By the time Maclean knocked on the door, Verraday was showered and dried off, and the endorphins from the workout had kicked in. He felt limbered up and refreshed, if still creeped out from the discovery of the dead rat.
“Nice place,” she said as she entered carrying the pizza box.
“Thanks. You haven’t seen the horrible upstairs carpeting yet though. Been meaning to rip it out since I got the place, but you know how it is.”
“I don’t have that problem. I’m back in a rental apartment since I got divorced.”
“What can I get you?” he asked. “Want some wine?”
“Yes. But officially I’m on duty, so no, thanks. I’ll just take some water.”
He prepared a glass with ice and a lemon wedge for Maclean. He was about to uncork the Sicilian wine, which he’d been craving since he got the shawarma. Then he decided against it; he didn’t feel right about enjoying it while Maclean was deprived of the pleasure. So he made a second ice water with lemon for himself.
He led Maclean to the small dining room table at the back of the main floor where he had the place settings waiting. Maclean set the pizza down on the table and Verraday noticed happily that it came from his favorite place in the University District rather than from one of the big chains. He liked Maclean’s taste.
Over dinner they reviewed Cody’s rap sheet together.
“Born twenty-six years ago in Stockton, California,” said Maclean. “Parents were only eighteen years old themselves. Both had drug addiction problems. Been in and out of rehab. Father’s done time for fraud and theft. Mother’s been busted for prostitution.”
The financial collapse of 2008 had hit Stockton hard. It became the largest city in US history to file for bankruptcy protection until Detroit eclipsed it five years later. It was a better place to leave than to be born.
“Everything about Cody North’s life is in contrast to Jason Griffin’s upbringing,” said Verraday. “No swashbuckling grandparent, nobody taking the time to teach a twelve-year-old to fly a plane and take over a family business.”
“A tale of two cities,” said Maclean. “Cody’s run-ins with the law began around the same time Jason was setting a world record for the youngest solo flight.”
“We always come back to that nature-versus-nurture argument,” replied Verraday. “It’s a conundrum that we can never settle because most of the time, it’s the people who provided the DNA who are doing the nurturing, or lack thereof. And professional ethics don’t allow us to go around splitting up twins just to see what would happen if one had all the breaks and the other one got the Manson clan as parents. But it’s something that as psychologists, we still don’t understand. I’m not sure if we ever will.”
“Right,” said Maclean. “What makes one kid get his name into the Guinness Book of World Records, while another kid gets no further than being written up in a police case book? Cody’s early arrests and convictions were for relatively minor things. A lot of it was that ‘acting out’ kind of stuff that you expect to see in unhappy kids: shoplifting, vandalism, trespassing, joyriding. Things began to get more serious in his later teens. He had arrests for breaking and entering, stripping cars, and narcotics.”
“I see that he killed a drug dealer. How old was he?”
“Nineteen. He claimed that he was attacked when a deal went bad. There were no witnesses. It was ruled justifiable homicide, so he walked.”
The pizza that Maclean had brought was delicious, and it occurred to Verraday that if the line of conversation hadn’t been so unpleasant, he would have very much enjoyed having her company here. And he would have liked for the two of them to share that bottle of Nero d’Avola.
Verraday looked more closely at the rap sheet. “He’s got a bunch of animal cruelty charges here. Three resulting in death. This concerns me more than the gang offenses. It’s classic serial killer escalation. Jeffrey Dahmer stuck a dog’s head on a stick and stripped animal carcasses before shifting his attention to boys. Edmund Kemper chopped the heads off cats before graduating to killing his mother and seven other women, and the Boston Strangler did his apprenticeship firing arrows at cats and dogs that he’d trapped in boxes.”
“I’m glad now that we didn’t opt for the Italian sausage,” said Maclean.
“You don’t know the half of it,” replied Verraday. “Now, these alleged sexual assaults on girls who were unlucky enough to be partying with Cody and his pals are also concerning.”
“He would have been convicted each of those times,” said Maclean, “except that the girls were high when it happened. He had his friends with him, who testified that it was just a house party gone wild. Plus he always wore a condom, so he never left any evidence behind. Their word against his.”
“There’s another killing here.”
“Yes. A prostitute. They were engaged in hypoxyphilia. She died while he was choking her.”
“How the hell did he beat that one?”
“The coroner ruled it was a heart attack brought about by cardiovascular disease that just happened to be triggered by the strangulation. The prostitute was a heavy cocaine user and had a weakened heart. Cody claimed it was just sex play. The defense looked into her background and found out that hypoxyphilia was one of her specialties. She charged a premium for catering to clients who had fantasies around strangling women.”
“And then he landed in San Quentin.”
“Killed another prostitute. He claimed that she stabbed him and robbed him and that it was self-defense. Said he hadn’t meant to kill her, just protect himself. He got a manslaughter conviction.”
“Well, it might not be a smoking gun, but it’s damned close,” said Verraday. “Psychologically speaking, I’d say Cody North is capable of making the leap to the level of violence that we saw in the Carmichael, Friesen, and Dale cases.”
