The Cascade Killer (Luke McCain Mysteries Book 1)

by Rob Phillips

  “Okay,” McCain said to the dog. “Go find them.”

  Jack took off on a run, with McCain trying to follow as quickly as he could without twisting an ankle on the rocks, or worse yet, breaking a leg.

  He heard Williams’s voice in the distance say, “Hey Jack! Where’s that no-good partner of yours?”

  “I’m right here,” McCain said as he came around a small growth of young pine trees. “But I’m not sure why. This is YSO’s call from what I can tell.”

  Actually, McCain was glad he had been asked to come take a look. He wanted to see if there were any similarities to the body of the Pinkham woman other than the fact that it had been found on the east side of the Cascades, miles and miles from anywhere.

  McCain said his hellos to Williams and the young deputy Stratford and introduced himself to the two antler hunters. Jack did the sniffing-to-get-to-know-you routine all dogs do with Mutt and Jeff. Within twenty seconds the three dogs were romping up the hill, chasing each other with tails wagging a hundred miles an hour.

  “What a beautiful dog,” the young lady said to McCain. “Deputy Stratford here says he’s a tracking dog. Did he track us here?”

  “No,” McCain said. “I followed your tracks. Williams here leaves a print like Sasquatch, and evidently . . .” McCain paused and looked at the feet of the other two men, “so does Stratford. Both size 12 or 13 if I’m not mistaken.”

  McCain looked more closely at the young female shed hunter. She was white as a sheet and was nursing a bottle of water like it was a gift from God.

  Something, probably coyotes, with the help of ravens and magpies, had made a mess of the body. The woman’s eyes were missing, and the body had literally been torn apart and mostly eaten from the inside out. Like that of the Native woman found earlier, this woman had long black hair. But there were no other distinguishing marks or clues that might tell if she, too, had been Native American. She definitely could have been, but she also could have been of Mexican or Central American descent, or a white woman with black hair.

  McCain looked closely at the body and concentrated on the chest area. He knew how scavengers fed. They would get into the main body cavity to eat the organs first. He couldn’t be certain, because the body had been ravaged, but it looked like the chest of this woman had been partially sliced open. McCain recalled the body of the other woman and remembered thinking that her torso might have been cut open prior to being scavenged as well.

  The county coroner had found no clear cause for death of the Pinkham woman, and it was McCain’s opinion he would have trouble determining a cause of death for this woman too. The coyotes and birds had pretty much made sure of that.

  “The crime lab folks are on their way,” Williams said. “And dispatch said the FBI agent wants to see the body before it is moved.”

  “A regular alphabet soup of investigators,” Stratford said. “YSO, WDFW, FBI.”

  Williams just looked at the young deputy and then back to McCain and said, “So, any thoughts McCain?”

  “Not really,” McCain said.

  “I’m guessing this was a hiker who got lost and succumbed to the elements,” Stratford said.

  “Could be,” Williams said. “But you don’t see many women hikers out here on their own.”

  “My friend Ashley goes hiking by herself all the time,” said the very pale Mandy Spiers. “She hikes all over these mountains. She’s like that woman who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada. You know the one they made the movie about that starred Reese Witherspoon.”

  McCain felt like asking if her friend had long black hair but refrained.

  “Well, I’ve seen all I need to see,” said McCain. “Why don’t you folks hike back to the rigs with me and Jack and leave the deputies here to do their job?”

  He whistled for Jack, who came back with the two golden retrievers in tow, and McCain and the shed hunters and the three dogs headed up over the ridge toward the vehicles.

  Chapter 6

  McCain had driven most of the way down the mountain when his phone rang.

  “This is McCain,” he said into the cab of the truck.

  “Officer McCain, this is Agent Sinclair. We met the other day at the meeting down in Toppenish.”

  “Yes, Agent Sinclair,” McCain said. “How may I help you?”

  He wondered what happened to all the crap about keeping things on a first name basis, but he guessed this was official business.

