic payoff and cover-up. Between them, Wink Winkler and Sean Dunleavy had managed to keep Bonnie Jean from coming forward to reveal what she had seen.

Was that the first time Wink had stepped outside the bounds?
I wondered. Maybe, but it certainly wasn’t the last. I suspected he had gone on to bigger and better scores, right up until he was drummed out of Seattle PD and maybe even beyond that. Sean Dunleavy, on the other hand, had hit it big just that one time before he’d had to swallow his pride and go back to buying used cars.

I dialed the number for Saint Benedict’s Convent. It was still relatively early in the morning, but long after 5:00
A.M.
prayers. I identified myself and was put through to Sister Mary Katherine.

“What is it?” she asked. “Has something else happened?”

“Do you remember that picture you showed me yesterday, the one with you sitting on the hood of your father’s new car?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Who else do you think got a new Ford about the same time your father got his?” I asked.

“Who?” she asked.

“William Winkler,” I answered. “Wink’s vehicle was a slightly different and more expensive model than your dad’s, but he got his car on the exact same day.”

“Are you telling me that somebody bribed my father?” Sister Mary Katherine asked. “You’re saying they bought him a car on the condition that he keep me from telling what I knew?”

“And they bought Wink a car to ensure that whatever you said, he wouldn’t hear it.”

“So I must have told somebody,” Sister Mary Katherine breathed after a long pause. “At least I must have tried to tell someone.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I believe you did.”

“Thank you, Beau,” she managed, stifling a sob. “Thank you for telling me.”

With that she hung up. I didn’t blame her for crying. Bonnie Jean Dunleavy’s silence hadn’t wronged her murdered friend. The five-year-old girl had tried her best to help Mimi Marchbank and to tell what she knew, but the system had betrayed her. It had betrayed them both, and I was the one tasked with setting it right.

O
NCE I GOT OFF THE PHONE
with Sister Mary Katherine, I headed to Bellevue to deliver the written report I had promised Ross Connors. When I arrived at the building, Mel and I rode up in the elevator together. “Any sign of Dillon and Heather?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We’ve been in touch with Dillon’s father in White Rock and with his mother in San Francisco. Both claim they haven’t heard a word. What do you know about the sister?”

“Whose sister?”

“Amy Peters’s sister, the one who lives with them.”

“Oh, Molly,” I said. “Molly Wright. Not exactly my cup of tea. Why?”

“Brad and I got a search warrant for Dillon’s apartment. We found an empty packet of birth control pills with Molly Wright’s name on the prescription.”

“You think she got them for Heather?” I asked.

“That would be my guess,” Mel said. “And Molly is the person Dillon sat with at the funeral. Considering how much Ron and Amy disapprove of Dillon, why would Molly be so chummy with him?”

“Causing trouble?” I asked.

“But why?”

“Jealousy, maybe?” I suggested. “Molly and her husband used to be big deals here in Seattle, then her life went to hell. They lost everything. Her husband went to jail and she was forced to file for bankruptcy. From what I can tell, Ron and Amy took her in because she had nowhere else to go. She’s got nothing—no home, no husband, no kids. From where she’s standing, it must look like her sister has everything.”

“So she repays Ron’s and Amy’s kindness by undermining their authority with their own kids?” Mel asked.

Suddenly I was in the odd position of defending Molly Wright. Compared with her, Melissa Soames was a newcomer. “I guess she helps out with the kids,” I said lamely. “Makes meals, that kind of thing.”

Mel was not appeased. “She also helps by arranging for their fifteen-year-old to get birth control pills,” she returned. “If I were them, I’d throw her out.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you were a compassionate conservative.”

“Conservative, yes,” she responded. “Compassionate? Not necessarily, and certainly not when it comes to dealing with someone like her.”

Harry, coffee cup in hand, was standing near Barbara Galvin’s desk when Mel and I came in. “Someone like who?” he asked.

“Ron Peters’s freeloading sister-in-law,” Mel said and then stalked off to her office. Moments later the sounds of morning talk radio drifted down the hall.

“What’s wrong with her?” Harry asked.

“Beats me,” I said.

“And what have you been up to?” he asked slyly. “I haven’t seen you in several days, but I hear tell you’re going around town rattling chains and pushing buttons. And a little bird told me that you’re supposed to have a report on my desk first thing this morning.”

“It’s in my laptop,” I told him. “You’ll have it as soon as it’s printed and signed.”

“So stop standing around jawing about it and get it done,” Harry said.

I went into my own office and shut the door. I booted up my laptop, located the document, and revised it enough to add in what I had learned about the apparent payoffs to both Wink Winkler and Sean Dunleavy. I was about to press “print” when my phone rang.

