The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4) Read online

  They moved toward the water. After the cumulative days of hot weather, the beach held a distinct briny smell. A uniformed officer, bent over, hammered a stick into the sand, presumably to tie the other end of the crime scene tape he’d strung to create a U-shaped perimeter.

  “We got the call from dispatch at five thirty-two,” Pryor said, her boots sinking into the rocks and making a sound like rattling change. “When we arrived, he was waiting for us by his boat.”

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “Kurt Schill. He’s a high school student here in West Seattle.”

  Tracy stopped walking to consider the logs positioned parallel to the water. “Did he do this?”

  “Not sure,” Pryor said.

  “Looks like a makeshift boat ramp.” She took a couple pictures with her cell.

  “He said he was crabbing and his pot snagged something as he pulled it up,” Pryor said.

  “A body?” Tracy asked, thinking that would be a first.

  “Another crab pot.”

  “I thought he found a body?”

  “He’s pretty sure he did,” Pryor said. “Inside the pot.”

  Tracy looked from Pryor to the boat and beyond it to the taut line. Not an anchor. She’d come to the site predisposed to find a body on the shore, perhaps a drowning or boating accident, what they referred to in the section as a “grounder” or easy play. If the body was inside a crab pot, that changed everything, in a big freaking way.

  “Have you seen it?”

  “The body?” Pryor shook her head. “Water’s too deep. And I’m not sure I want to. The kid said he thought he saw a hand sticking out from under crab and starfish. Creepy stuff. He towed it back here.”

  “A hand or the whole body?” Tracy asked.

  “He said he saw a hand. Based on his description of the weight of the pot, though, likely the whole body.”

  Tracy reconsidered the young man. She could only imagine the horror of seeing a decomposing body fed on by marine life.

  She followed Pryor to the water’s edge. Waves lapped gently over the rocks. The officer establishing the perimeter stood and wiped perspiration from his forehead.

  “Thanks for setting the perimeter,” Tracy said. “But we’re going to need it to be a lot bigger, all the way down to those logs and up to the boardwalk. I’m going to ask for a screen to block the view from the seawall, and I’ll need you to set it up when it gets here. You haven’t moved or touched anything?”

  “Nothing but a few rocks to drive the stakes,” Pryor’s partner said.

  “What about Harbor Patrol? Anybody call them to send out divers?” Tracy asked.

  “Not yet,” Pryor said. “We figured it best to leave everything as is until somebody came up with a plan.”

  Tracy spoke to the second officer. “Call it in. Tell them we’re going to need them to set a perimeter offshore to keep boats away until we find out what we’re dealing with.” She turned to Pryor. “What was the guy in the boat’s demeanor when you got here?”

  “Pretty shaken up. Confused. Frightened.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  Pryor looked to her notes. “He said he went out early this morning to retrieve his pot down near Lincoln Park. He said he’d set it in about eighty feet of water, and when he pulled it up, it felt way too heavy. When it broke the surface he realized it wasn’t his pot.”

  “It’s not?” Tracy asked.

  “No. Apparently, he snagged it. Said when he brought it closer he used a flashlight and saw what he thinks is a human hand. Scared the crap out of him. He dropped the cage, and the weight of it nearly pulled his boat over. He managed to tow it back until it grounded, beached the boat. He called 911 on his cell.”

  “What else do we know about him?”

  “He just finished his sophomore year at West Seattle High and lives over on Forty-Third Street. His parents are on their way.”

  “What’s a teenage boy doing up this early?”

  Pryor smiled. “I know, right? He said he sets his pots early so he’s not competing with the bigger boats.”

  Tracy picked up on Pryor’s intonation. “You don’t believe him?”

  Pryor said, “The thing is, it’s not crabbing season yet, not for anyone but the tribes.”

  “You know that?”

  “Dale and I crab a little. We do it mostly to take the girls out on the boat. The tribes can crab pretty much whenever they want. For everybody else, the season doesn’t open for another week—July second, I believe.”

