For the next set, Cataldo blew up her sample to visually count the number of ridges on the number-two finger and soon saw distinct differences. That took care of number two.
Let’s go to number three.
Cataldo’s concentration intensified as she compared her submission with the computer’s remaining suggested match. The branching of the ridges matched. All the minutiae points matched. Her pulse quickened as she began counting the points of comparison where the two samples matched.
Looking good.
Some courts required about a dozen clear point matches. She had fourteen and was still counting, knowing that one divergent point instantly eliminated a print. By the time she’d compared the left slanting patterns from the last finger, she had seventeen clear points of comparison.
Then she matched the scales of the prints and used her computer program to superimpose one over the other, the way one would trace a picture.
We have a winner.
Cataldo confirmed the identification number of her new subject, and submitted a query to several law enforcement data banks, including the FBI’s National Crime Information Center and the Washington State Department of Corrections. By accessing the various criminal history systems she could verify parolee history, offender identification, arrest records, convictions, holds, and commitments for other law enforcement agencies.
In minutes, Cataldo’s computer introduced her to the owner of the fingerprints on the take-out cup.
Gotcha.
The cold, hard eyes of a white man glared from her monitor, as if he were angry that she’d found him. She clicked to his central file summary and read quickly through his offences.
Second-degree murder.
Armed robbery.
A lifetime achiever. These were only the bigticket items.
According to his ERD, his Earned Release Date, he was released months ago.
Cataldo clicked and the guy’s story unfolded before her. Her head snapped back at what she’d read.
“Lord, that can’t be!”
Cataldo seized her phone, punched a number.
“Homicide, Garner.”
“Grace, it’s Kay.”
“You got him?”
“Leon Dean Sperbeck. Did twenty-five for second-degree during an armed robbery. Was released to community custody a few months ago.”
“Got an address?”
“Grace, you won’t believe this. His DOC file is closed. It’s marked deceased.”
Chapter Sixty
T en minutes after Cataldo locked on to Sperbeck, Grace was on the phone with his community corrections officer.
“Dead men don’t leave fingerprints,” Grace said. “I need an address.”
“Sonofa-Hold on. Are you sure those are Sperbeck’s prints on that cup?” Herb Kent, ten months from retirement, pulled a page from the file on his desk. “Because I’m looking at the report from the Rangers at Mount Rainier last month. Leon drowned himself in the Nisqually River.”
“I know. But did they find his body?”
“I’m not sure. Sorry, I just came back from sick leave, had surgery to remove two toes.” Kent paged through the file. “Nothing here says they found him yet. But I talked to Leon, maybe a week before he went there. He was despondent, like he said in his note.”
“Do you have his note?”
“I have a copy in here. I’ll fax it to you.”
“Did Sperbeck ever talk about the Boland family or Sister Anne Braxton? Did they visit him inside?”
“Let me grab his visitor sheet.” Kent sifted through the file. “What I know is that Leon was quiet, kept to himself and out of trouble. When he was assigned to me, his case didn’t need a lot of monitoring.”
Kent flipped through reports, applications, test results for Sperbeck.
“He served his full time and was no risk to reoffend. He had no family, or much of a support network. I helped him with his release plan, you know, contacting social service agencies, lining up job interviews. He had no violations and he got work as a janitor, but it didn’t last and he took it hard. Some guys can’t cope after being inside a long time. The world changes, they’re stigmatized.”
Damn it. Grace had had enough.
Sperbeck had fallen through the cracks. Violent felons were supposed to be tracked, even after release. Sperbeck had obviously staged his death. Those were his prints on the cup.
“Herb. Stop. Just give me Sperbeck’s last known address now.”
“Well, he had a couple. I’m still checking. He told me one place got flooded. The other was noisy.”
“Herb.”
“Here we go. This one in the northwest was his last. It’s off Market.”
Grace took it down.
“And, look here, the answer is, yes. Seems Sister Anne Braxton visited him several times at Washington State, then at Clallam Bay and Coyote Ridge.”
“You can confirm that he had contact with her?”
“The file here says she was instrumental in helping Sperbeck with his Moral Reconation Therapy and as his spiritual counselor-hello?”
Grace hung up and alerted SWAT to roll on Sperbeck’s residence.
The SWAT equipment truck and other emergency vehicles moved quickly to set up a command post in the parking lot of Wyslowleski’s Funeral Home, about four blocks from Sperbeck’s address.
The field commander, Lieutenant Jim Harlan, examined detailed maps and blueprints of the small house where Sperbeck rented a room at the rear. Harlan then briefed SWAT and the Hostage Negotiations Team on the objective: Seal the area, choke off all traffic, evacuate all citizens in the line of fire by stealth. Get a visual on the suspect and the hostage, then determine if a blitz entry was viable.
Police set up an outer perimeter well outside the hot zone and began diverting traffic, while cops dressed in work clothes eased a city utility van to a door down from Sperbeck’s building to confirm any movement in his apartment.
Other plainclothes officers quickly and quietly evacuated every resident from the line of fire near the building while SWAT members set up an inner perimeter by keeping out of sight near the house. No one was home in the front section. Then Sergeant Mike Brigger led his SWAT team scouts closer to the building. They would determine safety points for other team members to follow and launch a rescue.
As they waited at the command post, Grace and Perelli studied Sperbeck’s old crime, trying to piece everything together. A child hostage was killed in a $3.3 million heist. None of the money had ever surfaced. How did it all fit with the Bolands, Sister Anne, and Sharla May Forrest?
And Henry Wade was one of the responding officers. Jason Wade’s old man.
While Perelli worked the phone, Grace went over it again and again.
Nothing made sense.
“Hey, Grace.” Perelli finished a call and pulled her out of earshot. “Records says that around the time Sperbeck was released, an investigator for the insurance company that paid out on the claim made some enquiries on the old case. Guy by the name of Ethan Quinn wanted to locate the officers on call that day.”
“Maybe this Quinn has new information?”
A crackling radio interjected.
