King County Killer

Chapter 1

March, 1982

Outside the City of Kent in Western Washington State; who did this to you sweetheart? the lead investigator from the Medical Examiners’ Office said. He’d been standing there awhile looking down at the body of a young woman that lay on the shoulder of a remote country road.

The assistant crime scene investigator accompanying him gave him an amused questioning look.

Completely focused, the lead investigator then crouched down beside the body to get a closer look. He reached over and carefully moved a part of her clothing that partially covered her face, he spoke again, and Who’d leave you out here on a day like this, huh?

Amusement spread more across the assistant’s face. He did little to hide his concern over his superior’s questionable frame of mind at speaking to the dead, he added, You’re, not expecting her to answer you, are you? he stared incredulously at his superior. She’s dead you know. the assistant added with furrowed brow.

Without turning to his assistant, the lead investigator answered him in a serious tone of voice, You already know this as a medical fact, do you?

Well—no, the assistant answered.

Not breaking his concentration on the task before him, the lead medical examiner reached in and touched his fingers against the woman’s neck to feel for a pulse. Her skin was cold, there wasn’t one, and he slowly pulled his hand away. Such a pity, he said. Then after a moment passed, he twisted while on his haunches and looked further down the dead woman’s body. He was new to the department and his assistant hadn’t got to know him personally or his methodology yet.

Well, neither did I; until now, The lead investigator said without malice giving his assistant a small smile. I like to come to that kind of decision after I do an examination to find out, don’t you?

Well, yes, the assistant said contritely.

In the mean time, I like to treat the victim like she’s still with us; if you know what I mean?

Yeah sure, the assistant replied, seriousness replaced the amused look on his face.

You were right, she is deceased; so shall we continue with our investigation? the lead said pulling on his surgical gloves so that they fit tighter. His assistance nodded. The lead looked at his assistant and gave him an engaging smile, Damn, it’s so bloody cold and damp and wet around here, does it always rain so darn hard?

Most of the time unfortunately, The assistant said half apologetically, especially in winter and spring.

Yeah? the lead investigator said without a great deal of relish in his voice and turned back to the body. The idle chit-chat was over. Ok, from the way she’s lying here on the soaking wet ground, it looks like someone dumped her there and judging from looking at her, she hasn’t lain there for very long. The lead Pathologist shivered, I’m from Phoenix, Arizona and I’m not accustomed to this cold and miserable West Coast weather yet. He walked along few more steps. What went wrong, darling? he asked the corpse and then to his assistant, From the way she’s dressed, I’d say she was probably out-on-the-town and met her fate late Saturday night.

The assistant shrugged as if to say, your guess is as good as mine.

Young people these days, The lead said, shaking his head, living dangerously on the edge: sex, drugs and rock-and-roll; and not necessarily in that order. A hint of a devilish smile was on the lead medical examiner’s face. His assistant grinned uncomfortably.

The lead pulled the brim of his baseball cap down tighter to prevent the rain from falling in his eyes; he shook his head wearily, such a waste of a young life. Then more professionally he added, Let’s see what’s been done to you.

He walked around the dead body studying her from all angles and stepped around his photographer so not to disturb him while he snapped pictures.

My duty is not to question why, only to figure out how people die, he said. That made his assistant grin, amused. It was a twist to a rather old and hackneyed phrase.

Sad, the lead investigator thought. The victim had become the most recent of the unfortunate 2000 plus fatalities that they’d have attended to by the end of the year; that fell under their jurisdiction in King County Washington. Their duty was to attend to all those people who die suddenly, violently, unexpectedly, and/or due to some suspicious or unusual circumstance. This case was a typical case, a body on the ground discovered in a public place. It was their job to go to it on-site and do a physical inspection to determine the one of four categories of the causes of death the victim fell into: accident, homicide, natural causes, or suicide.

