In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(62)
Michael Melton’s office was located on the first floor. A level five forensic scientist, Melton was at the top of the pay chain, which was a testament not only to his longevity, but also to his skill and dedication to his job. Melvin could have earned three times his salary working for a private forensic company—which many chose to do after getting the training and resume boost of working for the crime lab. Melton, however, remained—year after year, even when he was in the midst of paying college tuition or funding weddings for his six daughters. The detectives knew Melton stayed out of a sense of obligation to the victims and their families. He sat on the board of directors of the Seattle chapter of Victim Support Services, and he and three other crime-lab scientists played in a country-western band called the Fourensics to raise money for that organization. A bear of a man with a full head of graying brown hair and a matching beard, Melton had nimble enough fingers to strum a guitar and a surprisingly soothing voice.
Tracy met Melton in his office, which contained an eclectic mix of family photographs, ball-peen hammers, combat knives, and a cast-iron skillet—evidence from cases Melton had helped to solve.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my favorite detective?” Melton said. “Let me guess—the Tim Collins case.”
“Actually, different case,” Tracy said.
“As long as you don’t need it tonight. Got a gig at Kells.”
Kells was a popular Irish bar in the Pike Place Market that Tracy occasionally frequented. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Just found out. We’re subbing for an Irish folk band.”
“No, nothing I need by tonight,” Tracy said. She set down her briefcase and pulled out the photographs, thumbing through the packets until she found the shots of the tire-tread impressions in the ground. “I’m hoping you can tell me the make and model of the tire that made this impression. You’ll need to go back a ways. These were taken in 1976.”
Like shoes, tires made unique impressions. Even tires of the same make and model could be differentiated by tread wear and the differing amounts of damage in the form of tiny cuts and nicks in the rubber. The latter could be accomplished only if the tread in the photograph could be compared to the actual tire, which was beyond unlikely. However, knowing the manufacturer and model of the tire would be extremely helpful if, for instance, it matched the tires on Tommy Moore’s truck, or another vehicle Tracy might come across upon her revisit to Sam Goldman’s personal library.
“Computer doesn’t go back that far,” Melton said.
His response caught her off guard. “Is there any other way to do it?” she said.
“I got a buddy who’s a genius at this stuff. Let me ask him.”
“This might help.” She handed Melton the three photographs of the white truck. Buzz Almond had focused on the body damage to the truck, but in two of the pictures he’d managed to capture a portion of the front tire. “Hoping you can work your magic and blow these up enough to make out the make and model of the tire.”
“You want to know if it matches the make and model that left these impressions.”
“Or if it doesn’t,” she said.
“Then these will help.” Melton lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and held up the photographs of Tommy Moore’s truck, considering them. “You have the negatives?”
“They’re in the packet.”
Melton removed the strip of negatives from the front pouch of one of the Kodak packages and also held it up to the light. Then he reached into his drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass, running it first over the photograph, then over the negatives. He lowered the glass without comment. “I take it this isn’t an ongoing investigation?”
“It’s a cold case from 1976, and it’s a bad one, Mike.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Seventeen-year-old girl went missing on her way home from work. They found her body in the river the next afternoon and concluded suicide. Evidence indicates that wasn’t the case. Someone ran her down.”
That gave Melton pause, as Tracy thought it might. He shook his head. “How do people live with themselves?”
Tracy thought of Sam Goldman telling her he’d scrapped the article on the twenty-five-year anniversary of the state championship when he realized it wouldn’t be the celebratory piece he’d anticipated. “Maybe not very well,” she said.
When she got to her cubicle at the Justice Center, Tracy e-mailed the Department of Licensing in Olympia for a vehicle check on Tommy Moore’s truck. Buzz Almond’s photographs had captured the license plate. She also ran the names Eric Reynolds, Hastey Devoe, Lionel Devoe, Darren Gallentine, and Archibald Coe through Accurint, as well as the National Crime Information Center. And she sent a second e-mail to DOL, seeking the make and model of every vehicle registered to those men or, since they were in high school in 1976, their fathers.
She received return e-mails that afternoon. DOL had been able to use the vehicle identification number from Tommy Moore’s truck to determine that the truck was sold in January 1977 to a buyer in Oregon and had since been scrapped. The fact that Moore had sold the truck just two months after Kimi’s death made Tracy question his statement that he’d had the windshield and body damage fixed. Why bother if he was going to sell it? On the other hand, maybe that was the reason for the cash invoices—Lionel Devoe, who was running his father’s business at that time, could have cut Moore a deal for paying cash, which Devoe didn’t have to show on his books or otherwise pay a business tax.