by T. R. Kelly
The car in front of Timoteo’s pulled away from the pump. He flashed a wait-a-minute finger, jogged five steps to his rig and nuzzled it close to the nozzle. As I edged the bus close behind his bumper, I thought about how far he had come and how much he had given.
The son of a Mexican migrant who journeyed north to work the potato fields of Southwest Washington, Timoteo starred in soccer and track at Ridgefield High School and led the Spudders to a state soccer title before earning an academic scholarship to the University of Portland. After medical school, he filled a vacation relief position in the Skagit County Clinic’s emergency room and never left.
He also filled an unofficial position as my trainer, his black bag always behind our bench jammed with Ace bandages, rubbing alcohol, tape, tetanus shots, and suture thread. Just as important, he had an uncanny way of soothing the refs during games, especially after my first technical foul. For more than fifteen years, Timoteo Mesa kept me on the floor with his diplomacy; he kept my players on the floor with his professional skills.
The heavy metal nozzle clicked and released, signaling the tank had reached its max. Timoteo squeezed in a few more ounces until it flinched again and replaced the hose on the pump. “Adios, mi amigo.” He waved. “Vaya con dios.”
I stuck my head and left shoulder out of the driver’s window and anchored myself with one hand on the steering wheel. “Timoteo, you in a hurry?”
“No, not really, Coach. What’ve you got?”
I popped out of the bus. And told him about the crazy sensations in my hands and feet. “No real pain but some numbing that seems to come and go,” I explained. “Maybe I’m just getting old and paying the price for years of running on bad basketball floors.”
Some guys would have told me to take two aspirin and call their nurse in the morning. Not Timoteo. Which is probably why he lived in a modest brick rambler on the Skagit Flats near Conway and not in a fashionable Seattle high-rise overlooking Elliott Bay.
“How long’s this been going on?”
“Hard to say for sure. Certainly felt it when I was having dinner at Tony’s Place on Wednesday night.”
He folded his forearms over his chest. Even when relaxed, his muscles and arteries beamed from his smooth brown skin. “Do you remember falling down playing basketball with the Saturday morning gang? I think I’ve missed three straight weeks, so I wouldn’t know. Any acute incident that you can recall?”
“There’s nothing I can really pinpoint, but ...”
Timoteo insisted I meet him behind the store after we pumped our gas. He had the rear passenger door open with a faded beach towel covering the flat back behind the second seat. He dug deep into his black bag, pulled out three silver instruments then shoved the satchel against the right wheel well.
“Take your shoes and socks off and sit down here a second,” he ordered.
Timoteo tapped my knees and the crooks of my elbows with a tiny stainless-steel hammer with a head that looked like a rubber orange tomahawk. He then poked around the bottoms of my feet with a dull safety pin, gauging the degree of feeling in several different spots. I jumped at a few random jabs, barely noticed a few others. He repeated the process on the back of my hands, palms, and forearms, and did it all again with a metal pinwheel that could have passed for a miniature pizza cutter.
“Well, your reflexes are good, but you clearly have more sensation in some areas than in others.” He turned his right palm toward the sky. “For example, the pinkie and ring finger on both your hands are not as responsive as the area around your thumb and index finger.”
“So, do you think that’s what the ladies at the office mean when they say I’m insensitive?”
He chuckled.
“So, what does all this mean?” I said. “Are we talking some sort of nerve damage?”
“Possibly, but I’m not an expert in any of this. Rather than me guessing about the prospects, go see a specialist who deals in this kind of stuff every day. Let them run a few tests. They may want to get an MRI to better understand what’s going on.”
“Do I need to attend to this right away?”