  “So why’s he out here?”

  “He said he didn’t know. Personally, I think he’s playing dumb.”

  “Why?”

  Pryor nodded to the aluminum boat. “That’s a pretty good rig right there. Guy with that kind of rig would more than likely know the rules; the fines can be steep. I think he was sneaking out early to get a jump on the season and poach a few crabs from the tribes. Some local restaurants pay good money. Not a bad way for an enterprising high school kid to make some cash.”

  “Except it’s illegal.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Pryor said.

  “Introduce me,” Tracy said. “Then I’d appreciate it if you could take some pictures for me with your cell. Everything and anything.”

  They approached Kurt Schill together. Tracy allowed Pryor to make the introduction. Then Pryor walked off to take pictures. Schill extended his hand and gave a surprisingly strong handshake. He didn’t look like he was old enough to shave yet. Acne pocked his forehead.

  “Are you doing all right?” Tracy asked.

  Schill nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You want to sit down?” She motioned to one of the beach logs.

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “I understand you’ve been talking to Officer Pryor about what happened this morning; would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “No.” Schill closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry. I mean sure.”

  “Okay, just take it slow,” Tracy said. “When did you set your crab pot?”

  Schill’s brow furrowed. “Um. I guess it was . . . I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Mr. Schill.” Tracy waited until Schill made eye contact. “I’m not Fish and Game, okay? I don’t care about any of that. I just need you to be honest and tell me exactly what you did so I can find out whether you saw anything.”

  “Whether I saw anything?”

  “Let’s back up. Start with when you set your pot.”

  “Last night. Around ten thirty.”

  “Okay, so I’m assuming it was dark.”

  Schill nodded. “Pretty dark, yeah.”

  In June, in Seattle, the sun didn’t set until after nine o’clock, and twilight could linger another forty-five minutes.

  “Did you see anyone else out on the water? Any other boats?”

  “Maybe one or two.”

  “Crabbing?”

  “No. Just . . . out there. I think one might have been trolling.”

  “Fishing?”

  “For salmon.”

  “In the same area where you set your pot?” Tracy asked.

  “No. I just saw them, you know.”

  “Nothing unusual then?”

  “Unusual? Like what?”

  “Was there anything that caught your attention, gave you pause, made you look twice. Anything at all?”

  “Oh. No. Nothing really.”

  “What time did you return this morning?”

  “Around four.”

  “Why set the pots so late and retrieve them so early?” Tracy asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.

  Schill frowned. “To get the pot before anyone saw me.”

  “You do this often?”

  Another sheepish grimace. “A couple times this week.”

  “And again, did you see any other boats or anything that gave you pause or second thoughts?”

  Schill took a moment before answering. Then he shook his head. “Not really, no
.”

  “Can you take me to the spot where you pulled up the pot?”

  “Now?” Schill asked, sounding alarmed.

  “No, in a little while. We’re going to have some divers come out, and I’d like you to take us back to where you found the pot.”

  “Okay,” Schill said, sounding reluctant.

  “Is that a problem?” Tracy asked.

  “I have an SAT prep class this morning.”

  “I think you’re going to miss it today,” Tracy said.

  “Oh.”

  “Your parents are on their way?”

  “My dad’s coming.”

  “Okay, you just hold tight for a bit,” Tracy said. She started to walk to where Pryor was taking pictures.

  Schill called out. “Detective?”

  Tracy turned back. “Yes?”

  “I don’t think she’s been down there too long.”

  Tracy stepped back toward him. “You think it’s a woman?”

  “Well, I mean, I don’t know for certain, but the hand . . . the fingernails—they still had polish on them.”

  She considered the information. “Okay. Anything else?”

  “No.”

  Katie Pryor called Tracy’s name and pointed to the road.

