Page 53 of Den of Iniquity

There Loren was, big as life. It turned out he was a little more portly than I would have expected. He marched in through the entrance as though he owned the place, bellied up to the bar, and immediately placed an order without bothering to consult a menu. His first and second drinks were both delivered shot-glass style with a clear liquid inside both—either vodka or tequila, I surmised. Those had both gone down the hatch before his meal showed up. It was a platter of bar food that looked like a chiliburger although I couldn’t tell for sure. His food was accompanied by two more shots. Right about 10:45, he pushed his plate away, signaled for his bill and signed his mother’s tab, and then staggered out of the bar in far worse shape than when he’d first entered.

At that point, I switched over to the Fremont Inn’s exterior footage. Here the resolution wasn’t nearly as clear, but I was able to see long piles of plowed snow lining the sidewalk. I queued the video to 10:45p.m.Only a few frames in, Loren Gregson appeared, exiting the bar and stepping out onto the sidewalk. He paused long enough to tug his sagging pants back into position. Then, after looking around for a moment, he pulled his jacket tighter around him and staggered away, westbound toward the Ship Canal rather than away from it.

Considering the weather that night, he certainly wasn’t dressed for a long walk outdoors. I watched as he set off down the sidewalk. Then, stepping out of camera range, he disappeared from view. That was a sobering moment. I sat there realizing that I had just watched a badly impaired man stroll out of sight and into the darkness, totally oblivious to the reality that he was walking straight into the arms of the grim reaper. For several seconds I stared at themonitor and dealing with the reality that I was now one of the last people on earth to see Loren Gregson alive.

But then something else caught my eye as another figure entered camera range, coming from the north. It was swathed in what appeared to be a light-colored blanket of some kind, one that was draped around the person’s shoulders and fell all the way to the ground where it scraped along the sidewalk. Straining to get a closer look at this ghostlike visage, I caught sight of the hoodie underneath the blanket that completely obscured the person’s face from the surveilling camera’s lens.

A wave of excitement swept through me as I realized exactly what I was seeing. I had just watched Loren Gregson wander off into the night. Now here was his stone-cold killer, clearly stalking her prey. That was her, I was sure of it. She hadn’t been waiting for him inside the Fremont Inn, but outside it. I suspected that she had been somewhere nearby, wrapped in the blanket and huddled against a building and virtually invisible. Passersby might have walked around her or even stepped over her without actually seeing her. Because that’s what most people do about homeless people—they ignore them.

I stopped the footage in the last frame before she would have walked out of range. Her left wrist was facing me, but both of her hands and arms were hidden from view under the blanket. If she was wearing the Apple Watch that night, there was no way for me to catch sight of it. Nor was there a chance of spotting any distinguishing facial features.

I was beside myself with a weird mix of conflicting emotions consisting of equal parts excitement and frustration. I was sure this was the killer—it had to be—but I had no way of identifying her.Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she gotten there? Was her grocery cart hidden somewhere nearby but out of sight? And even though my whole being said I was right, everything I had so far was completely circumstantial. Down deep I knew that I still didn’t have enough to get Seattle PD to move off the dime on any of these cases.

At that moment, I needed a break in the very worst way, so I abandoned the evidence room and went looking for one of my PB&Js. I collected my lunch bag from the locker and headed for the break room, which was totally deserted. I went straight to the Keurig setup where there was a selection of coffees and an honor jar asking for a dollar a pop. Figuring I was in for the day, I dropped in a fiver and collected my first cup of java. It wasn’t up to what I’m used to from our freshly ground beans at home, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I settled down at one of the tables and unwrapped my sandwich. Not wanting to be disturbed, I had turned my phone off while I had been in the evidence room. When I turned it back on, the phone practically blew up. I suddenly had eighty-eight emails I hadn’t had earlier. All of those came from Yolanda Aguirre’s intern, so now I was in possession of that many new files in need of examination. And then there were three text messages from Lulu Benson. The first one had come in at tena.m.:Please give me a call.The one at eleven thirty was a bit more terse:Call me.Message number three had come in at 1:15. It was in all caps:ARE YOU GOING TO CALL ME BACK OR WHAT?

Thinking she might now be in possession of Caroline Richards’s DNA profile, I dialed her number.

“It’s about damned time you called,” she muttered irritably.

“You’ve got the profile already?” I asked.

“Not only a profile, dummy,” she snapped back. “I’ve got a name for you. Now, are you going to shut up and listen or not?”

Not wanting to tangle with Lulu Benson, I shut up, and she continued, “The DNA profile obtained from Caroline Richards led to a woman who was born in Princeton, New Jersey, on April 12, 1977. Her birth name was Patricia Ann Bledsoe. She was the daughter of a Princeton philosophy professor named Arnold Bledsoe and a stay-at-home mom named Lila Anderson Bledsoe. Her sister, Marisa Bledsoe Young, who was three years younger than Patricia, aka Phyllis Baylor, entered her own DNA into NamUs and also in GEDmatch two years ago in an effort to locate her long-lost sister as well as Patricia’s daughter, Serena, aka Lindsey Baylor, both of whom disappeared without a trace in 2002.”

NamUs is a national database of missing persons. Individuals as well as law enforcement are able to post entries including names, dental records, and DNA profiles. They’re also able to do their own online searches. A similar organization in the private sector is the nonprofit DNA Doe Project, which focuses on human remains that may have gone unidentified for decades.

I was so astonished by Lulu’s revelations that I could barely speak, but eventually I did. “That’s how you found her?” I asked. “Through NamUs.”

“I didn’t do it personally,” she replied, “but once my DNA tech had the profile, I had her run it. That way it goes through the proper channels. Marisa currently lives in Fountain Hills, Arizona, which is somewhere near Scottsdale. Would you like her phone number?”

“Are you kidding? Absolutely!”

Lulu gave me a number with a 480 area code. “You should probably call her right away,” she added. “Notification of the match may turn up in her email any minute now if it hasn’t already.”

“Will do,” I said.

My mother was always a big proponent of “think before you speak.” In this case, I certainly could have used some more thinking time before opening my big mouth, but I didn’t want to risk it. I wanted to get to Marisa Young before someone from NamUs did.

Downing one last sip of coffee for luck, I keyed her number into my phone and waited for it to ring. If Marisa had been born in 1980, she was about forty. At this hour of the day, chances are she’d be at work, but I crossed my fingers and hoped to hell she’d answer.

Chapter 25

Seattle, Washington

Wednesday, March 4, 2020

“Hello.”

“Marisa Young?” I asked.

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’m a private investigator, and I’m calling in regard to your missing persons post on NamUs.”

I heard a small gasp before she spoke again. “Is this about Patricia and Serena?” the woman demanded. “Have you found them?”

---