McKean S03 The Ghost Trees (3 page)

McKean drew his long fingers over his angular chin. “Answer: yes. It can be done. Time is the only uncertain variable. I’ll have to create an entirely new test.” He went to one of the bolts, pulled off a loose sliver of cedar and then turned for the exit door. “Quickly Fin,” he called, walking away without a goodbye to Reynolds or Stanwood, “Get me to my labs.”

I shot a glance back as we left. Reynolds rolled his eyes and shook his head. Sturgis, still on the phone, glowered after us.

I drove McKean back to his laboratory, first northbound on West Marginal Way past the sprawl of cement factories, scrap yards and rusty railroad tracks that overspreads the old Duwamish tribal homeland, and then across the West Seattle High Rise Bridge, which spans the Duwamish River in a single arch like a gray concrete rainbow casting its gloom over the polluted waterway. Buildings with tall stacks belched smoke here, steam there, in jarring contrast to what glittered to the north of us: the glass and steel towers of Seattle proper, home of high technology, coffee shops by the hundreds and great wealth that thrives, ignorant of the primeval beauty lost in its making.

“A DNA map,” McKean mused as I drove, “could theoretically match the gene patterns in the splinter I took from the wood in the warehouse to the genes of the stump in Puget Canyon. That would tie Sturgis to his crime if he is the murderer.”

“Great idea,” I congratulated him as I turned north on Highway 99. “Sounds like you’ll crack this case in no time.”

“Perhaps,” McKean reflected. “The only thing lacking is the DNA test. Small detail.”

“I see. But you have a plan.”

“Answer: yes. And more work for Janet Emerson.”

At a bench in the lab, McKean found his chief technician sitting on a tall stool in her lab coat and purple nitrile gloves with experimental beakers and apparatus spread on a lab blotter before her. Janet, a pretty brunette, put down a micropipet and gave McKean a pained smile. “Stewart Holloman stopped by. He wanted to talk to you.”

“Rather to bore me with his endless need for productivity and budgetary responsibility. Ah, for the day when I don’t have a boss hovering over me.”

“That day may be coming,” Janet said ruefully. “He seemed pretty steamed that you were out wandering around town, as he put it.”

“Never mind the concerns of that small-minded money man,” McKean blustered. “I’ve got another fascinating project for you.”

As he explained, Janet wrote in her lab notebook, occasionally responding with whatever information she could add. “Yes, I’m set up to extract DNA from the sample…No, I’m not aware of any specific tests available for trees…Yes, I can get started right away…No, I don’t mind working late tonight.”

“Good,” McKean said. “Here’s the sample from the shingle bolt pile. You can start with that while Fin and I go after a scrap from the stump of the poached tree, and a piece from the stump Sturgis claims is in his yard.”

“Going to Sturgis’ house sounds dangerous,” I said.

“Yes, Fin. He might be desperate enough to try something drastic. We’ll go there first and get our sample before the police are through questioning him. Come on, let’s take another wander around town, as Holloman says.”

On the way to West Seattle McKean called Officer Stanwood to get Sturgis’ address. Clicking off his phone, he remarked, “They tried to pick up Henry George for more questioning but couldn’t find him.”

“He seems to come and go mysteriously, doesn’t he?” I observed. “But they don’t still suspect that lame old geezer of anything, do they?”

“Not really. But he’s a witness able to identify Sturgis.”

“He already told us he didn’t actually see the murder.”

“Therefore, I’ll keep working on the DNA mapping angle. You’d better hurry, Fin. They finished interrogating Sturgis and he’s been let go. It’s anyone’s guess if he’ll go home or elsewhere. Hopefully, if we’re quick about it, we can be there and gone before he returns.”

* * * * *

“This is the address Stanwood gave me,” McKean confirmed as I pulled my Mustang to the curb in a West Seattle neighborhood of modest old blue-collar houses. McKean carefully studied the small, one-story corner house as I parked near its side fence. “As I hoped,” he said, “it looks like no one is home. If we’re quick, we can get what we want without incident.”

We entered a gate on the side fence, apparently unseen by neighbors. There, at the back of an untidy bungalow, in a fenced yard consisting mostly of ill-kempt lawn, was the remnant of a stump about four feet wide and cut low to the ground.

McKean took a purple-capped plastic test tube from a pocket of his canvas field coat. “This stump is our source of incontrovertible proof about Sturgis’ claims. If it matches the wood in his cedar pile, then he’s telling the truth. But if it’s a mismatch - ”

I completed the thought. “Then Sturgis becomes the man with the motive, the valuables in question, and even an ax handle that could have been used in the murder. On top of that, he’s caught in a lie regarding this stump.”

