The Dying Hour (9 page)

G
ideon Cull’s office was hidden in a far-flung campus annex to the social sciences department. Jason Wade approached it, unsure he was doing the right thing.

He was out on a limb here, investigating Cull simply because Erika had leveled wild accusations against him. Two other students Jason had reached by phone backed up Erika’s claims, but it was Erika who’d provided their numbers.

This was a risk.

He hadn’t told Ron Nestor about his tip and he had no experience with this sort of thing. For all he knew, Erika was using him in a student vendetta against a teacher. Still, his gut was telling him to chase this down. If he was dead on the money, it’d be a helluva story. If he was dead wrong, it’d be a helluva lawsuit.

Here we go.

The nameplate on the wall read:
GIDEON CULL. INSTRUCTOR, ANCIENT RELIGIOUS STUDIES
.
Be cool. Feel the guy out. Relax.
Odds were, this would amount to nothing. He rapped on the door frame.

“Come,” a voice said.

Cull’s office was cluttered. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowed with books and papers next to a pair of avocado four-drawer file cabinets. Framed certificates, diplomas, photographs, and mementos were everywhere. In one corner, hanging from a hook, he saw what appeared to be a costume. A robe and what looked like a wig.

“You must be Jason, the reporter who called?”

“Yes, from the
Mirror
.”

“You got here fast, have a seat.” Cull set down his copy of a book by Camus. A page was folded to a chapter on the guillotine.

He looked to be in his early fifties and was a couple of inches taller than Jason. Maybe six two, with a solid, athletic build, large hands. He was clean shaven. An imposing figure. He coughed.

“Can’t seem to shake this cold. I got caught in that storm the other night.” He coughed again. “My apologies for not responding to your call earlier. I was helping in the search for Karen. Then I was out of town. I’m a part-time instructor and my volunteer work keeps me on the road.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’m afraid I can only give you twenty minutes before I have to go.”

“That should be enough time.” Jason opened his notebook.

“I’ve been following your reporting.” Cull cleared his throat. “What’s happened is horrible. I’ve tried to help with the search and prayers. Have police in Benton County made an identification?”

“Not yet.”

Cull nodded, blinking thoughtfully. “I pray for Karen. Only a few days ago, she sat in the chair you’re sitting in, anxious about her one-year mission to Ethiopia. I helped arrange it through our worldwide faith agency. She was nervous about the impact it would have on her life.”

“She came to you for counseling?”

“Unofficially.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not a counselor, but students talk to me about problems. Course load, careers, relationships. In addition to the people I help off campus, I’ve come to be something of a confessor to young people here.”

“I see.”

Jason’s focus shifted to the robe, drawing Cull’s attention there too.

“Oh, that?” Cull asked. “A little inside joke with our drama teacher. I play Moses in a church pageant. That’s my garment and my beard. He likes me to remain close to my character.” He smiled.

Jason nodded, making a note as he formed a question arising from Erika’s accusations. “So students come to you with their personal troubles. I understand you’re known to them as someone who is”—
Careful. Be very careful
—“as someone who cares a great deal about their welfare.”

Cull’s smile weakened slightly.

“I admit, I show an interest when they come to talk to me. College can be stressful, as you know.” Cull glanced at his watch.

“Did Karen mention any problems you think might be related to her disappearance? You know, anything troubling her?”

“Not really, other than what I’ve already told you.”

“Tell me about her, the kind of person she is.”

“She’s an outstanding student. Conscientious, altruistic, selfless. I was ordained as a pastor years ago. I belong to an ecumenical group on campus. Karen’s part of the group and she volunteered for every one of our fund-raising events. A totally giving person. I can’t understand how this could happen to her.”

“You’re obviously concerned about her.”

“As I said, I like to watch over my flock, if you will.”

The phone rang.

“Excuse me, I’ll have to take this.”

“I can step outside.”

“Stay. I won’t be long.”

Jason used the interruption to look at the shelves and titles of some of Cull’s books:
Guided by the Light, Life after Life, Psychology of Faith, Reflections on the Ritual, Morality of the Confined Soul, America’s Theological Quest.

Heavy stuff, he thought, making notes, then noticing the collection of papers and letters on Cull’s credenza. Next to folded copies of Seattle newspapers, he saw student papers on seventeenth-century persecution of believers in obscure religions.

Fanned across the desk were letters, envelopes of all sizes addressed to Cull. Jason’s eyebrows edged upward at the return addresses. Prisons and parole offices in Washington, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, British Columbia, and Alberta.

