“More like seven,” Mel said as she stood to clear her plate and carry the remaining containers of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy back to the fridge. “I thought Ross wanted me to verify addresses of living sex offenders. I had no idea so many of them would have croaked. And the dead guys are all over the map—literally. Two now in Washington, one each in Idaho, Oregon, and Montana, and two more in Arizona.”
It didn’t surprise me to think that any given list of ex-cons, violent sexual predators or otherwise, would have a high mortality rate. They’re not exactly the kind of folks who avoid what insurance actuaries like to call “risky behavior.” Accidental overdoses of illegal drugs routinely take out far more bad guys these days than executioner-administered lethal injections ever will.
“So your guys are dying like flies. What of?”
Mel smiled at my inadvertent rhyme. “Three car accidents,” she said. “The guy on Chuckanut Drive and the two in Arizona. Ricardo Fernando Hernandez and Felix Andrade Moreno were cell mates in Monroe and later roommates down in Phoenix. Their vehicle ended up upside down in an irrigation canal outside Phoenix. Hernandez was behind the wheel and drunk. That one’s been ruled an accident. Idaho and Montana were both overdoses, most likely suicides, although no notes were found.”
“Maybe they couldn’t write,” I suggested.
“And maybe there was too much pressure,” Mel said. “At least that’s how it looks for some of them. Once they’re out of the slammer they’re required to register with local authorities and their information is posted on the Internet. The guy in Pocatello, Frederick Jamison, lost his job and was being evicted once his information became public. Pretty much the same thing happened to Ray Ramirez in Helena, Montana. There was a huge public outcry from the neighbors about him coming back there to live with his parents.”
“Pardon me while I don’t go all warm and fuzzy over a bunch of loser sexual predators,” I told her. “And what’s the matter with you? Sounds like you’re saying ‘evil, nosy neighbors’ and ‘poor, pitiful sexual predators.’”
Mel looked troubled. “I’m not saying anything of the kind, but it does strike me as odd. I’ve only worked my way through a hundred and fifty names or so, and seven dead strikes me as a pretty high number. These are reasonably young guys, mostly in their thirties and forties. I think something’s amiss here, and I don’t know what. I also think that’s why Ross has me looking into it—because, as you said, they are dying like flies.”
I was starting to feel better by then, lulled by the simple normality of talking shop with Mel, of discussing the nuts and bolts of her several cases. I have no doubt that my visit to the King Street Mission would have benefited from a dose of Mel Soames’s insightful analysis, too, but asking for her help on that one would have meant admitting I was working a case when I was supposedly off work on bereavement leave and looking after Lars. The same went for Anthony David Cosgrove. Since I wasn’t supposed to be working, I didn’t bring that one up, either.
We went from the table to the window seat, where Mel moved a cushion and unearthed one of Kayla’s toys, a red hand puppet that looked a lot like the cartoon character she’d been watching on TV earlier in the afternoon. Obviously Jeremy’s rushed toy-collection mission hadn’t been entirely successful.
“Elmo,” Mel said, slipping the puppet onto her hand.
“I never heard of him,” I told her. “How do you know this guy’s name is Elmo?”
Mel laughed. “I’m a detective, remember?” she said, whacking me playfully on the noggin with Elmo’s semi-hard head. “I get paid for knowing things. Actually, my niece loves anything Elmo. What’s your excuse for not knowing? And where did everybody go? I expected to come home to a houseful of company.”
And so I gave her a blow-by-blow description of my disastrous “family” afternoon and evening, including the part about Kelly decamping in a huff once she found Mel’s personal items lurking in the guest room closet and bathroom.
“Sounds like she’s suffering from a severe case of separation anxiety,” Mel said. “She’s afraid of losing you to me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I argued. “Kelly isn’t losing me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“She just had a baby,” Mel pointed out. “I’m guessing her hormones are all out of whack at the moment. You need to be patient.”
“She’s the one who could use some patience,” I grumbled.
Shaking her head, Mel changed the subject. “Did you ever get around to making some kind of arrangements for a post-funeral reception for Lars?” she asked.
I had been playing social director all afternoon, but this one responsibility had somehow fallen off the radar. “Damn!” I said.
“I take that to mean no?” Mel asked.
I nodded. She immediately reached for her cell phone. “I’ll call Rita, then,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll do it.”
“Who’s Rita?” I asked.