“Exactly.” McKean knelt and used a large pair of forceps to pry a chip of wood from the cut surface of the stump. Eyeing the chip carefully, he nodded approvingly. “Not yet rotted to any significant extent, so it ought to serve our needs. Cedar is a remarkably resistant wood. If this sample shows a pattern of DNA even slightly different from the patterns of the woodpile and the stump at the crime scene, then Sturgis has lied about the source of the wood. That ought to be enough circumstantial evidence to get a conviction.”

A noise at the back of the house turned both our heads. A pet door squeaked open and a huge dog emerged, barking fiercely. Turning together, we faced the charge of what seemed to be a mixed breed and a bad mix at that: half mastiff and half pit bull. Desperate to fend off what looked like it might be a fatal attack, I threw my arms up and shouted to match its snarl. The beast paused just short of throwing itself on us, slavering and barking furiously but keeping out of reach of an arm or leg, although neither McKean nor I made an offensive move.

“Conan!” a harsh voice called from the porch. The dog trotted back, with hackles high, to join a man who was coming at us as fast and furiously as the dog had just done. It was Jay Sturgis.

“Oh,
you guys,
” he growled in concert with the dog’s snarl. “You got a search warrant?”

“We’re not police,” McKean said.

“Then I guess that makes you intruders in my yard.” Sturgis drew a pistol out from where he had tucked it into the small of his back. It was a .44 magnum. A look at the business end of it made my blood run cold.

“So,” he smirked, covering us with one hand while getting a grip on the dog’s choke chain, “tell me why I shouldn’t shoot a couple guys I caught breaking and entering my property?” His dog strained against the choke chain with its eyes fixated on mine like it was beside itself with desire to taste my blood.

“Because,” McKean countered in his unflappably cool logic, “the police know I’m involved in the Olafsen case. It wouldn’t look good if you killed someone who’s investigating you.”

“What’d you put in your coat pocket?”

“A sample of that stump for DNA testing.”

“Why you gonna do that?”

“To see if we can match it to the DNA of the wood in your warehouse,” McKean replied. “Or to show it’s a mismatch and that the stump in the cedar grove is a match. Either we’ll absolve you of tree poaching, or implicate you not only in tree poaching, but in lying about this stump and in being present at the scene of Olafsen’s death.”

“You can’t do DNA on a tree!” Sturgis half accused, half begged.

“Just wait and see,” McKean asserted.

“Look,” Sturgis pleaded, lowering his gun. “I didn’t kill anybody. When the tree went down, it loosened a widowmaker on a tree right next to it.”

“Widowmaker? What’s that?” I asked.

“A snag branch that can fall on a logger,” McKean explained.

“That’s right,” Sturgis said. “It must’ve hung there while we loaded our trucks, and then a breeze came up and it fell and hit Brad. I checked him but he was dead. His head was split open. So I hauled my load outta there and came back and took his load and put it in my truck. Hard work when only one man’s lifting all that wood. But I got it done and took off just before dawn.”

“And you left your buddy just lying there?” I asked incredulously.

“If I called the cops, I’d be in jail now for tree poaching and consorting with a known felon. That’s enough to put me in the big house for five more years. Look, Brad’s dead. He doesn’t care if I left him there. Woulda done the same to me.”

“An interesting twist,” McKean said. “It’s almost believable.” He turned and walked toward the gate, motioning me to follow. “Come along Fin. The story’s unsubstantiated but this wood chip will speak irrefutably.”

“Wait!” Sturgis cried. “You gotta tell me if you believe me.”

“I have nothing to base an opinion on,” McKean replied. “But your story seems quite credible. It may fly well in the courtroom.”

“Stop!” Sturgis pointed the .44 squarely at McKean’s back. The dog added its bark to the command. My heart thumped in my chest. I considered lunging at Sturgis’ gun hand but I judged the distance a bit too far.

McKean stopped and turned and eyed the man almost casually. “As I said,” he murmured coolly. “Shooting me in your yard is a poor choice. Come along, Fin.”

I followed McKean out the gate and we got into my Mustang and I quickly drove off. Still shaky from what I had thought was my last moment on earth, I glanced at McKean and was gratified that, despite his almost superhuman ability to be cool, a few beads of sweat had broken out along his brow.

“We’ll need a sample from the stump in the woods,” he said. While I drove, he tapped a number on his cell phone and arranged for Franky Squalco to meet us at Puget Creek Canyon. When we arrived, Henry George was there with Franky.

