Without Due Process

CHAPTER 5

When the meeting broke up, Janice Morraine and I left the Mobile Command Post together and walked back through the early-morning darkness toward Ben Weston’s house, where Janice’s crime scene investigators were still hard at work.

Long before anyone ever heard of DNA fingerprinting or even just plain fingerprinting for that matter, a smart French criminologist by the name of Edmond Locard came up with the theory that bears his name. Locard’s exchange principle says, in effect, that any person passing through a room will unknowingly leave something there and take something away. This principle forms the basis for most modern crime scene investigation.

Criminalists, as they’re called these days-the term “criminologist” evidently disappeared right along with Edmond-take charge of the hair and blood samples, semen and saliva traces, fingerprints and clothing fuzz, carpet lint and dust balls that often form the backbone of evidence in today’s criminal prosecutions. Forever focused on physical minutiae, criminalists are a tightly knit group. Without necessarily saying so, they generally look down their collective noses at mere detectives who specialize in the inexact and somewhat messy study of such unscientific things as motive and opportunity.

My opinion is that we’re all fine as long as everybody sticks to his or her own area of expertise. It’s probably a safe bet that I’ll never write a scholarly treatise on the technicalities of DNA fingerprinting, which Janice Morraine could do in a blink, but as far as I’m concerned, she’ll never make detective of the year either. Don’t misunderstand. I like her, a lot, but not when she veers into my territory.

“What exactly went on between Detective Lindstrom and Ben Weston?” she asked as we walked along. “Did they ever have a falling-out?”

“You mean a fight?”

“Yes, a fight. Did they quarrel about something?”

“Not so far as I know. How come?” I wondered. “What makes you ask that?”

She shrugged. “After what happened in there…”

“After what happened? You mean after Captain Powell kicked Lindstrom off the case?”

“Yes well…”

For a moment, I thought she didn’t understand exactly why that had occurred, so I tried to clarify. “Powell pulled Big Al because he and Ben Weston were good friends, had been for years. No other reason. So why are you asking me about a fight?”

“I was just wondering,” she said innocently.

It used to be when a woman gave me that kind of ingenuous nonanswer, I fell for it and really believed they were “just wondering,” but I’m older, now, and wiser. Janice’s bland response put me on notice that something was up.

“Look, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck yesterday,” I told her. “This is your old pal J. P. Beaumont, remember? What gives? What are you driving at?”

“I think a cop did it,” she blurted.

My jaw dropped. “A cop? Killed all these people? You’re kidding!”

We had stopped on the front porch just outside the door. “I am not kidding,” she declared. “Didn’t you see how the girl was tied up?”

Actually, I hadn’t. For one thing, during our initial kitchen walk-through, I had been on the wrong side of the body. Then, once we discovered Junior in the linen closet, Big Al and I hadn’t stayed around long enough to see anything more before racing off to the department with the child in tow.

“Flex-cufs,” she informed me. “The girl in the kitchen was bound with Flex-cuf restraints, the very same brand all you guys at the department use every day.”

Although metal handcuffs are still more commonly used, Flex-cufs are a high-tech, lightweight substitute. I think of them as a variation on a theme of plastic tie-ups for garbage bags or maybe a hospital ID bracelet for two hands instead of one. Once you put the plastic coil through the hole and tighten it down, the only way to take it off again is to cut it off.

But from this one small piece of evidence, Janice Morraine was making a very premature, very shaky assumption. “Let me get this straight. Because of the presence of Flex-cufs, you’ve decided that the killer is most likely a cop and further, since Captain Powell threw him off the case, that the cop most likely is none other than Detective Lindstrom, right?”

“It was just an idea,” she countered. “Al was acting real strange tonight, or didn’t you notice?”

I almost blew up in her face. “Strange? Let me tell you about strange, lady. You’d be acting funny yourself if you showed up at a homicide scene and discovered that the victims are almost the entire family of one of your very best friends. You walk in and find them one after the other, slaughtered in cold blood. Detective Lindstrom’s been through a hell of an ordeal tonight, including being told by his supervisor that his services aren’t needed or wanted. How the hell would you act?”

