Justice Denied

CHAPTER 11

Todd Hatcher was hustling around and setting up shop when my phone rang. “Hey, you are there,” Detective Jackson said. “I tried calling your office and they said you were off.” Off wasn’t quite the same as out, but I let it pass. “How was the memorial service?”

“Pretty low-key. Naturally Manning didn’t show, but we’ve got a lead on her this morning. According to our sources, she’s staying in a shelter up on Aurora. Hank and I are on our way to interview her right now. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

“Maybe I should talk to her, too. Want me to ride along? Meet you there?”

“Considering your persona non grata status around here, maybe that’s not such a good idea,” he said. “I can give you a rundown of what we learn-”

“I want to talk to her myself,” I said. “What’s the address?”

“You’re not listening,” he said irritably. “I’ll give you a call when we finish up the interview and let you know where to find her. I don’t want you showing up while we’re still there.”

“No,” I agreed. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“And remember,” Jackson added, “no matter what, you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

That I understood completely.

My next order of business was to see about tracking down Thomas Dortman, but before I got to square one on that, Jeremy called.

“Wanted to say thanks for everything,” my son-in-law told me. “We really appreciate the hospitality, but we’re headed back to Ashland as soon as Kelly gets out of the shower and we can get packed up.”

Once again Jeremy had been drafted into doing the dirty work and talking with Kelly’s ogre of a father. I assumed that meant I was still in the doghouse.

“But I thought you were staying until Sunday…” I began.

“Kyle was awake most of the night last night, and so was everybody else,” Jeremy said. “We’ve decided we’ll all be better off if we’re back in our own place. At least that way we’ll have a little privacy when the baby is crying or Kelly is yelling.”

In terms of needing privacy, I suspected that the former was less of a problem than the latter. “My daughter can be a handful at times,” I said.

Jeremy’s sigh of agreement was heartfelt. “Yes, sir,” he said. “She certainly can be that. I’m really sorry about not coming to dinner the other night. I don’t know why she was so upset about Mel.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jeremy,” I told him. “Mel can take it and so can I.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Oops, gotta go.”

Kelly’s shower had evidently ended and so did Jeremy’s phone call. I know I should have been sorry at the idea that they were taking off two days early, but I wasn’t. Call me an old curmudgeon, but I was losing patience with Kelly’s theatrics. And that’s all I thought it was-theatrics. Kelly’s mother had certainly been good at pitching a royal fit in her time, and Kelly seemed to have inherited the same tendency.

I went out to the kitchen, poured the last cup of coffee, and made a new pot. With Todd now ensconced at the bar, I took myself and my laptop to my recliner and went looking for Thomas Dortman. He turned out to be a freelance writer and sometime Fox News contributor whose Web site’s home page said he lived in the Seattle area, although his 728 phone prefix hinted at a downtown location. I called the number and left a message, telling him who I was and asking him to call. And then, because there was always a chance he was off gallivanting around somewhere, I shot him an e-mail as well.

Hoping for Kendall Jackson to call me back, I spent the remainder of the morning working side by side with Todd Hatcher. We finally decided that we’d both go through the documents and make our own separate notes, which Todd would then transcribe into the spreadsheet. That way Mel could come along later and do the same thing. The resulting document would contain all of our impressions of what we each had read, hopefully boiled down into one readily accessible document where, with any kind of luck, the most important points would somehow bubble to the surface.

I concentrated primarily on the file concerning Ed Chrisman, the genius who had been taking a leak when his own vehicle knocked him off a cliff and into the drink several hundred feet below. I learned Chrisman was anything but a Boy Scout, with several increasingly serious scrapes with the law before he’d finally been sentenced for sixteen years after brutally raping his ex-wife. He’d been released early-ten percent off for good behavior-and had been free for just over a year when he took his nosedive. It chilled me to glean from his file that for the past six months he had worked as an in-store security guard. (Doesn’t anyone bother checking resumes anymore?)

Much of the police report simply didn’t make sense. As Mel had pointed out the day before, most people aren’t stupid enough to relieve themselves while standing in front of a vehicle that is still in gear. I thought maybe this was a weird accident, one of those situations where a vehicle somehow takes on a mind of its own and slips itself into drive from neutral. But the vehicle had been examined in great detail once it had been hauled from the water, and there had been no sign of mechanical failure.