The lead examiner tilted his head sideways, narrowed his eyes and looked down her body; it was the body of an attractive young woman in her late teens or early twenties but not so anymore as she lay on the on the side of her face, her body prone. He looked to where she’d fallen on the ground and tried to imagine how she got there. He estimated the distance from the edge of the road to where she lay to be a little over two yards. He imagined her killer had pulled over to the side of the road, leaned over to open the passenger side door then pushed her out. It looked like she hadn’t fallen from a low elevation, like from a sedan or sports car, but from a vehicle where seats were much higher up. She must have fallen sideways, head first, and from the looks of it, taking the full brunt of the fall on the side of her face and right shoulder. Sprawled out, she lay, with her arms stretched out behind and underneath her, palms open and turned up. From that position it was apparent she hadn’t made an attempt to take defensive action to break her fall as a live person would have done to avoid getting injured from a fall on the ground. He assumed her lack of defensive action was because she was already dead or unconscious when she fell.

From her low body temperature, she’d been lying there for awhile, half a day or more; the near freezing rain that had been falling all week was a contributing factor besides putting the splattered of mud and water on her deathly pale white face. Water ran down into and out of her wide open unblinking eyes. Eyes open, she stared like she was aware of her circumstance but totally unconcerned over her present condition. Without a doubt she had to be dead to be so totally oblivious to how and where she lay with her face in the mud on the cold wet ground. So unattractive; her once carefully applied black mascara now bled from her eyelids and ran down her cheek in long ugly smears.

The lead medical examiner turned his eyes away and looked at the paved road, coming towards him and going away, and at the muddy shoulder in the near vicinity of the body. There were remnants of several vehicle tire treads that crissed-crossed in the blurred watery ruts alongside the dead woman’s body on the dirt shoulder of the road; none of them had enough definition to make a plaster cast to identify the make and model of the tire treads or the vehicles they were on. There were no footprints by the body; the pathologist determined her killer didn’t get out of the vehicle; just pushed her out and drove off.

With the aid of his assistant he turned the dead woman’s body over by her shoulder and hip until she lay on her back. Her body came up stiffly off the ground as if it were a rigid slab. She was still in rigor. He had the photographer take pictures of her from every angle.

She’s been here less than a day, I’m thinking, his associate said.

The lead investigator raised his eyebrows and waggled his head somewhat in agreement. It was a good educated guess but had yet to be determined. Practical medical science determined from countless human bodies examined in the past that it was common, within a few hours after death for the joints to stiffen and lock in place. The stiffening phenomenon is caused when the skeletal muscles partially contract at death and remain that way until other deterioration processes begin to occur and the body tissue breaks down, relaxes and becomes pliable again. This stiffening is called rigor mortis. And depending on temperature and other conditions, rigor mortis lasts approximately 72 hours; then the rigidity leaves.

The lead investigator moved further down the dead woman’s body to where her mini-skirt had become tugged up exposing her naked to the waist; she was minus her underwear. Large ugly gaping holes were torn in her nylon stockings that still clung partially to her shapely legs; the Pathologist shook his head, sad, he said, to leave the world looking this way. The lead investigator inspected the tracks of raw fingernail scratch marks that bloodied her torn skin, the scratch marks ran down from her abdomen into her pubic hair and inside her thighs. The marks were animalistic and looked to be clawed in rage; the congealed crusted blood streaks indicated that they were more than likely done to her while she was alive; he looked for remnants of a broken fingernail but found none. Someone had become very angry, launching an extremely brutal and vicious attack on her before she died. He winced at the thought of her last moments in life being savaged to death by another supposedly civilized human. He studied the welts; it was not the markings of a wild animal that had mauled her before she died.

The lead investigator nodded and moved crab style to a position back at the head of the dead woman so that he could look at what was wrapped around her neck. He touched the material; it was the legging of her pants tightly wound and tied in a knot around her neck. He leaned over and closely inspected the whites of her eyes; there was no reticular hemorrhaging. What he wanted to know was if she had been garroted before or after she had died. So far as he could see it was after.

