One last kill tracy cros.., p.29
One Last Kill (Tracy Crosswhite), page 29
But Nolasco could already tell Donaldson wasn’t thinking in those terms. He was thinking of the practical—the negative media attention.
Nolasco walked from the school to his car, having reached another dead end, one of many in this investigation, but this time he had no idea what to do next.
CHAPTER 37
Tracy spent much of her morning going through the material in the boxes in her office, reviewing task force member notes for bits of information she may have overlooked, or not considered pertinent or in context. She took some notes but found it difficult to concentrate. Nolasco hadn’t called. Tracy took that as a negative. If Nolasco had been handed a picture of Michael Edward Montemayor, even as a fourteen-year-old, he would have called. She had to assume Nolasco had struck out.
Whoever Montemayor was, he was disturbed on a level ordinary people would never understand. Was it because he had been rejected by the man who should have been his father? Or because his mother had also abandoned him, though not of her own free will? He was clearly bitter and angry at the women Edwards had seduced. Had he seen them as rivals to his mother, the reason Edwards had spurned her? Or was it as Santos and Nabil Kotar had said: Montemayor wanted to send Edwards a disturbed message about justice?
Kins, Tracy’s former partner on the Violent Crimes Section’s A Team, believed a person could be born evil—with a gene that made them kill other human beings. He didn’t buy the nurture argument, that the desire to kill was something that developed as the person experienced perhaps psychological or physical abuse. To support his nature argument, Kins said humans were the only species on the planet who killed without reason or purpose. Then primatologists at National Geographic had filmed chimpanzees plotting and working together to brutally beat to death another chimpanzee, for no apparent reason. If that was our genetic evolution, maybe Kins was right. Maybe the ability to kill was something within every human being.
Late that morning, Tracy’s desk phone rang. The receptionist told her a woman was on the phone with information related to the Route 99 Killer but wouldn’t provide a name. Tracy had a sense she knew the caller.
When the call clicked over, she said, “This is Detective Crosswhite.”
“Detective, it’s Marilynn Edwards.”
“Marilynn. What can I do for you?”
“My husband wasn’t completely honest with you when you came to our home to speak to him,” she said, sounding uncertain, her voice shaky.
“No?”
“He has additional information you may find helpful to your investigation.”
“What kind of information?”
“If you know my husband, then you know he won’t discuss it over the phone. Are you available to come back to the house?”
“I can be there within the hour.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Tracy disconnected, wondering what more Michael Edwards had to tell her and where it might lead. But she didn’t want to play the “what if” game, which was a waste of time and only led to disappointment. Better to just find out what Edwards had to say and take the information in whatever direction it went, if anywhere. Her desk phone rang a second time.
“Tracy, it’s Augustus Cesare. Just getting back to you on Henry England. I didn’t find any indication he lied on his police application. Schools, employment history, credit card, drug history. Everything checks out.”
Tracy had forgotten to contact Cesare to tell him to call off the dogs. “I’m sorry, Augustus,” she said. “I should have told you we spoke to England last night—or rather early this morning.”
“You drove to Ellensburg?”
“No. He drove into Seattle.”
“Into Seattle?” he asked, and she could hear the anticipation in his voice.
“He’s not our guy,” she said and explained what had happened. “I hope you didn’t spend too much time on his application.”
“No. That’s all right. Good to have a purpose again. Better to be doing something other than twiddling my thumbs. So where does the investigation go from here?”
She thought of Marilynn Edwards. “Not sure. Hoping we catch an unexpected piece of information that provides a solid lead.”
“Sorry to hear. If I can help . . .”
“I appreciate it,” Tracy said. But she knew Cesare already had one foot out the door, and no doubt his mind as well. “Enjoy your retirement,” she said.
Tracy gathered her purse and jacket from the bottom drawer of her desk and started for the door. This time her work cell phone rang in her back pocket. She checked caller ID. Nolasco.
“Another swing and a miss,” he said. “Montemayor never got his picture taken. All four yearbooks have a silhouette. Also spoke to two teachers who were here back then.” Nolasco told her what each teacher had to say. “Nothing definitive. Easily forgotten. Like I said, a swing and a miss.”
“We might have another strike left. Marilynn Edwards called.”
“What did she have to say?”
“She said her husband wasn’t completely honest the other night when he and I spoke, that he has more to tell me.”
“I’d like to get my hopes up, but . . .”
“I’m heading over there now. I’ll keep you posted. Where are you?”
“Twenty to thirty minutes away,” Nolasco said. “Depending on traffic.”
Tracy disconnected and signed out a pool car. Now more than ever, she hoped Michael Edwards had something worth saying, something that would pivot the investigation toward a solid lead.
Roughly thirty minutes later, still trying to stay even keeled, Tracy pulled down the narrow road leading to Edwards’s home and parked in the driveway. She knocked on the door and stepped back. She noticed a camera mounted in the corner above the door she hadn’t observed before. Something else seemed different from the prior visit, but Tracy couldn’t quite put her finger on what that was. Marilynn opened the door, looking somber and tired.
