Authors: Gregg Olsen
HONEY, CAN'T MAKE THE BOAT. MISSED THE LAST CROSSING. LUV U.
Brianna knew that was a lie. There were two more boats early that morning. Even when she needed her the most, Brandy just couldn't rise to the occasion. She could send money. She could send false promises. She could even look the part of the adoring mother when the camera zoomed in on the rare outing together. Deep down, it was painfully obvious that Brandy Connors Baker just wasn't the mommy type.
While Annie Garnett and all the other cops had collected evidence after the big Halloween party, Brianna had held back her blackest feelings and had texted a reply to her mother:
OKAY. I'LL BE FINE. DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME.
Her dad, Brian, for whom she was named, wasn't much better than her mom. She loved him, but she hated Shelley, her stepmother, whom her dad always seemed to put first. She wondered if Shelley was good for him or merely better than nothing. Brianna couldn't understand why her mom would just go off and leave them. It was so selfish. Couldn't she have waited until her daughter was out of high school to trade in her life like all the other moms?
Brianna could feel her anger swell, just as it had during the Halloween party. Puffing on wet air in the stall, Brianna remembered how she had picked up the crystal vase and flung it against the wall. Glittery shards had rained down on the room. Her hand was cut, but she didn't care.
Good.
Shelley's favorite vase, Waterford. A wedding present, no less.
Gone.
Just like all of them.
As she sat in the bathroom stall thinking about her fake mother, Brianna Connors wondered what she'd done to deserve a life that was so pretty on the surface but so ugly deep inside.
So fake.
Brianna didn't feel sad that Olivia had died. Not really. She was kind of in awe about the irony of it all. Olivia Grant was a nobody in life and all of a sudden she was the girl everyone was talking about. All it had taken was the sharp edge of a knife.
AFTER THE MURDER, the Port Gamble S'Klallam Tribal Police Department was an uneasy blend of business-as-usual with petty thievery, lost dogs, and a smattering of post-Halloween vandalism calls filling the dispatcher's log sheetâand, of course, a murder investigation that had just swung into full, tragic gear. The department's phones hadn't stopped ringing from the first mention of the crime on a Seattle TV station.
“How are you holding up?” records clerk Tatiana Jones asked Police Chief Annie Garnett as she emerged from her office.
“I've had better days. You?” she asked.
“I've talked to six news outlets and at least a dozen parents wanting to know if alcohol was served at the party and, if so, would Brianna's parents be charged with a crime.”
“They're mad about
that?”
Annie looked over as the fax machine rang. She knew what was coming.
Tatiana, a slender African American woman with a luxurious, plump black braid that ran halfway down her back, had been taking criminal justice classes before she came to work at the police department seven years ago. She was analytical and direct.
“Yup. They want to lash out at Brianna's dad for something. They're upset that their kids weren't being supervised during the party.”
Annie shook her head. “But they're not concerned about Olivia Grant and what happened to her?”
Tatiana's console started to flash like a row of ambulances. “Not really. Oh, they
say
they are, but as far as I can tell, not really. They're just mad that their kid drank beer and they want to make sure thatâ”
“â
that
never happens again,” Annie concluded.
Tatiana's braid swung like a pendulum, and she swiveled and picked up the phone.
“Yes, ma'am, the party was a bad idea,” she said, her eyes on Annie's. “Yes, ma'am, I agree . . .”
Annie shook her head and returned to her office. She looked down as pages of forensic pathologist Birdy Waterman's autopsy report rolled off the fax machine one by one. Her stomach was in knots. Looking at that sort of paperwork was never easy, and deep down, she was glad for that. The day that reading autopsy findings didn't break her heart was the day Annie would need to find a new career.
It struck her that every time she studied one of Birdy's reports, she couldn't help feeling an overwhelming sadness that a person's life had been reduced to nothing more than words on a page. They became evidence in a criminal case. She knew Birdy had a deep and abiding respect for crime victims and their families, but none of that was ever translated into her reports. Like Birdy's autopsies, her paperwork was professional, clinical. No judgments. No tears. Just facts.
Before the Halloween party, Olivia Grant had been a lovely, vital young woman. It was hard to reconcile that with the reality of what was in front of Annie, rendered in clinical black and white.
