I don’t remember coming to this particular part of town before. But this is in Port Townsend, my town, not two miles from my place. The house is nice, in a nice area, with a good view of the bay and the forest behind, but it’s a step down from the last place I saw Monique.
I’m unsure if we were friends or what. What I know is that we were bound together by murder.
Her daughter, Leanne Delmont, was sixteen when, along with my mother, she became one of my biological dad’s victims. My bio-dad is, or was, Alex Rader, policeman by trade, serial killer by choice. Leanne died helping my mom escape from that psychotic bastard.
When I first met Monique, I pretended to be a reporter writing an article about how murder affects families.
I lied to Monique about who I was and what I was doing, but she finally figured it out. When I really needed help, she was there for me. She helped me get into Portland State University even though I hadn’t graduated high school. She helped me with money and paid for a place to stay. I trusted her. But in truth I put her in danger by doing so. Now the danger has come back with a vengeance.
She should be at home in Tacoma. Why did she come here? My stomach sinks. This is my fault. I can feel it.
Sheriff Gray sees me pull over and comes down the steps and across the yard. The look on his face is grave. This is going to be very bad.
“Megan,” he says, putting his hand on my arm. I don’t like to be touched, but I allow it from him. He’s probably my best friend. He knows things about my past that no one else does. Not everything, but most.
“Did Ronnie give you the victim’s name?”
He can’t know I have a connection with the victim. If it is her. But he knows something because he’s watching me closely for a reaction. I nod and wait for him to say more.
“You don’t have to work this one,” he says. “I can assign it to another detective. In fact, I probably should. But I think you should see something in either case.” Sheriff Gray takes out his phone and pulls up a picture.
I brace myself, thinking there will be pictures of the body and it will be her. Stabbed or shot. Hanged or having died some other horrible death. But what he shows me is only a digital picture of a photograph. The image is not very good, so I know Tony has taken it. He still hasn’t embraced tech. But it’s good enough that I can see it’s a snapshot of me coming out of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office and walking toward my car. The picture looks like it was taken recently. That’s a guess because I don’t have a wide variety of clothes. But I do recognize the look. It isn’t anger. It’s pain. I was shot twice in the chest while wearing body armor. I’m still bruised and have some trouble breathing or moving at times. Right now is one of those movements. My breath catches in my throat.
“What’s this about?” he asks.
Good question. And I don’t have a clue. “How long has the victim been?…”
“Larsen thinks maybe two days.”
“That would make it Saturday.”
Tony puts the phone back in his pocket. “Hard to say for sure. The heat was cranked all the way up. It’s like a furnace in there.”
I see the sweat stains under his arms and around his collar. He looks like he needs to sit with an ice pack. He’s waiting for an answer but I have the right to remain silent and I use it.
“Megan?” The look he gives me brooks no argument.
I don’t mean to, but I do the one thing that shows I’m about to lie. I look away before I speak. “I really don’t have a clue, Tony.”
His mouth sets in that way it does when he is struggling with something.
“Sorry, Sheriff. I don’t know what’s going on.” This sounds sincere. And this is partially true. I recover enough to think before I speak, but before I can tell another lie, he takes a small plastic evidence baggie from his back pocket. He holds it out but I don’t take it. Inside is a laminated photo that I instantly recognize as my South Kitsap High School yearbook picture. I was sixteen when it was taken. It is the same photo that was in the Port Orchard paper when I was on the run. The headline was about my murdered stepfather, my missing mother, my missing brother and myself. I was wanted by the police as a suspect. There is no name under the picture. No caption of any kind. Not even where the photo is from. I breathe easier, but I’m still on edge.
“Look, Megan, I got here first and found this and the other picture in the bedroom. I took a photo of one and I bagged this one before anyone else got here. No one has seen it but the two of us.”
I avoid his eyes and deflect. “How did you get the run here?”
He knows I’m stalling but he plays along. He can see that I’m upset. He knows me too well.
“A neighbor walking her dog smelled something bad. She called the police and I was close. I got out of the car and I knew that smell.”
I knew that smell too. I haven’t seen many rotted bodies but one is enough to lock the acrid odor in your memory.
“The front door was unlocked. I went in and found the body—and the pictures—and called for Crime Scene and Coroner. I called for Mindy Newsom too.”
Mindy is a contract forensic scientist, and she’s been my friend since I arrived in Port Townsend. She had just graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in forensic science and was new to the Sheriff’s Department when I was new. Sheriff Gray even converted an old conference room into a lab for her. She was certified by the state as a criminalist and then the job became part time. Jefferson County didn’t seem to need her skills on a regular basis. She left, got married and had a baby. While she was on family leave she opened a flower shop downtown.
“Where were the pictures?” I ask. I hope it sounds like I don’t really care, but my voice is shaky.
“Before I tell you anything else, you have to be honest with me.”
“I will be. I mean, I am.”
I’m lying.
“Do you know Monique Delmont?”
“How do you know it’s her? Did you find identification? Has someone identified her?”
Tony is the sheriff but he was once an excellent detective. I’m sure if he says it’s Monique, it’s her. The pictures speak for themselves. I know they connect me to her.
“Megan? Do you know her or not?”
I look him in the eye and tell part of the truth.
“I know a woman named Monique Delmont from over in the Seattle-Tacoma area. I met her a few times while I was in college. I was friends with a girl that was friends with her daughter.” My story is complete bullshit because her daughter had been dead for many years before I tried to find out who killed her. That was how and why I met Monique.
“I don’t know if this is the same person, but if it is, I have no idea why she would have a picture of me coming from the office.” I don’t say anything about the laminated one. I don’t have to. “I could maybe identify her, but it’s been a while.”
“You won’t be able to identify what’s in there,” he says, and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Crime scene has her purse and her driver’s license. The address on the license is in Tacoma. Just like you said. Now tell me. Do you know this woman? Don’t try me, Megan.”
I don’t speak.