He saw a couple of framed photographs of Cull smiling with a large group of people before three RVs of different sizes, each painted with inspirational messages. There were pictures of Cull and volunteers at fund-raisers. Luke Terrell was among them in one. In another, Cull had his hands on a woman’s shoulder.
Karen Harding.
Hanging from the peg was a minister’s white collar.

“Sorry,” Cull said after hanging up. “We’ve got a couple of minutes and then I’ve got to get going, got a long drive ahead of me.”

“I appreciate the time you’ve made for me.”

“Hope it helps.”

“Just quickly, can you give me a bit more background on yourself ?”

Cull sighed. “All right, before I came here, I used to minister at a small church,” he said, collecting papers. “I taught courses at a local college and I would minister in prisons. I counseled troubled souls in shelters, missions, the street, highways, wherever they were.”

Jason nodded to the letters.

“Yes, I still help inmates and guys on parole. I still minister in prisons to people who’ve had hard lives, who’ve committed atrocious sins. We’ve all sinned, Jason, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess.”

“No doubt you’ve discovered that I’m far from perfect, that I’ve learned from the mistakes of my past.” Cull snapped his briefcase shut. “I do my best to help people benefit from my errors, to see that things are not always as bad as they seem, that there’s something perfect waiting for you.”

“Where?”

“In the next life.”

Cull smiled, then reached for his white collar.

A
t his office in Bellingham, Detective Stralla answered his phone.

“Hank, this is Buchanan. The ID should be on your fax now.”

Stralla snatched the pages, reading quickly. Lines formed at the corners of his eyes, his jaw tightened as he digested the result. His first thought went to Marlene Clark, and then he glanced at the time.

“No one knows the official results,” Buchanan said. “We’ll sit on it so we can make notifications. Say, four hours, then we’ll release it.”

“Are you going to hold a press conference?”

“No, we’ll just put out a statement. How’s that sound?”

“Good. I’ve got to tell the family in person.” Stralla was checking his cell phone, reaching for his jacket. “The sister went down to wait in Seattle at the apartment. On my way. I’ll call you once I’m done.”

Stralla collected the coroner’s faxed pages, then his file on the Harding case. He slid them into his valise, alerted the division secretary to his plans, then headed to the elevator. He strode from the building to his four-by-four, knowing they had a monster on their hands.

The white-haired woman who owned the Seattle building where Karen Harding lived had given Marlene and her husband, Bill, a key.

“I’m praying for Karen,” she said before leaving and closing the door behind her.

Standing in the middle of the deathly silent apartment, Marlene was overcome. Bill held her. They looked out the large bay windows at the city’s skyline, the Space Needle, and the mountains until Marlene collected herself.

Then Luke Terrell called. He’d heard from Benton County that an update was coming and wanted to join Marlene at the apartment. Although she was growing frustrated with Luke because she believed he was hiding something, she agreed to meet him.

To be honest, she was glad they’d come here. Detective Stralla had warned her to prepare for the worst. That they could have an answer today. She couldn’t bear another minute in her dreary Bellingham motel. Grateful she had Bill by her side, she decided Karen’s place was where she needed to await the news.

Marlene had always loved the apartment and the way Karen had decorated it. The living room had a handcrafted Egyptian area rug over the hardwood floor. Above her studio sofa, she had framed prints by Picasso and Rembrant.

Bill went to the window, Marlene went to Karen’s bedroom.

She looked through the four-drawer dresser, then the closet jammed with clothes, shoes, books, boxes of cards, letters, and treasured items from their childhood. The bed was made. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Karen was very neat. Very organized. Always had been.

Marlene traced her fingers along the pattern of the quilted down duvet on the bed. Then she picked up the large pillow, hugged it tenderly, breathing in Karen’s fragrance.

In the bathroom, towels were clean and hung neatly from the rack next to the tub and shower. Marlene inspected the medicine cabinet. Her sister’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and other toiletries were gone, indicating she’d definitely packed for at least an overnight stay.

Why didn’t you call me and tell me what was on your mind?

In the kitchen, Bill sat at the table going through all of the Seattle newspaper stories about Karen that Marlene had collected. Since he’d arrived, he’d studied each one several times as if the answer to the mystery of her disappearance was buried in newsprint.

Marlene stood over him, staring at a recent
Seattle Mirror
story, the one showing the aerial photograph of the tarp in the middle of Hanna Larssen’s windswept property in the Rattlesnake Hills.

No one had disclosed any details about Benton County’s case to her. She knew what the public knew and little else. “Ritualistic” was the word Hanna Larssen had used to describe the horror that had befallen the woman whose body she found on her property.