  “I hear you’re up at the body of a woman that some people found in the mountains.”

  “I was up there,” he said. “But I’m on my way back down to town.”

  “Any chance you’d be interested in going back up there?” she asked. “I’d like to see the body for myself, before it’s transported to the morgue.”

  “Sure, but you’ll have to ride along with my yellow Lab, Jack,” McCain explained. “He’s not too much of a bother. Where are you right now?”

  “I’m on I-82, just passing the Selah exit.”

  “Okay, get off on the next exit, get on North Wenas Road and follow it all the way north until you leave the pavement. I’ll be waiting for you there. I’ll be in the tan Ford F-150 with a yellow dog sticking his head out the window.”

  “See you soon,” the FBI agent said. “Oh, and by the way, I love dogs.”

  Agent Sinclair showed up in a black Chrysler that screamed law enforcement. McCain figured that driving those cars was mandated as part of the purchase plan by the federal government back when some of the car companies were failing.

  “Do they make you drive that rig?” McCain asked as Sinclair walked up to him where he sat on the tailgate of the pickup. “Or did you choose that one out of the motor pool?”

  The image of the dark-haired agent in the black rig again reminded him of the actress in the Men in Black movie. What was that lady’s name?

  “Hey, I like this car,” she said. “It’s got plenty of power and, while the gas mileage sucks, I can get to where I want to be plenty fast.”

  “Well, they will see you coming from six miles away,” McCain said.

  “And they can’t see you coming with that giant badge on the doors and the extra-large radio antenna on the roof?” Agent Sinclair extended her hand, and said, “Thanks Luke, I really appreciate it. Now where is this dog I’ve heard so much about?”

  Oh, so now we ARE on a first name basis, McCain thought to himself. He was okay with that.

  The last time McCain had seen Jack he was tearing around a giant ponderosa, hot on the heels of a gray squirrel. He whistled, and a moment later Jack came running up a dry creek bed, tail wagging and tongue dragging.

  “He looks like he’s having a good time,” Sinclair said.

  Jack came over to the person who had magically appeared while he was off chasing the forest creatures. He sniffed Sinclair, and then he let her scratch his ears.

  “Okay, you’ve passed the Jack test,” McCain said. “Anyone who is okay by him is okay by me. Let’s load up. We’re burning daylight.”

  On the jarring ride back up the road, Sinclair started peppering him with questions. Since they hadn’t had a chance to talk about the discovery of the first woman’s body, she asked him to give her all the details. He started at the beginning, telling of the bear hunters shooting and field dressing the bear, finding the ear and then leading the deputies and WDFW officers to the bear. He then told how he put Jack on the trail, backtracking the bear until they had discovered the body.

  She asked him about seventy-three more questions, and McCain answered every one patiently and with as much detail as he could. Her questions were thoughtful and smart, and he was impressed with how she was seemingly thinking everything through.

  When they arrived back at the place where he had parked earlier, there was just one YSO rig remaining. And when they made it back over the hill to where the body was found, they discovered that Deputy Stratford had been assigned the duty of hanging out at the crime scene to keep the birds an
d any other scavengers away until the crime scene folks arrived. Stratford was sitting twenty yards or so from the remains, looking at his cell phone.

  “You remember Agent Sinclair from the meeting the other day?” he asked Stratford as they walked down the hill toward him.

  “Yes, I do,” Stratford said. “I’m looking forward to hearing your take on all of this.”

  With that, Sinclair started looking closely at the gruesome mess that, at some point in time, had been a healthy woman. She took photos with her cell phone, some up close, others farther away. And, with an extending wand-type apparatus that she magically pulled out of her pocket, she poked and probed different areas of the bones and meat. She didn’t say a word.

  When she was done, she looked at McCain and said, “Okay, we can head back now.”

  McCain looked at Stratford, who looked back at McCain, and then they both turned and watched as Sinclair marched up the hill.

  “Not one for a lot of questions or small talk,” Stratford said.

