Without Due Process

CHAPTER 23

Captain Freeman didn’t wake up until I pulled to a stop in front of the Public Safety Building. “My brains are scrambled,” he said. “Detective Danielson’s probably already here for our eight o’clock meeting, but I’m going to have to cancel on her. I’ve got to go home and get some sleep.”

Those were my sentiments exactly. It was somehow reassuring to realize even the resident Eagle Scout of IIS, the original iron man himself, needed sleep occasionally. I was in good company.

“You’ll be coming to the funeral, won’t you?” he asked as he climbed out of the car.

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“Good. The three of us-you, Sue Danielson, and I-will have to get together and strategize sometime later on today, but probably not until after the funeral, considering the way I feel right this minute.”

“You’re the boss,” I told him.

Tony Freeman smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Beau. It’s been a hell of a night, but you do good work. Go home and get some sleep.”

It’s a good man who can remember to compliment someone else when he’s too tired to keep himself upright. Tony Freeman’s stock was already pretty high in my book, but it went up a little more right about then.

He closed the car door and started away, but he turned and came back before I could pull away from the curb. I rolled down the window.

“Remember,” he warned, “not a word of this to anyone. No one is to know that you and I were anywhere near Sam Irwin’s house in Beaux Arts. When you hear the news that he’s dead, it had better be news to you. Understand?”

“I got the message,” I told him. “I figured it out at the same time you were telling Hammer and Crowe.”

“Good,” he said. He waved me away and hustled into the building. I arrived home right around eight o’clock, staggering into what I expected to be a quiet house. Wrong. The apartment reverberated with the clatter and rumble of electronic warfare. In the den I discovered Heather Peters and Junior Weston happily ensconced on the floor, deeply engrossed in some kind of two-player video game.

I wanted to interrupt, to tell Junior that I thought we had found at least one of the men responsible for the murders of his family members. I would have liked to be able to tell him that I was almost certain the bad man who had killed Bonnie was dead himself, but Tony Freeman had given me marching orders to the contrary. There were far too many other loose ends in the investigation for me to risk speaking out of turn and revealing IIS involvement.

Stifling my loose-lips impulse, I left the kids where they were and went looking for Ralph Ames. I found him in the kitchen, bemoaning the fact that I didn’t own a waffle iron. Someday in the far distant future I may have a kitchen that will measure up to Ralph’s expectations.

“Where’d you get the video game?” I asked, pouring myself a glass of orange juice from a pitcher of freshly squeezed that had appeared mysteriously in my formerly empty refrigerator.

Ralph shrugged. “I called Reverend Walters and asked him. When he said no problem, I sent a messenger over to his place to pick it up. It was a present to Junior from Big Al, you know. The poor kid was really upset that he couldn’t bring it along last night. As much as he’s been through the past few days, I wanted it here first thing this morning.”

Ralph Ames is the only person I know who’s a softer touch than I am, especially when it comes to little kids. “And how did you go about locating Reverend Walters?” I asked.

He grinned at me. “It’s an old Indian trick,” he told me. “I used the phone book.”

On that note, I headed for bed. “By the way,” I said, pausing in the doorway, “did Homer Walters say anything about what arrangements have been made for Junior to attend the funeral?”

“The way I understand it, the limo from the funeral home will pick up Emma Jackson first and then stop by here for Junior around noon.”

“Good. Wake me up no later than eleven so I can get ready.”

“You’re going along in the limo?”

“You bet. I’m not letting that kid out of the building without me along as a bodyguard. What about clothes for him? I didn’t think to bring along anything but the pajamas he was wearing when I picked him up.”

“It’s already handled. Homer Walter’s wife had clothes for him there, and the messenger brought them along when he picked up the Nintendo,” Ames said. “I figured that was one less thing we’d have to worry about later on today.”

I should have known that if Ralph Ames was in charge, all those pesky little details would get handled in a totally seamless fashion. Gratefully mumbling my thanks, I stumbled down the hall and fell into bed. I don’t even remember lying down. It seemed only a matter of minutes later when Heather Peters brought me a cup of coffee and announced it was time for me to get up.

Settling cross-legged on the foot of the bed, she regarded me seriously while I sipped coffee and waited for my head to clear.

“Is it hard to tie a tie, Uncle Beau?” she asked.

Heather seems far more mature than I like these days. I still haven’t adjusted to the relative size of her new permanent teeth which seem totally out of proportion with the rest of her small, round face. And I miss that damn toothless lisp.

“Not too hard,” I told her, “but it’s tricky until you learn how. You’re a girl. Why do you need to know about tying ties?”

“I don’t, but Junior does. Ralph’s helping Junior tie his right now. He can’t do it himself.”

“I’m sure Ralph doesn’t mind.”

“But if Junior’s daddy is dead,” Heather pointed out solemnly, “who’s going to teach him about ties and all that other stuff kids are supposed to learn?”

