While Mel went downstairs to collect our visitor I opened the bottle, set out some glasses, and poured myself a tonic and tonic over ice.
When Ross showed up, he looked surprisingly distressed and I could tell he’d already had a drink or two. “This is ostensibly a condolence call,” he said brusquely as Mel led him into the room. “Other than that, no meeting has taken place. Got it?”
So Beverly Jenssen was still providing cover—this time for the A.G. himself.
“Got it,” I said. I poured him a glass of wine. He took a long sip without really tasting it.
“So let’s go over this Kates thing again,” he said to Mel. “From the top.”
He listened without comment as Mel recounted the story. “Any ideas?” he asked when she finished.
“Beau and I were speculating just before you got here,” Mel replied. “We’re wondering if maybe Kates’s killer could be a cop, or at the very least someone with a law enforcement background.”
Ross shifted uneasily in his chair, and since he had appropriated my recliner, I knew it wasn’t that uncomfortable. “Could be,” he said. Then he sighed and continued. “Our killer could be a cop or an ex-cop or maybe even a correctional officer who’s systematically targeting ex-cons who did their time in Washington State. We need to know if this is an inside job. That’s why I put both of you on the two separate cases—with Mel running the sexual-offender roundup and you on the LaShawn Tompkins incident. That way, if the two cases do link up, I’m hoping to localize the problem.”
Mel gave me a look. Hers said clearly, “Who the hell is LaShawn Tompkins?” which meant that whatever more Ross might say in that regard was going to put me in deeper—in the other kind of shit—with Melissa Soames.
Hoping to divert her attention, I spoke up. “Are you saying you think we’re dealing with two separate issues, or one?”
Ross nodded. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but it’s possible they’re not separate at all.”
He peered bleakly at Mel over the rims of his glasses—the one in his hand and the pair perched on his nose. “The report you sent me yesterday morning, prior to finding Mr. Kates’s body, indicated you had found six dead victims. Let’s assume for argument’s sake that the two guys who ended up in the irrigation canal in Phoenix really were involved in a drunk-driving incident and their deaths aren’t related. But the rest do seem suspicious, not so much when taken individually—as I’m sure was intended—but certainly when taken together. So what have you learned so far?”
“Les Fordham is the victim from down near Roseburg,” Mel answered. “Arson investigators found nothing amiss with any of the gas appliances or gas lines in the trailer. The burners were simply left on without being ignited. Eventually enough gas built up inside the mobile home for the pilot light on the hot water heater to set it off. Roseburg effectively closed the case by assuming it was suicide, but Fordham’s parole officer swears his client was doing well. He had a good job and a new girlfriend. There was nothing going on that would account for his committing suicide.”
“Any note?” Ross asked.
“No note,” Mel told him.
“What about the guy on Chuckanut Drive?” Ross asked.
“That would be Ed Chrisman,” Mel answered, without having to resort to looking at the notebook she had retrieved from her briefcase. “That, too, was officially designated an accident. The problem with that is that when the vehicle was recovered, it was still in gear. How many times in your life did you get out of a car to take a leak and leave the damned thing in drive?”
Mel’s question was directed at Ross, but I was the one who answered.
“Never,” I said.
Ross nodded, reached for the bottle, and poured himself a second glass. I didn’t say anything, but my concern must have been obvious. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing at me. “I have a car and driver waiting downstairs.” Then he turned back to Mel. “What about the others?”
Mel scanned her notes. “Frederick Jamison died of an accidental overdose in Pocatello, Idaho. Ray Ramirez succumbed to the same thing in Helena, Montana.”
“Were each of those cases thoroughly investigated?” Ross asked.
“I can’t say one way or the other,” Mel answered. “I certainly don’t have access to all the files at this point, but my guess is probably not. They were labeled suspicious deaths. The reports I’ve seen so far are pretty sketchy. Maybe whoever did this counted on that—on the idea that local authorities wouldn’t expend a lot of time, energy, or expense in resolving these cases. After all, who gives a damn about one dead crook more or less?”
Clearly Ross Connors did. These guys were all dying on his watch.