Cold Crossover

by T. R. Kelly

  “I’m Dr. Holland and I will be heading up his—is it Linnbert?—his care.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “We call him Linn.”

  “And some people call him . . ?”

  “Cheese. Cheese Oliver.”

  “Right, well he’s a long way from being out of the woods. He’s incredibly dehydrated, and I won’t know the extent of his facial fractures for some time. Once we get him stabilized and ascertain his condition, we may have to transport him down to Harborview in Seattle.”

  I shuffled my feet and looked away. I was still attempting to come to grips with the events of the past twenty-four hours and needed the back of my sleeve to blot my eyes.

  “Doctor, thank you,” Harvey said. “Can you tell us what is your biggest concern at the moment?”

  Dr. Holland tipped his head down and briefly rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Not only has he had very little to drink, but I’m afraid he’s got some sort of kidney damage. It looks like he might have taken a serious blow to his side and one to his head. Quite frankly, he looks like he might have been beaten with a two-by-four, or a baseball bat. He needs to be examined by a top-notch nephrologist, and there’s just not one available up here.”

  I got my act together and re-entered the discussion. “So he’s going to make ... I mean ... be around for a while?” I said, not as recovered as I’d thought. Just as I got the words out, Dr. Oliver shuffled toward us.

  “As I mentioned, it’s tough to say,” Dr. Holland said. “We were able to get the IVs started immediately, and he’s responding well.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Dr. Oliver mumbled. He rested his head in his hands and slumped into a chair.

  “We’re running a lot of tests right now and should have a more complete report in a couple of hours,” Dr. Holland said. “I would suggest maybe you get a bite to eat— our cafeteria’s off the parking lot—and check back later. I will be here until midnight.”

  “Thanks, Doctor,” I said. “I really appreciate your help.”

  He nodded and pivoted toward the double doors. Harvey began his exit in the other direction.

  I waited then said, “Excuse me, Doctor. But, how did you know?”

  He turned and faced me, seemingly puzzled. “How did I know what? Oh, about Cheese?”

  “Right. Seems you knew something right away.”

  “One summer when I was in med school, several of us reffed a tournament at Western Washington up in Bellingham,” the doctor said. “Linn must have been about a junior in high school. He came up with a select team from Seattle’s eastside, maybe Bellevue or Issaquah. I believe you were an assistant? Anyway, I don’t think he missed a shot in the second half, all of ’em from a long way out.”

  “Good memory.”

  “It is difficult to forget something like that. I mean, it was an amazing performance. Each shot with perfect form, regardless of distance. I found myself watching instead of reffing. It was hard to keep the whistle in my mouth.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  1:30 p.m., Wednesday, February 9, 1982

  The pumpkin-garlic soup promoted on the cafeteria chalkboard smelled like a winner, but I couldn’t move myself to order a thing. Harvey appeared preoccupied with returning to the office and wanted me to accompany him. I was reluctant to leave the clinic.

  “You guys go ahead and go,” Robert said. “I’m not going anywhere and will be around when he wakes up. Here or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  At the cop shop, Harvey had his game face on and quickly marched into the interview room where Sheriff McCreedy signaled to us he was taking a break, a portable tape recorder blinking on pause on a table in front of him. Mitch Moore, still handcuffed, unfolded his bulky body on a bench against the far wall.

  “They’ve already read him his rights,” McCreedy said to Harvey. “And he’s declined two offers to have a lawyer. He really hasn’t said much of anything in quite some time.”

  Mitch remained fully reclined, like a first-class passenger on a cross-country flight. His eyes were closed and his round head rested against the wall. Several whiskered chins hung above his chest; his smile held more than a hint of smugness. While crossing in front of the desk en route to a folding chair on the far side of the room, I deliberately kicked the bottom of one of Mitch’s black Durango boots.

  “I can tell you what,” I said, doubting that my mellow voice concealed its tightness. “I felt there was something strange going last week at Tony’s when you offered to pay my way to spring training during state tournament time. No booster tries to influence a coach after he retires.” I stepped closer. “What did you do to Linn? You stinking pile of ...”