Heather’s matter-of-fact question struck smack at the heart of Junior Weston’s newly problematic existence. Who would teach him all those necessary things? I wondered. Tying ties is only one of the mysteries of the adult universe that must be mastered in those fragile years between five and twenty-five. I had grown up without a father, but not without a mother. Junior Weston would be growing up without the benefit of either one. How would he manage? Thinking about it made my heart ache.

“I don’t know, Heather,” I told her.

“Well,” she said seriously. “I’ve been thinking about it. Why can’t he live here with you?” She waited for my answer with cheerful confidence.

“With me?” I choked, misswallowing a mouthful of coffee. A dozen coughs later, I was able to continue. “It sounds like a good idea, Heather, but it probably wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?” she pouted. “You have lots of room. If he lived here, I’d have someone closer to my age to play with. Tracy always acts like I’m just a little kid. And Junior’s fun. I already took him downstairs and introduced him to Gertrude.”

“You can’t just decide where a child is going to live,” I told her. “Those kinds of decisions are usually left up to the family.”

“But Junior doesn’t have a family,” Heather insisted. “They’re all dead.”

“He has a grandfather.”

“He’s old,” Heather sniffed.

“And he probably has aunts and uncles, too,” I added. “Scoot, now. If I’m going to be ready on time, I’d better climb into the shower.”

Once dressed, I called down to Harborview to check on Big Al. Molly wasn’t in the ICU waiting room, but her son Gary, the one from California, took my call. He assured me that his father was sleeping right then but doing as well as could be expected. Gary told me that his brother, Greg, had just taken Molly home to change clothes in preparation for the two o’clock funeral service at Mount Zion Baptist Church. He said Molly wouldn’t be returning to the hospital until after the funeral.

“Give your dad a message from me the minute he wakes up, would you? Tell him it’s been handled.”

“What’s been handled?”

“Just give him the message. He’ll understand. Tell him I’ll stop by later to fill him in.”

“Got it,” Gary said. “I even wrote it down.”

By the time the doorman called to say the funeral home limo was downstairs, I was properly dressed in a suit and tie, and so was Junior Weston. As we rode down in the elevator together, he put one hand trustingly in mine. The other held his faithful companion, the teddy bear.

When Emma Jackson saw that I was coming along, I expected her to voice an objection. Instead, she seemed almost happy to see me and greeted both of us with a tentative smile. “Did you get some sleep?” she asked Junior.

He nodded. “And I got to see the ducks. I even got to feed them. The mama duck’s name is Gertrude.”

“How can someone have ducks in a high-rise building?” Emma asked disbelievingly.

“Don’t ask me,” I told her. “Ask the duck. She comes here every year and lays her eggs on the recreation level.”

“In a downtown condo?”

“Gertrude must be an upscale duck,” I told her.

I was under the impression that we were headed directly for the church. When the limo driver took us down to Columbia and up the entrance ramp onto the Alaskan Way Viaduct, I didn’t understand what was happening. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“To West Seattle,” Emma replied. “To pick up Harmon.”

I shook my head. “He’s not going to be thrilled having me along for the ride.”

Dr. Jackson pulled Junior Weston close to her and held him protectively under her arm the way a mother hen shelters her helpless chicks.

“He’ll understand,” she said. “He may not like it, but he’ll understand.”

I settled in for the ride, surreptitiously glancing over my shoulder now and then to make sure we weren’t being followed. Just because Sam Irwin was dead didn’t mean that was the end of all our difficulties. It would take time to figure out whether or not Sam Irwin had taken his own life, but in any event I was fairly certain Sam was the knife-wielding killer Junior had seen on the night of the murders. I was also convinced that, whatever his involvement, Sam wasn’t operating alone. The other killers had no way of knowing whether Sam was all the child had seen.

We sped south along the viaduct. The previous few days of clear skies had given way to heavy clouds. Puget Sound lay slate-gray beneath a dark and lowering sky. I’m sure both the weather and fatigue contributed to my growing sense of gloom and despair. So did the fact that I was on my way to a five-person funeral. If we couldn’t save innocent people like that from the bad guys, I berated myself, what the hell was the point of being a cop?

For a few minutes, Junior was content to sit there cuddled against Emma Jackson’s breast, but finally he pushed himself away.

“Is Mr. Lindstrom all right?” he asked.

Emma looked to me for an answer. “He should be, Junior,” I replied. “But he wouldn’t have been if Dr. Jackson hadn’t been right there to help when it happened.”

The boy nodded. “I’m glad he’s going to be okay,” he said. “I was afraid he’d die too.”

I caught Emma Jackson’s eye. “Thank you for reminding me, Junior. I should have remembered to thank Dr. Jackson myself as soon as I got in the car.”

She gave me a half smile and shook her head. “You don’t have to thank me, Detective Beaumont,” she returned. “You’re not the only one around here with a job to do.”

Considering the previous fireworks between us, the matching antagonisms, conversation between us in the limo was surprisingly cordial, and it lulled me into a false sense of security, made me think maybe things were starting to get a little better.

