One Last Kill (Tracy Crosswhite), page 27
They’d find out soon enough.
Tracy left the office and had no sooner pulled into her driveway than her phone pinged, indicating an incoming email. The on-call prosecutor. The judge had denied Tracy’s request to get a DNA sample from England.
CHAPTER 34
Tracy fumed about the judge denying her warrant. Her anger was irrational, at first. She focused on the judge’s politics. She surmised that his having once been a public defender meant he believed all accused were misunderstood, police were evil, and prosecutors cared more about their personal scorecard than the well-being of the accused. She took out her frustration on the on-call prosecutor, who had the displeasure of being in Tracy’s direct line of fire. After calming, Tracy realized the judge’s declination wasn’t the prosecutor’s fault; it was hers and Nolasco’s. Right now, she had little more than hunches, and a lie by England about his Sunday whereabouts. Yeah, the judge’s decision could be explained, but it still stung. It was one of the things she disliked about police work. The bureaucracy, and the rules and regulations, were too often applied inconsistently, depending on the judge’s political bent. Tracy saw things differently. She focused on fourteen women murdered. Families’ lives forever altered. The judge was more concerned about invading Henry England’s personal privacy.
With time to think over the judge’s rationale, she agreed. She needed more evidence. She just wasn’t sure how she was going to get it. Seemed to her the judge’s ruling was asking her to first prove England was the killer before they could obtain his DNA to prove he was the killer.
When she stepped inside her home, she hadn’t completely flushed the ruling. She was short and snippy with Dan. Thankfully, he knew her and understood her displeasure wasn’t personal. Tracy apologized more than once for bringing her work home with her, but some nights it was inevitable. Dan also knew this all too well.
On nights like this, her irritation made it difficult to set her thoughts aside so she could sleep. Her mind went over the same question. What additional evidence could they get to convince the judge?
Maybe if England had lied on his police application, it might be enough to tip the scales of justice in their favor. The prosecutor could argue England’s lie fit a pattern Tracy and Nolasco were slowly unearthing. She needed to show that England was concealing his past.
She climbed into bed with her Kindle. After twenty minutes, Dan set his Kindle on the nightstand. “Can’t keep my eyes open,” he said, then leaned across the bed to kiss her good night. She envied him. Within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, he was snoring softly.
After an hour reading the same ten pages and still not comprehending what she’d read, Tracy got out of bed and walked downstairs to the kitchen, filling a glass with water from the fridge dispenser. She contemplated meditating, a practice Dan had recently undertaken, along with yoga and Pilates. His doctor had told him he needed outlets other than running to relieve his stress. His joints remained strong, but he wasn’t getting any younger.
Nor was Tracy.
She wasn’t as gung ho as Dan about the meditation. Dan didn’t ease his way into anything. He jumped, feetfirst, and only if he couldn’t dive in. Tracy was more skeptical. She couldn’t help it. She worked in a world starkly black and white with little gray. You were either guilty or not guilty. A good person or a bad person. Something worked or it didn’t. Dan was a lawyer. His job was to find the gray areas between the black and the white and shade facts to best suit arguments advanced on behalf of his clients.
Tracy considered her reflection in the window. She was hunched over the kitchen counter pouting like a teenager who didn’t get her way.
“What could it hurt?” she said to her disgruntled self.
She opened the meditation app on her phone, chose a recorded ten-minute session, then settled on a pillow on the floor, crossing her legs. She hit “Play.” The woman’s voice spoke over calm music, a minute-long description of the meditation to give Tracy the chance to settle in. The woman encouraged her to shut her eyes or, if it made her uncomfortable, keep them open. “Everyone gets an award just for participating,” Tracy said, then chastised herself for being skeptical.
She closed her eyes.
She mistook a ring on her work cell phone as a chime to start the meditation session. When the phone rang a second time Tracy’s response was Pavlovian. A late-night call was never good news. She feared hearing the homicide sergeant’s voice telling her the Route 99 Killer had claimed another victim.
