Page 41 of Den of Iniquity

What if indeed?

That was certainly a disturbing possibility. And since all three cases had connections to Seattle, what if said rogue cop ended up being someone connected to Seattle PD? That wouldn’t be the best way for this newly minted private investigator to win friends and influence people at my old department. I’d end up being permanently labeled persona non grataamong my old cohorts, and itwouldn’t do my son, Scotty, any favors, either, as far as his departmental reputation was concerned.

Mel went to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. I didn’t, because now I had something other than Kyle and Kelly to worry about. There was a good chance that by solving Benjamin Weston’s problem, I’d be inadvertently creating a whole new set of issues for my son. Which reminds me of an old adage that all too often turns out to be true—the one that says no good deed goes unpunished.

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 microwavefor 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.”

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