Williams leaned forward, taking up Del’s defense. “For one, they found Trejo’s body in a deserted park in Bremerton last night.” That tidbit got everyone’s attention. “Bremerton Police are currently calling it a suicide, but we had a homicide detective out there and she said it looks to her like somebody executed Trejo with a bullet in the head.”
“And I doubt Nick Evans was regularly reading the morning newspaper over a cup of coffee,” Del said. “So unless someone told him about Trejo being arrested, it’s doubtful he would have known either that name or anything about Trejo’s arrest unless someone filled him in. Second, one of the things we’ve been trying to determine since this whole thing started was why Trejo simply didn’t stop his car when he hit D’Andre Miller—why he fled the scene. This explains it. Third, somebody helped Trejo find a vacant lot in which to ditch his car and further helped him get back to Bremerton. Fourth, somebody stole the security tape, which showed Trejo at the convenience store the night the kid got hit. It couldn’t be used against him at the Article 32 hearing.”
Williams jumped in. “And we don’t think it was a coincidence—that someone simply misplaced it, not with everything else that has happened.”
Rizzo frowned. It looked like a pout. “Trejo could have been dealing drugs for years and might very well have known about the vacant lot on his own. Second, he might not have stopped because he knew he was looking at a hit and run while under the influence. We have any indications he uses?”
“I can check his autopsy,” Faz said, making a note on a legal pad.
Rizzo continued, “Third, his wife could have helped him get home and is covering for him or possibly for a friend. Maybe this guy Tseng.” Rizzo looked to Williams and Nolasco. “I thought I heard that the Navy defense counsel was under investigation for taking the video?”
Del didn’t back down. “If Trejo was supplying heroin on a regular basis, it raises the logical question. Why didn’t you guys know about him . . . or Tseng.” Rizzo visibly stiffened. “Not that I’m casting any stones.”
“They talked to Trejo’s wife last night after finding his body,” Williams said, relaying what Tracy had told him. “She admitted Trejo had been out the night of the hit and run, but swears she didn’t know where he went or what he was doing. She says he told her he had errands to run for work and would be home late. When he came home, he told her the car was in the shop for an oil change and he’d get it back later the next day. Nothing to indicate she’s lying, and frankly, she wouldn’t have any reason to, given that her husband is dead.”
Clarridge spoke to Rizzo. “So you have nothing going with respect to a heroin ring in Rainier?”
“We have a lot going, just not with Tseng,” Rizzo said. “We were made aware of a problem by the medical examiner’s office after those two overdose deaths in the north end. We had bike officers reach out to known users and asked them to spread the word. What we believe, given the timing of the deaths and the geographic proximity of the two overdoses to a dozen others, is that the victims bought from either the same person or from persons supplying from the same source. But there are a number of gangs and drug cartels in the Pacific Northwest running meth and heroin.”
“China white?” Del said.
“We don’t know it was China white,” Rizzo interjected.
“It wasn’t black tar,” Del said.
Clarridge jumped in. “But is it accurate that Tseng was not on your radar?”
“If Trejo was providing Tseng heroin, he and whoever he was working for were keeping it quiet, and with good reason,” Rizzo said. “If the Mexican drug cartels find out someone is dealing in their territory, there will be hell to pay.”
“So let’s take Tseng and see what he knows about Trejo,” Del said.
“We take him, we’re going to need to find the product,” Rizzo said. “Without any product, and without Trejo, why would Tseng talk, especially if he was working behind the Mexican drug cartels’ backs?”
“Maybe that’s the pull to get him to talk.”
“You take Tseng, and he’s part of a much larger operation, you risk losing the bigger fish.”
“There’s a bad product out there,” Del said. “People are dying.”
“That product has likely been distributed by now,” Rizzo said. “Best thing we can do is get the word out far and wide.”
“So we do nothing?” Del said, looking to Clarridge.
“That’s not going to be acceptable,” Clarridge said, rubbing his chin. “Not to the mayor and not to African American community leaders. There’s a perception the Navy had a hand in Trejo walking, and now there are all kinds of theories circulating that the Navy also had him killed.”
“So it sounds like our best bet is this guy Tseng in Rainier Beach,” Dunleavy said, who, up until this point, had remained quiet. Tall, with a ruddy Irish complexion and deep voice, Dunleavy asked, “How long are we looking at, realistically, if we were to try to get something in place?”
“You mean people on the inside?” Rizzo looked and sounded dumbfounded. “First, we don’t know how long this has been going on, but they certainly weren’t making much, if any, noise. That’s a problem. If they know we picked up Evans and that Trejo is dead, you can forget about it; they will have likely shut everything down and are on the move.”
“So then there’s no harm taking Tseng now,” Del said.
“How long?” Dunleavy asked again.
Rizzo blew out a breath. “Months. I’d say three to six, minimum.”
Del shook his head.
“That’s too long,” Clarridge said. He took a moment, considering their options. “All right, let’s pick up Tseng, start applying pressure, and see if he’ll give us Trejo as his contact, maybe more. If he IDs Trejo, at least maybe we solve the public perception problem.”
“And possibly save a few more lives,” Del said.
“Then let’s make it happen,” Clarridge said.
Late in the afternoon, an MA escorted Tracy into the office of Rebecca Stanley, Leah Battles’s officer in charge. Stanley’s office was located on the first floor of the DSO building, just down the hall from Battles’s office. It seemed too small and too austere for an officer in charge, almost as if Stanley were using a spare office for their meeting. But on the wall behind her hung a series of diplomas with Stanley’s name embossed in black script—degrees from college, law school, and the JAG Corps. They hung next to a square window not much bigger than the picture frames.