She hurried into the room and answered her phone.
“Detective Crosswhite? This is Captain Joe Dittmer with the Ellensburg Police Department.” Tracy felt a rush of adrenaline. “Looks like your guy, England, is on the move.”
“Which direction?” Tracy asked.
“Yours. West. He’s coming your way on the interstate.” Tracy could hear the excitement in the officer’s voice and imagined Dittmer to be young and likely thinking about riding this wave of excitement all the way over the Snoqualmie Pass.
So much for a calming meditation session. That was fine.
Tracy wasn’t built that way.
Dittmer provided Tracy with England’s exact location on I-90, roughly an hour and twenty minutes from Seattle.
“You don’t think he’s noticed your tail?”
“He isn’t acting like it.” Dittmer said England hadn’t pulled off any exits and driven back onto the freeway, and he wasn’t suddenly changing speeds or lanes.
“Keep me updated if he stops somewhere or if his progress turns in some other direction.”
“Roger that,” Dittmer said. “Do you want me to pull him over at any point?”
Tracy gave Dittmer’s question a moment of thought. It was possible Dittmer could find a scalpel in England’s car. If he did, it would be more evidence than even a liberal judge could ignore to justify a warrant to obtain England’s DNA. But it was also just as possible England wasn’t driving the 107 miles into Seattle, or that he wasn’t going after another victim, or that he didn’t have a blade with him, in which case pulling him over prematurely would only alert him to being a suspect and being followed, which would put him on guard. Something similar had happened with the Green River Killer. The police had suspected Gary Ridgway for some time. Employees at the car paint shop where he worked were said to refer to him as “Green River Gary.” Knowing he was a suspect, Ridgway had replaced the rug in his house, thrown out clothing, and was careful about getting rid of anything that could contain his DNA. It was years before he made a mistake, tossing a piece of chewing gum in the garbage outside his work. The lone remaining task force detective obtained the gum and had the DNA analyzed.
“No,” she said. “I’d rather he didn’t know he was being followed, but I also don’t want him out of your sight. Keep me posted on his progress.”
She hung up and called Nolasco at home, waking him, but he popped awake when she gave him the news. They agreed to meet at Police Headquarters downtown. They had time . . . if Seattle was England’s target. Nolasco told her he’d ask the SWAT team sergeant to put his men on standby.
Tracy went upstairs to change. She turned on the light to the walk-in closet, which awoke Dan. “Where are you going? What time is it?” he asked.
“I have to go in,” Tracy said. “We may have something developing. The suspect is on the move and might be headed into Seattle. I have the Ellensburg PD tailing him.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“If he comes into Seattle and goes to a home, we’ll arrest him.”
“Just be careful,” Dan said, no longer sounding half-asleep. “And please don’t do anything rash.”
“Me?” she said, keeping her voice light, though she knew Dan was serious.
“Why don’t I believe you?” he said.
“Because you’re a distrusting person. I won’t do anything rash.” She kissed him good-bye. “Tomorrow’s the morning one of us has to take Daniella to preschool; Therese has an online class.”
“Aye, aye.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Like that’s going to happen. Call me when everything is finished.”
The two dogs, asleep in their dog beds, never stirred.
Half an hour later, having received frequent updates on England’s progress, Tracy arrived in Nolasco’s office with a cup of black coffee. The coffee was a habit. She didn’t need the caffeine. Her body was amped up and anxious to get going. Nolasco had beaten her into the office. Dressed in blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a green polo shirt, he didn’t look like he took time to primp. He might have run a comb through his hair, but not much more. He, too, did not need caffeine. He paced the area behind his desk like a cat on a hot tin roof, forsaking every rule that forbade smoking in the building. He had at least turned on an air filter he kept hidden along the side of his desk.
“How far out is he?” Nolasco asked.
