Thomas Prescott Superpack (30 page)

Chapter 7

After I’d finished the narrative, Hans held up a finger and asked, “One quezion.” He paused, smiled, and said, “Do you ave any pissa left?”

I laughed.
So that’s where all the S’s went. He rubbed the dramatic paunch splitting the seams of the medical coat and said, “I didn’t ave a chanze to go for zecondz.”

One thing about Hans.
He liked his food. I’d once walked in on him during an autopsy. He’d been eating a sandwich and setting it on the cadaver’s chest between bites. I think it’d been pastrami. I nodded at the portly German and said, “Sure do.”

Erica added, “I could go for a slice.
I didn’t get a chance to eat.”

So the four of us retired to the kitchen and ate pizza.
I found some Diet Slice in the cupboard and we each enjoyed a soda purchased during the Clinton administration.

Erica dabbed at her mouth with a paper towel square, a brand I’m quite positive was no longer in existence, and said, “So the governor goes for a hike in the mountains and six weeks later she ends up in the Puget Sound.”

All three of us looked at her. A silence ensued. She took a bite of pizza. As did I. 

Ethan, who I suspect was trying to out profound his colleague, offered, “When murder is involved, there is no duration too long nor a distance too great.”

I choked on my pizza. I think I’m allergic to the word
nor.

Erica gazed at him like a college student does a brilliant professor.
I wondered what, if any, was the relationship between the two.

At any rate, Plato, Aristotle, and Hans turned to stare.
Plato asked, “You all right?”

I wrestled the bite down, coughed a half dozen times, beat my chest with my fist, then managed, “I’m fine.”

Erica remained focused on the case. “So what exactly are we thinking here?”

Good question.
I looked around. You had Erica, who was thinking about how to play team manager, how to keep everyone in good graces, and how this case could further her career. Then you had Ethan, who was thinking about my testicles smashed in a vice, as well as the occasional thought about how this case could make him famous, land him on the cover of
Time
magazine, and maybe get him in Erica Frost’s pants in the process. And then you had Hans, who was thinking about how long that last slice of pizza had to sit there before he could pick it up. And maybe he was also thinking about forensics, and trace evidence, and ballistics, and defensive wounds and all that jazz. Of course he was thinking this all in German.
Wie lange diese letzte Scheibe der Pizza dort sitzen musste, bevor er es aufnehmen konnte und vielleicht er an forensics, und Spur-Beweise, und Ballistik, und Verteidigungswunden und ganzen diesen Jazz dachte.
 And then there was me. I was thinking about how the kitchen would look with black tile, and how I was going to fix the brown water problem, and I was thinking about how I
shouldn’t
be thinking about how Ellen Gray’s daughters were eating Thanksgiving dinner without their mom.

Ethan broke my reverie.
He took a drink of Slice, washed down the image of himself on
Larry King
, and said, “Right now I’m not thinking anything. Today we have a body. Yesterday we didn’t.”

I inquired of Hans—who had taken the liberty of snagging the remaining slice of pizza—as to the shape of the governor’s body.

Hans popped the crust in his mouth, wiped his hands on his shirt, took a swig of soda, and said, “Nod goot.”

After a quick disclaimer that the ocean usually eliminated all trace evidence—all that forensic mumbo jumbo—and that he wasn’t optimistic the autopsy would hold any apocalyptic findings, he went on to say that by his best judgment Ellen Gray had been in the water for a substantial period of time. And at least from his preliminary findings, she’d been dead for the same duration. Cause of death, gun shot, which was consistent with a .32 caliber bullet.

Ethan said, “Adam Gray has a registered .32.”

This meant little without the actual bullet.
The bullet that, according to Dr. Hans’ aforementioned tutorial, ripped through the frontal bone of Ellen Gray’s skull, passed through her frontal lobe, fractured her parietal bone, leaving a crater in the back of her head the size of a tangelo, and now presumably rested somewhere on the floor of the Puget Sound.

I looked at Ethan and said, “Aren’t you some big diver?
Why don’t you go dredge for it.” Let’s see, one bullet, roughly 32 millimeters in length, in a pool of water close to a trillion gallons. Not like trying to find Rush Limbaugh in a kiddy pool. “I’ll help. I have a snorkel in the basement.”

Hans found this amusing and laughed in German.
Ha-entz. Ha-entz. Ha-entz.

Ethan, on the other hand, did not.
He checked his watch and said, “Well, we should really get going.”

“Don’t want to miss yourself on the eleven o’clock news.”

He did a couple chomps, smiled and said, “We’re going to need you to come down to the station and give a statement in the next couple days.”

