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Bellingham, Washington

Thursday, February 27, 2020

The call that came in from an unidentified number shortly after noon on Thursday was completely out of the blue, but it was

a game changer.

“Mr. Beaumont?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Yolanda Aguirre. I’m a forensic economist based in Seattle. An acquaintance of mine, Todd Hatcher, suggested I

give you a call.”

That was a relief. I was afraid it was someone asking me for a donation to their pet charity.

“Todd’s a good friend of mine,” I said. “How can I help you, Ms. Aguirre?”

“I believe we have a mutual interest,” she replied. “I’m working on a grant from the Washington Department of Social Services to study the long-term economic and psychological effects of drug overdose deaths on surviving family members. He said you were interested in knowing how overdose deaths broke down in terms of manner of death rulings. I may be able to shed some light on that.”

My heart skipped a beat. “You’ve actually studied the individual cases?” I asked.

“And interviewed a good number of the surviving family members,” she told me.

I could barely believe my ears. God love Todd Hatcher! If someone else had already gone to the trouble of combing through

that long catalog of death certificates, I wouldn’t have to.

“I’m doing a five-year study, starting in 2013,” Yolanda continued. “I’ve finished interviews through 2016, and I’m working

on 2017.”

I struggled to contain my excitement. “And you’re interviewing affected family members?” I asked, just to confirm what I thought

I’d heard.

“Wherever possible,” she replied. “In some cases, especially in terms of homeless victims, I was unable to locate any surviving family members at all. And wherever migrant families are involved, they’re generally unwilling to speak. Some of the refuseniks thought I was actually a cop of some kind masquerading as someone else, probably Border Patrol. But a surprisingly large number of the ones I did interview were more than willing to speak primarily because they really wanted to talk to someone about their dead loved one when everyone else seemed to have forgotten. When their parent, child, brother, or grandson died of a drug overdose—by and large the victims are male—the death may have registered as an overdose statistic in the M.E.’s office, but that was it. No one was ever held responsible for what had happened. The lives of those individual families had been forever changed, but nobody else seemed to give a rat’s ass.”

I thought about Matilda Jackson. That was what she had wanted when I had gone to see her—an opportunity to talk about her

dead grandson to someone who would actually listen.

“As for law enforcement?” Yolanda continued. “As soon as there’s a suicide or accident ruling on an autopsy report and the

death certificate, it’s like the cops have King’s X. They close the books on the case and walk away.”

The term “King’s X” was something I remembered from playing tag during recess back in grade school. I had initially assumed

Yolanda to be fairly young. Now I revised that estimate upward by several decades.

“That’s been my experience, too,” I offered. “I suspect that the term ‘accidental overdose’ is a bureaucratic black hole used

to cover a multitude of sins. In fact, I’m currently working on just such a case from 2018, one in which the family believes

the victim was murdered.”

“I know,” Yolanda said. “Todd mentioned that might be the situation. I’ve encountered a few of those, too. That’s why I called.”

“Is there a chance I’d be able to read through any of those interviews?”

“I promised the families anonymity, so I’d need to redact the last names before handing them over.”

“That’s fine. If I see something that doesn’t look right, maybe you could go back to the families and get permission from

them to bring me into the picture. Whereabouts are you located?”

“I’m on the backside of Queen Anne Hill in Seattle. Why?”

“I’m in Bellingham,” I told her. “Maybe I could drive down and take a look at those interviews.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I recorded the interviews and had my intern, Elena Moreno, transcribe them. As I said,

I can have her redact the surnames and send you the pdfs. Would that work?”

“That would be amazing,” I said.

I gave her my email information.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll have Elena get on this right away.”

A batch of unseasonably warm air had blown in off the Pacific. With the thermometer on the back porch registering a balmy

fifty-five, Sarah and I set off on our walk. Naturally we ran into Hank Mitchell and Mr. Bean along the way.

“How’s that grandson of yours working out?” Hank asked.

“We’re doing all right so far,” I told him. “As for how things will be once the shutdown comes and he’s home round the clock?

That’s anybody’s guess.”

“I take it he’s something of a musician,” Hank observed.

“Right,” I said. “A drummer. I hope his playing isn’t bothering you.”

“Not at all,” Hank replied. “I used to be something of a drummer myself back in the day. Fancied I’d be the next Gene Krupa

when I grew up. That didn’t happen, of course. Ended up building houses instead.”

Was there a hint of regret in his voice when he said that? Maybe.

“We all have roads not taken,” I said.

“Isn’t that the truth,” he agreed. “I still have that first drum set, though,” he added. “I gave it to a grandson, but he gave it back when he joined the military. When we moved here, Ellen wanted me to unload it, but I told her as long as she still has all her quilting stuff, I’m keeping my drums. Maybe someday a great-grandson will love them as much as I do.”

Up until that moment, I hadn’t known Hank was a drummer and his wife was a quilter. They were our next-door neighbors, yes,

but there was a lot I didn’t know about them.

“Have you ever thought about taking up drumming again?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” he returned. “At my age?”

“How old will you be if you don’t?”

“There is that,” he agreed, and we both kept on walking.

Back at the house, I was sitting at the kitchen counter staring at Darius’s resurrected cell phone. It was no longer dead.

One of the CSIs at Mel’s department had managed to produce the right charger. The device was on, but it was still locked.

That was when Kyle walked past, heading for the fridge to grab a soda. “What’s up?” he asked.

“This phone belongs to a guy who died of a drug overdose a couple of years ago,” I told him. “I need to unlock it, but I don’t

know the password. It has six characters, but I know if I screw it up too many times, it’ll lock me out permanently.”

“What’s the password on your phone?” Kyle asked.

“My birthday,” I said. “What’s yours?”

“My birthday,” he answered. “If you know the guy’s birthday, why don’t you try that?”

After locating Darius’s birth date in my notebook, I typed in 09-18-92. Once I did that, the phone opened right up.

“Voilà!” I told Kyle. “You’re a genius.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, grinning back at me. “I’m a teenager.”

I spent the remainder of Thursday afternoon going through Darius’s list of recent calls. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

The people he had spoken to in either direction were all in his contacts list—Matilda, Gina Rising, his boss, Patrice Moser.

There were numerous calls and texts to and from a guy named Norm, no last name. Scanning through the collection of texts it

was clear that he had been Darius’s NA sponsor. If Darius had slipped in the days leading up to his death, Norm for sure would

know about it.

I tried Norm’s number, but the call went to voicemail. I left a message. “My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’m a private investigator

looking into Darius Jackson’s death on behalf of his grandmother. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call back.” I left

my number but I didn’t hold my breath about getting a call back.

For dinner that night, Mel brought home a bag of freshly made tamales and flour tortillas purchased from the mother of one

of Bellingham’s finest, a new recruit recently graduated from the police academy. The tamales along with servings of canned

refried beans topped with melted cheese made for a perfectly acceptable Mexican dinner.

“Word came down shortly before I left the office,” Mel told us as we ate. “The school shutdown will start the second week

of March. Given that, Kyle, are you sure you want to stay here with us?”

Kyle favored her with an exasperated look. “Don’t you guys ever talk?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Gramps already asked me the same thing, and I told him I want to stay here.”

“Fair enough then,” she told him, “but don’t forget, Alice Patterson comes on Saturday, so your room needs to be ready. That means your dirty clothes need to be washed, dried, and put away before she gets here. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kyle said.

Good answer , I thought. It sounded to me like he was catching on pretty fast.