Trial by Fury (9780061754715) (5 page)

T
he murder of a prominent man is always news. The murder of a winning high school coach is news with a capital
N
. The department's conference room was jammed to the gills for the promised briefing, with the attendees nothing short of a
Who's Who
in Seattle media, from television reporters to print pukes. Including Maxwell Cole, my all-time least favorite newspaper columnist.

Max is part of a long-running rivalry that dates back to college days. His position as crime columnist for the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
has kept us at odds for as long as I've been with Seattle P.D. He has a way of getting under my skin. And staying there.

Arlo Hamilton, Seattle P.D.'s public information officer, is a reasonable sort, but I could see he was losing patience as Max asked ques
tions that were nothing less than an illdisguised tirade—the media busily manufacturing news to suit themselves.

“One of my sources stated that Mr. Ridley was…” He paused for dramatic effect and consulted a small notebook. “I believe the word he used was
lynched
. Doesn't that sort of take you back to the Old South? Is it possible this homicide was racially motivated?”

“As I said before, Mr. Cole, at this time we have no motive in this crime. The exact cause of death is being withheld pending investigation.”

“But wouldn't you say lynching is a step backward to the Ku Klux Klan mentality of the sixties?”

“I wouldn't say anything of the kind.”

“You're ruling out race as a possible motive, then?”

I was glad Arlo was running the press conference instead of me. About then I would have told Max to fuck off. Hamilton managed to remain unruffled. “We are investigating all possibilities at this time. No potential lead will be ignored, racial or otherwise.”

Arlo glanced around the room, hoping to shut Max down by calling someone else. Max blithely launched into another question.

“Two years ago, during the height of the Neo-Nazi scare, there was talk of creating an all-white preserve here in Washington. Could
this action be connected with one of those groups?”

“As you know, Mr. Cole, members of those groups were apprehended, tried, and found guilty of numerous crimes. Those who didn't die during the initial siege of their headquarters are in prison for long terms. I don't think we need worry that Mr. Ridley's death is part of a Neo-Nazi plot. Any other questions?”

Fortunately, someone else raised his hand, and Hamilton gratefully acknowledged him. “Were police officers in attendance at the basketball championships in Seattle Center Friday night?”

Hamilton nodded.

“The Mayor's office has been concerned about special event security at the Center. Has security been beefed up?”

“Yes, it has. The horse patrol was there as well as several officers patrolling the grounds on foot. None of them saw anything out of line.”

“You're saying that it wasn't a lack of security?”

“Look, you guys, give me a break. Don't read between the lines. We had numerous officers at the Center, but until we know exactly what happened, I can't say whether it was a security problem or not.”

It was clear the newshounds had Arlo's scent. There was no need for Peters and me to
hang around for the bloodletting. I reached over and tapped Peters on the shoulder. “Let's get out of here.”

He followed me to the door. I didn't notice that Maxwell Cole had trailed after us until he showed up at the elevator lobby. Everything about Max is big, from the layer of flab that spills over the top of his belt buckle up to and including his ego. He wears a waxed, handlebar mustache that tends to be littered with bits and pieces of his most recent meal—egg yolk in this particular case.

“How's it going, J. P.? You two working this one? I saw you hanging around the briefing room.”

“Look, Max, we've got a long day ahead of us. Get lost.”

“Come on, J. P. Give an old fraternity brother a break. All I need is an angle. Race would be dynamite. It would bust this town wide open.”

I try not to deal with Maxwell Cole in anything but absolute contempt. Lesser insults go straight over his head. “We're booked up already, Max. We don't need you to start a race war just to keep us busy.”

The elevator door slipped open. We got on and left him standing there in the hallway. “Think he got it?” Peters asked once the door closed.

“Beats the hell out of me.”

We went on down to the garage and checked out a car. The first order of business had to be the voluntary search form from Joanna Ridley. That would enable the crime lab to go to work on Darwin Ridley's Buick.

Several cars were parked on the street outside Joanna Ridley's house, including an immense old Lincoln. I led the way to the door and rang the bell. A tall but stoop-shouldered black man opened the door and peered down at us through gold-rimmed glasses. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.

“We're with Seattle P.D.,” I said, offering him my ID. “We're here to speak to Mrs. Ridley.”

“Joanna's not feelin' too well.”

Joanna Ridley appeared in a doorway behind him, wearing a flowing blue caftan. Her eyes were swollen, and she wore no trace of makeup. She looked haggard, as though she hadn't slept well, either. “It's all right, Daddy,” she said. “I'll see them.”