“You don’t have to get so hot under the collar,” Janice returned sulkily. “All I did was ask a question.”

I was hot all right. “Why don’t you leave the questions to the detectives and go find some lint to pick up?”

A little professional jealousy is to be expected now and then, especially in such circumstances, but I could see from the look on Janice’s face that my comment had come off sounding a whole lot more insulting than the situation warranted.

“Up yours, Detective Beaumont,” she returned coldly, and marched off into the house, leaving me looking after her in frustrated consternation.

How could someone as smart as Janice Morraine be so dumb? I wondered. How could she even seriously consider the idea that Big Al Lindstrom was capable of murdering his best friend and his family besides? The whole preposterous notion would have been downright laughable if it hadn’t made me so damn mad.

Where the hell did Janice Morraine get off? The killer had been loose in Ben Weston’s house for a considerable period of time. Maybe Ben had a few Flex-cufs stashed at home someplace, and the killer had used those. Had Janice ever considered that possibility? The thought that I too might be jumping to conclusions never entered my mind, for the idea that a fellow officer-any fellow police officer-might also be a cold-blooded killer was totally unacceptable. I dismissed it out of hand.

Still standing on the porch, I glanced out at the street. At four in the morning, the parking places around the Weston house were gradually emptying. With the bodies all hauled away to the medical examiner’s office, most of the law enforcement and emergency vehicles were gone. The Minicam- and microphone-waving reporters had also driven away to meet their various deadlines. By sunrise, except for the yellow crime scene tape that would eventually be strung all the way around the Weston house and yard, the neighborhood would be returning to normal-as normal as it was ever going to be.

Fatigue was catching up with me, and the bone spurs on my feet were killing me. With a sigh, I went inside to go to work. For a while anyway, Paul Kramer was there as well, throwing his considerable weight around, bothering Janice’s investigators, and asking questions when he should have been listening. I stayed out of his way as much as possible. My assignment was Adam Jackson-John Doe, as Captain Powell still thought of him. With Big Al’s invaluable help I at least knew the boy’s name and was that much further along in the investigation. It wasn’t a lot, but it was a start.

I prowled around the house, hoping to stumble across something that would be of assistance. In the kitchen I found a push-button address directory. When I pushed the J button, I thought at first I had hit the Jackson jackpot, and indeed I had-too well. There were no fewer than six Jacksons listed on a page that slopped over into the K ‘s. Unfortunately, there was no clue as to which was which. None of them had a Queen Anne exchange. I jotted down all the numbers, home and work, knowing that if push came to shove, I could compare all the work numbers and see which one would lead me to a hospital switchboard. That was the long way of doing it.

Still hoping for a shortcut, I left the kitchen, heading for Ben and Shiree Weston’s bedroom, where I remembered seeing another phone. Maybe there I would find a forgotten note jotted on a little yellow sticky pad that would give me the information I needed. While I was busy searching, a silent clock ticked continuously in the back of my head, for I was locked in a race against time. If I didn’t get to her first, Adam Jackson’s mother would inevitably learn of her son’s death through other than official channels. Professional pride and compassion mixed fifty-fifty made me want to prevent that from happening.

Walking through the living room, I discovered that, with the exception of a single uniformed officer seated near the front door of the house and another stationed in back, only Janice Morraine and her crime scene specialists remained in the house. The Crime Lab folks acted every bit as frazzled as I felt. By now, I’d been up for twenty-two-plus hours straight, and I sure as hell wasn’t as young as I used to be.

I was just crossing the threshold into Ben and Shiree’s demolished bedroom when the clock radio beside the bed came on automatically at four-thirty. The soft, mournful wail of a country and western lady singer stopped me in my tracks. The familiar “he done me wrong” lyrics left me with an eerie sense of loss, allowing the finality of what had happened in that house to seep into my consciousness once and for all.

