Chapter 18

Monday morning, bright and early as the old saying goes, I headed down to the Seattle Municipal Building where Sakol and Jeff L. have their offices. As I was driving down to the Public Safety building, I saw today was going to be another gorgeous day and the mountains were out in all their glory. See, contrary to popular belief, Seattle does have more than one nice day in a row. I really needed a nice day since my weekend had been such a bust. Try as I might, I was still spending too much time brooding about Slim.

By now I was almost past the shock of the grisly discovery of Slim’s body, and what I was working on was putting Slim’s death in some kind of context. His death made no sense as far as I could see. Could it really just have been some hopped up kid stoned out of his ever lovin’ on some weird drug like the police were saying? I had a hard time buying that idea because of the way he was killed. I can’t see any stoner cutting anybody’s throat the way Slim’s had been slashed. I needed more information and Jeff L. and Sakol were going to give it to me. They just didn’t know it yet.

Striding down the building’s hallways, I was getting depressed while looking at the décor. I decided that some place, somewhere, there is some drab little person whose sole function in life is to design buildings for various government agencies. All these designers do are design buildings just like this ugly one, complete with their dreary little interiors, and their goal is to try and make municipal buildings as depressing as possible. Every time I visit Jeff L. and Sakol’s office, I feel shock, dismay, and some depression at how dismal and lifeless their entire building appears. To make matters worse, Jeff and Sakol have to do their ... whatever it is detectives do in that environment. I understand it’s just an office building and the city built it to service the needs of our community. But was it necessary to make it so depressingly ugly?

What I thought was even worse was Sakol’s pathetic attempt to liven up their office with a half dead plant. The poor thing consisted of one very yellow, one brown, and one pale green leaf. In reality, the plant did very little to cheer up their cramped quarters. My hope is the person responsible for coming up with the decor must have figured most of the occupants should be out of the office and working the streets, not luxuriating in their dinky holes. Therefore, they didn’t need a nice office, or an aesthetically pleasing building, just a stone block would suffice. Even their window, which most cubicles on the floor didn’t have, looked out at the brick wall directly across the alley.

Woopty do!

Another thing I’ve noticed about police buildings is the odor. I don’t know if it’s the doubt, the worry, or maybe just plain fear, but if you visit enough police stations and jails, you’ll soon notice the same smells. Needless to say, as much as I enjoy Sakol and Jeff L.’s company, I try to spend as little time as possible in their bleak building and I try to spend even less in their depressing cell. Excuse me, their office.

Neither one of them were at their desks when I arrived, so I decided to hang around and wait a few moments, hoping that one of them might show up. I’d asked the desk sergeant on the way in if he knew if either of them was in the building. He thought they were still somewhere on site. As I sat there waiting, I noticed a folder lying on Sakol’s desk marked “John Doe.” Curiosity got the best of me, and I picked it up and flipped it open.

My assumptions about the contents were correct. It was the autopsy of the man murdered in the vacant lot behind my place. One photo of his face was very clear. I know this sounds strange, but for a moment I thought I recognized him. But the person I thought it might be looked somewhat different. I stared at the photo for quite a while, trying to see through the memories of way too many years past. The face was so tantalizing ... but it remained so elusive.

Another photo was of the victim’s left upper arm. The tattoo on the arm in that photo was identical to mine. Examining it carefully I saw it was faded, like mine. The two tattoos seemed to be from the same time period. I looked at it in hopes it might tell me something, but no such luck. I looked over the small packet of dental x-rays, which were informative. Under remarks, I read that the coroner had noted the deceased showed signs of plastic surgery. I picked up the picture again to see if knowing about the plastic surgery might help me recognize the man. It didn’t.

The coroner went on to conclude that the surgery was several years old, and appeared to have been expensive since it was very well done. The last paragraph of the report stopped me cold. Whoever John Doe was, he was already as good as dead before someone shot him in the vacant lot. The coroner’s report said the deceased had cancer spread throughout his body. He estimated that Mr. Doe had no more than three months to live. I read it again to make sure I read it correctly the first time. After reading over the report again, and everything that was wrong with John Doe, I concluded, it sounded to me whoever killed Ol’ Jonnie in my vacant lot actually did him a favor and saved him a lot of pain and suffering.

I picked up the picture one more time. I still had the feeling I was missing something. The face looked so familiar, but I could not pinpoint his name. I was frustrated. I wondered if an old friend of mine would know who it was. My friend’s name is Walter, and I’ve known him since the old days. I decided I’d have to get a hold of him and see if Walter could tell me if he knew who the dead person was.

After I finished my careful scan of the contents, I tossed the folder back on the desk. I was disappointed with what I’d found. I’d hoped to recognize who died in my backyard. Our outfit wasn’t that big, and I was sure I’d know Mr. Doe. Just as the folder hit the desk, both detectives came around the corner carrying Styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands, but no donuts. I considered for a moment making a cop joke but decided just to keep my smart mouth shut. I pointed to the folder and asked to nobody in particular, “Any luck finding out who our John Doe was?”

Both Sakol and Jeff L. shook their heads. Jeff L. remarked from the sound of my comment I didn’t seem to know who the guy was either. I explained how I felt somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew the person, but for some reason he looked different. I mentioned I’d seen that JD had plastic surgery, but it was good enough to change his features, which meant I had no idea who it was.

Jeff L. continued telling me they had submitted the prints to various Washington, DC organizations, and they were still waiting to hear back. Sakol said they both thought it was strange it was taking so long to hear back on the prints. Both agreed it usually took less than twenty-four hours, but this was dragging out. Jeff L. opened the folder and withdrew one of the pictures of the deceased. “Here,” he said as he handed me the photo, “I had them make an extra copy for you. I thought you might want one. As I remember, you keep in touch with some of your buddies from Nam. Pass it around.”