Ritualistic.

Her little sister.

Bill steadied her and helped her to the sofa, her fear and grief palpable as they looked out helplessly at Seattle.

As he drove along I-5, Stralla’s mind was drawn to the details he’d read in the coroner’s report. The savagery of the crime, the markings. Nothing had prepared him for this.

He thought of Marlene, what she’d been through. What she might yet go through. His heart went out to her, but his thoughts returned to the case, reexamining every aspect he knew, questions rushing by like the broken line on the highway. Was she lured away by a stranger she trusted? Did she walk away and accept a ride? What compelled her to hurry from Seattle? Did Luke Terrell tell them everything? Stralla gnawed over the case until he pulled up to Karen Harding’s building in Capitol Hill. He buzzed her unit.

Bill let him in.

Sober-faced, Stralla shook his hand. He was surprised to see Luke Terrell sitting in the living room with Marlene.

“He called me,” she said, coming to her feet.

“I needed to be here,” Terrell said.

Stralla nodded. “Please, everyone sit down.”

Bill sat next to Marlene. She clasped her hands in his, blinked, and steeled herself. Stralla sat near them, holding his valise with the case file and coroner’s report inside.

“It’s not Karen.”

Marlene sighed, tears flowed, and Bill pulled her tight.

“Thank you,” Terrell whispered, loud enough to be heard, before he stood and paced to the window.

“Comparison of dental records,” Stralla said, his eyes following Terrell, “rules out the possibility that the victim found in Benton County could be Karen Harding.”

Somewhere, another family was going to be devastated, Marlene thought.

“Do you know who it is?”

“Possibly a woman missing from Spokane.”

“Is there anything connecting Karen’s case to this one?” Bill asked.

“Nothing immediate. There’s a lot more work to do.”

“This means Karen could still be alive,” Marlene said.

“Yes, until we find evidence that proves otherwise.”

Marlene slid her arms around herself and began rocking slowly. Lack of sleep, overwhelmed by worry, she felt numb. “This puts us back to where we started, right?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Marlene turned to Terrell. “What happened that night?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did she run off like that? What happened between you and my sister, Luke?”

“We talked on the phone.” He shrugged. “Everything was fine.”

“Everything was not fine! Something upset her. What did you say to her that night?”

“Nothing.”

“I can’t stand this,” Marlene said. “I can’t stand this not knowing. Luke, why did she leave Seattle to see me?”

“I don’t know, Marlene. I swear I don’t know.”

Stralla watched Terrell’s reaction, his breathing, his body language.

This guy knew more.

A lot more.

A
fter leaving Cull’s office Jason drove straight to the Mirror.

He needed to catch up on a few things. And start digging into Cull’s background, he thought, stepping into the newsroom.

He stopped at the bulletin board to consider a frontpage tear sheet with Astrid Grant’s child survivor feature, displayed next to Ben Randolph’s investigation on city hall. One of his own stories from Hanna Larssen’s farm in the Rattlesnake Hills was up there too.

Astrid’s piece was circled with bold, red marker. Next to it, a large handwritten note said
Terrific, moving read! Superb writing, Astrid!
A thick red arrow pointed to Ben Randolph’s article and an accompanying note.
Solid, first-rate, hard-hitting investigative work, Ben!
The notes were signed by Neena Swain, the
Mirror
’s assistant managing editor.
Our interns raise the bar!
Swain had added.

It was known to the staff that Swain thought little of crime reporting. Understandably, Jason’s story had not warranted a word of praise. It was just there.

Jason shook it off.

The newsroom was humming. It was crunch time for the day side. Reporters and editors were typing at their keyboards, talking in small groups, or on the phone. Faces tense with concentration as they tried to wrap up the stories that would fill the pages of tomorrow’s paper.

The police radio chatter increased as Jason arrived at the cop desk. Leo Johnson, a stone-faced staffer, was typing at the desk adjoining his.

“You in early to take over?”

“Might as well.” Jason adjusted the scanners. “Anything shaking?”

“A house fire. Nobody home. And some rush-hour fender benders.”

Jason settled in, then scanned the wires for anything new on the Harding case. He scrolled through all of the stories that had moved over the last four hours. A press conference, a statement, anything. Nothing new came up. All right, time to move along to Gideon Cull.

Jason wanted to start digging into Cull’s background and relationship with Karen Harding. He’d give Erika credit for one thing, Cull was a bit creepy.

“Jason Wade.” Ron Nestor had a sheet of paper in his hand. “You’re early. Got anything on your plate right now? Anything I should know about?”

