Silent Witness: Red Files, #1

One

The quiet flick of a switchblade penetrated the otherwise silent night. It slid through the screen window above the kitchen sink with hardly a sound, the sharp blade cutting through the mesh easily. He knew that the Petersons kept this window open during the night, probably to let the cool air in while they slept, and he was glad for it. He could have figured out another way in— pick the lock to the front door, maybe—but this was much simpler and quieter.

He closed the knife and put it in his rear back pocket. Pulling himself up through the window, he was careful not to catch his clothing on anything sharp. He wore all black for the occasion: black jeans, black shirt, black shoes, and black leather gloves. He had even considered putting on a black mask, but thought it would have been suspicious if someone had seen him on the front street. Instead, he had wetted and gelled his hair back, and it stuck close to his skull like a dome. The backyard was mostly shadowed, and even if a neighbor was awake at this time, he doubted they could pick him out in the darkness.

He was a tall man, but limber, and easily swung his feet through the window space, being careful not to knock any dishes or glasses that may have been left on the counter. The Petersons didn’t have any pets, so he wasn’t concerned by a dog barking and waking them up, but he proceeded with caution into the interior.

He breathed in, willing himself to be calm, to slow his heart rate down. It was thudding against his chest, and he could feel it in his ears, a steady thrump thrump thrump. A mixture of smells hung in the air. Flowers, some kind of hibiscus, he thought. It was early Saturday morning, not yet 3:00 a.m., and the only sounds present were his steady breathing and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

He waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom and removed a pistol from his rear waistband. The weapon was a 9mm Beretta 92FS. It was all black and comfortable in his hand as he clicked the safety off with his right thumb. It had an AAC Evo 9 suppressor on the end, which would limit the noise made if he pulled the trigger. The long cylindrical tube looked ridiculous on the end of the pistol, but it was a necessity. He knew it wouldn’t render the gun completely silent, but it would mask the sound of a shot going off, and might buy him some time. Both the pistol and the silencer he had obtained illegally, and he was confident the gun would not be traced back to him. He had even taken the time to scrape off the serial numbers, just in case.

The house was a two story located in the Green Lake district of Seattle. It was an old house, turn of the century, and the current owners had taken the time and money to update the furnishings. From memory, he knew that the counters were speckled marble, and the tiled floor was made to match the backsplash. All light colors, nice and airy. The interior was tastefully decorated, and he figured that the wife had done most of it, the husband likely contributing through dutiful grunts and nods. Vibrant orchids were standing in ceramic vases on the kitchen table, and some bowls were filled with water, rose cuttings floating in the shimmering liquid.

He left the kitchen and turned left to head up the stairs. The floor and stairs were carpeted, and the low pile gray appeared murky in the dim light shining through a hallway window. He stuck to the outside edges of the stairs, aware that the ancient construction would creak under his weight if he walked directly in the middle of the steps. A cascading assortment of family photographs on the wall tracked his ascent up the stairs, and he studied them as he climbed. The Petersons at a beach. A dated photo of the couple at a restaurant with some older people, probably one set of their parents. The final photograph at the top of the steps, set in a black frame, showed the husband, Jack, wearing a police dress uniform. Possibly taken at some kind of event. He paused and stared at the photograph for a long time. The man in the photograph was wearing mostly navy blue with gold-plated buttons and was standing before the chief of police. A caption below the photograph read, Recognition for Exemplary Service, and Jack Peterson was being handed an award. It was a snapshot in time, both the chief and Peterson smiling at the camera, fingers laced in a handshake.

He turned away from the picture and climbed up the stairs. He paused at the top, listening. He heard no sounds and continued down the hallway, sticking to the edges as before. He passed a room to his right, and he could smell drying paint. He peered in. It was difficult to see, but the walls were painted a soothing yellow, the paint cans still sitting on drop cloths in the corner of the room. Brushes and a paint tray were stacked near the cans, the wet paint on the end of the brush waxy in the moonlight. The curtains had been removed from the bedroom window, and light from a crescent moon snaked in. In the other corner opposite the paint supplies was the skeleton of a crib that had yet to be assembled.

He went to the end of the hallway, passing a bathroom on his right, and another bedroom on his left, until he entered the master bedroom. He moved more slowly now, picking his steps carefully. He cautiously looked into the bedroom, craning his neck around the doorway. No movement, no sounds. He crept forward until he was standing at the foot of the bed. He held the pistol at the low ready, the right hand gripping the handle and the left hand cupping the base, which rested against his thigh.

There were two forms in the bed, and by the steady rise and fall of the covers, he could tell they were both asleep. He could hear their breathing, deep and regular, and he relaxed some. He pictured them saying good night to one another, maybe even giving each other a good night kiss. He even hoped they had made love, and that the last thoughts they had before sleep took them were good ones. It would be better that way, and it made him feel at ease thinking so.

