Terminal 9

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Mac shook his head. “Mr. Shaw, it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little more cooperative where the will is concerned. We can get a subpoena, but as you know all that takes time.”

  “I’m not sure I like your attitude, Detective.” Shaw took a condescending tone. “I certainly have the right to protect my client’s privacy. They taught you that in the academy, I hope.”

  The bell on the door jingled as a woman entered the office. “I’ve got the plunger, Addison,” she said as she entered his private office. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No problem. We were just leaving.” Mac stood up. “We’ll be in contact, so don’t leave town.”

  “Or what?” Shaw got to his feet.

  “Or I’ll lock you up in the county jail as a material witness. They taught you that in law school, didn’t they?” Mac turned and left the office, with Dana following behind.

  “WHAT HAPPENED IN THERE, Mac?” Dana asked once they were back in the car. “We were having a nice conversation and all of a sudden you’re at each other’s throats. Can we really lock up Shaw as a material witness if he tries to leave town?”

  “Probably not.” Mac shrugged his shoulders. “He just got under my skin with the will issue.” He flashed Dana a grin. “Not a good idea really—to make threats we can’t back up.”

  “He didn’t look too sure about it though, so I think you achieved your goal of having the last word. I can see why Clay’s daughter, Kelly, didn’t care for the man.

  “So what’s your take on him?” Mac asked. “Think he’s telling the truth about not talking to Jacob?”

  “It’s a tough call. He oozes self-importance, but he acted like he had no idea who the body found in the fire was.”

  “You noticed that too? Could have been genuine.” Mac pulled on his seat belt.

  “Could have been a ruse. One thing for sure—I’m keeping Addison Shaw on my list of people of interest.”

  Mac’s cell phone rang. “Mac here.”

  “You two still in St. Helens?” Frank asked.

  “We just finished our interview with Shaw and were heading back. Did you have something for us?

  “Sure do. Glad I caught you. Got a call from one of our guys in St. Helens. He spotted Mason’s car at Gussie’s Tavern. Wants to know if he should make an arrest.”

  Mac gave Dana a thumbs-up. “Tell him to keep an eye on the vehicle—let us know if Mason bolts. We’ll go by and talk to him. Thanks.”

  TWENTY

  MAC AND DANA arrived at Gussie’s Tavern shortly after 11:30. They parked in the back near the tavern entrance, near the OSP vehicle. Mac gave the officer a high sign. After thanking him and asking him to hang around in case Mason tried anything, they headed for the entrance.

  The dining room faced the highway. The back of the restaurant was walled off from the tavern’s array of pull tabs and video poker games. Mac squinted as he stepped inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took a good look around. One man sat at the bar playing keno and smoking cigarettes.

  Two older men were sitting at one of the small tables nursing a lunch-hour pint of ale. None of the men looked anything like Dan Mason. The officer who’d called in the lead sauntered in and hitched himself up on a barstool, then ordered a coffee.

  Dana motioned over to the small room off the main bar to the area where the video poker machines were maintained. Oregon law required the machines be out of view from the regular patrons, which was a feeble attempt to discourage gambling and thus reduce the number of addicts. Even though they couldn’t see the machines, Mac and Dana could hear the noisy chirps and bleeps coming from the other room. Mac nodded at Dana and the two of them walked into the next room, with Mac following a few steps behind.

  Dan Mason was seated on a tall stool playing video poker. The long ash from his cigarette evidenced the trance he was in. With his gaze focused on the screen, he didn’t seem to notice Dana’s approach.

  “She paying out much today?” Dana asked.

  “Made about forty bucks or so . . .” Mason stopped midsentence as he turned and caught sight of Dana. Mac folded his arms, feet slightly apart. With his build and height, the stance could look threatening, which is exactly what he wanted.

  “You look pretty good for someone needing a sick day.” Mac uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his hip, nearer his gun.

  Mason’s gaze darted around the room. His only escape was through Dana and Mac. Apparently he decided not to risk it.

  “Am I under arrest?” Mason flipped the ash from his cigarette butt to the floor before taking a long pull. Mac had seen the motion all too often. Criminals often took a long pull from a cigarette when they expected an arrest. They weren’t allowed to smoke in jail. Maybe Mason thought he already knew the answer to his question. He’d be wrong, of course. They had nothing to hold him on as yet. The fingerprint on Clay’s wheelchair wasn’t enough to charge him.

  “Why would you ask that, Mr. Mason?” Dana responded. “We were just wondering why you didn’t keep your appointment.”

  “Things came up, I lost track of time.” Mason pulled his cash-out ticket from the video poker machine. “What now?”

  “We’d like to talk to you. Would you mind coming with us over to the Scappoose Police Department so we can have our conversation in a more comfortable environment?”

  “And if I say no?”

  “That’s your right, Mr. Mason,” Dana answered.

  Mac moved alongside her. “But then we’d have to draw our own conclusions as to why your fingerprints were found on Clay Mullins’s scooter, which he was riding when he was killed. We’d also have to explain to the district attorney why you skipped out on an interview. We’ll probably have to go back to the train terminal and do some asking around. If we do that we’ll have to tell your supervisors that we just spoke to you at the bar . . .”

