Last Dance, Last Chance

breath and told them that Donna Woodcock was dead. “The woman we found was wearing your sweater—we think that someone killed her,” he said, carefully avoiding the horrific details of the homicide.
    “I loaned her my sweater last night. It gets so cool in the middle of the night,” Velda sobbed. “But are you sure it’s Donna?”
    “The description matches. The victim has long red hair and blue eyes, and she was wearing your sweater. I’m sorry.”
    When Leona and Velda Woodcock had finally steadied themselves from the shock, they said they thought they could answer Chaffee’s questions.
    “Was Donna afraid of anyone?” he asked quietly. “Was there anything in her life that might have led to this? Anyone hanging around her work who scared her?”
    They shook their heads. Donna wasn’t afraid of anyone. She was strong and independent. “My husband died last year,” Leona Woodcock said. “Since then, Donna’s been the only one working. She supported all of us. I have a law degree, but I never practiced because I got married right after law school.”
    Neither of them could imagine that Donna would have gone with someone she didn’t know. “She was too intelligent for that,” her mother said. “I kept telling her you couldn’t trust people until you know something about them—”
    “Wait,” Velda Woodcock said. “Someone might have been waiting for her to rob her. She took $250 out of her postal savings account yesterday. She needed it to pay for summer quarter tuition. She had it in her purse when she went to work last night. Maybe somebody saw it there when she opened her purse.”
    They hadn’t found a purse. But they had found the scattered clothing along Sand Point Way. Those clothes were taken to the Woodcock home, and Velda identified the slacks as the ones Donna had worn when she left for work the night before.
    Donna’s mother thumbed through a photo album and gave detectives a picture of her daughter. Donna had been a truly beautiful young woman, her red hair swept up into a pompadour in front and hanging in shining waves to her shoulders. Her features were lovely.
     
    Austin Seth and Don Sprinkle went to the Triple XXX Barrel drive-in on Bothell way, a few miles north of the field where Donna Woodcock was found. The owner was there, but he said he hadn’t been the night before. He gave them the name and address of another carhop who worked the same shift as Donna did.
    The two detectives located the young woman, Sandy Graham * , who had just awakened after working the late, late shift. She was making coffee, but she hadn’t turned the radio on yet. She hadn’t heard anything about the murder victim found near the Sand Point Naval Air Station.
    Sandy Graham was stunned when they told her about Donna’s murder. Tears filled her eyes.
    “Did you see her leave last night—ahhh—this morning?” Austin Seth asked.
    “Let me think…it’s hard to think,” the shocked girl said. “Donna said she had a ride home with a guy named Bruce. We knew him. He used to come into the TripleXXX. He drove up around nine, I remember. He was in a jeep. But when Donna went off duty at a quarter to three, I saw her get into another car.”
    “What kind of a car?” Don Sprinkle asked.
    “It was a big gray car. It looked like a very expensive car. It was parked near the restaurant.”
    Sandy didn’t know Bruce’s last name. She said that Donna had never talked much about him. “But Donna had very good judgment, and she must have thought he was O.K.”
    Sandy couldn’t give them a detailed description of Bruce, and she didn’t know if he had been the driver of the Lincoln or not; she wasn’t close enough to see the driver—and, of course, it was dark.
    Seattle newspapers carried the story of Donna Woodcock’s murder on the front page, along with a request for any information the public might have about the driver of the stolen gray Lincoln.
    The phone rang in Homicide the next morning. It was the officer of the day at the Sand Point Naval Air Station.
    “One of the marines stationed here just picked up the newspaper,” the naval officer said. “He recognizes the murdered girl and the Lincoln. He thinks he may know the man the girl left with. I have him here in my office now.”
    “Keep him there,” Don Sprinkle said. “We’re on our way.”
    Sprinkle and Austin Seth were at the Naval Air Station within 15 minutes. A young marine was there, waiting for them. His name was Fred