“I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger, Coach. But I’ve always thought it was better to find out sooner rather than later. That way, at least you’ll know. Then you can choose to deal with it as you please.” He thought a moment. “There’s a new neurologist office in the medical square next to the Skagit Valley Clinic. Name’s Crehan. Elmer Crehan. He’s had a practice in Seattle for years but is working up here two days a week now. Bought a home in Warm Beach a couple of years ago. Plans on living there most of the year. Go see him; see what he says.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
9 a.m., Monday, February 7, 1982
Jessie McQuade had the bucks to shop until she dropped, and she always dressed to the nines, even in Harvey Johnston’s dismal county office. The classy, cute strawberry blonde took her ex-husband to the cleaners when he ran off with a younger woman, and the downtown Seattle Macy’s and Nordstrom loved him for doing so. With a master’s degree in communications, she kept her boss on his toes.
“Ernie Creekmore! Well, just make my day!” Jessie smiled. “Have a seat, Coach. He’ll be right with you.”
Her spotless white blouse was conservatively buttoned; her perfect lightweight flannel pants probably came direct from Saint John Knits. Cathy had one pair. Only one, in black.
“Some guy’s on the phone from Baltimore wanting Harvey to fly back there pronto to look at blood spatter and footprints. Can you imagine? Cross-country flight to look at blood and dirt?”
“What can I say?” I said. “The man’s got a famous rep.”
“And everybody knows that you are famous for teaching youngsters to play basketball. I know you’re probably somehow still involved ...”
“Only from the stands. Don’t know if I’ll get back on the bench with the kids.”
She smiled, sat up straight at her desk and cocked her head slightly, like an elementary school teacher posing her first question to a new class.
“Ernie, there’s an interesting independent film being shown at the Lincoln Theater tonight. The director is an older French fellow that I have followed for years and truly enjoy. Would you have any interest in seeing it with me? I believe it screens at seven.”
For some reason, the invitation really hit home. “Let’s see. French films. Lots of colorful flowers and clueless, skinny guys wearing black?”
“Very funny, but I’m certain there’s more to it than that. In fact, there’s a small group staying around afterward to discuss the film with a professor from Skagit Valley College. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were good around people.”
I shrugged and widened my stance. Maybe she just pitched the tiny confidence-builder I needed. But did I remember how to do this stuff? With single women?
“You know, Jessie, I’d like that. I’ll swing by and pick you up a little after six-thirty.”
She stood, grinning. “Well, that’s, that’s just wonderful!”
Harvey Johnston had one hand on his forehead when he opened the door to his inner sanctum. “Coach, come on in,” Harvey said. “Need to bounce some more stuff off your real estate-oriented brain. Mine doesn’t seem to work in that category.”
“Not working? That’s a first,” I said. “But I have to warn you. Sometimes what I got upstairs doesn’t want to work at all.”
Harvey flashed Jessie, who was trying to get his attention, a what’s-the-matter glance. “And?”
“I’m getting more and more inquiries from radio, TV, and newspapers wanting your time,” Jessie said. “Some of those older men can be rather forward. Asking me for a date ’n stuff. How would you like me to handle them?”
“Anybody who asked you for ’n stuff should be handled like the jerk they are,” Harvey roared. Once he settled down, he continued. “Now, are there any real reporters out there doing real research, or are there just a bunch of radio and TV guys looking for a five-second so
und bite?”
“They don’t seem to care just about the Rice case, sir,” Jessie continued. “They all want you to go on the record and say that what happened to Linn Oliver and Mark Rice are related.”
“Yeah, well, dream on, because I don’t even know! These people sure want all homicides tied up in a neat little package. But you know what? There is no evidence to link these two situations unless one of your new media buddies knows a hell of a lot more than this office does.”
Harvey walked toward the window and glanced down to the street. He interlaced his fingers behind his head, spread his feet and stretched side-to-side, pendulum-like.
“Well, Greg Smithson called earlier today,” Jessie said. “He’s on his way up here now from Seattle and would like a minute. I’ll just tell him to ...”
Harvey turned back and managed a faint smile. “Smitty? From The Trib? Send him in when he gets here.” He folded his arms and squinted at me. “What do you know about buying a listing?”
