“Why set the pots so late and retrieve them so early?” Tracy asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.
Schill frowned. “To get the pot before anyone saw me.”
“You do this often?”
Another sheepish grimace. “A couple times this week.”
“And again, did you see any other boats or anything that gave you pause or second thoughts?”
Schill took a moment before answering. Then he shook his head. “Not really, no.”
“Can you take me to the spot where you pulled up the pot?”
“Now?” Schill asked, sounding alarmed.
“No, in a little while. We’re going to have some divers come out, and I’d like you to take us back to where you found the pot.”
“Okay,” Schill said, sounding reluctant.
“Is that a problem?” Tracy asked.
“I have an SAT prep class this morning.”
“I think you’re going to miss it today,” Tracy said.
“Oh.”
“Your parents are on their way?”
“My dad’s coming.”
“Okay, you just hold tight for a bit,” Tracy said. She started to walk to where Pryor was taking pictures.
Schill called out. “Detective?”
Tracy turned back. “Yes?”
“I don’t think she’s been down there too long.”
Tracy stepped back toward him. “You think it’s a woman?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know for certain, but the hand . . . the fingernails—they still had polish on them.”
She considered the information. “Okay. Anything else?”
“No.”
Katie Pryor called Tracy’s name and pointed to the road.
A KRIX Channel 8 news van with a satellite dish protruding from the roof had parked on the street, and the Violent Crimes Section’s favorite muckraker, Maria Vanpelt, was stepping out the passenger door. Vanpelt had been a rising star in the local news media, a good-looking blonde who seemed to have a nose for the sensational, but she’d got her hand slapped for mishandling coverage of the Cowboy. Tracy had not seen her for several months, and absence had not made the heart grow fonder. At the Violent Crimes Section, the detectives referred to Vanpelt as “Manpelt” and speculated that one of the men she clung to was none other than their captain, Johnny Nolasco.
Tracy called Billy Williams on her cell. She told him to have CSI bring a tent in addition to the screen. They’d set the tent up at the water’s edge to serve as a command center and provide further privacy. She suspected news helicopters would not be far behind the vans. She could seek a no-fly zone, but if the news stations thought the story worthy, they’d just pay the fine. As Tracy listened to Williams, she turned back to the water. Her eyes followed the rope off the back of the boat.
Definitely not a grounder.
The circus had come to the beach and so had the crowds. People stood elbow to elbow along the metal railing, news reporters and cameramen among them. Add several police vehicles, two blue-and-white Harbor Patrol boats sweeping the Sound to keep sail-and powerboats at bay, a gaggle of uniformed and plain-clothed officers, and a tent, and the allure was too much to resist. Even the tourists were ignoring two of the region’s most iconic views—the booming image of Mount Rainier dominating the southern horizon, and the gleaming white stucco walls and red tile roofs of the Alki Point Lighthouse to the north, with Elliott Bay and the Seattle skyline serving as a spectacular backdrop.
Divers had managed to retrieve the tangled mess behind Kurt Schill’s boat, which had grounded in less than ten feet of water. Schill’s pot, perhaps two feet in diameter, would be accompanying his boat and his car to the police impound where CSI would process it for fingerprints and DNA. The larger pot remained inside the tent, and its contents had indeed been gruesome.
The body inside the pot was that of a woman. Naked, her bloated skin had turned the color and consistency of abalone meat: pale gray, rubbery, and traversed by a road map of purple lines. It showed evidence where marine life had fed. In sharp contrast to that gruesome image were the bright-blue fingernails. They looked like the painted nails on the hand of a porcelain doll, nicked and scratched after years of use.