Chapter 57
Rolph Gustafson and Lars Gunderson had been fishing buddies for more than seven decades, ever since they’d grown up next door to each other in Ballard, where they’d thrown their first lines into the ship canal that separated their neighborhood from the main part of Seattle just to the south. Back then they’d dreamed about all the places they would go to when they grew up, but it turned out that they both still lived in Ballard—a block apart now, but not more than two blocks from the houses in which they’d grown up. They were both widowers, both still talked about going to Norway to look up cousins they’d never met, and both still loved to fish. The main thing that had changed over the seven decades was that they now preferred to cast their lines in the mountain streams to the east of the city rather than in the canal that bisected it. This morning—as on practically every Saturday morning since Lars’s wife had died three years earlier—they set out before dawn, their fishing gear stowed in the backseat of Rolph’s old Dodge, coffee and doughnuts balanced on Lars’s knees. By the time they had crossed the I-90 bridge and began the climb up toward Snoqualmie Pass, they were already arguing about where to try their luck today.
As on every other Saturday morning, Rolph turned off at the Snoqualmie exit while Lars grumbled that they really ought to go farther on, and then as they made their way through the town, past the power plant and falls, and started down the road that wound along the river, they launched into their discussion of the merits of trying out a few of the holes they’d heard of over the years but never quite gotten around to fishing. The debate was still going strong as Rolf pulled into the same campground they’d been fishing out of for years, parked the car, and got out. He began extracting fishing equipment from the tangle of possessions that had been filling the backseat since his own wife had died, only two months before Lars’s Greta had gone to her reward. “Hildie’d kill me if she saw this,” Rolf sighed, eying the accumulation of junk that now completely filled the floor of the backseat.
“Yeah, sure,” Lars replied. “But that don’t mean you wouldn’t want her back, huh?”
Grunting under the weight of their equipment, the two old men started along the trail that wound down from the picnic area where they’d parked Rolf’s Dodge to the edge of the river. There was a wide bend at the foot of the trail, and even at the peak of the spring floods there was still a narrow rocky beach. The snow-pack had been light this year, though, and the thaw early, so today the beach would be wide.
They were halfway down when Lars stopped short, his eyes fixing on something that lay half concealed in the thick underbrush. “Oh, boy,” he said, whistling softly. “Would you look at that. Don’t think there’s going to be much fishing today.”
He moved off to the right as Rolf edged up next to him. For a long moment the two old men stared at the nude body that lay sprawled in the bushes, arms akimbo, empty eye sockets gaping grotesquely.
The body was still recognizable as that of a woman, but already it appeared to have provided meals for several kinds of wildlife. The chest had been torn open, and it looked as though something had been gnawing at one of the arms and the legs. Insects were swarming over the corpse, and even as they watched, something skittered out from under the body and disappeared into the underbrush. As Lars took a step toward the body, Rolf’s gnarled hand closed on his friend’s elbow. “Don’t think we ought to be touchin’ nothin’,” he said. “Seems to me like we ought to just be calling the police.”
Lars, who had enough experience with dead bodies back in World War II to last him whatever years he had left, nodded his agreement. The two men returned to the campground, found a phone, and dialed 911. Then they sat in the front seat of the Dodge to wait for the sheriff to arrive. Lars uncapped the thermos and split the last of the coffee between them.
Sipping their coffee, the two old men quietly reflected on the impermanence of life and the myriad ways there were to die. It was Rolf who finally broke the silence. “When my time comes,” he said, “I think I’d just as soon drown in the river with a big fish on my line.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lars agreed. “You bet’cha!”
By the time the first police car pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later, neither Lars nor Rolf had been able to think of much else to say.
For the next few hours cars continued to stream into the campground, first from the local sheriff’s office in Snoqualmie, then from the State Patrol, finally from the Homicide Department of the Seattle Police Department. Neither Mark Blakemoor nor Lois Ackerly were in the best of moods. Blakemoor had been up most of the night—and the night before—combing through the police records in exactly the same kind of search Anne Jeffers was conducting through her files at the Herald. Lois Ackerly, on the other hand, had been getting ready for her son’s soccer game when she’d gotten the message that a body had been found in one of the campgrounds along the Snoqualmie River.
“Well, we’ve been here before,” Blakemoor observed darkly as they started down the trail toward the site Lars Gunderson and Rolf Gustafson had stumbled upon as the sun was rising that morning.
“And the locals are doing their usual terrific job of securing the site,” Ackerly agreed. “Do you suppose anyone thought of looking for footprints before they started tramping up and down the path?”
Blakemoor shrugged. “If it’s what we both think it is, there aren’t going to be any footprints anyway. Or anything else.”
As the two detectives drew closer, they could see that the area had been marked off with yellow plastic crime scene tape. One of the State Patrol officers glanced over, recognized them, and nodded a terse greeting. “I thought we were done with this stuff,” he said, tilting his head toward the body. Blakemoor followed his gaze and noted with relief that it did not appear to have been moved yet.
“We all did,” Blakemoor replied. He moved closer to the body, squatting down to get a clear look at it. “Anyone have any idea how long it’s been here?” he asked of no one in particular.
“Offhand, it looks like a day or two. Maybe since yesterday morning, or the day before. It’s not too badly decomposed yet, but it’s been getting chewed on. Fulla bugs, too.”
Mark Blakemoor’s gaze was instantly drawn to the mutilation done to the corpse’s chest. There were the familiar cuts, the skin having been laid neatly back after being incised by a scalpel or something equally as sharp.
The sternum cut with a saw.
The rib cage spread wide to expose the lungs and heart.
The heart torn away, as always, and, in this case, missing entirely. Kept by the killer as a souvenir? Or taken by some foraging animal? More likely the latter—if this fit what had been called the Kraven pattern up until now, the killer wasn’t interested in souvenirs.
He was, however, interested in leaving signatures.
“Photo guys through?” he asked.
“They burned enough film to make a movie,” someone said.
Carefully, Blakemoor moved one of the lungs enough to get a look at the interior of the dorsal surface of the thoracic cavity.
The moment he saw the familiar form of the lightning bolts that had been etched into the pleura, he glanced up at Lois Ackerly and nodded almost imperceptibly. Easing the lung back into the position in which he’d found it, he forced himself to look at the victim’s face.
A woman; at least in her sixties, maybe older. In death her skin, already sagging, had gone slack, and the thick layer of makeup she’d worn when she died had been reduced by the elements to dark streaks of mascara under her empty eye sockets; a stain of rouge still clung to one of her cheeks.
Her hair, the too-dark black of someone desperately pretending that the date on her birth certificate was a grotesque error, had broken out of its prison of hairpins and holding spray and was spread around her face in a mud-and-blood-spattered halo. But despite the depredations of the elements, the animals, and time, Mark Blakemoor recognized her almost immediately.
Getting to his feet, he turned to Lois Ackerly. “This is getting weirder and weirder. First he kills Richard Kraven’s brother, now he kills his mother. What the hell is going on?”
Lois Ackerly gazed expressionlessly at the body. “I don’t get it—first he sets up Richard Kraven, then waits until he’s executed, and goes after the brother and the mother. How come?”
Mark Blakemoor’s lips curved into a dark smile. “I don’t know, either, but at least he’s giving us a pattern this time,” he said. “And with a pattern, we can find him. Let’s get to work.” He began issuing orders, organizing a systematic search of the entire area, although he was pretty sure that, as ever, the killer had cleaned up after himself, leaving nothing in the area that would lead anyone back to him. Still, the search had to be made. Sooner or later even this killer would make a mistake.
And when he did, Mark Blakemoor intended to be the one to find it.