The coroner’s report appeared to be a copy, which made sense; the prosecuting attorney’s office would have maintained the original. Tracy deduced from the poor quality of the copy that the original had been typed on onionskin paper, or something equivalent, and had been generated from microfiche. The type was so small it was hard on the eyes, especially late at night after a long weekend, but Tracy pushed on.
The external examination indicated that photographs had been taken for identification purposes and to document the condition of the body. Tracy found them in Buzz Almond’s file, and they weren’t pretty. She skimmed the general examination report just enough to get the basics—female, five foot seven, 125 pounds, black hair and eyes. The pathologist noted contusions, abrasions, scrapes, and cuts of various lengths and severity over much of the body, including the forearms, legs, and face. Kimi’s right tibia was fractured, and her chest showed signs of blunt-force trauma. She also had bruising over much of her back and upper right shoulder. The pathologist concluded that the external injuries were “consistent with the expected impact of the body being thrown up against and dragged over boulders and rocks and submerged debris in a rushing current.” The coroner also noted the aspiration of fluid into Kimi’s air passages, including her lungs, which he concluded was consistent with someone being suddenly immersed in cold water. “The deceased inhaled water due to the reflex from stimulation of the skin.” Kimi had also vomited and aspirated some gastric contents, also consistent with someone who “inhaled water,” which he said “causes coughing and drives large volumes of air out of the lungs, leading to a disturbance of the breathing and vomiting.”
Tracy flipped another page, but the report abruptly ended with the pathologist’s signature just beneath his opinion.
“This woman came to her death as a result of multiple traumas to the head, chest, and extremities.”
Donald W. Frick, MD
She flipped through the remainder of the file, which included photocopies of two invoices from a company called Columbia Windshield and Glass, one stamped “Paid” in faded red ink for $68, and a second receipt for $659 from Columbia Auto Repair. Neither receipt noted what the payment was for, the name of the owner, the type of vehicle, or the license plate number. She reconsidered the photographs of Moore’s truck. The windshield had a crack.
“No doubt now,” she said. Roger lifted his head from the table. “Tommy Moore was suspect number one.”
Running out of steam, she shut the file. “Come on, Roger, bedtime.”
Roger stood and stretched. Tracy carried him to the bedroom, her mind still going over the file. Putting aside for a second the indisputable fact that a deputy sheriff was conducting an unauthorized investigation, and abiding by the adage that nothing in an investigative file was irrelevant, Tracy had to assume Buzz Almond had included everything for a reason, but she was a long way from knowing those reasons.
CHAPTER 7
Wednesday, November 10, 1976
Buzz Almond hugged and kissed his wife, Anne, at the front door. “Love you,” he said.
“Love you,” she said.
“Take care of my girls.”
“Take care of my Buzz.”
It was their routine, and Buzz knew it eased Anne’s concern to hear the words. She worried each day he left for work. And with two little girls at home and a third child on the way—maybe that boy Buzz silently hoped for—Anne had every right to worry. Her parents were well-off and would take care of her and the kids if anything ever happened to him, but they both knew money was a poor substitute for a husband and a father. He hated knowing she worried like she did, and he hated leaving his girls alone at night.
Anne slid her arms around his waist just above the cumbersome belt that held his revolver, nightstick, flashlight, radio, and handcuffs. “You haven’t been yourself the past few days. Is it that Indian girl?”
“Kimi Kanasket,” he said.
“Such a tragedy,” Anne said. “What’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know,” he said, though he did. “Just the thought of it, I guess. A girl that young, bright future ahead of her.”
“Do they know what happened yet?”
“They’re waiting on the autopsy.”
Anne snuggled as close as she could get with the belt between them. Her hair smelled of coconut—some new shampoo—and when he lowered his nose and nuzzled her neck, Buzz detected the familiar odor of caramel. Neither of them knew why. They’d done a smell test of Anne’s creams and perfumes, and none of those had been the source. It was her natural scent, they assumed, and it was a surefire way to get Buzz’s motor going. “You are as sweet as candy,” he told her.
“Well, maybe when I get home this afternoon and you get off-shift, we can find a way to take your mind off of work and onto something more pleasant.”
He smiled. “I’d like that. You have a magic spell to make Sophia and Maria sit still for half an hour, do you?”
“Not half an hour, but I might have a spell or two to last fifteen minutes.”
He pulled back and feigned indignation. “Has it come to that already? A quarter of an hour?”
“It’s not the number of minutes that counts, it’s the quality. And you, Buzz Almond, make every minute special.”
“Try explaining that to the guys at the station.”
“I hope you don’t,” she said. “I’d be too embarrassed to look them in the eye again.”
“You? I’d be the one they started calling Quick Draw.”
She laughed and slapped his chest. “You just come home to me, Buzz.”
“How could I not, with those thoughts on my mind?” He kissed her again and left her in the doorway looking prettier than the day he’d married her.
Later, on patrol, his thoughts vacillated between the anticipated rendezvous with Anne, and Earl Kanasket. He couldn’t imagine the man’s grief, couldn’t imagine losing one of his daughters. He’d heard people say that a parent never recovers from the loss of a child, but it had been one of those sayings that had little meaning without context. Buzz had seen enough young people die during two tours in Vietnam; it was something he’d never gotten used to, and he hoped he never did. But he hadn’t been a father then. He didn’t know what it was like to truly love a child of your own flesh and blood. He’d never seen a parent’s anguish, not until that horrible moment when he’d driven to Earl and Nettie Kanasket’s home and delivered the news that their daughter was dead. Earl had been stoic, like a boxer who’d taken a solid right to the head, still on his feet but uncertain of his surroundings or circumstances. Nettie had simply melted, her legs giving way, collapsing to the floor.