“What’s the point?” the old man asked as McKean broke off a pencil-sized sliver of wood from the stump. “You might prove he’s a poacher, but you say yourself he’s innocent of murder even if I don’t agree. Grandmother Tree still weeps for a grandson that was killed for money. Even if that pahstud goes to jail, he’ll just kill more trees when he gets out.”

Dusk arrived as we took our leave of the place. Franky walked home up the hillside path. George stayed behind, singing low in a thin voice and pounding a small drum he had fetched from under his cedar-bark robe, with a small leather-headed mallet.

Near the stop sign where the narrow asphalt run of Puget Way joins the wide thoroughfare of West Marginal Way, a black Ram pickup was waiting on the shoulder with lights out and engine idling. I couldn’t see through the dark tinted windows in the evening gloom, but McKean expressed the thought on my mind. “If that’s Sturgis, we could be in for some trouble. I suggest you drive out of this neighborhood as quickly as you can.”

“No problem,” I replied, turning the wheel and heading northbound on West Marginal Way, “but why would Sturgis try something now?”

McKean looked behind us as the pickup driver turned on his lights and followed. “You see, Fin, he was clever enough to realize that killing us at his home would leave an obvious and very short trail to him. Now, however, he might have decided it’s okay to kill us elsewhere.”

I glanced in my rear view mirror, watching Sturgis follow a hundred yards behind us.

“He may be biding his time until the moment is right,” McKean suggested.

“I’ll fix that!” I stomped the accelerator to the floor and the Mustang’s wheels screamed. We accelerated fiercely along West Marginal Way, which was dark, empty and wet. “This V8 will ditch him,” I said confidently as the Mustang became a midnight-blue streak, powering well past the speed limit. The Ram followed, accelerating surprisingly rapidly as well.

As we approached the on-ramp to the West Seattle High Rise Bridge, McKean said, “Try a little harder, Fin.” I tromped the gas pedal and my tires squealed as I made the turn onto the ramp. At that moment, I heard a roar like something from a monster truck rally and was dismayed to see the big Ram flying up the ramp after us and quickly closing the distance. “What kind of engine does he have in that thing?” I gasped.

“Something very large and powerful.” McKean turned to watch the truck loom behind us. “Haven’t you got any more speed in this car?”

I kept the accelerator pressed flat to the floorboard and the Mustang’s tires spun all the way up the ramp and onto the bridge, but Sturgis stayed on our tail.

“I’m calling 9-1-1,” McKean barked as we raced up the center lane of the three-lane high-rise. The bridge was deserted except for my car and our pursuer, who kept relentlessly on our tail. Before McKean finished punching in the three numbers, the truck, roaring like a jet engine, caught us and edged ahead slightly on the inside lane. Sturgis wrenched his steering wheel and the side of his machine crashed into the Mustang’s left front fender, shattering a headlamp and sliding us across the wet pavement, converting our seventy-mile-an-hour momentum from forward to sideways. Headed for the concrete barrier at the edge of the bridge, I slammed my brake pedal down hard and steered right to disengage my car from the hurtling truck. The Mustang swung free and went into a dizzying pinwheel spinout, slamming sideways into the barrier at the highest point of the high-rise. We heeled up on one side and for an awful moment I thought we would flip over the brink, but we thudded back down on all four tires. The engine killed and we sat with the Mustang’s passenger side door mashed against the barricade and the left front bumper crumpled. At least we were upright.

Sturgis wasn’t done with us. With no other cars on the bridge, he spun his rear tires in reverse, backed away at right angles to the lanes and framed us up directly ahead of the Ram’s front bumper. I could see him inside the cab, grinning like a madman. He floored the accelerator and the immense black bulk of the Ram leapt toward us. He clearly intended to T-bone us and knock us into the Duwamish River a hundred feet below.

I cranked the key in the ignition and the engine balked, and then fired. I jammed the shifter into reverse as Sturgis closed with us. I floored the accelerator and my rear tires screeched and the Mustang pulled back an instant before Sturgis reached us. Just clipping the Mustang’s nose, the Ram struck the side of the bridge and demolished the concrete barrier. Its momentum carried it forward and it stopped half off the bridge, teetering in the gap in the abutment. I could see Sturgis’ expression of rage vanish and his eyes widen with terror as, slowly, the heavy engine won the seesaw battle of gravity and pulled the truck over the brink. It somersaulted into the empty air below the bridge.