  Dana smiled. “And you just called in sick for your shift.”

  “I see your position.” Mason smashed his cigarette in the ashtray by the machine. “Looks like I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “You always have a choice as to whether or not to do the right thing,” Mac said. “You can spend a half hour with us and tell the truth, or you can make us run all over town wasting time for both of us. We don’t want to cause you any heartache if you don’t have it coming. You heard about the fire at Clay’s place I assume?”

  “Who hasn’t? I had nothing to do with that. I was home with my wife all night, after we spent the evening here. I was sitting right here on this stool.”

  “See there?” Dana smiled. “That’s the type of information we need. What do you say we drive over to the P.D. for some privacy?

  You’ll be back over here cleaning up on your machine in no time.”

  “So I don’t have to go out of here in handcuffs?”

  “Nope. Just take a little ride with us. We have no plans to arrest you today, Mr. Mason.” Dana added, “Unless you give us just cause.”

  Mason agreed to an interview and moments later climbed into the passenger seat of the unmarked car. Mac opted to sit in the back—better to sit behind the man if he tried to do something. On the way to the Scappoose Police Department, they had to wait for a westbound train to pass. As Mason scanned the train’s cars, his features gentled. Mac wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to like trains; that was a given.

  Once the train passed, they crossed the track to the small police building, located in back of the city skateboard park.

  They checked in with a supervisor at the police department, and were provided access to a private interview room in the city council chamber within the building. Mac left the door to the room open, pointing out the exit to Mason before they sat down. It was important they document this in their report in the event Mason claimed he was not given the freedom to leave. The legal standard in Oregon that points to a custody situation would require reading a suspect his rights and providing a lawyer upon request. They weren’t at
that point with Mason.

  The three of them sat at one end of a long table in the middle of the floor.

  “You need anything to drink before we get started?” Mac asked.

  “No thanks. I just want to answer your questions and get out of here.”

  “Great.” Mac scooted up to the table. “I want to make it clear you are not under arrest and can leave anytime you want. We appreciate your cooperation, but if at any point you want to walk out of here or ask us to drive you back to Gussie’s, all you have to do is say the word. You clear with that?”

  “Yeah, I understand. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Good. First of all, why don’t you tell us why you didn’t keep your appointment? For the record this time.”

  “I just got busy, you know. I never felt that comfortable talking to the cops. Every time I’ve met a cop they put a set of handcuffs on me. You guys never listen to my side of the story.”

  “So every time you’ve been arrested it was the police officer’s fault.” Dana looked none too happy with the man’s response. “You never had it coming?”

  “I . . .”

  “I’ve seen your arrest record, Mr. Mason, and I don’t think all of those arrests were as a result of trumped-up charges.”

  “Most of them were dismissed.” Mason took a defensive tone. “I hope you noticed that.”

  “Humph. Is that because your wife wouldn’t prosecute you on domestic violence charges after the cops made mandatory arrests for you slapping her around?” Dana leaned forward in her chair.

  Mason glanced over at Mac. “You know men don’t always start the fights with their old ladies. Mine likes to drink, and she gets a little crazy sometimes. It takes all the strength I got to keep her from trashing our place and me. Like I said, the cops show up and see a chair turned over and a few scratches on the woman, and I get to go to jail. Like I said, you guys never listen.”

  “We’re not here to argue with you,” Mac assured him, “but I have to know in my gut that you’re being honest with us at the end of this meeting.”

  “I understand. I just didn’t want you guys to make me out to be a wife beater. I’ve got some problems, but I’m not a violent guy.”

  “What kind of problems would you say you have?” Mac asked.

  Mason shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve been told I have a gambling problem and I might drink too much. I’ve thought about calling that number on the machines that the state offers to help out with poker, but I don’t think it’s anything I can’t handle myself. It helps me relieve a little stress, that’s all.”

  “Anything else we need to be aware of ?”

  “That’s it, man. Maybe I’ve got more of a problem than I think. You know, a few bad checks and the like.To be honest, that’s why I missed our appointment the other day. I was a little stressed from the whole thing—talking to the cops again just wasn’t on my wish list, you know. I went to the tavern and started playing, the hours and the drinks just started to add up. I ended up losing a few bucks and got into it with the old lady again. I knew I was blowing you guys off but . . . anyway, I didn’t do anything wrong so I figured you guys would just go away.”

  “I can live with that.” Mac tapped his pen against his hand. “Tell us about your interaction with Clay Mullins. How do you explain your fingerprints being on his chair?”

  “Like I told you, Mullins was a big pain in the neck, but I wouldn’t kill the old buzzard. Sure he would show up every day and count deadheads along the rail line and give his report to management.” Mason held up fingers in the quote sign when he said the word report. “Mullins was a legend at the terminal, and I actually respected the guy. He held a similar position to my own, back before we had shifts. In his day he was actually responsible for the work three of us do now. I don’t know how he did it.”

  “How did that make you feel, having your work criticized?” Mac asked.

