One Last Kill (Tracy Crosswhite), page 21
“You remember that officer’s name?” Tracy asked.
Cesare looked to Nolasco. “Henry K. England. Used to say the ‘K’ stood for King. You know, King Henry . . . England.”
“And the last time you spoke to England?”
Cesare scoffed. “Twenty-five years ago. I understood he didn’t go back to patrol, that he moved away, but don’t quote me on it.”
A lot of Seattle officers left the area upon completion of their service. A number of factors forced that move, including the rising cost of living, not to mention they’d spent much of their adult life putting Seattle’s criminals behind bars. Many police officers wanted a fresh start, in a place where they didn’t have to be concerned about walking into a bar or a restaurant and having someone recognize them.
But there was something else interesting about Henry K. England leaving the department and the area.
The Route 99 killings had also come to an end in Seattle.
CHAPTER 27
Nolasco returned to his office. He told Tracy he had a fire burning in another homicide case that needed his attention. Tracy hunkered down in her office with Henry K. England’s personnel records. England had left SPD effective January 1, 1996, not long after the Route 99 Killer stopped killing. England had been just twenty-eight. He’d served seven years on the force. Further research revealed England married around the same time and had moved to Ellensburg, which was roughly a two-hour drive, without traffic, east of the Cascade mountains. Tracy did a Triple I background check on England—a fingerprint search of the FBI’s Interstate Identification Index’s criminal records. She did not get a hit. She also ran England through the National Crime Information Center. That, too, came up negative. She pulled up the Department of Licensing’s records and retrieved England’s license and his records, and she noted the vehicle registered in his name, a Ford F-250 truck. She and Nolasco would check with the Department of Transportation about cameras between Ellensburg and Seattle, and, if they deemed it necessary, they’d have someone check specified cameras to determine if England drove his truck into Seattle over the weekend.
She made a call to the Ellensburg Police Department to let them know of her intent to speak to England and told a captain she’d stop by his department when they arrived in town. She asked if they had any unsolved murders of young women. He said they did not. He confirmed an address and told her England lived with his wife on a hay farm outside of town. He also said England did not have a record.
Tracy called Nolasco and said she thought the circumstances, England marrying and moving away, warranted a drive. Nolasco agreed and said they’d both go. Tracy called back the Ellensburg captain and asked if he’d have one of his men do a drive-by to ensure England was home, so they didn’t make a wasted trip.
“No need,” he said. “July and August is harvesting season for timothy hay. England will be at it sunup to sundown.”
Ellensburg, located on the Yakama River in Kittitas Valley, was mostly agricultural, and had once predominantly grown wheat. As with most agricultural regions, wineries and microbreweries had moved into the area to grow grapes and hops. It was also an outdoorsman’s paradise, with fly-fishing on the Yakima River close by, hunting grounds, hiking, and camping. Tracy had dreaded the prospect of a two-hour drive in the car with Nolasco—both directions—but he spent much of his time on the phone playing catch-up on his other cases and putting out small fires. When he was off the phone, she filled the time explaining what she’d learned about England. They stopped at the Ellensburg police station as a courtesy and let the chief know they were in town.
England lived outside of town at the end of a long dirt-and-gravel road that cut through large fields, some of which looked to have been recently mowed, the clippings piled in long lines extending the lengths of the fields.
“What do they grow out here?” Nolasco asked.
“Hay,” Tracy said. “Timothy hay, to be precise.”
Nolasco shook his head. “How the hell do you know that, Crosswhite?”
She smiled, thinking of how she might jerk his chain, then settled for the truth. “Ellensburg Police Department said England married the daughter of a family who’ve farmed hay up here for decades.”
“My dad used to take me and my brothers fly-fishing up here,” Nolasco said. “All over this area. We fished the Yakima, camped, swam in the mountain lakes.”
Tracy didn’t think of Nolasco as having things in common with the way she’d been raised in the North Cascades. She’d always thought they were oil and vinegar, which was why they didn’t get along.
They took an exit and minutes later turned off a paved road, tires crunching gravel on a road stretching between white horse fencing and leading to a two-story, well-kept farmhouse. It looked like something built in the 1800s, with a tin roof extending over a porch complete with two rocking chairs and a porch swing. Farther to the left of the house was a metal garage with two large rolling doors, both bays open. Inside one bay was a large tractor. The other bay was empty.
Tracy parked on the asphalt drive, and she and Nolasco approached the house. A collie, partially hidden behind a rocking chair, sat up and barked. The bark wasn’t mean. The dog had likely been startled from a good slumber and was expressing displeasure.
Tracy talked to the dog in a soothing voice and calmly climbed four steps to the screen door. She noticed Nolasco had stopped at the bottom of the steps and did not look eager to greet the dog. He lit a cigarette. The door behind the screen was open, probably to generate a draft with the outside temperature, mideighties.
Tracy rapped her knuckles three times on the screen door, generating more barking from the dog, this time a call to alert the owners they had company. A woman came down the hall, barefoot in blue-jeans shorts and a T-shirt. Judging from her appearance, Tracy estimated the woman to be mid to late fifties. England’s wife, not a daughter.
