Justice Denied

CHAPTER 4

When Mel woke me up in the morning it was with a cup of coffee and a good-bye kiss. She was almost dressed and ready to go to work.

“I already called Harry and told him you won’t be in,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“He wanted to know when the services would be.”

“I’m not sure. Lars says that’s all handled, but we didn’t really discuss it last night.”

“There’s handled and then there’s handled,” Mel declared. “And I’m sure there will be lots of loose ends that need tying up. And if all the kids are coming home,” she added, “we should probably make some hotel reservations for them. I don’t think having all of us stay here together is a good idea.”

“Yes,” I told her, savoring the coffee and enjoying watching her button her blouse. “Living in sin does have its little complications, especially if you’re blessed with serious-minded young adult children who make no bones about knowing right from wrong now that the shoe is somehow, inexplicably, on the other foot.”

Mel smiled. “You can thank your lucky stars that we have only one set of disapproving young adult children. If I’d had kids, too, it could have been a lot worse.”

There was no point in calling Scott and Kelly, or my good friends Ron and Amy Peters, either. Not right then-not until I had a firmed-up schedule from Lars. I was out of the shower and toweling dry when he called.

“Hate to bother you,” Lars began. “But you said you probably wouldn’t be going in today. If you could take me to the mortuary and to a flower shop…”

“Whatever you need, Lars. All you have to do is ask. I can be there in half an hour.”

“An hour’s fine,” he said. “They don’t open until ten.”

It was sometime during that hour that I realized Beverly had done both Ross Connors and me a huge favor. By dying when she did, she afforded both of us the luxury of cover-time off the clock when I’d be able to pursue the LaShawn Tompkins matter with no one, Mel Soames included, being the wiser.

I used that hour of privacy to cull through Mel’s newspapers, carefully putting them back the way I’d found them when I finished. I didn’t find much. News about LaShawn had been relegated to the second page of the local section, and that was comprised mostly of nothing new to report. In the obituary section there was a brief announcement that gave a quick overview of LaShawn’s short-circuited life. The service for him would be held on Thursday morning at 10 a.m. at the African Bible Baptist Church on Martin Luther King Jr. Way.

For a moment or two I considered putting in a call to Seattle PD and seeing if I could worm any information out of some of my old compatriots. I thought better of it, though. It would be more useful for me to do some of my own investigating. To that end I located an address and a phone number for E. M. Tompkins on Church Street and stuffed it in my pocket. If I had time after I finished helping Lars, I’d stop by and pay a call LaShawn’s grieving mother.

I found Lars hobbling back and forth in front of Queen Anne Gardens’s sliding glass door. He looked agitated. I assumed he was still upset about Beverly. He was, but that wasn’t the only problem.

He climbed in beside me. “Those old ladies,” he muttered, slamming the car door behind him and shaking his head.

“What old ladies?” I asked.

“Back there,” he said, gesturing back toward Queen Anne Gardens. “Beverly’s not even in the ground and here they were all over me at breakfast, wanting to sit with me and bring me coffee. Ja, sure, they was treating me like I was…fresh fish.”

It was hard not to smile. It occurred to me that since Lars was in his nineties, he had a hell of a lot of nerve calling anyone else “old.” And only a lifelong fisherman would confuse “fresh meat” with “fresh fish” in that particular context. The very idea of Lars suddenly cast in the role of a sought-after and eligible bachelor was one that was difficult to grasp.

“They were probably just concerned about you,” I said.

“No,” he declared heatedly. “I’m old enough to know better than that!”

I had to give him that one. If he thought the randy ladies at Queen Anne Gardens were on the make, he was probably right.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Bleitz,” he muttered.

I knew where that particular funeral home was with no need of additional directions. It was where services had been held for Ron Peters’s estranged first wife back in January. We went up and over Queen Anne Hill and down the back side to Florentia near the Fremont Bridge.

Dana Howell, Lars’s funeral consultant, greeted him warmly. “I’m so sorry to be seeing you again so soon,” she said.

Lars nodded. “Ja, sure,” he said, “but I’m glad we got it done.”

And it turned out it was done. All of it, down to what would be printed on the program as well as what music would be sung and played. Beverly had already been brought to the mortuary from Queen Anne Gardens. There was an opening for a service at noontime on Thursday, if that was appropriate, and Lars allowed as how it was.

