technical phraseology only made it worse, more dehumanizing.
It said that cause of death was strangulation and that the murder weapon had indeed been the twisted nightgown around her neck. Analysis of stomach contents revealed that she had eaten a hamburger within an hour of time of death. It detailed other injuries — broken bones, bruises, cuts. The medical examiner had removed bits of human tissue and other substances from beneath her fingernails. Surprisingly, she had not been raped. At least she had been spared that indignity. It was a blessing, a very small blessing.
Peters came back and threw a newspaper down in front of me. I don’t take a newspaper. It’s a personal protest against people like Maxwell Cole. Consequently I hadn’t seen the lurid headlines above Angel Barstogi’s baby-toothed smile. One thing about newspapers, they never disappoint me. I always expect the worst. I consistently get it.
The preliminary report was still warm in my hand, yet I could have read the same information on the front page and not bothered to go to the office at all. My phone rang before I could say anything to Peters. It was Arlo Hamilton, the public information officer, wanting to know if I had anything for his nine a.m. press briefing.
“Are you shitting me?” I asked him. “Those assholes know everything we do. Maybe they should be giving us the briefing.”
“Don’t growl at me, Beau. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“Me too,” I responded, and slammed the receiver down in his ear. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said to Peters, grabbing up both the paper and the file. “This case has just become a media event.”
I was pissed off as we headed for the elevator, pissed and looking for somebody to blame. Peters happened to be close at hand.
“What’d you do?” I asked sarcastically. “Pick up the report on the way home and drop it by the newspaper just for fun?”
Peters stopped in midstride and glared at me. “I thought maybe you did. Maxwell Cole isn’t an old fraternity buddy of mine.”
I looked at the paper again. The byline was indeed Maxwell Cole’s. Somehow he had managed to worm his column onto the front page. He’s always there, just when I least need him.
I backed off. “If you didn’t leak it, and I didn’t leak it, then somebody in the medical examiner’s office has a big mouth.”
Peters looked somewhat mollified, but not totally so.
The Public Safety Building has what are reputed to be the slowest elevators in Seattle, possibly in the Western Hemisphere. We were still in the lobby when Sergeant Watkins nailed us. “Where are you two running off to?” he asked.
He was carrying a folded newspaper under his arm. “You’ve already read that?” I asked.
“I’ve read it, Powell’s read it, the chief’s reading it even as we speak. You’d better come back and brief the captain before you take off. The press is going to be all over this place today.”
Captain Powell’s office is as private as a glass fishbowl can be. We gave Sergeant Watkins and Powell a verbal rundown of what we knew, including what Jeremiah had told me about Faith Tabernacle and the good Pastor Michael Brodie. Powell took our copy of the preliminary report and read it through. “What was this Brodie character wearing yesterday when you saw him?” Powell asked.
“Blue suit, white shirt, no tie.”
“Long sleeves?”
I nodded. The captain continued. “According to this, there were fragments of flesh under her fingernails. If he’s our man, there should be scratches showing.” You don’t get to be captain because you’re dumb. Powell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then there’s the hamburger, too. Where do you get a hamburger that early in the morning?”
We theorized awhile longer before we finally made our getaway from the fifth floor and picked up a car from the motor pool. The motor pool is run on a strictly first-come, first-served basis. We were a long way from first served. The television shows that have the detectives driving the same high-powered vehicle week after week crack me up. They don’t live in the real world of city budgets. It must be nice. I’ve grown immune to cars. All that’s important to me is whether or not they run and have enough leg room. This one ran all right, but the leg room was sorely lacking. That happens a lot when you’re six-three.
Peters drove, but not far. We stopped for breakfast. I washed down bacon and eggs with coffee while Peters told me about the dangers of cholesterol and the nitrate preservatives in bacon. I enjoyed the food, not the accompanying lecture. I missed Ray. He and I shared much the same vices as far as food was concerned.
Over breakfast we decided to tackle the leak in the medical examiner’s office. A blabbermouth there or in the state crime laboratory could blow up a case before it ever hit prosecution. We drove up to Harborview Hospital on Capitol Hill and parked behind a car with a bumper sticker that said, “Have you hugged your medical examiner today?”
Dr. Ralph Baker is in charge. He is a full-fledged physician and also an elected official. His jurisdiction covers all of King County and includes the city of Seattle. He glanced balefully up from some papers and looked at his watch as we were ushered into his cluttered office. “You’re late,” he growled. “I expected you half an hour ago.”
“We stopped for breakfast.”
He grunted. He reached over and picked up a manila folder. Inside was a folded clipping of the Angel Barstogi article. It had a series of red markings on it. He sighed. “Some of this is almost verbatim,” he said wearily.
“Any ideas?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Two people were on duty last night. Lillian Roberts and Dan Royden.”
“So which one runs off at the mouth?” I asked.
Baker looked at Peters, then nodded in my direction. “That’s one of the things I like about Detective Beaumont. He has such a way with words.” He paused briefly. “You ever hear of the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission?” he asked.
I nodded. Baker picked up a stray paper clip from his desk and lobbed it across the room, where it fell expertly into a chipped clear-glass vase that sat on a bookshelf near the window. From the number of paper clips in it and the few scattered in close proximity, I guessed catching paper clips was the vase’s sole reason for existence.
The chief medical examiner is a florid Scandinavian with a shock of white hair. His face flushed a little more violently than usual. “You ever have an EEOC grievance filed against you?”
I shook my head. He tossed another paper clip into the vase. “I have,” he said. “In this state that’s tantamount to political suicide. I don’t see this job as the end of the line, you know.”
As a matter of fact, the thought had never occurred to me. I thought once a medical examiner, always a medical examiner, but that shows how much I know. On the other hand, I suppose it’s a short jump from performing autopsies to political office. At least you’d have some preparation for handling the stench of corruption.
I said, “In other words, Lillian Roberts is Deep Throat.”
“Maybe she talks in her sleep,” he replied. “I’m not making any official accusations, mind you.”
Peters had been pretty much left out of the conversation, but now he put two and two together. “You mean Lillian Roberts and Maxwell Cole?”
Another paper clip clinked into the vase. Baker said nothing.
Peters was outraged. “I’d fire her ass.”
Baker studied Peters for a moment the way a small child might examine an ant before deliberately crushing it into the sidewalk. “You probably would,” he said, “but then, you don’t want to be King County Executive, either. Of course,” he added, “I’ll deny everything if any of this hits the street.”
There was no point in sticking around. I had to give Baker credit for letting us know the lay of the land. He could have left us fumbling around in the dark. Besides, I wanted to get Peters out of there before he said something we would both regret. I was afraid his combination of temper and mouth would end up getting us both in trouble. I helped myself to one of Baker’s paper clips and made a pretty respectable shot, considering I’d never tried it before. “See you at the polls,” I said over my shoulder.
I hurried Peters out the door. He was still blustering in the outer office, but I shushed him until we were outside and climbing into the car.