“Can I help you?” She unlatched the screen door and pushed it partially open.
Tracy raised her detective’s badge and introduced herself and Johnny Nolasco, who remained at the foot of the stairs. “We’re looking for Henry England.”
“That’s my husband. I’m Katlyn England. What is this about?” She didn’t appear overly concerned. She stepped out of the house onto the porch, letting the screen door slap closed.
“We’re investigating a case your husband worked on when he was with the Seattle Police Department and hoped to ask him a few questions.”
“That had to be almost twenty-five years ago,” Katlyn said.
“It was,” Tracy said. “I take it you weren’t married then?” She was fishing.
Katlyn shook her head. “We had just met. We got married after he left the force and we moved up here. My father needed help with the farm, and Henry was looking to get out of police work.”
The timeline fit with the Route 99 Killer’s final victim.
“Is Henry home?” Tracy asked.
“Harvest season. He won’t be in until after the sun goes down. Up here we take that saying about making hay while the sun shines to heart.” She finished with a not fully at ease smile and slid her hands in the pockets of her cutoff jeans.
Tracy returned the smile. “Can we talk to him? Is there a way you might contact him?”
“I can drive you out in the truck to the field where he’s working. I don’t imagine you’ll want to drive your car out in the fields.”
“He’s close by then?” Tracy asked.
“He isn’t far,” the woman said. “Let me get some shoes and the truck keys. I’ll be out in a minute. Casey needs to get some exercise anyway.”
Minutes later, Tracy jumped in the front seat of a Ford F-250 diesel truck. Nolasco climbed in the back seat, looking ill at ease with Casey the collie sticking his head in the window slider from the truck bed. “Don’t mind Casey,” Katlyn England said. “He just wants to be part of the conversation.”
England drove down a dirt road extending along the side of the house into a field of tall, green grass. Hot air whipped in the truck’s open windows and brought the smell of fresh-cut grass. The fields had been cut in a checkerboard pattern, some squares harvested, others not yet. In the harvested fields were more of the long lines of clippings, as well as large circular-shaped hay bales. They crisscrossed a field to one with a large green-and-yellow tractor pulling a larger machine over the row of piled hay.
“That’s Henry,” England said. “Driving the baler.”
“I imagine it’s a lot of work when it’s harvesting season,” Nolasco said. “Did Henry work all weekend too?”
“Not this past Sunday,” she said. “Henry loves to fly-fish. It’s his passion. He took Sunday off and spent all day on the river.”
“The Yakima?” Nolasco asked. “I used to fish it as a kid with my dad. Where did he go?”
“Up near Cle Elum. He has his spots.”
“Do you fish also?” Nolasco raised his voice to be heard over the wind coming through the open windows.
“I do, but not this past Sunday. I visited a sister for a few days. She’s sick and going through chemo.”
“I’m sorry about your sister. So does Henry fish with a buddy, or is it time he likes to get away?” Nolasco asked.
Katlyn glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes with friends. But sometimes coordinating schedules can be more work than the fishing. Henry likes his time alone too. So do I.”
“I can appreciate it,” Nolasco said. “I like to get away also. It’s peaceful. He went by himself this weekend then?”
This time her glance in the rearview mirror seemed more deliberate; perhaps she recognized Nolasco’s questions were more specific than just casual conversation.
“He did. Left early and didn’t get home until after the sun went down. That’s what he said anyway.”
“Did Henry bring home any trout, or is it all catch and release?” Nolasco asked.
“Catch and release,” she said.
Katlyn drove alongside the tractor hauling the baler that Tracy deduced made the circular hay bales she saw in the field. Henry England had a look on his face that was a mix of curiosity and confusion. He shut down the tractor, and it spit a puff of black diesel smoke from the stack. He pushed open the cab door and stepped down, looking like a country-western singer in a mesh baseball hat, black T-shirt flecked with pieces of grass, well-worn jeans, and square-toed boots. “What’s up?” he said in a volume indicating it had been loud inside the cab.
“You have visitors from your days working at the police department,” Katlyn said.
England clearly didn’t recognize Tracy, but he looked past her to Nolasco. “Johnny Nolasco,” he said.
Nolasco put out a hand. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” England said. “What brings you all the way out here?”
“Hoping to ask you some questions about one of our cases,” Nolasco said. “One you worked the tip line for us.”
“The Route 99 serial killer.”
“That’s the one,” Nolasco said. “You remember it?”
“Only serial killer case I ever worked. Only task force I ever worked, though not really.”
“What do you mean?” Tracy asked.
“I just filtered through all the tips that came in over the tip line to try to weed out the crazies.” He looked to Nolasco. “You ran that task force. Didn’t you?”
Katlyn said, “I think that’s my cue to take Casey for his walk. I don’t care much for police talk. No offense.”
“None taken,” Tracy said.
“Come on, Casey.” Katlyn and the dog walked down the field, Katlyn pulling a cell phone from her back pocket.
Henry England said, “That was a long time ago. Twenty-five years?”