“So you went back to the evidence room again,” Paul Kramer said. “What the hell do you think you’re up to?”

Obviously the evidence-room tattletale was still in Kramer’s corner. “Just doing my job,” I said.

“I won’t have you messing around in my cases or second-guessing my decisions.”

“Kramer,” I said. “What you will or won’t have is irrelevant to me. I don’t answer to you. I’ve got a mandate from the attorney general to look into a cold case, and I’m going to do just that.”

“I already told you. We’ve reopened that old Marchbank case.”

“Where’s the case log, then?” I interrupted. “Was it there the other day when you grabbed the evidence box out from under me?”

“Are you implying that I removed it?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m straight-out asking.”

“The log wasn’t there,” he said. “I have no idea what happened to it, but whatever did happen is none of your business, Beaumont.”

“Ross Connors is making it my business, Kramer. And the same holds true for the Elvira Marchbank and Wink Winkler cases. You want to write ’em off? So be it, but I’m not going to. Timely case closures may count for something when it comes to promotions at Seattle PD, but Ross takes a longer view of things. He’s interested in solving cases right however long it takes rather than solving them fast and wrong.”

For a moment Kramer said nothing. I couldn’t see his face, but I could imagine it. Once again I was thankful I wouldn’t be anywhere near his office when he started cutting loose.

“You stay out of my way and out of my people’s way, understand?” he said at last.

“I hear you, Kramer,” I told him. “But I’m not listening.” I put the phone down and finished printing my document. When I delivered it to Harry’s office, he was just hanging up his telephone.

“Paul Kramer?” I asked.

“How did you know?” Harry returned with a grin. “He wants me to take you off the Marchbank case. He feels your presence is disruptive to the investigation.”

“What investigation?” I demanded. “He refuses to interview Sister Mary Katherine about what happened to Mimi Marchbank, and he’s as good as washed his hands of both Elvira Marchbank and Wink Winkler.”

“Well, then,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair. “I guess you’d better see what you can do about it.”

“I guess I’d better.”

I went back to my office and sat there for a time, thinking. My early-morning revelation about the payoff Fords had convinced me that someone else was involved in this mess, someone who was well aware of everything that had gone on in May of 1950. The challenge was finding out that person’s identity.

And then I remembered. Once, when I was a boy, my mother lost her purse. In those pre-credit-card days, losing your purse or wallet was a serious crisis, especially for someone of my mother’s limited means. She finally found it—in the refrigerator, tucked in with the vegetables in what used to be called a humidrawer. She told me afterward, “I found it in the very last place I looked.” And that was true on any number of levels. Of course it was the last place she looked, because as soon as she found it, she stopped looking. But the refrigerator was also the very last place she would have thought to look.

In this case, I decided to take a page from my mother’s book and to go looking in the least likely of places—somewhere most cops, including Paul Kramer, would be loath to look. My reasoning was simple. Whatever had happened to Wink Winkler and Elvira Marchbank had its genesis in what had happened to Madeline Marchbank. The answer, if it actually existed, might well be found in old newspaper files. Paul Kramer wouldn’t go through those on a bet, and he wouldn’t let his people do so, either.

I drove straight to the offices of the
Post-Intelligencer,
sweet-talked my way down to the morgue, and threw myself on the mercy of Linda Carter, the same helpful intern who had worked with me days earlier.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Beaumont,” she said with a cordial smile. “How can I help you?”

“I need you to take me back to the fifties one more time,” I told her. “The big difference now is, I know more or less what I’m looking for. The files are indexed, aren’t they?”

“Pretty much,” Linda agreed. “Why?”

“I want to see all references to people named Marchbank—Elvira, Abigail, Albert, and Madeline—along with anybody else named Marchbank that I may not happen to know about. I’d also like to see anything on Albert’s partner, Phil Landreth.”

“Starting when?”

“Let’s say the late forties and early fifties.”

Soon I was again scrolling through the blue-and-white pages. Once I located the articles, I went ahead and printed them without necessarily reading them all the way through. More from sheer boredom than anything else, Linda joined me in tracking down articles.

“I’m not sure this is something you want,” she said. “It’s a wedding announcement from the society section.”

“Go ahead and print it,” I said. “I’ll read it later.” I didn’t add, “When I’m wearing my reading glasses so I can see the damned print,” but that’s what I meant.

Two hours later, after thanking Linda profusely, I left the
P.-I.
morgue with a stack of reading material. It was noon by then, so I picked up a sandwich on the way and went back up the hill to Belltown Terrace to read the articles.

