Improbable Cause (3 page)

“All right then, Debi,” I said. “You can go for the time being, but will you be home in case we need to get back in touch with you?”

She nodded slowly. “Sure, I’ll be there,” she said. “There’s no sense in staying here.”

We found Bill Foster on his hands and knees in the gore-spattered examination room, cutting out the section of blood-soaked carpeting from beneath the examining chair. Big squares where the footprints had been were already missing.

“Finding anything?” I asked, walking up behind him.

Foster looked up at me and shrugged. “Who knows? We’ve raised latent prints all over the place, but I’d lay odds none of them are going to belong to the killer.”

“Why not?”

He nodded in the direction of a Formica counter next to the chair. On it sat an open cardboard dispenser of disposable rubber gloves.

“With that sitting right there? I’d bet money he put on gloves. I sure as hell would.”

“If he had time,” I said.

“Doc Baker and I got talking after you left. He thinks somebody coldcocked the sucker, hit him over the head with something, then finished him off while he was out cold.”

“Hit him with something, like that carpet kicker for instance?” I asked. “It looked like blood on those teeth to me.”

He shrugged. “You’re right about the blood, Beau, but that’s not what clobbered the dentist, at least not the sharp part. There’s no matching wound. Somebody else must be wearing the bite from that set of teeth. In the meantime, I think we may have found the murder weapon.”

“What? Where?”

“A single dental pick. It was in the autoclave.”

“Sterilized?” I asked.

“You bet.”

“What makes you think that? This is a dentist’s office for Christ’s sake! The place must be crawling with dental picks.”

“Maybe so, but what dental assistant in her right mind would sterilize only one dental pick at a time?”

“A dental pick!” Big Al repeated the words, shaking his head. “Come on now, Bill, you’d have to be at pretty close quarters to use one of those things, wouldn’t you? And who’s going to take time to clean it afterward?”

Bill Foster nodded. “You’d have to be a cool customer, all right, but according to Doc Baker, the killer wasn’t the least bit squeamish. He went straight for the jugular.”

I glanced at Big Al, wondering what he was thinking. It wasn’t long before he let me know, sighing as if dismissing some theory that had been growing in his head. “Debi Rush may be lying,” he reasoned, “but she definitely strikes me as the squeamish type. Besides, I didn’t notice any scratches on her, either.”

“At least none we could see,” I added.

“So why’s she lying to us?” Big Al asked with a frown.

“Beats the hell out of me,” I told him.

We left the criminalist to do his painstaking work and made our way out of the office, a plush ground floor space in a building called Cedar Heights at the corner of Second and Cedar. It’s only a block or so from my own building, Bell town Terrace, at Second and Broad.

Both buildings are located at the northern end of the Denny Regrade, a man-made flat area in an otherwise hilly Seattle. The streets are broad and straight, lined with a duke’s mixture of buildings, from high-rise, pricey condominium/office buildings to rat-infested hovels months away from a close encounter with a wrecking ball.

The Regrade is a neighborhood of contrasts. Gay bars and trendy restaurants exist side by side with small appliance repair shops. Flash-in-the-pan delis spring up periodically. During their brief lifetimes they serve the varied collection of longtime, thriving insurance agencies and short-term, faddish specialty shops. Directly across Second Avenue from where we stood, a deserted hot tub company had gone the way of hula hoops and Howdy Doody.

It was still and warm on the sidewalk as we walked out and looked up at a glaringly blue sky. It would be hot later in the day, the kind of hot that many of Seattle“s older buildings are hard pressed to handle.

Big Al and I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, conferring, trying to decide on a next step. “So why’d the carpet installer leave without finishing the job?” I asked. “And how come he took off without his tools?”

Al shrugged. “He must have left in a hurry. So maybe now we’ve got two suspects, Debi Rush and the carpet installer. What if they’re in it together?”

“Stranger things have happened,” I said.

“What now? Notify the family or go looking for that carpet installer?” Al asked.

“We don’t have a choice,” I told him. “Family comes first. We’ll have to find the installer later.”

While we talked, an older man wearing a pair of bright orange coveralls had ambled slowly around the corner of the building. Dragging a plastic garbage container behind him and picking up trash as he went, he gradually edged his way over to where we were standing.

