I waited while Pete Kelsey sorted through the accumulated debris on the rider’s seat, which included several sets of blueprints, a series of empty coffee cups, and a massive old-fashioned satchel that evidently functioned as a briefcase. All this he tossed carelessly onto the floor behind the front seat. The backseat had been folded flat, and the entire rear of the car was occupied, from side to side and back to front, by an enormous old-fashioned, claw-footed tub.
“Sorry about the mess,” Pete apologized. “I picked the tub up from the refinishing company Saturday afternoon and was supposed to drop it off at a remodeling job today, but with the weather and now this…” His voice trailed off.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The four-wheel-drive Eagle may have looked ungainly, but properly equipped with snow tires, the station wagon was as agile and surefooted as a mountain goat, and Pete Kelsey was a capable driver. He knew the streets of the city well enough that we got to Harborview Hospital a good two minutes before Detective Kramer did.
While we waited for Kramer to arrive, I sat there knowing what was to come and dreading it. You can’t be human and not feel some empathy for the people whose broken loved ones lie on cold, hard slabs in morgues waiting for someone to come identify them. Often the survivors’ shattered hopes and dreams lie there dead as well.
Leading Charlotte Chambers through the process had been bad enough. Fortunately for her, the bloody wound on her husband’s chest had been mercifully concealed, hidden from view beneath the antiseptic covering of the body sheet. With Pete Kelsey it would be different. There was no way to conceal Marcia’s ugly head wound. It would be fully visible. My heart went out to her husband. So far, he was bearing up pretty well, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, allow him to walk unprepared into the medical examiner’s office. I felt a moral obligation to give him some advance warning about what was coming.
“Have you ever seen a gunshot victim?” I asked.
It was a moment before he replied. “Yes,” he answered dully without elaborating as to where or when. “I have.”
“So you know what to expect?”
He nodded grimly.
“It’ll probably be pretty rough, Mr. Kelsey. The bullet went in through her chin and came out the back of her head.”
“Oh.”
The single word wrenched out of him as an involuntary groan. Pete’s fingers closed around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, but he kept himself under control.
“I’ll be all right,” he said at last, loosening his fingers from the steering wheel and unclenching his stiffened jaw. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Frigid air had crept into the car. We were both getting cold. I led him inside, and Kramer caught up with us in the reception area. The three of us walked into the morgue together. When the attendant pulled out the body and removed the sheet, Pete Kelsey took one quick look, then turned away and dashed for the door, his face ashen, his throat working convulsively.
I found him standing outside the building, gulping in deep, shuddering breaths of the icy air.
“Couldn’t they have done something to clean her up?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Not until after the autopsy,” I explained. “It’s a matter of preserving evidence.”
He shook his head miserably. “Her hair,” he murmured in a voice choking with raw emotion. “I can’t believe her hair. Marcia was always so vain about it. She loved being a blonde, a real, natural blonde. When the gray crept up on her a few years ago, she hated it and started dipping in the dye.”
Suddenly, thinking about his wife’s once beautiful hair proved to be too much. There was no way for him to reconcile the memories of what Marcia Kelsey had once been with the terrible ruin in the morgue behind us. Kelsey plummeted over the edge of control. Leaning against the building, he stood with his face averted from me, sobbing uncontrollably.
I couldn’t help him. No one could have. That kind of wild grief is beyond the reach of comfort. I waited until the worst of the tears had spent themselves.
Finally he straightened up and squared his shoulders. “I’m all right now,” he said shakily. “What happens next?”
“We’ll need to ask you some questions. It’s cold out here, Mr. Kelsey. Let’s go back inside.” The frigid air sliced through my clothing, chilling me to the bone, but I don’t believe Kelsey even noticed. I pulled open the door and made as if to lead him back inside.
“No,” he said, jerking his arm out of my grasp. “I don’t want to go back in there. I can’t.”
“But we must ask you some questions,” I insisted. “We need to get as much information from you as we possibly can. We’ll need you to tell us everything you remember about your wife’s activities during the last few days.”
“Yes, of course,” he answered reasonably. “I understand all that, but just not in there, okay? Can’t we go to my house? It’s not far from here.”
I didn’t tell him that Detective Kramer and I had been to his house once already that morning. “Just let me tell my partner,” I said. “He can meet us there. Would you like me to drive?”
“No,” he said. “I’m okay now. Really.”
Once back in the cars, Kelsey and I led the way in the Eagle, with Kramer following behind. When we turned onto Boston, we found the lower street almost totally blocked with haphazardly parked vehicles. The collection included minivans and cars bearing radio station and newspaper logos. There was also a small knot of people milling disjointedly around on the snowy street carrying video cameras and handheld recording equipment.
Pete Kelsey’s eyes narrowed when he saw them, but he said nothing. Without being told, he knew at once who they were and what they wanted. Moving steadily through the vehicles and people, he turned up Everett, going the wrong way up what was ostensibly a one-way street. A smaller group of people stood in the street at the corner of Crockett and Everett. Grudgingly they moved aside as we came up behind them.
While we were still a good half block away, he dropped the sun visor and punched the button on a garage door opener. By the time we reached the two-car garage, the door was already open. We pulled into it before the media ambushers realized who he was or what he was doing. Kramer parked in the street and dashed into the garage just as the door started back down. The startled welcoming committee was left stranded on the other side.
It was a neat maneuver on Pete Kelsey’s part. Despite the tragic circumstances, it almost made me smile. In the long-term continuing warfare between J.P. Beaumont and the media, Pete Kelsey’s garage-door-opening Genie had just won a round.
As I climbed out of the car, I glanced around the garage, expecting to see the usual suburban garage clutter, but I was disappointed. In my experience, most people’s garages are similar to those old-fashioned rolltop desks whose lids can easily conceal months and years of accumulated junk and disorder. Pete Kelsey’s garage was not like most people’s. It was, in fact, disgustingly neat and well organized.
Not only was it totally free of garage-type clutter, it was also a whole lot bigger than I expected. Two thirds of the way down the wall, there was a dividing line between new and old concrete that showed where the side of the hill had been carved away, making the garage deeper by half a car length. A set of ancient yellow kitchen cabinets with all doors removed had been installed in the newly created area. Arranged neatly on the open shelves was an enviable collection of tools and tool chests.
As Pete Kelsey got out of the car, he paused long enough to extricate a red toolbox and the several sets of blueprints from the back of the Eagle. On his way toward the door that led into the house, he slipped the chest onto one of the shelves, where it fit perfectly into a gap between two others. He shoved the rolls of blueprints into a series of open blueprint-sized openings-slots that had been built into the cabinets where drawers had once been.