In the Still of the Night Read Free

verdict, but it might be moot; if he didn't agree with them, Judge Hicks still held the option to overrule their decision.
    Attorneys, police officers, and even coroners from other counties observed the action in this starkly modern, windowless courtroom with its original rock-hard oak benches. If they scrunched together, as many as 180 spectators could fit onto those benches. Whatever the verdict would be about Coroner Wilson's responsibility in this still-unsolved death, this was a landmark case. Newspapers and television reporters disseminated the testimony from Seattle to Portland each day.
    I had followed the violent and mystifying death of Ronda Reynolds since it occurred, and was as curious as everyone else. Naturally, I was anxious to hear the witnesses' testimony, consider the circumstantial evidence--which was rumored to be weighted heavily against suicide--and see what physical evidence might be accepted by the Court. Several copies of a shiny white binder about six inches thick that appeared to be a collection of police reports, statements, and photos spurred curiosity in the gallery and the media. One copy sat on the plaintiff's table, and another on the defense's.
    What was in it? I wondered. If Judge Hicks should accept the material in that binder into evidence, I would find out. I wanted to read each page.
    Yet whatever results would emanate from this hearing, they wouldn't change my mind about writing a book aboutRonda's death. There were almost as many sides to this story as colored glass splinters in a kaleidoscope. I didn't know if I would be writing about a brutal crime, a pitiful suicide, or something else. I knew only that sometimes everything has to be told, no matter how embarrassing or distasteful the truth may be. There is never real closure for those who lose someone they love to violence, or for those who have had the white light of suspicion focused on them for decades.
    So attention must be paid.
    I know my readers, and I know that most of them are well-read and often sharp amateur sleuths. In the death of Ronda Reynolds, they may make the final decision on guilt or innocence. For almost twelve years, I have tried to work my way through the tangled mass of statements and leads.
    In the end, I hope to present all sides of this haunting case, even though I suspected early on that there would be some principal players who might not talk to me at all.
    As it happened, I was right.

    E VEN THOSE WHO VIEW
a glass as half full have moments when they wonder if their lives are too perfect to last. For some, the warm, wafting breezes of spring, redolent with the fragrance of flowers, are difficult; there is too much nostalgia to deal with. For others, a new love can bring with it a fear of losing something more precious than they ever could have imagined. Similarly, holidays are times fraught with tension for many people.
    Everyone hopes for a warm and loving gathering of family and friends, doors locked against the outside world once everyone arrives. And yet there is an almost subliminal fear that someone we love could be in an accident on theway to Grandmother's house or wherever the celebration is to be held.
    At Thanksgiving and Christmas, weather conditions can be icy and stormy, making roads dangerous to traverse and weighing down the wings of planes.
    We worry, usually silently, and watch the clock until our roll call is complete. To lose someone on a holiday means that every anniversary that comes after will be marked by sorrowful remembrance.
    I suspect that mothers agonize the most. Even when our children are grown, we would much prefer them to be safe beneath our wings, and sometimes we long for the days when we could tuck them into cribs and know that we were there to protect them from any harm.
    Barb Thompson was like that, even though she seldom betrayed her concern. She wanted her two children to grow up, realize their dreams, and fly free. By the 1990s, she had let go of her babies, as all