didn’t know that.” I might have added that I was outside the departmental gossip mills, but I let it go.
“Captain Howard down there specifically asked for you to be his partner.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And you think he can handle this case without a problem?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. I wasn’t about to let on that Peters had told me anything about Broken Springs, Oregon, and losing his family to a cult. I didn’t want to risk giving Powell any ammunition about Peters’ impartiality. Powell is the kind who might use it. He ambled away from my desk then, no wiser, I hoped, than when he had arrived. I was a little wiser, though. Peters was on our squad without Powell’s wanting him there. If the captain was looking for an excuse to bump the newcomer, he wouldn’t get any help from me.
Peters showed up a few minutes later. He had checked through 911 records for any complaints from the Ballard area around Faith Tabernacle and come up empty-handed. He looked a little worse for wear, as though he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours.
“You tie one on last night?” I asked.
“No.”
“Maybe you should have,” I told him.
He didn’t take kindly to my remark. “What’s the program today?” he asked.
“Let’s go downstairs and talk to the crime lab folks. They might have something for us.”
The Washington State crime lab is on the second floor of the Public Safety Building. They work for all the law enforcement agencies in Washington, with a number of labs scattered throughout the state. There’s a backlog of work, but murder gets priority treatment. Angela Barstogi deserved at least that much. Janice Morraine offered us some acrid coffee that Peters had the good sense to refuse. I didn’t. I’m a dog for punishment.
Janice lit a cigarette, and Peters grimaced. I was surprised he didn’t launch into an antismoking lecture on the spot. Jan took a long drag on her cigarette, ignoring Peters’ pointed disapproval. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Have you come up with anything on Angela Barstogi?”
“She had a Big Mac for breakfast, if that’s any help.”
“As in McDonald’s?” Peters asked.
Janice nodded. “She had mustard with whatever she ate. There were traces of mustard under her thumbnails like you’d get from opening one of those little individual packages. You can collect samples, but it’ll probably only separate Burger King from McDonald’s.”
She flicked an ash into an ashtray. Her tone was matter-of-fact. Evidence is evidence. People in this business can’t afford to look beyond the evidence to the human suffering involved. If they do, they crack up.
“Did you find anything in her room or in the house?”
“Nothing that appears to be important at the moment. Fingerprints from the room are mostly the girl’s and the mother’s. There are a few that belong to other children, but no adult prints.”
“What makes you say McDonald’s?” Peters asked.
“It may not be McDonald’s, but it was one of those fast-food joints. Hamburger aside, Baker’s office says she was generally malnourished, had been for some time.”
Janice reached across me to the end of the table and picked up a folded newspaper. She opened it to the editorial section. “I read this coming in on the bus this morning.” She handed me the paper, open to Maxwell Cole’s “City Beat” column.
I skimmed through an emotional portrayal of Suzanne Barstogi as a woman of unshakable faith and courage, one who was walking through a time of personal trial supported by her beliefs and the willing help of fellow church members. It spoke eloquently of the group’s communal sharing of food and heartbreak. It told in heartrending prose how the congregation as a whole had spent the previous afternoon on its knees praying for the murderer’s immortal soul.
Murderers are always the first victims in Maxwell Cole’s book, unless the person pulling the trigger happens to be a cop.
I
“Captain Howard down there specifically asked for you to be his partner.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And you think he can handle this case without a problem?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. I wasn’t about to let on that Peters had told me anything about Broken Springs, Oregon, and losing his family to a cult. I didn’t want to risk giving Powell any ammunition about Peters’ impartiality. Powell is the kind who might use it. He ambled away from my desk then, no wiser, I hoped, than when he had arrived. I was a little wiser, though. Peters was on our squad without Powell’s wanting him there. If the captain was looking for an excuse to bump the newcomer, he wouldn’t get any help from me.
Peters showed up a few minutes later. He had checked through 911 records for any complaints from the Ballard area around Faith Tabernacle and come up empty-handed. He looked a little worse for wear, as though he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours.
“You tie one on last night?” I asked.
“No.”
“Maybe you should have,” I told him.
He didn’t take kindly to my remark. “What’s the program today?” he asked.
“Let’s go downstairs and talk to the crime lab folks. They might have something for us.”
The Washington State crime lab is on the second floor of the Public Safety Building. They work for all the law enforcement agencies in Washington, with a number of labs scattered throughout the state. There’s a backlog of work, but murder gets priority treatment. Angela Barstogi deserved at least that much. Janice Morraine offered us some acrid coffee that Peters had the good sense to refuse. I didn’t. I’m a dog for punishment.
Janice lit a cigarette, and Peters grimaced. I was surprised he didn’t launch into an antismoking lecture on the spot. Jan took a long drag on her cigarette, ignoring Peters’ pointed disapproval. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Have you come up with anything on Angela Barstogi?”
“She had a Big Mac for breakfast, if that’s any help.”
“As in McDonald’s?” Peters asked.
Janice nodded. “She had mustard with whatever she ate. There were traces of mustard under her thumbnails like you’d get from opening one of those little individual packages. You can collect samples, but it’ll probably only separate Burger King from McDonald’s.”
She flicked an ash into an ashtray. Her tone was matter-of-fact. Evidence is evidence. People in this business can’t afford to look beyond the evidence to the human suffering involved. If they do, they crack up.
“Did you find anything in her room or in the house?”
“Nothing that appears to be important at the moment. Fingerprints from the room are mostly the girl’s and the mother’s. There are a few that belong to other children, but no adult prints.”
“What makes you say McDonald’s?” Peters asked.
“It may not be McDonald’s, but it was one of those fast-food joints. Hamburger aside, Baker’s office says she was generally malnourished, had been for some time.”
Janice reached across me to the end of the table and picked up a folded newspaper. She opened it to the editorial section. “I read this coming in on the bus this morning.” She handed me the paper, open to Maxwell Cole’s “City Beat” column.
I skimmed through an emotional portrayal of Suzanne Barstogi as a woman of unshakable faith and courage, one who was walking through a time of personal trial supported by her beliefs and the willing help of fellow church members. It spoke eloquently of the group’s communal sharing of food and heartbreak. It told in heartrending prose how the congregation as a whole had spent the previous afternoon on its knees praying for the murderer’s immortal soul.
Murderers are always the first victims in Maxwell Cole’s book, unless the person pulling the trigger happens to be a cop.
I
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