Chapter 19

Bellingham, Washington

Sunday, March 1, 2020

On Sunday morning Kyle was in the mood for bacon and eggs. The problem is, we had eggs but no bacon.

“Fixing bacon at home is too messy,” Mel informed him. “Cleaning up the stove after frying bacon isn’t worth the trouble.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “You mean you’ve never heard of Costco bacon?”

Mel and I exchanged puzzled looks and both shook our heads. The truth is, at that point in my life, I hadn’t set foot inside

a Costco warehouse. With only two of us to feed, Mel and I don’t have much reason to buy groceries in bulk.

“What’s Costco bacon?” she asked.

“It comes in a package already partially cooked,” Kyle explained. “You put the bacon between two paper plates with a paper towel or napkin over and under the bacon. Then you put it in the microwave for a minute or so. That way the bacon is cooked without any kind of mess because the grease all ends up on the paper towels.”

“Sounds interesting,” Mel said. “There’s a Costco here in town, but we’ve never been. We don’t have a membership card. We

don’t buy that much food.”

“I have a card,” Kyle returned. “It’s my dad’s, but who do you think did all the grocery shopping down in Ashland? It sure

as hell wasn’t Dad or Caroline.”

Instead of bacon and eggs, we ended up having Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast. After the previous night’s curry, no one was

up for another batch of Mel’s lumpy pancakes.

Once breakfast was done, I went back to my library of overdose interviews. The last ones brought me up to the middle of 2016.

In the process I flagged another six for additional scrutiny. To do so, with the last names redacted, that meant going back

to Yolanda for assistance.

Cops have days off, but those don’t necessarily fall on weekends. Ditto for private investigators. Since I had already spent

half of my Sunday reading files, apparently I didn’t get weekends off, either. So although I didn’t mind putting in the hours,

I wasn’t sure about forensic economists. Rather than interrupting Yolanda’s day with a phone call, I sent her an email.

Dear Yolanda,

Please forgive me for interrupting your weekend with a work email. I’ve now read through all 136 files that were previously

sent. I’ve found one case that is clearly connected to Darius Jackson’s. I’ve also discovered a separate case, one that was

not in your files, that is also related.

In finishing the files I located several more cases—a dozen or so—that may or may not be related and that, in my opinion, should be studied further. As you know, all last names have been redacted from my files. If I were to send you the file numbers, would you be willing to contact the families to see if any of them would consent to speaking with me?

Thanks.

JP

With that done, and knowing a cold front with possible snow was due to come in overnight, I grabbed Sarah’s leash and headed

out for a walk. They say dogs are good for your health. I’ll second that. I know I walk far more now that I have a dog in

my life than I ever did without one.

Ellen Mitchell works long hours at the call center, and I have no doubt that Hank gets lonely rattling around their house

on his own for so many hours each day. I also suspect that he has a lot less to keep himself occupied than I do, so it’s possible

that he keeps an eye out for any occasional walkers passing by just to have some human interaction. At any rate, even though

this wasn’t Sarah’s and my usual walking time, as we approached the Mitchells’ driveway, Hank came hotfooting it up the hill

with Mr. Bean at his heels.

“Mind if we join you?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

The hike up the hill had left him slightly out of breath, so it was a minute or so before he had anything more to say.

“Ran into your grandson the other day,” he said finally. “Seems like a really good kid—polite, well-mannered.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s how he strikes me, too, as a good kid.”

“Odd for him to change schools that way, right in the middle of his senior year.”

Obviously Hank was fishing for information, and I wasn’t prepared to breach Kyle’s confidence. Why he had left Ashland was

his story to tell rather than mine.

“He made the decision,” I said, noncommittally, “but he seems to be handling it all right.”

“But how’s it possible he’d never heard of Gene Krupa?” Hank demanded. “What a crying shame. You’d think, considering his

interest in drums, that his band teacher would have had the good sense to at least mention that world-famous drummer.”

It occurred to me that maybe Kyle’s band teacher, who also happened to be his father, had never heard of Gene Krupa, either.

That’s what I thought but didn’t say aloud.

“Did you know Krupa is the guy who invented drum sets as they are now?” Hank continued.

“Only because Kyle told me,” I said.

“That’s why I’ve held on to mine. It’s a Gene Krupa original. My dad paid a pretty penny for it back in the day. It’s a genuine

antique—a collector’s piece, if you will, but it still works. And speaking of antiques, I was wondering if I could ask a favor

of you.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Remember that old car I had towed out of the garage before we tore it down to rehab the house?”

“It was an old Mustang, right?”

“Right,” Hank said, “a 1966 Shelby Mustang.”

“Shelbys were a big deal back in the day.”

“They still are,” Hank said. “I told Ellen that I’d had it towed to a junkyard, but that was a little white lie. Instead, I took it to an auto restoration outfit down in Seattle. I’m calling it a late-blooming midlife crisis. It cost me a bundle to have it brought back to life, but it’s done now and ready to be picked up. You go back and forth to Seattle a lot more often than I do. I was wondering if I could ask you for a lift to go pick it up the next time you head in that direction. I could ask Ellen to drive me there, but I want to surprise her and have it parked out front when she gets off shift.”

I love surprises.

“You bet,” I said. “I’ll probably end up driving down there sometime this coming week, but I don’t know exactly when.”

“Let me know,” he said. “I’ll be ever so grateful.”

Once the walk was over and as I headed back toward our place, a call came in from Yolanda Aguirre.

“Are you telling me that now there are three connected cases?” she asked when I answered.

“I am indeed,” I told her, so I went on to bring her up to speed on everything I had learned and how DNA and the combination

of pairs of hundred-dollar bills had linked two other cases to her file 18.

“And now you believe all three are homicides?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“Just a sec,” she said. A keyboard clicked in the background before she spoke again. “File 18. I remember that one. I interviewed

the daughter because the mother had committed suicide. Can I contact her and let her know you’re trying to reopen the case?”

“Not yet,” I answered. “That would be premature at this point because we still don’t have enough to reopen the case. I don’t

like making promises I may not be able to keep.”

“Then what do I tell the families?” Yolanda asked.

“Just let them know that a private investigator who is looking into a number of overdose deaths would like to speak to them about what happened to their loved one. Give them my email address. After that, we’ll have to sit around and wait to see if any of them contact me.”

“That seems fair,” she agreed. “That puts the ball in their court.”

Seeing as how I was now up-to-date as far as anything more I could do on either of my current cases, I gave myself the rest

of the day off. While I’d been out walking, the “what’s for dinner” problem had been handled, and the pizza delivery guy showed

up exactly on cue. We spent the evening watching America’s Funniest Videos and Masterpiece on PBS. I never expected to like a show entitled Call the Midwife , but it’s grown on me over time.