We crossed into West Seattle on the Spokane Street Bridge and meandered south, stopping at last in front of a small, carefully maintained bungalow on Southwest Othello Street. Harmon Weston must have been watching through the window. As soon as the driver stopped the limo, the front door banged open, and the old man came hurrying toward the car. I moved to the jump seat to give him a place to sit.

“The killer’s dead!” Harmon Weston declared animatedly as he clambered into the limo. Then, seeing me, a curtain seemed to fall across his features.

“What’s he doing here?” Harmon Weston demanded.

“Got who?” Junior was asking excitedly. “Who’d they get? Tell me.”

“What’s happened?” Emma asked.

Harmon Weston looked hard at me. “Ask him,” he said. “I’m sure he knows all about it.”

Three pairs of questioning eyes turned on me, but I was under strict orders to keep my mouth shut. Tony Freeman had told me that when I heard the news I’d better be surprised, but I’ve never been known for my propensity for role play.

“Knows all about what?” I asked ingenuously. “Who’s dead?”

Harmon Weston’s smoldering eyes drilled into me. “My son’s killer, that’s who. They found him somewhere over in Bellevue.”

“Is he dead for real?” Junior asked. “Did the cops get him? Did somebody shoot him?”

Suddenly accusatory, Emma Jackson turned on me as well. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

“No,” I said, trying for total innocence. “I had no idea.”

My acting ability will never win an Academy Award. Emma shot me a withering look. “You expect us to believe that you, one of the detectives on the case, didn’t know a thing about this?”

Emma turned from me to Harmon Weston. “What happened?”

“A drug overdose,” he answered. “They think he committed suicide.”

She looked back at me, shaking her head disparagingly. “So the police didn’t even catch him.” She turned away from me and stared out the window while an uneasy silence settled over the car. No one spoke for several minutes while Junior Weston looked questioningly from one adult face to another.

Finally he caught my eye. “I’m glad he’s dead,” the child said. “I wanted him to be dead.”

I nodded, but I didn’t say anything else. I figured I was better off keeping my mouth shut.

We arrived at the Mount Zion Baptist Church a full hour and fifteen minutes before the two o’clock funeral. Already the neighborhood was dogged with traffic, including an ever-growing contingent of law enforcement vehicles from all over the state. They lined one side of Nineteenth Avenue for three full blocks.

The limo stopped in the front courtyard of the church behind a collection of gray hearses. Emma, Harmon Weston, and Junior Weston were whisked away into the church by three solicitous funeral attendants. They probably would have let me come along too, if I had pushed it, but I felt I had intruded enough. Undecided as to what to do next, I started toward the street to join forces with some of the other police officers who were scattered here and there on the sidewalk, talking together in small groups.

Halfway across the courtyard, a young black male sidled up to me. Staggering drunkenly, he was dressed in ragged, disheveled clothing. A battered baseball cap, worn sideways, was pulled down low on his forehead.

“Hey, man,” he whimpered to me. “You gots a dollar for a cuppa coffee?”

Before I could answer, a formidable African-American man, much older and dressed in an impeccable black suit along with spotless white gloves, appeared from nowhere.

“You get out of here now,” he told the kid firmly. “These folks are here for a funeral. We don’t need the likes of you hanging around begging.”

“I ain’t beggin‘,” the boy whined. He caught my eye for a fraction of a second, then dropped his gaze and stared at my feet. “I’m jes axing my friend Beaumont here if he gots ’nuff money to buy me some coffee.”

The deacon frowned, looking hard from the kid to me. “You know this young man, mister?”

He did seem vaguely familiar, and although I couldn’t place him right off the bat, he obviously knew me. I don’t make a habit of giving money to bums on the street, but then most bums don’t know me by name either. I reached for my wallet. The deacon shrugged and shook his head.

“You get away from here now, boy,” the deacon said firmly as he walked away. “I don’t want to see your face around here anymore.”

I handed the kid a dollar bill. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” I told him.

He pocketed the money, staggered a little, and grinned, but the urgency in his voice belied the drunken leer.

“Ron Peters says for me to talk to you right away. Only to you, and away from here. Down the hill on Madison at the deli in ten minutes.”

He shambled off in the opposite direction, meandering unsteadily from side to side and heading for the corner of the building that would allow him to avoid the growing collection of cops. I was still watching his slow progress when Sue Danielson materialized beside me.

“Don’t you know better than to give money to bums?” she demanded.

Maybe it was the sound of her voice that jogged the memory department of my brain. I knew then where I had seen that face before-on a rap sheet. My drunken bum was none other than Knuckles Russell minus his trademark four-inch Afro.

With no advance warning, one of Ben Weston’s missing student loan cosigners had magically reappeared, found by none other than Ron Peters, who had directed him straight to me.

“I’ve gotta go,” I said to Sue, backing away, heading for the door of the church.

“Where? I thought we could sit together.”

By rights, I should have invited her along, but Knuckles Russell had been very specific about that, and so had Ron Peters.

“To see a man about a dog,” I told her. “Don’t go away, Sue. I’ll be back.”