Chapter 5
Tessa
“Detective Androtti?”
I swing around to see a tall, Black man, maybe a little younger than me, approaching. I’ve never seen him before so I respond hesitantly.
“Yes?”
He holds out his hand to me.
“Steve Haynes, Spokane County Sheriff’s office. We spoke—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I cut him off as I accept his handshake. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”
We’re standing in the back parking lot of the hospital near the separate entrance to the morgue.
I have my travel-sized jar of VapoRub in my pocket, prepared for the potent blend of odors I know will turn my stomach otherwise.
The mix of chemicals, bodily fluids, and decomposition gasses is very unpleasant.
I skipped breakfast this morning and stuck to coffee.
“I know, it was a last-minute decision. When I spoke to Pam—Ryan’s mom—yesterday, getting the phone number for Ryan’s dentist, she knew what the implications were and asked me outright if we’d found his body.
I really wanted to give her that closure, but instead I had to tiptoe around it and told her I’d have an answer for her today.
I was up early this morning, and felt the urge to drive up and be here on her behalf, watching out for her son. It’s the least I can do.”
I nod, understanding the sentiment.
“Follow me,” I suggest. “It’s not a large space, but if it’s all right with Tom Richter—he’s the medical examiner who’ll be doing the autopsy—it’s certainly fine with me.”
A young woman dressed in gray scrubs points us to the autopsy room. I stop at the door, pull out my little jar and brush some VapoRub under my nose. Next I hand the jar to Haynes, who does the same. Then I brace myself and push open the door.
“I’ll do my best to get the official report to you before the end of day.”
“I appreciate it.”
I shake Dr. Richter’s hand to thank him before rushing to leave the oppressive space.
Once outside, I stop to suck in a few deep breaths of fresh air, hoping it will alleviate the persistent nausea that overwhelmed me when I saw that boy’s body lying on the steel slab, looking so vulnerable and exposed.
I catch sight of Steve Haynes, who left the moment Tom Richter compared the dental records that were sent straight to the morgue to our victim, and confirmed his identity as Ryan Wells. He’s leaning against the driver’s side door of a dark gray truck, his phone to his ear as he watches me approach.
I just hear him tell someone he should be back this afternoon and will stop by. Then he ends the call, tucking his phone in his pocket.
“Ryan’s mother?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want her to have to wait. Not knowing is almost worse, isn’t it? At least now she can start grieving.”
I have a hard time holding on to my emotions as I think about what that woman must be going through. Being a single mom to a couple of boys myself, it’s disturbingly easy to imagine myself in her shoes.
Taking a moment to pull myself together, I share some of the verbal conclusions the medical examiner came to after he was done with the autopsy.
“He was able to count seventeen separate knife wounds, some of which were defensive wounds on his hands and forearms. He also had bruising around his wrists and along his jaw. It looks like he put up a fight, but the ME believes there was more than one killer. Based on the state of decomposition and the body’s exposure, Richter estimates Ryan was likely killed not long after he went missing, a little over three weeks ago. ”
“I figured he’d been down there a while,” Haynes observes, his eyes on a spot in the distance somewhere over my shoulder. “Looked like some animal might have gotten to him as well.”
I shiver at the reminder. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight with the sight of that boy’s damaged body under the harsh lights of the autopsy room burned onto my retinas.
Haynes rubs his hands over his face and blows out an audible breath before turning to me.
“When do you figure his body can be released?”
“Any lab results should be back by late this afternoon,” I reply. “And, hopefully, I’ll have the autopsy report in my inbox shortly after. So, unless something new comes out of the lab results that requires closer scrutiny, I imagine as soon as the official report is in.”
He shrugs. “That would be good. At least Pam can have her son’s body back.”
He presses the fob on his keychain that unlocks the doors to the truck.
“Look,” I stop him before he gets in. “I know this closes your missing person case, and Edwards County technically has jurisdiction over his murder case since he was found here, but I think we can both be useful. In fact, since the vehicle he was murdered in was stolen in Spokane, and the Spokane PD would have jurisdiction there, I think it might be useful for all three departments to collaborate on this investigation.”
He seems interested as he nods slowly.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing this through,” he admits. “I’d have to get approval from my department.”
“For sure, I’ll have to bring it up to my boss as well, but I can’t imagine it’ll be a problem.
I’m heading back to the station now, and as soon as I have the okay, I’ll send over copies of my case files for you to look at.
Then we’ll figure out who’s in charge of the Mustang theft and reach out to see if we can loop them in. ”
“Yeah. Let me know. In the meantime, I’ll be talking to his friends again, one of them must have an idea who or what Ryan might’ve gotten himself involved with. I wanna see whoever did this burn.”
With that, he gets behind the wheel, and I take a step back as he drives off.
It’s clear he’s taking this hard. I’ve also noticed the familiar way he seems to talk about the victim’s mother, and I wonder if perhaps he’s developed an interest in her.
Hell, I’m affected more than usual myself. This is a kid with his entire life in front of him. I’m as determined as Haynes is to bring his killer or killers to justice.
Clem
Standing in the open bay with my phone to my ear, I watch Tessa pull her Jeep in to the parking lot next door. Part of me is hoping she sends a glance in my direction, but she doesn’t. She aims straight for the door of the sheriff’s station at a determined pace.
I wonder if she’s still mad at me.
