At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(20)
CHAPTER 10
Verraday entered the Trabant Café and reflexively checked the clock above the cash register by the front door. Ten o’clock sharp, just as they had arranged. Verraday was precise about being punctual and, without even consciously doing so, took one last look to make sure he wasn’t late. He didn’t demand such a level of fastidiousness from anyone else. It was, he knew, one of his quirks, probably something pounded into him by a grade school teacher whose face he couldn’t even visualize any more, but whose quirk had become his quirk.
He glanced around the room and saw that Maclean was already there. She had taken up a position at a table at the very back, in an alcove beneath the stairway to the mezzanine. It was, he noted, a strategic location where she could watch without being watched and speak without being overheard. Maclean had suggested this café. It was just north of the University of Washington campus, near the Neptune Theatre, and was popular with students and artsy types.
Verraday noted that she was already halfway through the mug of coffee sitting on the table in front of her. He’d had an uneasy night. He had awakened twice, haunted by his thoughts and the images from the files, and had had difficulty dozing off again. He noticed that Maclean looked a little weary too, though she managed a smile that seemed genuinely warm.
“How you doing?” she asked. “You sleep okay?”
“Sure, fine,” he lied, stifling a yawn. “How about you?”
“Oh, you know . . .” she replied.
“Yeah, me too,” he said at last, appreciating her candor.
He felt disheveled and marveled at the way Maclean managed to look well put together despite what seemed to be routine twelve-hour days.
“This is an unusual choice of meeting place for a police officer,” said Verraday. “It’s pretty bohemian.”
“I wasn’t always a cop,” Maclean replied. “I did my undergrad social work studies at U Dub Seattle. I used to get caffeinated here when I was pulling all-nighters.”
“When were you there?”
“From 2002 to 2006.”
“I must have just missed you,” said Verraday, wondering what it would have been like to meet this attractive but somewhat world-weary woman when she was a fresh-faced and probably very idealistic social work student.
She signaled to the waitress, then they settled down to business.
“So now that you’ve had some time with the photos and reports, what do you think?” asked Maclean.
“Well, first of all, that your instincts about Fowler’s suspect were right. Peter Cray didn’t murder Alana Carmichael. I read his rap sheet and the court records on his convictions for rape, aggravated assault, and robbery. They were all committed with about as much forethought as you or I would devote to ordering a pizza. I mean, you wouldn’t want Cray to take your favorite granny to a picnic in a secluded spot, or leave him alone with small children or pets. But in my opinion, your assessment is correct. He didn’t kill Alana Carmichael.”
“What about the semen stain on her underwear? Fowler is pinning his case on it.”
“The stain—” he began to reply, then abruptly stopped speaking as, in his peripheral vision, he noticed the waitress coming to take his order. She was in her midtwenties, had a rolling gait, wore heavy kohl eyeliner, and had a Celtic knot tattoo around her left wrist. She looked at him with a flirtatious grin that he would have responded to with more than a polite smile had he not been sitting with another woman and had he not stayed up late the previous evening evaluating crime scene photos of brutally murdered young women who looked very much like this waitress. He ordered a green tea and fell silent until she was out of earshot.
“The semen stain doesn’t mean that Cray killed her. It just means he had sex with her at some point in the night and was sloppy. Cray is a habitually disorganized criminal, not the sort of person to mastermind a murder. At least not one that he’d get away with.”
Maclean pursed her lips as she considered the point.
“But as Lao Tzu said, ‘The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ No?”
“True,” replied Verraday. “But if Cray did do this, it would have been an extremely rapid progression in his skill level. Like a chimp suddenly learning how to do your tax return. Not that I’d have any objection to that. Cray plays checkers, not chess. The sex assaults he committed were targets of opportunity, people in vulnerable situations that he thought he could take advantage of. Same with his robberies. No planning or due diligence. Ditto the beatings. They were spontaneous and over trivial things—petty drug deals gone bad, perceived slights from acquaintances and strangers. With him, it’s all about impulses. That’s why he gets caught so often. Even the sex with Alana Carmichael shows his lack of self-control.”
“How so?”
“The fact that semen was found on her underwear and skin, but not in her vagina is a clear indication. He ejaculated so prematurely that he probably never even penetrated her. As the report says, there was a Handi Wipe with his semen on it found in her apartment. She probably used it to clean herself and missed a few spots. Just like Rachel Friesen, she doesn’t have any defensive wounds. And Cray didn’t have any scratches or cuts on him either. If Cray was stupid enough to leave traces of his semen on someone he was planning to murder, how was he smart enough to manipulate his victim into a bondage situation where she voluntarily gave up her means of defending herself? Plus Alana Carmichael’s body was found in a dumpster five miles from Cray’s home. But he always commits his crimes within blocks of where he lives. It doesn’t add up. He was probably just the last client Alana Carmichael had before she encountered her killer. The Carmichael and Friesen killings were meticulously planned. The perpetrator was an organized offender who didn’t leave any clues. In fact, the only clue he allowed to remain behind was a false clue, to pin it on somebody else.”