Some attempts had been made to follow up on Chrisman’s activities in the days before his death, but those efforts had come up short. The evening before, he had been seen drinking in a bar in Fairhaven in the company of a still-unidentified woman. All efforts to trace her had also come to nothing. Several people said they thought she was a hitchhiker Chrisman might have picked up the day before driving back from Seattle, but even with the help of a composite drawing they had been unable to come up with any kind of identification.

The passage about the unidentified and so far unreachable woman made my blood run cold. What were the chances that Chrisman had assaulted this unnamed woman and left her either dead or dying somewhere in a winter-bound forested landscape that might never yield up either her remains or her identity?

Reading an abstract has its shortcomings. It’s not nearly the same as reading an actual file. And reading about evidence isn’t the same as seeing it with your very own eyes. According to the record, Chrisman’s smashed vehicle remained in the Skagit County Sheriff ’s Department impound lot. After several weeks underwater, very little usable forensic evidence had remained in the vehicle. The keys had been found still in the ignition. Chrisman’s wallet had been stuffed under the seat, with money and credit cards intact. If anyone else had been involved in what happened to him, robbery had not been part of the program.

The file did reference a single scrap of dark material-not matching any of Chrisman’s clothing-that had been found caught in the front passenger door. Other than saying the cotton broadcloth was either blue or black, there was no way of telling if it had been lodged there on the day Chrisman had taken his last Sunday drive or if it somehow predated the day of his death. As I made my notes I realized that sometime soon someone in our group-Mel or me or even Todd-might have to travel north to Bellingham and see the evidence for ourselves.

I kept looking at the clock, hoping Mel would come home or that Kendall Jackson would call me in time for me to go see Elaine Manning prior to LaShawn Tompkins’s funeral. By noon, however, it became clear that neither of those things was going to happen. I gave Todd carte blanche to rummage through our two-day-old leftovers, but he was so absorbed in his work I doubted he’d notice I was gone-to say nothing of remembering to eat.

Weather in Seattle can turn on a dime. By the time I finally pulled out of the garage the morning rains were gone and the sky directly overhead was a brilliant blue. The sky was clearing, although the pavement was still wet. The sun glinting off it was blinding in spots. As I drove toward the I-90 bridge, even Mount Rainier was gradually emerging from its wintertime cocoon of low-lying clouds. I tried calling Mel as I drove, but her phone went straight to voice mail.

Down in the Rainier Valley I was early enough that I was able to park close to the church. I was so early, in fact, that the doors to the African Bible Baptist Church were not yet open, so I walked the length and breadth of Church Street and talked to any number of Etta Mae Tompkins’s neighbors.

Mostly I got nowhere fast. No one had seen anything, or, at least, no one would admit to having seen anything. Finally I branched out and wandered up and down MLK. Two blocks to the north I spoke to a gas station attendant from a BP station who reported having noticed a single white woman-a nun-walking in the neighborhood shortly before LaShawn Tompkins was shot. I didn’t ask him if he had happened to mention any of this to the other detectives because I was sure he had. It turns out the other detectives hadn’t happened to mention it to me. In this business, though, you can’t afford to take that stuff personally.

“Did she look suspicious?” I asked.

The man laughed outright. “Are you kidding? I figured that nun was just like one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses babes that are always coming around here-scary but not suspicious.”

“She was wearing a habit, then?”

“You mean one of those black robe things? Yes, she was, carrying her Bible and her umbrella. When I saw her there, all by herself in the dark and the rain, I remember asking myself, ‘Man, what is that woman thinking?’”

“Did you get a good look at her?”

“Naw. Just because she was dumb enough to stand outside in the rain didn’t mean I was, but I know she was white if that’s what you’re asking.”

It was what I was asking, and I made a note of his comment. If a nun had been out there on the street at the time LaShawn Tompkins was shot, there was an outside chance that she might have seen a vehicle coming or going. I needed to track the woman down and talk to her. Other than that, I learned nothing. Zero. Zip.

By one-thirty and still on foot, I made my way back up Martin Luther King Jr. Way to the African Bible Baptist Church. This was, as I remembered, Etta Mae Tompkins’s home church. It was also her neighborhood church and within walking distance of her home. Even though the neighborhood had changed and there was a far greater Asian presence there now, the congregation of African Bible Baptist-at least the members assembling there that afternoon-was primarily black. And although I certainly didn’t blend, I was made to feel welcome.

