Tracy decided to push it. “Who might have sued?”
“Like I said, kids start reading their names in the paper, getting slaps on the back—sometimes they think they can do no wrong. High school stuff, you know?”
“Drinking? Smoking pot?”
“Here’s the thing. Little Timmy gets caught with a beer, the police drive him home, and nobody cares. One of the Ironmen gets caught, and the police still drive him home, but everyone in town knows, and now they’re worried he’s going to get kicked off the team and their undefeated season is going to go up in smoke.”
“Right, but you had your finger on the pulse. Any truth to those rumors?”
Goldman sighed. Then he said, “Not a lot to do in a small town.”
“Any of them have any romantic involvement with Kimi Kanasket that you’re aware of?”
Goldman paused, and Tracy knew he was connecting the dots between her questions. “If there was, I wouldn’t have known about it.”
“You never heard anything like that?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Any connection at all you can think of?”
Again there was a lengthy pause. “Coe and Gallentine ran track. That’s the only thing I can think of.”
“What can you tell me about Arthur Coe?”
“Archie Coe,” Goldman corrected. “Nice kid. He was probably the least heralded of the four. He joined the Army after high school, but he washed out, came home with a medical discharge.”
“Do you know what for?”
“Officially, he hurt his back.”
“Unofficially?”
“Unofficially, he had some type of nervous breakdown. He lives in Central Point now. Works in the nursery—at least he did fifteen years ago when I last tried to speak to him.”
Tracy thought of the man she’d seen in the clearing and of the freshly planted shrub. “Was he married? Did he have any kids?”
“Divorced. His wife and kids moved to somewhere in California. Palm Springs maybe.”
“Why’d you try to speak to him fifteen years ago?”
“I was writing an article on the twenty-five-year anniversary of the championship. It turned out to not be the celebratory piece everyone was expecting.”
“Why not?”
“Eric Reynolds is the only one of the four who made anything of himself. He played four years at UW, but he blew his knee out during practice sophomore year. If he did it now, it’d be no big deal, but back then it was the kiss of death. He never reached the kind of stardom he did in high school. Still, after he graduated, he moved home and started his construction and cement business. Any public-works job this side of Seattle, you’re likely to see a Reynolds Construction banner.”
Tracy again considered her notes. “What about Darren Gallentine?”
“He shot himself. He was living in Seattle.”
“When?”
“Sometime in the late eighties, I believe.”
“Do you know why?”
“Not a clue, friend,” he said. “The last of the four was young Hastey, who is universally considered the town drunk. Like I said, not exactly a feel-good story. We shelved it.”
“What does Hastey do for Reynolds?”
“He drove a cement truck until he got his third DUI. Now I think he shines a seat in the office.”
“Sounds like Reynolds is pretty loyal to him.”
“Old ties run deep in a small town.”
“Yeah,” Tracy said, thinking of Cedar Grove. “I’m going to need to come down and take another look at your newspapers, Sam. Would that be all right?”
“Anytime, friend. We’re not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER 21
Monday morning Tracy drove to the squat cement building on Airport Way that was home to the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. She’d left the coffeehouse Friday feeling both energized and sick. She had definitive forensic proof that Kimi Kanasket had not thrown herself into the White Salmon River. Far from it. She’d been run down and run over, her body unceremoniously dumped like a piece of garbage.
And Tracy’s focus had now shifted squarely to the Four Ironmen.
She refrained from calling Jenny. She’d learned not to prematurely express her conclusions every time she thought she had a significant break in a case. Too often that break turned out to be a false lead, and she had to go back and explain why she’d been wrong.
Michael Melton’s office was located on the first floor. A level five forensic scientist, Melton was at the top of the pay chain, which was a testament not only to his longevity, but also to his skill and dedication to his job. Melvin could have earned three times his salary working for a private forensic company—which many chose to do after getting the training and resume boost of working for the crime lab. Melton, however, remained—year after year, even when he was in the midst of paying college tuition or funding weddings for his six daughters. The detectives knew Melton stayed out of a sense of obligation to the victims and their families. He sat on the board of directors of the Seattle chapter of Victim Support Services, and he and three other crime-lab scientists played in a country-western band called the Fourensics to raise money for that organization. A bear of a man with a full head of graying brown hair and a matching beard, Melton had nimble enough fingers to strum a guitar and a surprisingly soothing voice.
Tracy met Melton in his office, which contained an eclectic mix of family photographs, ball-peen hammers, combat knives, and a cast-iron skillet—evidence from cases Melton had helped to solve.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my favorite detective?” Melton said. “Let me guess—the Tim Collins case.”
“Actually, different case,” Tracy said.
“As long as you don’t need it tonight. Got a gig at Kells.”
Kells was a popular Irish bar in the Pike Place Market that Tracy occasionally frequented. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Just found out. We’re subbing for an Irish folk band.”
“No, nothing I need by tonight,” Tracy said. She set down her briefcase and pulled out the photographs, thumbing through the packets until she found the shots of the tire-tread impressions in the ground. “I’m hoping you can tell me the make and model of the tire that made this impression. You’ll need to go back a ways. These were taken in 1976.”
Like shoes, tires made unique impressions. Even tires of the same make and model could be differentiated by tread wear and the differing amounts of damage in the form of tiny cuts and nicks in the rubber. The latter could be accomplished only if the tread in the photograph could be compared to the actual tire, which was beyond unlikely. However, knowing the manufacturer and model of the tire would be extremely helpful if, for instance, it matched the tires on Tommy Moore’s truck, or another vehicle Tracy might come across upon her revisit to Sam Goldman’s personal library.
“Computer doesn’t go back that far,” Melton said.
His response caught her off guard. “Is there any other way to do it?” she said.