“The motel is secure. How long will it take you to get here?”
Peter was heading south past Green Lake. “Ten minutes, maybe less. You talk to your boss about me? About my security concerns, and access to the investigation?”
“I did.”
Peter frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Just come in, we’ll talk.”
“Durant. You did hear me before.”
“I heard you, Mr. Ash. It’s complicated. Just get here, okay? Ask for Detective Kitzinger. The scene officer will send you back.”
—
The motel parking lot had been transformed with pole lights and crime scene tape and multiple forensics vans and fifteen or twenty police vehicles in the lot and along the street. When you included the dead killer, it was a triple homicide.
Traffic was down to a single lane. Peter tried to turn in at the motel entrance, but it was blocked by a patrolman in a slicker with a flashlight. Peter stopped and lowered his window. The rain had let up and the air smelled fresh and damp. The cop came over, shone the light in Peter’s face, then did the same to the girl, who put up a hand to shield her eyes. “Sir, this is a crime scene, you’ll have to move on.”
“Detective Kitzinger is expecting us.” Peter gave his name.
“One minute.” The young cop stepped back, spoke into his shoulder mike, listened, and returned. “She’ll meet you in the motel office, sir. You can pull into the entrance just ahead of me.”
Peter maneuvered past the cruiser and reversed into the lot, getting as close as he could while still making sure the truck faced away from the dead. Now came the tricky part. He turned to the girl. Her face was shiny and tight. She looked like she was five years old.
“This will be hard,” he said. “We’ll have to talk about what happened. They’re going to ask a lot of questions.”
She seemed small and alone. “But you’ll be there, right?”
“The whole time.”
They found Detectives Kitzinger and O’Donnell in the lobby.O’Donnell was a thickset, Irish-looking guy in a blue waxed cotton ballcap and jacket whose round and cheerful face meant that he would always have the role of good cop. Kitzinger, in contrast, was thin and taut as a barbed-wire fence, her narrow mahogany face fixed in a mix of skepticism and suppressed outrage.
They were talking to a uniformed sergeant and Captain Durant, who still wore his black cowboy hat and raincoat. He looked drawn and grim. The room no longer smelled like fresh paint. It smelled like wet, angry cops. People had been killed, and good police took that personally. The fact that they’d left KT and Ellie without protection only made it worse.
Kitzinger softened slightly when she saw Ellie and walked over to greet her. “I’m so sorry about your mom. Are you up to talking about what happened?” She tipped her head toward the office behind the reception desk. “Let’s go back there, get a little privacy.”
Ellie glanced at Peter. “Um. Can he come, too?”
Normally, Peter knew, a parent or guardian would be present during the questioning of a minor child. At the moment, with Ellie’s mother recently murdered and her father out of the picture, Peter was the closest thing she had to a guardian, legal or otherwise. Ideally, the SPD would bring in a detective experienced at interviewing distraught juveniles, and a mental health professional to help minimize the damage. But this was the real world, with its after-hours crime scenes and limited budgets. And the damage was already about as bad as it could be.
Kitzinger’s eyes were fixed on Ellie’s face. “Of course,” she said. Despite her attempt at softening, she still radiated an intensity that was almost palpable. She’d been the same when she interviewed them after Reed tried to kill them. She was invested. Peter liked that.
Kitzinger led the way to the office. O’Donnell waited until they’d passed and followed behind, with Durant last. The room was small.The white static didn’t like it, or Durant blocking the doorway with his bulk, but there was nothing to be done but take a deep breath. They sat in uncomfortable chairs around a small table and Kitzinger walked Ellie through what had happened, asking clear, concise questions. Ellie’s voice was thin and remote. Kitzinger recorded the conversation on her phone and O’Donnell took notes.
When Ellie was done, Kitzinger turned to Peter, this time moving back and forth in the narrative, missing nothing. She was very good at this, Peter thought. He made sure to emphasize what he’d said earlier, that the killer had a suppressor on his pistol and some kind of tactical training, which put him in a different category than Geoffrey Reed. Captain Durant was silent.
Finally Kitzinger leaned back in her chair and glanced at Durant, who nodded. “Okay,” she said. “The security footage confirms most of what you’re telling us. After the uniform got called out to a bar fight in the U District, the Toyota rolled into the lot. The pizza delivery guy was right behind him. The shooter left his truck, had a quick conversation with the pizza guy getting out of his car, then pulled his gun. We assume he was improvising, but he seemed to have had some practice. He didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t waste a shot. His hat shielded his face from the cameras, and he didn’t look up to see where they might be. If you hadn’t killed him, we’d have almost nothing.”
“Do you have a name?”
Kitzinger said, “We can’t release that yet.”
“The man tried to kill us.” He tipped his head at Ellie. “He killed her mother. We have the right to know his name.”
Kitzinger looked at Durant. He nodded sourly. She said, “Scott Enderby. He lived in Magnolia, about two miles from Ms. Thorsen.”
At the mention of her mother’s name, Ellie made a small noise.
