CHAPTER 29
Tracy typed up the details of a recent witness interview regarding the Nicole Hansen case file. A month had passed since they’d discovered the young woman’s body in the motel on Aurora Avenue, and pressure was building to find the young stripper’s killer. The SPD had not had an unsolved homicide since Johnny Nolasco had become Chief of Investigations, something Nolasco was proud of and quick to point out. And Nolasco didn’t need any additional reason to bust Tracy’s chops. They had a turbulent history dating back to Tracy’s time at the police academy, where Nolasco, one of her instructors, had demonstrated a simulated pat-down by grabbing her breast. Tracy had responded by breaking his nose and kneeing him in the nuts. She’d then further bruised his ego by breaking his long-standing shooting-range record.
Any thought that Nolasco had mellowed with age had vanished when Tracy had become Seattle’s first female homicide detective. Nolasco, who’d risen to Chief of Investigations, had assigned her to work with his former partner, a racist chauvinist named Floyd Hattie. Hattie had made a stink about it and promptly dubbed her “Dickless Tracy.” Tracy later learned that Hattie had already put in for retirement, meaning Nolasco had made the assignment just to embarrass her.
If nothing else, the Hansen investigation was keeping her busy and distracted. Dan said the State had sixty days to respond to Edmund House’s Petition for Post-Conviction Relief, and he expected Vance Clark to take every one of those days. Tracy told herself she’d already waited twenty years, she could wait two more months, but now each day seemed like an eternity.
She answered her desk phone, noting it was an outside line.
“Detective Crosswhite, this is Maria Vanpelt from KRIX Channel 8.”
Tracy immediately regretted answering. The Homicide Unit maintained a civil relationship with police beat reporters, but Vanpelt—whom they referred to as “Manpelt” for her proclivity to be seen draped on the arms of some of Seattle’s more prominent men—was the exception.
Early in Tracy’s career, Vanpelt had sought an interview for a story about discrimination against female officers in the Seattle Police Department. Tracy had declined. When Tracy had made Homicide, Vanpelt had requested another interview, ostensibly to profile Tracy as Seattle’s first female homicide detective. Not wanting to draw any additional attention to herself, and now educated by others that hatchet jobs, not human-interest pieces, were Vanpelt’s specialty, Tracy had again declined.
Their dicey professional relationship did not improve. Vanpelt had somehow obtained confidential information about a gang murder investigation on which Tracy was the lead detective. Two of Tracy’s witnesses had been gunned down within hours of Vanpelt airing the information on her show, KRIX Undercover. Caught off guard by a competing news crew at the scene of the murders, an angry and frustrated Tracy had not minced her words about Vanpelt having blood on her hands. And the Homicide Unit had frozen Vanpelt out, refusing to talk to her, until Nolasco had issued an edict directing them to cooperate with all media.
“How’d you get my direct line?” Tracy asked. The media was supposed to go through the Public Information Office, but many reporters found ways to get through to direct desk numbers.
“Various channels,” Vanpelt said.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Vanpelt?”
She said the name loud enough to get Kins’s attention across the bull pen. Kins picked up his phone without even bothering to acknowledge her. They had a system in place.
“I’m hoping to get a comment for a story I’m working on.”
“What’s your story about?” Tracy mentally flipped through her case files. Only the Nicole Hansen investigation came to mind, and she had nothing new to discuss.
“Actually, it’s about you.”
Tracy leaned back in her chair. “And what makes me suddenly so interesting?” she asked.
“I understand your sister was murdered twenty years ago and that her remains were recently found. I was hoping you would be willing to discuss it?”
The question gave Tracy pause. She sensed more at play. “Who did you hear this from?”
“I have an assistant who goes through the court files,” Vanpelt said, dismissing the question with a bullshit answer—but one intended to let Tracy know that Vanpelt knew about Dan’s motion for post-conviction relief. “Would now be a good time to talk?”
“I don’t think that story has much public appeal.” Her second line began to buzz. She looked over at Kins, who held the receiver in his hand, but now she was curious as to what Vanpelt knew. “What’s the premise?”