“Marilynn,” she said. “Are you okay?”
Tracy knew the investigation was likely taking as big a toll, if not more so, on Marilynn Edwards as on her husband. This latest information had to be enough to put her over the edge.
Marilynn stepped back.
Tracy hesitated, again sensing something not right, then stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Marilynn’s gaze lowered to the floor as she led Tracy into the living room. The former mayor sat at the end of the couch closest to the plate-glass windows offering a view of Lake Washington. He looked like a defeated old man.
“Hello, Detective.”
The male voice came from behind her. Tracy didn’t turn. Not immediately. She recognized the voice. And when she did, the final pieces of the puzzle came together quickly. She realized what had been different about the home from her two prior visits. Something she was intimately familiar with herself. The alarm system in her own home. Dogs barking. The two Chesapeakes had not alerted. They had not barked.
In a flash she recalled the conference room table in the FBI’s offices and Amanda Santos explaining the biblical reference to the Angel of Justice and the Angel Raguel.
In the Old Testament an angel represented retribution—the Angel of Justice’s role is to bring the wicked and the sinners to justice for their crimes.
Nolasco entered his office and checked his voice mail, then his emails. No call, email, or text message from Crosswhite advising what more Michael Edwards had to tell her. If it had been something worth pursuing, she would have called. Just another false hope in a day full of them.
He popped in a piece of mint gum and settled at his desk, making phone calls and reviewing information that had come in on several cases. Minutes into his task he received a call on his work cell phone. He recognized the high-energy voice immediately.
“Captain Nolasco, this is Bill Rector from Lincoln High School. We spoke in the hallway this morning.”
“Of course. Mr. Rector. The math teacher. Did you remember something else?”
“I did. It came to me a little later in the day, after I spoke with Evelyn Evers. I understand you spoke to her also, and, well . . . you can imagine the information remains more than a little shocking.”
“I can imagine,” Nolasco said.
“Evelyn told me she was going through archived newspapers for the time period Michael was a student here, to see if maybe he was in a photograph.”
“Did she find something?”
“No, but it triggered my own memory. Remember I told you Michael was a good student, just unmotivated?”
“Yes.”
“And that I tried to reach him?”
“Right.”
“Well, I did get through to him . . . for a while anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“He really took a shine to computers.”
“Computers?” Nolasco said.
“We were just starting to integrate them here at the school, and Michael really took to them. By senior year we had a computer lab and a computer club. I told Michael I thought it would be a good skill for him to have on his resume, and he should at least give the club a try. He did, for a while anyway.”
Nolasco felt the tingling sensation in his gut. “Do you have a photograph of that club?”
“I do. I went back and checked the yearbook and there he was.”
“Montemayor?” Nolasco said, not quite believing what he was hearing. Not sure whether to trust it. He’d stood from his chair.
“It isn’t great, as you can imagine back then,” Rector continued.
“Can you email me a picture of the photograph?”
“I already took the picture with my phone and just wanted to confirm your email. I’m not sure what the quality will be like . . .”
“Go ahead and send it,” Nolasco said.
“I assume to the email on your card?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll stay on the line until you have a chance to consider it. If the quality is poor, I’ll have the yearbook sent up to you.”
“Thanks. I’m ready.”
“It saddens me. You know? To think Michael could be responsible.”
“I’m sure it does,” Nolasco said, anxious to get the email.
“Okay. It’s sent. Michael is standing in the back row on the far right.”
Nolasco stared at his computer screen. When he didn’t immediately get the email, he refreshed the page several times.
“You have it?” Rector asked.
“Not yet,” Nolasco said.
“I wonder if the file is too big,” Rector said.
Nolasco hit the “Update Folder” button repeatedly. Nothing came through. He checked the junk email folder. Nothing.
“Nothing?” Rector asked.
“Not . . .” The email popped up at the top of Nolasco’s list. “I got it,” he said. “Hang on; I’m opening it.”
His pulse pounded. Rector had not attached the photograph but embedded it in the body of the email. It came through so large only a portion fit within the window. Nolasco moved the cursor over different sections of the photograph, seeing perhaps a dozen students either seated or standing around desks with keyboards and computer terminals.
“Do you see him?” Rector asked. “Back row on the far right.”
All of the students were smiling. All but one.
Nolasco moved the cursor to the names of the students beneath the picture next to the tag line: Lincoln Computer Club. He read the name of the student in the second row on the far right. Michael Montemayor. His hair was black. He had no facial hair or glasses, but it was definitely and undeniably him.
“Son of a bitch,” Nolasco said under his breath. “Goddamn son of a bitch.”
“You see him?” Rector asked.
Nolasco shook his shock. “I have to go. Thank you.” He hung up and called Tracy, pacing and repeatedly swearing. The call rang through immediately to her voice mail. She’d turned her phone off. Why would she have turned off her phone? Had to be on another call. Maybe trying to call him.
Nolasco looked back to the photograph and thought again of what Tracy had said. The mayor had additional evidence to provide. He called her number a third time. Again, his call went directly to voice mail.