“I don’t really think that will be necessary.”

“C’mon, you can say hi to some old friends. It’ll be fun.”

Right. They were probably still sweeping up the confetti from the day I’d been canned.
If you could read between the lines, and I could, Ethan was saying that I’d had my day in the sun, but I was a has-been. A footnote. He was the law around here and if he wanted me dragged down to the station to answer questions, I would comply. Or else.

I painted my best “fuck you” face and said, “Good luck with that.”
He wouldn’t get me down to the station house with two SWAT teams and Kate Beckinsale in a cheerleader uniform.

The four of us started towards the door.
Hans and Erica were a couple paces ahead of Ethan and I. Ethan stopped and grabbed my elbow. This is #11 on my list of least favorite things, and I swiped his hand away.

He leaned into me, glared with those dark eyes, and said, “I don’t know why you’re back, and to be honest, I don’t really give a shit.
But if I even smell you within five miles of this case, I will find some reason to lock you up. You’re not the most popular guy in this town, Prescott. Watch your ass or I’ll make sure someone at county watches it for you.”

Number six on my list was idle threats by egotistical douche bags named Ethan.
I smiled and said, “I’m retired.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “Keep it that way.”
He added, “And do us all a favor and leave as quickly as you came.” He winked at me, then meandered towards the door and past his waiting colleagues.

I shook hands with Hans and promised to grab a pastrami on rye with him in the near future.
He departed, leaving the delectable detective behind. She smiled and said, “What was that all about?”

I assumed she was talking about my interlude with Ethan.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, losing myself for an instant in her eyes. “Ethan wanted me to put him in touch with my interior designer. We have similar appreciation for feng shui.”

I don’t think she believed me.

Anyhow, an awkward moment followed, where the two of us just stood there in silence. I mentally put my hands in my pockets and started whistling. Erica made a motion towards her hip, and I silently hoped she would pull her gun and put me out of my misery. No such luck. She
did
remove a card from her back pocket and hand it to me.

She said, “Give me a call if you think of anything else.
Or if you just want to grab a cup of coffee.”

This last sentence could carry multiple meanings.
And I wasn’t sure if I was ready for any of them. I held onto the card and watched as Erica retreated down the steps. A whirlwind of lights cascaded from the street, and I wondered what time the news stations would pile it in.

I closed the door and surveyed the card Erica had given me.
It had all the pertinent information on how to track down Erica Frost should one need to track down Erica Frost. It even had a number written in pen, which I’m guessing was her private home number. I stuck the card in my pocket and walked into the kitchen.

I picked up one of the discarded crusts from the pizza box and heaved myself onto the center island.
I played the last twelve hours over in my head, pondering things big and small. Mostly, I thought about the four women who had touched my life in the last twelve hours. Lacy Prescott. Alex Tooms. Erica Frost. And Ellen Gray.

I saw this radar screen with these four blips.
One blip was unwavering, right in the center. One was headed outward towards the outermost concentric circle, moving slowly but steadily from the heart. Then there were these two blips just on the outskirts, their pulses weak, barely detectable.

My eyes glazed over and when I shook my head, the clock above the stove hit midnight.
My thirty-third Thanksgiving was finally over.

What a day.

Chapter 8

I pulled the thick red curtains in the dining room aside. The window was cold and clammy and my breath fogged against it. I rubbed the moisture clean with my forearm and peeked out at an angle. It was dark for ten in the morning. I’m guessing this was directly related to the thick cloud cover and persistent drizzle. The big tree in my front yard swayed in the morning breeze, its barren branches clawing at the cold air. Wrapped around the tree’s thick trunk was yellow crime scene tape. Death ribbon. It ran across the drive, wrapped around the mailbox, then wrapped around the far post of the gated entrance. I watched as a man with a camera was ushered under the billowing ribbon by a man with a clipboard.

I could make out a throng of onlookers at the far edge of the street.
Twos and threes huddled under umbrellas watching the fiasco unfold. Didn’t these people have shopping to do?

Seriously, go to Target.

I released the curtain and walked into the kitchen. What I really wanted was some waffles. And some apple cider. And a newspaper.

I was curious what the byline on the front page would read.
It could read something as simple as, “
Governor Murdered
.” Or something clichéd like, “
Black Friday
.” Or something witty like, “
A Gray Day for Washington
.” Then again, maybe there was an even bigger story, one that trumped Ellen Gray’s murder, and the headline read, “
Thomas Prescott is Back
.”

I rifled through the cupboards.
Slim pickings, unless you liked corn. I did not. The untouched box of cinnamon breadsticks lay on the counter and I ate a couple.

