Part 25 (1/2)
Without so much as a backward glance for Spence and me, Milo led the way out of the reception area.
Spence looked as puzzled as I felt. ”What did they do, beat up on Eriks?” he asked.
”Not likely,” I said. ”You know Milo and his merry men well enough to realize they don't strong-arm anybody. Maybe it's not Wayne. Cookie might have collapsed.”
”Cookie?” Spence frowned. ”Eriks's wife is here?”
I nodded. ”She came with him. Maybe Wayne put up a fuss. Maybe he had some kind of accident.” I gazed at the empty corridor that led to the interrogation and holding areas as well as the jail cells. ”d.a.m.n. This is more frustrating than I expected. Stalling, yes. Doc Dewey showing up, no. It'd make more sense if Tiffany was here, but she's at home.”
Briefly, Spence looked blank. ”Oh.” He fingered his beaklike nose. ”That's right, she's pregnant.” He was quiet for a moment. ”Car chase? Wayne, eluding arrest and hitting one of his own PUD poles?”
”That would have been on the scanner.”
”True.” Spence studied the area around the reception desk. ”Let's check the log. It's public property.”
The log showed only three items for Sunday so far. The first had occurred at 2:17 A.M.; the second at 3:40 A.M. Both were traffic violations-one for speeding, the other for running an arterial stop sign on Alpine Way. The third and last entry, written in Dustin's perfect penmans.h.i.+p, was the arrest of Wayne Eriks on suspicion of homicide and arson.
”I wondered if they'd charged him with the fire,” Spence said. ”I can mention that in my next bulletin.”
”But nothing logged about resisting arrest,” I noted.
Dustin returned with a half-dozen cups of coffee in a cardboard container. ”Anybody?” he inquired.
Spence declined, but I accepted, adding a packet of raw sugar to my cup. The deputy headed toward the interrogation room.
Spence watched Dustin disappear down the corridor. ”How can we lure Mrs. Eriks out here?”
”Yell 'fire'?” I said facetiously.
Spence's expression was ironic. ”You newspaper types really are callous.”
Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. I stirred my coffee and sipped slowly. When Dustin returned, Spence leaned on the counter. ”Is there any way we could talk to Cookie Eriks?” he asked the deputy.
Dustin considered the request. ”I don't think that's appropriate, sir.”
Dustin was probably right. But that didn't mean it was impossible to see Cookie. ”Is Doe here?” I asked.
Dustin shook his head. ”She had the night s.h.i.+ft. Sheriff Dodge didn't think it'd be right to ask her to pull extra weekend duty.”
”You mean,” I said, looking as severe as I could manage, given my liking for Dustin, ”that poor Cookie is all alone while her husband's being interrogated? Or is there another deputy with her?”
”Emma . . .” Spence began in a warning voice.
But I kept talking. ”Cookie's not charged with anything. She's got a pregnant daughter at home, she already lost a son years ago, her husband's been accused of killing her son-in-law. If n.o.body else is available, I'm going to sit with her. We'll go into the women's restroom where it's private.”
I heard Spence swear under his breath. I'd trumped him. Dustin uttered only the most feeble of protests as I circ.u.mvented him and headed down the corridor.
I found Cookie Eriks sitting in the small room reserved for inmates' visitors. She had her head down and appeared to be asleep, but jumped when I came through the door.
”Oh! Emma! What's happening?”
”I don't know as much as you do,” I said, sitting down on the hard wooden chair next to her. ”Can I get you something?”
Cookie shook her head. ”Dustin Fong brought some coffee a few minutes ago, but I didn't want it.”
I gazed around the stark room. Prisoners were seldom kept very long in the local jail. There were only a half-dozen cells, and the usual occupants were drunks or drug addicts who needed time to sober up. More serious criminals were s.h.i.+pped off to Everett or the correctional facility in Monroe. Thus, the visiting room was rarely used. Under close surveillance, visitors were allowed to talk face-to-face with the inmates. The room contained six chairs, a table, a magazine rack attached to the wall, and-just to make sure everybody knew where they were-a map of Skykomish County covered in heavy plastic wrap. There were no windows, only one-way gla.s.s on the outer corridor. The room smelled stale and felt oppressively stuffy. The women's room had to be an improvement.
