Chapter One
WHAT we've got here this morning, Dr. Howard Baker
announced somewhat pompously to the crowd of reporters
assembled in the small dental office's waiting room, what
we've got here is one dead dentist.
Doc Baker, King County's medical examiner, is a political
type who likes to be quotable, no matter what. And
Seattle's eager newshounds, packed like so many note
taking sardines in the impeccably decorated reception
area, were only too happy to oblige. They responded with
an enthusiastic clicking and whirring of various audio and
video recording devices.
As I pushed my way into the room, the news-gathering
sounds annoyed me. I can't help it. My name is J. P
Beaumont. As a detective with the Seattle Police
Department Homicide Squad, I resent it when reporters
manage to beat detectives to a crime scene.
Doc Baker was holding forth and waxing eloquent. He's an
irascible old bear of a man with a full head of white hair
who enjoys seizing the limelight. He towered over the
rowdy group of reporters milling around him. Eventually,
though, he caught sight of me standing on the edge of the
crowd along with my partner. Detective Allen Lindstrom Big
Al, as he's known around homicide on the fifth floor of
Seattle's Public Safety Building.
The homicide detectives are here now, Baker informed the
reporters. You'll have to excuse us. With that, he turned
on his heel and disappeared through a door that led to a
short hallway. imperiously motioning for us to follow. Doc
Baker can be somewhat overbearing on occasion.
There was a short silence after Baker left the room, a
silence punctuated by the sound of a woman crying. The
muffled noise originated from behind a closed door just to
the right of the receptionist's desk. There was no time to
check it out, however. Doc Baker didn't give us that much
slack.
Hey, Beaumont, Lindstrom, he bellowed back down that hall.
Are you coming or not?
Big Al started moving, his physical bulk mowing a path way
through the crush of reporters. I hurried along in his
wake before the narrow opening closed behind him.
The moment we entered the hallway, I knew it was going to
be bad. I recognized the faint, telltale stench of
decaying flesh only too well.
The waiting room had smelled distinctly of fresh paint and
new carpet overlaid with the suffocating scent of some
female reporter's exotic, pungent perfume. But the hall
way held a different odor, one that became stronger as we
neared one of two swinging doors at the end of it. When Al
pushed it open, a blast of gagging odor hit us full in the
face.
My years on the force have taught me to prefer my murder
victims fresh--the fresher the better. This one wasn't.
The body had been left unattended for far too long in the
muggy summer heat of an unusually warm July.
I stepped through the swinging door only to be blinded by
a sudden flash of light. When I could see again, I saw
Nancy Gresham, a fairly new police photographer, snap ping
pictures of someone seated in a laid back, futuristic
looking dental examination chair.
Big Al Lindstrom got far enough around the chair to see
what was in it. He stopped short. Jesus! he muttered.
I was right behind him. I guess I've seen worse, but I
don't remember when.
It was every kid's worst nightmare of what might happen
once you wind up in a dentist's chair. The man's eyes were
open and his mouth agape. He looked like a terrified
patient waiting for some crazed dentist to start drilling
and blasting. But below the open mouth, below the slack
chin, was a second opening, a small, round, ugly wound
through which the man's lifeblood had drained away.
And there was a surprisingly large amount of it. Blood had
soaked down through his clothing and dripped off both
sides of the chair, where a dark brown stain etched the
outline of the chair's contours into plush, snowy white
carpet. Blurred, bloody footprints led back and forth
across the rug.
Why the hell would anyone bother to put a white car pet in
a dentist's office? Big Al demanded. Seems pretty stupid
to me.
Stupid or not, he never had a chance to enjoy it, Doc
Baker said. Looks like he croaked before whoever was
installing the carpet managed to finish the job.
Excuse me, Detective Beaumont, Nancy Gresham said, coming
up behind me and moving a little to one side. I need a
little more room.
She knelt on one shapely knee directly where I had been
standing and aimed her camera up at the dead man's sagging
face. Once more the camera flashed. I noted with some
dismay that Nancy Gresham no longer turned green at the
prospect of taking grisly pictures. It was too bad. I had
liked her better before she toughened up.
I glanced around the room. A plastic garbage can was
tipped on its side. A stainless steel tray with an
assortment of dental tools beneath and around it lay on
the floor. A large plant in a blue and white crock had
been knocked off a counter. The crock had broken into
three large pieces, and muddy dirt lay scattered on the
floor. My professional assessment was that a hell of a
fight had taken place in that room. Mentally I took in all
the visual information, but I returned to Doc Baker's
comment.
What makes you say the carpeting job wasn't finished? I
asked.
He raised one bushy eyebrow. Look, he answered, pointing
toward a corner of the room. The molding's still loose.
I followed his pointing finger. Sure enough, there in the
corner several long pieces of oak molding leaned upright
against the wall.
Knee-kicker's there too, Baker added.
Carefully avoiding the bloody footprints, I stepped over
to the corner. On the floor beside the molding lay a
carpet kicker--a wickedly toothed, five-pound metal tool
with a leather cushion on one end. I had seen one like it
a few months earlier when carpet installers had laid the
carpet in my new condominium. I had watched them shove the
sharp metal teeth deep into the carpet's pile; then they
pounded their knees against the leather cushion to stretch
the rug taut and attach it to the tack strips that lined
the room. One of the installers told me that in his
business the knees are the first to go.
Without touching it, I bent down to examine the kicker. A
dozen or more inch-and-a-half-long metal teeth stuck out
of the business end of the kicker. Three of them--the ones
on the upper left-hand corner--were covered with something
brown, something that looked suspiciously like blood.
Hey, Al, I said, straightening up. Come look at this.
It was then I noticed several long curving parallel gouges
in the freshly painted finish on the wallboard, scratches
that ended only inches from the sharp teeth of the kicker.
Big Al and Doc Baker both came to see what I had found.
Murder weapon maybe? Al asked.
No way, Baker answered. The hole in his throat is from a
single sharp implement. That thing would have turned his
throat into a goddamned computer punch card.
I'm finished, Nancy Gresham announced.
Baker turned to her and nodded. Good. Wait outside just in
case I need anything else.
I heard you telling the reporters this guy was a dentist.
How do you know that? I asked.
His receptionist identified him. She found him about nine
this morning when she came in to work.
That's who's crying in the office down the hall? The
receptionist? I asked. We heard her as we came past.
Again Baker nodded. I told her to go in there and wait,
that you'd need to talk to her when you got here.
What's the dentist's name? Al had taken out a note book
and stood waiting with his pencil poised to write.
Nielsen, the medical examiner replied. Dr. Frederick
Nielsen. He's been dead a day or two, from the looks of
things.
And the smell, Al added. What about this receptionist?
Who's she?
Rush. Said her name is Debi Rush. Doc Baker spelled out
the receptionist's first name. Al and I both wrote it down.