Justice Denied (25 page)

When I finished, he let out a long sigh. “Damn,” he said. “But you and Mel are right. Doing anything to try to secure those rape kits right now is going to set off alarms for whoever’s involved. We’re just going to have to leave them for the time being. And maybe when some of the dust settles, we’ll be able to talk Mrs. Kim into coming back and helping us sort it all out.”

“If it gets rid of whoever’s been responsible for moving her stapler, I’m sure she’ll be happy to.”

“Her stapler?” Ross asked.

But call-waiting was calling. “Sorry, Ross,” I said. “Gotta go.”

Ralph Ames was on the other line. “Here are the names of the pilots,” he said. “Diane Massingale and Trudy Rayburn. The plane’s a Hawker 800XP. Tail number is N861AB—that’s November eight six one Alpha Bravo.”

“Excellent, Ralph,” I told him. “What about addresses on the pilots?”

“Didn’t get those,” he said. “The FBO in Cancún might have some information on that.”

“FBO?” I repeated. “What’s that?” It sounded as though we had landed back in Analise Kim’s world of LIFO/FIFO.

“FBO stands for Fixed Base Operator,” Ralph explained. “They handle ground operations for general aviation—fuel, catering, landing facilities, ground transportation, car rentals, all those kinds of things. The FBO in Cancún is called ASUR. Again, that’s A-S-U-R. Got it? If the pilots purchased fuel there, they probably have a record of the credit card transaction. They would also know if there was a rental car involved and maybe even what hotel was used.”

“So FBOs are all over?”

“Sure,” Ralph said. “There are only about three hundred airports in this country that handle commercial jet traffic, but there must be at least five thousand that serve the private, corporate, and charter-jet end of the business. Every one of them has at least one FBO. Some of them have several.”

“And they keep a record of planes that land and take off under their auspices?”

“Especially if landing fees or fuel purchases were involved,” Ralph said. “Why? What does any of this have to do with the price of peanuts?”

“I’ll tell you later, Ralph. Right now I’ve got to go.”

I closed the phone and turned to Todd Hatcher. “Do you happen to have your spreadsheet handy?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Why?”

“You know what an FBO is?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he returned.

So I explained it as well as I could, bearing in mind that I had only heard the term for the first time a few minutes earlier. “I want you to go to each of the crime scenes we know about, the
ones you’ve been putting in. Then I want you to locate all the FBOs in the area and find out if a plane with the tail number November eight six one Alpha Bravo was anywhere in that vicinity at the time of any of our mysterious deaths. Ditto the case in Salt Lake City,” I added.

“The one I read about in the Destry Hennessey stuff?” Todd asked. “The Escobar murder?”

“That’s the one.”

“What do I say if they ask me who I am or what right I have to ask for any information?”

“Tell them you’re a cop,” I told him. “You work for the Special Homicide Investigation Team, an arm of the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. And if they give you any trouble, tell them to call Ross’s office and check. Tell them to call collect.”

While I had been talking to Todd, Mel had located a phone book. “Here,” she said. “T. Rayburn. She lives in Kent.”

“Don’t pilots all have licenses?” I asked.

“I’m sure,” she said. “They’re handled by the Federal Aviation Administration. Want me to see what kind of information we can come up with? If nothing else, it would be helpful to know which is which.”

Suddenly my Belltown Terrace apartment was a beehive of activity as our mini “task force” swung into action. With Todd using the landline to track FBOs, Mel got on her cell phone to start working her way through the powers that be at the FAA. Meanwhile, I poked away at my cell phone to dial my own favorite weapons analyst, a self-described “gun guy” down at the crime lab, one Larry Crumb.

Larry and I go back a long way. We used to be pals—drinking
buddies. And for a while, back when we were both still married, we were on each other’s Christmas card list. Every year, Larry’s card was a photo featuring Larry posing with some outrageous weapon or other.

“Hey, bro,” Larry said, when I identified myself. “How’s it hanging?”

Typical drinking-buddy BS. And typical drinking-buddy conversation—never say anything real.

“I’m working on a case,” I told him.

“This is not news,” he replied.

“The problem is, it crosses a few international lines,” I explained. “Like between the U.S. and Mexico. I have the ballistics workup that was sent from the crime scene, and I’m trying to figure out a way to run it through NIBIN.”

“No can do,” Larry returned. “NIBIN would be the National Integrated Ballistics Information Network. Nobody’s calling it the International Whatever, if you get my meaning.”

