The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(5)
Tracy called Billy Williams on her cell. She told him to have CSI bring a tent in addition to the screen. They’d set the tent up at the water’s edge to serve as a command center and provide further privacy. She suspected news helicopters would not be far behind the vans. She could seek a no-fly zone, but if the news stations thought the story worthy, they’d just pay the fine. As Tracy listened to Williams, she turned back to the water. Her eyes followed the rope off the back of the boat.
Definitely not a grounder.
The circus had come to the beach and so had the crowds. People stood elbow to elbow along the metal railing, news reporters and cameramen among them. Add several police vehicles, two blue-and-white Harbor Patrol boats sweeping the Sound to keep sail-and powerboats at bay, a gaggle of uniformed and plain-clothed officers, and a tent, and the allure was too much to resist. Even the tourists were ignoring two of the region’s most iconic views—the booming image of Mount Rainier dominating the southern horizon, and the gleaming white stucco walls and red tile roofs of the Alki Point Lighthouse to the north, with Elliott Bay and the Seattle skyline serving as a spectacular backdrop.
Divers had managed to retrieve the tangled mess behind Kurt Schill’s boat, which had grounded in less than ten feet of water. Schill’s pot, perhaps two feet in diameter, would be accompanying his boat and his car to the police impound where CSI would process it for fingerprints and DNA. The larger pot remained inside the tent, and its contents had indeed been gruesome.
The body inside the pot was that of a woman. Naked, her bloated skin had turned the color and consistency of abalone meat: pale gray, rubbery, and traversed by a road map of purple lines. It showed evidence where marine life had fed. In sharp contrast to that gruesome image were the bright-blue fingernails. They looked like the painted nails on the hand of a porcelain doll, nicked and scratched after years of use.
The debate continued inside the tent on how to transport the body to the ME’s office on Jefferson Street in downtown Seattle. Although Tracy controlled the crime scene as the ranking detective, her authority did not extend to the body. That was the ME’s domain, and King County Medical Examiner Stuart Funk could be righteous about it. Funk had opted not to remove the body from the pot to avoid the potential of disturbing evidence. Problem was, no one was certain whether the pot would fit in the back of the ME’s blue van, and everyone wanted to avoid having to flip it on its side with the crowd watching. Funk sent someone in search of a tape measure.
Tracy waited outside the tent with Kins, Billy Williams, and Vic Fazzio and Delmo Castigliano, the other two members of the Violent Crimes Section’s A Team and the next team up for a homicide. Dressed in slacks, sport coats, and loafers, Faz and Del looked like New Jersey hit men unsuccessfully trying to blend in on Cocoa Beach. The King County prosecutor had also sent Rick Cerrabone, a senior prosecutor from its Most Dangerous Offender Project—MDOP. Tracy had worked several homicides with Cerrabone, though there was little for him to do at what was a highly untraditional crime scene. Evidence would likely be limited. Salt water would have destroyed fingerprints and DNA on the cage, and since the pot had been submerged in eighty feet of water, there was no sense scouring the beach for other evidence.
“No way to even know where a boat would have put in,” Tracy explained to the others. “There are several ramps along this side of the beach, and you have the Don Armeni ramp around the point. Assuming they even used a ramp. Schill didn’t.”
“They could have put in anywhere from the San Juan Islands to Olympia,” Faz said, the words sounding as if they were scraping his throat and thick with his New Jersey accent. He alternately wiped his brow and the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
“I don’t think so,” Tracy said. “They would have dumped the body in deeper water, farther out from shore. I suspect it’s here because it was convenient, the killer knows the area, or he didn’t have to travel far.”
“Any idea when she was dumped?” Del said.
“Funk’s initial impression is a couple of days at most; there’s very little swelling of the hands and the outer layer of skin remains intact.”
“Still going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Faz said.
“Maybe,” Del said, “but I’d take those odds over the odds the kid randomly hooked on to the pot.”
“You don’t think he did?” Tracy said.
“Just saying it’s a hell of a coincidence,” Del said.
“Bet he won’t be eating crab anytime soon,” Faz said.
Tracy looked to ensure that no patrol officers stood close by. With new rules in place, officers were required to wear body cameras. That meant everyone had to be more careful about what they said, and with their facial expressions. Detectives laughing at a crime scene easily could be misconstrued. The general public didn’t understand that gallows humor was often a defense mechanism detectives employed to do their job without throwing up. Cell phones had made the scrutiny of police conduct worse. Now everyone was an amateur videographer.
Williams pointed to the two buildings closest to the beach access. “Let’s canvass the buildings and the local marinas. Maybe somebody saw something.”
“Be easier if we could get a decent picture of the victim first,” Faz said. “See if anyone recognizes her.”
“Are we jumping the gun?” Kins asked. “Maybe we get lucky and her prints are in the system. She could be a hooker or a junkie.”