despite her instructions, I caved to Vinnie's every demand to avoid his
strategic peeing episodes, she suggested that I re-enroll my French
bulldog when I felt more committed to the process. Two years later,
Vinnie and I have come to mutually agreeable terms. He has a doggie
door to the backyard, an automatic feeder, and a rubber Gumby doll that
he treats like his baby, but if I don't come home in time to cuddle him
and hear about his day, there's hell to pay. Griffey, on the other
hand, appeared to do whatever Easterbrook told him.
Easterbrook introduced Griffey's new friends as Dr. and Mrs. Jonathon
Fletcher. I guess you have to give up both your first and last names
when you marry a physician. Dr. Fletcher's looks said doctor more
than Townsend Easterbrook's. In contrast with the flashy Expedition
and high-tech house, I noticed that the Fletchers pulled up in a Volvo
station wagon.
Mrs. Dr. Fletcher did her best to provide comfort. "I'm certain
Clarissa's just fine, Townsend. A misunderstanding, is all. We just
have to find her, and that's that. Now, when's the last time you saw
her?"
She made it sound like we were trying to track down a lost set of
keys.
"This morning," Townsend said. "She was still in bed. I had
back-to-back surgeries, and when I got home she was gone."
"Well, dear, I'm surprised you even get a chance to operate anymore.
Jonathon tells me how busy you are, developing the new transplant unit.
Sounds like that's going extremely well."
Apparently Mrs. Dr. Fletcher was so used to her job as
conversationalist to her husband's colleagues that she was slipping
into autopilot. Understandably, Townsend cut her off.
"Who knows? Still so much to do," he said. Translation: Who the fuck
cares about the hospital right now? "I didn't even realize Griffey was
gone until a couple of hours ago. When did you find him?"
"Right around ten," Dr. Fletcher said. "A group of us were leaving
our function at the Chart House, and this feisty fellow was running
around in the parking lot. Initially, everyone assumed he escaped from
one of the neighborhood yards or something. But then someone noticed
he was dragging a leash. Our friend went after him, figuring someone
had lost hold of him. When he checked the tag, what do you know? Our
own Griffey Easterbrook."
The Chart House sat just a couple of steep miles down from the
Easterbrook home. The elegant restaurant was located on the winding,
wooded section of Taylor's Ferry Road that ran from the modest
Burlingame neighborhood in southwest Portland, up about two miles to
OHSU, and then back down again into downtown Portland. Spectacular
views of the city made the route one of the most popular spots in the
area for walks, runs, and bike rides.
It was not, however, the safest place for a woman alone at night. About
a year earlier, two guys from the DA's office were taking a run there
after work. They heard what they thought was a couple goofing around
behind the bushes, a man wrestling his squealing girlfriend to the
grass. Fortunately, the woman heard them talking as they ran past and
yelled, "Help, I don't know him."
The bad guy got away, but the ensuing publicity had called the city's
attention to the potential dangers of the area. It was no longer
common to find women alone on the path after dark.
The Fletchers' discovery of Griffey there was not a good sign.
Johnson must've been thinking the same thing, because he decided to
revisit what I thought had been our mutual decision not to search the
Easterbrook/Jetson home. He pulled me aside while Townsend continued
the conversation with the Fletchers.
"I know we're playing it safe, but finding the dog changes the picture.
We need to go through the place now while he's still playing victim. If
we wait until a body shows, he might lawyer up."
I shook my head. "I still don't like it," I said. "Look at him he's a
basket case. Later on, his state of mind might kill any consent we get
from him. If, God forbid, her body does surface, we can easily get a
warrant, since this is her house. We won't need to have probable cause
against the husband."
"And what do we do about the fact that our doctor can move whatever he
wants and start dumping evidence the minute we're out of here?"
Johnson's point was well taken, but it wasn't enough to justify a
thorough search this early in the case. Not only could Townsend try to
throw out the search down the road, we'd pretty much be killing any
chance we had of continued cooperation from him. In any event, if
Townsend was involved in his wife's disappearance, he certainly could
have disposed of any incriminating evidence before calling the
police.
I explained my thinking to Johnson and proposed a compromise. "Why
don't you offer to take a look around to make sure there's no sign of a
break-in? I don't have a problem with you doing a general
walk-through; I just don't want a detailed search yet. If you check
for broken windows and the like, we can at least look for the obvious
and avoid any major fuckups."
"Okay with you if I ask him about it in front of his buddies?"
I gave a quick nod. If Townsend felt pressured to consent to a search
because his friends were around, so be it. Courts only care about
claims of involuntariness if the supposed coercion comes from law
enforcement.
Before Johnson walked away, I added, "We should also get people
searching up on Taylor's Ferry. Hopefully, by the time the department
has a search plan together, Walker can tell us what she might have been
wearing."
Griffey perked up when Tara came down the stairs, apparently satisfied
that nothing helpful was going to come from foraging through her
sister's closet. I'd already been positively disposed toward her based
on her obvious concern for her sister, and I warmed to her even more
when she found the energy to get down on the floor with her sister's
dog and comfort him with a bear hug.
After a few minutes spent on introductions to the Fletchers and the
inevitable words of comfort, Tara grew antsy again. "Griffey, up," she
commanded, pointing him toward the stairs. "Sorry, I can't sit still.
You mind if I throw him into the tub real quick, Town? He's a little
crunchy, and it'll give me something to do."
It was clear that Tara's nervous energy was grating on her
brother-in-law; he seemed more at ease once she'd followed Griffey to
the second floor and he could turn his attention back to the
Fletchers.
"I keep expecting the phone to ring, but I'm not sure exactly what kind
of call it would be; maybe a ransom demand or something. Obviously, I
want it to be Clarissa explaining that this is all a misunderstanding,
that she went with a friend somewhere and forgot to leave a note, and
Griffey just happened to get out.. ." He was just rambling. I didn't
point out that the leash suggested Griffey had not simply escaped from
the yard, but that someone had been walking him. Townsend would come
to the realization in his own time.
I was beginning to think that a ransom demand would be good news at
this point. At least it might indicate that Clarissa was alive.