Gulletti about the man calling himself Seth Stroud, and about Paul’s relationships with a couple of the murder victims.
Detectives also spoke with several students in Paul’s class. Most of them misidentified photos of the real Seth Stroud, claiming he was the teacher’s assistant. Tish at the video store also had trouble differentiating photos of the two men.
The pair of killers had indeed looked very much alike. If not for Ben and Hannah, perhaps Richard Kidd might have gotten away with murdering his friend—as well as so many others.
On Saturday morning, Ben’s wife faxed the police hard copies of Rae Palmer’s e-mails. The documents linked the rooftop “suicide” of Joe Blankenship and Lily Abrams’s death with the others. They would finally put the Floating Flower case to rest.
Richard Kidd had been living quite well off a monthly allowance from his late father’s trust fund. His mother in Missoula, Montana, refused to believe the awful stories the police were telling about her son.
The murders made national news by Saturday morning. The media couldn’t help comparing Richard Kidd and Seth Stroud to their kill-for-kicks predecessors, Leopold and Loeb.
By Saturday afternoon, CNN was showing a clip from Richard Kidd’s film short
According to news reports, Hannah Doyle, the killers’ most recent prey, was unavailable for comment. She was being held by Seattle police as a “person of interest” in several investigations unrelated to the murders.
Ben desperately wanted to talk with her, but the police weren’t allowing Hannah any incoming calls.
When he was released from the hospital at three-thirty Saturday afternoon, Ben took a taxi to Emerald City Video. He’d had one of the nurses buy him some new clothes at the Gap: black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a fall jacket. But with his arm in a cast and three small bandages on his face, Ben still looked pretty beat-up as he hobbled into the video store.
The place was a mob scene.
“We had a TV news crew in here a couple of hours ago,” Scott told him. “Plus we have all these morbid nutcases coming in. They’re not even renting. They’re just poking around, being major pains in the ass. I’m not supposed to be working today. I just got out of the hospital. You too, I guess, huh?”
Threading through the crowd, Ben and Scott ducked into the employee break room. “I’m only putting in a couple of hours to help Tish out, because I’m such a saint—or such a sap,” Scott explained, shutting the door behind him. “You look like you need to sit down more than I do,” he said, pulling out the chair. “Take a load off.”
“Thanks,” Ben said, sitting down. His painkillers were wearing off.
“So have you heard anything about Hannah?” Scott asked anxiously.
“No, I was hoping you could tell me something. I tried phoning Guy’s baby-sitter, Joyce, but I wasn’t getting an answer.”
“She came by earlier,” Scott said. “I guess Hannah’s in-laws flew in this morning. They’re staying at the Four Seasons. They were smart enough to have Joyce bring Guy over there. Joyce said they sent a limo for them. Then the limo drove her back. Anyway, Guy’s with his grandparents now. Joyce said he started crying when she left.”
“Oh, God,” Ben whispered. “The poor kid.”
“Hannah’s in-laws sent someone over here, too,” Scott said, folding his arms and leaning against the door. “I think he was a detective working for their attorneys. I don’t know. He talked with Tish mostly. He was asking about Hannah’s tax records, and any forms she might have signed.”
“What for?” Ben murmured.
“I think Hannah’s in-laws are going after her with both barrels. This guy mentioned something about Hannah committing fraud against the government—in addition to kidnapping, theft, and forgery charges.” Scott shook his head, and his eyes teared up. “Looks like they’re really sticking it to our girl.”
Ben frowned. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You’d think they’d want to sweep it all under the rug, and pay her to keep quiet. Don’t they know why she took Guy and left? Do they have any clue that their son was an abusive asshole?”
“Apparently not,” Scott replied, shrugging.
Ben glanced up at the tiny TV-VCR on the shelf above the desk. “Hey, Scott?”
“Yeah?”
He nodded at the little television. “Do you think I could borrow that for the afternoon?”
The small TV had a carrying handle on the top, and didn’t weigh much at all. Still, Ben took a taxi from the video store to 1313 East Republican Street, only a few blocks away.
Richard Kidd’s bungalow was now a burnt-out shell, cordoned off with yellow police tape. The front yard was littered with rubble and debris. A patrol car was parked in front, and a couple of curiosity-seekers stood on the sidewalk, trying to get a better look at the place.
Ben had the cab drop him off, then wait up the block. He headed for the apartment building across the street from the blast site. He walked under the canopy, past the recycling bins, then down the basement stairwell. He found his duffel bag, still buried under a pile of leaves at the bottom of those cement steps.
The cop who had found him wandering around there yesterday had said Ben appeared disoriented. But Ben had known what he was doing.
Taking the duffel bag, he hobbled back to the waiting cab. Ben thanked the driver for waiting. He put his bag on the seat, beside the portable TV.
“Can you take me to the Four Seasons Hotel, please?” he asked.
Answering the door to Suite 619 was a well-groomed, thirty-year-old man in a three-piece suit. He could have been a lawyer, a bodyguard, or someone who worked for a funeral parlor. He didn’t introduce himself to Ben. He just looked him up and down, and asked, “Are you Ben Podowski?”
Standing at the threshold with a portable TV-VCR tucked under his one good arm and holding onto his duffel bag, Ben nodded.
“Mrs. Woodley will give you five minutes, that’s all,” the man said stiffly.
Ben followed him into the living room, where Mrs. Woodley sat on a sofa. The elegantly appointed room offered a sweeping view of Puget Sound. She had the television on mute, and in front of her was a fancy tea set and a plate of fruit and cookies that she’d been picking at.
With her frosty gaze, stiff mink-colored hair, and the pink suit, Mrs. Woodley looked like a First Lady—minus the people skills. She sipped her tea, and nodded at Ben.
Though he had a cast on one arm and was struggling with the little TV and his bag, Mrs. Woodley didn’t ask her lackey in the three-piece suit to lend him a hand.
“I was hoping to talk Mr. Woodley,” Ben said, setting down his bag.
“Mr. Woodley is terribly busy,” she said. “And so am I. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?”
“How’s Guy doing?” Ben asked. “Is he okay?”
Ben glanced down around the baseboards for an outlet. “Well, tell him that Ben said ‘hi.’ We got to be good friends in the last few days.” He propped the TV on a desk by the window, then plugged it in.
“You have about three and a half more minutes,” the man in the business suit announced. His arms folded, he stood behind the couch where the woman sat.
Ben glanced at Mrs. Woodley, then rolled his eyes toward the man. “Does he have to be here?”
“Yes,” she said. “And he’s quite right. I have other appointments.”
“Then I’ll get to the point,” Ben said, standing between Mrs. Woodley and the TV. “I was hoping to persuade you and Mr. Woodley to drop any charges you were planning to file against your daughter-in-law.”
