Chapter 13

Bellingham, Washington

Tuesday, February 25, 2020

Determined to get a look at Darius’s evidence box, once Mel and Kyle were out of the house on Tuesday morning, Sarah and I

headed for Seattle. On the way, I placed a call to Todd Hatcher.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Any luck tracking down Caroline Richards’s history?” I asked.

“Not so far,” he told me.

“Well,” I said, “if we can lay hands on a sample of her DNA, we may try going the forensic genealogy route.”

“Given the circumstances, you can’t very well turn up on her doorstep and ask for a cheek swab,” he commented.

“No, I can’t,” I agreed. “We’re having to be a bit more underhanded than that. One of Kyle’s friends is going to raid their

trash can tonight looking for cigarette butts. I’ve been led to believe she’s the only person in the residence who smokes.”

“Good luck with that,” Todd said, “but I suspect this isn’t a social call. What else can I do you for?”

“If Caroline and her mother were put into Witness Protection in 2002 or 2003, presumably they were connected, one way or another,

to some operation—maybe a federal one, maybe not. Do you know any experts I might be able to contact for details concerning

what was going on back then?”

“I might, but I’ll need to have some idea as far as the locale is concerned.”

“And I won’t have any information regarding that until we see if the DNA data points us in a specific direction.”

“Okey dokey,” he said. “Let me know.”

Todd sounded like he was getting ready to hang up. “One more thing,” I said quickly, “only this is on another subject altogether.”

“What’s that?”

“I know how many drug overdose deaths there were in King County in 2018, but can you give me a breakdown of how many of those

were determined to be accidental?”

“I’d guess most of them,” he replied. “People who manufacture illegal drugs don’t exactly operate under FDA supervision or

follow recommended dosage guidelines. So the dim bulb out on the street who thinks he’s buying a recreational hit may end

up with a dose that’s a whole lot more powerful.”

“As in lethal?” I asked.

“Exactly, but here’s the problem,” Todd continued. “To sort out which of those deaths were designated as accidental rather

than suicide or homicide, I’d have to go through all the individual death certificates. That’s too big a job for me to tackle

right now. Sorry.”

I drove on feeling more than a little disheartened. I was sure Todd was correct in his assumption that the vast majority of the fentanyl deaths really were entirely accidental. Most of the victims wouldn’t have taken that final dose of Jackpot, fentanyl’s street name, with the intention of ending their own lives. Once the word accidental is written on a death certificate, any law enforcement agency involved would be entirely justified in declaring the investigations

closed. Period. Ditto for deaths designated as suicides. But how many of those supposed suicides and accidental deaths weren’t

either one but were actually unsolved homicides? Were there other deaths besides Darius Jackson’s that might fit that bill?

Seattle PD’s Evidence unit is now located in Seattle’s SODO neighborhood. That acronym used to mean South of the Kingdome,

which was then a cutesy way of referring to the area that actually worked. Once the Kingdome was blown to smithereens, the

moniker didn’t change but the meaning did. Now it’s short for South of Downtown, which isn’t nearly as evocative. It’s also

a neighborhood that has devolved into Seattle’s homeless camp central.

Once there, knowing there was no way I could pass Sarah off as a service dog, I took her for a quick walk and then locked

her in the back seat of my S 550 with the windows on both sides of the car cracked partway open. It was cold but not freezing,

and I was sure she’d welcome the fresh air.

The last time I had come to the Evidence unit I had been on a mission to figure out what had really happened to my old nemesis,

Maxwell Cole. That time I’d had a free pass for admittance from my former partner and now assistant chief of police, Ron Peters.

This time I was on my own.

The fortysomething woman behind the counter wore a Seattle PD uniform with a name tag identifying her as Officer M. Harriman.

“Good morning,” I told her. “My name’s J. P. Beaumont. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to look at an evidence box for a man named Darius Jackson. He died of an overdose on Thanksgiving night, 2018, and his manner of death was designated as accidental.”

“Beaumont,” Officer Harriman repeated with a thoughtful frown. It was as though that was the only information from my introduction

that had actually registered. “Any relation to Scotty?” she asked.

Scotty again. Obviously my participation at Seattle PD had been erased from the departmental memory banks and had been replaced

by someone else’s.

“He’s my son,” I said.

But sharing Scott’s name worked well enough for me to gain entry. With a welcoming smile, Officer Harriman handed me a clipboard

with a form attached as well as an accompanying ballpoint pen.

“Please fill this out,” she said.

I sat down and set about completing the form, thankful that Detective Sechrest had provided me with the case number. When

I handed the clipboard back, Officer Harriman gave it a quick once-over.

“A closed case then,” she said. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have the evidence box brought to a private room where you’ll

be able to go through it at your leisure. You can take photos as needed, but please don’t remove any items. As I’m sure you

know, there are video cameras posted in each room.”

“Thanks,” I told her. “I know the drill.”

A few minutes later, I found myself in a small room with a single table, a single chair, and a virtually empty evidence box. I went through all the contents. There was everything you’d expect, in cluding the clothing Darius was wearing at the time of his death. A copy of the death certificate laid out the extent of his injuries, which included blunt force trauma to the side of his head, most likely as a result of a fall, and the needle track—a single needle track—on the inside of his right wrist. I examined the crime-scene photos. They showed Darius lying on his side in a trash-strewn alleyway under the Alaskan Way Viaduct, which, like the Kingdome, is also now a thing of the past. Those were the last sounds Darius would have heard before he died—the rumble of traffic on that roadway overhead.

