by Kay Jennings
Matt hoped that Fern and Jay knew to securely lock their doors and windows. Surely, even small-town America has learned that it’s not smart to leave houses and cars unlocked, especially when there is a killer on the loose. Might not hurt to reinforce that with the locals tomorrow. Matt and his trusty flashlight went around the corner to his bedroom.
Chapter 33
Tuesday, 6:00 a.m.
Matt woke up early, but felt surprisingly refreshed. Despite feeling uneasy when he’d gotten into bed, and with his cottage rockin’ and rollin’ from the shrieking, savage storm, Matt went immediately to sleep, and slept soundly for seven hours.
He quickly made coffee—power was back on, thankfully—and showered while it was brewing. Matt was determined to set a good example by being the first one in the police department to arrive for work every day. It had only been three days, but he was getting the distinct feeling that he would have to change the culture left by his predecessor, and to do that, he would behave in the manner that he wanted his staff to copy.
As he came around the corner into his living area just as the sun was coming up, Matt smiled when he glanced out his windows. Blue sky. Hallelujah. Not a cloud in sight, he could see for miles down the beach, and what a glorious sight it was. Gentle whitecaps. No wind. It was like last night’s storm had never happened. Except for all the debris in his yard. That could wait, however, as he had plenty on his plate today.
He did a cursory search of the water for Roger and, sure enough, there he was bobbing along. Matt waved and said, “No time to talk this morning, Rog, I’ve got a killer to catch.” He didn’t feel the least bit silly talking to a seal. Roger was just like a dog if you thought about it; always there looking at you, friendly, loyal.
He quickly ate a bagel, gulped some coffee, and poured the rest of the pot into a small Starbucks travel thermos. He made sure his fire was completely out, and headed to his office.
On the quick, five-minute drive from his cottage to City Hall, Matt was amazed to see all the damage from the storm. There were branches and leaves blown everywhere, and a couple of trees uprooted. Thankfully, there were no problems with the road, other than some standing water in a few places.
He made his way down the hall to his office. The building was quiet, but there were a few lights on here and there. He set his briefcase on top of his desk and unlocked it, and was happy to note that he could see the lighthouse this morning—it hadn’t been visible most of yesterday. Looking at it now, not really all that far away, it seemed impossible that it had completely disappeared from view during the worst of the storm.
“Clay Sherwin doesn’t exist,” said a gravelly voice behind him, and Matt nearly jumped out of his skin.
Sylvia Hofstetter.
“God, Sylvia, you scared me half to death,” smiled Matt. “I didn’t think anyone else was here.”
“I’m an early bird.” Apparently so. It was just after 7:00 a.m.
“What do you mean ‘Clay Sherwin doesn’t exist’?” he asked her.
“Somebody named Clay Sherwin lives at the La Jolla address on his driver’s license, but there’s no record of him ever having been issued that license,” she said in a matter of fact way. “And he’s never voted, or paid taxes, or had a mortgage, or been born, married, or divorced, at least not in the State of California, etc. etc. etc. He doesn’t exist from a records standpoint. How do you explain that?” she demanded.
“Well, I can’t. It’s peculiar. We took a photo of Sherwin’s driver’s license. It looks real, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Sylvia agreed. “But it can’t be. It’s all very fishy. What shall I do next? I’m stumped, to tell you the truth.” She stood with one hand on her hip over today’s outfit—a long, flowy, red cardigan over a white blouse and black pant. A vivid red and black geometric scarf was tied French-style at her neck.
Matt rubbed his chin. “Talk to someone in the La Jolla PD, and ask them to investigate on the ground for us. They should physically go to the address and see what they find. Ask them if they know Sherwin’s name, and if he’s on their radar at all.”
“Sounds good, Chief.” And, with that, Sylvia spun around and moved briskly down the hall to her desk. Clearly, the culture change would not have to include Sylvia Hofstetter.
Matt went into his ‘suspects’ spreadsheet and put a star next to Clay Sherwin’s name. Matt knew he hadn’t gotten the whole story from Sherwin; something shady was up with this guy.
Matt studied his spreadsheet and made a list of things to get done today. He waited until 7:45 a.m., and then called Patty Perkins.
“You’re in the office bright and early,” Matt said when Patty answered her phone with a sprightly ‘Perkins here’.
“We’re on a case, Chief. We can sleep after we catch our killer,” she said.
“Ain’t that the truth. You sound like me. Is this a good time to talk for a minute? I want to ask you about Frolick.”
“Fire away. Are Dalrymple’s doubts about him getting to you?”
“Not really. I share some of his doubts, and I want to make sure we don’t overlook anything. I’ve read his statement twice, and have gone over my notes from my talk with him. You did a nice job trying to pin him down,” Matt said, “but his non-alibi is bothering me. Can you think of any way we can confirm that he was home alone?”
“I’ve racked my brain, and the answer is ‘no’, I’m afraid. I even went back to his house again on the pretext of having left my favorite pen there so I could snoop around to find the book he said he was reading Friday night.”
“Were you successful?”