I peeked around the curtains again close to noon and the melee had only increased.
The story was now national news, and every affiliate west of the Mississippi had a warm body in the street with a microphone.

The hours crept by.
I spent a couple in the basement looking through boxes. I spent a couple cleaning. I ate some corn. I flipped through a couple dusty newspapers my dad had kept. Mount St. Helens is going to erupt in 1980, if you’re curious. Many will die. I did some stretching. I ate some more corn. I played myself in chess a couple times. One time I lost. Go figure. I found an old Gameboy and played some Tetris. I ate more corn.

Saturday was much the same.
The crowds had thinned in the streets by half. The story was quickly losing its momentum. As for me, I was going stir-crazy. And my thumbs were sore from Tetris. And I was out of AA batteries. And my ass was chafed from shitting corn.

By noon on Sunday, I had a serious case of cabin fever.
The street action had died down, like last call at a bar, and only the true diehards remained. I wasn’t overly concerned with running into a cop, or even a reporter for that matter, but I didn’t want to stumble into any of the curious neighbors. Lots of questions I didn’t want to deal with.
What are you doing back, Thomas? Why did you leave in such a rush, Thomas? What’s that rash from, Thomas? What’s the square root of 632, Thomas?

I’d rather not.

I went out the back deck and wound my way through the foliage until I came to route B. From there, I found the frontage road and kept on for a good two miles.

Fisherman’s Terminal is a five-block stretch dedicated to fishermen and their boats.
The large port is home to over seven hundred ships ranging from 40-footers to 130-footers. The boats fish for anything from sardines to Alaskan king crab. Lined up, side-by-side, are a half dozen fisheries, a couple boat repair shops, bait and tackle, fill-up stations, anything and everything a fisherman might need. Intermixed are a handful of Seattle’s best restaurants and pubs. Everything is built on stilts and everything hangs out over the water.

One pub is The Flounder.
Which is ironic considering there are over a thousand different species of fish in the nearby waters and flounder isn’t one of them. A decent number of boats were tied up to the dock and about twice as many cars parked in the dirt drive.

I walked up the long gangplank, the low tide visibly churning through each open gap in the wood.
I pushed through the door and the aroma of stale peanuts overwhelmed my senses. At The Flounder it was standard procedure to fill up a bowl of peanuts from the large barrels near the entrance and proceed to discard the shells on the dusty wooden floors.

I crunched my way across the discarded shells underfoot past a beer-stained pool table, past the quintessential Golden Tee and Buck Hunter machines, and sat down at one of two empty tables.

Forty or so people were scattered about, mostly men.
I’d say the demographic was 70 percent fisherman and 30 percent guys stealing away from their in-laws to watch the Seattle Seahawks game. I bet half the guys here were out to get more ice.

A young woman approached my table.
She was wearing shorts meant for summer and a small red T-shirt meant for a third grader. The T-shirt read, “I Found Her at The Flounder.”

Clever.

The waitress’s name was Josie.
I ordered a fish sandwich and a beer, watched the game, and ate peanuts. Was I a guy’s guy or what?

It was the middle of the third quarter and the Seahawks had the ball.
I could name a couple of the more popular players, but most of the names the announcer was throwing out were new to me. My dad, who had been one of the more diehard Seahawks fans on the planet, would be rolling over in his grave.

The Seahawks made a field goal to go up 31-3, and as they were kicking off to San Fran, my food came.
I ordered another beer and asked the increasingly friendly Josie, “Do you know why fish are so skinny?”

She shook her head.

“They eat fish.”

Josie thought this was incredibly funny and that I was a regular riot.

I had a third beer and my brain started to wander a bit.
Here it was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and for some reason I was back in Seattle, I was surrounded by the crew of
The Deadliest Catch
, I’d eaten half my weight in peanuts, I’d just flirted with a girl ten years my junior, and the Seahawks were kicking the shit out of the 49ers. Hell, I don’t think I could have been more confounded if I woke up at fucking Hogwarts.

The Seahawks game ended at a quarter after five, Seahawks won 38-10, and the five o’clock news came on.
A quick post-game locker room report led off, followed by the weather. The TV was muted, but according to the Closed Captioning, rain was probable for the next five days.

Weathermen in Seattle were about as necessary as a gallbladder.

After a commercial break, they flashed to the news desk.
A nice looking woman in a tan jacket started spouting. I wasn’t really paying attention until the words “Governor Ellen Gray” appeared at the bottom of the screen.

They quickly breezed over the governor’s disappearance and how her body was found.
I assumed I was the “local man” who had “stumbled upon” the governor’s body.