At the very bottom of the evidence box I found two separate items—a DVD and a sheaf of paperwork from the Washington State

Patrol Crime Lab indicating that residue from inside the syringe indicated the presence of liquid fentanyl. Fingerprints and

DNA found on the outside of the syringe were identified as belonging to Darius Jackson. In addition, the exterior of the syringe

contained trace DNA from an unknown female. That DNA had been entered into CODIS with no resulting match. Because I still

have friends in the crime lab, I made a note of the case number.

As for the DVD? I had to go back out to the front office and ask for assistance. Officer Harriman took possession of the DVD

and then inserted it into a player that sent the resulting video to a computer and monitor located in my viewing room. It

turned out to be the food bank’s security footage from Thanksgiving night. It showed two figures: a tall male—Darius, most

likely—and a somewhat wobbly female leaning on the handle of an overloaded grocery cart, threading their way through the parking

lot.

The woman was far shorter than her male companion with the top of her head several inches shy of Darius’s shoulder. She wore a hoodie. The video was too grainy to make out any features, but a few wisps of light-colored hair seemed to have escaped from under the covering on her head.

I replayed the clip several times over, watching from the moment they emerged from the food bank’s main entrance until they

disappeared on the far side of the parking lot as they walked out of camera range. There was nothing in the behavior of either

one of them that indicated anything amiss. There was no sign of their being in distress. They appeared to be walking and talking

in a completely normal fashion.

Once finished with my survey of the evidence, I thanked Officer Harriman for her assistance and headed for the Washington

State Patrol Crime Lab, which, as it happens, is only a few short blocks away. Gretchen Walther, who is now in charge of the

DNA lab there, is an old pal of mine, and she’s helped me out more than once both before and after I turned in my S.H.I.T.

badge in favor of becoming a private investigator.

Gretchen greeted me with a hug and a smile. “To what do I owe the honor?” she asked. “Obviously you’re here asking for help

with something.”

“What are you, some kind of mind reader?”

“You don’t have to be clairvoyant when you’re dealing with a one-trick pony,” she replied. “The only time you ever show up

around here is when you’re looking for a favor. What now?”

“I’m working on behalf of a woman named Matilda Jackson whose grandson, Darius, died of a fentanyl overdose on Thanksgiving

night, 2018. His death was ruled an accident, but she believes he was murdered, and so do I.”

“You’re trying to reopen the case?”

I nodded.

“Good luck with that,” Gretchen said, “but how can I help?”

“In going through the evidence box, I found that a female DNA profile was obtained from a syringe located at the scene, and

I’m wondering what you can tell me about it.”

I handed her my notebook, pointing to the place where I had written down the state patrol’s assigned case number. She studied

it for a moment, then typed something into her computer.

“Here it is,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

I said, “A note in the evidence book indicated that the profile was entered into CODIS, but that you didn’t get a hit.”

“We didn’t,” Gretchen told me, “but someone else did.”

That remark put me on full alert. “Who?” I demanded. “When?”

“The same female profile—still unidentified—was found in connection with another drug overdose victim, one from over near

Spokane. The guy’s name was Jake Spaulding, age thirty-four. On July 10, 2019, he was found dead in a vehicle parked outside

a local bar in Liberty Lake, Washington.”

“Case number?” I asked.

She read it off to me.

“Manner of death?”

“Undetermined.”

“Cause of death?”

“Inhaling vaporized fentanyl,” Gretchen replied. “A vape pen with his fingerprints on it was found inside the vehicle. As

for the female DNA profile? That was found on a car door handle rather than on the vape pen itself.”

“Do you know what happened to the case once they had that information?”

“Our job is to process the evidence,” she reminded me. “What investigators do with it after that is none of our business, but as far as I know the case remains unresolved at this time.”

“Was there a detective assigned to the Liberty Lake case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Detective Ronald Wang,” she answered, consulting her computer screen. “And I suppose you’d like to have his number?”

“Absolutely.”

“What are you thinking about all this?” Gretchen asked, once I had added Detective Wang’s name and number to my notebook.

“I suspect we could be looking at a female drug dealer who is somehow managing to operate under the radar. And since we’ve

linked her to at least two separate overdose deaths, I’m wondering how many more of those are still out there that we have

yet to discover.”

“All right,” Gretchen replied. “Keep me posted. If there’s anything more we can do on this end, let me know.”

“Believe me, I will,” I told her. I started to leave, but then one more thought occurred to me. “What about this? If someone

from TLC asked for a copy of that female DNA profile, would you be able to release it?”

“TLC,” she repeated. “Isn’t that the cold case organization you work with?”

“Yes, The Last Chance.”

“I don’t see why not,” Gretchen said with a shrug.

“Stay tuned then,” I told her. “And don’t be surprised if you get a call from Lulu Benson asking for exactly that—a copy of

the profile. She’s recently joined TLC.”

Gretchen’s face lit up. “Lulu Benson. Are you kidding? You mean as in the Lucille Benson from the Nebraska State Crime Lab in Omaha?”

I have to admit that I was surprised by Gretchen’s instant recognition of the name. “That’s the one,” I replied. “Do you know

her?”

“Not personally, but I’d like to,” Gretchen replied. “She’s a legend in her own time. There’s not a woman who works in this

lab, me included, who doesn’t want to be just like Lulu Benson when she grows up.”

That’s when I realized that, although we were decades away from the time when miniskirts weren’t allowed in crime labs, the

world of women in law enforcement in general and forensics in particular remains a small, tightly knit circle.