“I understand that,” I said. “And I don’t want to rattle cages, but I think the case from Mexico leads directly back to at least one case and maybe several more here in the States. If you could just walk this past—”

“Look, Beau,” he said. “You don’t hang around the crime lab much these days, but I can tell you, it’s hell. When Destry Hennessey comes riding through here on her broom, we all run for cover. If she finds out I’m doing an unauthorized analysis on her equipment and on her watch, she’ll have my balls—and my job.”

In other words, Analise Kim wasn’t the only pissed-off employee at the Washington State Crime Lab. There were other avenues I could have used, but those would have taken more time.
And lots more documentation. The material I had in hand through Ralph’s unofficial efforts would have to be reobtained, this time going through channels and across desks, something that would take time—a commodity we didn’t have. So I punted.

“As it happens,” I said, “Destry Hennessey could be part of the problem.”

“Whoa!” Larry Crumb exclaimed. “Bring down what you have, then. Let’s see what I can do.”

B
ecause Mel had commandeered my bathroom, I had been trying to work while still lounging around in my robe—not a good plan. Now I went to shower and dress. By the time I emerged, Mel was still arguing with the FAA, but Todd had a hit.

“I’m on the phone with Million Air in Salt Lake City,” he said gleefully, holding one hand over the telephone receiver as he spoke to me. “Their records show tail number November eight six one Alpha Bravo was tied down there from October 9 through October 11, 2003. They flew out the morning of October 12.”

I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Todd Hatcher had caught on to the FAA lingo, and we both knew that Juan Carlos Escobar had been released on his twenty-first birthday, October 10, 2003. “Do we have any idea who all was on the plane?” I asked.

Todd held up his hand. “You can’t?” he said. “I just want to…But…All right, then. Someone will have to get back to you.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“They blew me off. I wanted to know if they had any details about the passengers or pilots, but they said they can’t or won’t provide that information, not without a warrant.”

“When Mel finishes with the FAA, put her on it,” I advised. “Either she’ll figure out a way to worm the information out of them, or she’ll figure out a way to come up with enough probable cause to get a warrant.”

“Where are you going?” Todd asked.

“I’m on my way to the crime lab with the ballistics stuff. You keep tracking on FBOs.”

I started for the door, but Mel waved me down, signaling for me to wait.

“Thank you so much,” she was saying into the phone. “Yes, I can hear it. The fax is coming through right now. You’ve been a huge help, David.”

Mel hurried over to the fax machine and then had to stand and wait until the documents finished printing. She handed the first one to me and I saw it right away. Whoever had drawn the composite had done a wonderful job. Diane Massingale and the nun in the composite from the Bountiful Police Department were clearly one and the same.

“So Diane it is, then,” I said.

“Maybe it’s both of them,” Mel replied. “They both trained with the Air Force in the first Gulf War. Both left under less than optimal circumstances—as in don’t-ask-don’t-tell.”

“The FAA told you that?”

“Not the FAA per se. David told me that. He just happens to work for the FAA,” Mel answered. “Anyway, after that they both worked for commuter airlines, then they flew charters. They’ve worked exclusively for Anita Bowdin since 2002. And they both live at the same address in Kent, the one we found for T. Rayburn. Now where do you think you’re going?”

“The crime lab, to drop off the ballistics info.”

“I’m coming too,” Mel said determinedly.

“But Todd needs you to work on the FBO situation,” I objected.

“Todd has a telephone,” Mel declared. “And I have a telephone. If Todd needs me to do something, he can call. Right, Todd?”

“Right,” Todd said, ducking his head into his computer screen and not meeting her eye. I suspected that he had seen more of Mel Soames than he expected that morning. She seemed to be coping with the situation far better than he was. And leaving them alone to work together clearly wasn’t an option.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Come on. Bring along our Destry and Anita info. That’ll give us something to read if we end up having to sit around somewhere and cooling our heels.”

The Mercedes was almost out of gas, so we took Mel’s BMW. She drove. When my phone rang I expected the caller to be Todd Hatcher or Ross Connors. It was Harry I. Ball.

“You don’t call,” he said. “You don’t write. And considering I bailed your butts out of hot water yesterday morning you’d think you could be bothered to pick up the phone and say thanks a bunch.”

“Sorry, Harry,” I said. “We’ve been busy.”

“Hah!” he said. “I’ll bet. Now are you two ever coming back
or should I just sublet your space and get it over with? No sense sitting here with empty offices going to waste.”

“We’re working, Harry,” I said. “We’re making progress.”

“But I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for you to send me an actual report on what you’re doing. Brad and Aaron are a little pissed about this, you know. Barbara, too. They come in every day, punch the time clock, put in their hours, while you and Mel are wandering around free as a couple of birds.”