I made the suggestion to go there, but Cookie rejected the idea. ”I'm not budging until I find out what's going on with Wayne.”
”I understand,” I said, searching for tactful words. ”So why do you think Dodge arrested him?”
Cookie twisted her fingers together. The plain gold wedding band looked dull under the fluorescent ceiling lights. ”I'm not sure. Dodge showed up this morning. He'd been at the house yesterday, but . . . Wayne wasn't home.” She paused, not looking me in the eye. ”I tried to tell him-the sheriff-that Wayne was in the shower and that Tiffany was still asleep. Dodge insisted on coming in. Well, he is a neighbor, and I didn't know what to do. Anyway, before I could let Wayne know the sheriff was in the house, he-Wayne-oh, dear, I'm so rattled!” She stopped and shoved a lank strand of hair off her forehead. ”Wayne came upstairs from the bathroom in his underwear. That's when Dodge saw the burns on his-Wayne's-arms.”
”Burns?” I suddenly recalled that every time I'd seen Wayne in the past week he'd been wearing a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt despite the hot weather. ”How did he get burned?”
”On the job.” Cookie's jaw jutted, though she still avoided my gaze. ”Live wires. It happens sometimes.”
My brain did some mental gymnastics. Cookie could be telling the truth-or merely relaying the version Wayne had given her. But if her husband had gotten those burns when he started the fire to cover the murder, he might not have wanted to seek medical help. Perhaps the blisters had festered. That would explain Doc Dewey's presence at the sheriff's office. Milo was duty-bound to make sure that any suspect requiring medical treatment got it at county expense.
”I a.s.sume,” I said casually, ”that Wayne had reported his on-the-job accident to the PUD.”
Cookie sighed. ”He gets banged up every now and then. His work's dangerous. He started out as a logger, you know. I thought he'd be much safer when he started with the PUD. But things happen. And Wayne is too macho to tell the bosses about every little sc.r.a.pe or bruise. He doesn't want anybody to think he's a whiner.”
”Well,” I said, not entirely convinced, ”I certainly can't imagine why Wayne would want to harm Tim. I understand they had dinner together about a week ago.”
”They did.” Cookie darted a glance at me, but didn't elaborate.
”So they must have gotten along,” I remarked. ”There doesn't seem to be any motive. It doesn't make sense.”
As I'd hoped, the provocative comment evoked a reaction. ”What evidence? Dodge didn't search our house. He just called Bill Blatt and told him to come on over. The next thing I knew, Wayne was being hauled off to jail. I followed them in my car.” She began to twist her fingers again. ”I don't know what to do. Thank goodness Mrs. Runkel happened to come by. I hated leaving Tiffany alone.” Finally, she met my gaze head-on. ”Should I call a lawyer?”
”I honestly don't know, Cookie,” I admitted. ”Sometimes that isn't a good idea. I mean, if Wayne can get this cleared up with the sheriff, he may not need one. Milo's fair.”
”He's wrong,” Cookie declared. ”Why are men so aggravating?”
The rhetorical question didn't quite seem to jibe. ”You mean the sheriff or men in general?”
”I don't know what I mean.” Cookie's jaw jutted again. ”I just want to get Wayne out of here and go home.”
The door opened and Bill Blatt appeared. For the first time, I noticed that his boyish face had begun to age. Or maybe the strain of the weeklong investigation had gotten to him.
He nodded at me before speaking to Cookie. ”I'm afraid we're going to have to hold your husband overnight. We can't formally charge him on a Sunday because the courthouse is closed. I'm sorry. Can I do anything for you?”
”Can I see Wayne?”
Bill nodded. ”Of course.” He gave me an apologetic look. ”You'll have to wait out front, Ms. Lord.”