Jason wasn’t ready to tell him about Cull.

“No, I’m just poking around on the Harding story.”

“Just got this fax from Benton County. The body’s not Harding’s.”

Jason read over the fax. “This is it?” he said.

“That’s it. Now, I’ve got you down to do this tonight. Get reaction from everyone. What does it mean for the Harding case? Relief for her family, et cetera. This might take the Harding story down a notch because it seems unrelated.”

“I’ll try to reach everybody.”

“Don’t sweat that too much.” Nestor loosened his tie. “It’s a Spokane case, a little outside our area of interest. We lost the Seattle peg because it’s not Harding.”

“But a person’s been murdered.”

“I know. Do what you can. Space is tight.”

The press statement was short.

The Benton County Coroner’s Office has identified the remains found on private property off County Road 225, near Whitstran, as those of Roxanne Louise Palmer, aged 24, of Spokane, Washington. Positive identification was confirmed using dental records and fingerprints. The manner of death has been classified as homicide. Cause of death is not being released at this time.

Friends indicated Palmer had not been seen for approximately three to four days before her remains were discovered by a property owner searching for her lost dog.

Jason called Lieutenant Buchanan in Benton County. “We can’t add much more at this time. We’re working with Spokane police in an attempt to trace her last movements.”

“Can you say if this is linked to Karen Harding’s disappearance?”

“Check with Stralla in Bellingham on that.”

“Is there anything you can say about the ritualistic nature of her death?”

“Ritualistic is your word, Mr. Wade.”

“Actually, sir, it’s Hanna Larssen’s word. The woman who found her.”

“We’re not releasing any details about her death. What you have is what you have.”

“Can you tell me about Roxanne Palmer, a little biographical stuff ?”

“Try Spokane for that.”

It took Jason several calls before he reached the Spokane detective assigned to assist Benton County on the Palmer file.

“She worked as a prostitute. We understand she was addicted to cocaine and heroin and had run up a sizeable drug debt before she was last seen on the street.”

“Do you think the debt is a factor in her homicide?”

“Everything’s a factor at this point. She could have gone off on a bad date. Her murder could be related to her drug problem. We don’t know.”

“Any link to Karen Harding?”

“On the face of it, no.”

Jason asked if Roxanne Palmer had any family or friends who might offer some kind words about her.

“Doubt it,” the Spokane detective said. “From what we know, her mother’s in prison. Girls on the street here are a bit edgy to talk to anyone right now, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

Jason tried Stralla up at Sawridge County. He got his voice mail. Then he tried Marlene Clark and Luke Terrell. No luck. He flipped through his notes, began writing up the county fax and what the Spokane detective had given him. It was going to be a thin story. He was cobbling it together with some sourced stuff and background from other stories, when his phone rang.

“Hank Stralla.”

“Hey, thanks for getting back to me. I’m working on the release of ID from Benton. Have you ruled out any link to Karen Harding?”

“Until we determine what happened to her, we can’t rule anything out.”

“Well, have you got anything suggesting a link?”

“Nothing we’re prepared to release.”

“So you’ve got something then?”

“I didn’t say that, Jason. We’re going to work with all the agencies in the Benton case to ensure that nothing is overlooked.”

“Any suspects?”

“Let’s say we’re following all leads.”

Sounded like a big fat zip.

Jason call-forwarded his desk phone to his cell phone, then hurried downstairs to the
Mirror
’s cafeteria before it closed. His cell phone rang just as he returned to his desk with a cheeseburger, fries, and soda.

“This is Marlene Clark.”

“Hi. Thank you for calling back. I wanted to get your reaction to the identification of the case out of Benton County. Do you feel a sense of relief that it’s not Karen?”

A long uneasy silence passed.

“It’s hard to describe. Yes, there’s a sense of relief, but our hearts go out to Roxanne Palmer’s family.” Marlene cut herself off as she struggled to control her emotions. “We’re still praying Karen will be found safely.”

“Have police told you any details of the Benton case? Or suggested if there’s a link to Karen’s case?”

More silence. “No, we’re not privy to any details.”

“What do you think happened?”

“We don’t know.”

“Is there anything you’d add on your sister’s case?”

Marlene thought about it, then said, “If anyone knows something, anything, about my sister’s case, or the case of Roxanne Palmer, please, I’m begging you, call the police, because…”

Jason waited for Marlene to finish her sentence, but after seconds passed he prompted her.

“I’m sorry. Because…?”

“Because in my heart I feel my sister is alive.”