Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (26 page)

“I sit off to the side when I’m administering the test. He was facing straight ahead. But nothing really struck me as out of the ordinary.” She considered her watch. “I told him someone would get in touch with him. I have to be somewhere. Why don’t you go over the questions and results and call me tomorrow to discuss it further.”

Kins thanked her and made his way back to his desk. He phoned Tracy, but the call went directly to voice mail. When he called Amanda Santos, she answered on the third ring.

“It’s Detective Rowe. So, you said that sometimes these guys can beat the test because they feel no remorse, that they don’t believe they did anything wrong. What does it mean when they fail?”

Tracy limped into the bull pen with Faz’s help, surprised to find Kins sitting at his cubicle desk.

Kins stood. “What happened to you?”

“Professor here kicked the crap out of Taggart again,” Faz said, helping Tracy drop into her desk chair. “I’ll get some ice and a first-aid kit.”

Her ankle and back ached, and her right elbow was tender. She wondered if Taggart’s kick had broken her collarbone. It hurt to lift her arm overhead. She anticipated the pain would get a whole lot worse before it got better. She pulled open her bottom desk drawer and found a small white bottle of Aleve.

“Why did you pick up Taggart?” Kins asked.

Tracy shook out two of the little blue pills, swallowing them without water, then told Kins about Latent’s matching a print in Veronica Watson’s motel room to Taggart.

“Patrol spotted his car parked outside the Dancing Bare. When we arrived, he bolted.”

“So he’s got a connection to the Dancing Bare.”

“Maybe. He said he only went there after he wasn’t welcome at the Pink Palace.”

Faz reentered carrying an ice pack and the first-aid kit. “Professor here was leaping tall fences in a single bound.”

Tracy looked down at a tear in her jeans. Her knee was scraped and bleeding. “These were brand-new jeans.”

“I think that’s the style now,” Faz said. “My son’s girlfriend wears them that way.”

“That’s great,” she said, “if I’m ever out looking to pick up fifteen-year-old boys.” She took off her shoe and sock and pulled up her pants cuff, examining her ankle. Thankfully, it didn’t look swollen or discolored.

“How bad is it?” Kins said.

“Just twisted it.” She set the ice pack on her collarbone. The cold felt soothing. “They’re bringing Taggart up after he’s booked. I told them to call us. I want to go at him before he has time to start thinking things through.” She readjusted the ice. “Did Bankston show?”

Kins handed her Ludlow’s preliminary findings. “He failed.”

Tracy looked up at Kins, then started flipping through the pages. “He failed?”

“Not every question, but Stephanie says it’s enough to make his answers suspect. He lied about whether he knew the dancers.”

Tracy quickly skimmed that portion of Ludlow’s evaluation.

Have you ever met Veronica Watson?

No.

Have you ever met Nicole Hansen?

No.

Have you ever met Angela Schreiber?

No.

In the polygraph recordings, there were significant physiological responses, which are usually indicative of deception, when Mr. Bankston answered the above series of relevant questions. It is the opinion of the polygraph examiner, based on careful evaluation of the physiological responses, which were quality-controlled by computerized statistical evaluation, that Mr. David Bankston was NOT being TRUTHFUL (deception indicated) in his responses to these questions.

“He knew them?” Tracy asked.

“The test would indicate that to be the case.”

Tracy continued reading.

Did you kill Veronica Watson?

No.

Did you kill Nicole Hansen?

No.

Did you kill Angela Schreiber?

No.

In the polygraph recordings, there were no significant physiological responses, which are usually indicative of truthfulness. It is the opinion of the polygraph examiner, based on careful evaluation of the physiological responses, which were quality-controlled by computerized statistical evaluation, that Mr. David Bankston is being TRUTHFUL (no deception indicated) in his responses to these questions.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I said the same thing.”

“How does Stephanie explain it?”

“She didn’t. She wants to talk tomorrow. I called Santos and sent her the test.”

“Where’s Bankston now?”

“Home. I had a car pick him up when he left the parking lot but told them to keep it loose. His car is parked in his driveway, and they’re parked in a gravel lot near I-90. If Bankston gets on the freeway to come downtown, we’ll know it. If he drives to the grocery store, we won’t.”

Tracy’s desk phone rang. King County Jail advised that Taggart had been booked. “They’re bringing him up,” she said.

Dan had spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to track down witnesses identified in Beth Stinson’s murder file. After nine years, some of the telephone numbers were no longer working and the memories of the witnesses had faded dramatically. Two people told him that they remembered calling the police but couldn’t remember what information they thought relevant and they hadn’t given it much thought in years. A third person said he’d sold Stinson a car earlier in the week and just thought the police might want to know, not that he’d really thought it had any significance. Dan made a note that Tracy might want to check the guy out, given her comment that the killer might have had contact with Stinson. She’d been right about one thing. Nolasco and Hattie had not followed up with any of the witnesses.

Dan’s most productive call was to Beth Stinson’s former supervisor at the big-box retail store in North Seattle where Stinson had worked as a bookkeeper. Abe Drotzky told him Stinson hadn’t lit the world on fire but she was at work every Monday through Friday “earning her keep.” He knew little about her personal life but said he got the impression she burned the candle at both ends, often coming to work looking a little bleary-eyed.

