o'clock this afternoon to present probable cause affidavits to the
court on anyone arrested over the weekend without a warrant, so issuing
custodies was always the first priority of the day.
Alice welcomed me with a fat Redweld file marked mcu screening. I
struggled to hold it in one hand, my coffee in the other. Judging by
its weight, the file held close to thirty cases. "Could you give me a
few of the regular unit custodies too? You know, so I can use them to
break up the monotony a little?"
Alice was no pushover. "Sorry. Frist has got me under strict orders.
The newbie doesn't get any real cases until the screens are finished. I
know for sure that at least Luke is absolutely delighted by your
addition to the unit. All last week, he was counting down the days."
I usually resent it when the all-female staff tries to enforce the
office's rules against me, because it's common knowledge that most of
them let the rules slide with their favorite male attorneys. But Alice
is a soldier in what she sees as the daily war of keeping this place
running, so I sucked it up and headed back to my office with the dregs.
If Luke Grossman had stuck it out, so would I. About an hour later, I
was reading my nineteenth police report, the closest one yet to a major
crime. Alas, it turned out to be another no complaint to be shipped
off to the Domestic Violence Unit. The victim called 911 to report
that he was walking down the street, minding his own business, when a
woman shot an arrow at him from a balcony overhead. That's right, an
arrow. What we call in this business a weapon, triggering major crime
jurisdiction.
Bad news for me, the 911 call turned out to be woefully incomplete. For
example, he left out the fact that the archer was his ex-girlfriend
who, by the way, was on Portland State's archery team and had a
restraining order against her ex. He also forgot to mention that the
weapon to wit, one arrow had a pink rubber Power Puff Girl eraser
popped onto the tip. No wonder the patrol officer's only arrest was of
Newman himself, for violating the restraining order. At the arrestee's
insistence, his complaint was written up, even as he was transported to
and booked at the county detention center.
I scrawled my initials next to a big fat red mcu declined stamp in the
file's log notes and then went ahead and no complain ted the potential
misdemeanor charges as well. No use making someone in DV waste their
time with Newman's whining.
My phone rang just as I was tossing the file into my out box.
"Kincaid." The butch phone answer is one of the small but very cool
perks of being a prosecutor.
"How you doing there, Kincaid? I was afraid your extension might not
have moved with you."
I recognized Ray Johnson's voice. How could he be so chipper when he'd
undoubtedly been at the Easterbrook house most of the night?
"Pretty amazing. The county somehow manages to keep all the phones
straight, but I still have to share a copy of the evidence code with
the entire unit. What's up? Don't tell me. Judge Easterbrook turned
up alive and well, rambling about a probe from little green men?"
"Nope. My instinct tells me that's not going to happen, not even that
first part. One good sign, though, is that the husband's schedule
checks out at OHSU. Three back-to-back surgeries. He's accounted for
from seven a.m. to six p.m. No strange behavior."
"You mean it's a good sign for him."
"And a good sign for our vie. If the husband didn't do her, she's less
likely to be dead." The bizarre mathematics of murder in a world where
most violence against women is inflicted by husbands and lovers.
But Johnson wasn't ready to clear Townsend Easterbrook. "On the other
hand, maybe it happened in the morning, and the guy goes off to work
like it's nothing. Wouldn't be the first time. And, of course, the
alibi's meaningless if he hired someone.
"I also got some preliminary info from the crime lab. They picked up
some unidentified latents around the house, but the one match they got
in AFIS was with the one Walker left on the door knocker. Other than
that, the only thing they've got is on our boy, Griffey. Remember that
gnarly-looking scum the sister found on the dog?"
"Sure, clay or something." My hopes were up. Cases had been solved
before by the unique composition of dirt left behind at a scene. Or,
in this instance, on a dog.
"Nope, not clay. Paint."
Interesting. Dogs out walking in the rain don't usually come home with
body paint.
"And how are we going to find out where that paint might've come from?"
I asked.
"One of the lab guys is getting together with some paint geek from Home
Depot. They've got a color-match computer. It's a long shot, but they
might be able to tell us the brand name if there's a perfect match.
From there, we could check the stores for any recent orders. In any
event, they'll make us up a paint chip, so if we ever do have something
to match it against, we won't have to use the dog hair. In the
meantime, the PIOs going to put a call out in the next press briefing
for tips. Hopefully, we'll get some reports of a neighbor who was
painting in the area. Even if we don't get our bad guy, it might at
least help us figure out where the dog has been."
Better the bureau's Public Information Office than me. I try to stay
away from the media.
"Any other news?"
"Nothing of any use. Looks like Griffey's the only mutt with anything
to contribute. We called a K-9 unit out there this morning to see if
one of their dogs could pick up a scent on
Clarissa. No luck. The handler told me the scent was long gone.
Probably the rain."
"Any luck getting in touch with Susan Kerr?" It would be helpful to
see if Clarissa's friend had noticed anything unusual when they went
shopping on Saturday.
"Haven't managed to reach her yet."
"She's around," I said. "She was with the family at the press
conference this morning."
"I know. She called my desk this morning; probably got my name from
Tara. I missed her when I called her back, though. When I catch up
with her, you want to go out on the interview with me?"
"Any reason to figure she's a suspect?" DAs don't usually tag along on
witness interviews.
"Yeah, guilty of being a rich muckety-muck. I did a little recon on
our girl. She makes the Easterbrooks look like Jerry Springer trailer
trash."
"Careful, Ray. Not all of us can afford those Hugo Boss suits you
strut around in."
"The point is, she's loaded. I thought we might cut through some of
the predictable bullshit if you talked to her."
"No problem. It's my first day cooped up in the office, so the sooner
the better." As usual, Johnson was right: Lots of rich people find
speaking to the police beneath them. Depending on who Susan Kerr
turned out to be, she might expect a personal call from District
Attorney Duncan Griffith or even from the mayor herself.
I hung up, pleased that I hadn't given in to the urge to ask Ray if
he'd seen Chuck this morning. I was surprised I hadn't heard from him