Chapter 28
Odds and ends.
It had been an afternoon of odds and ends, just the sort of afternoon Anne Jeffers hated. First, she realized that the most important question she’d intended to ask Mark Blakemoor at lunch had completely slipped her mind when she realized that the detective’s emotions toward her were no longer based purely on business. Then, she wasted twenty minutes vacillating over what message he might get if she called him so soon after their meeting. Finally, she decided to put it off for a while, and went on to other things.
With the rain apparently over for the day, she’d gone in search of Sheila Harrar. At the address Mark Blakemoor had given her, she was told that “Harrar’s on the fourth floor. In the front.” So she trekked up to the fourth floor and found the room, but no trace of Sheila Harrar.
Downstairs, the man behind the desk looked bored when Anne asked if he knew where Sheila Harrar might be. “Look in the square. That’s where they all hang out,” he told her. “She’s an Indian broad,” he added, rolling his eyes, as if his identification of her as a Native American should be enough to explain everything about her.
Saying nothing, Anne left the hotel and walked the two blocks to Pioneer Square, searching for someone who might be Sheila Harrar. Almost to her own surprise, she found Sheila on the second try. Though it was obvious the woman was an alcoholic, it was equally obvious that today she hadn’t been drinking.
“I read your article this morning,” Sheila told her, seeming unsurprised when Anne introduced herself and sat down on the bench next to her. “That’s why I called your house.”
“My house?” Anne asked blankly, wondering if maybe she’d been mistaken and Sheila Harrar was drunk after all.
Sheila appeared puzzled. “Didn’t your husband tell you?” she asked. “Isn’t that why you came looking for me?”
Anne shook her head, explained about the garbled message on her voice mail and how she’d finally tracked Sheila down.
Sheila Harrar’s expression clouded at mention of the police, and her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “The police got no reason to be looking for me,” she said. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“They weren’t looking for you,” Anne reassured her quickly, sensing that the woman was about to bolt. “The detective is a friend of mine, and he was just doing me a favor.”
“’Cause you’re white,” Sheila Harrar grunted.
“I beg your pardon?” Anne asked.
Cynical eyes fixed on her. “He did you a favor ‘cause you’re white. When I wanted them to look for Danny, they didn’t do nothin’.”
Anne knew there was no point in trying to explain to Mrs. Harrar about how many tips had come in on the Kraven killings, how many phone calls there had been from anonymous sources, how many mothers just like Sheila had called the police to report that their children had been murdered by Richard Kraven. There had also been husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers of all sorts, even children calling to report that they were certain Richard Kraven had killed their parents.
“Why do you think Richard Kraven killed your son?” Anne asked instead. At worst, it would give the woman an opportunity finally to tell her story; at best, Sheila Harrar might actually know something that could directly connect Richard Kraven to at least one local murder.
Sheila took Anne back to her room, where she pulled out a worn photo album—one of the last things she still possessed from better days. In the album were yellowing pictures of herself as a girl, then some of her former husband, Manny Harrar. At the end were the pictures of Danny, all of them smudged with fingerprints from the many times Sheila had pulled the album out late at night when she was far into a bottle of fortified wine, and paged through the pictures, touching Danny’s image with as much gentleness as if she were actually stroking his cheek.
What Anne saw was a handsome boy who was always neatly dressed, although the clothes he wore looked nearly worn-out. His hair was always combed, his lips smiling, his eyes sparkling.
Even in the snapshots, Anne could sense the boy’s intelligence. And he didn’t look like the sort who would get involved in drugs or simply take off. Indeed, in the few photographs showing Sheila and Danny together, it was clear that before Danny disappeared, his mother had been a different person. Though they obviously hadn’t had much money, nothing in the photos betrayed anything other than a devoted mother and loving son.
The snapshots alone were enough to convince Anne that Danny Harrar had not run away from home.
“What can you tell me?” she asked. “What happened the last day you saw Danny?”
“He was going fishing,” Sheila told her. “He was going to go fishing with Richard Kraven.”
Fishing.
It was one of Richard Kraven’s passions. He’d had a motor home, and often used it to go up into the mountains, where, according to him, he liked to spend a day in solitude, casting for trout in the roaring streams that poured out of the Cascades. Anne was well aware of how thoroughly that motor home had been searched, for after Kraven had been arrested and charged in Connecticut, the Seattle police had seized the vehicle and nearly torn it apart in a search for evidence that might link Kraven to the long list of murders in which he was the prime suspect.
No trace of any of his known victims had been discovered. What little detritus had been found—a few hairs and traces of lint—had never been matched to anyone. Richard Kraven had either been very lucky or an absolute perfectionist.
Or innocent?
