Northwest computers had no record of him. The policeman nodded and ran the name and the four birthdates through New Jersey computers. They drew no hits either.
Coltrane refused to show any documentation that would prove his identity, nor would he give the names of anyone who might identify him. If he hadn’t been hanging around kids in the shower, the officer would have let it go. But there was something a little ominous about the man. He wouldn’t give his home address or phone number. He demanded to talk to an attorney, deliberately escalating the conversation into an incident. At length, when he still would not give any accurate information about himself, he was booked into the Lynnwood jail for “obstructing.”
“Stewart Coltrane” was given a “cash only” bail of $1,000. He wasn’t in jail long. Someone in New Jersey contacted a bail bondsman in Seattle who provided the $1,000 bail. Stewart Coltrane, the alias for Steve Coole, walked out of the Lynnwood Jail a free and unidentified man.
O’Leary and Nordlund found the latest information confusing. If the dead man from the bus crash was both the shooter and the suspected child molester in Lynnwood, it made no sense. The M.O.s were completely different, and they both knew that the profiles for sex offenders and mass killers weren’t the same.
Even so, the Seattle homicide detectives were getting closer to finding out who the dead man really was. They ran the name Stewart Coltrane and found an address on 15th N.E. Gene Ramirez, O’Leary and Nordlund headed out there at 10:30 Friday night. They found the Ponderay Apartments easily enough, a four-story, square building in the University District.
It wasn’t difficult locating Coltrane’s unit; he was listed as the manager of the apartment house there.
That
was a bit of a surprise. They knocked, not really expecting anyone to answer; they figured Coltrane was lying on a slab at the M.E.’s office.
But someone answered the door, a large man with glasses. His hair wasn’t shot with gray and he was neither tall nor slender. “I’m Stewart Coltrane,” he acknowledged. “How can I help you?”
Coltrane gave his birthdate, and it wasn’t even close to the ones given by the man at the public pool in Lynnwood. He looked as puzzled as the investigators until John Nordlund mentioned the name “Coole.” Coltrane nodded. He knew a man named Cool.
“Silas Cool,”
he said. “You must mean Silas Cool. He’s one of the tenants here. I hardly know him, but let me take a look at his records.”
Coltrane checked the rent ledger. “Cool moved into Apartment 209 on June 18, 1985. He pays rent of $475 a month.”
“What’s he like?” O’Leary asked.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“He’s lived here for more than thirteen years, and you don’t know what he’s like?”
“I never see him. He keeps to himself. I see him maybe two, three times a year, tops.”
Ironically, the real Stewart Coltrane’s career dealt with people who were mentally and emotionally disturbed and he considered himself fairly good at recognizing people who were on the edge. He had never seen anything that unusual about Silas Cool, save for the fact that he was a loner. Coltrane said Cool paid his rent on time, minded his own business, and always kept his windows covered. As far as he knew, nobody in the apartment house knew Cool any better than he did.
It was with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension that Coltrane and the three homicide detectives headed up the stairs to the south side of the building. They noted two small windows in the back of the unit as they stood outside the door to Apartment 209. They knocked, but no one answered. They hadn’t really expected that anyone would. Then Coltrane slipped the master key into the lock and turned the knob.
Ramirez, Nordlund, and O’Leary entered a dark apartment that smelled of dead air, dust, dirty clothes, and a strange sweet-sour mediciney odor. Even when they switched
Coltrane refused to show any documentation that would prove his identity, nor would he give the names of anyone who might identify him. If he hadn’t been hanging around kids in the shower, the officer would have let it go. But there was something a little ominous about the man. He wouldn’t give his home address or phone number. He demanded to talk to an attorney, deliberately escalating the conversation into an incident. At length, when he still would not give any accurate information about himself, he was booked into the Lynnwood jail for “obstructing.”
“Stewart Coltrane” was given a “cash only” bail of $1,000. He wasn’t in jail long. Someone in New Jersey contacted a bail bondsman in Seattle who provided the $1,000 bail. Stewart Coltrane, the alias for Steve Coole, walked out of the Lynnwood Jail a free and unidentified man.
O’Leary and Nordlund found the latest information confusing. If the dead man from the bus crash was both the shooter and the suspected child molester in Lynnwood, it made no sense. The M.O.s were completely different, and they both knew that the profiles for sex offenders and mass killers weren’t the same.
Even so, the Seattle homicide detectives were getting closer to finding out who the dead man really was. They ran the name Stewart Coltrane and found an address on 15th N.E. Gene Ramirez, O’Leary and Nordlund headed out there at 10:30 Friday night. They found the Ponderay Apartments easily enough, a four-story, square building in the University District.
It wasn’t difficult locating Coltrane’s unit; he was listed as the manager of the apartment house there.
That
was a bit of a surprise. They knocked, not really expecting anyone to answer; they figured Coltrane was lying on a slab at the M.E.’s office.
But someone answered the door, a large man with glasses. His hair wasn’t shot with gray and he was neither tall nor slender. “I’m Stewart Coltrane,” he acknowledged. “How can I help you?”
Coltrane gave his birthdate, and it wasn’t even close to the ones given by the man at the public pool in Lynnwood. He looked as puzzled as the investigators until John Nordlund mentioned the name “Coole.” Coltrane nodded. He knew a man named Cool.
“Silas Cool,”
he said. “You must mean Silas Cool. He’s one of the tenants here. I hardly know him, but let me take a look at his records.”
Coltrane checked the rent ledger. “Cool moved into Apartment 209 on June 18, 1985. He pays rent of $475 a month.”
“What’s he like?” O’Leary asked.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“He’s lived here for more than thirteen years, and you don’t know what he’s like?”
“I never see him. He keeps to himself. I see him maybe two, three times a year, tops.”
Ironically, the real Stewart Coltrane’s career dealt with people who were mentally and emotionally disturbed and he considered himself fairly good at recognizing people who were on the edge. He had never seen anything that unusual about Silas Cool, save for the fact that he was a loner. Coltrane said Cool paid his rent on time, minded his own business, and always kept his windows covered. As far as he knew, nobody in the apartment house knew Cool any better than he did.
It was with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension that Coltrane and the three homicide detectives headed up the stairs to the south side of the building. They noted two small windows in the back of the unit as they stood outside the door to Apartment 209. They knocked, but no one answered. They hadn’t really expected that anyone would. Then Coltrane slipped the master key into the lock and turned the knob.
Ramirez, Nordlund, and O’Leary entered a dark apartment that smelled of dead air, dust, dirty clothes, and a strange sweet-sour mediciney odor. Even when they switched
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