A media van pulled up to the curb. I was intent on keeping a low profile. Having my mug show up on local television newscasts didn’t seem like a good idea, so I headed for the door to the church, where a smiling usher in a shiny charcoal-gray suit greeted me and led me into the sanctuary.

I sat near the back. From there I was able to spot Etta Mae seated alone in the first pew. With unwavering dignity she gazed at LaShawn’s open, flower-bedecked casket.

Moments after I was seated, a group of people led by Pastor Mark Granger made their way up the aisle. Among them I caught sight of both Sister Meth Mouth Cora and the King Street Mission attorney of record, Dale Ramsey. The group commandeered two full pews directly behind Etta Mae.

She turned and looked at them as they filed in. With a scowl of distaste and a slight shake of her head, she looked away again. I suppose she was thinking much the same thing I was. She had given King’s Mission free rein in how they did their own send-off for her Shawny, and I think she was worried that Pastor Mark and his flock wouldn’t allow her the same courtesy.

By the time the appointed hour of 2:00 p.m. rolled around, the church was packed. Detectives Jackson and Ramsdahl came in during the first hymn-a moving rendition of “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” By then, late arrivals were having to be shoehorned into extra chairs that had been hauled out and placed in the aisles. Jackson’s chair was at the end of the pew I was in; Hank Ramsdahl was seated two rows ahead of us.

Having attended Beverly Jenssen’s memorial service the previous afternoon, I couldn’t help thinking that her send-off suffered in comparison to the one given LaShawn Tompkins by Etta Mae’s African Bible Baptist Church. It was her show from beginning to end. Even though this was early on a Friday afternoon, the funeral service played to a capacity crowd. Not only was the full congregation in attendance, but so was a top-notch, full-throated choir.

Funeral or not, attendees and choir alike came prepared to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. I noticed that the visitors from King Street Mission held their hymnals open, but they looked uneasy and didn’t seem to be singing along with everyone else. This may have been due to the fact that they didn’t know the words to the various hymns, or maybe they were accustomed to practicing a somewhat more subdued version of Christianity.

Good for Etta Mae, I thought.

The Reverend Clarence Wilkins officiated. When it came time for the eulogy, he spoke movingly of LaShawn as a cute but mischievous little boy who had regularly attended Sunday school. The minister also spoke of LaShawn’s years in the wilderness when he had been lost in a world of drugs and gangs. Finally, to a chorus of heartfelt “Praise Gods” and “Amens,” Wilkins related how, in the end, LaShawn had come back to Jesus. Wilkins made only the slightest nod in Pastor Mark’s direction as he told that part of the story, and the reverend made no mention at all of LaShawn’s work at King Street Mission. I wondered if that was an accident or a deliberate oversight.

The service came to an end rather abruptly after that, closing with a final hymn and with no chance for attendees to come forward and make comments of their own. Maybe I have an overly active imagination or possibly it was simply prejudice on my part, but I assumed Etta Mae had precluded any additional speakers in order to keep Pastor Mark from taking to the pulpit. Since he had seemed intent on hijacking the entire service, I could hardly blame her for that.

Out on the street, while we waited for the casket to be carried out of the church and transferred to the waiting hearse, I tracked down Kendall Jackson. Hank Ramsdahl was nowhere in sight.

“I thought you were going to call me,” I said.

Jackson was busy scanning the crowd. “That’s right. I said we’d call when we finished interviewing Elaine Manning.”

“Well?” I asked.

“We never finished,” he said, “because we never found her. I was hoping she’d show up here. So far no such luck.”

“She wasn’t at the shelter?”

“She probably was there,” Jackson corrected. “If so, she wouldn’t come out to talk to us. And the woman who ran the place was pissed as hell that we had any idea that’s where Elaine was staying in the first place. It’s a domestic-violence shelter, you know.”

“But if LaShawn was her boyfriend and he’s dead, who’s she running from?”

“Good question,” Jackson said. “For right now, my money’s on Pastor Mark.”

“But he has an alibi for the time of LaShawn’s murder,” I said. “At least he claims to have an alibi.”

“He also has an attorney,” Jackson said.

Who also happens to be in attendance, I thought, but somehow I didn’t mention that fact to Detective Jackson. This wasn’t a grudge match, but since he hadn’t told me about the nun, I figured that made us even.

