Trial by Fury (9780061754715) Read Free Page A

hesitated.
    â€œIt could be important,” I urged. “Something may have happened to the driver.”
    He glanced from me to the window of the office over my shoulder. “Okay by me,” he said.
    He opened the front car door, reached in, and unlocked the back. Using a pen rather than a finger, and careful to touch only the smallest corner of the name tag, I flipped it over. The name Darwin Ridley was written in heavy felt-tipped pen along with an address and telephone number in Seattle’s south end.
    I read them to Peters, who jotted them down. Nothing in the car appeared to have been disturbed.
    â€œThanks,” I said to the Lincoln Towing guy and backed out of the car.
    â€œNo problem,” he said, then hurried away.
    Peters scowled at the name and address. “So what now? Motor Vehicles?”
    I nodded. “And check Missing Persons.”
    Peters shook his head. “I still think you’re way out in left field. Dead men don’t drive. Remember? Why would the car turn up in the same parking place as the corpse? It doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œThe car’s been here since Saturday morning. Nobody’s come to claim it. Something may have happened to the owner, even if it isn’t our victim.”
    â€œAll right, all right. No use arguing.”
    â€œBesides,” I said, “you’ve got nothing better to do this afternoon.”
    We returned to Lincoln Towing’s office and dropped off a card, asking the clerk to please notify us if anyone came to pick up the Buick. Then we headed for the Public Safety Building, where Peters went to check with Missing Persons while I dialed the S.P.D. communications center for a registration check from the Department of Motor Vehicles. I also put through an inquiry to the Department of Licensing on a driver’s license issued to Darwin Ridley.
    I’ve reluctantly come to appreciate the value of computers in police work. By the time Peters finished with Missing Persons, I knew via computer link that the Buick was registered to Darwin T. Ridley and his wife Joanna. The address on the name tag and the address on the vehicle registration were the same.
    Peters, shaking his head, came to sit on the edge of my desk, his arms folded obstinately across his chest. “Missing Persons’s got nothing. What a surprise!”
    Margie, our clerk, appeared from nowhere. “Did you guys pick up your messages?”
    She had us dead to rights. We shook our heads in silent, sheepish unison. “So what else is new? The medical examiner’s office called and said they’ve finished the autopsy. You cango by and pick up preliminary results if you want.”
    â€œOr even if we don’t want, right?” Peters asked.
    â€œRight,” she answered.
    We headed out for the medical examiner’s office. It’s located at the base of Harborview Medical Center, one of several medical facilities in the neighborhood that have caused Seattle locals to unofficially revise First Hill’s name to Pill Hill.
    Doc Baker’s receptionist led us into his office. As usual, we found him tossing paper clips into his battered vase. He paused long enough to push a file across his desk.
    Peters picked it up and thumbed through it. “Death by hanging?”
    Baker nodded. “Rope burns around his wrists and ankles. I’d say somebody hog-tied that poor son of a bitch and lynched him. Hanged by the neck until dead.”
    â€œYou make it sound like an execution.”
    Baker tossed another paper clip into the vase. “It was, with someone other than the state of Washington doing the job—judge, jury, and executioner.”
    â€œTime of death?”
    â€œTwo o’clock Saturday morning, give or take.”
    â€œAny identifying marks?”
    He sent another paper clip flying. This onebounced off the side of the vase and fell to the floor. “Shit!” Baker bent over to retrieve it. “Not