Chapter 30

Bellingham, Washington

Friday, March 6, 2020

With the gas pedal analogy still front and center in my brain, I tried calling the nonemergency number for Kent PD. Good luck

with that. I soon found myself wandering in that vale of tears known as “Your Call Is Very Important to Us.” Sure it is! Once

there I was advised to press number one for this, number two for that, and numbers three, four, and five for something else.

Since none of the suggested options included investigations, I pressed zero for the operator only to be told that no one was

available to take my call at this time. “If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, leave a message,

and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Right! I already knew that a return call on a message wasn’t bloody likely, either, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I asked Siri

to dial 911 in Kent, Washington.

When the operator came on the line and wanted to know the nature of my emergency, I got straight to the point.

“My name’s J. P. Beaumont. I’m working a homicide out of Liberty Lake, Washington, and I need to speak to someone in the Investigations

unit at the Kent Police Department.”

“Sir,” the operator replied, “for nonemergency calls, you should call the nonemergency number.”

The way I was feeling by then, it was about to turn into an emergency because I was close to smashing my cell phone to pieces.

“I already tried that,” I growled back at him. “When it comes to pressing buttons, Investigations isn’t on the list. Could

you please either connect me or give me their direct number so I can dial it myself?”

I hadn’t exactly claimed to be a police officer as opposed to a PI, but I was indeed working a homicide case from Liberty

Lake, and I must have sounded legit enough because he gave me the number. Playing faux cop may have worked with the 911 operator,

but I had no intention of pulling that same stunt with a full-fledged detective. As for who would be on the other end of my

call? No idea. I had certainly lucked out with Detective Byrd in Liberty Lake, but I figured my chances of getting a good

detective as opposed to a dud were about fifty/fifty.

A male voice answered the call. “Detective Boyce Miller here.”

“My name is J. P. Beaumont,” I told him, “formerly with the AG’s Special Homicide Investigation Team.”

“Oh, that old S.H.I.T. squad?” Miller replied with a chuckle.

See what I mean? Every cop in the state remembers that unfortunate moniker. They can’t help it.

“That’s the one,” I replied. “I got let go along with everyone else when it was disbanded. Now I’m working as a private investigator.”

“What can I do you for?” Miller asked. That’s when I knew for sure he wasn’t a dud.

“I’ve been pursuing a number of King County drug overdose deaths that may have been erroneously classified as accidents or

suicides when they should have been labeled homicides. I’ve learned that one of yours bears a surprising resemblance to a

case over in Liberty Lake where the victim’s death was ruled as undetermined. The case is assigned to a Liberty Lake PD detective

named Elizabeth Byrd—that’s Byrd with a y not an i .”

“Which of our cases?” Detective Miller asked. “We’re generally more into drive-by shootings than drug overdoses.”

“Xavier Jesus Delgado,” I replied.

“I remember that one,” Miller said, “the guy found down by the railroad tracks. Overdosed on inhaled fentanyl, as I recall.

And you’re in luck. My partner and I actually responded to that one. What do you want to know?”

“Is it true the overdose was administered via a vape pen?” I asked.

“Yup, you’ve got that right. The pen was found at the scene with drug residue still inside the refillable cartridge. You can’t

exactly go out and buy vape cartridges already loaded with fentanyl. For those you more or less have to roll your own.”

There’s nothing like a little black humor between cops to break the ice, and we both chuckled over that one.

“Anyway,” Miller continued, “Marty and I started with the victim’s inner circle, including Xavier’s wife, Felicity, who had

recently filed for a divorce. She swore on a stack of bibles that there was no way her husband would have been using drugs.

We were just getting started with the investigation when the M.E.’s suicide ruling came in. That’s when we boxed up the evidence

and shut ’er down. So what does this have to do with Liberty Lake?”

“The victim there is a guy named Jake Spaulding. He also died of a fentanyl overdose delivered by means of a vape pen. He’d had multiple arrests for domestic violence as did Mr. Delgado. Unlike your victim, Spaulding was eventually arrested and sent to prison. He died shortly after being released on parole. And like your guy, at the time of his death, he was carrying some cash, which included two hundred-dollar bills.”

I heard a noise on the other end of the line that sounded distinctly as though Miller had taken both feet off his desk and

put them on the floor. My mentioning of those two hundreds had caught his full attention.

“As soon as we found the money, we knew Delgado’s death wasn’t a robbery gone bad,” Miller said. “He was still wearing his

watch, and he had close to three hundred bucks in his wallet, including two hundred-dollar bills.”

“Did you happen to take a close look at any of that cash?” I asked.

“Other than noticing Benjamin Franklin was on a couple of them, no. Why?”

“Because those two Benjamin Franklins are so old that they’re missing their security strips. When Felicity tried to spend

them later, the clerk at Target wouldn’t accept them because she thought they were counterfeit.”

“When did they start putting in—”

“Security strips were added to hundred-dollar bills in 1990,” I answered, without waiting for him to complete the question.

“So the money must have been printed before then, but I doubt they’ve been out in circulation because the bills appear to

be pristine.”

“Somebody’s been sitting on them all this time, and now they’re leaving them on the bodies of homicide victims?” Miller asked.

“Evidently,” I told him. “We’ve now found two each among the personal effects of victims in five different fatal overdose cases—three were determined to be accidental, one was labeled a suicide, and the last was left as undetermined. That’s the only one still open at this time, but just barely. Until now it’s been stone cold.”

“That’s really weird,” Miller said. “So is the money the killer’s calling card of some kind—sort of like a signature?”