“That’s about right,” Nolasco said. “Curious about how you filtered through all the calls?”
“Something new come up?”
“We’ve reopened the investigation and are going back over some old ground in case we missed something,” Nolasco said.
“Just listened to the tips,” England said. “If it sounded promising, for any reason, I’d call the person back—if they left a number, many didn’t. My job was to try to determine what they had to say and whether it was worth passing up the chain.”
“What was the chain, if you remember?” Nolasco asked.
“I sent calls along to Cesare. Augustus Cesare. That’s a name you don’t forget. That was the end of the road for me.”
“How did you determine if the tip should be passed along?”
England scratched at the back of his neck. “It was a gut thing. I just asked the person questions to find out if they had something specific or were just speculating. A lot of speculating. We got people claiming they were psychics, and others who were just crazy. We got people who fancied themselves as detectives, but who didn’t have anything substantial to say. I erred on the side of caution and sent along probably more than I should have, but I didn’t want someone to come back and say I missed something important.”
“Did you get a copy of the digital version of Cesare’s tip line?”
“Not that I recall. No reason for me to get it.”
“Have any interaction with him or any of the other members of the task force?”
“None other than ‘here are the calls I weeded out, and here are the ones I think should be followed up.’ Can I ask what this is about? The task force was disbanded because the killer stopped killing. Why is this an issue now? He isn’t back in business, is he?”
Tracy couldn’t tell if England’s question was legitimate or intended to throw them off his scent. Many serial killers were very bright and very good at obfuscation. “I work cold cases,” she said. “I’m trying to solve the thirteen murders, bring some closure to the victims’ families.”
“Like I said, I really wasn’t a member of the task force,” England said. “I just worked the tip line. Nothing beyond that.”
“Any tip come in that caught your attention more than any others?” Tracy asked.
“Not that I can remember from way back then.”
“You didn’t sit in on any task force meetings either, did you?” Nolasco said.
“No.”
“You ever hear the killer referred to as anything other than the Route 99 Killer?”
This time a scowl and shake of the head. “Nothing I can recall.”
Nolasco looked to Tracy. They asked another fifteen minutes of questions, until it was clear England didn’t have much to add.
“Why didn’t you just call?” England asked.
“Figured you’d be hard to get, working a farm,” Nolasco said. “I used to come up here often as a kid with my dad. Wife says you like to fish the Yakima?”
“Some of the best fly-fishing in the state,” England said. “Hard to get away though. Always something to be done on a farm.”
“That’s what I hear. Love to give the Yakima a run again, but it’s been decades. When’s the best time of year to go?” Nolasco asked, and Tracy wondered if his question had a purpose or if he was just being friendly.
England paused. He looked to be considering the question. “You can really fish it year-round,” he said.
“I understood they elevated the river this time of year for irrigation,” Nolasco said, and Tracy got the sense the question was intended to convey to England he should not bullshit, that the man asking questions might know more than England realized.
England looked concerned. “They do,” he said. “But you can still fish if you know where to go. I just went Sunday, in fact.”
“No kidding. Where’d you go? Maybe I’ll give a try?”
England laughed. Nerves. What was he hiding? “I got my spots, you know. Unless you know the river it really wouldn’t help for me to describe them.”
“Your wife said you fished up north near Cle Elum.”
“There she goes, giving away all my secrets.” England laughed again, though it looked to be with discomfort.
“Anyplace you’d recommend?”
“Just here and there,” England said. “Just got to walk the river, find out where the water is running too fast, and look for the pockets shaded by overhanging bushes and trees along the banks. If you fly-fish, you know it changes daily.”
“No secret honey holes?”
“No self-respecting fisherman gives away his honey holes. Otherwise, you’re surrounded by more fishermen than fish.”
Nolasco smiled. “Well, if you’re ever willing to share . . .”
England gave a pained smile, then checked his phone. “I really should get back to it,” he said. “Up here we like to make hay while the sun shines.”
“Literally,” Tracy said.
“Thanks for your time during this busy season,” Nolasco added.
England turned toward where his wife and Casey had walked off, put two fingers between his teeth, and whistled. The collie and Katlyn made their way back.
Katlyn dropped Tracy and Nolasco back at their car. They thanked her for the ride.
Back in their pool car, Nolasco said, “Fishing on the Yakima is year-round, but the best months are February to June. In July they raise the water levels to allow the farmers to irrigate their fields. Any experienced fly-fisherman knows that. You don’t catch fish when they raise the river. It’s running too fast.”
“You think he’s lying about his whereabouts Sunday?”
“About fishing on Sunday? Not necessarily. About catching fish? Probably.”
“Don’t all fishermen exaggerate?”
“The only thing England said about fishing I agree with is the Yakima is one of the best rivers in the state. I think we should check the Department of Transportation and have someone look at traffic cameras up here for Sunday, see if they spot England’s vehicle. See if he drove farther than Cle Elum, maybe all the way into Seattle. Let’s also run his background a bit deeper, determine where he went to school, where he worked, try to determine if he had any connection to the victims, or any reason to have a beef with the departments they worked in. He’s about the same age.”