Stopping a few feet away, he removed a frayed toothpick from his mouth and tossed it into the trash can. “Had some excitement around here this morning, I guess.” he said casually. “You fellows wouldn’t happen to be reporters or something, would you?”

“Police detectives,” I said. “I take it you work around here?”

He let go of the handle on the trash can and fumbled in a pocket of the coveralls until he located a hanky, which he used to wipe his hands before holding one out to me. “Name’s Henry,” he said. “Henry Calloway. I’m the resident manager here at Cedar Heights.”

“I’m J. P. Beaumont,” I replied. “And this is my partner, Allen Lindstrom.” Calloway nodded briefly when I showed him my badge.

“It’s too bad about the doc,” he said. “He was a good tenant. A bit fussy now and again, I suppose, but he usually paid his rent right on time.”

When you’re a homicide cop, you get paid to look for discrepancies, and the word

usually

offered the promise of something out of the ordinary.

“You mean he didn’t always pay on time,” I said.

Henry Calloway shook his head. “Oh, there was just that once. One of the neighborhood bums spent the night camped out on the steps here and took a piss in the doorway before he left. The doc claimed I hadn’t cleaned it up good enough. Held up the rent until it passed inspection. That was the only time.”

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a discrepancy at all. It seemed totally in character, considering what we had learned so far about Dr. Frederick Nielsen.

Calloway wasn’t about to let us leave. “Heard someone say he’s been dead in there over the weekend,” he went on. “That’s too bad. When will I be able to get inside to clean up?”

“You won’t,” I answered shortly. “Bill Foster’s still in there, gathering evidence. When he leaves, he’ll put up crime-scene tape. No one goes in or out until the tape comes down.”

“I see,” Calloway said, sounding disappointed.

I know the type. I meet at least one on every case. These turkeys thrive on morbid curiosity. They like to view crime scenes for themselves, preferably while the smell of spilled blood still hangs heavy in the air. Having a murder committed in his building would give Henry Calloway a lifetime’s worth of grist for barstool conversations.

I suppressed a shudder. I don’t like the Henry Calloways of the world, but occasionally they prove useful. Big Al was the one who gave Calloway his chance to shine.

“By the way,” he put in casually, “you didn’t happen to see anything unusual over the weekend, did you?”

Calloway straightened his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and drew himself to full attention. “Can’t say that I did, except maybe this morning.”

“This morning?” I asked. “What about this morning?”

“Well, sir, when I saw that little receptionist of his go racing into the office a little before nine, I says to my wife, I says, ”Jody, there’s going to be hell to pay. You mark my words.“ Dr. Nielsen didn’t hold with people being late, you know. But then, I guess he won’t be firing her on that account, now will he?”

“No,” I agreed. “I suppose not. Did you notice anything else unusual, anything at all?”

“Not that I remember.”

“What about your wife? Does she work here, too?”

“She does, and you’re welcome to ask her,” he said, “but I doubt she saw anything else.”

We took his name and phone number. Henry Calloway wandered away, no longer making even the slightest pretense of picking up the trash.

“That lying little wench,” Big Al growled, as soon as Calloway was out of earshot. “She told us she was here at eight o’clock. What the hell do you think she’s up to?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “but we’re by God going to find out. First, though, we’d better go tell his wife.”

Green Lake is a former swamp that was dredged and landscaped during the thirties and forties. The lake and surrounding park constitute an urban Mecca for the city’s physical-fitness sorts, making it one of the most congested parks in the city.

Every day crowds of people run, jog, skate, walk, bike, and, on occasion, even ski around its three-mile perimeter, jostling for position on the complicated set of lines and symbols that specify who can do what where on the narrow asphalt pathways.

Legend has it that the name Green Lake comes from the brilliant coat of algae that formed on the swamp’s stagnating water, after development diverted cleansing contributory streams and creeks into sewers. I sometimes wonder if those modern health freaks out for their daily constitutional realize they’re doing today’s running on a foundation of yesterday’s garbage. Probably not. I’m sure it would offend their tender environmental sensibilities.