The old man stepped to one side, allowing us to enter the house. The living room was filled with nine or ten people, all of them involved in various conversations that ceased as Joanna led us through the gathering to a small study that opened off the living room. She closed the door behind us, effectively shutting out the group of mourners gathered to comfort her.

“Mrs. Ridley, this is my partner, Detective Ron Peters. We brought along a form we need you to sign so we can search your husband's car.” I extracted the folded form from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. I watched as her eyes skimmed the lines.

“It'll save us the time and effort of getting a search warrant,” I explained.

A scatter of pens and pencils lay on the desk. Without hesitation, she put the paper on the desk, located a pen that worked, and scrawled her name across the bottom of the form.

“Will that do?” she asked, handing it back to me.

“For a start. We also need to ask some questions, if you don't mind.” She took the chair behind the desk. Peters and I sat on a couch facing her. With determined effort, Joanna Ridley managed to retain her composure.

“To begin with, you told me yesterday that, as far as you knew, your husband had no drug or gambling connections. Had you noticed anything unusual in your husband's patterns? Any threats? What about money difficulties?”

She shook her head in answer to each question.

“Any unusual telephone calls, things he might not have shared with you?”

There was the slightest flicker of something in Joanna's expression, a momentary waver,
before she once more shook her head. A detective lives and dies by his wits and by his powers of observation. There was enough of a change in her expression that I noted it, but there was no clue, no hint, as to what lay behind it. I tried following up in the same vein, hoping for some sort of clarification.

“Anyone with a grudge against him?”

This time, when she answered, her face remained totally impassive. “Not that I know of.”

“How long had you two been married?” Peters asked.

“Fifteen years.” Peters' question came from left field. It moved away from the murder and into the personal, into the mire of Joanna Ridley's private loss and grief. She blinked back tears.

“And this is your first child?”

She swallowed. “We tried, for a long time. The doctors said we'd never have children.”

“How long did your husband teach at Mercer Island?”

She took a deep breath. “Twelve years. He taught social studies at Franklin before that. He was assistant basketball coach at Mercer Island for eight years, head coach for the last two.”

“Didn't they win state last year?” Peters asked. “Seems like I remember reading that.”

Peters' memory never fails to impress me. He impressed Joanna Ridley, too.

She gave him a bittersweet smile. “That's true, but people said it was only a holdover from the previous year, the previous coach. Darwin wanted to do it again this year so he could prove…” She stopped abruptly, unable to continue.

“I know this is painful for you,” Peters sympathized. “But it's important that we put all the pieces together. You told Detective Beaumont here that you last saw your husband Friday morning at breakfast?”

She nodded. “That's right.”

“You didn't go to the game?”

“I don't like basketball.”

“You didn't attend his games?”

“Our work lives were separate. I stayed away from his career, and he stayed away from mine.”

“What do you do?”

“I'm a flight attendant for United. On maternity leave.”

“Joanna,” I cut in, “something you said last night has been bothering me, something about crossing a line. What did you mean?”

Joanna Ridley was not a practiced liar. She hesitated for only the briefest moment, but caution and wariness were evident in her answer. “Blacks go only so far before they hit the wall. It was okay to come from Rainier Valley
and go to Mercer Island as assistant coach, but not head coach.”

“There were problems, racial problems?”

“Some.”

“And you think your husband's death may be racially motivated.”

“Don't you?” she asked in return.

I could tell she was concealing something, hiding what she really meant behind her curt answers, her troubled gaze. Finally, biting her lip, she dropped her eyes and sat looking down at the bulge of baby in her lap.

At last she looked back up at us. “Is that all?” she asked. “My guests are waiting.”

It wasn't all. It was a hell of a long way from being all, but we had reached an impasse, a place beyond which progress was impossible until Peters and I had more to go on.

“For the time being,” I said, rising. Peters followed. I handed her my card. “Here's my name and numbers. Call if you remember something else you think we need to know.”

She took it from my hand and dropped it onto the desk without looking at it. Her expression said that I shouldn't hold my breath.

When she made no offer to get up, I said, “We can find our way out.”

She nodded, and we left.

“We said something that pissed her off,” Peters mused as we climbed into the car. “I don't know exactly what it was.”

“She lied,” I told him.

“I know, but why?”

“There must have been phone calls, or at least, one call. And then later, when I asked her about what she said last night. That was all a smoke screen.”

Peters nodded. “I thought as much.”

There was a brief silence in the car. In my mind's eye I played back the entire conversation, trying to recall each nuance, every inflection. Peters was doing the same thing.

“Something else bothered me,” Peters said.