By then the front pews of the church were finally emptying. When the King Street Mission people emerged, most of them wandered off toward three eight-passenger vans parked down the block. Pastor Mark and Dale Ramsey walked off together toward a black Lincoln Town Car that came complete with a driver in a black suit. The vans may have been good enough for Pastor Mark’s flock, but they evidently weren’t good enough for the shepherd himself.

“I guess that means he’s not going to the cemetery,” Jackson said to me. “And I guess that means Hank and I won’t be going either. We’ll just follow along and ask him if he has any idea why Elaine would have left King Street and taken up residence in a DV shelter.”

“My guess is he won’t say a word.”

“Mine, too.” Jackson grinned. “But it doesn’t matter. Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.”

Hank showed up in their car right then. Detective Jackson hopped inside and they headed down MLK Way behind the retreating Town Car.

It took about fifteen minutes to get the funeral procession formed up and ready to travel. I walked back to my Mercedes. Once the procession rolled past, I pulled into what I assumed was the caboose position as we headed south for Renton and the Mount Olivet Cemetery. A block or two south of Church Street I noticed that another vehicle, an older-model Honda, had pulled in behind me. There was only one occupant in the Honda, a woman. She didn’t turn on her headlights, but as the procession made its way south, it was clear she was part of LaShawn Tompkins’s funeral cortege.

Homicide detectives always look for things that are slightly out of the norm, slightly off. Funerals aren’t fun, and most of the people who bother showing up for them want full credit for doing so. They sign guest books. They chat with grieving friends and family members. They want survivors to know they were there, almost as though they were storing up stars in their crowns or putting in markers for when the time comes for their own funerals. But the lady in the Honda clearly wasn’t looking for credit, and the fact that she was deliberately avoiding attention captured mine.

So before we reached the gates to Mount Olivet, I peeled off onto a side street. Most of the cars in the procession followed the hearse on into the cemetery and stopped close to a canopy-covered grave site. The Honda, on the other hand, stopped just inside the gate.

The woman who exited the vehicle was sturdily built. She was black, in her mid-thirties, and wore her shoulder-length hair in a cascade of tiny braids. She was dressed in boots and a long denim skirt. She went over to the grassy edge of the road, far enough to see the people clustering around the grave site. The woman watched the funeral attendees, but none of them noticed her, and she wasn’t seeing me, either. I stepped out of the Mercedes and walked up behind her.

“Ms. Manning?” I asked.

Startled, she jumped and then spun around to face me. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“My name’s Beaumont,” I told her. “J. P. Beaumont. I’m an investigator with the Washington State Attorney General’s Office.” I held out my ID, but she kept her eyes on my face rather than on my identification or my badge.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said simply.

“From what I’ve been told, you and LaShawn Tompkins were an item,” I returned. “Why wouldn’t you come to his funeral?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to anybody.” She dodged away from me and headed back toward the Honda, but I managed to beat her to the driver’s door.

“We’re trying to figure out what happened to him,” I said. “Don’t you want to help us?”

“Somebody shot him.” She was crying now. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving glistening tracks on her skin.

“Do you know who killed him or why?” I asked.

She shook her head. “All I know for sure is that LaShawn is dead.”

“Why did you leave King Street Mission, Ms. Manning?” I pressed. “And why are you staying in a domestic-violence shelter? What are you afraid of? Who are you afraid of?”

Without answering she tried to reach around me to grasp the door handle, but I was in the way. When the attempt failed, instead of falling back she leaned into me, weeping uncontrollably on my shoulder. For a moment I didn’t quite know what to do. Eventually, with no other choice, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close.

“Shhhh,” I said, patting her. “It’s going to be all right.”

Finally she drew back, wiping fiercely at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was stupid of me.”

“Grieving isn’t stupid,” I said. “But not talking to me about this would be. Please, Ms. Manning, that’s all I’m asking you to do-just talk to me. Tell me what you know or even what you think you know. Don’t you owe LaShawn that much?”

“Yes, but not here,” she said, turning back toward the group clustered around LaShawn Tompkins’s open grave. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“My car or yours?” I asked.

“It’s not mine,” Elaine answered. “It belongs to a friend of mine-from the shelter. But I can’t leave it here. I saw a Burger King on the way here, down by 405. What if I meet you there?”

“That’ll be fine,” I said. “You lead the way.”