At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(5)
“Right,” said Verraday, “even if the guys doing the slapping were getting freebie blow out of it and pocketing some cash and jewelry.”
“After it was over, Fowler was transferred to homicide,” continued Maclean.
Verraday frowned. “I guess they figured he couldn’t get into too much trouble dealing with people who were already dead.”
“Unfortunately, I think they were wrong,” replied Maclean. “Fowler is building a case against the wrong guy in the Carmichael murder. I can’t tell if he actually thinks he’s got the right suspect in custody and doesn’t have the evidence to prove it yet or if he’s just too stubborn or afraid to admit that he screwed up.”
“From what I’ve heard about Fowler,” replied Verraday, “he’s dumb enough and crooked enough for it to be either scenario. But how do I fit into all this?”
“Professor, if I’m right about the similarities between the victims and the way in which they were murdered, that means we’re looking at a serial killer. I need your help profiling him if we’re going to have any chance of catching him before he kills again.”
Verraday sat back for a moment.
“Detective Maclean, I don’t like the idea of a serial killer wandering around the streets any more than you do. But I don’t see how I can work with the Seattle PD when I have an outstanding lawsuit against the department and one of its officers.”
“You wouldn’t be working with me or the department in any official capacity,” replied Maclean. She paused. “In fact, it would be very important that they never even know you’re involved.”
“Okay, this is getting weird.”
“The department would never authorize it because of your lawsuit. They’re just as pissed at you as you are at them.”
“Well, the difference is, I have a legitimate grievance. They don’t. I’m the injured party here, not them. They can go screw themselves.”
“Listen, I understand your anger about the arrest . . . and I’m aware of what happened with your mother and your sister. When you were a kid, I mean.”
“How do you know about that?”
“It’s in your file.”
A flicker of anger flashed across Verraday’s face, and Maclean worried that she was about to lose any chance she ever had with him.
“Look, I don’t want to compromise your case,” she said quickly. “I will do everything humanly possible to make sure that doesn’t happen. But you have the sort of expertise we need.”
“I’m not following, Detective Maclean. Surely the Seattle PD has its own experts on staff. Why enlist an academic with a grudge?”
“That’s exactly the point. Since Fowler beat that rap, he’s a hero to a lot of the rank and file, especially the ones who think we’re letting bad guys walk by having to cross all those t’s and dot the i’s. And the ones who don’t love Fowler are scared of him now. They think he’s untouchable. So I don’t know who I can trust in the department on this one. Maybe nobody.”
“If they find out that you’ve gone outside the system, they’ll crucify you.”
“They won’t crucify me as long as I deliver the real killer. And an airtight case. That’s all they want. That’s all I want.”
“I get that. My problem is that I don’t have any way of knowing that for sure.”
“That’s true. Except for what your training and your gut tell you.”
“Right now, Detective, my training and my gut are telling me that you seem like a decent person. But I’m wrestling an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in a phone booth. And from past experience, I know that gorilla will do whatever it takes to beat me to a pulp. So with all due respect, I’ll have to decline.”
Maclean pursed her lips, considering what to say. She drew in a breath and was about to speak, then changed her mind. After a long moment, she simply said, “I understand. Thanks anyway.” Maclean stood up, taking a manila envelope from her briefcase and slipping an eight-by-ten glossy onto Verraday’s desk.
“Just FYI, this is Rachel Friesen. Or it was.”
Verraday looked at the police photographer’s head-and-shoulders photo of Rachel Friesen, taken while she was still floating in the bog. Her eyes stared up lifelessly into his. They were red, the capillaries exploded from what he knew, even from a quick glance, had been strangulation executed with savage force. Fragments of leaves and tiny dirt clots clung to her skin. He noted that there was still a hint of baby fat on her high cheekbones. She was barely out of her teens, he guessed. He examined the dark-brown ligature marks on her neck where the killer had choked her. He also noticed that a corner of her upper left incisor was missing and that what appeared to be a rosary had been shoved into her mouth. If the incisor had been chipped by the force of the necklace being slammed into her teeth, thought Verraday, it had to have been done by someone in a frenzy.
He said nothing.
Maclean set her business card down beside the photograph. “If you change your mind, this is where you can reach me.”
*
After she had gone, Verraday did an online search for Maclean. He found a picture of her and two of her colleagues in full dress uniform at a Seattle Police Foundation ceremony, receiving something called the Impact Award. He read the official blurb, which stated that it was given out to recognize “a team or unit that, through their collaborative and innovative working style, has had a significant impact on a crime or crime-related problem.”