things happened, Chuck. I didn't need distance from you.'
'OK, I understand that. I was there for the aftermath, remember?'
I passed a sign announcing the approaching exit for Glen-ville and
realized I needed to wrap this up. 'Look, I'm sorry we didn't talk
earlier,' I said. 'It doesn't matter whose fault it is.'
'Sure it does. Let's say it's my fault.'
That's my boy. 'The point is, we still don't know if it's a good idea
to work together. I'll tell Frist to call your lieutenant and take
care of it.'
'What, like your father called Griffith? You know what kind of shit
I'd take down here for that?'
Yes, that had been a bit embarrassing. Dad's a retired forest ranger
and former Oregon State Police officer. He can be a little protective.
After the recent festivities at my house, Martin Kincaid had called the
District Attorney to make sure that no further coworkers would be
getting shot in my living room or otherwise endangering his little
girl.
'All right,' I conceded, 'no calls to the lieutenant.'
'It'll be fine. The LT knows about the situation so he's got Mike and
me doing the grunt work. No confessions, no searches, strictly backup.
The priority right now is to hurry up those phone records Johnson's
been waiting on. As other things come up that need to be run down,
we'll take care of it while Johnson and Walker work lead. Glamorous,
huh?'
'When you say it that way.'
'Can you live with it, Kincaid, or do I need to turn in my badge and
gun? Your choice.'
'You'd do that for me, Chuck Forbes?'
'You bet. But then I wouldn't have a job. Might hang out at your
house all day and night, unshaved and overfed. What do you think?'
'I think you better get off the damn phone and find me some phone
records.'
'Ooh, baby, that's very hot and lusty.'
'No more of that,' I said. 'Call me later, OK?'
'Ball's back in my court?'
'For now,' I said, and hung up.
When I finally got to the point where I was supposed to go . 18 miles
and then turn right for .07 miles, I nearly ran into the yellow crime
scene tape.
PPB had used the tape to close off the entirety of what the sign
declared was a state-of-the-art office park, coming soon. A young
officer stood at the foot of a gravel road leading to the construction
area. I flashed my District Attorney ID, and he described the several
turns I'd need to make around the various office buildings.
The day was beginning to lose its light, and the bureau's crime scene
technicians were erecting floods at the edge of a wooded area that
surrounded the new development. I could see Johnson and Walker were
already here, talking to some of the techs. I parked behind one of the
bureau's vans and prepared myself for Clarissa Easterbrook's corpse.
I'd seen four dead bodies in my life. One was my mother's, two were in
my living room last month, and one was on my first and only homicide
call-out. On that one, I'd been lucky enough to draw a fresh OD.
Depending on how the events leading to her death unfolded, Clarissa
Easterbrook could have been dead up to 35 hours.
Johnson met me at the car and we walked toward the woods. I could tell
from the surrounding area that the developer had clear-cut the old
growth that must have previously covered these hundred acres or so.
When we reached the end of the clearing, Johnson turned sideways and
stepped carefully through the trees. I followed and, just a few feet
later, saw what used to be
Clarissa Easterbrook, still in her pink turtleneck and gray pants. A
lot of good that piece of investigative work had done.
In novels, there's often something beautiful or at least touching about
the dead. A victim's arms extended like the wings of an angel, her
face at peace, her hand reaching for justice. This was nothing like
that. Clarissa Easterbrook's body was laid on the dirt, face up. The
right side of her head was gone, and I could find nothing poetic about
it.
The only worthwhile observations to be made about the corpse were
scientific. I initially focused on the disfigurement of her head, but
Johnson pointed out the discoloration on what remained of her face.
Purple streaks stained the left edge of her face and neck, like
bruising against skin that otherwise looked like silly putty. 'Looks
like someone moved her.'
