26 KentAt three-fifty-five on Wednesday afternoon, Kent was at his desk at Washington State Patrol District Four headquarters. He grabbed the phone, dialed the main number for the crime lab in Cheney, and punched in the extension he wanted.
He pictured Will Jackson. Pudgy, balding, bespectacled. A stereotype of nervous nerdiness.
An image one hundred and eighty degrees from reality. His pal was a daredevil when it came to finding the truth. Coolly crossing the swampland of bureaucratic restriction on a tightrope.
“DNA Analysis,” a man answered.
He recognized Will’s voice.
“Hello there.” He paused to let Will do the voice-ID on him. “Got anything for me?”
“Still pretty busy.” Will doled out his words. “I’ll call you back when the day shift guys clear.”
Kent named a private lab in Swe
