person.'
'I was just exploring all the possibilities,' Johnson repeated. 'Come
to think of it, we should probably take a look around and make sure
there's no signs of a break-in, just in case. Do you mind?'
'Of course not, but I'm sure I would have noticed something earlier.
Given the security system, I don't see how anyone could have gotten
in.'
'As long as you don't mind, I'll go ahead and check it out. No harm,
right?'
Johnson sidled off before anyone might want to stop him, and the
Fletchers seized the opportunity to extricate themselves from a
situation where they knew they couldn't be of much help. As they
launched into their goodbyes, feeding Townsend more premature
assurances that everything would be okay, I caught up with Ray. Truth
was, I didn't want to be alone with Townsend, struggling like the
Fletchers to avoid all those lame cliches this will all work out, only
a silly misunderstanding, and other completely useless pronouncements
suggesting the speaker had any clue as to how the night would end.
We hit the basement first. My basement is a dark, damp, dusty wreck of
concrete and cinder block that my imagination has populated with
thousands of spiders and their cobwebs. The Easterbrooks' had been
finished into a laundry room and a home gym that had better equipment
than my health club. Not only did we not find any bodies, blood, or
guts, there weren't even any windows to check. In place of the flimsy
things that are so often kicked in for basement break-ins, the
Easterbrooks had glass bricks.
Climbing back up the stairs, we could hear Townsend letting the
Fletchers out the front door, so we headed up to the second floor,
where Tara had Griffey in a bathroom off the main hallway. She was
fighting to get a dog brush through the hair on his hind leg.
Predictably, Griffey stood compliantly while Tara tried to avoid
pulling his entire coat off by the roots.
She looked up at us from the tile floor, removing her hand from the
brush to push her bangs from her forehead. The brush stayed entangled
in poor Griffey's coat. 'I was just wondering whether I should show
this to you. I thought he felt a little crusty downstairs when I was
petting him, but it looks like he's actually got something dried on his
coat back here.'
Johnson knelt down and looked more closely at the side of Griffey's
hip. Then he reached into an interior pocket of his suit jacket,
removed a latex glove, and slipped it over his right hand.
'Do you mind giving us a second, Ms. Carney?'
Tara seemed surprised by the request but left the bathroom, closing the
door behind her.
'Looks like clay or something,' Johnson explained, 'like he brushed up
against it here on his side.'
'Shit. We should have gotten the crime lab over here immediately when
the Fletchers called.'
I was beginning to panic. Why the hell hadn't Johnson been on top of
this? 'Wasn't obvious,' he said, responding to the unspoken question.
'Until you're certain what you're dealing with, it's hard to decide
what kind of resources to put into it. Considering the small chance of
any evidence off the dog, plus the likelihood that we're dealing with a
runaway wife, and it's a tough call.'
It made sense, but it didn't excuse the fact that we nearly allowed
Tara Carney to take the source of what might be our best piece of
evidence so far and soak him in a bathtub.
Johnson flaked some of the beige paste from Griffey's coat into an
evidence bag, then marked it with his name and the date using a Sharpie
pen.
Shit. What else had we missed? 'I think we should go ahead and get
the crime lab out here and search around Taylor's Ferry. Everything
about this feels bad.'
'Your call,' he said, pulling out his cell phone.
This new gig was going to take some getting used to.
Two.
By 7 a.m. the next morning, I was watching my first Major Crimes Unit
case unfold on television. Nothing like an attractive, professional,
missing white woman to satisfy the hunger of the viewing masses.
I sat in the eighth-floor conference room of the Multnomah County
District Attorney's Office, location of the office's only TV set,
flipping channels in a futile attempt to track the coverage. Out of
principle, I boycotted the Fox affiliate for running the tagline case
of a real-life Cinderella? in a graphic beneath the talking head. I
finally gave up and settled on the local morning show, which seemed to
be covering the story in the most detail.
Cut to some guy named Jake Spottiswoode, so-called field correspondent,
also known as the kid right out of college who gets sent with his
Columbia Gore-Tex jacket into the rain.
'Good morning, Gloria. Behind me in southwest Portland is the home of
Dr. Townsend Easterbrook and his missing wife,
Administrative Law Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Dr. Easter-brook
reported the mysterious disappearance yesterday evening, shortly after
returning from a day of surgery at OHSU.
'Residents of this quiet neighborhood are fearing the worst,' Gore-Tex
continued, 'since learning that one of Judge Easter-brook's shoes was
discovered in the street on Taylor's Ferry Road last night. That
discovery was particularly ominous given that the shoe was found only
half a mile from where her dog was found earlier in the night, alone
but still on his leash. The community is helping police in the search
effort and say they still hold out hope that Judge Easterbrook will be
found safe and unharmed. We've been told that the family will be
coming outside any minute to make a statement.'
'Jake, what can you tell us about what Clarissa Easterbrook might have
been doing before she disappeared? Was she walking the dog?' Watching
Gloria Flick lean forward and dramatically furrow her brow, I
remembered why I never watch this show. Gloria Flick was annoying as
hell.
