Beyond that, as with any decades-old case, the evidence was riddled with uncertainty any defense attorney worth his salt would exploit. Jurors would question why the case was being brought now, and even convincing arguments about advances in technology could be trumped by a more practical and human argument—whether it was justified to prosecute three or four men who had never committed another known violent act against anyone on the basis of questionable evidence. Without more, the case would be near-impossible for a prosecutor to convince a jury to sacrifice those lives for the life of a young woman dead forty years.
Someone knocked on the front door. Tracy was surprised to find Jenny standing on the porch. She looked troubled. “I just came from the Central Point Nursery,” she said, and Tracy felt her stomach drop. “An employee found Archibald Coe hanging in one of the hothouses.”
They moved into the dining room, but neither Tracy nor Jenny sat. Tracy felt as though she’d taken a mule kick to the gut.
Jenny had driven out to the nursery upon receiving the call earlier that morning. “He wasn’t answering his phone or responding to calls over the nursery’s loudspeakers,” Jenny said. “Someone noticed he’d never clocked out last night and took a walk over to the hothouse.”
“Are you certain it was a suicide?”
“The person who found him said the door was unlocked when he tried it. I got a CSI team over there, but there’s no indication of a struggle. He positioned some plants around himself in a circle, looped a rope over one of the overhead beams, stood on a ceramic pot, and kicked it over.”
“A memorial. Like the clearing,” Tracy said.
“Looks like that’s what he intended.”
“Any note?”
“Not that we’ve found,” Jenny said. “I sent detectives to his apartment. I think it best under the circumstances that you not get too close to this. Let my office handle it. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
Tracy couldn’t disagree, but that didn’t alleviate her frustration. She swore under her breath. “Maybe I should have anticipated this, given how fragile he seemed.”
Jenny shrugged. “And what could you have done about it?”
“I don’t know.”
The police detective in Tracy couldn’t dismiss the thought that Coe had not willingly taken his own life, that it was all too convenient. Her civilian side was thinking that if Coe had taken his own life, she bore some measure of responsibility—that her questions about Kimi Kanasket had pushed an already fragile man over the edge. She felt horrible about it, but she also saw it as further validation that the cause of Coe’s nervous breakdown was the same nightmare that had haunted Darren Gallentine. The similarities between the two men’s circumstances could not be ignored. Each had problems when their children were born and when their daughters became teenagers. Tracy suspected that Coe, like Gallentine, had toed the ledge between living and taking his own life for years, and had only managed to subsist by following a structured routine. When Tracy disrupted that routine, it had shattered Coe’s tenuous existence, and this time it had been enough for him to step off that narrow ledge—if Coe had in fact killed himself.
The only thing Tracy knew for certain was that she had just lost her best chance of finding out what had really happened that night in the clearing . . . and perhaps her last chance to prove it.
After Jenny had gone back to Central Point, Tracy’s cell phone rang, a 509 area code, which she recognized as the area code for Eastern Washington, including Klickitat County. She didn’t recognize the number. Still, Tracy answered.
“Detective Crosswhite?”
“Yes?”
“This is Eric Reynolds. I understand you wish to speak to me.”
CHAPTER 27
Tracy had a difficult time finding a parking spot in the overflowing lot for the Columbia River Golf Course, and she eventually parallel parked in a questionable space that blocked several cars. She figured she’d be gone well before the golfers returned. The sun had burst through the cloud layer, and though it remained cold, any remnant of the dusting of snow that morning had melted. As Tracy approached the clubhouse, she noticed a large banner hanging from the roof eaves that explained the reason for the crowd—the Ron Reynolds Golf Tournament.
Eric Reynolds had explained to Tracy during their brief telephone conversation that he had an 11:10 tee time but that Tracy could find him on the driving range an hour before, and Reynolds would be happy to speak to her. He sounded like he was scheduling a business lunch, not the least bit concerned that a Seattle homicide detective wanted to question him about the death of a young woman forty years earlier. Tracy could tell this would not be like interviewing Archibald Coe or Hastey Devoe.
Tracy entered the pro shop, obtained directions to the driving range, and found golfers of varying ages from white-haired octogenarians to baby-faced recent high school graduates. Young men and women dressed in Stoneridge High letterman jackets and cheerleading outfits flittered around the area. Some drove golf carts or otherwise tried to look busy.
Tracy had a copy of Eric Reynolds’s most recent driver’s license photo, but she didn’t need it. He was easy to find. He stood at the end of the range, alternately driving golf balls into a net 250 yards away and smiling and chatting with a group of admirers gathered behind him and seemingly hanging on his every word. He looked to still be Stoneridge High’s all-American. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, perhaps an inch or two over six feet, but he still had the muscular build of an athlete. The theme of the day was Stoneridge, and Reynolds wore the school colors proudly—red pants and sweater vest, white shirt and golf shoes.
Tracy held back, watching Reynolds while listening to the pings and thwacks of a dozen golf clubs striking range balls. After a few minutes, Reynolds caught sight of her at the edge of the putting green. He clearly knew who she was, but if her presence unnerved him, his reaction did not reveal it. He gave her a nod and half a wave, as if they were old friends and he’d be with her in just a minute. Reynolds said a few more words to the gathered assembly, slid the shaft of his club into his bag, and removed his white golf glove as he approached.
“Detective Crosswhite,” he said, extending a hand. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”
“Not at all,” Tracy said.
Reynolds looked up at the sky, pale blue with large white clouds. “Thankfully, it looks like we’re going to have decent weather,” he said. “I told the organizers you tempt fate when you schedule a golf tournament in November. We usually hold it in late spring, but this year they were adamant it coincide with the reunion and the stadium dedication.”
“So this is an annual event?”
“It is. We started it to raise money for the Stoneridge High School scholarship fund.” He gestured in the direction of the clubhouse. “I’ve reserved a room for us to talk.”