What Happened To Flynn

by Pat Muir

  On the following afternoon, Mrs. Wellhouse of site T3 answered my call. “Please call me Celeste,” she gushed in an accent of the South, probably Louisiana, after I introduced myself and asked her about Flynn. “Yes,” she said, “there were black cars at both end sites, T1 and R1.”

  “When did the black car at the end site nearest the river leave?”

  “It left soon after the colored man next to us drove off.”

  I wish this woman wouldn’t use the word “colored.”

  So, Flynn had left on Tuesday. Where had he gone? Celeste was most anxious to help. I had, however, opened the floodgates to a wealth of extraneous information, including how many times they had come to the park, how long they had stayed, a description of their camper—“My, isn’t the Tundra a great truck!”—what great weather they’d had, and how good the fishing was. I had to stop the conversation when Celeste began to talk about her children and how they had enjoyed camping when they were young. I left my phone number with her in case she thought of something, but I dreaded she might consider it an excuse to talk at length with me again.

  The approved court order got me the names and addresses of the campers who used credit cards to pay for their stay. Other names and addresses came from correct license plate numbers. From that information, I was able to get phone numbers. Mason, in site R1, was the only camper I could not get a handle on. I called these campers over a period of a few days, boring work that I fitted in between other cases. Suddenly, I remembered Sam Laurel telling me of the ten thousand dollars of commissions he had written to Flynn in late August. I had not seen them deposited into his account! Had he forgotten to cash them? I called Sam and asked him to check his account. He called back an hour later.

  “Both checks were cashed. I called my bank, and it appears Flynn walked into it and cashed the commission checks.”

  “What day was that?”

  “The Friday before he left. The bank teller was surprised Flynn wanted to have so much cash on him and gave it to him in an envelope. He took out nearly all of it in one-hundred-dollar bills.” He paused. “I don’t know if this has any bearing on his disappearance, but Art took out an accidental death insurance policy two years back with his little girl, Sally, as the beneficiary.”

  “It wouldn’t have been a motivation for committing suicide,” I replied. “These accidental death policies exclude suicide as a claim. I’m sure Art was aware of that, since you describe him as a very sensible, level-headed man.”

  “I see. The only other thing that might matter is that at the same time, Art put the title of his mobile home into his trust and asked me to be his backup trustee. In addition, he asked me to be the executor of his estate. I was surprised since I’m much older than him. The logical thing would have been his then wife, Marge, to be the trustee. It told me without asking that there were problems in Art’s marriage.”

  I thanked Sam for the information. It did put a new light on the matter. Flynn was walking around with a large amount of cash on him, a good motivation for a robbery. Could it be a blackmail pay off? Was Flynn hiding something? Was he going to have a splurge at a casino? Clearly, I had a puzzle to solve. It didn’t make sense for him to have given the cash to Marge Holmes to help pay for Sally’s oncology treatment. A check would have been simpler. Nevertheless, I called Marge Holmes, who told me firmly Art had not given her the money. I called Mary Smith to see if she was aware of the cash Flynn had had on him. She denied knowing anything about it. I called Charlie Jones on the matter.

  “He didn’t say anything to me about financial difficulties,” said Charlie, “but I bet the money had something to do with the problem he wouldn’t discuss with me.”

  I thanked Charlie for the information. I began to think it more likely Flynn had been hijacked and robbed. Still, neither his car nor his body had been found yet. I checked the NCIC database again, but found nothing.

  Sam Laurel called me in the afternoon to say he had been going through the listing and sales files in the drawer of Art’s office desk. “I had to assign somebody to take over Art’s clients if he isn’t coming back,” he said, an apologetic tone to his voice. “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but I found a signed, undated listing of Art’s mobile home in the drawer.”

  Hm. Did that imply Flynn was thinking of ending his life?

  During the day, Harry Polk of site T5 answered my phone call, but he offered no new information. In the evening, Bob Alvarez from site T4 returned my call. He said there had been two trucks in the way between him and site T1, where Flynn had camped. He thought there had been a black car there, but he had not seen or noticed its occupant. What he did remember was the dispute between the black man in site T2 and his neighbor in site T3. “They were really shouting at each other. I think their fishing lines had gotten tangled.” I thanked Alvarez for his help. I wondered if this had anything to do with Flynn.

  Bill Dollar had not called me despite his girlfriend saying he would. I phoned him, and this time, he answered. I asked him about his neighbor in site T1.

  “I really didn’t notice him,” said Dollar in a strong assertive, almost belligerent voice. “I was too busy arguing with that asshole on the other side of me, who kept letting his float drift down to where I was fishing. I would move, and he would move down further. When I told him to back off, he called me a damned nigger. I was so pissed off by then that I called him a fucking racist.” He paused. “Fortunately, his wife made him back off. I complained about the son of a bitch to the park office when I left on Tuesday.”

  I put the conversation on track. “When did the man in the site at the end next to you leave?”

  “I don’t know. His car was still there when I left.”