“Yes, I was. ‘A Farewell to Arms’ sitting on an end table next to an overstuffed chair with a floor lamp behind it. Honestly, it wasn’t hard to envision him sitting there reading that book Friday night, like he said he did. Plus, I got a warrant from Judge Hedges—or should I say, our lovely DA got a warrant—and two of my officers did a search last evening. No bloody clothes or shoes, no bloody knife, no little girl’s clothes, no nothing, essentially. I was just about to call you.”
“You believe him, don’t you?”
“I do. I keep trying not to, because he would be an easy get—proximity to the crime scene, quirky personality, past issue with a child—but in my head and in my heart, I believe every word he said, and I don’t think Ted Frolick killed that little girl.”
“I don’t think he did either, but I can’t go on our gut instincts alone, Patty. We’ve got to make sure we’ve turned over every stone on this guy. Appreciate the search of his house. Frolick told me the same book—Hemingway. Did you quiz him further on the incident that got him fired? Hitting that student?”
“I did, and his explanation made sense. It wasn’t the act of a violent man. He was trying to restore order to his classroom and calm down an ADD kid who was out of control. I’m not saying Frolick made the right choice, but it’s understandable. I also don’t believe that one incident in nearly 30 years of teaching makes him a child hater.”
“What did the kid’s parents tell you? Did it change your opinion of Frolick?”
“If anything, it made me believe him all the more. Their son is a sophomore in college now, and they’re still hovering over him. They don’t like Frolick—they made that clear—but the way they described what happened six years ago, it sounds like a classic overreaction on their part. The mother hounded the school administrator to fire Frolick, to the point where the district really had no choice and caved. I think he got screwed.”
“Talk to the administrator again, will you? I want to be 100 percent positive there were no other incidents in Frolick’s teaching past.”
“OK. I also learned there are a couple of older teachers at the school, and I’ll check in with them to see if there was anything else in Frolick’s tenure that we should know about.”
“Thanks so much, Patty. I don’t think h
e’s our killer, but we have to be certain.”
After he hung up the phone, Matt walked down the hall to the squad room, where he was delighted to find his Sergeant, Walt Perret.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Mornin’, Walt. What do you have for me on this beautiful Tuesday morning?”
“We’ve gathered up all the car registrations from the Ocean Bend Road motels and private houses, and run them through the state’s computer. There was nothing suspicious about any of the cars, no warrants out or anything like that. But one SUV at the Pacific View Motel had, according to the registration desk, come in on Friday afternoon, and left before dawn Saturday morning. The clerk said that was an unusually short stay, as most of their guests stay an average of two nights. Because of his long, straggling hair and beard and red Pendleton flannel shirt, the clerk remembered him. He was “uncommunicative and unfriendly”, according to the clerk.
“Did you dig deeper on that guy? Do we know where he ate dinner? What time? Where’s he from? That kind of thing?”
“I went to the nearby restaurants and described him, but nobody remembered seeing him Friday night. Sylvia’s looking into his registration now.”
“She’s pretty good at research, isn’t she?” asked Matt.
“She relishes it,” Walt smiled. “Although you might not guess it looking at her, she’s a whiz on the computer. That woman can find anything. I’m not sure what we’ll do when she retires.”
“How long has she worked here?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I think it’s about 15 years now. She’s spooky smart, and you should ask her about her early years sometime when you have some time to kill. She lived a fascinating life in New York before she ‘retired’ out here. Sylvia is a City Hall legend, and it wouldn’t be the same without her. You will love her once you get to know her.”
“I will make it a point once we catch our killer. I’m going back out to the Bushnell house this morning—got some follow-up to do with Jack, the youngest boy. I’d like you and Jay to see what you can find out about Port Stirling’s garbage.”
“Garbage,” repeated Walt, more a statement than a question.
“Yes, garbage,” smiled Matt. “We’ve searched the Bushnell house top to bottom, Fergus Dunbar’s farmhouse, and Ted Frolick’s house and we haven’t found a hint of bloody clothes or a murder weapon.”
“Did I hear my name and garbage in the same sentence?” asked Jay, putting his bag down on his desk and pulling off his jacket.
“Can’t be the first time, Officer Finley,” said Walt, and winked
at him.
“Funny guy,” Jay said to Matt, and jerked his thumb at Walt. “Why are we talking about garbage?”
“Because I need to know what day garbage gets picked up in this town, and what happens to it after it gets picked up. There has to be some physical evidence somewhere in Port Stirling unless it’s all in the Pacific Ocean . . . there was too much blood at the scene for there not to be.”
“My garbage gets picked up on Saturday morning,” said Jay.
“Mine too,” said Walt.
“Was it picked up last weekend?” asked Matt.
Both men nodded yes.
“OK, go forth and find out where it was taken on Saturday. And make sure the Bushnell house, the golf course, and Frolick’s house had pick-ups that morning too. Call me the minute you get any information. Clear?”
“Garbage,” said Jay. “On it.”
* * *
Mary Lou came into the squad room and said to Matt, “Ah, there you are.” She put up both hands straight out in front of her, palms facing Matt, in the classic ‘stop’ pose.
“What?” Matt asked her.
