“Okay, time to unglue him,” whispered Verraday. “Mention the land now.”
“Well you certainly had a reason to,” said Maclean. “Your father was running the business into the ground. That was why he sold the twenty-acre retreat that your family owned on Suquamish Island. For cash flow. But you had an even more important reason for not wanting him to sell it, didn’t you?”
Jason sat there with an uncomprehending expression on his face.
“You see,” continued Maclean, “I checked with the new owner of the land, an Ellen Williams. She told me that a realtor has been calling her every three weeks with an offer to buy. So I asked her who this realtor was, and I spoke to him to find out who he was representing. Are you going to make Mr. Tarleton guess who the mystery person is, Jason, or should I just tell him?”
Jason Griffin shrugged. “So I put in an offer. I grew up there. I have a lot of fond memories from the family cottage.”
“Nail him!” whispered Verraday.
“I bet you do. And we’re going to dig up every one of those fond memories of yours until we have all the evidence we need to put you on death row.”
Jason Griffin smirked, his personality suddenly shifting to belligerent. “You don’t have shit,” he said.
Maclean brought out a photo of a border collie.
Griffin looked vaguely amused. “What’s with the dog, Detective?”
“I’m glad you asked. This is a cadaver-sniffing dog belonging to the State Patrol. His name is Torch. He’s successfully located bodies that have been buried for more than two decades. He’s also found remains as small as a single vertebra.”
Maclean pulled out another photo, this one an aerial shot of a heavily treed island. “I think you’ll recognize the island in this aerial photo. Shouldn’t be hard, since by your own admission, you have so many fond memories of it.” She pointed to a large waterfront parcel of land marked off with red ink. “This is the recreational property that your father sold to Ellen Williams. We flew Torch and his handler up to Suquamish Island this morning to start looking for your other victims. The ones you used to fly out there in your floatplane before your father sold that too, along with the island property, so shortly before his conveniently timed ‘suicide.’”
Tarleton looked apoplectic. “This is outrageous,” he thundered. “You don’t have proof of anything, Detective. Just circumstantial evidence for crimes that you can’t prove even exist.”
“Really? Well then let’s talk about that Dodge Charger Hemi instead.”
“What?” snorted Griffin.
“You said it was at an upholstery shop.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re lying, Mr. Griffin. I had a patrol car do a drive-by of your mother’s home this morning. What do you think they found?”
Jason didn’t answer.
“There was a covered vehicle carrier in her driveway,” continued Maclean. “One that was exactly the right size to have a Dodge Charger in it. So we got a warrant and executed that warrant right before we picked you up, so you and your mom wouldn’t have time for a little emergency conference. And what do you suppose was in that trailer but a vintage Dodge Charger worth a lot of money.”
“Detective, that vehicle is lawfully registered to my client. Where are you going with all this?” asked Tarleton.
“Hold on, Counselor. I think you’ll find this interesting. So Jason, you lied about the car being at the upholstery shop. It was at your mother’s house.”
“That’s not a crime,” said Tarleton. “He probably just didn’t want you and your horde pestering his poor mother.”
“No, Counselor, I don’t think that was the reason. I think it had more to do with the fact that the VIN number, which I checked this morning, indicates that your car came equipped with a 318 V-8, not a 426 Hemi?”
“So what?” sneered Griffin.
“So the engine serial number of the Hemi now installed in your car indicates that it originally came from a 1971 Dodge Challenger down in Eugene, Oregon. Apparently two men came to test drive it a few months ago. Since the car was worth almost $100,000, the owner, one Paul Schmidt, quite understandably wanted to ride along. For some strange reason, instead of leaving their own vehicle at the home of the Challenger’s owner, one of the men test drove the car while the other man followed behind in their vehicle. An hour later, when Mr. Schmidt hadn’t returned home, his wife became concerned. And apparently she had reason to be, because Paul Schmidt’s body turned up a week later, in a backwoods canyon, burned beyond recognition. The Dodge Challenger was never recovered.”