Perfect Grave

Chapter Forty-Five

L eon Dean Sperbeck.

Henry Wade’s nightmare.

Sperbeck scowled at him from his DOC photographs, which Henry had propped against the salt and pepper shakers on his kitchen table in his house near Boeing Field.

There was Sperbeck glaring at him, just as he did so long ago during the horrific standoff at the heist.

The terrified eyes of the hostage.

Later, Sperbeck eyed Henry in court as he shuffled off in chains to pay with twenty-five years of his life.

Was it enough for what he did?

Sperbeck’s image had tormented Henry the day Vern Pearce put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It had invaded Henry’s sleep, enveloping him like a burial cloth for his years of descent into an alcoholic abyss. And it had mocked Henry the day Sally walked out because she couldn’t take it anymore.

Henry didn’t blame her.

He blamed Leon Sperbeck.

But was he truly dead?

Henry resumed looking over the files that Ethan Quinn had copied for him. DOC records, court records, old police reports.

Is this how it ends? With Sperbeck’s suicide robbing Henry of the chance to find the answer to the one question that had locked Henry in a prison of pain and continued to haunt him.

Was he really dead?

Like Quinn, Henry needed to be certain Sperbeck was dead.

It was critical to his own survival.

Sperbeck’s suicide note wasn’t much evidence, Henry agreed with Quinn. Until the Nisqually River gave up Sperbeck’s corpse, and an autopsy confirmed it was him, all bets were off.

Okay, so what’s it going to be?

One way or another, Henry had to come to terms with this thing. It was what his counselors had advised him for over twenty-five years. Twenty-five years. Damn. Henry admitted that a drink would feel good right now.

But it wouldn’t help.

All right.

The time for battle had come.

He went back to his files and outlined a plan to investigate. He’d treat Quinn like a client who required verification of Sperbeck’s death. Henry began by putting in several calls to sources, reminding himself that he was a detective, licensed by the state to conduct private investigations, and, if necessary, authorized to take a life.

He glanced at his new Glock 22.

He’d picked up the. 40-cal pistol late yesterday after he got his letter from the state and completed all the paperwork. Having it around made him uneasy.

He hated the thing.

Hope to God I never have to use it.

Get to work.

First, Henry checked with the NPS Rangers at Mount Rainier National Park on whether they’d found Sperbeck’s body.

“Naw. Nothing’s turned up,” Pike Thornton, a law enforcement officer, told him over the phone. “We sent out Search and Rescue, dragged the river near Cougar Rock, and got nothing.”

“Any witnesses see him go in the water?”

“None that were absolutely certain. We had a retired county judge say he saw Sperbeck fishing. We found his pole, tackle, and such.”

“What about his vehicle?”

“He told the registration desk that he got a ride from Seattle. No one saw him or spoke to him. Seemed to be a man alone with his thoughts.”

Awaiting return calls, Henry went back to Sperbeck’s DOC file, which was extensive. Sperbeck had entered the system at WCC, where he was processed and sent on to Washington State Penitentiary at Walla Walla. He spent a lot of time making license plates there. Then he was transferred to Coyote Ridge at Connell, where he received treatment for his addictions while working on the farm.

At Coyote Ridge, Sperbeck also took part in spiritual counseling programs run by groups who visited from across the state. Afterward, he went to Clallam Bay, where he picked up a trade, cabinetmaking, before moving on to McNeil Island, but unlike many offenders, he did not work outside on the barges, tugboats, and ferries.

Even though he qualified for work release and to seek parole, he waived it all, choosing to serve his full time and work toward discharge, reducing the number of strings the system would attach to him.

“Sperbeck had very few conditions of supervision,” Herb Kent, Sperbeck’s CCO, told Henry when he finally reached him. “He stayed out of trouble inside and paid his debt in full. There was no indication he was a risk to reoffend.”

“Did he talk about the crime?”

“You mean the money?”

“I mean the money.”

“Not a word. He expressed remorse over the damage he’d inflicted.”

“Did he have any kind of support mechanism waiting for him outside-friends, relatives?”

“Not really.”

“What about his visitor list?”

“Spiritual counselors, some teachers, vocational advisors. No family or friends from his past to indicate he was going to reconnect.”

“What do you make of his suicide?”

“It happens, Henry. Especially with long-timers. Guys get out to find that the world has changed. That there’s no place for them in it. They can’t go back to prison. So what’s left for them? Sperbeck had a skill but couldn’t get a job. He called me a couple of times, all despondent. He was slipping back into drugs, circling the drain.”

Kent gave Henry two Seattle addresses that he had for Sperbeck. One was a run-down motel at the edge of Capitol Hill, the other a rooming house close to the ID, the address he was using when he vanished into the Nisqually River.

Henry got in his pickup truck and did some discreet door-knocking. He showed people Sperbeck’s picture, which yielded mostly head-shaking, except at the Black Jet Bar, which was near the rooming house.

“I saw that guy a few times. He used to sit in the back. Very quiet. No trouble,” the bartender told Henry. “But that cracker was not in great shape. Once he complained about how everybody in the world owed him for what he did.”

“That right? And what did he do?”

“He did not elaborate.”

Henry was making notes. “He happen to mention who ‘everybody’ was? Any names?”

The bartender stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head. “People say a lot of things when they’re drinking.”

Henry was acutely aware of that.

“Anything else you can remember about him?”

“I heard he used to go to the shelter for meals. I told him to get himself a welfare check and a medical card and see a doctor. Clean himself up.”

After thanking the bartender, Henry chided himself for nearly forgetting a basic. It was common for ex-cons to apply for welfare while they searched for a job. Stepping out of the Black Jet, he called an old friend who was a welfare fraud investigator at the Department of Social and Health Services.

“Roland King, Division of Fraud Investigations.”

“Rollie, it’s Henry Wade.”

“Hey, pal. Look, you caught me leaving for court. I have to go.”

“Just need a second. Can you help me with a quick check on somebody?”

“Ah, Henry you’re going to make more work for us. I know it. And we’re already way over our heads as it is. Want to work for DFI?”

“Just want to make you look good.”

“I’ve got about two minutes here. What is it?”

Henry gave him Leon Sperbeck’s information, his SSN, his date of birth, known addresses.

“Was he ever a client? That’s all I’m asking, Rollie.”

Henry could hear King typing on a keyboard as he double-checked Henry’s info. As a welfare fraud investigator, King had access to nearly all of the department’s computerized databases.

“What’s the beef, Henry? This guy cheating?” King asked as he waited for the computer to respond to his queries.

“Not sure.”

“Here we go. Yes. I can confirm, confidentially, that he’s in our system. He’s got a medical card. And we have him on General Assistance Unemployable. His status as an ex-convict armed robber presents a challenge in his effort to find a steady job. That it? Because I really have to go.”

“Anything else, there? What about the addresses?”

“Henry, I have to go. Wait, what addresses did you have?”

Henry repeated the two he’d checked.

“Nope, I think there’s a couple more. Got a pen?”

Henry took them down. Then heard King typing and cursing under his breath.

“That’s not right,” King said.

“Find something?” Henry asked.

“We just started sending checks for a new client at one of Sperbeck’s addresses. The client’s got a different name, but the very same address as Sperbeck. Damn it. I knew it, Henry, you brought me more work.”

“So you think Sperbeck’s received a check using an alias?”

“Happens all the time.”

“Tell me something. When was the last check cashed?”

“Looks to me like two days ago.”