The two medical examiner officers rolled the dead girl’s body the other way so that they could have a look at the other side of her head that originally had been against the ground. The lead pathologist brushed the mud and bits of dirt and debris away from her skull and saw a thick mass of matted blood. He inspected it further and found she had a huge hematoma the size of golf ball on the side of her head. It was blackened blood matted to her hairline. He felt around on her damaged skull. Her skull bones beneath his gloved fingers were fractured, softened and loose. He looked sideways at his associate and nodded, Bingo, he said, crushed skull.

He looked over to where the two homicide police officers hid from the elements under a large fir tree next to their police squad car clad in full length yellow rain gear with protective plastic covering on their hats with collars turned up to repel the cold pouring rain. He stuck finger and thumb into his mouth, emitted a loud whistle and then motioned the two cops to approach.

At the sound of the sudden loud whistle, the two cops jolted to attention, they flicked the remainder of their cigarettes butts to the sopping earth and headed over to the investigators and where the dead body lay on the ground. One blew heat into the fist of one hand to warm it up and asked what the finding was.

Homicide; blunt force trauma to the head, the medical examiner said. The garrote around her neck is her own pants and secondary. She was already dead when she was strangled.

Both cops nodded as if it was obvious and a foregone conclusion they had come to the moment they saw the body on the remote country road. But they were following procedures and had to wait for the official finding for the cause of death before they acted on it. They stood and listened to the extensive explanation from the lead pathologist, nodded then turned and headed back to their police cruiser to file a report.

The lead medical examiner concluded the rest of his investigation taking more photographs, samples, specimens, swabs and anything he considered as evidence, and then bagged the body to take back to the lab where he’d conduct a more thorough examination.

Chapter 2

Year 1993

Western Washington State, Seattle

. . . His last victim, a female street prostitute like all the others, was reported missing December 1983 from the ‘Strip’. . .

Keno Robson stopped reading and looked at the date: December ‘83, he focused away from his book for a moment to think about the date. There was something about the date, he remembered now that there was something else about that date. Something else quite significant, that had happened to him in his own personal life back some ten years ago. He shook it off, what came to mind had nothing to do with what he was reading about; he put the intervening thought out of his mind and went back to the paragraph and reread it:

. . . The Green River Killer’s murdering spree began in the summer of 1982 with the gruesome discovery of the bodies of five young female prostitutes buried in the Green River. Over the next 19 months the killer struck again and again killing an additional 34 young female prostitutes then his killing spree suddenly ended. The evidence that links the 5 Green River murders to the 34 dry land burials was found at the bottom of one of the dry land graves which led the police to believe the Green River Killer was still at work. His last victim, a female street prostitute like all the others, was reported missing December 1983 from the ‘Strip’; then the Green River Killer simply disappeared. The remains of his last victim were found several years later. From the beginning no one had ever seen or knew what the Killer looked like and the identity of the Green River Killer had never been discerned and is still an unknown today. Since that day in December ten years ago when he took his last victim he hasn’t struck again. Some people believe. . .

Keno stopped reading after the storyline changed and he paged forward to see if there was anything more written about the Green River Killer; there wasn’t. He thumbed back in the paperback to reread an earlier paragraph that he’d drifted over and hadn’t paid close attention to, he found what he was looking for and read:

. . . working fast, two months later in September of ‘82, early in the investigation, the police were absolutely certain they’d found their man. The suspect was a cab driver who worked the infamous ‘Strip’ for many years and was someone who personally knew some of the slain women that were found buried in the Green River, but after an extensive investigation the police found no concrete evidence to connect him to any of the murders. Despite that, the lead homicide investigator for the Green River Task Force, Aaron Badger, strongly believed and insisted the cab driver was their man. The cab driver was finally taken off as the number one suspect from their list . . . years passed, with no new suspects and no arrests the trail of the Green River Killer came to an end on that cold December day and has, since then, long grown cold.

Hum, ten years ago, Keno mumbled, and he allowed his mind to flip back to what had suddenly come into his mind a few moments ago. What had come to mind was his foster brother whom he hadn’t thought of in quite a long time.

Did you say something? asked Gaynor his wife who sat in their comfortably padded arm chairs in front of the warmth from their wood fireplace.