  McCreedy yanked me away. I straightened up, dragged my palms through my hair, and grudgingly returned to my chair. Mitch hadn’t budged and continued as if he were waiting for a bus downtown.

  “I only wanted to pick your brain about Lake Wilhelmina and property lines,” he said. “What stuff your lake customers had found in their yards. I heard rumors for years that the Tyler treasure was near the outlet creek. That’s why I sunk those steel poles in the creek and wrapped ’em with mesh. I knew the current would eventually bring any loose stuff my way. Dolan’s crew yanked them out when they unplugged the beaver dams. Pissed me off. I sunk Stan Bottom’s boat to pay ’em all back.”

  “So when Poppy Kurri and her girlfriends pulled in that satchel of precious stones,” Harvey said, “they probably ...”

  “Probably?” Mitch roared. “They fished that bag out right where I placed my screen. I’d been raking that area section by section for months since it thawed last spring. Even jumped in and poked around in that cold muck with my hands and feet. Doggone water’s so black; can’t see a thing.”

  “So when the sheriff awarded the girls what they found, both you and Bart Knight felt cheated,” I said.

  “Boy, you sure got it going today, Coach,” Mitch growled. “Wish you had been this smart when the state title was in your hands. But yeah, Knight thought if he’d sniffed around long enough it would pay off bigtime.”

  I stood, seething. A deputy I didn’t recognize at the door took a step toward me and shook his head, a casual warning for me to stay put.

  “And don’t think I didn’t leave love notes for you all these years,” Mitch said. “Those late-night phone calls? Crushed crab shells on your anniversary? Cracks in your kitchen window? How about that fender-bender at the Grange? Just doing my part for you screwin’ up at state.” He looked around, making eye contact with everybody in the room. “And I should probably thank you, Coach, for almost helping me get out of debt.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I stole so much stuff at the lake over the years, it damned near paid for money I lost in the title game. When I dumped all that gear in your garage—that damn motor and tool set were heavy by the way—it took the heat off of me and had the cops lookin at you. Ha! And the boats? Think there were four in four years—nice trailers, too—damn near paid the back taxes on my property. But, hey, what’s a guy to do? Frickin’ people from out of state pushing my property values. And you brought ‘em here, Mr. Real Estate Agent!”

  I leaped at Mitch. Before I could reach him, the same cop wrapped both his arms around my waist and swung me away while I flailed away.

  Mitch laughed and interlaced his fingers in his lap.

  “Yeah, you’re pretty dumb, Coach, but you don’t even hold a candle to Knight. Gotta be the dumbest hayseed you’ll ever find. He had no idea I’d been diggin’ on his land for that loot. Hell, I even trespassed over his place to set those poles and mesh. Knight thought the girls just lucked on to that ruby. But I had a darn good idea where to look for it.”

  Mitch wiggled his wide load, eased his head back on to the wall and again closed his eyes. Harvey pulled out his notebook.

  “And, tell me, Mitch,” Harvey said. “Just how did you decide where to set your man-made beaver dam in order to trap this treas
ure?”

  Mitch took a deep breath, his cuffed hands rising on his belly above his blue work shirt. He spoke without stirring or opening his eyes, like a sunbather unwilling to give up the brightest ray on a hot August afternoon.

  “Heard Cheese talkin’ one night at Tony’s Place about a year ago,” Mitch said. “He’d found this journal, this diary, under the trestle at Brookens Gorge. Said he and Barbara had kept it. When Doc Oliver put up his home for sale, I broke in. Picked the place apart. House and garage. Figured if it wasn’t there, it had to be at Barbara’s.”

  My gut was turning with bigger questions. About murder and kidnapping. I bit my tongue and allowed Harvey to continue, knowing he was the expert with the effective routine and legendary method.

  “So, you stole the journal when you stole the ’57 Chevy,” Harvey said.

  Mitch shook his head slightly, leaned forward, and stared at the polished concrete floor. “Yes, and no. The first time I broke in to the Sylanskis’ garage, I was drunker than a skunk. Too drunk to drive the car. Didn’t want to hit something, dent that beautiful baby. I found the journal, ripped out some pages, and put it back. Next morning, I read all about some lady havin’ a baby on a train, the Tyler gold we’d been hearing about for years, and how one of the Tylers told an old clinic nurse he’d burned down the old Madrona Resort.”

