and his wife left for Harrison Hot Springs in British Columbia, where they attended a wedding. He said that when he found his mother alone and untended late Monday morning, she was delirious from a lack of food and water and had no idea of her daughter’s fate. All she knew was that no one had come to look after her.
In addition to caring for her invalid mother for the last several years, Miss Marchbank worked as a receptionist for Harris, Harris, and Rainy, Incorporated, a Seattle-area public accounting firm. Her supervisor there, Hal Rainy, said that Miss Marchbank had been an entirely reliable employee and had always called in to let them know if she was going to be absent.
“That’s why we called her home once we realized she wasn’t here,” Mr. Rainy said. “That’s also why, when we failed to reach her, we were alarmed enough to notify her brother. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do the poor girl harm. She was just as nice a person as can be.”
Detective Winkler, when asked about a possible suspect or motive, told reporters that as of this time there is no viable suspect. Investigators are working on the theory that Miss Marchbank may have returned home unexpectedly and interrupted a burglary in progress. He said they are conferring with Mr. Marchbank and his wife, Elvira, to determine what, if anything, might be missing from his mother’s residence.
The murder weapon, an ordinary kitchen knife, was recovered at the scene and is believed to have come from the victim’s own kitchen.
Police are asking that anyone with information about this case contact Detective Winkler at Seattle Police Headquarters. Mr. Marchbank and his business partner, Phil Landreth, indicated that they are posting a $1,000 reward for anyone who can provide information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of Madeline Marchbank’s killer. Funeral services for Miss Marchbank are pending at this time and will not be finalized until after the coroner’s office releases the body sometime later this week.
That was the end of that first story. The clerk helpfully made a hard copy of that one for me. Then I scrolled through the next several weeks of newspapers, watching as the story unfolded. Madeline Marchbank’s funeral at Saint Mark’s Cathedral on Friday, May 19, was a well-attended affair that merited front-page attention. The microfiche record indicated the existence of a photo that could be retrieved from the photo file. When I asked the clerk to bring me a copy of that, the picture featured a grief-stricken Albert Marchbank, accompanied by his wife, Elvira, pushing a wheelchair-bound Abigail Marchbank down a rain-slick sidewalk.
Once the funeral was over, stories related to Madeline Marchbank’s death gradually migrated from front page to back, growing ever smaller as they went. Despite Detective Winkler’s best efforts, no suspects were ever identified. Nowhere was there any mention of a child who may have witnessed the fatal attack on Madeline Marchbank. Without testimony from that small, frightened witness, the case had gone cold-until now, until remnants from a recurring nightmare had awakened Sister Mary Katherine’s haunting memories out of their sound sleep.
I sat back in the chair and rubbed my burning eyes.
“Will that be all?” the intern asked. “I was supposed to go to lunch at two. I’m not allowed to leave you alone, and no one else came in today.”
She was young and not terribly attractive, but she was also bright and willing to help. She’d gone to the trouble of making her way in to work on a day when lots of other people had begged off. I hoped she’d go far.
“No,” I said, gathering my sheaf of papers. “That’s all for now. You’ve been a great help. What’s your name again?”
“Linda,” she said. “Linda Carter.” She shrugged apologetically and added, “My father’s last name is Carter. When he was young, he loved
“Works for me,” I said. “You’ve certainly worked wonders for me today. Hope I haven’t made you too late for lunch.”
She smiled shyly. “Thanks,” she said. “And don’t worry about lunch. I don’t mind. It’s usually so boring around here. It was fun to have something useful to do for a change.”
I rode the elevator to the lobby and turned in my visitor’s badge. I went outside and joined the clutch of coat-swaddled smokers who had been exiled outside in the freezing weather. Standing in a pall of secondhand smoke, I contemplated the steep climb back up to Second Avenue and wondered if I should once again take the long way around.
The morgue had been so confined that I had turned my cell phone on “silent” while I was there. Still wavering about what route to take, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked it. There were three messages waiting.
The first was from Ralph Ames. “Hey, Beau,” he said. “Sorry to say I struck out. I called Ron and let him know what the deal was. I offered to come over and be there to back him up, but he said thanks but no thanks. If he isn’t interested in my help, there’s not much I can do. I wanted to let you know that I tried.”
The second call followed Ralph’s by a matter of minutes. It was from my colleague, Melissa Soames. “Hey, J.P.,” she said. “This is Mel. According to Harry, we need to talk. Give me a call ASAP.”
The third message came from Tracy Peters. She was crying. “Uncle Beau? Mom’s not here, and I can’t reach her. I don’t know what to do. Two people, a man and a woman, showed up a little while ago with a search warrant for Dad’s car. When they left, they took him with them, and they didn’t say where they were going. Now there’s a big tow truck down in the driveway. Some guy is loading Dad’s Camry onto it right now. Please call me back or else come by. We need you.”
The call had come in a good two hours earlier.
I immediately tried calling back, but there was no answer. This was hardly a surprise. No doubt Ron Peters’s home and his family were in the midst of a full media onslaught. If they were smart, they would be hunkered down inside, not answering phones or doorbells. I stuffed the phone back in my pocket, ducked my chin into my chest, and ran up the hill.
Amazingly enough, I didn’t slip and fall on my butt, and I didn’t have a heart attack or collapse before I hit Second Avenue, either, but it was close. I was still panting when I staggered up to the lobby at Belltown Terrace. Jerome opened the door to let me in.
“Hey, man,” he said. “What’s with you? You been running that four-minute mile again?”
“More like ten,” I gasped. “But I need a car or a cab. With either four-wheel drive and snow tires or chains, I don’t care which. And I need it now.”
“A good doorman is like a Boy Scout. We’re always prepared,” he said with a grin. “I have a friend who drives a cab, and he and I have an arrangement. He came to work today with his cab all decked out in chains. I’ve got his cell number right here, and I’ve been calling him all day long whenever any of my people need help. I’ll give him a call.”
“Please,” I said. “I don’t know how long I’m going to need him, but tell him I’ll make it worth his while.”
“He’s been pretty busy today,” Jerome said. “As you can well imagine. So why don’t you go upstairs and wait. I’ll call you just as soon as Mohammad Ibrahim shows up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do that.”
While I was upstairs waiting for the cab, I switched on the TV. On KOMO a special early edition of the evening news was dishing out wall-to-wall weather. “The Counterbalance on Queen Anne Avenue is closed to all vehicular traffic, while kids, taking advantage of their snow day, turn it into a place for sledding. Reporter Megan Forester has a live report.”
Years ago, Seattle used to have a working trolley system, not just the current tourist-attraction-type outfit that runs back and forth along the waterfront without really making much of a contribution to mass transportation. Like similar trolleys in San Francisco, the old system required a counterbalance in order for cars to make it up and down the steepest part of Queen Anne Hill. The working trolleys are long gone, but on Queen Anne the word “counterbalance” persists, and it is, as the name implies, very steep. Letting kids use it for sledding seemed like a recipe for disaster. I was surprised the city hadn’t put a stop to it based solely on liability concerns.
Kamikaze sledders weren’t my problem. Queen Anne Hill was. If the main drag up and down the hill was closed, Mohammad Ibrahim might have a tough time getting me anywhere near Ron and Amy’s place. When Jerome called upstairs to tell me the cab had arrived, I rode down in the elevator expecting that the driver would be a newly arrived immigrant from some Middle Eastern country and that communication might be difficult.
It turned out Mr. Ibrahim wasn’t exactly a newly landed immigrant. He had been driving cabs in Seattle for some time, but he hadn’t gotten around to changing the name on his driver’s license photo ID, where he was still