Keno didn’t hear here and remained staring down at his paperback lost in his thoughts.

She put her fashion magazine down and looked his way. After seeing that she didn’t get his attention she called to him again, Keno?

Huh? he said suddenly hearing his wife’s voice come through to him, he had been far away in the fog of reminiscence; he forced his mind to come to the present and he looked her way and blinked, Sorry, what?

You said something?

Did I? he said, he didn’t completely remember what he might have said.

Yes, you did.

He thought for a moment and then it came to him, he must have spoken out loud what he had been thinking about. Right, right, he chuckled feeling a little foolish, it’s nothing important. he said trying to brush it off.

It sounded like you said something.

Yeah, maybe but . . . . He knew what he must have said and stalled for time. He knew his wife only too well, not that she needed to know everything that went on in his mind but it was better to answer her when she asked. There was no sense denying it further, it was just something I read in this novel, that’s all.

You said ten years ago or something; what about it?

Yeah, I guess I must have, he said frowning.

Well, what about it? she persisted.

Keno pushed himself back in his recliner and focused on Gaynor, it came to him and he nodded agreeably, ok, right, I guess I did. I was just reading that ten years ago in December ‘83 the Green River Killer murdered his last victim and something else came to mind, that’s all.

Oh, Gaynor said disappointedly, and? she sounded not overly interested.

Well, for one thing, Keno said looking off looking for an evasive way to try and find a good way to not broach the subject foremost in his mind. He couldn’t, and he decided to tell it like it was. Well, from December ‘83 until now, it’s been ten long years, and it just struck me funny that it’s a very long time for the police not to have caught the Green River Killer, or, not to even know who he is, or, if he’s still at large or dead.

Has it been ten years? Hasn’t the Green River Killer been caught yet?

No, not as far as I know, Keno said and shrugged.

That’s a chilling thought; I haven’t thought about it for quite a while, but I guess so. I haven’t heard one way or the other.

I know. It’s horrible to think that the killer might still be out there but; not good, but out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

I agree, and that’s bad; even though ten years is a long time. What could have happened to him?

I don’t know, Keno said and returned to stare at the words written on the cover to his novel.

Keno stood up and walked over to the large window of their study and looked outside at the cold urban winter scene of rainy wet houses. He rubbed the ache in his rotator cuff injury that seemed to come on with the damp.

What now? she asked.

Just up for a little stretch, Keno said and gave his wife a weak smile.

Something’s bugging you, isn’t it?

Maybe, how’d you know?

Yeah, don’t maybe me. Don’t think I haven’t learned something from being married to you for so long?

He snuffled good-naturedly, went over and squatted next to her recliner; he kissed her then rose to his feet again and headed across their study towards the hallway.

Where are you going now?

Chapter 3

Year 1993

Western Washington State

Keno bound down the stairs to the basement taking them two steps at a time. He headed for the bookshelves where he kept all his old work related material; he looked along the rows of binders, books and other things to look for his collection of old Day-Timer work journals. He checked along a bottom shelf and found what he was looking for.

Yes, he said triumphantly and ran his fingers along a row of bound books that all looked the same and came to his 1982 and ‘83 journals, he pulled the two black hardcover Day-Timers off the shelf.

He started with his ‘82 work journal and turned to the last month of the year. The journal displayed a two page one week columnar view of the month. He began at the beginning and flipped the pages until he came to the week of the 12th to the 18th of December. What he was looking for, he knew, he had written either in the early Sunday column or in the latter part of Saturday at the far right. He started on the left side of the page, didn’t find what he was looking for and went across the two pages to the bottom right of the last page to 6:00 P.M. Nothing, it was as he expected; what he was looking for wasn’t in his ‘82 Day-Timer. Just to be sure, he flipped over to the next week and quickly scanned the two pages. He didn’t expect it to be there either, but he read the entries nevertheless; as expected it wasn’t. He put his ‘82 journal back on the bookshelf.