England had driven over the Snoqualmie Pass into North Bend, Snoqualmie, and Issaquah.
“Any indication he suspects he’s being followed?”
“Ellensburg PD doesn’t think so,’” she said.
When Dittmer called to report that England’s truck had reached the I-90 bridge across Lake Washington, England’s destination seemed a foregone conclusion. Tracy and Nolasco hurried to their pool car, and Nolasco drove to the James Street on-ramp, parking off to the side to wait until alerted by Dittmer of England’s approach. Nolasco didn’t say much, and neither did Tracy, as if afraid any acknowledgment could jinx the situation.
Dittmer called and told Tracy England’s truck had exited I-90 and took I-5 north toward downtown. Tracy’s adrenaline and anxiety spiked. She had the tingling sensation in her joints that always preceded an arrest. Nolasco gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white.
Minutes later, Dittmer advised that England approached the James Street on-ramp. Nolasco shifted into drive and eased up the ramp, increasing his speed to the flow of traffic, which, at that early hour of the morning, was light. They had no difficulty spotting England’s black Ford F-250 as it passed, but they would need to be careful. Tracy radioed Dittmer and said they would take the tail. She had already reached the acting SPD watch sergeant and the SWAT sergeant and put both on alert.
Again, England gave no sign he knew he was being followed.
“He’s exiting,” Nolasco said. The black truck descended the Mercer Street exit, then circled underneath the freeway and headed east toward Capitol Hill.
“Where are you going?” Tracy said as she opened her laptop, pulling up the known addresses of the special assistants whose names Lisa Childress had highlighted in the newspaper articles.
“Check the addresses of the women we spoke with,” Nolasco said.
“Ahead of you,” she said. “I’m not seeing an address on Capitol Hill.”
She alerted the East Precinct’s acting watch sergeant of England’s whereabouts and asked that he put his patrols on standby.
“Somebody not in the article?” Nolasco asked, his tone anxious.
“Maybe,” she said. “More than 150 of those special assistant positions were filled during Edwards’s time in office, many by young women.”
England made a right turn, then a left, heading east on East Aloha Street. Nolasco gave the truck more room, pausing before each turn. They needed to be extra careful now. England would be on alert, and it would not be difficult for him to spot a car following him on residential streets at that early hour. But they also couldn’t lose him.
The truck slowed, red brake lights illuminating the night.
“What’s he doing?” Tracy asked.
“Shit,” Nolasco swore. England made an unexpected right turn on Twelfth Avenue East, going the wrong direction on a one-way street.
“Should we take him now?” Nolasco asked, looking like he was about to lower the window and put the light on the roof.
England could have picked up the tail and become spooked, but Tracy couldn’t be certain.
“I say we take him,” Nolasco said, about to turn.
“It could also be a test,” Tracy said calmly. “Drive past.”
Nolasco hit the accelerator, and the car lurched past the traffic sign in the center of the road.
“Take a left.”
Nolasco made a left on Thirteenth Avenue East, then a right on East Prospect, driving to where it intersected with Twelfth Avenue East, a dead end at Volunteer Park.
When the black truck didn’t arrive at the intersection, Nolasco said, “We might have missed him. Do you think we missed him?”
“Drive down the block,” Tracy said, trying to remain calm.
Nolasco cut the car’s headlights, turned, and drove slowly down the narrow street. Cars parked on the west side of the one-way street.
“Truck.” Tracy pointed. Halfway down the block the truck had parked, now facing the correct direction.
Nolasco pulled into an open curb space at a driveway several cars behind the truck. “Can you see anyone in the cab?”
“No. Nothing.” She looked to the homes, searching for lights.
Nolasco had his head on a swivel, turning in all directions and swearing. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“Turn off the interior dome light,” Tracy said.
“What? Why?”
“Just turn it off.”
“You’re not going in, Crosswhite. Not alone.”