  “Then you went back for the car and the rest of the journal,” Harvey said.

  “Yeah, last week. Darn near a year later. Still don’t know how you found out about the ’57 Bel Air.”

  “Word tends to get around when someone drives one of the most popular cars in a small town,” I said. “People tend to notice.”

  There was a knock on the door. Sheriff McCreedy turned off the tape recorder and motioned to the uniformed officer to answer it. He spoke briefly to another cop in the hallway and then returned.

  “Mr. Creekmore, there’s a call for you at the switchboard,” the cop said. “Would you care to take it now? Or, would you like us to ...”

  “No, no, I’ll take it, thanks,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “And Sheriff McCreedy?” the cop said. “Apparently the medical examiner would like to speak to you or Mr. Johnston.”

  “I’ll take it, Sheriff,” Harvey said. “I’ll be back in a moment. Meet you back here, Ernie.”

  Robert Oliver sounded thirty years younger. No shortness of breath; no indication of fatigue.

  “Ernie, Doctor Holland says Linn is doing really well. Well enough, in fact, to move him down to Harborview in Seattle to see experts in critical care. He mentioned a weaker man would’ve had little chance of making it. I can’t help but attribute at least a bit of that toughness to you.”

  I experienced a lightness in my chest, a sensation of temporary detachment from the phone, the police station, and everyone in it. I felt free, nimble with a bring-it-on vigilance for anything down the road. Including the numbness in my hands.

  “Ernie! You there? Did you hear anything what I said?”

  “Yeah, Robert. I’m sorry. Lost it there for a second.”

  “There’s a kidney specialist on call down there and I know of him only by reputation. However, Doctor Holland knows him well and has worked with him in the past. We’re told he’ll see Linn whenever we get there.”

  “I just can’t believe how great this is,” I mumbled.

  “Right. How’s it coming over there?”

  “Mr. Moore is just starting to talk. Sounds like we are going to be here a while.”

  Robert was silent for a moment. Had the roles been reversed, I’d be screaming to know what the hell Mitch did to my kid.

  “There’s so much I want to know, Ernie,” he said. “But I’m still too angry to ask. I’m also extremely grateful, and I need to sit with that right now.”

  “Understand. Try calling Harvey’s car CB when you have an update for us.”

  When I got back into the interview room, Harvey was leaning over the desk, whispering quietly with Sheriff McCreedy. As I entered, the cop closed the door behind me, and Harvey rose to face Mitch Moore.

  “Now Mitch,” Harvey said. “Why don’t you explain to us”—he moved to within inches of Mitch’s nose—”JUST HOW MISTER DOLAN ENDED UP IN HIS OWN SEPTIC TANK?”

  “That was all an accident!” Mitch cried. “None of it was meant to happen. I mean, I loved the guy.”

  Sheriff McCreedy pushed his chair away from the table and paced in front of me. “Sounds like you really loved the guy. Great way to show it. By cutting him up and sticking him in his backyard sewer!”

  “None of what was meant to happen?” Harvey said.

  Mitch sighed and shook his head. “Hell, after the little girls found the ruby and I got my hands on the notebook, I was certain the Tyler gold was on the Dolan property. I’d checked the legal descriptions over the years; knew the property lines darn near by heart. Dolan had hired me to extend the drain field and do other work, so most people were not suspicious that I was always digging on his land.

  “But one day the old man surprises me out of the blue. Comes up to check the house, see if the For Sale signs were still up. Wants to know why I’m working in his yard. Sees me take a little gunny sack out of the ground and flop it on the back of my loader. Well, I won’t let him open it, and he pushes me away, sayin’ what’s on his land is his. Next thing I know, I crank him with a shovel. And he didn’t get up.”

  Harvey appeared equally flabbergasted and angry. He stood and flapped his notebook on an open palm in Mitch’s face. “Why didn’t you radio in, or use the phone at the Mountain Market. Tell 911 there’d been an accident?”

  “Man, I was scared! I didn’t know what to do.”