Squirming and stretching, I had forgotten how uncomfortable the county’s visitors’ chairs could be. “Means an agent priced a home higher than anybody else, hoping to impress the owner and get the listing. Some sellers are impressed by big numbers, pumps their ego. Usually bad for everybody else, though.”
“How so?”
“If the asking price is too high, the home will just sit on the market. The Sherrard place is a good example. His number’s in the clouds, so there’s no action. Cookie had a shot at it but didn’t want to bust her butt marketing a property that’s unreasonably priced.”
“So, Mark Rice bought the listing?”
“Maybe, but Pee Wee’s not that kind of an agent. Frankly, there’s a lot of other agents who would have done the same thing.”
“No money changed hands?”
“No,” I said. “‘Buying a listing’ is just an expression. Why are you so interested?”
Harvey rolled up his sleeves and leaned back in his chair. “I’m wondering if Rice turned somebody’s crank in getting that listing. Maybe stepped on somebody who thought they were in line. Sizable commission’s at stake, right?”
“Yeah, a nice payday. When it sells. And that can be a long, hard when. You talk to Sherrard?”
“Yeah. What a hard guy to like. Has more people screening his calls than a politician. All he did was whine about how long his house was going to be off the market because of the investigation. Said I was keeping him from earning a living. There might have even been a threat in there somewhere.”
“Think he’s a suspect?”
“Sure. Just about everybody is right now! Except he’s higher on the list, given his jerk factor.” Harvey paused. “So, you were saying if the home doesn’t sell, the owner gets another agent who tries another price?”
I understood where this was going, but the gamble was just too great for the reward.
“But would you really pop somebody, Harvey, just for losing a listing? Agents lose listings all the time. What’s done is done. You move on. Just like you do after losing an important game.”
Harvey looked at me as if I had just landed from Mars. “All people don’t work that way, pal.. Some get angry and stay angry. Many crimes don’t have any logic involved whatsoever, but ...”
The intercom buzzed, jolting Harvey’s focus. Simultaneously, a tiny white light above a series of rectangular phone buttons began to blink. He punched one near the middle then leaned down near the speaker. “What? And, please make it quick.”
“Mr. Smithson is here to see you, sir,” Jessie announced. “Would you like to have him wait until ...”
Harvey’s face relaxed, as if someone had just picked up his tab for a cold beer and a French dip. “Well, please show him in, Jessie.”
The sportswriter arrived in his ubiquitous blue cotton sweater and casual corduroys, a reporters’ notebook stuffed into a hip pocket. Harvey greeted him politely, as did I, and waved him to a seat. Smithson flicked open the narrow spiral binder, then thumbed to an empty page and gripped the top of a black felt pen temporarily between his teeth while he scribbled a few unintelligible lines. Once he was set, he pushed his thinning hair off of his formidable forehead and sat in the chair opposite the county official. From the way he moved, his chair appeared about as cozy as mine.
“I know you’ve got a full plate these days,” Smithson began. “I’ve talked with the state patrol on several occasions trying to get as much information as I can regarding Linn Oliver. He certainly was a special kid, and people sure remember his name. By the way people talk, it’s as if half the state saw that title game.”
Tell me about it. It was incredible how many people said they were sitting at halfcourt when the final shot went up.
Smithson continued, “I seem to have hit an impasse. Has the state patrol passed along any additional information you might be able to give me?”
Harvey slumped back in his chair. “Thank goodness the first question out of your mouth was not about connecting the two cases. You probably are aware that we are restricted from commenting on the specifics of an ongoing investigation, but WSP hasn’t given us squat. Don’t quote me on that. In fact, put your pen down for a moment and let’s go off the record.”
Smithson stopped writing, capped the pen, and placed it on Johnston’s desk, indicators he’d accepted Harvey’s request. I wasn’t the only guy in the room who was old-school.