Brad Norton and Aaron Oliver were two of our SHIT Squad B teammates.

“Sorry to leave you out of the loop, and I’ll shoot you an update,” I promised, “as soon as we get within shouting distance of our computers.”

“You do that,” Harry said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

When we reached the crime lab parking lot, I thought Mel would want to come in with me.

“You go on,” she said. “There are a couple of things I want to check out.”

I went. I’ve been to the crime lab countless times without ever catching sight of Destry Hennessey, but as I pointed out earlier, this was the Ides of March, and the stars were not in our favor. She was down in the lobby, talking to the lady in charge of handing out visitors’ badges.

“Hey, Beau,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

She seemed happy enough to see me. She wouldn’t have been had she known what I was up to.

“Ballistics,” I said. “Need to see Larry.”

“Your old bud,” she said. “This about the double homicide up in Leavenworth?”

“Yup,” I said. “That’s the one,” making a mental note to be
sure Tim Lander sent Larry something about that Golden Saber shell casing that would keep everyone out of trouble.

“Good work,” she said. “Sounds like you cleared that one up in a hell of a hurry.”

I took my visitor’s badge and rode the elevator upstairs. Larry was aghast when I told him I had run into Destry herself in the lobby. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Put in a call to Tim Lander at the Chelan County Sheriff’s Department and make sure he sends you everything there is to know about the weapon involved in the double homicide up in Leavenworth.”

“But he already did,” Larry said. “That’s what I’m supposed to be working on this morning.”

“We’re covered then,” I said. “Not to worry.”

I gave him what I had. He looked it over, sniffing his disapproval. “This isn’t all that good,” he said. “But it may be enough. Give me a number so I can get back to you.”

I did and then headed back down to the car, where I found Mel talking on her cell. When I got into the car, she handed me a scrap of paper. On it she had scribbled something that looked like “Wingnuts and Butte Av.” She hung up.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Ross Connors,” she said. “I just finished telling him that his boy wonder economist, Todd Hatcher, is in fact a genius. He’s located two more FBOs—Wingnuts is in Roseburg. Butte Aviation is in Butte, Montana. The dates Anita’s plane was in those areas coincide with two of my sexual offender ‘mysterious deaths.’”

“So they are connected?”

“Looks like,” Mel said.

“And we’re dealing with serial killers.”

“That, too,” Mel agreed.

“So what’s the next step?”

“Ross has the whole Olympia squad working the problem as well—checking out the plane, where it’s based, flight plans, all that kind of thing. Since we can put the plane in the vicinity at the time of four homicides, three in the U.S. and one in Mexico, he’s also looking into whether or not we have sufficient probable cause to get a search warrant.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“That’s what I told him,” Mel agreed. “He said it depends on the judge, and Ross Connors knows a lot of judges.”

“So what’s the next step for us?” I asked.

“Breakfast,” Mel said. “Cold pizza doesn’t do it for me. Then what say the two of us head out to Kent and have a chat with Diane Massingale or Trudy Rayburn? An unexpected visit from us might force them into making some kind of error.”

“If we spook them, what if they just jump in the plane and take off?” I asked.

“If they try that, we’ll know where the plane is, won’t we,” Mel said with a smile. “And if they’re apprehended while attempting to flee, we’ll have probable cause for sure.”

Which is exactly why Mel Soames is my kind of girl.

We stopped off at the Yankee Diner in Renton on our way to Kent. Mel ordered breakfast; I ordered lunch. We had taken the Destry/Anita papers in with us. While we waited for our food, we tried to work on them again, but Mel pushed hers away after only a minute or so. Glancing at her face, I saw she looked troubled.

“I thought these women were my friends,” she said. “And I thought the whole purpose of SASAC was to help people—to accomplish something worthwhile.”

The comment made me revisit the betrayal I had felt when I learned Anne Corley wasn’t at all who or what I had thought her to be. Not knowing exactly which way Mel was leaning, and not wanting to make the situation worse, I tried to soft-pedal Anita Bowdin’s involvement.

“We don’t know for sure Anita Bowdin did this,” I said. “Maybe her pilots were acting on their own.”

Mel remained unconvinced. “We don’t know that she didn’t, either. If she wanted to find unconvicted and anonymous sexual offenders, the crime lab was the perfect place to go hunting,” Mel declared. “I know for a fact that Anita was bound and determined to place someone inside the DNA profiling lab. That was a major goal when I turned up on the scene. She may not have pulled the actual triggers, Beau, but I know Anita Bowdin is involved. I’m guessing the pilots are the puppets while Anita controls the strings.”