He saw by the shape of the covers that it was the husband sleeping on the right side of the bed, so he shot there first, aiming for what he figured was center of mass. The gun coughed, loud in the enclosed space, and the wife stirred. He shot her twice in the chest, not wanting to see her face, and she went still. The husband was still moving, though sluggishly, so he walked around to his side of the bed. The husband turned his head slowly and locked eyes with him, the man’s mouth opening and closing slowly, like a dying fish. He thought of saying something, but it seemed pointless now, so he merely aimed and shot Jack Peterson in the head. The husband slumped to the bed, and moved no more.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. He looked at the bedside clock. The red digital face read 3:08 a.m., and it cast an ugly red glow in the room. He looked down at his hands and was surprised to see they weren’t even shaking.

***

At 3:28 a.m. a call was made to the 911 emergency dispatch line. The call taker, Marjory Duncan, had been with emergency dispatch for almost twenty years, and her voice was crisp and precise when she took the call.

Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?

Nothing but silence on the other end.

Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency? she said again. Probably a pocket dial, she thought. On her array of monitors, she could already see that the call was coming from a cell phone, with the towers pinging it from North Seattle.

Most cell phones had a function that allowed for emergency dialing with little input from the operator. The call was usually placed by accident, and Marjory would often hear a muffled sound and muted conversations from the cell phone banging around in someone’s jeans or shirt pocket. Sometimes she could make out the innocuous conversations in the background. She was about to hang up when she heard a sound through her headset. It was a liquid sound, gurgling, and it was difficult to place. Maybe a prank call, she thought, already getting annoyed. Either way, pocket dial or prank, she would still have to contact the patrol officers to investigate. She was aggravated by the wasted time. Other calls were waiting in the queue, other emergencies that needed to be dealt with and dispatched. Pocket dials and false calls averaged almost 40 percent of total calls received, which meant it took dispatchers and police away from the more pressing calls of real emergencies.

There came a cough and a strangled groan on the other end of the line.

Duncan asked, You’ve reached nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

Help . . . came a man’s voice on the other end. She glanced at her screen again, the towers placing the call in the Green Lake district of Seattle.

Already Duncan was entering the details into the computer, which she would transmit to the patrol members on their mobile vehicle terminals. Green Lakes area, 911 call, male caller asking for help. Duncan had taken thousands of calls, from minor complaints of traffic accidents to the more serious domestics and shootings, and she was not easily rattled. But an eerie feeling began to crawl up her spine, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Do you need fire, ambulance, or police? she said.

Police . . . I . . . police . . . he trailed off. More coughing and a moan. Male requesting police attendance, sounds injured.

Okay, you need police. What’s the problem, sir? Are you injured?

A stretched silence on the phone made her think the call had been dropped, but the man’s voice came through again, hardly above a whisper. I am . . . the police, he said, . . . my wife . . .shot . . . oh God . . . The voice faded again, and Marjory Duncan continued to ask questions. But no answer came. The line was dead.

Two

Harriet MacAllister was at her kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee when Conner burst into the room.

I’ve looked everywhere for it, Mom, he said, standing helplessly by the fridge. The it was his iPod, and the everywhere probably meant around his bed and nowhere else. Not that you could find anything in his room. It was in a continual state of disarray.

Her son was under the impression that she knew the location of every item in the house, regardless of whether or not she had ever actually handled or seen the thing before. Though, more often than not, she could point him in the right direction and it would at least stop him from tearing the house apart.

Everywhere? she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Yes. He said it with forced exasperation as he sat down dramatically in the seat opposite her. Since last year he had been going through a Goth phase, and he was wearing a black shirt, black pants, and black high boots with chrome studs running up the sides of the leather. He had a silver dog collar with enormous spikes that looked sharp enough to draw blood. She was surprised he had added dark eyeliner and dark lipstick, and his white skin looked even paler than usual. His long dark brown hair was tucked underneath a black toque, even though it was mid-March and abnormally warm outside. To the best of her knowledge, none of his friends dressed this way, nor did any girls at his school he might have been trying to impress.

Conner was big for his age, and at thirteen he already towered above her. She knew he could excel at any sport he tried, but baseball and football bored him, and he rebelled against any event that he viewed as a social trap and convention. But she loved him, and would continue to do so regardless of what he dressed liked. Though, she thought, I will draw the line at piercings and tattoos.

Did you look in the cubby by the door? she asked, taking a sip from her coffee. They had a dresser set up by the front door, with a container for keys and loose change. She knew that Conner would often come home and toss the house keys into the cup, along with most of everything currently occupying his pockets.

He ran from the room at her suggestion, dog collar jingling. She smiled over her mug when he heard him yell, Got it! and he hurried back to his room to continue packing. Conner was spending the weekend with his father, which meant she would have the house to herself, and she planned on having a relaxing Saturday morning. It was almost ten and she was still in her pajamas, a matching top and bottom set with a happily dancing troupe of smiling M&M’s riding cars and flying planes; Conner had bought her the set for Mother’s Day. He was excited, but as always she was nervous about seeing Tim. Their recent divorce was like an old wound that refused to heal and it seemed like it was only getting worse.

