In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(57)
“No. It got too dark, and the weather turned on us. I’m waiting to hear if we’re going out again today.”
“No rest for the wicked.”
“Tell me about it. I’m still jet-lagged. The last thing I needed was an evening romp through the woods in the rain.”
“Well, I won’t add to your workload. I was just hoping I could stop by and take a look at the photographs I gave you. You don’t even have to meet me. Just tell me where to find them.”
“Actually, I have them here with me at home. I was hoping to finish my report this weekend, but I’m not sure I’ll have the time now.”
“You’ve gone through them?” Tracy asked. She’d assumed Wright hadn’t even started.
“I took them with me on the plane to Germany; I told you I like a challenge, and you had me interested. I haven’t typed up anything formal, but I got a good start.”
“When will you know if you’re headed back to Tacoma?”
“They’re supposed to let me know by ten. I could meet you for a lot of coffee while I’m waiting. Can you come my direction?”
They met at a coffee shop near Wright’s home in Renton. Like Kelly Rosa, who technically worked for King County but whose unique skills were available to every county in the state, Wright’s abilities were in high demand. She’d been with the King County Sheriff’s Office for nearly thirty years, including stints as a CSI detective and a homicide detective, but her claim to fame was becoming the county’s first certified tracker, a skill she’d since cultivated over many years. Among the detectives who used her services, the consensus was that Wright didn’t see as much as the camera lens; she saw more—things that even seasoned investigators walked right past.
The Pit Stop looked to have once been an automobile repair shop before some enterprising soul with a greater imagination than Tracy turned it into a coffeehouse. The concrete floors had been painted rust brown, and the walls were adorned with metal auto-part signs and posters of scantily clad women draped across the hoods of cars and lounging on motorcycles. Slabs of wood had been fitted onto the lifts, turning them into customer tables and a barista counter, from which emanated the rich aroma of coffee.
Wright had set up in a corner near one of three roll-up garage doors. Glazed windows atop the doors provided murky light. The sky outside had darkened to a charcoal gray, giving every indication it would again rain hard. On the table, beneath a cone-shaped lampshade dangling from a wire, Wright had arranged Buzz Almond’s photographs in multiple stacks. She was standing there, flipping the pages of a legal pad. Tracy nodded to Wright’s half-full porcelain mug of coffee, a latte judging by the foam and swirl. “You need a refresher?”
“I’m good for now. I’ll probably be injecting it later today.”
They greeted one another, and Tracy rested on a barstool across from Wright. She considered the stacks of photographs arranged on the table. “Looks like you’ve put in a lot of work already,” she said.
“Like I said, you got me curious. I want to find out if I’m on the right track. I typed something up for you to follow.” She handed Tracy a copy of a draft report. “I’m assuming the person who took these photographs had some law-enforcement training or some well-developed instincts.”
At the time she’d given Wright the photographs, Tracy had no idea what the pictures were meant to depict, beyond the obvious. After speaking to Kelly Rosa and Peter Gabriel, however, she suspected she knew what had happened, though she was still a long way from proving it: Tommy Moore had run down Kimi Kanasket, then tossed her body in the river.
“Tell me why,” she said.
Wright remained standing. She looked like a blackjack dealer at a casino table. “The photographs were taken in a linear fashion.” She reached for one of the stacks and flipped to the first page of her report. “It took me a while to figure it out, but once I did, it made sense. Let me walk you through it.”
Wright removed a rubber band from the first stack and methodically handed photographs to Tracy as she narrated from her report. “The photographer took the first photographs at the road, where this path started. I’ve marked it with a number one on the back. He, or she—”
“He,” Tracy said.
Wright nodded. “He then proceeded to take photographs as he walked down the path.” She pointed out that in her report these photographs were numbered two through twelve, and methodically went through them with Tracy. Wright set down number twelve, removed a rubber band from a second stack, and began handing the photographs to Tracy. “When he reached this open area of dirt and grass, he photographed the site in a clockwise pattern, starting along the perimeter and working his way into the center.” These were photographs thirteen to thirty-two. After going through the second stack, she handed Tracy a third stack. “Then, he took photographs as he worked his way out. Judging from the direction of the shadows on the ground as these photographs progress, I’d estimate it was mid-to late afternoon and early fall to the middle of fall.”
“November,” Tracy said.
“When he walked in, he was heading east or southeast,” Wright said. “He walked out facing north or northwest.” She handed Tracy photographs thirty-three to forty-five. “So I’m assuming your guy had some law-enforcement training, though it’s doubtful he or anyone in his office had any real training in interpreting these. If they had, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”