“Turn it off. I just want to see if he’s in the cab and take a look around. You get SWAT in position, in case we need them.”
Nolasco turned off the dome light, and Tracy opened the car door, stepping out. She shut the door quietly and walked down the sidewalk, using the maple and purple-leaf plum trees in the sidewalk as cover. As she neared the bed of the truck, she paused and dropped to a knee, watching. The cab was empty.
She considered the surrounding homes. No lights. If England was being careful, he wouldn’t have parked directly in front of his victim’s house. Hell, he might not have even parked on the same block. He could be two blocks over in either direction. Now Tracy was swearing under her breath and perspiring beneath her clothes.
She thought she heard what sounded like a gate latch shutting and turned toward a Craftsman bungalow on her right. She proceeded slowly. A light from a window reflected on a concrete driveway along the side of a house. She went down the driveway and came to a wooden gate with a latch. She heard a door open and shut. She lifted the lever on the gate latch and crept into a backyard, silently closing the gate. Again, she listened. Voices. A man and a woman. She climbed two stairs to a porch. The voices were more pronounced. She leaned over the porch railing to look through a window on the left, into the illuminated room. A kitchen. She saw no one. She leaned and looked through the darkened window on the right and saw shadows in the ambient light.
She pulled the radio from her clip. “I have the suspect in sight inside the blue bungalow halfway down the block on the right. Going in.”
“Crosswhite, wait for SWAT.”
“No time, Captain.” She turned off the volume, removed her Glock, and pushed in the back door. She moved quickly through the kitchen to hardwood flooring, crossed a small dining room, then to a living room. Two people on the stair landing, a man with his arms around the woman, pressed up against her.
The woman screamed.
Tracy took aim. “Seattle Police. Freeze.”
CHAPTER 35
Henry England sat on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on folded hands, eyes closed. He looked like a death-row inmate making his last, impassioned plea for mercy. Tracy would not be his executioner, but she also wouldn’t be his savior. Near as she could tell, England had joined the idiot club—men and women who threw away a good spouse or took them for granted, like a comfortable chair, for a roll in the hay with someone else. The analogy gave her pause. It added a whole new meaning to the adage: making hay while the sun shines.
England had cleaned up, at least his physical appearance. He’d taken a shower and combed his hair, put on black jeans and a long-sleeve white shirt. He wore loafers instead of boots.
The woman sitting to his right looked equally uncomfortable. England had not had his hands on Bridgit Garza to strangle her, but to caress her. She had not been fighting him off. She was welcoming him with impassioned moans. She did not scream at him, but at seeing Tracy inside her home.
Now, she looked like a guilty teenage girl who’d snuck a boy inside her parents’ home only to be busted. Garza wore a terry-cloth bathrobe Tracy had allowed her to retrieve from a hook on the back of a bathroom door. Beneath it, Garza’s red teddy covered less skin than most bikinis.
Tracy fought a terrible feeling that things had gone horribly wrong again, and she suspected that Nolasco, who had endured too much disappointment and failure in this one investigation, already knew it with certainty. He smoked on the covered front porch, the smell of nicotine sneaking inside the house. He had talked with the SWAT sergeant and told him he and his team could leave. Up and down the block, lights illuminated windows. Some neighbors ventured out onto their porches or their lawns, wanting to know if they needed to be worried. Garza would have some explaining to do. What she might tell them would be anyone’s guess.
“This is why you came into Seattle last Sunday?” Tracy said, continuing to question England.
England looked up at her as if disturbed from prayer. He blew out a breath. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
She glanced at Garza. “You’ll confirm he was with you?”
Garza looked surprised that the question was directed to her and only briefly looked at Tracy, as if embarrassed to meet her gaze. “Yes. He was here Sunday.”
“Your story about fly-fishing was just an excuse to get away then?” Tracy asked England.
England nodded. Nolasco had been right about England’s pretense for being away from home sounding fishy, no pun intended, just not about what England had been covering up.
