Page 4 of Silent Ridge

“Ronnie’s on light duty,” I say, “but I can use her help on the computer if it’s okay?”

Of course, he agrees.

Four

I didn’t ask TonyhowMonique was killed but instead I said I wanted to see it myself. The note Ronnie had given me just said murder, but my lack of questions told the sheriff that I was up to my neck in this case already. I’m a trained detective. I should have been asking about the victim and not defending my own connection. I lied to him. He knew it.

Monique was an advocate for victims of violent crimes. I didn’t keep in touch with her, but that didn’t mean I didn’t keep track of her. She was in the news many times, lobbying some piece of legislation or another. She had become active with parole board hearings, keeping some of the more violent offenders off the streets. She had most likely made enemies because of that. My gut is telling me that’s not the reason she’s dead.

I haven’t gone into the house yet but I already have a suspect. The way Monique died isn’t as important as the fact that she’s dead in Port Townsend. She didn’t contact me but pictures of me are found at the scene. If she knew where I lived, why didn’t she call? Maybe running from someone? None of this makes sense. I can be totally off base, but I know of only one person with a connection to me who has threatened her in the past.

Michael Rader.

Alex Rader’s brother.

I killed Alex because he kidnapped my mother when she was a teenager. He raped, tortured and meant to kill her but she got away. Not entirely, though, because he’d gotten her pregnant with me. He was a serial killer. And a smart one. Alex killed three girls that I know of. All about the same age as my mother was when he kidnapped her. All blond cheerleaders. All three murders were attributed to different men. All of those murders he committed led to wrongful convictions because Alex Rader was a police detective. He made evidence disappear. He planted evidence. To make matters worse, I believe Alex’s brother, Michael, who is a prison guard, later eliminated all those men in prison. None of their deaths were ever solved. Michael is as evil and dangerous as Alex.

I tried to erase my trail, my existence, and I believed I was successful. I should have been dead to the world. But Michael knows because Monique told him. She told me he had threatened to kill her family if she didn’t. I didn’t blame her for that, but I’d entrusted her with the evidence I’d found in Alex’s house. The evidence that proved he had killed other girls. She’d promised to take the evidence to the authorities so those families could finally find closure for the loss of their daughters. She’d given it to Michael instead and it still hurt to have the only person I trusted betray me. I’d had to keep running to protect myself and my brother Hayden from Michael.

Only three other people, besides Michael and Monique, know I am still alive: Hayden, an ex-boyfriend, Caleb Hunter, and Dr. Karen Albright, my therapist.

Hayden hates me for the same reason I hated our mother. I betrayed and abandoned him. He has a right to hate me, but he would never do anything like this.

I haven’t had contact with Caleb for years. I think he would like to keep it that way. I’d burnt my bridges with him. He knew what I’d done and it sickened him, but he isn’t capable of murder.

I spoke to Dr. Albright last month. But she isn’t capable of murder, either.

But someone else knows I am alive; someone who sends me emails: “Wallace,” is how he signs off. It’s someone who knows who I am and who I was. They know where I live. They knew about me and Monique.

So, for now, discounting Hayden, Caleb and Dr. Albright, I have at least two suspects for this murder: Wallace and Michael Rader.

The photograph taken of me leaving the office proves I’m being watched. And my high school photograph shows a connection to my past. Is Wallace the killer, is Michael Rader? Is Michael my stalker?

“Are you ready?” Tony asks as I take one more look around the outside. The house is surrounded by tall trees on both sides. I have a clear view of the harbor and nothing but trees to either side. There is little to no traffic. A woman is walking her dog. She stops to clean up after the dog and continues on. I look at Tony but he shakes his head. That’s not the neighbor. Several boats are anchored with people on the decks. It’s a nice day. In one sailboat two guys are drinking; a girl dives in the water. There’s another with some fishermen and a sailboat with a woman sunning on the deck. Most of the boaters are curious about all the police activity. I’m surprised neighbors haven’t gathered in the yard.

Deputy Copsey is standing beside the front door. He’s hard to miss with his strawberry-blond hair and biceps that are barely contained by his uniform shirt.

The door is open to the unmistakable smell of decay. It burns my eyes and nose. Sheriff Gray offers me a tube of eucalyptus ointment. He’s rubbed some under his nose. I decline. I’ve done this before. It’s best to push through it. I know I’ll have to take my clothes to a cleaners when I get off and the smell will take a while to get out of my nostrils.

“Ma’am,” Deputy Copsey says with a nod and a grin as Sheriff Gray and I come up on the front stoop. He knows I hate being called “ma’am.” It’s his way of telling me I’m one of the crew. One of the guys. One of the troops. I don’t care if I am. I have a job to do.

“Deputy,” I say, and smile.

Copsey writes our names on the log. He will note everyone’s comings and goings and record the times.

A crime scene deputy I don’t recognize is laying a folded white sheet on the left side of the carpeted stairway. He’s wearing white Tyvek coveralls with the hood pulled up, gloves, seafoam-green paper booties. He comes back down the stairs, careful to stand on the folded sheet. He hands us gloves and booties. Sheriff Gray has a little trouble with the latex gloves. His hands are sweaty and the gloves stick to his skin. The crime scene guy offers me a hair net. I decline by staring him down. I’m getting good at that.

He gets me back. “This way, ma’am. Sheriff. Stay on the sheet.”

I don’t correct him about the “ma’am” shit. I’m standing at the base of the stairs. My imagination is on crack. Sheriff Gray hasn’t remarked on the condition of the body except that I won’t recognize the victim. That speaks volumes.

I start up the stairs and the smell gets stronger with each step. I wonder if stink rises, like warm air. The carpeting is a deep-pile mix of gray and black and tan fibers. It’s been a while since it was vacuumed. I always assumed Monique was a clean freak. She must have changed.

With each step I expect to see blood. Yet there isn’t any. I get to the top of the landing and the tech leads us down a short hallway. Doors are open on the left and right. Straight ahead a door is partially open to what looks like a half bath. There are little decorative towels hanging beside the sink. Unused. The neighbor told the sheriff that Monique had moved in about two weeks ago.

She wouldn’t have used this room.

The tech leads me to the door on the right. I know the room on the left will be facing into the woods, and so I suspect this room will have a view out over the water. The room comes into view in slices as I slowly move up to the doorway. A tallboy dresser is against the wall to my left. The top is bare. No photos or trinkets. I take another step and see a door just beyond the dresser. Probably the master bath. The door is open and another white-clad tech is bent at the waist, a camera clicking away.

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