“What's that?”

“The part about her not going to the games, not liking basketball.”

“Karen wasn't wild about homicide,” I said. “Wives aren't required to adore whatever it is their husbands do.”

“Point taken. So what now? Run a routine check on her?”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“By the way,” Peters added, “how come you didn't mention she was pregnant last night?”

“Didn't I?”

“No.”

“I must be getting old. The mind's going.”

Peters chuckled, and there was another short silence. “I hope she's not the one,” he said at last. “She seems like such a nice lady.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” I said.

I felt Peters' sharp, appraising look. “Ain't that the truth!” he said.

I didn't answer. Didn't need to. Anne Corley had taught me that much.

In spades.

W
e took the signed search form back to the Public Safety Building and hand-carried it through the process. Once it had crossed all required desks and swum upstream through all necessary channels, we followed the State Patrol's criminalists into the processing room.

Over the years, you get used to the unexpected. When you're dealing with homicide, there's no telling what'll turn up in the victim's vehicle—the murder weapon, incriminating evidence, perhaps even another victim. That's happened to me more than once.

Peters and I had already seen what was in the car itself, but we were most curious about what might be hidden out of sight in the trunk. We were prepared for anything, except for what we found—a trunkful of Girl Scout cookies. Fifteen boxes in all.

We weren't the only ones who were surprised. It set the guy from the crime lab on his ass as well. “I'll be damned!” he said.

He conducted a quick inventory: Five Mints, three Carmel Delights, three Peanut Butter Patties, two Lemon Creams, and two Short Bread. The entire selection. If there was a hidden message concealed in the variety of cookies, the pattern eluded us.

On the other hand, the contents of the athletic bag turned out to be quite revealing—sweats, a clean shirt, a change of underwear and socks, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of Chaps. Darwin Ridley had intended to smell good, if not during the game, then certainly after it. And it appeared that he had planned to spend the night away from home regardless of whether or not the Islanders won.

We left the lab tech to his detail work. Peters and I drove across the floating bridge to Mercer Island. During the early years of Seattle, there was a group of visionaries who had wanted to turn Mercer Island into a vast park to benefit the whole city. That idea was squelched on the premise that no one in his right mind would travel that far for a picnic. Now, depending on rush hour traffic, Mercer Island is one of Seattle's closest suburbs. It's also one of the poshest.

Mercer Island High School is tucked back
into the island's interior. On that particular day, it was a hotbed of activity. A whole contingent of reporters had beaten us to the punch. They hovered in eddying groups, hoping to capture a newsworthy comment from a grief-stricken team member or student. News vehicles occupied every visitor parking place as well as a good portion of the fire lane.

Peters and I parked a block or so away on the street and walked. We located the principal's office from the crowd milling around the door, both inside and out. A harried clerk stood behind a counter, attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Peters and I shoved our way through the mob, many of whom we recognized from the early morning press conference.

“We need to see the principal,” Peters said brusquely to the clerk when we finally reached the counter.

“You and everybody else,” she replied sarcastically.

He handed her the leather wallet containing his ID. She took off her glasses to examine it and then gave it back. She replaced her glasses, settling them firmly on her face. “All right. Let me check with Mr. Browning.”

She disappeared into an inner office and returned moments later. “He'll see you now,” she announced.

The only thing big about Ned Browning was
his voice, which rumbled from an incongruously diminutive chest. His elfin features smacked of Santa Claus. His handshake, however, was that of a born wrestler.

“You're here about Mr. Ridley's death?” We nodded. Obviously, Ned Browning wasn't one to beat around the bush. “I'm sure you understand what an effect this terrible loss has had on our student body today.” He spoke with the measured cadence of an old-time educator, one used to having his listeners' undivided attention. Or else.

“I considered dismissing school entirely when we first were notified of the situation. It's difficult to know what's the best thing to do in a case like this.”

He paused and rubbed his chin, staring fixedly at us.

“Not canceling school was probably a good idea,” I said. “It's best to keep things as close to normal as possible.”

My comment was greeted with all the enthusiasm Ned Browning might have given an unfortunate truant's overused alibi. He ignored it totally. He continued speaking as though I'd never opened my mouth.

“The trouble is, this team has faced a similar problem once before. Some of these boys were already playing varsity ball when their previous coach, Mr. Altman, died of a heart attack.

“Of course, that was last year. It happened
during the summer. It wasn't a situation like this where he was here one day and gone the next. We had the benefit of some adjustment time before school started in the fall. Not only that, Mr. Ridley had worked with the team for several years as the assistant coach. There was enough continuity so they were able to put together a winning team. They won the state championship last year. Were you aware of that?”