“There are two gentlemen waiting for you in your office,” she said breathlessly. “I told them I didn’t know when you’d be back, but they insisted on waiting. I’m sorry, but they wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t have the foggiest. Suits.”
“Suits, you say? Well, that can only be bad,” Matt chuckled, and patted Mary Lou on the shoulder as he walked her down the hallway to his office. “Not to worry.”
“Gentlemen,” Matt greeted the two, who were, indeed, wearing suits. One navy, one grey, both white shirts, both royal blue ties. For some reason, Matt thought of clowns. “I’m Chief Horning. How can I help you?”
Both men rose from the two chairs in front of Matt’s desk, and simultaneously stuck out their hands to shake.
“I’m Joe Phelps and this is Roderick McClellan,” said the elder of the two men. “We’d like to speak to you alone, please,” he said, glancing at Mary Lou.
“Just leaving,” she said, and made a quick exit, closing Matt’s door behind her.
“What’s the big secret?” asked Matt.
“Rod and I work for the federal government, and we need to talk to you about Clay Sherwin. It’s highly classified information and, therefore, completely confidential—for your ears only. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I guess so,” Matt said, unsure. “May I see some identification, please?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Phelps, and both men took out IDs from inside jacket pockets.
Matt carefully studied their proffered badges, both of which read ‘Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement Affairs’. “You’re narcs?”, incredulous.
Phelps bristled. “We are employees of the United States Department of State. I’m Deputy Chief in charge of Narcotics Enforcement, and Rod is the lead investigator in my division.”
“Okaaay,” said Matt, drawing out the word. “How are you connected to Clay Sherwin, who, by the way, doesn’t exist?”
“Clay doesn’t exist because we don’t want him to exist,” said McClellan aggressively, speaking for the first time. “He is a special agent, working clandestinely for us. He’s here on a covert mission, and he had nothing to do with your homicide. We’re here to ask you to stop bothering him, and to explain why he’s not your guy.”
“What could the State Department be working on in this backwater town? I’m seriously curious,” said Matt.
“Have you ever considered how all the cocaine and heroin gets into the U.S. from the countries who manufacture this stuff?” asked Phelps.
“I dealt with it every day in Texas,” Matt replied. “Gulf cartel smugglers use the Rio Grande River like I-5. I would think you’d be hanging out in Texas border towns instead of here. What’s Clay Sherwin got to do with this?”
“We believe there is a drug smuggling operation in Chinook and/or Bell counties, and we are looking for evidence. Clay Sherwin is our agent, and his mission is to uncover any hidden coves or bays where international bad guys might be landing. We need you to stop calling attention to the fact that he’s here. He’s supposed to be undercover, for Chrissakes!” Phelps’ face was starting to redden.
“Are you telling me that boats from abroad are coming into Chinook County harbors and unloading illegal drugs?”
“We don’t think they’re sailing into ports and chatting up the Coast Guard, no,” said McClellan. “We believe that they are landing on isolated beaches on the Oregon coast, discharging their goods to American entrepreneurs, and then heading back out to international waters lickety-split. This part of Oregon has hundreds of isolated beaches with secret coves and inlets where they could land undetected. We think there could be a major narcotics pipeline somewhere between Buck Bay and the California border.”
“Wow,” said Matt.
“Yes, wow,” agreed Phelps. “Clay Sherwin knows this part of the world very well, so when we got an anonymous tip recently, we sent him here to scope it out.”
“So, when Sherwin leaves the Links every morning and doesn’t come back until late, he’s snooping around secret beaches?”
“Yes, and he
thinks he’s narrowing it down. It’s absolutely imperative that he be allowed to remain incognito. He’s just another tourist, here for some R & R. You could nuke his cover, and we’d have to start all over with someone new.”
“And you don’t want to do that,” said Matt, poker-faced.
“And we don’t want to do that,” repeated McClellan.
“Clay Sherwin is not your killer, Chief,” said Phelps. “He’s one of the good guys who has devoted his life to helping our government. Leave him alone and move on. Understood?”
“Gotcha,” Matt said, giving the two narcs a thumbs up. “I have one question.”
“Shoot,” said Phelps.
“Did his wife really leave him for another woman?”
Both men laughed. “That’s his cover story,” said McClellan. “I thought that one up. Pretty good, huh? I figured it would make people so uncomfortable, they’d quit asking questions. But you and your other guy powered right through it—kudos to you, I guess.”
“What am I supposed to tell my sheriff? I’ll have to give him a reason why Sherwin is off our list. We both suspected something about him wasn’t quite right.”
“It’s your call,” answered Phelps, “but I’d tell him you’ve verified his alibi. You checked it out, and it’s true, so he’s off your suspect list. That way, you’re not really lying, but you’re also not telling his real story. Sound good?”
“I think I can pull that off,” Matt replied. “We had no way of knowing.”
“Of course not. We’re all square,” Phelps said, standing. “We want to fill you in on our operation soon because we’re going to need some local assistance. Catch your killer first, and then we’ll bring you up to speed. Best of luck to you, Chief Horning. Vile case you’ve got.”