“Did the police ever question Kraven about your son?”
Sheila’s lips tightened into a hard, resentful line. “I don’t think so. They said Danny ran away.”
“Tell me about him,” Anne said.
For most of the afternoon, Sheila talked. Anne listened. What she heard was the story of an ambitious boy, determined to get ahead in the world, determined to right the wrongs that he perceived had been done to his people.
And then one morning he’d gotten up early, taken his fishing pole, and gone to wait for Richard Kraven at a corner near the university where Kraven taught and Danny went to school.
Sheila had never seen him again.
Richard Kraven, when she’d called him, had told her that he knew Danny, that he had indeed had a date to go fishing with Danny, but that when he arrived at the corner to pick Danny up, Danny wasn’t there.
Kraven told her he’d waited a few minutes, but when Danny didn’t show up, he decided the boy must have slept in, and he’d gone on to fish by himself. Sheila Harrar hadn’t believed him then, and when the stories about him—Anne’s stories—started appearing in the Herald, she’d been sure that Kraven had killed Danny. But no one ever listened to her. Not until today, anyway.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Anne said when Sheila Harrar finally fell silent. “It’s been how long since Danny disappeared? Four years?” Sheila nodded miserably. “Do you remember what he was wearing that day?”
Sheila nodded. “What he always wore. Blue jeans. A plaid shirt. Tennis shoes—not the fancy kind. Danny wouldn’t waste money on those. Just Keds, like when we were kids, you know?”
Anne smiled. “Twenty dollars, ten if they were on sale?”
“Like that, yeah. And he had his fishing rod with him, and his knife.”
“His knife?” Anne echoed.
“A pocketknife, with a turquoise handle,” Sheila told her. “It was something his daddy gave him, before he left. Danny always had it in his pocket.”
Anne glanced around the shabby room that was all Sheila Harrar had left in life. “I wish I could tell you I think you’re wrong about Danny,” she said finally, deciding the one thing Sheila Harrar didn’t need right now was false hope. “But I suspect you’re probably right. The thing about Kraven that no one ever understood was how he picked his victims. There was never a pattern, never a common denominator. Mostly, it just seemed random. And I suppose it really was random, and if he had a chance, there’s no reason why Kraven wouldn’t have killed someone he knew once or twice. In fact, it might even fit with the lack of a pattern.” She reached out and laid her hand on Sheila’s. “But that doesn’t help, does it?”
Sheila shook her head and sighed, but then a faint, rueful smile curved her lips. “You listened,” she said. “That helps. No one else listened—they didn’t even care. It’s better, just knowing someone else knows what happened to Danny, too.”
Wishing there were something she could do for Sheila Harrar, but knowing there wasn’t, Anne went back to her office and continued with the odds and ends of the day.
She called Mark Blakemoor and got the answer to the question she hadn’t asked at lunch.
“Why would there be any progress on Shawnelle Davis?” he asked, his tone clearly implying that he expected better of Anne. “She was a hooker. You know how it is around here when hookers get killed—nobody cares. If nobody cares, I can’t get very far. No time, no cooperation, hardly even any interest. I don’t like it, but I can’t change it.”
And though Anne didn’t like it, either, she understood it. It was just the way of the city, and it wasn’t Mark Blakemoor’s fault.
Still, the killing of Shawnelle Davis bothered her. Though it lacked some of the distinctive features of what Kraven had done, the similarities were still there, whether anyone in the police department wanted to admit it or not. Maybe she should write another follow-up story. If the department wouldn’t pressure itself, maybe she could pressure them.
She was just beginning the outlines of the story when the phone on her desk jangled. Picking it up, she was surprised to hear Joyce Cottrell’s voice.
Joyce was her slightly over-the-hill—and perhaps not completely sane, as far as Anne was concerned—next door neighbor.
“I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon,” Joyce told her. “And I didn’t want to leave a message because—well, you’ll understand when I tell you.”
Anne listened in silence, barely able to believe what she was hearing, as Joyce Cottrell described what she’d seen in the backyard that morning.
“I only saw him for a split second, and he hardly even looked like Glen at all! But who else could it have been? And it wasn’t just that he was naked,” Joyce finished. “It was the way he looked at me. Anne, I can’t tell you how strange it was. It was—well, I don’t know—I’ve always liked Glen, you know that. But the way he looked at me just scared me.” She was silent for a second, then her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Anne, it was just a heart attack, wasn’t it? I mean—well, Glen’s all right, isn’t he?”
Though she assured Joyce that Glen had suffered only a heart attack and hadn’t secretly been in the psycho ward at Harborview, when Anne hung up the phone, she felt a lot more frightened than she’d let Joyce know.