In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(37)

“Buzz,” he said.

“How long you been on the force, Buzz?”

Buzz was not in the mood to hear sage advice from an overweight desk jockey who probably got a college deferment from the draft while Buzz spent two tours slogging through the jungles of Vietnam commanding his own platoon. “Couple months.”

“This your first case? First big case?”

“Yeah, but what does—?”

“Let me give you a piece of advice, help you with your career. Your job is to respond to the calls and get those witness statements. And you did a nice job; I’m going to note that to my sergeant. My job is to follow up and investigate. You do your job and let me do mine, and everything is smooth sailing. Right?” Ostertag smiled. The toothpick flicked to the corner of his mouth.

“I understand,” Buzz said, mentally counting to ten. “But I took photographs. I was going to get them developed. I could show you.”

Ostertag continued to smile. “You took photographs of footprints and tire tracks?”

“Right.”

“Let me tell you about the clearing, Bert.”

“Buzz.”

“The kids like to go out there on the weekends because it’s isolated. They bring a couple six-packs of beer, get drunk, and get in their cars and spin donuts. Other times, it’s a guy and his date. He takes her out there to look for ghosts.”

“Ghosts?”

“A legend about some guy getting hanged there and coming back and burning down the town. They say his ghost is still out there, that you can hear him moaning when the wind blows. You know, bullshit high school stuff guys tell their dates, hoping to get them scared so they cling close and he gets his hands up her shirt or down her pants, right? You got pictures of footprints and tires tracks that could belong to every kid at Stoneridge High and every car parked in the parking lot.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ostertag scoffed. “You don’t think so?”

“The ground froze that night when the temperature dropped. That means whoever was out there Friday night, their footprints and tire tracks froze.”

“Froze?”

“In place. They froze in place. Anybody going out there after that wouldn’t leave tracks or footprints because the ground would have been too hard. So the tracks had to have been from Friday night. It had rained earlier in the week. The ground would have been soft, which is why the tires chewed up the path.”

“How do you know those tire tracks haven’t been there a week, or a month, or six months? You see what I’m saying?”

“But it could be something. I mean, shouldn’t we follow up on it?”

“We?” Ostertag scratched at the side of his head. “Listen, I’m gonna ease your mind. We got the pathologist’s report back this afternoon. If it makes you feel any better, he confirms the kid killed herself. Jumped in the river, got banged around good on the rocks, and drowned.”

“Yeah?” Buzz asked. “How could he know that?”

“Water in the lungs, for one. She was alive when she hit the water. Hundred percent certain.”

“What I mean is, Lorraine said Kimi wasn’t upset when she left. So how could he know she jumped in?”

“That’s what they say about suicides, right? You can’t tell because the person is calmest right before they do it. They got their mind made up. It’s a relief. Everybody says, ‘Never saw it coming.’” Ostertag gave Buzz a condescending smile. “Okay? We good?”

Buzz nodded, but he wasn’t feeling good.

“Here’s another thing.” Ostertag lowered his voice. “Those Indians? They’re not like us, okay? They get out of whack about stuff that doesn’t bother us, like the school mascot bullshit. They’re high-strung, can’t handle their liquor. Who knows what sets them off half the time. Tomorrow, I’ll take a drive out and tell the family the pathologist’s findings. It isn’t what they want to hear, but you learn in this job that you can’t argue with the evidence.”

Ostertag turned and walked off, wing tips tapping on the linoleum. Buzz wondered if it was guilt for having told Earl and Nettie Kanasket that he’d find their daughter that was driving him to find something that might not exist. Maybe Ostertag had a point. Maybe you couldn’t argue with the evidence.

Except in this case, Buzz Almond still thought you could.




Judging from the fledgling foliage next to the sidewalk and in the yards, Tracy surmised that the development where Tommy Moore lived had been built within the past year or two. Unlike Earl Kanasket’s neighborhood, the address for each of the one-and two-story homes here, cut from the same cookie-cutter architectural plan, was prominently displayed on the wall between the garage and the front door.

Tracy turned on her truck’s headlights and slowed as she approached the house she had stopped at earlier that afternoon. A heavyset man in jeans, work boots, and a winter jacket stood in the yard spiking at the ground with a bladed shovel, but with one eye seemingly watching the street. Parked in the driveway was a white truck, the bed filled with gardening tools, rakes, a mower, and gas cans, and the words “Golden Gloves Landscaping” stenciled on the doors and tailgate.

Tommy Moore stopped pretending to be picking at the ground when Tracy pulled to the curb. He approached her truck before she had a chance to step out. Tracy instinctively moved her right hand to her Glock. “You the detective from Seattle?” he asked.