She jaywalked to the three black-and-whites—two sedans and an SUV—parked in front of the Harbor West apartment complex. Built on pilings and piers pounded deep into the mud, the complex extended out over the Sound and gave new meaning to the term “living on the water.” No thanks. One sizable earthquake could snap one of those wood beams. Then again, her home was perched on a two-hundred-foot hillside. When you chose view over practicalities, you picked your poison, though this view was spectacular. Vashon and Bainbridge Islands, and the much smaller Blake Island, created the picturesque backdrop that warranted the exorbitant rents and condominium prices along Beach Drive SW.
Three uniformed officers on a footpath watched Tracy’s approach from behind black-and-yellow crime scene tape. Tracy didn’t bother showing them her shield. Even without the branding on her windbreaker and ball cap, after more than twenty years, she knew she’d acquired a cop’s self-assured gait and demeanor.
“Tracy,” a female officer said.
She also remained Seattle’s only female homicide detective, and she’d recently received her second Medal of Valor for a high-profile investigation and capture of a serial killer known as “the Cowboy.” Frankly, she could have done without the attention. She and her partner, Kins, had heard the whispers around Police Headquarters about how they always seemed to be the team on call when the department got a “whodunit.” The insinuation that their captain, Johnny Nolasco, was feeding them cases was more than absurd. Tracy and Nolasco got along worse than those women on the Housewives of Wherever television shows.
“Katie,” Tracy said.
Katie Pryor worked out of the Southwest Precinct. She was one of many officers Tracy had trained to shoot to pass her qualifying exam.
“How are you?” Pryor asked.
“I could use more sleep,” Tracy said. Instinctively, she was already considering the area as a whole. She noted beach logs leading to the water, and a young man standing beside a beached aluminum fishing boat. A taut rope extended eight to ten feet off the back of the boat, then plunged into the blue-gray water. Tracy questioned why a beached boat would need an anchor.
“I take it that’s the guy who reported finding the body?”
Pryor looked over her shoulder. “His name’s Kurt Schill.”
Tracy shifted her gaze up and down the rocky beach, which was strewn with bleached-white logs. “So where is it?”
Pryor said, “I’ll walk you in.”
Tracy scribbled her name on the sign-in sheet and ducked beneath the tape. Pryor handed the clipboard to one of the two remaining officers.
Tracy noticed people starting to linger on the beach and turned to the other officers. “Move everyone off the beach and onto the elevated sidewalk. Tell them the beach is going to be closed most of the day. And find out if anybody saw anything or knows anything.” She surveyed Beach Drive, spotting a blue truck with a boat trailer. “After you move them, write down the license plate numbers of every car parked along Beach Drive to Sixty-First Avenue and back down Spokane Street.” She knew the three streets intersected, creating a scalene triangle with Beach Drive SW making up the longest side. It was not unheard of for a killer, if they were dealing with a murder, to come back to the crime scene and watch the investigation unfold.
They moved toward the water. After the cumulative days of hot weather, the beach held a distinct briny smell. A uniformed officer, bent over, hammered a stick into the sand, presumably to tie the other end of the crime scene tape he’d strung to create a U-shaped perimeter.
“We got the call from dispatch at five thirty-two,” Pryor said, her boots sinking into the rocks and making a sound like rattling change. “When we arrived, he was waiting for us by his boat.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Kurt Schill. He’s a high school student here in West Seattle.”
Tracy stopped walking to consider the logs positioned parallel to the water. “Did he do this?”
“Not sure,” Pryor said.
“Looks like a makeshift boat ramp.” She took a couple pictures with her cell.
“He said he was crabbing and his pot snagged something as he pulled it up,” Pryor said.
“A body?” Tracy asked, thinking that would be a first.
“Another crab pot.”
“I thought he found a body?”
“He’s pretty sure he did,” Pryor said. “Inside the pot.”
Tracy looked from Pryor to the boat and beyond it to the taut line. Not an anchor. She’d come to the site predisposed to find a body on the shore, perhaps a drowning or boating accident, what they referred to in the section as a “grounder” or easy play. If the body was inside a crab pot, that changed everything, in a big freaking way.
“Have you seen it?”
“The body?” Pryor shook her head. “Water’s too deep. And I’m not sure I want to. The kid said he thought he saw a hand sticking out from under crab and starfish. Creepy stuff. He towed it back here.”
“A hand or the whole body?” Tracy asked.
“He said he saw a hand. Based on his description of the weight of the pot, though, likely the whole body.”
Tracy reconsidered the young man. She could only imagine the horror of seeing a decomposing body fed on by marine life.