Victim Six. Gregg Olsen
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“This may not be the son you’ve dreamed of,” Kendall said on the way home from one of their first consultations with an autism specialist. “But in time you’ll see. He will be the boy of your dreams.”
Steven put on his game face. “I’m sure you’re right, babe.”
“God gave us a special son because we’re the right parents for him.”
“I know,” he said, his tone more rueful than he’d wanted.
Later, when she played back the conversation, she wondered who had said what.
Kendall Stark knew no speeches could change what Lori Bertram was about to tell her. She knew that the second-grade teacher cared for her little boy. She’d said so many, many times. She’d arranged for special testing, more hours from the support staff than were required to help him stay in the same class as the kids he’d known since preschool.
“Kendall,” the teacher she said, lowering her glasses to view a printout, “I’m sorry to report that things aren’t working out for Cody here at South Colby as we’d all hoped.”
The words were not a surprise. Ms. Bertram had sent several missives home, as had the special education teacher, Ms. Dawson. All seemed to agree that Cody was not a candidate for mainstreaming.
“Cody’s needs and challenges are too great for a standard classroom,” she said.
As a detective, Kendall knew the kinds of questions to ask in order to get the kind of result she wanted. But not now. She was powerless.
“I can get him more help,” Kendall said. “Another specialist.”
The teacher looked away. The moment was awkward. “Look, you already have. You have done an exemplary job, and I know whatever avenue you choose to pursue will be the right one. But the truth is, having him in the classroom is too disruptive to the education process.”
Kendall thought about fighting back. She wanted to tell the teacher that what was best for Cody was that he’d stay with the other children. But she held her tongue. There had been enough warning that this was coming.
“I’ve told Inverness about Cody,” Ms. Bertram went on. “They might have room for him in the fall.”
“I see,” was all Kendall could come up with. The teacher’s words were meant to offer hope, but they stung.
The Inverness School was in Bremerton. Reviews on the institution were mixed. Some kids were boarded there, which Kendall considered no better than warehousing the disabled. The school itself earned decent marks from educational advocates for the disabled. It was probably the best place for Cody in Kitsap County.
The only place.
“Can I see him before I leave?” Kendall asked.
Ms. Bertram nodded. “He’s in music now. Follow me.”
The two women walked down a polished-aggregate corridor to a small classroom filled with the sound of children singing “Baby Beluga.” Only one little boy remained silent, the flicker of recognition that something was going on around him barely discernible. Yet, like a flipped switch, when he saw his mother, he rushed over, nearly knocking down a little girl.
“Mama!”
She scooped him up and gave him a loving embrace, kissing the top of his beautiful blond head.
“I was here to see your teacher,” she told him.
She gave him another peck on his forehead and told him she’d see him at home after school.
“I love you!” the boy said.
Cody was a child who didn’t say much. Unsurprisingly, the words he did utter went straight to his mother’s soul.
“I love you, Cody.”
Her gun secure in her holster, Kendall returned to her car feeling the heaviness of her son’s complicated future on her shoulders. Steven was at home, asleep—his routine on the day back from a three-day trip to a sportsmen’s show in Louisville. She could feel the tears start to come, but she willed them to stop. The tears were for Cody.
Inside, she knew that Cody’s heart would be broken when he found out that he’d have to leave the children that he’d known until now. Kendall recognized that he had some understanding that he was different than his friends, Adam and Tristan. She saw his frustration when he tried to play a video game. He saw how the others could read. He saw that the monkey bars at school were for those with the dexterity to hold on tight and swing. Kendall and Steven had vowed they’d raise their son with the advantages of knowing that, while he was indeed different than others, his future was full of promise. They knew there might someday be a day of reckoning.
Which just came in the form of the conference with Ms. Bertram.
Kendall turned on her cell and noticed that there’d been a call from Josh Anderson, one of the nine others who carried a gold Kitsap County sheriff’s detective star.
“Kendall, the lieutenant wants us to work a missing brush picker’s case. Don’t ask me why. She probably ran back to wherever the hell she came from. Celesta Delgado’s the name. Hope things went well with Cody’s teacher. Get your ass in here so we can get to work.”
In the room made just for her misery, Celesta Delgado woke once more. By then she’d figured out that she was not in a car trunk, as she first had imagined. There would be no way she could fiddle with the emergency latch as she’d seen a young woman do on the Today show when she reenacted her own escape from a would-be rapist.
Or a killer.
Her eyes traced a pinprick of light that bored through the wall, which was weeping with condensation.
Celesta wriggled some more, panting, pushing, trying to break the tape that kept her strong body constricted. She did not want to be raped. She wanted to get the hell out of there. She twisted with all of her strength and somehow rolled herself on her side, her hands still behind her back. She wanted to scream from the pain emanating from her shoulders, but it wouldn’t matter.
Her mouth was bound too.
Again she followed the light. She could see better now, both eyes in play.
If only she could shout. At no time in her life did she ever think she would die like this. Die—yes, die. No rape. No way out.
Tears rolled down her sticky cheeks. Celesta needed to pull herself up and get out of there.
The door swung open, and a blast of light came at her all at once. A shadowy figure moved toward where she’d pinned herself against the wall, screw tips clawing at her back. She pushed away from him as he moved forward.
Yet, there was nowhere to go.
“Please, God,” she said. “Can’t you hear me?”
Chapter Three
March 30, 11 a.m.
Port Orchard
All the offices that dispense and manage justice for Kitsap County hunker on a hillside in Port Orchard overlooking Sinclair Inlet, a blue-gray swath of Puget Sound that breathes in and out with the tide like the last warbling spasms of an emphysema patient. The current runs mostly on the surface, leaving a deep layer of muddy oil from the naval shipyard that occupies the north side of the inlet. At night the shipyard twinkles like a kid’s dream of a military holiday: tiny white lights on aircraft carriers and naval tugs. Contiguous with the courthouse and jail, the Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office was an office-space planner’s version of hell. Outside, the building was a jumble of concrete, glass, bricks, and the occasional spray of ivy. It appeared ordered and well maintained. Inside, however, past a lobby decorated with a sheriff’s star fashioned from dozens of silver CDs (“The same artist did one of a fish for Fish and Wildlife, and it looks even better. The CDs look like fish scales!” was a receptionist’s