“You still want two urns?” Dana asked.

Lars shot me a sidelong glance and then nodded. “Half her ashes go into the lake with her first husband. The other half goes with me. That’s fair.”

That was the first I knew that when the weather cleared, I’d be required to make another pilgrimage to Lake Chelan to scatter a second set of ashes. This time I hoped I’d have brains enough to wear the sea-sick bracelets Beverly had given me. That way I wouldn’t turn green the first time The Lady of the Lake hit rough water.

“My arrangements are here, too,” he added in an aside to me while nodding in Dana’s direction. “Dana here knows yust what I want, and it’s paid for, too. You won’t have to worry about a t’ing.”

After leaving the funeral home we stopped by a florist on top of Queen Anne Hill where Lars blew all of seventy-five bucks on a floral arrangement and then worried about having spent too much. I made a note to call back later and add a few more arrangements to the floral end of things. Beverly Piedmont Jenssen’s memory certainly deserved much more than a single bouquet with a less-than-a-hundred-dollars price tag.

“Anything else?” I asked him, once we were back in the car.

Lars hesitated for a moment, then he nodded. “I t’ink I’d like to find a meeting.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear that, even after years of sobriety, Lars might be thinking about falling off the wagon. If your lifelong coping mechanism for dealing with grief is to numb the hurt with booze, than it’s easy to want to drift back into bad old habits. I made a few calls and located a noontime AA meeting at the back of an old-fashioned diner up on Greenwood. When it came time to repeat the Serenity Prayer, I saw the white-knuckled grip Lars had on his cane and knew right then he was having a hell of a struggle accepting what he couldn’t change. I was in pretty much the same boat.

When I took him back to Queen Anne Gardens, I went around to the passenger side of the car to let him out. Once he was upright, he surprised me by giving me a heartfelt hug. “T’anks,” he said. “T’anks for everything.”

“The kids will all be here tomorrow,” I told him. “Kelly and Jeremy are driving up from Ashland in the morning. They’ll be here in time for dinner tomorrow night, and Scott and Cherisse will be flying in about the same time. But what about tonight? Would you like to have dinner with Mel and me?”

Lars shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “I’ll be all right.” With that, he hobbled away.

I glanced at my watch. It was only a little past one. Mel wouldn’t be back on this side of the water anytime before six. That meant I had several relatively free hours. I suppose I should have felt guilty about using that time to pursue the LaShawn Tompkins homicide, but I didn’t. After all, Beverly had been proud of the job I do. I thought she would have gotten a kick out of having a one-time-only chance to be part of what was close to an undercover operation.

With that in mind I got back into the S55 and headed for Rainier Valley. When I arrived at the Tompkins place on South Church Street, I looked around for any official-looking cars. Other than a battered eight-passenger van with the words king street mission lettered on the door, I didn’t see any. As far as police presence was concerned, I was it.

Etta Mae Tompkins’s house was small but tidy-looking, with a well-kept fenced front yard. A few traces of the earlier tragedy were still visible. A scrap of yellow police tape lingered on a gatepost. When I stepped onto the porch, I could see that someone had gone to the effort of trying to scrub the fingerprint dust off the door frame, but a practiced eye could still see grubby gray traces marring the otherwise white trim around the doorbell. A mop and bucket filled with dingy reddish water reeking of Pine-Sol sat next to the doorway. The screen door was closed, but the inside door stood slightly ajar. As I raised my finger toward the bell, I heard the sound of a female voice coming from inside.

“I know he was important to you and your people, Pastor Mark, and you’re welcome to have whatever kind of memorial service for Shawny you like,” the woman was saying. “And if I can get a ride, you can bet I’ll be there. But the funeral is mine, and that’s final. It don’t matter what LaShawn would or wouldn’t have wanted, neither. He’s dead, you understand me? LaShawn is dead and gone and he gets no say in the matter. Oh, you’re right. King Street Mission was his place and all, but it’s not my place. Funerals is for the living. Bible Baptist is my church, with my pastor and my people. That’s where I’m having it, and that’s final!”

A man spoke then. I couldn’t make out the individual words, but his tone sounded conciliatory.