“I think that’s pretty self-evident, don’t you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“A Seattle homicide detective who spends her days putting murderers behind bars seeks to free the man convicted of murdering her sister.”
Kins gave her a “what’s up?” shrug.
Tracy raised a finger. “Is that part of the court files?”
“I’m an investigative reporter, detective.”
“Who’s your source?”
“My sources are confidential,” Vanpelt said.
“You like to keep certain information private.”
“That’s right.”
“So you know how I feel. It’s a private matter. I intend to keep it private.”
“I’m going to report the story, detective. It would be better to have your side of the story when I do.”
“Better for me or better for you?”
“Is that a ‘no comment’?”
“I said it’s a private matter, and I intend to keep it private.”
“Can I quote you?”
“It’s what I said.”
“I understand the attorney, Dan O’Leary, was a childhood friend of yours. Care to comment on that?”
Calloway. Except the Sheriff would not have called Vanpelt. He would have called Nolasco, Tracy’s superior. Rumors swirled that Nolasco was one of the men doing the hokey-pokey with Vanpelt and providing her with information. “Cedar Grove is a small town. I knew a lot of people growing up there.”
“Did you know Daniel O’Leary?”
“There’s only one middle school and one high school.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“You’re an investigative reporter; I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Did you recently accompany Mr. O’Leary to meet with Edmund House at the Walla Walla State Penitentiary? I’ve obtained a copy of Mr. House’s visitor list for the month. Your name appears just above Mr. O’Leary’s name.”
“Then print that.”
“So you won’t comment?”
“As I said, this is a private matter unrelated to my job. Speaking of which, my other line is ringing.” Tracy hung up the phone and swore under her breath.
“What did she want?” Kins asked.
Tracy looked across the bull pen. “To stick her nose up my ass.”
“Vanpelt?” Faz slid his chair back from his desk. “That’s her specialty.”
“She says she’s doing a story about Sarah, but she’s more focused—” She decided not to finish her thought.
Kins said, “Don’t sweat it too much. You know Vanpelt, the facts don’t interest her.”
“She’ll get bored and go make up another story,” Faz said.
Tracy wished it was that easy. She knew Vanpelt hadn’t found the story on her own. It had to have come from Calloway, and that meant Calloway was talking to Nolasco, who didn’t need much to make Tracy’s life miserable.
It also wasn’t the first time Calloway had threatened to get Tracy fired from her job.
The students in the front of the classroom flinched and leaned back when the spark shot a crackling white bolt across the gap between the two spheres. Tracy cranked the handle of the electrostatic generator, increasing the speed of the two rotating metal discs that caused the bolt to continue firing. “Lightning, ladies and gentlemen, is one of nature’s most dramatic illustrations of the energy form scientists like James Wimshurst and Benjamin Franklin sought to harness,” she said.
“Wasn’t he the dude who flew the kite in a storm?”
Tracy smiled. “Yes, Steven, he is the dude who flew the kite in a storm. What he and those other ‘dudes’ were trying to determine was whether energy could be converted into electricity. Can someone point to hard evidence that they succeeded?”
“The lightbulb,” Nicole said.
Tracy released the handle. The spark died. Her freshmen sat in pairs at tables equipped with a sink, Bunsen burner, and microscope each. Tracy turned on a water faucet at a front table. “It helps if you think of electricity as a fluid capable of flowing through objects. When an electric current flows we call that what, Enrique?”
“A current,” he said, generating laughs.
“I meant, when an electric current can flow through a substance we call that substance . . . ?”
“A conductor.”
“Can you provide me with an example of a conductor, Enrique?”
“People.”
The students again laughed.
“No joke,” Enrique said. “My uncle was working a construction job in the rain, and he cut through an electrical line and nearly killed himself, except another guy yanked him off the saw.”
Tracy paced the front of the room. “All right, let’s discuss that scenario. When Enrique’s uncle cut through the electrical line, what happened to the flow of electricity?”