  A KRIX Channel 8 news van with a satellite dish protruding from the roof had parked on the street, and the Violent Crimes Section’s favorite muckraker, Maria Vanpelt, was stepping out the passenger door. Vanpelt had been a rising star in the local news media, a good-looking blonde who seemed to have a nose for the sensational, but she’d got her hand slapped for mishandling coverage of the Cowboy. Tracy had not seen her for several months, and absence had not made the heart grow fonder. At the Violent Crimes Section, the detectives referred to Vanpelt as “Manpelt” and speculated that one of the men she clung to was none other than their captain, Johnny Nolasco.

  Tracy called Billy Williams on her cell. She told him to have CSI bring a tent in addition to the screen. They’d set the tent up at the water’s edge to serve as a command center and provide further privacy. She suspected news helicopters would not be far behind the vans. She could seek a no-fly zone, but if the news stations thought the story worthy, they’d just pay the fine. As Tracy listened to Williams, she turned back to the water. Her eyes followed the rope off the back of the boat.

  Definitely not a grounder.

  The circus had come to the beach and so had the crowds. People stood elbow to elbow along the metal railing, news reporters and cameramen among them. Add several police vehicles, two blue-and-white Harbor Patrol boats sweeping the Sound to keep sail- and powerboats at bay, a gaggle of uniformed and plain-clothed officers, and a tent, and the allure was too much to resist. Even the tourists were ignoring two of the region’s most iconic views—the booming image of Mount Rainier dominating the southern horizon, and the gleaming white stucco walls and red tile roofs of the Alki Point Lighthouse to the north, with Elliott Bay and the Seattle skyline serving as a spectacular backdrop.

  Divers had managed to retrieve the tangled mess behind Kurt Schill’s boat, which had grounded in less than ten feet of water. Schill’s pot, perhaps two feet in diameter, would be accompanying his boat and his car to the police impound where CSI would process it for fingerprints and DNA. The larger pot remained inside the tent, and its contents had indeed been gruesome.

  The body inside the pot was that of a woman. Naked, her bloated skin had turned the color and consistency of abalone meat: pale gray, rubbery, and traversed by a road map of purple lines. It showed evidence where marine life had fed. In sharp contrast to that gruesome image were the bright-blue fingernails. They looked like the painted nails on the hand of a porcelain doll, nicked and scratched after years of use.

  The debate continued inside the tent on how to transport the body to the ME’s office on Jefferson Street in downtown Seattle. Although Tracy controlled the crime scene as the ranking detective, her authority did not extend to the body. That was the ME’s domain, and King County Medical Examiner Stuart Funk could be righteous about it. Funk had opted not to remove the body from the pot to avoid the potential of disturbing evidence. Problem was, no one was certain whether the pot would fit in the back of the ME’s blue van, and everyone wanted to avoid having to flip it on its side with the crowd watching. Funk sent someone in search of a tape measure.

  Tracy waited outside the tent with Kins, Billy Williams, and Vic Fazzio and Delmo Castigliano, the other two members of the Violent Crimes Section’s A Team and the next team up for a homicide. Dressed in slacks, sport coats, and loafers, Faz and Del looked like New Jersey hit men unsuccessfully trying to blend in on Cocoa Beach. The King County prosecutor had also sent Rick Cerrabone, a senior prosecutor from its Most Dangerous Offender Project—MDOP. Tracy had worked several homicides with Cerrabone, though there was little for him to do at what was a highly untraditional crime scene. Evidence would likely be limited. Salt water would have destroyed fingerprints and DNA on the cage, and since the pot had been submerged in eighty feet of water, there was no sense scouring the beach for other evidence.

  “No way to even know where a boat would have put in,” Tracy explained to the others. “There are several ramps along this side of the beach, and you have the Don Armeni ramp around the point. Assuming they even used a ramp. Schill didn’t.”

  “They could have put in anywhere from the San Juan Islands to Olympia,” Faz said, the words sounding as if they were scraping his throat and thick with his New Jersey accent. He alternately wiped his brow and the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

  “I don’t think so,” Tracy said. “They would have dumped the body in deeper water, farther out from shore. I suspect it’s here because it was convenient, the killer knows the area, or he didn’t have to travel far.”