  “How do you think? I had great production numbers, but I just happen to work the morning shift—that’s when the old geezer would come over. The swing and graveyard shift guys didn’t have to put up with him because Mullins was home by then. The old guy was always getting in the way in addition to making my life miserable by giving these reports to management. I’ve got bills you know. I didn’t need this guy running flak for me with the brass.”

  “What do you mean by ‘getting in the way’—you mean for a promotion or what?”

  “I mean physically in the way, he was like having a kid on the terminal property. I don’t know why management tolerated him. He was always getting stuck with that scooter of his.”

  “The scooter we recovered the night he was killed?”

  “Yeah. He would high center that thing all the time. I bet I jerked him back on the footpath a dozen times when he got in a jam.”

  Convenient excuse for the fingerprint on the handlebars, Mac thought. “Why do you think management tolerated Mullins on the terminal grounds? Wasn’t he a liability for the company?”

  “Thank you, someone finally agrees with me. There was a rumor going around that the old coot was leaving some or all of his estate to the terminal. I thought that was bunk—I mean who leaves property to the railroad? But that’s the only reason I could think of for the brass letting the old-timer hang around. He wanted the terminal to build a railroad museum and fill it up with his collection. I suppose all that got lost in the fire. Too bad. I heard he had some cool stuff.”

  “Speaking of the fire,” Mac said, “can you give us the names of people who can put you at the bar—confirm your alibi the night of the fire?”

  “You bet. My wife and the bartender.”

  Mac jotted down a few notes. “That’s about all I have right now. Detective Bennett?” Mac turned the interview over to Dana.

  “Just a few things, Mr. Mason. Did you know either of Clay’s children?”

  Mason shook his head. “I never met his family. Heard he had a daughter living in Portland. She came to see him sometimes.”

  “He also had a son, named Jacob Mullins.”

  “Never heard that. Anyhow, I didn’t know either of them. Alls I can say is that I saw a fancy white BMW outside the old guy’s house once in a while. That was about the only time he didn’t come over to the terminal. We’d know his daughter was visiting. The only other car I ever saw on a regular basis was the maid, but she drove a Ford Escort.”

  “Sounds like you paid attention to what went on at his place.”

  “Not really. Guess I would notice when he didn’t show up. We all got a little worried on those days. You couldn’t help but look out for the old guy. My own father died about ten years ago. I guess I did respect Mullins even if I couldn’t stand the sight of him. Everyone kinda looked out for old Clay; nobody here would have wanted anything bad to happen to him. Nobody hated him enough to kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Would you be willing to take a polygraph examination to verify the things you told us today?” Dana asked.

  “If it would help get me uninvolved in this thing, sure. What do I do?”

  “We’ll drive you back over to the tavern and make some calls on the way. I’m pretty sure we can get someone to come out here to do the test in the next day or two.”

  “Bring it on.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  AFTER DROPPING MASON OFF at Gussie’s Tavern, Dana drove over to the gift shop. While she was there, Mac went into the café across the street and ordered a roast beef sandwich and coffee. A few minutes later, he brought it outside and sat down at the small round table. The chairs weren’t the most comfortable things—those ornate metal jobs with round seats.

  The day had surprised them with warmth and sunshine. Too nice to waste sitting inside. While he ate, he ran through the case— or cases—in his mind, occasionally checking his notes. It was a weird one for sure. He’d thought they had something going with Mason, but if the guy was telling the truth, he would soon be out of the loop as a suspect.

 
When Mac finished eating, he picked up his garbage and took it to the trash can beside the door. He then returned to his chair and placed a call to Kevin.

  “Hey, partner. Do you have anything new for us?” Mac watched Dana emerge from the shop, bag in hand.

  “Talked with Jacob Mullins’s boss,” Kevin told him. “The same day he heard about his father, he took some time off. No one seems to know anything about him going to St. Helens though. We’re still digging—so far nothing unusual.”

  “Let us know.”

  “Right. By the way, the subpoena’s ready for you at the bank.”

  “That was fast.” Mac pulled a pad out of his briefcase and jotted down the details.

  “We aim to please.” Kevin chuckled. “It’ll be ready when you are. You’ll want to hook up with Clay’s housekeeper too. Philly and Russ talked to her briefly. You knew her son and Cohen are friends. She thinks Tyler is a bad influence. Wants Philly to lock him up and throw away the key. At any rate, Russ and Philly are more interested in finding Tyler at this point, and she had a lead for them to follow. They don’t think she had anything to do with the fire or Clay’s death. Seems like a nice lady. Not taking her boss’s death too well, I guess. Philly said she got pretty emotional so they figured the full interview could wait.” Kevin gave Mac the housekeeper’s address and phone number.

  “So they don’t have Tyler yet?” Mac asked while he wrote.

  “Nope, but it sounds like they’re closing in.”

  “Good.” Mac hesitated. “We sure miss you being out here with us, Kev.”

  Kevin sighed. Mac visualized him with both elbows on his desk, running a hand over his bald head. “I wish I could be out there too, partner. But that isn’t going to happen for a while. My doc tells me I’ll be able to return to work full time once the chemo sessions are done and I get some strength back. I don’t know, though. Seems like I keep getting weaker. Guess that’s to be expected.”