He had a bad feeling. He pulled his car keys from the drawer in his desk and sprinted from his office.
CHAPTER 38
Everything made sense. Just a moment too late. Not an artist. Not medically trained as the task force and she had postulated.
To bring the wicked and the sinners to justice for their crimes.
A police officer.
“Mrs. Edwards, if you would be so kind, I think you’ll find a handgun in a holster beneath Detective Crosswhite’s left shoulder.” Augustus Cesare had a service pistol pointed at Tracy’s head. “If you would remove it for me. Carefully. Don’t do anything stupid, Detective.”
Marilynn Edwards stared at Tracy. “It’s all right,” Tracy said. “Do as he says.” Marilynn stepped forward and removed Tracy’s Glock.
“Barrel pointed at the floor, please. And do not even think about putting your finger on the trigger,” Cesare said. “We don’t want any accidents.”
Marilynn handed the Glock to Cesare. He took the weapon and slid it into his waistband at the back of his pants. Tracy noticed a laptop open on the table behind him; the screen showed the front of the Edwards home from the front porch down the narrow drive. She’d been correct about the camera. She hadn’t failed to notice it on her first visit. It hadn’t been there. The Edwards home had the best alarm system in the world. Their dogs.
“Now, Detective, your cell phone, if you would?”
Tracy reached into her back pants pocket.
“Easy,” Cesare said.
She handed over the cell phone.
“If everyone would take a seat, please. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, Detective.”
Tracy moved to the end of the couch, Marilynn to the middle, Edwards remained seated on the far end. Cesare remained standing. He glanced at the laptop screen. “Just need to be sure you came alone, Detective.”
“I let dispatch know where I am, Cesare. It’s routine practice. They know I’m here.”
“I’m counting on that, Detective. I just want to be sure no one else shows up until the time is right. They would have no reason to come now, would they? Not unless you were to alert them.”
He was right. Tracy had advised dispatch of her intended location, but unless she called and gave them a reason, dispatch would not send units to the house. Cesare sat in a chair across from them.
“So, what’s your plan, Augustus? Where do you go from here?” she asked.
“Me? I am officially retired, Detective. I can go anywhere in the world.”
“So why not do that? Why not just leave?” Tracy recalled the evening she’d spent in the motel room with the Cowboy, with a rope around the neck of his would-be next victim. Her only goal had been to keep Kotar talking long enough to have the chance to disarm him or have someone unexpected come. That was her goal now.
“Because you reopened my case,” Cesare said. “The great Tracy Crosswhite is on the trail of the Route 99 Killer. I’m honored. But I also couldn’t take the chance you’d figure it out and come after me.”
“No one figured it out before. What made you think I might?”
“Because you aren’t a dumbshit like Moss and Nolasco. I gift wrapped Edwards for Moss. All he had to do was follow the evidence, and he would have seen the connection between the mayor’s special assistants he slept with. The women he used the way he used my mother. It was more than enough to destroy him.” Cesare shook his head.
“But Moss didn’t follow the evidence,” Tracy said.
“No. I can only imagine Mr. Mayor here had something hanging over Moss’s head, and Moss buried the information to save his ass.”
“Is that why you stopped killing? Because Moss didn’t deliver the information?” It had been suggested by Santos.
“I stopped for a number of reasons, Detective. I’m not one of those perverted, demented men who got off on the killing.”
Tracy begged to differ, but she kept her opinion to herself. Keep him talking. “Why kill all the prostitutes? Why so many?”
“I’m sure you think it was just practice. That’s the common assumption about serial killers; isn’t it?”
“Was it?”
“Killing was just a means to an end. Sure, I needed practice to know what I could get away with, but I had studied other serial killers and knew I needed to create hysteria to get the public and the police interested. To get the killings into the news. To ensure SPD formed a task force, singularly focused on figuring out why the killer was killing, what the angel’s wings meant. Once I did that, I’d start to kill the women who the mayor here had slept with and took advantage of.” He pointed the gun at Edwards. “The task force would see the connection, and the publicity would expose him for what he really is.” Cesare took a deep breath and exhaled. “When I realized that wasn’t going to happen . . . I had no reason to kill if the mayor wasn’t going to suffer for it.” He looked at Edwards, and Tracy could sense Cesare’s anger and frustration were building. “People like you never get caught; do they?” Cesare said to Edwards.
When Edwards kept his gaze down, Cesare moved to the end of the couch and stood over him. “Do they?” he said more forcefully. Edwards and his wife startled. “Answer me.”
“No,” Edwards said in a soft, hesitant voice.
“No, what?”
Edwards paused, his expression one of confusion. Then he said, “No, sir?”
Cesare laughed. “Did you hear him, Detective? He just called me sir. The child he sought to have aborted.” He looked back to Edwards. “I want to hear you say, ‘People like me never get prosecuted.’”
Edwards swallowed with difficulty and said softly, “People like me never get prosecuted.”
Tracy needed to draw Cesare’s attention and his anger away from Edwards. “Why kill so many women?”