“Clem? You still there?” Wally suddenly hollers.
I jerk the phone away from my ear. “Yeah, still right here, Wally. No need to yell.”
Wally Shirk owns a junkyard just outside Kettle Falls, along Route 395. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive from here, but he’s got the best inventory of older model vehicles sitting in his yard, and I’ve found parts for Brant Colter’s 1979 Ford Bronco there before.
Wally is also old as dirt and deaf as a doorpost, but refuses to wear a hearing aid.
“My bad,” he returns with only fractionally less volume.
“Well, I’ve got a 1978 Bronco sitting in the back lot under a tarp.
Grille looks to be in decent condition, no obvious rust but needs a little polishing.
I’ll get the boy to take it off and buff it up, and you can have it for three seventy-five. ”
The “boy” he refers to is his son Everett, and he’s probably well in his fifties.
I bark out a laugh. “Highway robbery, Wally. I can get a near new one for that price online. I’ll tell you what; I’ll pay you seventy-five, and I’ll come take it off myself.”
I hear him clear his throat and fire off a wad of phlegm. His way of telling me my offer is an insult.
“Two fifty,” he comes back with.
“One twenty-five, and I’m taking the passenger side mirror too.”
I noticed the one on Brant’s vehicle showed a few rust spots as well. Our former sheriff takes good care of his beloved Bronco. He likes to keep it in tiptop shape, but age as well as the regular wear and tear of use inevitably leaves its marks.
“You’re a pain in my arse, Tanek,” he grumbles.
The old man is full of it. He loves the bartering.
“One twenty-five, Wally,” I state firmly. “I’ll swing by sometime this week.”
“Fine,” he grudgingly concedes.
“Hey, Wally,” I quickly say before he hangs up. “You wouldn’t happen to have any older model Chevy C/Ks floating around, would you?”
“I believe there’s one or two. They’d probably be in the old section. Why? You need parts?”
“Nah, I know someone who might be interested. I’ll have a look when I come by.”
“Suit yourself,” he mutters before ending the call.
I’m not sure what prompted me to ask, but now I’m thinking of taking Remi when I head out there.
Nothing like some hands-on experience, if he’s really interested in fixing up an old vehicle.
The kid could learn a thing or two, and if Wally does have a Chevy C/K in his yard, it might turn out to be a good motivator for him.
I’m about to shoot him a text—I took down Remi’s cell phone number on Saturday—but think better of it. Before I get the kid all excited, I should probably run it by his mother.
Got a minute to talk?
“Boss…I’m gonna need a hand lifting the engine block.”
I slide the phone in my back pocket and turn to join Kyle, who is working on a Subaru Forester that needs valve replacements on the cylinder heads. The only way to access those is to pull out the vehicle’s engine.
The heavy lifting is done by an engine hoist, but it takes two people for safety. One to operate the hoist, and the other to carefully guide the engine onto the blocks.
Kyle is already attaching one of the hoist chains and I grab the other one, fastening it in place, when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
“Hang on,” I tell Kyle, checking the incoming message.
A minute.
I can feel the chill in her two-word response. Curt and to the point, making it clear she’s busy and doesn’t particularly welcome the interruption.
“Take a smoke break, kid. I’ve gotta make a quick call.”
She answers on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
I get right down to business.
“Quick question: I have to head to a junkyard near Kettle Falls this week to pick up some parts for an older vehicle. It’s going to require some disassembly, and I was thinking it might be good experience for Remi since he seems to be interested in older vehicles.”
“He is?”
She sounds surprised.
“Yeah, he mentioned his dream is to find an old Chevy pickup to fix up. The junkyard I’m going to may have one. I don’t even know if it’s salvageable, but it’s something we could look at. I’d be happy to help him work on it.”
I’m met with silence on the other side, so I prompt her, “Tessa?”
“I had no idea; he’s never mentioned any of that to me. But then, he rarely talks to me at all anymore.”
The last was not said with any sharpness, but rather a pained realization.
I get the sense I’m wading into a mine field again, so I proceed with great caution.
“I won’t bring any of this up with him, if you don’t want me to.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just….”
She lets the sentence drift off, and doesn’t volunteer anything to fill the silence that follows.
“You know what? Why not? Tell him. As long as it’s outside school hours or on the weekend,” she concedes. “At least I’ll know where he is.”
I got my way, but I don’t feel very victorious listening to the defeated tone in her voice. But before I have a chance to say anything, the line goes dead.
Half an hour later, when the Subaru’s engine is safely resting on blocks for Kyle to work on, and I’m trying to diagnose an engine tick in a GMC Sierra that just came in, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket again.
Two texts; the first from Remi, who I messaged after talking to his mom.
Sure, I’ll come. When?
I respond right away.
Pick a day this week when you don’t have much homework.
Come here after school and be prepared to get dirty.
He immediately comes back with,
Thursday.
I send him a thumbs-up. Then I turn to the second message. This one is from his mother.
If they do have an old pickup you think he’d like to fix up, find out how much they want. Remi’s 16th birthday is next month.
I think I understand why she’d want to do this for him, but I get the sense it’s important for the kid to do this himself. Buy his own vehicle, fix it up himself. I just don’t know how to convey that to his mother without rubbing an already sensitive spot.
I fire back a thumbs-up to her as well.
I’ll wait for a better time to voice my concerns.