“You guys know anything more?” Buzz asked someone on the Search and Rescue team preparing to enter the current. Not in uniform and not familiar with the men—he hadn’t yet worked a case with Search and Rescue—he showed them his badge. “I got the call last night about a missing girl.”
He hoped they didn’t hear the quiver in his voice or would at least attribute it to the biting cold; hoped they’d tell him it wasn’t a body, just a backpack or piece of clothing from a summer rafting trip that had remained submerged; hoped he wouldn’t have to make the drive out to Earl and Nettie Kanasket’s double-wide and tell them he’d found their daughter, wishing again that he’d never promised them anything.
“Definitely a body,” the first responder said.
The shouts and squeals of children drew Tracy’s attention to the bay window. Dan cradled the football, dodging a pack of kids in hot pursuit. It didn’t resemble any football game Tracy had ever witnessed, but they all looked and sounded like they were having a good time.
“If this is too close to home, Tracy, you can just tell me to stop.”
Tracy shook her head. “It’s fine,” she said. Like Kimi, Sarah had been about to start college when she disappeared. Tracy had become a homicide detective out of a strong desire to determine what had happened to her sister, and to help other young women like her.
“The pathologist who did the autopsy and the prosecutor concluded it was a suicide,” Jenny said. “They said Kimi Kanasket jumped from a bridge into the White Salmon River and drowned. The rapids knocked her around pretty good on the rocks. She had broken bones, and bruises on her arms and chest. She might have flowed all the way to the Columbia, but her clothing got hung up on the branch of a submerged tree. The current wedged her body beneath it.”
“And the theory was she did it because of the ex-boyfriend?”
“Tommy Moore. He’d come into the diner that night with another girl.”
“What did he have to say about it?”
“According to my dad’s report, Moore confirmed that he took another girl into the diner where Kimi worked, but he said he quickly left, took the girl home, and went to his apartment.”
“His date confirm that?”
“Pretty much. Her statement’s in the file too. She said Moore got upset because Kimi ‘dissed him,’ and he drove her home.”
“Dissed him how?”
“Apparently, she acted like she didn’t care.”
“Anyone vouch for whether Moore went to his apartment?”
“My dad took a drive out there. Moore’s roommate said he’d come home but that he took off again when the brother’s posse showed up armed and asking questions.”
“Roommate know where Moore went?”
“No.”
Tracy flipped through the file. “You think there’s more to it?”
“I think my father believed there was more to it.”
“Where’d you find this file?” Tracy asked.
“Right here, in my father’s desk.”
“Where are the closed files usually kept?”
“A file this old would have been moved to the off-site storage unit. But this was never a cold case.”
“What do you mean?”
“After I found it, I checked our computer records at the office. There is no record that a Kimi Kanasket file was ever sent to storage. The records at the office indicate it was destroyed.”
“Destroyed when?”
“No date provided.”
“By who?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“What’s the policy on destroying old files?”
“Now? Now we keep closed homicide files for as long as eighty years, or until the detective who worked the case says it can be destroyed.”
SPD had a similar policy. “Did you check with the detective who worked this case to see if he authorized it?”
“He’s long gone. He died in the nineties.”
Tracy pointed to the file on the desk. “So then, either that file is the official file or a personal file your father kept.”
“That was my conclusion. And if it’s the official file, then my father either checked it out and indicated it had been destroyed, or the last person who looked for it concluded it had been destroyed because it was missing.”
“Either way, your father took it.”
“There are some notes in the file indicating he was looking into things from time to time. I think this case weighed on him.”
Tracy flipped deeper into the file contents, the pages two-hole-punched and held by a clasp at the top. “Witness statements, the coroner’s report, photographs, sketches.” She let the contents fall back to the first page. “Looks like a complete file.”
“Appears to be.”
“You get a chance to look at it?”
“Some.”
“What do you think?”
“I was born shortly after Kimi disappeared,” Jenny said. “We didn’t live in Stoneridge then. We moved there when my dad became sheriff. I don’t recall my father ever really talking about it. Yet, I knew about Kimi Kanasket. Everyone did. I can remember people saying things like ‘Don’t walk the road alone late at night. You’ll end up like Kimi Kanasket.’”
“You want me to take a look?”
“Forensics are better now, and it just feels like the cancer robbed my dad of the chance to finish this. I feel like I owe it to him to at least take a closer look, but I’m his daughter. I’m not sure I can be objective. I’m also an elected official, and I may have to reopen the file. If that’s the case, I’d like an independent assessment to justify my decision. If there’s nothing to it, so be it. If there is . . .” Jenny shrugged.
Another squeal, but this one sounded more urgent. When they looked out the window, they saw Trey on the ground crying, Neil trying to console him.
“Is he hurt?”
“That’s his ‘We lost’ cry,” Jenny said. “He’s competitive, like his father.”
“And his mother,” Tracy said.
Jenny smiled. “I get it from my father.”
“So do I,” Tracy said, picking up the file.
CHAPTER 5
Emily Rodriguez, fifty-seven, lived one house to the north of Tim and Angela Collins’s home. The first thing Kins noticed when he and Faz entered her home was the large picture window that faced Greenwood Avenue.
“Thank you for speaking to us again,” Kins said. Faz and Del had interviewed the woman the night before.
Rodriguez looked uncomfortable. “It’s so sad,” she said. “So sad.”
“Did you know the family?”
“Not really. I’d wave in passing, say hello, that sort of thing.”
Kins nodded, letting the woman catch her breath. “Ever hear any arguing, yelling, anything to indicate they were having problems?”
“No.”
“Any neighbors ever indicate they’d heard there were problems in the home?”
“I don’t talk much with my neighbors. I’m not unfriendly or anything, I just don’t know them very well. A lot of people I knew have moved. But I never heard anything.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Me? Thirty years.”
“Do you know when the Collinses moved in?”
“About five years ago, I’d say.”
“What about the son? Did you ever speak with him?”
Rodriguez shook her head. “Again, maybe in passing, but nothing I can recall. I’d see him getting on and off the bus in the morning.” She pointed out the window. “He waited right there at that bus stop.”