The houses that front on the lake itself are mostly well-constructed older homes. Built high above massive stone retaining walls, they sit like unassailable fortresses guarding the street.

Sixty-six ten Green Lake Avenue North was true to type. From a distance, we could see that it was large and white and gabled, with a windowed front porch and two full stories. But from directly below, only the latticed top of a gazebo was visible in one front comer. Steep steps led up through the rock retaining wall to a decorative wrought-iron gate.

That Monday morning Green Lake teemed with summer-crazed Seattlites who had gobbled up every bit of on-street parking for blocks. Al pulled over to the side of the street and paused in a bike lane long enough for me to get out of the car and climb up the stairs to the gate. It was locked from the inside.

Through the narrow bars I saw an immaculately tended front yard that instantly reminded me of Dr. Frederick Nielsen’s desk.

The yard was bordered by a series of scrupulously trimmed miniature trees that looked like they’d been pruned by a surgeon wielding a scalpel. The grass was mowed within an inch of its life. No forgotten toys or tricycles or wagons lingered in that well-ordered, manicured yard. They wouldn’t have dared. There was no indication that children had come within miles of the place, to say nothing of ever having lived there.

I felt a sudden, surprising wave of sympathy for Dr. Frederick Nielsen’s children, for that nameless seven- and eight-year-old boy and girl. Not because their father was dead, but because he had been their father.

I turned and walked back down to the car. “The gate’s locked,” I told Al. “Let’s go around back and try the alley.”

Finding the alley was easier said than done. Instead of running parallel to Green Lake as we expected, the alley was perpendicular to it. The entrance looked more like a driveway than a legitimate alley. When we finally attempted to enter it, however, we discovered it was totally blocked by a U-Haul trailer.

Sitting with its end gates wide open, the trailer was parked beside a shaky pile of assorted household goods and boxes. A wooden rocking chair, moving slightly with every hint of breeze, sat next to the trailer’s open end, while nearby two women struggled to load an unwieldy four-poster bed-frame canopy into the trailer. They hadn’t bothered to take it all the way apart.

“Looks to me like Mrs. Nielsen is bailing out and taking all her worldly possessions with her,” Big Al commented as he parked our vehicle as close as he could to the mountain of household goods.

He switched on our yellow hazard lights, and we both climbed out of the car. We had moved only a step or two toward the end of the trailer when a voice exploded from the shadowy interior of the trailer.

“Freeze, sucker!”

The reflex is automatic. We froze, but only for a moment. Clutching desperately for the loaded Smith and Wesson in my shoulder holster, I dove for cover. On the other side of the car Big Al dodged behind the front wheel, groping for his own weapon as he too hit the ground.

“Buddy!” a woman’s voice scolded sharply. “You knock that off right this minute! Do you hear me?”

“Buddy’s a bad boy, Buddy’s a bad boy,” replied a suddenly artificial, singsong voice.

One woman entered the trailer and emerged with a huge multicolored parrot perched jauntily on one shoulder. With his yellow head cocked to one side, he regarded Big Al and me with what seemed to be a lively interest.

The woman, a silver-haired lady in her sixties or seventies, clambered down from the trailer and hurried over to me. She recoiled a full foot when she encountered my drawn .38.

“Goodness gracious! Buddy’s just a harmless bird. You’re not going to shoot him, are you?” she demanded.

Police officers live and die by the unexpected. Response to danger, real or imagined, is reflexive, instantaneous, decisive. Hesitating a moment too long can be crucial. And deadly.

But now as the sudden burst of adrenaline dissipated uselessly in my system, I fumbled sheepishly with my gun. My hand trembled violently. That silver-haired little old lady with her loudmouthed bird had come very close to dying in a hail of bullets. It would have been hell explaining that to a shooting review board.

“No,” I managed with some difficulty. “I’m not going to shoot him. We’re police officers.” I finally succeeded in shoving my Smith and Wesson back into its holster and pulled my identification from my pocket.

I glanced at Big Al, who was also struggling to his feet, his face gray and ashen. It had scared him as badly as it had me. For all the same reasons.

“See what you did, Buddy?” the woman said crossly, turning back to the offending bird. “You caused these nice men all kinds of trouble.”