Chapter 4

A warm sunny morning greeted the throng of Bremerton commuters waiting to board the ferry MV Sealth, bound for Seattle. Petty Officer Pearce made her way to the ferry’s passenger deck. She recalled Fay telling her Sealth was Chief Sealth of the local Duwamish tribe, for whom Seattle was named. This was stuck in her mind, whereas most information went in one ear and out the other.

She, like Fay, was a Floridian. After attending a community college for two years, she had joined the Navy. She knew she was not college material, and besides, Pearce had already planned from a young age she would join the Navy, just like her dad. Consequently, she did not put much emphasis on her looks. Her shoulder-length, raven hair and make-up-free face fit the tomboy image she cultivated. This was probably to compensate for a shaky sense of self-confidence regarding a long, jagged scar on her right cheek, resulting from an automobile accident.

Even so, odd as it was, Pearce would have liked her face if it had not been for a mouth she thought much too large. Her tea-brown skin only served to amplify her sky-blue eyes and intensify the whiteness of her teeth to almost embarrassing proportions. Although there was a fair amount of Native American blood coursing through her veins, she often thought she appeared more gypsy-like, which, in her opinion, ruined everything.

A brisk walk of several blocks from the ferry terminal brought Pearce to the Public Safety Building and Frank Farmer’s office. An amiable one-hour conversation with Detective Farmer ensued. After obtaining the coroner’s report, she escaped to enjoy the ambiance of downtown Seattle before she returned.

The Elliot Bay Market on the waterfront, in particular, always attracted her. The aroma of fresh produce, fresh fish, and fresh brewing coffee was akin to an ascent to heaven. She savored the sound of vendors spraying mists of water on fresh produce and hearing the catch-of-the-day tossed onto large beds of ice. Artists, artisans, and musicians all brought this fantasy world to her; hours passed by before she returned to the ferry terminal. Clutching the autopsy report under her arm, Pearce arrived at the JAG offices in the late afternoon.

Fay found the report disturbing. The medical examiner had determined Charma had been assaulted from behind. Charma had died from a single fatal blow from a sizeable sharp instrument, probably a knife. The entry point was on the left side of his neck, where the neck met the shoulder, severing Charma’s larynx and his internal carotid artery. As his heart had continued to pump, blood had filled his lungs via his severed larynx. The cause of death was drowning. There were some gruesome pictures of the wound as well.

A single methodical stroke. A quick and fatal jab administered by someone with skill. This slaughter was a macho thing, Fay thought. Boys play so deadly at these games girls choose not to play. Was Sergeant Linn capable of this? He was certainly strong enough. She was confident he had killed people in the line of duty throughout his military life, but for Sergeant Linn to commit this atrocity was difficult for her to comprehend.

Based on Charma’s size and the location and direction of the wound, the coroner felt his assailant would have been over six feet tall and left-handed. Fay recalled Simon was left-handed.

The report recorded the contents of the victim’s stomach and the condition of other internal organs. No evidence of alcohol or drug abuse was indicated. Artifact notes listed two antemortem lacerations. One was located on the victim’s right leg and one on the victim’s left leg. Each tear was professionally repaired—one as recently as thirty days ago. The coroner had also noted a tattoo on the victim’s right forearm; a photo of the tattoo was included.

Fay slipped the report and the photographs back into the eight-by-eleven manila envelope she had received it in. She printed the words: “CAUTION, CONTAINS GRAPHIC PHOTOGRAPHS, VIEWER DISCRETION WARRANTED” in large letters on the front of the envelope. In passing, she wondered why Simon Linn, a Marine, would have an alliance with Wu and De Vinsone, both Army. She likened the partnership to a dog befriending two cats. The three men’s relationship seemed an unnatural affinity, at best.

****

Ford Clay arrived at 10:45 Monday morning. Clay, a Native American, wore his long, flowing, jet-black hair neatly combed back.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he called to Pearce as he entered the office. His greeting prompted Rayzon to glance up from his work. “How’s my favorite girl?” Clay asked.

“Hey there, handsome,” she called back. Clay’s athletic build and aerodynamic hairstyle made an impression. “It’s so good to see you again. Lieutenant Commander Green is expectin’ you,” she said, ushering him toward Fay’s office.

Sergeant Linn arrived at 11:00. “Mornin’, Master Sergeant,” Pearce greeted him, striking a cheerful tone. “They’re expectin’ you. Y’all can go on in.” She motioned toward the door.

Simon opened Fay’s door slowly.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Fay said. “Miss Pearce, would you come in here, too?” she called through the open doorway. Fay was upbeat and in charge. “Simon Linn, this is Ford Clay.” The two men shook hands, quietly exchanging hellos.

If the two men were trying to size each other up, it was not noticeable. “Ford is an old friend,” Fay said. “He will be able to help you.” She motioned for him to sit next to Ford.

Pearce entered the office with her notepad and quickly sat down.

Fay briefly looked at everyone. “Okay, we are ready. Feel free to begin, Mr. Clay.”