“I’m going to bring him in for questioning,” said Maclean. “Now, before I go, you were going to tell me something about why you didn’t want meat on your pizza tonight.”
“You all finished? Sure you don’t want anything else?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Maclean replied.
“Then come on into the kitchen.”
* * *
Maclean stood by Verraday’s kitchen counter, examining the corpse of the rat, which he had laid on top of some plastic wrap. In the light, and with Maclean standing by, the rat seemed smaller and less ominous than when he had discovered it earlier that evening.
“So it was just lying on your front steps when you came home?” asked Maclean.
“Yes. I went to the gym and got something to eat, and when I got back, it was here.”
“And rigor mortis had already set in?”
“It was stiff as a brick.”
“That means it was killed earlier and dumped here. Did you find any blood anywhere on the steps or on the path?”
“No, I checked everywhere.”
Maclean took a package of tongue depressors from her shoulder bag and pulled one out. With the depressor, she flipped the rat over on its back and pushed the fur away from the wound.
“That wound wasn’t caused by another animal. That’s man-made. I used to help my dad dress the geese and deer he had shot. I’d say this cut was made by a hunting knife.”
“I’ve worked with plenty of rats in labs,” said Verraday. “If this thing is anywhere near as bright as its cousins, there’s nothing in the world that could get it to hold still while someone slit its throat.”
“It was already dead when this cut was made. Poisoned,” said Maclean. “See how there’s blood around its nose? That’s from an anticoagulant. Somebody poisoned this rat and slit its throat after it died.”
Verraday sucked in a breath. “Nice.”
“You ever had anything like this happen before? Any harassment in the past?”
“No, never. But there are definitely people who have an axe to grind with me. Top of the list is Bosko. He’d be able to figure out where I live. Can you send the rat to a lab for analysis? Maybe whoever did this was careless enough to leave some clues.”
Maclean looked at him sympathetically, but with finality. “Theoretically the lab could look for human DNA or threads from clothing or carpet. But this is basically a nuisance case. It’s pretty minor even as vandalism goes. Wild rats aren’t protected under the Animal Welfare Act, so there’s no law being broken on that side. As creepy as this is, the city would view it as less serious and destructive than tagging. On top of that, you haven’t received any verbal or written threat.”
“Sorry.”
“But somebody’s been leaving my gate open. Seems like an odd coincidence.”
Maclean gazed at the rat again, then turned to Verraday. “You ever own a cat?”
“No,” he replied.
“Well, I did, when I was a kid. It used to catch mice and chipmunks and leave them on our doorstep.”
“Gross.”
“It’s just an instinctive feline behavior. A form of intimacy. The cat is not only sharing its kill with what it perceives as its family, it’s encouraging its partner or offspring to join in the hunt. Do you have an alarm system?”
“No. Statistically this neighborhood has one of the lowest burglary rates in Seattle.”
“Well, statistics or not, my advice is to get one.”
“I don’t really like having strangers in my house.”
“James, that’s why people get alarms installed. Promise me you’ll do it?”
“Okay.”
“Now, I’m going to swing by Cody’s, bring him in for questioning.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not when I’m this close.”
“Can I ride along?”
“Love to have you there, James, but it could get dangerous.”
“That’s why I want to come along.”
“I’m not going in alone. I’ll bring two uniformed officers. They’d want to know who you are, and it would raise questions. But if we crack this case, they’ll be kissing your ass down at city hall, lawsuit or not. So don’t worry. You’ll get your chance.”
“All right, but only because you say so.”
“I insist so.”
Maclean donned her Burberry coat, and Verraday held the door open for her.
“Good luck,” he said. “Let me know what happens as soon as you can.”
“I will,” she replied, touching him lightly on the shoulder as she crossed the threshold onto the front porch. “And thanks for your help.”
The solar garden lamps were dim as usual, so he turned on the porch light to help guide her down the path. He stood in the doorway, watching as she got into the Interceptor. She leaned over to the passenger’s side and, in silhouette, waved to him. He returned her gesture, then watched as she pulled away from the curb and, in typical fashion, quickly accelerated to what he guessed was several miles an hour over the speed limit. He watched her until she turned the corner at the end of the block. Only then did he close the door and turn off the porch light.
* * *
Verraday was about halfway through the bottle of Sicilian wine when his cell rang. It was Maclean.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I checked out the address that Cody’s felon employment program showed as his residence.”
“You have backup with you?” Verraday asked, trying not to betray the concern in his voice but not quite pulling it off.
“I’ve already left the address. But yes, I had two patrolmen with me and I still do. The only thing missing was the suspect. The place was empty. Literally. It’s a ground-floor apartment with nothing in it. Not a stick of furniture. I called Jason Griffin twice but didn’t get an answer. We’re outside his condo now. The lights are off. I’ve been knocking on the door for the last five minutes. I sent a unit out to the airport to check on the Griffinair hangar. There was nobody there either. I’m putting out an APB on Cody North.”