Annie's mind flashed to her recollections of Olivia: the first time they crossed paths in the General Store when Olivia had arrived in town in late August, Olivia with Beth Lee in line for ice cream, and Olivia at Kingston High's fall safety fair where Annie was the featured speaker. The pretty, slender redhead with the charming British accent had been talking to someone, but Annie couldn't remember who it was. One of the Ryan twins? Starla Larsen?
Annie had never spoken to Olivia. And yet in her mind's eye, she could still conjure her up, alive and well, before she'd been cut open with a saw under the cool light of an autopsy suite in an old house-turned-morgue in Port Orchard. It was a world so far from London in every way. The only British things in the place were packages of salt-and-vinegar flavored potato chips from the Walmart on Bethel Avenue belonging to Birdy's assistant, Terry Morris.
Grabbing the complete report from the beeping fax and taking a seat behind her desk, Annie read through each page, occasionally pausing and thinking about the dead girl's tragic end in a place so far from home.
OLIVIA WARRINGTON GRANT
MANNER OF DEATH:
Homicide.
CAUSE OF DEATH:
Exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds.
TIME OF DEATH:
Between 1 a.m. and 2 a.m.
FINDINGS:
1. Generalized pallor and evidence of exsanguination.
2. Multiple stab wounds of neck, trunk, and upper extremities with one (1) stab wound penetrating the throat in a left to right direction; three (3) stab wounds penetrating into chest cavity and right lung in a slight right to left direction; and multiple wounds of upper extremities consistent with defensive injuries.
3. Stab wounds are consistent in size and shape, indicating one weapon, most likely a knife or thin-edged bladeâalthough a double-edged blade cannot be excluded.
GENERAL APPEARANCE:
The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished, white female who appears the stated age of 17 years. Body height is 68 inches. Body weight is 105 lbs. At crime scene, the body was warm to touch. There is obvious evidence of multiple sharp-force injury.
IDENTIFICATION:
The identity of decedent, Olivia Warrington Grant, was established by Brianna Connors at the time of the discovery of the body.
CLOTHING AND VALUABLES:
The body is admitted to the morgue wrapped in a sheet, within a body bag, and with the hands bagged. Clothing and sheet are very bloody and have tears and punctures matching those at the trunk. In addition, prior to removal of clothing, the body was examined concurrently by me and by crime scene technicians from the Kitsap County Sheriff's Department, and trace evidence was collected from the body and clothing. See “TRACE EVIDENCE” section at end of report. The clothing consists of a slip, brassiere, and underpants. Valuables on or with the body include three gold rings, a pair of earrings, and a purse with $225 in US currency. The valuables will be released to the parents of the decedent while the clothing is retained as evidence by the law enforcement agency.
HEAD AND NECK:
The head is normally shaped. Scalp hair is long, red, and wavy in nature. The irises are green; the pupils are equal and round. The teeth are natural, and oral hygiene is good. Irregularities: A man's tie, red in color, was extracted from the victim's mouth.
TRUNK:
No natural abnormalities. No visible prior injuries. No evidence of sexual relations.
EXTREMITIES:
The extremities are symmetrical and without natural deformities. No bruising or evidence of bondage. The legs have no significant peripheral edema and no skin atrophy. The fingernails are all of medium length and coated with a silvery white nail polish.
SCARS, INCIDENTAL FINDINGS:
Old scars at the left knee.
INJURIES:
Multiple incised and stab wounds are present on the neck, chest, upper extremities, and hands.
PROCEDURES AND SPECIMENS:
EXPEDITED TOXICOLOGY: Blood, bile, urine, ocular fluid, and nasal swabs. Alcohol found present in blood, but less than the legal limit, the equivalent of one (1) beer. No other drugs were present.
TRACE EVIDENCE: One (1) black nylon fiber on right shoulder/chest; small, possibly glass fragment from left upper chest, three white, iridescent sequins in hair, and two frayed white polyester threads. Neither the threads nor the fiber match the deceased's slip (Calvin Klein), which she was wearing at the time of death, or the sheet she was wrapped in.