“Sergeant Linn,” Ford Clay said, “I understand, from Lieutenant Commander Green, you have been advised of your rights, both by the SPD and by Miss Green.”

“I have, sir.”

“Have you changed your mind about your willingness to answer our questions?” Clay asked the other man.

“No, sir. I’ve been advised by my CO to cooperate with both you and Lieutenant Commander Green.”

“I’d like to have you recall the events of the evening of Paul Charma’s death,” Ford said. “Give us as much detail as you can.”

Simon drew a deep breath. “Well, sir, I’d made plans to meet two of my associates, Philip De Vinsone and Peter Wu, at Jillian’s Pool Club. I got there about twenty-fifteen. We shot pool, drank beer, and watched a little round-ball and a hockey game on television.” He paused to take a sip from a glass of water Fay poured for him. “Anyway, I was talking to Mr. Charma.”

Ford said, “Please describe the man.”

“He was about five-eight. He had black hair, like yours.” Simon indicated Ford’s straight hair. “I’d say he weighed around one hundred seventy pounds. I believe he was Hispanic.”

“Sounds like Charma,” Fay confirmed.

“Anything else?” Ford asked.

Simon thought for a moment. “The man had a tattoo on his right forearm. That’s what started the friendly argument.”

“Describe the tattoo,” Ford said.

“An eagle perched on an anchor. The eagle held a trident in one claw and a pistol in the other.”

“Is there any significance to the tattoo?” Ford inquired.

“Special warfare insignia, SEAL team,” Pearce volunteered.

Linn nodded in agreement.

“Forgive a civilian,” Ford pleaded. “Can you explain?”

“SEAL is an acronym for Sea, Air, Land team,” Simon said. “The man was a SEAL.”

“Is the tattoo unusual?” Ford asked. “I would imagine a lot of the sailors have tattoos, don’t they?”

“They do,” Pearce offered. “In fact, I’ve got one on my left…” She abruptly stopped talking. “Never mind.”

Fay snickered. She had seen the tattoo Pearce referred to.

Sergeant Linn continued. “I spoke with Mr. Charma for a time. He said he had someone to meet. He left, and I rejoined Wu and De Vinsone. I got tired, so I left.” He paused as if to organize the following sequence of events. “I believe it was between twenty hundred hours and twenty-fifteen. I looked for a cab but didn’t see one, so I double-timed it toward the ferry terminal.”

Ford laughed. “You ran. Right?”

“Yes, sir. I ran until I found a cab. The cab took me the rest of the distance to the ferry terminal.”

“Okay, Sergeant. Let’s back up.” Ford glanced at his watch. “I have a phone call to make. Why don’t we take a five-minute break? Then I want you to tell me about your jog to the ferry.”

“You can use the phone on my desk, Ford,” Pearce offered.

“Thanks. But I’ll use my cell.” He smiled and left the office.

Simon excused himself and left the office as well.

Fay asked Pearce if she had obtained Charma’s service records, but NAVSPECWARCOM (Naval Special Warfare Command) had not sent the documents.

“Have you talked to Admiral Wallace’s office, Miss Pearce?” she asked quietly. 

“They’re claimin’ they don’t have the records,” Pearce whispered.

“That doesn’t surprise me. I suppose you’ve tried to access the file online?”

“Access denied, ma’am.”

“Keep after it,” Fay said.

Simon and Ford returned. The meeting resumed.

“Sergeant Linn, tell us what happened after you left Jillian’s. I want every detail,” Ford instructed.

“I couldn’t find a cab, so I ran to the ferry terminal. I took the most direct route I could,” Simon answered.

“That route included the alley where Paul Charma was found?” Ford asked.

“Yes, sir. I understand I ran through that alley. I don’t recall seeing anything except what I assumed to be two bums lying near a dumpster. At the end of the alley, I passed by a guy heading into the alley. Later, I heard he was the guy who found Mr. Charma. He must have been the man who identified me.”

“We want to talk to the man who placed Sergeant Linn at the scene,” Ford said to Fay, without looking up from the notes he was scribbling. “If one of the people whom Sergeant Linn thought was transient was really Charma, then we still have one transient who may know something about the murder. We’ll want to find that person.”

“I’ll find out from Detective Farmer who his witness is and contact him. Detective Farmer may have something on the other person in the alley as well,” Fay said.

Ford motioned toward the gray sports bag on Fay’s desk. “Fay, I understand you have the Sergeant’s knives?”

She handed the bag to him along with a new pair of latex gloves.

Holding each knife at the butt and point as carefully as possible, Ford examined each one before replaced them in the bag. “We’re all in agreement these are not the murder weapons, I assume?”

Fay nodded.

Ford asked Fay, “Were any of Sergeant Linn’s Fourth Amendment rights violated?”

“No, sir.”

“I understand,” Ford said, “the SPD obtained a search warrant for Sergeant Linn’s off-base home but not his quarters on base.”

“That’s right,” Fay replied. “They searched his apartment over the weekend. Frank Farmer said they did not find anything.”