“But we still don’t know why.”

“One way or the other,” Mel said determinedly, “we’re going to find out.”

By the time we arrived at Trudy Rayburn and Diane Massingale’s neatly rehabbed 1920s bungalow on the edge of downtown Kent, Mel and I had come up with a suitable fiction and with the decision that, in this instance, Mel would do all the talking. We parked Mel’s BMW three blocks away and almost out of sight of Trudy Rayburn’s house. Mel opened the trunk and removed the his-and-hers Kevlar vests we keep there. Only after donning them did we walk back to the house. A blue Ford Freestyle minivan was parked in the driveway. We walked past it and stepped up onto the low porch. Then Mel rang the bell.

As soon as Trudy answered the door, Mel put our game plan
into action. She greeted the woman with a handshake and a warm smile. “I don’t know if you remember me or not,” Mel said, “but I flew with you on a trip to Cancún last fall.”

“Oh, sure,” Trudy answered. “I remember now. What can I do for you?”

Once Mel handed over her business card, Trudy was a lot less welcoming. “What’s this about?” she asked.

“Your boss,” Mel answered. “Anita Bowdin.”

“What about her?”

Mel sighed—very convincingly, I thought. “We really can’t go into any great detail right now,” Mel said. “It’s an ongoing police matter and obviously we can’t comment, but we understand that you and your partner have worked for Ms. Bowdin for several years. We wondered if, in the course of your employment, you’ve ever noticed anything suspicious—anything out of line?”

“You mean like some kind of illegal activity, like transporting drugs or something?” Trudy asked.

“That would work,” Mel said with another smile.

Trudy had been standing in an open screen door. Now she moved back into the house and let the screen door close between us. “Look, Ms. Bowdin has been wonderful to us,” she declared, standing with her arms folded. “I can’t imagine her doing anything ‘out of line,’ as you call it. So, no. In answer to your question, I haven’t noticed anything at all.”

I for one was delighted to see Trudy Rayburn exhibiting such classic defensive behavior, and I was sure she wasn’t doing it out of concern for Anita Bowdin, either. This was a lot more personal.

“When was the last time you flew Anita somewhere?” Mel asked conversationally. “Where did you go and when did you return?”

“I’m sure I shouldn’t be answering these questions,” Trudy said.

“It’s really more a matter of corroboration than it is answering questions,” Mel returned. “We know what Anita told us about her recent travels. We’re simply trying to confirm what she told us from an independent source, but that’s all right, Ms. Rayburn. Not to worry. I’m sure we’ll be able to check out your aircraft’s past flight plans with the FAA. That’ll take some time, but it will accomplish the same end. In the meantime, though, go ahead and keep my card,” Mel added, “just in case you or Ms. Massingale decide there is something you’d like to tell us about. And don’t forget, if the plane has been used in the commission of any crime, the two of you, being the pilots, could well be implicated as coconspirators.”

Mel turned and sauntered off the porch, with me trailing discreetly behind her. We were all the way to the sidewalk before the interior door closed behind us. “Now we wait,” Mel said as we headed back to the BMW.

“What if she calls Anita?” I asked.

“That’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”

We had just settled into the car when Mel’s phone rang. “Okay, Roy,” she said after listening for several seconds. “Good work. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Who was that?” I asked. “And thanks for letting you know what?”

“Roy Porter,” Mel answered. “He’s an interagency information officer for the King County Sheriff ’s Office. Ross asked him to do some background work for us. According to him, Trudy Rayburn has a CPL.”

That was bad news. It meant King County had issued a
concealed pistol license to Trudy Rayburn. It’s one thing to do an ounce of prevention and put on a Kevlar vest to go chat up a suspect who may or may not be armed. Once you know for sure the suspect is carrying, though, it’s a whole other can of worms.

“Great,” I said. “That’s just what I want to know.”

“And they’ve located Anita’s plane,” Mel added. “At least they’ve established that she rents a hangar at the Renton Municipal Airport. They’re still working on getting a search warrant. If they can get it, it’ll include the house here, the hangar, the plane, and the minivan. The problem is, even if a judge grants it, how long will it take to get it here?”

“Good question.”

We settled in to wait. Stakeouts can be incredibly boring. We didn’t try to catch up on our reading for fear we might miss something, but there was plenty of time for thinking and for considering the very real difference between “bulletproof” vests as the public thinks of them and the far less definitive reality of “bullet-resistant.” And then there’s the problem of how much of the human body a Kevlar vest doesn’t cover—Captain Paul Kramer’s life-threatening injuries being a prime case in point.