I thought “Local man who risked life and limb to pull the governor’s body from the raging surf” had a better ring to it, but I wasn’t going to split hairs.

Like all Closed Captioning, the words on screen were three seconds behind the actual words being spoken, and by the time the words, “Here are just some of News 5’s favorite memories of the governor,”
popped up
,
a photo of Ellen Gray was on screen. She appeared to be in her late forties. She was beautiful. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Demi Moore could play her flawlessly in the made-for-TV movie that no doubt was already in the works. 

The photo montage continued.
There was a picture of the governor running in The Race for the Cure. Her throwing out the first pitch at a Mariners game. Cutting a ribbon in front of what looked to be an enormous library. Astride a horse speaking to a group of protestors. Reading to a group of small children. Getting blood drawn at the Health Fair. At a food drive.

The next picture was a shot of hundreds of uniformed men trudging through the thick brush of a mountainside.
Then a shot of a jam-packed Qwest Stadium which I surmised was the public funeral Erica had spoken of. The last picture was a shot of the cove where I’d pulled out her body.

They cut to a young woman walking out of a gray brick building.
I recognized the building as the Seattle Police Department Headquarters. The woman had her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and was clad in tan slacks and a blue SPD jacket. She was what we call, “Dressed to bust balls.” More significantly, she, was Erica Frost. I leaned forward.

Earlier today, a representative from the Seattle Police Department spoke to reporters.

Erica had about ten microphones shoved in her face. She had just finished a statement and now looked to be taking questions.

Reporter:
Is Adam Gray your prime suspect?

Erica:
At this time we have no suspects. Adam Gray is just one of a couple persons of interest we’re looking into. This is an extremely high profile case and we are looking at all possible scenarios. We’ll know more in a couple of days.

Another reporter:
When will Adam Gray be arrested?

Erica:
Don’t get ahead of yourself. He might never be arrested. Like I said, we are looking into all possible scenarios.

I highly doubted this.
In fact, I had a strong premonition Erica Frost, the Seattle Police Department, and the State of Washington were putting all their bread in one basket: Adam Gray.

Erica:
Rest assured the Seattle Police Department is doing everything in its power to bring Ellen Gray’s killer to justice. Whoever they are, wherever they are, they will be found. That’s a promise.

She had me convinced.
If I killed Ellen Gray I’d be on the red-eye to Guam. The Seattle Police Department could do worse than Erica Frost as a spokesperson. I could relate. I’d done my fair share of P.R. in my day. I think it had something to do with my rugged good looks, soft-spoken manner, and the ability to lie on cue. I’d been good. Erica was better.

It had to be burning Ethan up that Erica was in front of the camera and not him.
I wonder what higher-up had made this decision.

Regardless, they wrapped up Erica’s sound bite and returned to the woman anchor.

Adam Gray was questioned and released after the disappearance of his wife on October 15
th
.
 

They cut to a picture of Governor Gray arm in arm with a gentleman at what I guessed was a fundraiser of sorts.
Or a gala. I’d never been to a gala, and I wasn’t exactly sure what constituted a gala, but this had gala written all over it. The gentleman, who I’m speculating was Adam Gray, was a large man of about fifty. He had thinning salt-and-pepper hair—an emphasis on salt—and a well trimmed white goatee. He had piercing green eyes. Like he’d slipped and fallen on two chunks of green amber. He wasn’t attractive, but there was something attractive about him.

They cut to Adam Gray standing in front of an immense wrought iron gate.
A colossal gray and baby blue estate was just visible, filling the background.

Adam Gray made a statement at his Bainbridge Island estate just minutes ago.

Adam Gray was holding two little girls’ hands, both with brown hair like their mother’s. They both wore dresses. One red, one purple. I put one at seven, the other five. Both girls looked rather uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if it was the cameras or if this was the first time they held hands with their father.

After smiling at both his daughters, Adam’s mouth began moving.
I thought about that old joke. How do you know a lawyer is lying? His mouth is moving.

I read his words at the bottom of the screen:

This has been a trying last few days. Over the last six weeks, I have mourned the tragic loss of my beautiful wife, and these two precious girls have mourned the loss of a loving and devoted mother. Learning that Ellen’s death was not an accident, but an intentional and malicious act, has left this family at a loss for words. We are overwhelmed by the outpouring of support from the grieving public. We, as you, demand answers. We demand this vile perpetrator be caught and punished.

By the time I finished reading, the Seahawks coach was sitting behind a microphone on screen.

I downed the last of my beer, over-tipped Josie, and left.