Chapter 44

Bellingham, Washington

Sunday to Monday, March 15–16, 2020

There’s a reason media consultants advise political clients to break difficult stories on the weekends. Weekends are regarded

as slow news days, so that’s when second- and third-string newscasters and reporters are on duty. On Sundays in particular,

people are often caught up in family activities—going to church, watching or participating in sports, and going on outings.

The only one of those that applied that Sunday in March of 2020 was the part about the second- and third-string newsies. People

everywhere else were on lockdown. Church services were canceled. Bars and restaurants were closed. Everything fun and entertaining

had been blasted into pandemic oblivion for the foreseeable future.

So when Seattle Police Chief Nathan Palmer announced a live news conference for noon on Sunday, hardly anyone showed up, and that was the whole idea. By Monday the Constance Herzog story would literally be yesterday’s news.

Since it appeared that the majority of her victims were from the Seattle area, Seattle PD and the King County Medical Examiner’s

Office were both about to take big hits, along with, unfortunately, blameless 911 operators everywhere.

Bellingham doesn’t have its own TV stations. The news we see here is what’s broadcast from Seattle. The guy reporting live

on our TV screen that morning looked like he was barely out of junior high, but he did his best to brazen it out.

According to Chief Palmer, three of his homicide detectives, Sandra Sechrest, Benjamin Weston, and Scott Beaumont, had been

given reason to believe that some overdose deaths that had been written off as either accidents or suicides were in fact unsolved

homicides. Their investigation had led them to a 911 supervisor who had used her position to target victims she felt were

habitual domestic violence offenders who had gone unpunished.

Through DNA evidence and recovered vape gun serial numbers, the female perpetrator had also been linked to a homicide that

had occurred in Liberty Lake, Washington, and she was now in the Spokane County Jail where she was being held while awaiting

trial on charges of second-degree homicide. She had been taken down during a shoot-out at a public storage facility in Smokey

Point where she had gone in an attempt to flee the jurisdiction.

Ho hum! The way Chief Palmer related the story, it seemed boring as hell and hardly important enough to merit a live news

conference. That was clearly our peewee league reporter’s impression, too. He seemed at a loss as to what all the fuss was

about.

Palmer didn’t go into detail, nor did he pass along any names or numbers. He also didn’t mention how reluctant his department had been to reopen any of their own cases. He didn’t mention how Yolanda Aguirre’s work with grieving family members had brought the cases together. He didn’t mention Elena Moreno, her hardworking intern, who had gone through all those interviews carefully redacting the names. The only time he uttered the word Beaumont was in regard to Scotty, and that was fine with me. At this point in my life, I’m more than happy to fade into the background.

The following Monday, driving the rented Cadillac Escalade that an insurance company representative had brought to the house

on Saturday, I headed to Seattle to make the rounds and speak to the affected families. That’s what homicide detectives do.

They can’t talk about cases while they’re active, but once they’re closed—once the investigation is over and before the prosecutors

take charge—it’s time to talk to the grieving wives and mothers and sisters and grandmothers, too.

Detective Sechrest went with me as the official representative of Seattle PD, but for most of the families, I was the individual

they knew. We were there to provide closure, and maybe we did. Once Xavier Delgado’s mother understood he hadn’t committed

suicide, maybe his sons would have their grandmother back. Our investigation had given Greta Halliday back her father’s Elks

ring and his iconic Chris-Craft in a bottle. As for Leann Loper? Although both her parents were still dead, only one of them

had committed suicide. Would that lessen her burden? I hoped so.

I believe there’s a Bible verse that says something about the first being last, and that was certainly the case here. Matilda Jackson had been the first of the family members I had spoken to, and she was the last one Sandy Sechrest and I visited that day. But Sandy was also the one person from Seattle PD who had encouraged Matilda to obtain Darius’s autopsy report, which, ultimately, had ended up bringing me into the picture.

I had called ahead, letting Matilda and her sister, Margaret, know we were on our way. When we pulled up in front of the sisters’

residence in Renton, it was less than a month after my initial visit, but in the interim the whole world had changed. Sandy

and I were wearing surgical masks, and I was terrified that, although neither of us were exhibiting any kind of adverse symptoms,

we might somehow be bringing a trace of that deadly killer called Covid into a home occupied by two elderly women, one of

whom was already in ill health.

When we entered the bungalow’s living room, all was mostly as before with Matilda seated in her recliner. The only difference

was that her wheelchair had been banished to another room in order to make space for an additional guest.

“You got her!” Matilda said, before I had a chance to open my mouth.

“Who told you?”

“As soon as I saw that highfalutin police chief on TV yesterday, I told Margaret here, ‘He’s not going to say it out loud,

but I know he’s talking about my Darius’s killer.’ The next thing I had her do was dial up Benny Weston so I could ask him

straight out. He’s the one who said you did it.”

“We all did it,” I told her. “There were lots of people involved, including this one here. I know you spoke to her on the

phone, but now I’d like to introduce you in person. This is Detective Sandra Sechrest.”

“You’re the one who said I should ask for a copy of the autopsy,” Matilda said, beaming at Sandy. “Thank you for that.”

Then Matilda turned back to me. “Mr. Police Chief didn’t say, but how many people did that woman kill?”

Sandy was the one who answered. “We’re still verifying the exact number, but it’s probably more than twenty.”

“How did she do it?”

“As a 911 operator she was able to access databases intended for law enforcement use only. That’s how she located her targets.

And she got away with it by fooling her victims into believing she was homeless.”

“And she murdered people like Darius who offered to help her?”

“We believe so.”

Matilda Jackson thought about that. “Well,” she said finally, “she sounds like evil itself, but I hope someday I’ll be able

to forgive her. That’s what you’re supposed to do you know—forgive those who trespass against you. There’ll be a trial, I

suppose?”

“I’m sure,” I replied, “but with all this pandemic business, I don’t know how long it’ll take for that to happen.”

“I’m so old I may not live long enough to see it, but you’ve given me some peace of mind, Mr. Beaumont. Bless you for that.

And bless you for that teddy bear, too.”

Sandy Sechrest shot me a sidelong glance, but all I said to Matilda Jackson was a very sincere, two-word thank-you.

Sandy waited until we were back in the Escalade and I had fired up the engine before she asked the inevitable question. “What

teddy bear?”

“That,” I told her, “is a very long story.”