The Dying Hour (7 page)

T
he Sawridge County Sheriff’s Office was in a sixstory brick and glass office complex, which also housed the county courthouse and short-term jail. It occupied a block of downtown Bellingham, mixing a Victorian and neoclassical theme. But its pleasant design and bubbling lobby fountain offered little comfort to Marlene Clark when she entered.

Escorted by a uniformed female deputy, Marlene and the officer did not speak as their elevator ascended. As the bell tolled for each floor, Marlene’s heart screamed.

A woman’s body has been found.

That’s what Stralla had told her on the phone when he sent for her. Marlene trembled until the elevator stopped and its doors opened on the floor of the detective division.

“This way.”

The deputy guided Marlene down the hallway, its walls adorned with maps, posters for crime prevention, and pictures of smiling children receiving awards from the sheriff. They came to an empty lounge room. It had a sofa and several cushioned chairs, a veneer-covered table with four hardback chairs, and a fridge. At the far end there was a television and VCR.

“Please have a seat. Hank will be right with you.”

Marlene didn’t feel like sitting. She turned slowly from the deputy and stared blankly at a watercolor of a Pacific landscape.

“Is there anything you would like?”

I would like my sister to be alive.

“Coffee, soda, water?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

Stralla entered, his hand clamped around several videocassette tapes sealed in a plastic bag, a file folder tucked under his arm.

“Thanks, Lee.”

The deputy closed the door and left. Marlene turned to Stralla.

“I’m sorry. There’s still no word from Benton County,” he said. “It’s going to take time.” His eyes were strong, clear, as he waited to make sure she was with him before he continued. “I know this is the hardest thing to go through, but I’m going to need your help.”

Marlene caught her breath and nodded.

Stralla set the tapes and the file folder on the table. He began checking and signing the evidence sheet, then removed the first tape and switched on the video player. The tapes were from the Big Timber Truck Stop security system and had been cleaned up. He needed Marlene to confirm that Karen was on the tape and that it wasn’t someone who might’ve stolen her credit card. He was also hoping the footage would show if Karen had encountered anyone there that night.

Anyone Marlene might recognize.

As for whether it was Karen Harding’s body in the Rattlesnake Hills, well, without confirmation anything was possible. Buchanan at Benton County would call. And Raife Ansboro was there to observe for Sawridge. Stralla inserted the first tape, dimmed the lights, and turned to Marlene.

“Ready?”

She folded her arms, hanging on to herself, then nodded.

A color image of the Big Timber Truck Stop parking lot emerged with the time and date blinking at the bottom of the screen. Stralla accelerated it, making people move at high speed in and out of the entrance. Coming to the time Karen had arrived, he slowed the tape.

Karen.

There she was gripping the collar of her jacket in the rain, walking, almost trotting to the entrance. Marlene knew that navy jacket. She was with her when she had bought it at a boutique in downtown Vancouver last spring. They had shopped and had lunch together. Marlene recognized her sister’s body shape, her walk, the profile of her face.

Stralla turned to her and she nodded.

“That’s her. That’s Karen.”

“Any doubt?”

Marlene covered her mouth with her hand. Tears filled her eyes.

“None.”

Stralla inserted lobby and restaurant tapes, showing Karen eating alone. No encounters. Then he inserted another tape where Karen exited, hurrying off alone into the night until she vanished from view.

Marlene gasped.

Her instinct was to reach into the screen and pull Karen back. Pull her tight to her. Was this the last image, the last memory she would have of her little sister?
No. Please.
Marlene’s heart raced, her mind took her back through her life to when she and Karen were children.

Halloween night.

Marlene was a princess. Karen was a tiny fairy. Holding hands, walking through the dark among the ghosts and monsters. Karen was young. Her first time out like that with her big sister. Karen was a bit uneasy, clinging to Marlene at every door. Marlene was annoyed because she wanted to be with her friends, not saddled with taking care of her baby sister.

Then at one house three large groups converged. It was loud, chaotic with laughter, shouting and screaming, howling. Marlene and Karen were jostled and Karen’s tiny hand slipped from hers. Marlene searched among the witches and demons.

Karen.

She lost her in the darkness.

Karen.

Marlene stared at the tape of the truck stop.

Stared at Karen walking into the night.

Marlene buried her face in her hands, turning away from the TV. She had found Karen that Halloween night. But would she find her now?

Oh, Karen.

A woman’s body has been found.

Images from Benton County assailed Marlene. Corpses in the country. Her sister lost among the monsters. When Stralla had first told her about the body, Marlene’s response was to rush to the scene. See for herself.

She needed to know.

Stralla had stopped her. It wouldn’t be best right now. Nothing’d been confirmed. No one knew for sure who the victim was. Fear seized Marlene. She wouldn’t go. Couldn’t go. Because if she didn’t go, if she didn’t see with her own eyes, then it wasn’t true.

Her sister hadn’t been murdered.