  “Any idea when she was dumped?” Del said.

  “Funk’s initial impression is a couple of days at most; there’s very little swelling of the hands and the outer layer of skin remains intact.”

  “Still going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Faz said.

  “Maybe,” Del said, “but I’d take those odds over the odds the kid randomly hooked on to the pot.”

  “You don’t think he did?” Tracy said.

  “Just saying it’s a hell of a coincidence,” Del said.

  “Bet he won’t be eating crab anytime soon,” Faz said.

  Tracy looked to ensure that no patrol officers stood close by. With new rules in place, officers were required to wear body cameras. That meant everyone had to be more careful about what they said, and with their facial expressions. Detectives laughing at a crime scene easily could be misconstrued. The general public didn’t understand that gallows humor was often a defense mechanism detectives employed to do their job without throwing up. Cell phones had made the scrutiny of police conduct worse. Now everyone was an amateur videographer.

  Williams pointed to the two buildings closest to the beach access. “Let’s canvass the buildings and the local marinas. Maybe somebody saw something.”

  “Be easier if we could get a decent picture of the victim first,” Faz said. “See if anyone recognizes her.”

  “Are we jumping the gun?” Kins asked. “Maybe we get lucky and her prints are in the system. She could be a hooker or a junkie.”

  “Doubt the killer would have bothered to go to this extreme to dispose of the body if she was a hooker or a junkie,” Tracy said.

  “Well, if she isn’t a hooker or a junkie then someone should have reported her as missing,” Kins said.

  “This is the way the gumbas do it back in my hometown,” Faz said. “One tap to the back of the head and you sleep with the fishes.”

  “You might be right,” Kins said. He looked to Williams. “I’m just saying we could save a step.”

  Williams shook his head. “Let’s ask now, when everything is fresh. Besides, if she was shot, it means there’s another crime scene somewhere.”

  “Which might be as easy t
o find as determining where the boat put in,” Kins said.

  Funk exited the tent. For a change, he did not resemble an absentminded professor. A recent haircut had tamed his silver hair, which often looked as though Funk didn’t own a comb, and the sunglasses he’d donned were far more fashionable than the silver-framed spectacles too large for his narrow head.

  “We can fit the cage in the van. I’ll take it back to the office,” he said, “but I won’t get to it today.”

  “Any tattoos or piercings?” Tracy asked.

  “Not that I can initially see,” Funk said.

  “What about track marks?” Kins asked.

  Funk shook his head. “Again, don’t know yet.”

  “How long you estimate she’s been down there, Doc?” Faz asked.

  “Two to three days,” Funk said. “No more.”

  “I want to keep the crab pot intact as much as possible,” Tracy said. “Maybe something on it will provide a clue where it came from.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Funk said.

  “Call us when you get to her,” Tracy said.

  As Funk departed, Williams turned to Del and Faz. “Get started canvassing the buildings.” Tracy and Kins would go with Harbor Patrol to where Schill had found the pot. “Let’s meet back downtown later this afternoon.”

  As Tracy and Kins walked toward the waiting boat, Kins said, “You got sunscreen?” Tracy handed him the tube. He squirted the cream into his palm and applied it to the back of his neck. “I could think of worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

  “Bet Jane Doe can’t,” Tracy said.

  Tracy and Kins spent the remainder of the afternoon getting baked by the sun. The temperature hit ninety degrees, but it felt hotter on the water, with no hint of a breeze. When Schill took them to his “honey hole,” several problems quickly became apparent. With the strong current and a rope longer than eighty feet, Schill could not be precise about where he’d snagged the commercial pot, or even where, exactly, his pot had come to rest on the Sound’s bottom. That increased the search area significantly. The water was also dark and murky at that depth, limiting visibility to no more than a couple feet. The divers had scoured as large an area as they deemed reasonable, but failed to find a gun or anything that appeared to relate to the woman in the trap. It didn’t come as a surprise. The killer had clearly intended that the body would never be found.