While Flick continued to feign concern, Gore-Tex explained that the
police had refused to rule out any possibilities. Although this was
formally a missing persons case, they were moving forward on the
assumption that foul play might be involved. Trying to fill air time
before the press conference, the rain-soaked rookie correspondent
touched upon Clarissa's position with the city. 'We're hearing,
Gloria, that Clarissa Easterbrook, as an administrative law judge, is
not the kind of judge that many of us would envision, in a courthouse,
presiding over trials. Rather, she hears appeals from the
administrative decisions of city agencies. Because many of those
matters are considered routine and, in fact, somewhat bureaucratic,
police are discouraging the media from speculating that Judge
Easterbrook's disappearance could be related to her official
position.'
The viewing public was spared any further attempt to explain the boring
work of an administrative law judge when Clarissa Easterbrook's family
assumed its place behind a podium that had been set up in the
Easterbrook driveway.
Joining Tara and Townsend were an older couple I imagined were
Clarissa's parents, along with a woman I didn't recognize. Townsend
tentatively approached the mike. Make that about ten mikes. Unlike
Tara, he had changed clothes, but the bags under his eyes were every
bit as pronounced.
As the attending surgeon at the state's teaching hospital, Townsend was
probably used to speaking to a crowd. But today he seemed focused on
merely making it through the notes he carried to the podium. His voice
lacked affect, and he didn't look up once from his reading:
'My wife, Clarissa Easterbrook, has not been seen since six o'clock
yesterday morning. She disappeared somewhere between then and last
night at approximately six-thirty p.m.' when I returned home. We
believe she was wearing a pink silk turtleneck sweater, charcoal-gray
pants, and black loafers, one of which was found on Taylor's Ferry
Drive early this morning. Our dog was discovered last night in the
same area, near the Chart House restaurant. We are asking anyone who
may have seen her, or seen anything in that vicinity that might be
related to her disappearance, to please call the police immediately.
Clarissa, we love you and we miss you, and we want you to come home to
us safe.
'Behind me are Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney; her parents, Mel and
Alice Carney; and her dearest friend, Susan Kerr. On behalf of all of
us, I'd like to thank everyone who is helping in this search effort.
Members of the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District
Attorney's Office were here late last night, and the media have been
great about getting Clarissa's picture out there and asking for
information. We're very grateful for all the support and concern that
has been shown for Clarissa and our family. Thank you again.'
Whoever wrote the script was savvy enough to know how to play the game
of political institutions. Appear supportive of the police department
and the DA's office early on, and you'll have all the more leverage
down the road if you threaten to turn. Reporters were shouting out
questions now, but there wasn't much for Townsend to add. Yes, it was
certainly possible that something might have happened to her while she
was walking the dog, but the police were not ruling out other
possibilities. No, there hadn't been any ransom demands or other
communications about the disappearance.
Once the family retreated into the house, the station ran more pictures
of Clarissa and repeated the description of her clothing. Nordstrom
had come through. From the montage of photographs at a picnic with
Townsend, at Cannon Beach with Griffey, on the lap of a shopping-mall
Santa Claus with Tara I began to feel I knew this woman. She was aging
gracefully, keeping her hair blond but neatly bobbed, allowing the
wrinkles to show beneath a light dusting of makeup. And in every
picture she had the same big, generous smile that had greeted me the
one time I had met her at a women's bar conference a couple of years
ago. I couldn't bear to watch.
As I was clicking the TV off, Russell Frist stuck his perfectly
salt-and-peppered head into the conference room. 'Welcome back,
Kincaid, and welcome to the Unit. The boss tells me you're in the
thick of things already.'
The District Attorney must have called Frist first thing this morning.
Recently appointed supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit, my new boss had
a reputation for screaming at other lawyers and making them cry, but
also for being a good prosecutor. I had vowed to keep an open mind
about him, but sitting there beneath his gaze, I found myself
intimidated. At six foot three and a good two-twenty, Frist put in
enough time at the gym to test the seams of his well-cut suit.
It wasn't surprising that Frist referred to the trial unit that
prosecuted all person felonies as 'the Unit.' He'd been handling major
crimes for at least fifteen years, so other kinds of cases had no doubt
stopped mattering to him long ago.
'Looks like it,' I said. 'When he sent me out to the Easter-brooks'
last night for some hand-holding, I don't think either one of us
thought it was going to turn into something like this, literally
overnight.'
'Well, we should talk. Give me about fifteen minutes, then meet in my
office?'
Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get any actual work done, so I
continued making my way through the pile of mail that had accumulated
over the past month. As un pampered county employees, we usually have
to take care of our own office moves when we change rotations, but
someone had been nice enough to relocate my things from my old office
down the hall at the Drug and Vice Division to what used to be Frist's
office in major crimes.
Everything, that was, except for my black leather, high-backed swivel
chair. A good office chair is nearly impossible to come by when you
work for the government. Most of the chairs around here had ceased
being adjustable years ago and had funky-smelling upholstery fit for
the county's HAZMAT team. About a year ago, I had spent four full
months sucking up to the facilities manager, begging for a decent