“It flowed into his body,” Enrique said.
“Which would be evidence the human body is, in fact, a conductor. But if that is the case, why didn’t the coworker get shocked when he touched Enrique’s uncle?”
When no student responded, Tracy reached below her desk and retrieved a nine-volt battery and a lightbulb in a bulb holder. Two lengths of copper wire extended from the battery, and a third wire extended from the bulb holder. The opposite ends were alligator clips. Tracy attached the alligator clips to a piece of rubber tubing. “Why didn’t the bulb light?”
No one answered.
“What if the worker who touched Enrique’s uncle was wearing rubber gloves? What could we conclude?”
“Rubber isn’t a conductor,” Enrique said.
“That’s right, rubber is not a conductor. So the power from the battery will not flow through the rubber tubing.” Tracy attached the clips to a large nail. The bulb lit. “Nails,” Tracy said, “are made up mostly of iron. So what can we conclude about iron?”
“Conductor,” the class said in unison.
The bell rang. Tracy raised her voice over the obnoxious clang and the scraping of barstool legs on linoleum. “Your homework is on the board. We will continue our discussion of electricity on Wednesday.”
Back at her desk, Tracy began to put away the demonstration, preparing for her next period. The volume of noise from the hallways increased, which meant someone had opened the door to her classroom. “If you have questions, please see me during my regular office hours; you’ll find them posted on my door along with a sign-up sheet.”
“This won’t take long.”
Tracy turned toward the voice. “I’m preparing for a class.”
Roy Calloway let the door shut behind him. “You want to tell me what it is you think you’re doing?”
“I just did.”
Calloway approached her table. “Questioning the integrity of a witness who had the courage to come forward and do his civic duty?”
Hagen had called Calloway, which Tracy had thought likely when he’d shut the door in her face that Saturday. “I didn’t question his integrity. Did he tell you I questioned his integrity?”
“You did everything but call him a liar.” Calloway leaned his palms flat on her table. “You want to tell me what you think you’re trying to accomplish?”
“I just asked him the news program he was watching.”
“That is not your place, Tracy. The trial is over. The time for asking questions is done.”
“Not all the questions got asked.”
“Not all the questions needed to be asked.”
“Or answered?”
Calloway pointed a finger at her, the way he used to when she was young. “Leave it alone. Okay? Let it be. I know you also drove to Silver Springs and have been talking to bartenders.”
“Why didn’t you, Roy? Why didn’t you check to make sure House wasn’t telling the truth?”
“I didn’t need to check to know he was lying.”
“How, Roy? How did you know?”
“Fifteen years of police work, that’s how. So we’re clear, I don’t want to hear about you ordering any more transcripts or harassing witnesses. I do, and I’ll have a talk with Jerry and tell him how one of his teachers isn’t committed to teaching, that she’d rather play junior detective. Do you understand?”
Jerry Butterman was Cedar Grove High’s principal. Tracy fumed at the fact that Calloway would threaten her this way. At the same time, she wanted to laugh. He had no idea the threat was hollow, no idea that Tracy did not intend to play “junior detective.” She’d decided to jump in with both feet. At the end of the school year, she’d leave Cedar Grove and move to Seattle to join the police academy. “Do you know why I became a chemistry teacher, Roy?”
“Why?”
“It’s because I could never just accept the way things were. I needed to know why they were that way. It used to drive my parents crazy, me always asking ‘why.’?”
“House is in prison. That’s all you need to know.”
“I tell my students it’s not the result that’s important. It’s the evidence. If the evidence is circumspect, so is the result.”
“And if you want to continue teaching your students, I’d suggest you take my advice and focus on being a teacher.”
“That’s the thing, Roy. I’ve already made that decision too.” The bell rang and the door to the classroom was pulled open. Tracy’s fourth-period students hesitated at the sight of Cedar Grove’s sheriff standing in their classroom. “Come on in,” Tracy said, stepping out from behind her table. “Take your seats. Chief Calloway was just leaving.”