  I reckoned the Browns in the site opposite Dollar might have more information on the black couple and their row with their neighbors. In addition, they might tell me about Mason, the occupant of the end site, who’d filled in the registration folio so poorly. I had been unable to reach them after several days of phone calls. I did a reverse search to get the phone numbers of neighbors on either side of their Riverside city address. I struck out on the first neighbor, but I found a very cooperative Mr. Leonard on the other side.

  “It’s not surprising you weren’t able to contact Mr. and Mrs. Brown,” said Mr. Leonard. “They told me that they were driving to see their son and his family in Seattle directly after their fishing trip.”

  “Well, the phone number on their registration folio must be a cell phone, since it doesn’t have the same area code as their Riverside location.”

  “I think you may have Mr. Brown’s cell phone number, and if I know him, he forgot to take his phone with him. His wife is always on him about forgetting it. They’re an older couple, and Mrs. Brown is concerned he would not be able to call for help if they had a car accident.” He chuckled. “I have the same problem in this household.”

  “Well, do you have the son’s phone number or address so that I can get in touch with them?’

  “I don’t, but then, that wouldn’t help you, since I believe they are driving back as we speak. However, I do have Mrs. Brown’s cell phone number, and she is sure to never leave home without it.”

  I took the number from Mr. Leonard and called Mrs. Brown. I reached her on the first try and found they had stopped at a restaurant in Salem, Oregon. I explained who I was and that I was investigating a missing person. She confirmed the dispute between Bill Dollar and Mr. Wellhouse; she thought Dollar had been excessively hostile. I asked her what they could tell me about Art Flynn and his interaction with his neighbors.

  “You’re talking about his black car in the end site by the river?” asked Mrs. Brown.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, they arrived two days before we left.”

  “They?”

  “That’s right. There were two men in the car.”

  Who the heck was with Flynn? “Could you describe them for me, please?” I asked.

  “Well, one
was stocky and wore sunglasses. I don’t think he liked fishing, because I never saw him after the first day. He drove off shortly after they had pitched their tent. He must have come back, because I saw their car again on the Sunday evening, the day before we left.”

  “Could you describe the other man?”

  “Well, he was a big man with dark hair. He seemed to enjoy fishing, unlike his companion.”

  That’s not Flynn. I know he arrived on Sunday, September 13. These two must be the Mason couple, whose folio showed they arrived that Saturday. It sounded like a mix-up. They’d taken Flynn’s spot, and Flynn had decided not to argue with them and had taken their site. I needed to confirm this.

  “Could you tell about the person in the site next to you at the end?”

  “Yes. His car arrived on Sunday. It wasn’t there in the morning when we left. I assumed he’d driven to park cafeteria for breakfast, since his tent was still there.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “It was black, a Toyota as I remember.”

  “Could you describe the man for me? Did you talk to him?”

  “He was a man in his forties with cropped white hair, and he wore glasses. He said hello to us before he went fishing shortly after he arrived late afternoon. He clearly knew how to fish. But then, he had some pretty fancy gear.”

  She had confirmed the mix-up. Flynn had taken site R1 instead. No need to ask if the Mason couple were white. Caucasians in the USA only mention color or race if the subject is not white. What more could Mrs. Brown tell me about Mason? “You say there was a black car at the end site nearest the river and there were two white males in it. Do you remember the model or year of their car?” I asked.

  “I don’t know much about cars,” she replied. “Let me think… If it’s any help, I think I saw a chrome fish sign on its rear bumper…what evangelicals put there, you know.”

  “Did you see the white-haired man talk to or interact with anybody?”

  “Well, he offered fish to us, but we declined since we weren’t going home directly. I saw him offer fish to other campers, but I didn’t see him get into extended conversations with any of them.”

  “Would your husband have seen anything?”

  Mrs. Brown brought her husband to the phone, and I asked him the same questions. He had nothing to add except the car next to them (Flynn’s) had been a Camry.

  CHAPTER 7

  I immediately called Celeste to ask about Flynn’s car now that I knew its true location. Delighted at talking to me again, she said, “The white-haired man’s car left before the colored man’s car left.”

  “What!” I said loudly. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Quite sure. We were expecting him to return, since his tent was there. He was a very good fisherman, and John wanted to question him about his technique. Was he the man who went missing? He must have come back, since his tent was gone later in the week. Where did he go before he came back?”

  I stopped Celeste’s flow of questions with one of mine. “Did you see the white-haired man return?”

  Celeste took a moment to think before she replied, “No, I didn’t. But he must have, since the tent disappeared.”

  “Do you remember the day of the week when the tent was taken down?”

  Again, Celeste paused before her reply. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but I can ask John when he returns from golf.”

  I told her to make sure he called me. Celeste had left me with a puzzle. Flynn had left sometime on or before Monday morning and might have returned to get his tent and gear later. Where had he gone, and when had he returned?

  Fred Williams in site T5 returned my phone call, saying he’d seen no cars in the two end sites, T1 and R1, when he’d arrived on the afternoon of Tuesday, September 16. “I don’t know if it’s significant,” he added, “but I saw the fellow who had the silver car take all the equipment out of the tent in the site at the end furthest from the river. I assumed he was doing it by request from the park manager, who took the tent down later in the day.”