The first batch from the archives I had brought home—the ones on Madeline Marchbank’s murder—had been relatively interesting. As expected, the articles in this one were incredibly boring. Most of them concerned Albert Marchbank’s business dealings. Each time he and his partner, Phil Landreth, added another radio station or two to their growing media empire, the purchase was duly reported in the newspaper. The first time I saw the name Landreth, it leaped out at me. I remembered seeing that name on one of the police reports I hadn’t gotten around to reading completely before I fell asleep. So I stopped right then and dug the report in question out of my briefcase.

There wasn’t much to it. After giving her name, address, and phone numbers to investigating officers, Raelene Landreth had reported that she was the executive director of the Marchbank Foundation. She had last seen Elvira Marchbank about noon on the day in question, when she went from her office to Elvira’s next-door residence with some papers to be signed. She heard and saw nothing more until late that evening, when a police officer came to her home in Medina to tell Raelene and her husband that Elvira was dead. End of story.

Having learned little, I turned back to the unstintingly boring articles that recorded the growth of the Marchbank-Landreth media empire. In their enthusiasm to tell the local-boys-make-good saga, the writers took the position that bigger was better without ever once mentioning how the local radio stations—the small outlets in Bellingham and Chehalis and Ellensburg—regarded being swallowed up by Seattle’s neophyte media moguls.

One story in particular struck me as significant. On June 16, 1950, Phil and Albert had closed on the purchase of a total of five separate stations. This particular transaction, the largest one so far, was the only one that listed Abigail Marchbank as a partner. Was that why Albert had come to see his mother that day? Had he come to Mimi’s house in order to ask his mother for funds to complete this purchase? If so, Mimi’s standing on her back porch and telling him no might have been what sealed her fate.

The last article I picked up happened to be the one Linda Carter had found for me, a wedding announcement from the June 4 issue of the paper. It was something less than a paragraph in a column called “Comings and Goings.”

The day leaped out at me—May 13, the Saturday Mimi Marchbank was murdered. Hadn’t there been some mention of a wedding in one of the previous articles I had read? I retrieved my first set of duplicated
P.-I.
articles and rummaged through it. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for:

Attending that wedding had provided Albert and Elvira Marchbank with an airtight alibi at the time of Mimi’s murder. I wondered if Wink Winkler had ever bothered to check to see if they’d actually been there.

I went back to the paltry announcement. Usually the weddings of offspring of local luminaries are given the full journalistic treatment. Mr. and Mrs. Downs may have been social nobodies, but Mr. and Mrs. Landreth certainly weren’t. I recognized at once what most likely wasn’t being said about this “small private ceremony.”

How small and how private?
I wondered.
And is there anyone around who would still remember the guest list of a shotgun wedding that happened back in 1950?

I put down the papers and reached for my phone book. In the Ls, I found no listing for Thomas Landreth, but there was one for F. D. Landreth. It came with a downtown Seattle telephone prefix but no printed address. I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello.” The woman’s voice sounded as if she was probably the right age—a bit more mature than mature.

“Is this Faye Landreth?” I asked.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont. I’m an investigator for the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. It’s about—”

“Mimi Marchbank’s murder,” she interrupted. “I was wondering if anyone would ever get around to talking to me about that.”

I felt a rush of excitement. Elvira Marchbank’s death had probably garnered front-page treatment in today’s newspapers, but Faye Landreth was more concerned about Mimi’s murder—an unsolved homicide from fifty-plus years earlier.

“Would it be possible to meet with you?” I asked. “Today, maybe?”

“Today would be fine,” she said. “What time and where?”

“Where do you live?” I countered.

“In a condo downtown,” she said. “Cedar Heights on Second Avenue.”

She had no idea that I was calling from only a block away at Belltown Terrace.

“I can be there in ten minutes,” I said.

“Should I put the coffeepot on?”

“That would be great.”

Ten minutes later, she buzzed me into the building, and I made my way up to the ninth floor. The woman who opened the door looked to be in her early seventies. She was relatively tall and unbent. She wore her hair in a short pixie cut, but there was nothing pixielike in her firm handshake.

“Mr. Beaumont?” she said cordially. “Won’t you come in?”

She ushered me into a well-kept room. Her unit was much lower than mine and smaller, but the territorial view of the Space Needle and the bottom of Lake Union was similar to what I see from my penthouse bedroom. The furnishings were simple and not particularly elegant. Large, colorful pieces of inexpensively framed artwork filled the walls. I walked close enough to one of them that I could decipher the signature scrawled in the lower right-hand corner: F. D. Landreth.