Harriet was thirty-six years old, having had Conner at a young age, and she and Tim had tried hard to make it work. Marriage counseling, trial separations . . . but all the king’s horses couldn’t put this one back together, and they had finally given up. She brushed a loose strand of red hair from her eyes and felt a wave of sadness. She tried to push it aside, focusing instead on what she would do with her free time. She had finished most of the renovations in the kitchen and was satisfied with the work that was done. The old-style cabinets had been replaced with more modern-looking ones, and the cocoa-colored shelving was pleasing to her eye. She’d had to sign up for a class at the local hardware store to learn how to replace cabinets and the tile backsplash, but she thought she had done a reasonable job. It was a way, she supposed, of moving on from Tim and reestablishing her place in the world, of starting fresh. She was off until Monday, which meant she would have plenty of time to tackle another project.

Her cell phone, which rested in a charger in the corner of the kitchen, chimed. With a sigh she put her mug down and grabbed it. She looked at the call display and groaned; it was the Major Crimes Unit of the Spokane Police Department. She clicked her teeth and considered not answering it. Maybe she would let it go to message and then decide if she should call them back. Dammit all, she thought, and decided to take the call.

Yes? she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

Morning, Harriet, the caller said cheerfully. The voice was that of Assistant Chief Bill Knight, her boss at the MCU.

Bill, I hope you’re calling me to invite me over for dinner. It’s been a while since you guys had me over.

No. No dinner. Uh . . . look . . . We need you to come in, he said haltingly. Harriet frowned. Bill’s voice sounded heavy and serious, completely out of character for the man.

What happened? she asked. There was a knock at the door, and she heard Conner run to the door. She could hear Tim’s voice and muffled conversation from the hallway.

It’s not for us, he said. It’s actually in Seattle. And it’s bad, Harriet. Really bad.

Three

Harriet gave her name to the rental car attendant behind the counter. He was a skinny kid, no more than twenty, with a T-shirt that read, Bacon is a Vegetable. He occupied a stand-alone booth that Harriet had found after stepping out of the airport terminal and he barely looked at her as he handed over the keys to a red Kia Forte. It was shortly after 5:00 p.m. at the Seattle Airport and the sun was hidden behind gray clouds pregnant with rain.

She had been to Seattle often, coming in from Spokane to the city with Tim and Conner for shopping trips or getaways, but all the same she had paid the extra fee for a dashboard-mounted GPS. Harriet could navigate the main arteries, but anything off the familiar path would just as likely get her lost. From her pocket she took a folded Post-it-Note on which she had hastily scribbled down the address of the scene. She plugged in the address and a British woman’s voice told her to head north, which she obeyed.

Driving, she thought of her conversations earlier that day with Bill Knight on the phone and Tim at her house.

Richard Evans and I went to high school together, Bill had said.

Richard Evans was the chief of police for the Seattle Police Department. Harriet knew him only by reputation; he was generally well respected and liked by the rank and file under him, even if he did have a tendency to pander to the media. Bill had given her the bare bones of the incident: break-in to a residence in Seattle, two people shot, woman dead, husband alive but on life support and not expected to make it, no word or trace of a suspect. Her heart fell further when she found out the male victim was a police officer.

Harriet had ten years on the force. Three in patrol, four in the crime lab, and three more in major crimes. She asked Bill why they wanted her in on this one.

Evans tells me it’s a bad one, he said. And Jack, the officer, was well respected on the force. Homicide could do it, but Evans would rather have an impartial hand in this. Evans had reached out to Bill, who had in turn reached out to her. Bill was thankful she had agreed to take the lead in the investigation. He gave her the address of the scene and the contact information for Evans. Tim, who had been waiting for her to get off the phone before he left with Conner, proved less appreciative.

Will you be back by Monday? he had asked.

Standing in the hallway, he was leaning up against the wall, arms crossed, irritation clearly written upon his face. He was wearing his usual Saturday morning attire, blue track pants, sandals with white socks, and a Nike T-shirt. He worked as a computer software engineer for a design firm in the city, and from Monday to Friday he would be wearing a suit. On weekends he sported more casual dress, though Harriet thought that the sandals and socks combination stretched the definition of casual a little far. She had long given up that argument when they had been married, and now that they were divorced she gave his feet only the briefest glance. He hadn’t listened to her then about the damn socks, and he wasn’t about to now.

He was a good-looking man, with a strong square chin and closely cropped brown hair that had just begun to gray at the sides.

Tough to say, she said, this is more of a favor to Bill, but it sounds—

This was always the problem with you, Harriet, he broke in. You give more attention to your job than your family.

It was a familiar argument, and one she was not about to have with Conner in the house.

Could we not do this right now? she said quietly.

He fixed her with a cold stare, and she wondered how they could have grown so far apart.

It’s always another time with you. Now I have to adjust my schedule. You’re not the only one who works, you know, he said. She bit back her anger and kept her voice low.