As Dan left the interview, he decided to try one more name in the file—Celeste Johnson—before getting something to eat. Her telephone number was no longer in service, but the address provided wasn’t far from the big-box store. Dan decided to drive over.

He guessed the woman who answered the door to be mid-seventies. She looked amused when Dan asked for Celeste. “Celeste hasn’t lived at home for years.”

“She’s your daughter?” Dan guessed.

“And who are you?”

Dan told the woman he was an attorney looking into the Beth Stinson matter.

“Is that animal coming up for parole?” the woman said.

“I wasn’t able to reach your daughter with the number in the file.”

“Celeste’s married now. Her last name is Bingham.”

“Does she still live in the area?”

“She better,” the woman said. “I need my granny fix at least once a week.”

The woman wouldn’t give out Celeste’s address but provided a phone number. When Dan called, he got one of the children.

“Hey, Mom, phone’s for you!”

“You don’t have to shout. I’m right here.”

The kid, being a kid, shouted again. “Phone’s for you!”

“Stop it!” Dan heard the phone being exchanged. “Hello?”

“Celeste Bingham?”

“If this is a solicitation, please put me on your no-call list.”

“This isn’t a sales call,” Dan said. “Your mother gave me your phone number. I was calling about Beth Stinson.”

The response was silence, and Dan spoke quickly to fill it. “You called the police when Ms. Stinson was murdered and indicated you might have some information relevant to the case.”

Another extended silence.

“Ms. Bingham, are you still there?”

“What’s this about?” she said.

“I’m trying to follow up on a few things, and I wonder if I could ask you some questions.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“I’m an attorney.”

Another hesitation. Dan sensed Bingham was about to tell him either that she couldn’t recall or didn’t want to be bothered. “What is this about?” she asked again, sounding more upset.

“I’m trying to find out if Mr. Gerhardt got a fair trial,” Dan said, not feeling like he could avoid her question any longer.

Again, Bingham did not immediately respond, and this time Dan was certain she would tell him she had nothing to offer. He tried once more to fill the silence. “I could meet you at a convenient time if that would be easier. Or I could come to your house.”

“No,” she said. “Not to my house.”

Dan waited, sensing it better not to speak.

“I’m about to take my son to a soccer practice. I’ll have an hour while I’m waiting for him to finish. There’s a sports bar in North Seattle called the Iron Bone, on Fifteenth Avenue across the street from a strip mall. I’ll meet you there.”

CHAPTER 38

T
racy nodded to the two corrections officers standing outside the hard interrogation room. “This may not take long,” she said.

“Take your time,” the male officer said. “Boy needs a serious attitude adjustment.”

“I’m going to watch from the other room,” Faz said, turning to leave.

About to pull open the door, Tracy recalled Taggart’s probation officer saying the tough-guy attitude was a façade and Taggart was just another punk. She grabbed Faz’s arm. “You still able to do your Italian gumba act?”

“What do you mean ‘act’?” Faz said, his New Jersey accent suddenly pronounced.

To Kins, Tracy said, “I have a hunch about this.”

“You want me to sit this one out?”

“Call my cell in five minutes.”

Kins departed to watch from behind the glass. Tracy pulled open the door and stepped in with Faz lumbering in behind her like an extra-large bodyguard.

“This is bullshit,” Taggart started. The bruises around his eyes had become nasty shades of purple and yellow. “I’m going to sue you, the police department, and the city. My attorney says this case is worth millions.”

“Hey, dirtbag,” Faz said, dwarfing Taggart. “Shut your freaking pie hole or I’m gonna shut it for you. And I shut it, it’s gonna be wired shut.”

“You touch me and I’ll sue you too.”

Faz gripped the edge of the table and leaned into Taggart’s personal space. Tracy could only hope his lunch had been laced with garlic. Taggart pulled back, but with his hands cuffed to a chain leading to an eyehook on the floor, he wasn’t going far. Faz smiled. “We got people who slip and fall in these rooms all the time. They hit their heads on the table and get all kinds of boo-boos.”

Taggart winced. “You can’t do that; you got a tape going.”

“A tape?” Faz looked over his shoulder at Tracy, who was enjoying the moment but trying not to show it. “Who does this guy think we are—KGB? Who am I—Putin?” He leaned closer. Taggart looked to be holding his breath. Faz pointed at the glass. “We don’t tape nothing. That there is a mirror so you can see how ugly you are. Now shut up and listen to the detective.” Faz straightened and took his seat beside Tracy.

“Why’d you run, Bradley?” Tracy asked.

Taggart had turned sideways, like a petulant child. “I was getting some exercise. You people are harassing me. You got no reason to keep me here.”

Tracy placed a blown-up copy of the print generated by the AFIS computer on the table alongside the latent print CSI had pulled off the dresser in Veronica Watson’s motel room. Taggart gave the photographs a disinterested glance, then went back to ignoring her. Tracy sensed that inside he wasn’t so calm, and she let the moment linger in silence.

Taggart broke first, looking at her. “What?”

“Anything more you want to tell us about the night Veronica was murdered?”