“Simon,” Ford said, “could you possibly have had an opportunity to transfer these knives from your apartment to your on-base housing?”

Simon shook his head. “Lieutenant Commander Green took me directly to the base from the jail.”

“His only window of opportunity would have been between the time of Mr. Charma’s death and the time he was arrested by the SPD,” Fay said. “I checked the Shore Patrol’s base sign-in log. Sergeant Linn did not go on base during that time.”

“Let’s photograph the knives before we hand them over to the SPD.” Ford spoke dispassionately, as if these were all just eventualities or obstacles to simply overcome, one at a time. “The SPD can run their forensic tests on them. If they’re clean, then I suspect the SPD will relax. If not,” he paused and looked at Simon, “they’ll have their indictment.” He turned toward Fay. “Either way, you’ve ingratiated yourself with the SPD. That can only help us.”

All were silent for a moment.

“So, where are we?” Simon asked.

“Unless something substantial turns up in the way of physical evidence, the SPD will proceed with caution. I think even in a worst-case scenario, and should we go to court, I would be able to convince a jury there is reasonable doubt. I don’t think the district attorney feels she has a strong case. Otherwise, the SPD wouldn’t have released you so quickly, and they would be pressing for an indictment,” Ford observed. “What they do have is a dead sailor, a suspect who has probable cause, which is flimsy at best, and a witness who places you at the crime scene. What they don’t have is a murder weapon.” Ford turned to Fay. “Would you concur, Fay?”

“Completely. I think Seattle Police will continue to try to link you to the murder, Sergeant. The knives will keep them busy for a while. Simon, I am going to see if I can get you released from restriction.” She turned to Ford with a warm smile and said, “Thank you so much.”

Ford nodded as he stood and walked toward Pearce. He embraced her and whispered, just loud enough for Fay to hear, “Take good care of your sister, JP.” He kissed Pearce on the cheek, turned, waved, and was gone.

Both Fay and Pearce stood looking at the door through which Ford Clay had departed. “He sure is a great guy,” Fay said.

Pearce sighed. “He sure smells good, ma’am.”

Fay glanced at her desk. “I have something for you, Simon.” She walked to her desk, opened the bottom left drawer, and extracted the photo she had taken from his apartment. She glanced at it and then handed it to him. “Here, I stole this from your apartment.”

Simon gave her a grateful look and accepted the photograph from her. He quickly admired the photo before saying, “You replaced the glass.”

“I did?”

“You did. Your kindness is deeply appreciated.”

“I was wondering what the words said.” She pointed at the photo. “There, on the flag.” Petty Officer Winslow had told her the flag was Iraqi, typical of the flags flown at the many palaces of Saddam Hussein.

“It’s a slogan. Honor in the highest sense of the word.” Simon admired the photo again. “It meant a lot to me when I was awarded the Purple Heart. But this,” he said, displaying the image to Fay, “means more to me.”

“I assumed the men in the photo to be your team members. Was the photo taken during the Gulf War?” Fay asked.

“Right on both counts. The why’s and where’s behind the flag are still classified. The team presented the photo to me in recognition of service above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Like saving a life?”

Simon nodded and smiled. “Three or more lives might qualify. The words on the flag say, ‘Hear ye, one. Hear ye, all. Hear ye, and know the talk. That by this way, a hero did walk.’ It’s a poem, I guess?”

Fay sniffed. “It’s a poem, and it’s beautiful, Simon.”

“OH…GEEZ!” Pearce suddenly exclaimed. She had been sitting still without saying a word. “I think I’ve got it!”

“Got what, Miss Pearce?”

Without hesitation, Pearce recapped Sergeant Linn’s story. “Sergeant goes to a pool club to meet his buddies. He meets a tadpole—”

“You mean Frogman or SEAL?” Fay asked.

Pearce nodded. “He gets into an argument, but the guy leaves. Later, Sergeant’s got to catch a ferry. He shortcuts through an alley and runs right by the dead tadpole. A witness sees Sergeant Linn runnin’ away. He thinks Sergeant Linn has killed the man.”

Fay patted Pearce on the shoulder. “Good job, Miss Pearce.” 

“Excuse me, ma’am. There’s more,” Pearce insisted. “I reason the second person in the alley is really the killer, maybe an operator like Mr. Charma. The killer meets Charma in the alley, where he knifes him. Tadpole Charma croaks. The killer hears Sergeant comin’ along, so he lies down and plays possum. After the witness passes by, the killer wiggles away into the darkness. I’m done.” Pearce sat back in her chair, gave a quick smile, crossed her legs, and folded her arms.

Simon seemed stunned, and if the truth were known, so was Fay. Pearce’s version seemed plausible. Another operator could have killed Charma. If the murder weapon proved to be a military knife, such as a Ka-Bar or a bayonet, Pearce’s theory had merit.

“A brilliant bit of deductive reasoning, Miss Pearce,” Fay said.

“Murder case—like donut, has hole. Optimist only see donut, pessimist see hole,” Pearce replied.

“Confucius?” Fay asked.

“No. Chan.”