Hope was the fine thread holding Marlene together. Sitting in the darkened room with Detective Stralla, she had no idea how much time had passed as he played and replayed the tapes, making notes. She was adrift until the door opened and she saw her husband.

“Oh, Bill.”

Marlene sobbed when he put his strong arms around her. Only then could she fall apart. He held her tight for several minutes until she regained some control.

“How did you know I needed you? I never called.”

“Detective Stralla called me.”

At that moment Stralla’s cell phone rang. He left the room to take it but returned in less than a moment.

“Please sit down,” he told Marlene and her husband. “Nothing has been confirmed, you must bear that in mind. Benton County has asked for Karen’s dental records.”

B
y 5:45 a.m., Jason Wade had showered, dressed, and left his room for the lobby of the Saddleback Motel. The smell of fresh coffee and toast and the clink of cutlery drifted from the smattering of tables in the dining area. A few early risers were working on their free continental breakfast.

Some glanced at CNN flickering from the bigscreen TV. Some read newspapers, consulted maps, or talked on cell phones. Those near the window looked into the gloomy mist rising from the morning rain on the Columbia River as it flowed through Richland.

Jason stepped outside to the row of news boxes and bought a copy of the
Seattle Times,
the
Post-Intelligencer,
the
Mirror,
and a Tri-City paper. The story was on the front page of each edition. Jason grabbed a large coffee, a bagel, a banana, a cherry Danish, and bottled apple juice, putting them on a tray before heading back to his room.

His story was the line, running six columns under the
Mirror
’s flag:
POLICE PROBE WOMAN’S “RITUALISTIC” KILLING IN RATTLESNAKE HILLS
.

That was the word Hanna Larssen had used. The article ran over Nathan Hodge’s large color aerial photo, looking down on the white canopy covering the scene. White-gloved forensic investigators could be seen working on the desolate site, a remote island of activity amid a vast, grassy ocean.

Jason bit into his Danish as he devoured his story, recalling Hanna Larssen’s account of what began as a search for Cody, her shepherd.

Although shaken by making a grisly find on her property, Hanna Larssen was a smart woman, unafraid to talk to Jason but not foolish enough to reveal details that might hurt Lieutenant Buchanan’s case. She swore she was unable to identify the victim as Karen Harding. The remains weren’t in good condition, she said, refusing to give Jason more details other than to say the scene was horrible and looked “ritualistic.”

No other newspaper had the ritualistic angle.

It was critical, Jason thought. For if the woman was displayed in a ritualistic manner, then her murder went beyond a crime of passion, or, he cringed at the thought, a run-of-the-mill murder. It was the hallmark of a predator. A serial killer.

And Jason knew the subject.

He’d studied serial murder in his spare time for years, having read just about everything he could find on it. He fired up his laptop and went online to various law enforcement studies on crime scenes, profiles, and behavior of organized killers: those who were likely to employ a ritualistic display of their victims. Such killers would possess an everchanging personality. They would blend in with society. They would take their time selecting victims. Be cunning, methodological, research killing and dump sites.

Jason bit into his bagel, chewed on his thoughts, then read the other newspapers heaped on his bed. All of them had pretty much reported straight-up versions of police investigating the discovery of a woman’s body. All had speculated on whether the corpse belonged to the missing college student from Seattle. No one had the answer. That would come after an autopsy confirmed identification and cause of death.

If this was Karen Harding, did the killer select her from the highway to be killed in a ritualistic way? Did he preselect the Rattlesnake Hills as the place to leave her corpse? The Pacific Northwest had plenty of precedent for this sort of thing. Sure, but hold on. Jason was getting ahead of things. There was too much he didn’t know. So much he wanted to know. He looked out his window at the dark overcast sky, the rain, and the river.

His room phone startled him.

“It’s me.” Hodge was awake. “Meet me downstairs for breakfast.”

Hodge said little over his frosted flakes. He crunched while appraising the news pictures of the scene taken by his competition. Satisfied that no one had beaten him on anything, he began reading the story.

“What do you think?” Jason asked.

Hodge said nothing for a long moment. He began peeling an orange.

“I don’t know about this ritualistic thing, but one thing’s for sure. You have to be in the air over the site before it hits you.”

“Before what hits you?”

“How far out it is. Isolated from everything. He could do anything he wanted to her out there because nobody would hear the screams.”

Jason’s cell phone rang.

“It’s Buchanan, returning your call.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Jason dropped his voice and pulled out his pad and pen. “Any word on identifying the body?”

“You tell me. You seem to have the jump on everyone.”

“Excuse me?”

“Browbeating an old woman just so you can sensationalize a story.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

“You didn’t go hunting Hanna Larssen down?”

“I looked for her and she agreed to an interview. I was doing my job.”

“What’s your question, Wade?”

“Are you talking to Sawridge County on the Karen Harding case?”

“It’s routine to check cases against those in other jurisdictions.”

“Any word on identifying the body?”