  “What!” I sat up. My shout caused Detective Steve Hall to poke his head up from the neighboring cubicle wall. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure. The guy with the silver car emptied the tent in the end site.”

  I thanked Williams for this critical information. This clearly indicated Flynn had not returned to get his equipment and he’d fully left the camp sometime Sunday night. Had he been responding to an emergency? Or had he been kidnapped? The case had taken a new turn. I called Tom Small at the fishing camp to ask him about Flynn’s tent.

  Tom answered. “Yes, I took it down that Thursday afternoon. I was surprised that somebody would leave a completely empty tent. I thought it belonged to Mason, but I was unable to contact him, since he didn’t leave a phone number or an address.”

  I asked Tom to retain custody of the tent since it belonged to the missing man, whose disappearance was being investigated.

  “What can you tell me about the Mason couple?” I asked

  Tom brought his assistant, Terry, to the phone. “I only saw the one man who came in to register, a fellow of about thirty with reddish hair and sunglasses.”

  “Did you see the man with him?”

  “No. But I know there were two people because he asked for two passes to our water slide.”

  The next morning, William Watson, the owner of the silver Chevrolet, finally answered my phone call after several attempts. I explained to Watson that I was investigating the disappearance of a fellow camper. I decided to skip discussing his thievery until I had confirmed some of the recent information from the office staff and the various campers.

  “Do you remember seeing the camper on the end site, the one further from the river?” I asked.

  “Yes, I remember him. He fished the day he arrived and left the next day.”

  “The next day? Monday?”

  “Yes. That’s right. He went early.”

  “How early?”

  “I don’t really know. His car was gone when I woke up.”

  “Could you describe him for me, please? I want confirmation of his identity.”

  Watson gave me a description that matched Flynn, so I continued. “Mr. Watson, that man is the missing person, and any information you can give me about him, his movements, time of arrival, and his interaction with fellow campers, would be very helpful.”

  “I think he arrived in the late afternoon…that would be Sunday. I never saw him or his car after that day. He certainly knew how to fish. In the two or three hours before it got dark, he caught several fish. He offered me some of them, but I work in the catch-and-release mode.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He must have had an emergency, because he apparently abandoned his camping gear.”

  “What makes you think abandoned it?” I asked, keeping my voice in a gentle tone.

  Watson paused before replying. “Well, he never came back. The man in the white van opposite to him went into the tent and took fishing rods from it.”

  I reacted with a loud “Really…! You’re saying the black man from site T2 took fishing rods from the tent.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “When was that?”

  “Very early morning on the day he left. That would be Tuesday, as I remember.”

  I put on the most official tone I could muster. “Well, Mr. Watson, you were seen taking contents of the tent on the Thursday morning before you left. What do you have to say about that? Do you deny that?”

  I could hear Watson taking a few short breaths in and out before he stammered, “The guy had been gone for three days. If the black fellow could take stuff, why couldn’t I…two days after he did?”

  I spoke very sternly. “Neither you nor that black man have the right to take property that does not belong to you. Law enforcement could charge you with theft.”

  I could hear an audible gulp before Watson replied, “I truly thought the tent and its contents had been aban
doned. Nobody else seemed concerned about it. I’m very sorry to learn you consider this as theft. I’ll be very happy to return the items to their rightful owner.”

  “Tell me what you took from that tent. That property might be important evidence if the missing man is found murdered.” I intended to be tough on Watson. At the same time, this was when I first entertained the notion that the missing man might be dead.

  Mr. Watson took half a minute before he replied. His voice was very subdued. “I took the cot, sleeping bag, pillow, and tackle box.”

  “That’s all? No toiletry bag or change of clothes?”

  “No. There was nothing else in the tent.”

  “Are you still in possession of the contents you took?”

  Watson replied meekly that he was. I asked if he was keeping the stolen property at his home and if he was he there. He affirmed. I told him I would be down immediately to pick up the stolen items.

  I promptly drove down on Highway 15, south though San Diego and National City, connecting to Highway 5. Fortunately, it was midday, and traffic was light, and the twenty-three-mile trip took me only thirty minutes. Watson lived in a small cottage in a lower-income neighborhood of Chula Vista, a city just to the south of San Diego. His car, parked in the single gravel-covered driveway, had rear bumper signs: “Obama for President” and “Peace Not War.”

  Watson saw my detective car with its tinted windows park in his driveway and came out to his porch. I towered over him, a man of seventy-five, with wrinkled face, wearing an old sweater over stained blue jeans. I could sense no woman lived in the house and looked after him. I felt sorry for him, but not enough to stop me from bullying him with questions.

  “I’m very sorry about what I did, Officer,” he said meekly. “I truly thought that the owner had abandoned the property.” He looked up at me. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “No. I’m not here for that purpose. That’s for the district attorney to decide,” I replied. That was a deliberate untruth. The theft had taken place in Sonoma County, and it was up to law enforcement there to pursue the matter. Better to let him stew. I laid it on. “I’m investigating the possible murder of the man who owned that tent, so I need everything you took out of it, and I want you to tell me about whoever else approached it or took something from it.”