direction.
The result was Janie’s House, a facility made up of three former residential homes that had been cobbled together to form a single unit. I was copying down the phone number when my phone buzzed, announcing an incoming message. The video was there along with a jpeg file of Josh Deeson’s most recent yearbook photo.
Then, with all my ducks very nearly in a row, I did something smart. I called Mel. That’s one of the first rules out of Police Academy 101-don’t go chasing bad guys all by your lonesome. That’s why God created partners-so you can have backup. But calling Mel made sense for more than one reason: I knew for sure she’d be royally ripped at me if I didn’t.
“How are things in Packwood?” I asked casually.
“One dead end after another,” she grumbled. “I executed the search warrant. Other than the eight hundred dollars, I found nothing of interest. So far I’ve talked to half a dozen of Rachel’s friends and none of them knows anything, either. Or, if they do, they’re not saying. Why?”
“We may have just caught a big break. Todd Hatcher tells me the snuff video was sent to Josh’s computer from one located at Janie’s House-that homeless shelter in Olympia.”
“The same shelter that was on that business card found in Rachel’s room?”
“The very one,” I said. “I’m planning on going there, but it occurred to me that if I want to go on living, I’d better give you a chance to go along.”
Mel laughed. “You’ve got that right.”
“Also, the crime lab in Spokane broke into the files on Josh’s computer. Along with a group of ongoing chess games, they also found a collection of ugly text messages that were sent to Josh. It turns out those texts came from cell phones that are billed to Janie’s House as well.”
“Sounds like your basic full-service shelter,” Mel said. “I’m on my way now. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Do not speed,” I cautioned. “I promise, I won’t go anywhere near the place until you’re with me.”
Telling her not to speed was really wasting my breath. I had no doubt the blue bubble light was already firmly affixed to the Cayman’s roof and her lead foot was on the gas pedal.
“And don’t bother stopping for lunch,” I added. “I’ll bring the rest of my chicken to you in a doggy bag.”
“Do you mean to tell me that after that huge breakfast you went back to the Country Cousin for lunch?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said. “And I’m not apologizing for it, either. Wait until you try it.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you saved some for me,” she said. “Where should we meet?”
“At the hotel,” I suggested. “In the meantime, I’m going to drop by the high school and see if the principal there knows as much about his students as Conrad Philips knows about his.”
“If I were you,” Mel said, “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that score.”
Outside in the parking lot, I keyed the Olympia High School campus into my GPS. When I got there I soon found that Mel’s assessment was correct. The name of the principal was Annette Tompkins. She and Conrad Philips were both secondary-school principals. That meant they probably had similar schooling and credentials. Since Ms. Tompkins’s school was far larger than the one in Randle, I’m sure she brought home higher wages than he did. If I’d been writing their paychecks, that situation would have been reversed.
For one thing, once she knew I was there to discuss Josh Deeson, she was very reluctant to talk to me. She said she was sorry one of her students had died; she claimed no personal knowledge of Josh Deeson’s history or difficulties, to say nothing of his friends or enemies. It was only by taking Ross Connors’s name in vain that I finally got Ms. Tompkins to cough up the names and phone numbers of Josh’s summer-school teachers, both of whom were still in classes and currently unavailable for interviews. She also furnished the name and phone number for the chess club adviser, a guy named Samuel Dysart, who volunteered his services with the chess club, although he didn’t serve on the faculty in any other capacity. I tried his number, but when his phone went to voice mail, I hung up. This was something that required a live conversation, not a message left on someone’s answering machine.
Rather than wait around for classes to be dismissed, I headed back to the hotel. I figured I had about half an hour before Mel was due to arrive-long enough to stretch out on the bed and maybe grab a nap. It had been a short night and it was stacking up to be a long day.
I had been asleep for about fifteen minutes when Mel showed up. We’re a good pair. I didn’t ask her about how fast she had driven, and she downed my leftover chicken with no wry comments about that, either.
Ten minutes later we parked at the curb outside Janie’s House on Seventeenth Avenue Southeast. The three houses involved were all older homes in good repair. The lawns were mowed. The edges were trimmed. The exterior paint jobs were relatively new. From the article I had read I knew that the middle building, the one with the word OFFICE stenciled on the wall next to the doorbell, had once belonged to the shelter’s founder, Deborah Magruder.
Mel and I were standing on the front porch, preparing to ring the doorbell, when the front door was opened by a middle-aged woman with aggressively orange-and-purple hair and enough piercings to belie her age. “May I help you?” she asked.
There are times when those four words constitute a real offer of help. There are other times when they mean “Get lost.” This was an example of the latter.
Mel presented her badge and ID. “We’re with Special Homicide,” she said. “We’d like to speak to you about someone who is possibly one of your clients.”
“We don’t discuss our clients with anyone,” the woman said. “We’re here to help them. We’re not here to make it easy for cops to hassle them. Believe me, by the time the kids get to us, they’ve usually had a bellyful of people like you.”
“Homicide investigators?” Mel asked sweetly. “Some of your clients have been suspects in murder investigations?”
“I mean cops in general,” the woman said.
“And you are?” Mel persisted.
“My name is Meribeth Duncan. I’m the executive director of Janie’s House. I have nothing to say to you.”
Meribeth attempted to turn and go back inside, but somehow Mel managed to insert herself between the executive director and the front door.
“Does the name Rachel Camber mean anything to you?” she asked.
“No,” Meribeth said. “And I wouldn’t tell you if it did. The kids who come here do so with the understanding that the services we provide are confidential. Most of them are homeless or come from homes that are so horrendous that they’d be better off homeless. They come here needing a place to hang out where they can be safe and clean. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay warm or dry or clean when you’re on the streets? We have showers here. We have clothes washers and dryers along with a supply of donated clothing.”
“What about beds?” I asked.
“Our mission is to serve as a drop-in center only,” Meribeth replied.
“What does that mean?”
“We provide counseling, educational support like homework help and computer access. We don’t allow for overnight accommodations. Our liability insurance specifically precludes us from doing so.”
That made me wonder. Rachel had told Kenny she’d be staying with “Janie.” That wasn’t true, but clearly she had stayed somewhere between the time she left home on Sunday and the time she turned up dead. We needed to know where she had stayed during that time, and if she had stayed there because she wanted to, or had she been held somewhere against her will?
“If you don’t know Rachel Camber,” Mel said, “what about Josh Deeson?”
Meribeth’s eyes narrowed. “The name sounds familiar, but. .”
“You may have heard it on the news this morning,” Mel said. “He’s Governor Longmire’s stepgrandson.”
“The kid who committed suicide?” Meribeth asked.
Anticipating that there would most likely be a female gatekeeper at Janie’s House, Mel and I had decided on a plan of action. Mel would do the talking. I would be in charge of show-and-tell. About the time the woman was saying she didn’t know Josh, I pulled out his photo and held it out to her.
“That’s him?” Meribeth asked. “That’s Josh?”
I nodded.