“No. We’re going to be done at the site in a few hours, then the coroner’s going to remove the remains. Then we’ll set out on confirming identification.”

Jason told Hodge.

“I’ll need that picture,” the photographer said. “Even in this crappy light.”

They packed up, checked out, and within twenty minutes were on the road in Hodge’s Cherokee heading back to the Larssen farm.

Despite the early hour and the steady gray drizzle, Jason counted as many cars at the farm as there had been the day before. While most were familiar press vehicles, several had no news logos painted on them. Looked to him like members of the public had come to rubberneck. A group of people in colorful rain clothes were huddled near a deputy’s car with a halo of TV lights over them.

Hodge rummaged through his camera bag, changing lenses. Pulling on a rain poncho and covering his camera with plastic, he cursed the weather and the havoc the moisture played with his digital. Jason didn’t understand why Hodge was rushing until he saw the shapes in the distance.

Hodge got out and climbed to the roof of his Jeep.

Cresting a far hill was a Benton County Sheriff’s four-by-four, followed by the coroner’s van. Their red lights flashing, signaling a sense of violation. A sense of gravity. Against the backdrop of the sweeping hills, they moved slowly, almost solemnly along the earth in the surreal mist, like a funeral procession emerging from another world.

Jason made his way to join the huddled group of people who were not reporters. All appeared to be in their early twenties. It dawned on him when he glimpsed the college and university parking stickers on some of the cars that these were Karen Harding’s friends.

A couple of the young women had single white roses in their hands.

“Can you tell me why you came?” Jason indicated the roses. “Nothing’s been confirmed.”

“We wanted to be here just in case this turns out to be Karen.” The woman turned away, her expression grim.

A second woman consoled her, then, turned to Jason.

“Is it Karen? Do you know? The deputy won’t tell us. We got up so early and drove all the way here to find out.”

“No, I don’t think they’re going to know for a while.”

Other students had quietly joined Jason’s group and he found himself encircled by heartsick faces. He interviewed them. Hodge was taking pictures of a woman placing flowers on the roadside in the rain. When Jason finished he passed out his card, saying, “If anyone learns anything, give me a call. I’ll pass on what I know to you.”

“You should talk to Luke Terrell. He’s over there.” The man indicated the lone figure a few yards away, staring at the coroner’s van inching toward the high-way. He was wearing jeans, a navy windbreaker, and a ball cap pulled down nearly covering his eyes. Wade noticed they were red-rimmed when he came up next to him.

“How are you holding up, Luke?”

Turning and recognizing Jason, he shrugged, looking into the distance as if haunted.

“For what it’s worth,” Jason said, “it could be anyone out there, you know. I mean we’re two hundred miles from Seattle, two hundred miles from Portland. Spokane and Boise aren’t that far.”

“Why did you have to write that the death was ritualistic?”

Jason was taken aback.

“That’s what Hanna Larssen told me.”

“I think that it’s disgusting that you would write that.”

“I understand. But I’m just reporting it.”

Terrell looked to the horizon as a breeze nudged a curtain of fine rain toward them. Jason noticed a small group of teachers from the Sawridge search in the distance, and a clergyman. Who was he? He wanted to talk to him after he’d finished with Terrell.

“Has Stralla told you much new?” Jason asked.

Terrell shook his head. “He wants to talk to me some more, that’s it. You?”

“He doesn’t tell me much,” Jason said. “Luke, I have to ask you, about that night, the night Karen left Seattle.”

“What about it?”

“What really happened?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Are you sure something wasn’t on her mind that night? Something that forced her to drive off without telling anyone? Maybe she argued with a friend or something?”

“And what difference would it make now?”

“I’m just asking. Maybe it would shed some light on what happened. Did you two argue?”

Terrell’s shoulders sagged slightly as if he were bearing a terrible weight. Then he walked away from Wade without speaking another word.

Activity wound down at Hanna Larssen’s farm with a press conference from Lieutenant Buchanan. Nothing new was expected until full autopsy results were known, which could take a couple of days.

Karen Harding’s college teachers, including the reverend, had left before Jason could talk to them. He wrote in the Jeep as Hodge drove them back to Seattle. It was still raining by the time they’d reached the metro area. It was very late when Jason finally finished at the
Mirror,
got into his Falcon, drove to Fremont, and returned to his apartment.

Exhausted, he trudged to his bedroom, where he glanced at Valerie’s bracelet, then snapshots of Karen Harding before falling into bed. He studied his stories and notes. It was after 2:00 a.m. when he closed his eyes. It felt like he’d slept no more than ten minutes when his phone rang.

Man, his body ached. Heavy as if he were underwater. Must be the poststress of a road-trip assignment. Wow, it was daylight and his phone was still ringing. The clock showed 11:23 a.m.

He rubbed his eyes and reached for the receiver.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“This Jason Wade, the reporter with the
Seattle Mirror?
”

“Yeah, who’s calling please?”

“I know who was involved in Karen Harding’s disappearance.”