Just then a second white van pulled up outside the little house’s front gate and parked just behind the first. A magnetic sign affixed to the van’s door announced: meals-on-wheels. A tall black man with a bald head and amazingly wide shoulders stepped out. Then he reached back inside and lifted a small cooler out of the backseat. Excusing himself, he shouldered past me on the front porch, pulled open the screen door, and stepped inside.

“It’s me, Etta Mae,” he called. “Mr. Dawson with Meals-on-Wheels. I’m here with your food.”

“Come on in, Mr. Dawson,” she replied. “You know the way. Janie, Mr. Dawson’s here from Meals-on-Wheels. Could you help him put it away?”

Janie, I surmised, was likely to be Etta Mae Tompkins’s longtime neighbor, the one Maxwell Cole had interviewed. Obviously this was a very full house. It seemed to me one more uninvited guest probably wouldn’t make much difference. After only a moment’s hesitation, I followed Mr. Dawson inside.

The small entryway also reeked of Pine-Sol. I wondered if Pastor Mark’s most likely unanticipated arrival had interrupted someone intent on the grim task of trying to erase from his mother’s walls and floors the bloody evidence of LaShawn’s untimely passing. Dried blood isn’t easy to remove, however, and subtle remnants of stains and splatters still lingered. I guessed that it would take new plaster, paint, and tile to do the job completely. A framed poster depicting Jesus in His crown of thorns hung on the wall next to the door. Real blood now marred the printed surface, meaning that would have to be replaced as well.

Beyond the entryway I could see a white man with long, flowing gray locks. He seemed to be in full retreat. “I’ll be going, then,” the man I assumed to be Pastor Mark said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“And I’m sorry for yours,” Etta Mae conceded. “I know Shawny was a big help to you.”

As Pastor Mark made for the door, I had to step into the living room in order to allow him to pass. I knew I’d need to interview Pastor Mark eventually, but now was not the time.

The living room was tiny, just big enough for two chairs. Between them was an occasional table with a single lamp. A small color TV set with no sound sat perched on top of an old-fashioned and apparently dead console set. And that was all. A large black woman with a halo of wiry gray hair was seated in one chair with a sturdy walker positioned close at hand.

Squinting to see me better, Etta Mae Tompkins raised an implacable finger in my direction. “Who are you?” she demanded. “And where did you come from?”

I dug out my ID and handed it over. “Homicide,” she mused, squinting some more and holding it up to her face in order to read it. “I’ve been talking to homicide people for days now. Can’t you-all get together and talk to each other and leave me alone? And what are you staring at?”

Embarrassed, I realized I was staring. I knew LaShawn Tompkins had been thirty years old. Human biology being what it is, his age gave me a rough idea of how old his mother would be-probably close to my age or younger. This woman was much older than that.

“You think I’m too old to be Shawny’s mama?” she asked. “Is that it?”

I was reminded yet again why it is that I don’t play poker.

“My daughter died a few days after Shawny was born,” Etta Mae explained without my having asked. “He was a breach baby, and they had to do a cesarean. She ended up dying of an infection-sepsis, they called it. I’m the one who brought Shawny home, and I’m the one who raised him. I’m the only mother he ever knew. You got a problem with that?”

“No, ma’am,” I told her.

She reached over to the table and picked up a folded copy of the front section of Sunday’s Seattle Times. “That’s what this here man, this Mr. Cole, thought, too!” She sniffed. “Elderly! Where does he get off calling me elderly?”

I realized then that Max was losing his touch-that he must have phoned in his interview rather than actually meeting with Etta Mae. If he had seen her in person, he would have noticed the same thing I had and he certainly would have mentioned it, but if Etta Mae wanted the world to think LaShawn was her son, far be it from me to say otherwise.

“So what do you want then, Mr. Policeman? Why are you here?”

I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.

By then my fellow visitor, Mr. Meals-on-Wheels, had off-loaded his food. He stood in the kitchen doorway observing the proceedings between Etta Mae and me with a good deal of satisfaction and no small amount of amusement. As soon as she sent one of her fearsome glances in his direction, however, Dawson seemed to think better of hanging around.

“I’ll be going then, Mrs. Tompkins,” he said hastily. “See you tomorrow.”

“I want to find out who murdered your son,” I said.

She nodded. “You and me both,” she said. “So sit down then. Take a load off.”

I sat.

“What’s your name again?”

“Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”

“Your mama didn’t give you no first name?”

“Jonas,” I said.