  “You should ride up a bumpy road with her,” McCain said. “I’m her lift outta here, so I guess I better catch up. The crime scene people should be here shortly.”

  And with that he gave the deputy a head nod, turned, whistled for Jack, and headed up the trail after Sinclair.

  When they got back to the truck the guys with the State Patrol crime lab were just unloading a stretcher and other equipment. McCain showed them the now obvious trail to the body that was getting worn into the grass and dirt and wished them good luck.

  Back in the truck, bumping down the two-track road, Sinclair turned to McCain and asked him what he thought about the discovery of the woman’s body.

  “What do you think?” Sinclair asked.

  “Well, I don’t think she was a lost hiker,” McCain said. “And, she wasn’t up here looking for mushrooms or antlers. The clothing is just not right. I think she was killed someplace else and dropped out here. Looking at the surroundings there were no signs of a struggle, and while there was some blood, there should have been more under the body.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” Sinclair said. “And, I don’t think this woman was Native American.”

  “Well, I guess that’s good, huh?” McCain said.

  “Why would someone bring a body way up here?” she asked, almost to herself.

  “Think about it,” McCain said. “It’s the perfect place to get rid of a body without being seen. And if someone does find the remains, they will most likely be a bleached-out bunch of bones scattered in nine directions.”

  “Yeah, except for the two bodies that have been found recently. They weren’t a bunch of bones.”

  “They weren’t too far from it,” McCain said. “Give them a couple more months, after the bones had been picked clean by the crows and magpies, and the summer sun had pounded away at them. Then they’d be hard to distinguish from any other animal’s bones out here.”

  “Hmmm,” thought Sinclair.

  “There could be a dozen other women’s bodies out here if someone has been doing this for a while,” McCain said.

  “Or more,” Sinclair said.

  They got back to Sinclair’s super sedan, and as she was climbing out of McCain’s truck, she said, “I haven’t eaten anything since I had a really bad energy bar at eleven. You want to go grab a bite someplace?”

  About that time McCain’s stomach growled loud enough that both Sinclair and Jack turned and looked at him.

  “I guess I could eat,” McCain said. “I know a great little pizza place that also has sandwiches and salads.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a steak and a baked potato,” she said. “But okay, if you need a salad to keep up your boyish figure, I’m good with that.”

  “I have to drop Jack at home and feed him. How about we meet in a half hour?”

  “Sounds fine. Give me the directions to the pizza place.”

  Over dinner they talked mostly about the two bodies in the mountains and about work in general. He was surprised that Sinclair was so interested in his work and wanted to know how he had trained Jack to be a tracker. Of course, McCain hadn’t really done much training. Jack was a natural, and McCain had just allowed his abilities to come out.

  They talked a little about their personal lives too. Sinclair had been raised in Northern California and had gotten her law degree from the University of Oregon before joining the FBI. He teased her about being a Duck, and when she learned he had graduated from Washington State University she razzed him to no end about how Oregon had been beating WSU like a rented mule in just about every sport there was.

  “Hey!” McCain said defensively. “We beat Oregon in field hockey last year.”

  “Field hockey!” she snorted. “Is that even a sanctioned sport?”

  Later, as they walked out of the restaurant, McCain asked her if she had a coat hanger in her car.

  “No, why?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’ve heard you Oregon Ducks all keep a hanger in your car. You know, just in case you lock your keys in there too.”

  “What?” she asked. And then she burst out laughing.

  That night, McCain had just gone to bed and was reading the latest issue of Western Hunting Journal when his phone buzzed. It was a text and it read: Did you hear about the WSU student who was two hours late to class? Evidently, the power went out and he got stuck on an escalator.

  McCain smiled and went back to an article about hunting snow cocks in Nevada. He was going to do that someday. He wondered if Jack could handle the tough terrain and extremely high elevations. Then he thought, “To heck with Jack, I wonder if I can handle them.”

  The next morning, with the possibility of hiking the craggy peaks of the White Mountains of Nevada fresh on his mind, McCain went extra hard during his workout. Jack, well, he just lay on McCain’s bed and watched.