His ‘83 journal was the same style as his ‘82; it pleased him that it was still in pretty good shape after the daily use he had put it through. He ran his fingers over the black artificial leather book and hesitated; a moment of trepidation overcame him as he stood looking at it and suddenly he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to open it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to open old wounds. He slowly rubbed his thumb along the side edges of the pages then cracked open his 1983 work journal.

Ten years ago, 1983, those were tumultuous times; January 7th 7:30 AM: cancel SCO Unix meeting; Canada reports an unemployment rate of 12 percent for December 1982, a post-Depression high. For the same month U.S. unemployment is 10.8 percent, the highest level since 1940. He fanned a few more pages and came to January 23rd: 9:30: seminar – shortfalls of 8 bit technology; Note: the nuclear-powered Soviet satellite Cosmos 1402 plunges through the earth's atmosphere and breaks into burning pieces as it falls into the Indian Ocean. Onward into the journal: March 20th Prince Charles and Diana, Princess of Wales arrive in Australia for a month-long visit. April 11th actor Ben Kingsley gets leading role as Gandhi. May 17th: 7:30: debugging SW; Note: the New York Islanders win their fourth consecutive Stanley Cup; September 1st a South Korean passenger jet (Boeing 747) is shot down after infringing on Soviet air space, 269 people killed. Keno remembered the story. The plane was shot down without warning on a flight from New York to Seoul, Korea. Soviets claimed the plane was flying a spy mission but it was not so, and a horrible accident. Keno stopped dallying; he knew he was stalling and prolonging the inevitable.

He parted the journal at December of the year and went to the week of Sunday 11th and read across to Saturday December 17th. He looked down to the bottom of the page and the information he was looking was there. It all came back to him and he remembered how he had back-dated the notation in his day-timer. It was the week after, on the 20th, when he actually found out about his foster brother Philip Gray. He had written in his Day-Timer: 3:00AM Saturday – Phil suicide?

Chapter 4

Year 1993

Seattle, Washington

Keno Robson closed his 1983 Day-Timer work journal and placed it back on the shelf; he slowly sank down on the basement steps and waited to recover from a mild dizziness that came over him and for the roiling in the pit of his stomach to stop. It had been years since he had last thought about Phil and the horrible shock of what had happened back then. He waited for the sickly feeling to subside. He folded his arms around his midsection, crossed his legs and waited. Slowly the feeling passed and he felt better.

He shook his head to rid the thoughts of how he last saw his foster brother; he sucked in a deep breath and gathered his composure. Keno stood up and waited to see if the unsettled feeling would return; it didn’t, but he took his time and slowly trudged back up the staircase. Back in the study, he slipped back into his leather recliner chair and joined his wife in front of the cracking wood fireplace. He picked up his paperback novel and opened it to where he’d left off.

You were gone awhile.

Yeah, Keno said and put his finger in the paperback to mark his place, he gave his wife Gaynor a smile.

Find what you were looking for?

I guess, he said not so agreeably, Just wanted to check something out. He shrugged.

Gaynor raised an eyebrow in question to urge him to tell her.

Oh, nothing really, just something else unrelated to the discussion we were having about the Green River Killer.

Ok, like what? She persisted and stared at him.

Keno gave in. Ok, It’s about December 1983 I guess; when the Green River Killer murdered his last victim.

So?

Well isn’t it strange that he hasn’t murdered anyone else since then.

Keno, what’s strange about it; it’s a good thing?

You’re right; it is a good thing. Sorry, I guess I didn’t put that very well, did I?

No.

What I meant to say was; I find it disconcerting that the Green River Killer just dropped out of the scene. No one knows what happened to him or if he’s still at large somewhere. How does someone just disappear? He could be anywhere, although most serial killer profilers think it’s highly unusual and virtually impossible for a psychopathic killer.

I’m sure the police are wondering exactly the same thing.

Probably, but ten years is sure a long time. Keno said.

Too long and I wish the cops would hurry up and find out if he’s dead or alive.

That’s what I was thinking about; is the killer dead or alive?

Dead, I’m hoping, Gaynor said.

But if he’s alive, I wonder where he is and what he’s been doing all these years?

"Well if he’s not around here, he’s got to