Tracy was honest. “I’m in the initial stages of an investigation and was hoping for just a few minutes of your time.”
This was the moment people found an excuse to say “Now is not a good time,” but Tracy was betting Martin—a professional woman likely used to difficult conversations and with limited free time—would prefer to rip off the Band-Aid and get the conversation over with rather than spend an afternoon or day stewing about it.
“I have a few minutes at three thirty,” she said. “After that, I’m on conference calls the rest of the afternoon, and I leave tomorrow on a business trip.”
Martin’s office was located in one of the buildings on the company’s West Campus in Redmond. After stopping at the visitor center for a map and directions, Tracy parked in a designated visitor’s area and hurried along a footpath. She had never been to Microsoft headquarters, a sprawling complex of buildings and acreage that very much reminded her of college, with fountains, a lake, grass playing fields, and young people walking around dressed in jeans and tennis shoes and carrying backpacks.
Tiffany Martin was not so casual. Dressed in cream slacks and a gold top, she met Tracy in a glass-and-concrete lobby. Though she had to be at least midfifties, Martin’s hairstyle and makeup made her look younger.
She handed Tracy a visitor’s pass and said, “You need that to get in.” She then escorted Tracy into the building as quickly as if she were trying to get a crazy relative out of public view.
Martin chose a conference room with a modern theme, not surprising for a technology company whose success depended on being forward-thinking. The walls were white and covered with what looked to be Japanese prints, the carpet a utilitarian gray. Martin pulled out a chair at the glass conference table, but Tracy walked to the windows with a view of the heart of campus.
“I wouldn’t get any work done with all these distractions.”
“You learn to tune them out,” Martin said in a crisp tone. “And you don’t have a lot of free time.”
Tracy had not been looking for an answer. She was hoping small talk might help Martin relax. Her eyes and mouth were pinched so tight Tracy thought something might pop.
“Must be nice to have it available, though,” Tracy said.
“It helps people to be more efficient,” Martin said, joining Tracy at the window.
“Tell that to my bosses. Our amenities are a decade-old coffeemaker.”
“I have to tell you I was dismayed to get your phone call, Detective. I don’t see how Darren’s death could have anything to do with anything.”
“I understand.” Tracy rolled back one of the black leather chairs from the table, and the two women sat. “And I’m sorry to bring up a difficult topic.”
Martin favored silver and gold bracelets that rattled each time she moved her arm or lowered it to the glass table. “It was a long time ago, Detective,” she said. “But you never really move on from something like that. You try, but there are always reminders.”
“How long were you married?” Tracy asked, hoping to put Martin more at ease by asking a simple question.
“Twenty-one years.”
“You met in college?”
“At the University of Washington; we were in the engineering department together.”
Martin’s answers continued to be short and direct. Tracy decided to cut to the chase. “It appears your husband had a good job at Boeing. You have a good career here. I’m guessing from your address at the time that you had a nice home.”
“Darren had demons,” Martin said, anticipating where Tracy was going. “I wasn’t aware of them when we got married, and he kept them in check during the early years of our marriage.”
“What kind of demons?”
“He didn’t sleep well, for one.” She paused. “He didn’t sleep. He didn’t like to sleep. He stayed up late, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to get up again at three. Three to four hours was a good night for him. Eventually, that takes its toll.”
“Do you know why he couldn’t sleep?”
“He said he just didn’t need that much.”
“But you believe there was something more to it?”
“He suffered nightmares. He’d wake me moaning and thrashing. When I’d wake him, he’d be in a lather of sweat, trying to catch his breath. It became progressively worse.”
“I noted from his obituary that he worked at Boeing until 1997.”
“They laid him off.” She shrugged. “He did it to himself. He became self-destructive. He started drinking at night to help himself fall asleep. Then he started drinking at lunch. There were a few incidents at work—inappropriate comments to his colleagues. I had to go pick him up several times. I finally told him I wouldn’t raise our children in that environment. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t get help.”
“Did he?”
“He went to counseling, but given the outcome, I guess you can conclude he never got the help he needed.”
“Did he ever discuss what the nightmares were about?”
She shook her head. “Not with me. He said he didn’t know. He said when he woke up he couldn’t remember anything.”
“But you said they got progressively worse?”
“Just judging from his reactions when he woke. I don’t know what they were about.”
“When did they start?”
Martin took a moment, bracelets rattling as she raised her hand and ran her index and middle finger across her bottom lip. “Not long after our first daughter was born. I spoke to his counselor about it once, after Darren was gone. She said that things from childhood could be triggered by the birth of a child. Abandonment issues, for instance . . . or abuse.”
“Did the counselor say what it might have been with respect to your husband?”
“No. And at that point I really didn’t want to know.”
“How old were your daughters when your husband took his life?”
“Rebecca was seventeen. Rachel was fourteen.”
“And you’ve never found out why?”
“You mean other than depression and substance abuse?”
“Did you ever ask to see his counseling records?”
She sighed. “Why? What would be the point?”
“To see if he ever said what was troubling him, what was keeping him awake at night, why he drank?”
Martin continued to rub her lower lip. “Why would I want to know?” she said, voice and demeanor soft, but her eyes almost challenging Tracy to give her a reason. “What good would come from knowing, if it was anything?”
“You’d have an answer.”
“Maybe not an answer we want.”
“I understand—”
“No.” Martin raised a hand. Her blue eyes bore into Tracy. She sounded tired. “I don’t think you do, Detective. No offense, but I’ve had a lot of people over the years tell me that, and until you’ve been through it, you have very little credibility making that statement.”