At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(8)

“Wait till you see this,” said Maclean.

She turned to the medical technician, a large, impassive-looking man who had stood by silently throughout, and instructed him to turn the body over. The technician gently tilted Rachel until her back was exposed, revealing more tattoos. In silhouette, a small flock of black birds took flight in a line that ran from just inside her left shoulder blade diagonally across her spine and upper back to a point just behind her right ear. There were marks on her back and shoulders that appeared to have been made by a belt or a strap. There were large, ugly welts on her buttocks.

“Besides the academic background, what else do you know about her?” Verraday asked.

“Not a lot yet. That she was an only child. Grew up in Phinney Ridge with her biological parents.”

Verraday knew Phinney Ridge well. It was a fifteen-minute drive northwest of the campus, just beyond Green Lake. When he needed to clear his head, he would go up to Green Lake and go for a run along the three-mile path around its shoreline. It was a comfortable neighborhood that had gotten its name from Guy C. Phinney, a lumber baron who made a fortune by clear-cutting the virgin forest then shrewdly subdividing the denuded land into housing lots and selling them to middle-class families at a huge profit.

“What about her parents?” he asked. “What do you know about them?”

“Nothing unusual about them,” answered Maclean. “The father is a dental equipment salesman. The mother manages a women’s clothing store. No criminal records. Not so much as a speeding ticket.”

“Were they the ones who reported her missing?”

“No. When the body turned up, I checked the missing persons reports and photos. When I found the match, I discovered that the report had been filed by an ex-boyfriend. There’s no record of anything from the parents.”

“Nothing from the parents. Got to be a story there,” said Verraday.

“There is. Apparently she was living at home up until last May. Couldn’t get a job after graduating from university the year before, except for working part-time retail. The parents say she had anxiety issues on and off through childhood and high school. It got worse after she finished university and couldn’t get a job. She started self-medicating. Smashed up their car. Things were getting out of control. Her parents asked her to get counseling, but she refused and moved out.”

“When did they last hear from her?”

“About a month before her body was found.”

“And they weren’t concerned when she didn’t get in touch with them for a whole month?”

“The father said it wasn’t that they weren’t worried about her. They just couldn’t handle her any more. He said after she moved out and started seeing this new boyfriend, Kyle Davis, the guy who eventually reported her missing, she sounded happier. When they didn’t hear from her for a while, they hoped she was working through her issues, getting her life together.”

By now, Verraday’s fingertips were getting numb. He rubbed them against his palms and folded them under his arms and against his chest to try to warm them up. Maclean noticed his discomfort. She thanked the technician for his time.

*

Verraday was relieved when they stepped out of the morgue and into the relative warmth of the hall. Seeing that they were alone, he turned to Maclean.

“Did you mention the similarities of the cases to Fowler?” he asked in a tone of voice just above a whisper.

“I let him know,” replied Maclean. “He didn’t have any interest in pursuing it.”

“Have you two ever worked together on anything before?”

“No. I just know him from around the department. But he and I don’t exactly have a happy history together. He doesn’t like the idea of female cops, and he doesn’t hide it. Says no woman is worth a detective’s salary. At least not standing up.”

“Sounds like a real charmer.”

“He’s not much of an investigator either. Fowler’s convinced that he’s got the right guy solely because there was semen on Alana Carmichael’s clothing that matches his suspect’s DNA.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think that just because this girl was working in the sex trade and had his semen on her doesn’t mean that he’s the killer. All it proves is that Cray had sex with her at some point that night. He’s in jail awaiting trial now and couldn’t have committed this latest homicide, so Fowler will refuse to admit there’s any possibility of a link between the two murders. Because if he did, he’d have to admit he was wrong. He’s got too much riding on this.”

“Tell me about the suspect in the Carmichael killing.”

“Guy named Peter Cray. He’s been in trouble with the law before. Minor drug convictions. Small-time robberies. Breaking and entering. Sex offenses. Done time for beating up prostitutes. I’ll give you his rap sheet with the case files for Alana Carmichael and Rachel Friesen.”

“What do you know about Davis, Friesen’s ex-boyfriend?”

“Not much yet. After I matched the body together with the missing persons report he filed, I called him and gave him the news.”

“How did he take it?”

“He seemed pretty broken up. For real. And there’s something else. Rachel Friesen’s body was found almost two weeks after he filed the report.”