Annie shut her eyes and took a deep breath. A pause. Almost a prayer. It was obvious that Olivia had fought for her life. The defensive wounds on her hands had been proof of that. But she hadn't fought long. Annie wondered if the tangle of the slip and sheets was the impediment or was it something else? Was someone holding her steady while someone else stabbed her? There was one weapon, but had there been two attackers?
One thing Annie knew for sure: even with one beer in her, with each plunge of the knife, Olivia had known exactly what was happening.
And she had had no chance.
BRIAN AND SHELLEY CONNORS LOOKED WORSE for the wear, despite the golden tans they'd acquired while sipping rum drinks from coconut shells in Acapulco. Brian, in his late fifties, had a deeply etched face and alert blue eyes. Shelley, his second wife, was a good ten years younger, a brunette with a short, sassy bob that made her look even more youthful than her years. They met Annie in her office. It was two days after Olivia's murder, and neither had a warm greeting for the police chief.
It was easy to see where they were headed.
“I'm sure you must be exhausted,” Annie said. “I appreciate your being here.”
She pointed to a pair of chairs, but neither took her up on the offer to sit.
Brian folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Here's the deal. We're here to tell you that we understand the dire circumstances of Sunday night's tragedy and the importance of interviewing Brianna.”
“I appreciate that,” Annie said, feeling a chill in the air.
“And we are not going to make any complaints about the county's handling of the matter, nor your role in it.”
Shelley looked down at the floor and said nothing.
“I'm afraid I don't understand,” Annie said.
“I'll get to the point. No more interviews with our daughter. She's done.”
Annie didn't want to give up. She needed Brianna. “She might know something that could help the investigation. Something that could lead us to Olivia's killer.”
“I seriously doubt that, Chief Garnett,” Brian Connors said. “Bree is just a girl. She doesn't know a damned thing.”
Outside in the 7 series BMW that was Brian Connors's proof to the world that he'd made itâmuch like his houseâBrianna sat slumped in the backseat. She texted Drew, who was out doing whatever it was he did:
DAD AND DUMB-DUMB ARE TELLING THE GIGANTOR COP TO TAKE A HIKE. THEY ARE SO LAME. GLAD I RUINED THEIR VACAY.
OLIVIA GRANT'S PARENTS HAD TRAVELED ALL night and yet the dark circles under their bloodshot eyes owed more to too many Bloody Marys on the flight from London to Seattle than to actual jetlag. Edward Grant, normally an effusive man in his fifties with a suspiciously perfect head of sandy hair and blindingly white teethâa kind of perfection that suggested veneersâcrumpled in the sofa in the Lee's living room. The fireplace crackled, and Kim Lee had set out tea, milk, sugar, and some cookies, but everything went untouched. Edward Grant could barely get a word out.
Winifred Grant looked a good twenty years younger than her husband. While she had a lovely figure, her face, Beth thought, was indeed as Olivia had once described her motherâa little horsey. Her hair was thick and black and could only be termed by any reasonable person as a mane. Her teeth, also impossibly white, looked a bit large for her mouth, like a row of old-school refrigerators in the Bremerton appliance dealership that Beth and her mom shopped at when their dryer's element had burned out in July.
Olivia had called her mother Winnie, rather than Mum, and her name resonated in Beth's mind as the equinely ironic “whinny,” her name as horsey as her face.
“My husband adored our daughter,” Winnie said, before offering a correction. “We
both
adored our Olivia.”
Beth highly doubted that. Olivia hadn't exactly been a fountain of information about her family life, but she'd never indicated a deep devotion to her mother. Nor did she mention her with even the slightest trace of affection. The way Olivia saw it, everything Winifred Grant did was for herself and the advancement of whatever her agenda was at the moment. She'd been nurturing to Olivia when she was a toddler, but after a time it appeared that Winnieâwhom Olivia occasionally referred to as “Winnie the Loo”âwas a climber. Her husband had a chat show on British television, and she'd wormed her way into his life first as an assistant producer, back then with a hook baited with sex appeal and promises of devotion. A family life too. Edward was a surprisingly easy target: a workaholic with an ego the size of Buckingham Palace. He needed constant reassurance, and Winnie was extremely efficient in that endeavor. She showered Olivia with attention in the early years of childhood, all the while biding her time for the freedom that came with boarding school. The program that brought Olivia to study in America had been Winnie's idea.