Peters and I nodded in unison. Browning went on. “I've sequestered the entire team as well as the squad of cheerleaders in Mr. Ridley's classroom. Of all the students, they're probably the ones who are most upset. They're the ones who worked most closely with him.

“Our guidance counselor, Mrs. Wynn, is with them. I thought it best to keep them together and isolated for fear some of your friends out in the other room would get hold of them.” Ned Browning nodded slightly in the direction of the outer office. All of his actions were understated, self-contained.

“Believe me, Mr. Browning, those jerks out there are anything but friends. If we could talk with each member of the team…”

Browning cut me off in mid-sentence. “They're not there for your convenience, Mr.…”

“Beaumont,” I supplied. “Detective Beaumont.”

“Thank you, Detective Beaumont. These are adolescents who have suffered a severe loss. I've assembled them for the purpose of enabling them to begin working through their grief. It's the idea of peer group self-help. I won't tolerate any manipulation by you or anyone else. Is that clear, Mr. Beaumont?”

There was no Santa Claus twinkle in Ned Browning's eyes. They were sharp and hard. He meant what he said. I couldn't help feeling some real respect for this little guy, doing the best he knew for the benefit of those kids. I wondered if they appreciated him.

“Mr. Browning,” Peters broke in, “neither Detective Beaumont nor I have any intention of manipulating your students, but we do need to interview them, all of them. It's the only way we'll get some idea of what happened Friday night.”

For a time Browning considered what Peters had said. Finally, making up his mind, he nodded. “Very well. I'll take you there, but you must understand that the well-being of these young people is my first priority.”

He rose. His full height wasn't more than five foot seven. “This way,” he said. He led us out through a back door, avoiding the crowd surrounding the front counter. What had been Darwin Ridley's classroom was at the end of a long, polished corridor. Browning stopped before the closed door.

“What did you say your names are again?”

“Beaumont,” I said. “Detectives Beaumont and Peters.”

He ushered us inside. The room was hushed. There must have been twenty or so people in the room, standing or sitting in groups of two or three, some of them talking quietly, some weeping openly. The group was made up mostly of boys with five or six girls thrown into the mix. All of the faces reflected a combination of shock, grief, horror, and disbelief.

In the far corner of the room, a woman in her mid-thirties stood with one comforting hand on the heaving shoulders of a silently weeping girl. Browning gestured to the woman. She gave the girl a reassuring pat and walked toward us.

“This is Mrs. Wynn, one of our guidance counselors. She's also the advisor to the cheerleading squad. Candace, these are Detectives Beaumont and Peters from Seattle P.D. They need to interview those students who were at the game Friday.”

Candace Wynn had a boyish figure and a headful of softly curling auburn hair. An impudent cluster of freckles spattered across her nose. Those freckles were at odds with the hostile, blue-eyed gaze that she turned on us.

“That's absolutely out of the question!”

“Candace, of course we will cooperate fully
with the authorities in this matter.”

“But Ned…” she began.

“That, however, does not mean we will allow any exploitation. My position on the media remains unchanged, but we have an obligation to teach these young people their civic responsibility.”

The previous exchange had been conducted in such undertones that I doubt any of the kids had overheard a single sentence. Browning raised his hand for attention. His was a small but totally commanding presence. The students listened to his oddly stilted remarks with rapt concentration.

“My intention was that you should gather here and not be disturbed. However, I have brought with me two detectives from the Seattle Police Department. They are investigating Coach Ridley's death. It's important that we work with them. All of us. They have asked to spend time with you today, to discuss anything you may have seen or heard in the course of the game at the Coliseum Friday night.”

He paused to clear his throat. A whisper rustled through the room. “We at this school have all suffered a severe loss. Those of you in this room, the ones who were most closely connected with Coach Ridley, are bound to suffer the most. Grief is natural. We all feel it,
but it's important that we put that grief to a constructive use.

“Mrs. Wynn will be here throughout the interview process. I urge you to cooperate as much as possible. Helping these men discover who perpetrated this terrible crime is perhaps the only practical outlet for what we're feeling today. Detective Beaumont?”

I stepped forward, expecting to be introduced, but Browning continued. “Before you begin asking your questions, Detective Beaumont, I think it only fair that the students be allowed to ask some of you. All day long we've been subjected to a barrage of rumors. It would do us a tremendous service if we had some idea of what's really going on.”

I'd been snookered before, but let me tell you, Ned Browning did it up brown.

Where, oh where, was Arlo Hamilton when I needed him?