“Oliver’s yellow station wagon was pretty much no help at all,” Harvey said. “Lots of filthy socks and tees in that vehicle. A couple of pairs of sneakers, different sizes. Lots of fast-food wrappers. We had our best guys comb that vehicle from stem to stern and couldn’t come up with any substantial signals that showed whoever was driving was rarin’ to jump off that ferry boat. Quite frankly, it looks like somebody bought himself a Northlake Pizza and went to play some buckets.”
Smithson had gleaned similar accounts from other authorities, including his contacts at the state patrol.
“So his game jersey wasn’t in the car?”
“Game jersey?” I laughed. “At Silverdale Community College? Those boys have been known to go shirts and skins.”
“Seriously,” Harvey said. “He could have put his shoes, shorts, and maybe an extra shirt in a gym bag or backpack and got out of that car after the Bremerton ferry got under way. Then maybe he caught a ride with another player on the boat and forgot his car. Who knows? Nobody remembers seeing him in the main cabin, that’s for sure.”
Harvey told Smithson that cops from other counties on Puget Sound and on the nearby islands—Vashon, Whidbey, Bainbridge, Blake, Maury—had not reported any bodies or gym bags washing ashore. Not all the coastlines are accessible, however, and many property owners are seasonal occupants, leaving unchecked private beaches as possible landing points.
“Coach Creekmore and I will be talking with as many of Linn’s old friends and teammates that we can find. I know Ernie had been concerned about the player’s well-being, but again, please keep this stuff out of the paper.”
“Will do,” Smithson said. “But I’ve got to write something. Even the wire services are screaming for some sort of update. It’s difficult to make them happy by rehashing the same old stuff. I just hope something breaks in the case soon.”
“You and me both,” Harvey murmured,
Smithson reached for his notebook and eyed his pen.
“Coach, I don’t get your involvement in all of this. I mean, I understand the visit to my office but you’re here, too? I’m wondering if my next story is about Linn’s former coach becoming an official part of the investigation.”
“Let’s be clear on this,” Harvey cut in. “Nothing Ernie is doing, has done, or will do, is official. He asked some preliminary questions because he has a long history with Linn. And, quite frankly, with you. He also knows about houses and what drives people to buy and sell them.”
“Seems to me he’s asked a lot of preliminary questions of some other players, too.”
&nbs
p; Harvey glared at me. “Such as?’
“Well, Robert Morrell down at the Coast Guard said Coach was ‘on him’ right away about why there was no helicopter to search the Sound near the ferry crossing that night. Seems Coach thought Linn had been missing long enough ...”
“Ernie!” Harvey yelled and stomped a foot to the floor. “Didn’t we talk about this? What the hell did you do? Walk into the U.S. Coast Guard station and represent you were the Skagit County Crime Division?”
I pulled a closed fist to the side of my chair and took a deep breath. “I called Robert to say hello. He’s a young man I truly enjoyed coaching.” Harvey smirked and glared at me. “Hey, we talked about some of the old Crabs, some regional teams, that he was one of the better on-ball defenders ever to play for the school. And then I asked him what it takes to get a bird in the air.”
Harvey shook his head and momentarily rested it on the top of his desk like a kindergartner ready to play 7-Up. He returned his back to the chair, sighed and offered a what’s-next smile.
“Well, tell us, Ernie. What did Mr. Morrell have to say?”
I cleared my throat and noticed Smithson was taking notes. “Is this on the record?” I asked.
“Greg, if you would,” Harvey said. “Just background for now. Lord knows how much I want to see Coach’s quotes on this in the paper. He’s such an expert on the subject.”
Smithson nodded and put down his pen.
“Search boats went out later that night but getting a copter was a problem,” I said. “Seems the one they wanted was stuck at the Naval Air Station up on Whidbey Island and it took forever to find a backup. By the time that was arranged, some kid crashed his car in Kingston and had to be airlifted to Harborview Medical Center. So, no air search took place that night, but a copter did go up Wednesday morning and afternoon. No trace of anything unusual. I know the Coast Guard boats still were active yesterday but they’ve begun to feel they have done all they can do. That’s about what I know.”