“Maybe,” I replied. “Once we determine who that person is, I’ll be happy to ask that question. In the meantime, I’ve been

trying to pull together enough evidence to convince Seattle PD to reopen the three closed cases that occurred inside their

jurisdiction.”

“You’ve certainly convinced me about ours,” Detective Miller told me. “How can I help?”

“Tell me about the vape pen. Do you still have it?”

“I’m sure it’s still in the evidence box,” he answered. “Why?”

“As many now convicted killers have learned to their dismay, law enforcement is often able to trace batches of garbage bags

and blue tarps back to their manufacturer and eventually to the point of sale. Now we’ve got two different vape pens and it

would be nice to know the make and model. Do you happen to remember if yours had a serial number on it—either on the pen itself

or else on the cartridge?”

“I don’t remember,” Miller said, “but I can sure as hell check. Our evidence storage is located off-site. Give me your number.

I’ll go have a look and give you a call back.”

Kyle had wandered into the house while I was on the phone. It was only a little past noon. “What are you doing home so early?”

I asked when the call ended.

“We had an early dismissal today. Don’t you remember?” he asked.

I hadn’t been involved in school affairs long enough to know there was any such thing as an early dismissal day. I don’t remember ever having had any of those at Ballard High. Since starting next Wednesday school would be shut down for the foreseeable future, having an early dismissal day the week before seemed a bit silly, but I zipped my lip, once again recalling my mother’s oft-repeated advice to “think before you speak.”

“What’s all this talk about vape pens?” Kyle wanted to know.

Two of the cases in question were now active investigations, and I should have kept mum, but he had overheard enough that

there was no sense in shutting him out, so I went ahead and explained.

“It’s about some cold case homicides I’m working on,” I told him. “There are several instances where drug overdose deaths

were declared to be accidents or suicides when I believe they should have been treated as homicides. In at least two of those

crimes, vape pens were used to administer the drugs.”

“Wow,” Kyle said. “I thought you were retired. I didn’t know you were still investigating murders.”

That made me laugh. “It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks,” I told him, but by then I was already dialing Detective Byrd’s

number in Liberty Lake.

“What’s up?” she asked, once I identified myself.

I spent the next several minutes telling her about the Delgado case, ending with, “So I hope you still have your vape pen.”

“As a matter of fact I do. In fact, it’s right here on my desk at the moment, still in the evidence box. Why?”

“Does it happen to have a serial number?”

“Hold on,” she said. She came back on the line a moment later. “I’m looking at it now. I can see a spot where there probably used to be a serial number, but it looks as though someone has gone to the trouble of grinding it off. That’s pretty interesting. I’ll get this over to the State Patrol Crime Lab in Spokane first thing tomorrow. They have the technology to retrieve serial numbers that have been ground off weapons, so they should be able to do the same thing with this.”

“Thanks, Beth,” I told her. “Let me know what you find out, and I’ll do the same on this end.”

Detective Miller called back ten minutes later. “I can see where the serial number is supposed to be,” he began.

“But it’s been ground off, right?” I asked.

“Right.”

“Same thing over in Liberty Lake. Detective Byrd is going to submit hers to the crime lab in Spokane tomorrow morning to see

if they can retrieve it. Spaulding’s death was ruled undetermined, so she doesn’t have to wait around for the case to be reopened.”

“I don’t, either,” Detective Miller told me. “I checked with the chief on my way past. Five questionable deaths with two hundred-dollar

bills left as calling cards were enough to convince him. Delgado’s death may still be a suicide as far as the M.E. is concerned,

but it’s been reopened here at the Kent Police Department. Marty, my partner, actually lives in Seattle. I’ll have him drop

the pen off at the crime lab on his way home tonight so they can check it out.”

“Great,” I said. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” he said. “You do the same.”

I put the phone down with a real sense of exhilaration. The three related Seattle cases still remained closed, but two of

the other ones were back on track. With any kind of luck, maybe the others would fall into place as well.

Kyle was over by the kitchen island making himself a bologna sandwich. Mel has never approved of our having bologna around, but when Kyle had come dragging it home from Costco, she had made an exception to that rule.

“Making any progress?” Kyle asked.

“As a matter of fact I am,” I assured him. “On these cases and on yours as well.”

“Really?” he wanted to know. “What’s going on with mine?”

So I told him about the call from Marisa and about her plan to meet up with Caroline Richards in Portland on Saturday. Kyle

listened in silence, but by the time I finished, he was frowning.

“If Caroline’s finally getting a chance to meet up with her family, that should be good news, but you don’t sound very happy

about it.”

“Because I’m not,” I admitted. “Rather than tell your father the truth, Caroline told your dad that she’s meeting up with

an old school chum instead of with her mother’s sister.”

“So she’s lying to him,” Kyle surmised.

“She’s still lying to him,” I corrected. “And if that’s the case, what’s to keep her from lying to Marisa as well? I have a bad feeling

that your father’s going to be hurt real bad before all this is over, and I hope Marisa Young doesn’t end up in the same boat.”

Kyle finished polishing off the last of his sandwich and then gave me a quizzical look. “Any idea what’s for dinner?” he asked.

That wasn’t too surprising. After all, he’s still a growing boy, but slick as can be, I dodged the what’s-for-dinner bullet.

“I’m meeting Mel for a late lunch,” I told him, “and I’ll see what she has to say.”

“Please,” Kyle said, “but whatever you do, don’t let her make any more curry.”

“Trust me on that,” I said, “I’ll do my best.”