  “What you are is a greedy, miserable miser, Mitch! You saw the Tyler gold as a chance to hang up the hammer, maybe sell off your heavy equipment. So greedy in fact, that you cut up Jim Dolan and put him in a stinking sewer!”

  “Yeah! And you would have never found him if...”

  “If the deal to sell the house hadn’t come together so fast,” I said.

  Mitch again reclined on the bench, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “I didn’t know there was a solid deal on the house and that it was heading to escrow,” Mitch said. “This time of year, I guessed it would take much longer to get an acceptable offer. I figured the body would decompose by the time the system needed to be pumped, or I would find a way to handle it. I pump just about every septic system at that lake.”

  “I don’t understand,” the sheriff said. “Why weren’t you there to pump the Dolan’s place?’

  Mitch exhaled and sneered. “Damn message machine was full, I guess,” he said. “I was off trying to ditch a car. Because Coach was in such a doggone hurry to get the thing done, I guess the job went to some competitor before I even knew it. New law, making us pump before all homes are sold, has brought out a bunch of rookies looking for a fast buck.”

  “Sounds to me like you were just lazy and sloppy,” I said. “Again.”

  “Screw you, Coach.”

  “He’s got a point, Mitch,” the sheriff said. “You just confessed to a murder, and we barely had to ask.”

  Mitch tried to stand, but the door cop hustled over and shoved him back down.

  “All that gold and that ruby are rightfully mine!” he screamed. “My family put it there, and it should all have been given to me! Me!”

  “Now what on earth do you mean by that?” the sheriff said.

  “My granddaddy was Vance Tyler. All he left his illegitimate daughter was a sketchy, faded map of the sandspit where he thought his brother buried their loot from the North Skagit. Mother’s name was Mavis. Looked for years but didn’t find a thing. Said the guy she had me with stole the map before I was born.”

  “What became of your father?” McCreedy said.

  “Never met the asshole. Mavis waited ’til I could drive, then ran off with some lonesome picker. Left me with a beat-up Chevy Nova and made me promise to look for gold at Lake W
ilhelmina.”

  Harvey shook his head and paced across the room.

  “Hey, other people were findin’ stuff,” Mitch said. “Then I got my hands on that diary. Couldn’t stop looking.”

  Sheriff McCreedy circled behind the seated policeman, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms.

  “Say you are a Tyler, like you claim. Why didn’t you come forward and claim the satchel and the gold nuggets? If you could prove it, you would have been the next of kin.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mitch scoffed. “Mother gone and me a bastard kid? Saw a birth certificate once, but that was years ago. Anyway, I found my gold on Dolan’s property, until the basketball player got in the way. But what were the chances you would have taken all those valuable stones from that little girl and handed them to the bastard grandkid of the man who burned down her great-grandmother’s cabin? With the woman in it? I wouldn’t have stood a chance. Still, my family buried the gold, and it belongs to me.”

  The door cop stared at Harvey, incredulous.

  “You might have got away with it,” McCreedy said. “If you kept your mouth shut. You’re certain about all this?”

  Moore scoffed. “Problem was the kids. They found out when they dug up that diary. One of the reasons I ripped those pages out. They’re back at the cabin in a canvas sack with some gold. Seems ’ol Vance didn’t like Indians at all, liked to brag to Mavis about it. Mavis said she heard it from more of the women he slept with. I guess he was quite the servicer.”

  Harvey’s anger jumped into overdrive. “So you popped the Realtor, too, when he found you with the gold?”

  “Forget you, man!” Moore yelled. “I was up at Knight’s dealing with Cheese when that guy got whacked. No way you’re putting that on me!”

  Harvey exhaled noticeably. He approached Mitch, bent over in front of him, and glared into his eyes. “So, you want us to believe you had nothing to do with the death of a man a few feet from where you killed another one out of sheer greed?”

  Moore snickered, his top lip raised. “Think about it, mister investigator. Why on earth would I off a guy and leave him bleeding on a floor? I’m sorry, Harvey, but if I’d killed that squirrely wimp, Rice, I would have slam-dunked him and his tassel shoes in the septic with Old Man Dolan.” Mitch laughed. “They could have festered together –”