Etta Mae nodded sagely. “A good Bible name,” she observed. “Like in the whale.”

Not exactly, but close enough that mean-spirited boys plagued me with that from the time my mother signed me up for kindergarten. It was due to a bellyful of whale jokes, if you’ll pardon the expression, that I pretty much abandoned my given name by the time I hit junior high.

“So are you saved, Mr. Beaumont?”

I thought about the blood-spattered picture of Jesus by the front door and realized that the interview wasn’t going at all the way I had intended. Where was Mel Soames when I could have used her to run interference?

My grandfather’s moral superiority, supposedly based on religious principles, had driven his daughter, my mother, away in disgrace. It was also the main reason I had grown up largely unchurched. Faced with Etta Mae Tompkins’s piercing stare, I decided that an honest answer was better than attempting to dodge the issue.

“Probably not according to your lights,” I said.

“You might be surprised about my lights,” she replied. “But I’ll tell you this: My son was saved. He went into prison one way, and, praise Jesus, he came out another. He wasn’t doing drugs,” she added. “And he wasn’t selling drugs, neither. Shawny wasn’t doing nothin’ wrong. He was here fixing my supper, looking after me. Why would someone want to kill him like that?”

“I have no idea.”

“And who did you say you work for again?”

“Ross Connors. The Washington State attorney general.”

“And why’s this Mr. Ross interested in who killed my Shawny?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe he thinks those detectives from Seattle PD won’t do a good job?” she suggested.

That was, of course, a distinct possibility.

“That Detective Jackson seemed nice enough,” Etta Mae added.

I was happy to have that piece of information. Detective Kendall Jackson, who is probably as tired of wine jokes as I am of whales, is one of the newer guys in Homicide, but he’s also someone I know and respect. I was glad to hear he was on the case. I figured he was someone I could go to with a few discreet questions.

“What do you want from me?” Etta Mae asked.

“Maybe you know something,” I said. “Maybe your son said something to you that would have some bearing on what happened. For instance, did he mention anything to you about having any difficulties with people at work?”

Etta Mae shook her head. “If he had any troubles like that, he never said nothin’ to me about ’em.”

“What about friends from around here?” I asked. “Did he take up with any of his old pals from the neighborhood once he came home?”

“I already told you, Jonah,” she said firmly. “LaShawn came out of prison a changed man. He didn’t go back to any of his old friends or his old habits. He knew them for what they are, the way of the devil. So he stayed away from them. If you make a habit of standing in the way of temptation, you just might get run over.”

I didn’t bother correcting the Jonah bit. There was no point. “What about a girlfriend?” I asked. “Did he have one?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What about difficulties with money?” I asked.

Homicidal violence often has its origin in some combination of drugs, women, and/or money, and I’m not just talking about homicides in the Rainier Valley area of Seattle, either.

“He didn’t have no money,” Etta Mae declared. “Didn’t need it, neither, because he was giving his life over to the Lord and to the King Street Mission. When he got that settlement from the state, I think Pastor Mark thought Shawny would turn right around and drop the whole thing in the collection plate, but he didn’t. Instead, LaShawn spent it on me, fixing this place up all nice and cozy so I’d have myself a comfortable place to live.”

I didn’t remember the exact amount of LaShawn Tompkins’s wrongful-imprisonment settlement. I wondered how much of it was left, and was it enough to provide a motive for murder?

“If your son had no money, what did he do for food and clothing?” I asked.

“He ate his meals at the mission. As for clothing? I don’t know nothing about that. You’ll have to ask Pastor Mark.”

I’ll do that, I thought, just as soon as I get a chance.

I said, “You and the good pastor seemed to be having a slight difference of opinion when I first got here. What was that all about?”

“Oh, that,” Etta Mae said. “Pastor Mark is under the impression that just because Shawny worked for him, it was like he owned him or something, and that he could say how and where the funeral was gonna be and all that. I had to set him straight on that score, and I did.”

Yes, Pastor Mark and the King Street Mission would bear some scrutiny. It would have been nice to think that LaShawn Tompkins and Pastor Mark had both seen the light and that the two of them subsequently had devoted themselves to lives of selfless service to others. But I just didn’t happen to think that was true. It was likely there was something else at work here. If I ever managed to figure out exactly what that was, I’d most likely know who had gunned down LaShawn Tompkins and why.