Trial by Fury (9780061754715) by Judith A. Jance Page A

Peters’ sharp, appraising look. “Ain’t that the truth!” he said.
    I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Anne Corley had taught me that much.
    In spades.

CHAPTER
7
    W e took the signed search form back to the Public Safety Building and hand-carried it through the process. Once it had crossed all required desks and swum upstream through all necessary channels, we followed the State Patrol’s criminalists into the processing room.
    Over the years, you get used to the unexpected. When you’re dealing with homicide, there’s no telling what’ll turn up in the victim’s vehicle—the murder weapon, incriminating evidence, perhaps even another victim. That’s happened to me more than once.
    Peters and I had already seen what was in the car itself, but we were most curious about what might be hidden out of sight in the trunk. We were prepared for anything, except for what we found—a trunkful of Girl Scout cookies. Fifteen boxes in all.
    We weren’t the only ones who were surprised. It set the guy from the crime lab on his ass as well. “I’ll be damned!” he said.
    He conducted a quick inventory: Five Mints, three Carmel Delights, three Peanut Butter Patties, two Lemon Creams, and two Short Bread. The entire selection. If there was a hidden message concealed in the variety of cookies, the pattern eluded us.
    On the other hand, the contents of the athletic bag turned out to be quite revealing—sweats, a clean shirt, a change of underwear and socks, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of Chaps. Darwin Ridley had intended to smell good, if not during the game, then certainly after it. And it appeared that he had planned to spend the night away from home regardless of whether or not the Islanders won.
    We left the lab tech to his detail work. Peters and I drove across the floating bridge to Mercer Island. During the early years of Seattle, there was a group of visionaries who had wanted to turn Mercer Island into a vast park to benefit the whole city. That idea was squelched on the premise that no one in his right mind would travel that far for a picnic. Now, depending on rush hour traffic, Mercer Island is one of Seattle’s closest suburbs. It’s also one of the poshest.
    Mercer Island High School is tucked backinto the island’s interior. On that particular day, it was a hotbed of activity. A whole contingent of reporters had beaten us to the punch. They hovered in eddying groups, hoping to capture a newsworthy comment from a grief-stricken team member or student. News vehicles occupied every visitor parking place as well as a good portion of the fire lane.
    Peters and I parked a block or so away on the street and walked. We located the principal’s office from the crowd milling around the door, both inside and out. A harried clerk stood behind a counter, attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Peters and I shoved our way through the mob, many of whom we recognized from the early morning press conference.
    â€œWe need to see the principal,” Peters said brusquely to the clerk when we finally reached the counter.
    â€œYou and everybody else,” she replied sarcastically.
    He handed her the leather wallet containing his ID. She took off her glasses to examine it and then gave it back. She replaced her glasses, settling them firmly on her face. “All right. Let me check with Mr. Browning.”
    She disappeared into an inner office and returned moments later. “He’ll see you now,” she announced.
    The only thing big about Ned Browning washis voice, which rumbled from an incongruously diminutive chest. His elfin features smacked of Santa Claus. His handshake, however, was that of a born wrestler.
    â€œYou’re here about Mr. Ridley’s death?” We nodded. Obviously, Ned Browning wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “I’m sure you understand what an effect this terrible loss has had on