As the music went on and on, I realized how, the night before, Ben Weston had matter-of-factly set that alarm, expecting to get up early the next morning-this morning-and be about his business. Whatever he had planned to do had been important enough to be worth getting out of a warm bed three and a half full hours before he was due in at the department at eight.

But morning had come without him. Ben Weston would never again charge out of bed. He would never again hear the mournful music that was now crooning softly in the background. He wouldn’t see Ben Junior play his first Little League game or graduate from high school. Gentle Ben Weston was, literally, history.

I stood there listening, transfixed by the music, struck by the awful senselessness of it all, and then a funny thing happened. A new sense of resolve and purpose seemed to settle over me, washing away my all-nighter fatigue and filling my body with bone-hard determination. Captain Powell may have sidetracked me on to the Adam Jackson end of the investigation, but every one of us, even that worthless Kramer, were all working the same problem, searching for the same killer, and find him we would. I searched the room over but found nothing that would help locate Adam Jackson’s mother.

Motivated, ready to do something else positive, I decided to check the place where Big Al had parked to see if, by some lucky chance, he had left the car there for me when he went home. I was almost at the front door when the doorbell rang. In the meantime, the patrol officer on the couch, a guy by the name of Simmons, mumbled something to me. I opened the door, but I leaned away long enough to ask him to repeat it.

No doubt those mumbled words saved my life, because the. 44 slug that crashed into the mirrored wall directly behind me shattered the glass right at chest height. Whoever fired it hadn’t expected to miss, and at that range, chances are my bulletproof vest wouldn’t have done much good. Like Ben Weston, I, too, would have been all through listening to country music.

Stunned, I hit the floor, my ears ringing. Then, as fast as I could, I scrambled back to my feet and fumbled for my automatic while Simmons bounded over me. We both reached the door in time to see a car door open and close as someone leaped inside a waiting, dark-colored vehicle. Leaving behind a spray of gravel, the car, with headlights and taillights both doused, sped away down the still night-black street.

Simmons’s partner, a guy named Gary Deddens, had been left to guard the back door. He sprinted up behind us. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

The two of them must have arrived at the Weston house at about the same time I did, the second time around. Their car was parked a good block and a half away. While Simmons raced after it, his partner started up the street after the long-gone vehicle. I paused long enough to explain to an ashen-faced Janice what had happened, then I too darted up the sidewalk. We flagged down Simmons as he drove past. The wheels on his patrol car were back in motion before the doors closed.

“You all right, Detective Beaumont?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine. A little shaky, but fine.”

“You handle the radio,” he said to Deddens. “Did either of you see what kind of car it was?”

“No,” we both answered together.

“Shit!” Simmons muttered. “Neither did I.”

Within minutes of our call, all of Rainier Valley was crawling with a bunch of very spooked cops. Word was out that someone had declared open warfare on officers of the Seattle Police Department. With Ben Weston and his family dead, and after my narrow escape, we were all feeling mighty vulnerable. And mortal.

Unfortunately, nothing Simmons, his partner, or I could tell our fellow searchers was of any help. In the next hour and a half, a careful dragnet of the neighborhood turned up a few moving violations, including one DWI, but there was no trace at all of our missing gunman and his getaway car.

With Simmons still driving, we had searched as far as the western shore of Lake Washington when the sun came up over the still snowbound Cascades later on that morning. I don’t know if this happens in other parts of the world or not, but it was one of those special Washington mornings when, as the natives say, the mountains were out, their rugged profiles shining brilliantly in the early-morning sun without their usual cloak of cloud cover. It was the kind of morning when Seattle’s cross-bridge commuters get regular traffic advisories warning them to watch out for the unaccustomed glare of sun off Lake Washington. It was a morning when, shootings aside, Seattle really is one of the most livable cities on the face of the earth.

Believe me. I was happy as hell to be alive to enjoy it.