  Chapter 7

  The next week of work was going by quickly. He’d had to appear in court for a couple of poaching cases that he and Hargraves had worked together. One involved a father-son duo who had decided they wanted to get into the bear bladder business and had set up several bear-baiting sites up in the Ahtanum, west of Yakima. A disgruntled hunter had come upon two of the illegal baits and had informed the folks in the WDFW office about it.

  Hargraves and McCain had taken turns sitting on the sites, and after a couple days, in wandered one LeRoy Johnson Jr. Short, at about five foot seven, overweight by thirty pounds and slightly balding, Johnson had arrived with a rifle and set up in a ground blind that had been placed near a fifty-gallon drum baited with apples, week-old donuts and used French fry oil.

  When Hargraves had enough video of the man checking out the drum and sitting in the blind with his rifle pointed out the window, he went over and had a little chat with him.

  “Can I see your hunting license and bear tag?” Hargraves asked the potential poacher.

  “I got a license, but no tag,” the man said. “I used my tag already.”

  “I see,” said Hargraves. “You realize that you can only shoot one bear a year, and it is against the law to keep hunting bears after you’ve filled your tag?”

  “Yeah, but Daddy said I needed to keep coming out here. I shot three bears so far, and Daddy, he’s shot four.”

  Upon hearing that, Hargraves asked to see Johnson’s rifle, placed handcuffs on the man, and escorted him back to his truck. As Hargraves took the younger Johnson back down toward town, he radioed McCain, and after telling him about the situation, asked him to meet him at the Johnson’s house in Tieton.

  “You might wait out of sight until I get there,” Hargraves said. “We wouldn’t want to tip off the old man and have him start hiding bear parts under the house or anything.”

  “Roger that,” McCain replied.

  As it was, the old man had already hidden a bunch of the parts around their twenty-acre property. He denied having shot any more bears than the one he was allowed and called his son an idiot.

>   LeRoy Johnson, Sr. was a carbon copy of his son. Or technically, the younger Johnson was a carbon copy of the old man. He had the same round face, thinning hair, and was roughly the same height as his son but not carrying as much weight. He wore blue overalls, a striped logger’s shirt with the sleeves torn off and a trucker style cap that said “PETA—People Eating Tasty Animals” above the bill.

  “You can tell that Junior weren’t blessed with a whole lotta brains,” he said. “He likes to hunt, so I let him.”

  “So you don’t mind us looking around then?” Hargraves asked the elder Johnson.

  He told the officers he had no problem with that, and after they found nine freshly severed bear paws in the garage, one over the two-bear limit unless one of the Johnsons had shot a five-legged bear, they decided to bring Jack in to do some sniffing around. By the time the yellow dog had searched the entire property they found evidence, by way of five bear skulls, buried here and there. With the two that the Johnsons claimed they took legally, that made seven, just like Junior had said.

  “He may not be the sharpest hook in the tackle box,” Hargraves said to McCain, “but he does know how to add up dead bears.”

  It turned out Johnson Sr. had been selling the bladders and other bear parts to a buyer who was selling the stuff on the black market. Like deer antlers, bear parts were a hot commodity, used in different areas of the world for medicinal purposes. The last McCain had heard, a bladder was worth about $1,500 to the person selling it to the black-market traders. The Johnsons had made over ten grand with their little poaching enterprise.

  As he sat in court, waiting to testify in the case of the State of Washington versus LeRoy Johnson Sr. and LeRoy Johnson Jr., McCain typed out a text: Did you hear about the Oregon Duck who won a gold medal at the Olympics? He liked it so much he had it bronzed. McCain added a little smiley face emoji and pushed send.

  The Johnsons were found guilty. They both lost their hunting rights for five years. They also had all the rifles in their possession confiscated, and each received a $5,000 fine. Finally, Johnson Sr., as the ringleader of the two-man operation, was sentenced to nine months in jail to begin serving immediately.