by Jeramy Gates
Chapter 3
Joe
I sensed that Sheriff Diekmann had something on his mind, so I walked him out to his truck.
Tanja must have picked up on it too, because instead of joining us, she stayed in the house to study Becky’s file.
It was a bright sunny morning, and the warm weather had done my leg some good. I didn’t bother grabbing my cane on the way out. As we approached Diekmann’s truck, I glanced at the park across the street. It was a field of green, glistening with moisture, the redwood grove behind it dark and impenetrable. The scene was a perfect metaphor for Sequoia County: beautiful, refined, even alluring at first glance, but dark and mysterious, filled with secrets upon closer inspection.
Diekmann and I walked in silence until we reached his old Dodge truck. He opened the door, grabbed his baseball cap off the dash, and turned to face me with a serious look as he put it on. He propped his elbow up through the open window, looking more like a farmer than a county sheriff.
“How are things, Joe?” he said.
I smiled suspiciously. “Things are fine, Bill. Why?”
He averted his gaze, staring at a car crossing the intersection a few blocks down the street. “I talked to your grandmother the other day. She’s worried about you.”
“She’s always worried,” I said. “Don’t take her too seriously. We’ll be all right. Before you know it, we’ll be so busy we’ll have to turn down cases.”
“I’m not talking about your business. I’m talking about you.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “What about me?”
“I’ve heard about what happened to you, when you were working undercover. That sort of thing can affect a man.”
I drew my gaze back to the redwoods, wishing I were over there instead of waist deep in this uncomfortable conversation.
“I won’t get too personal,” Diekmann continued. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. We have a therapist you could talk to. Don’t worry about the fee, the department will take care of it.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but it’s really not necessary.”
“I understand. I just wanted you to know.” He dug in his pocket until he managed to find his wallet, and produced a business card. “Just in case. If you ever feel like you need somebody to talk to… sometimes it helps to tell those stories.”
I accepted the card and gave him a devious smile. “I don’t remember you being such a pushover, sheriff. You must be getting soft in your old age.”
“Maybe,” he said. He grunted as he climbed into his truck. He pulled the door shut and leaned out the window. “Maybe I’m just sick and tired of seeing what P.T.S.D. does to people I care about.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Tell granny to quit snitching on me.”
He laughed. “All right. You just keep that card. Give me a call if you have any luck with the case.”
“Will do, sheriff.”
He drove off and I stood there a minute, watching after him until his truck disappeared. I looked down at the card and thought of Grandma. I hadn’t seen her in almost a month. I made up my mind to pay her a visit.
Back inside the house, I found Tanja studiously examining Diekmann’s file. She didn’t seem happy. I settled down across the table from her, admiring the way the morning sunlight set off the highlights in her hair. She raised her gaze to meet mine, and I found myself lost in her hazel eyes. They were greener than usual, and I felt like I could stare into them all day. It was not to be so. She sighed deeply, and said:
“Diekmann’s paperwork is a joke.”
I winced. “This isn’t the FBI You know that, right?”
She grabbed a page and started reading. “Lindsey Garcia – Becky’s BFF – nice girl. Suspects Jimmy – Bad Breakup… Seriously, Joe? This is what they call an investigation around here? Other than her name, I don’t know anything about this girl. There’s no contact information, no relationship… it doesn’t even specify that she goes to the same school!”
“The investigators probably didn’t take many notes because they already knew most of these kids. Half the people in this county are related to each other.”
“That’s no excuse for shoddy police work,” she grumbled.
“Don’t be too hard on the locals. They’re good cops, they just don’t have the training we do. We can’t all be perfect like you.”
Tanja snorted. “Ha, nobody’s perfect. It doesn’t hurt to try, though.”
“Look at it like this: If they were more perfect, we might be out of a job.”
She snickered. I began thumbing through the photographs. “I know you well enough by now to know that you’ve figured out something from these pictures. What does your body language and psychology training tell you about this kid? Is Jimmy the real killer, or not?”
I produced another photo of the suspect from the pile. This was a personal photo. His hair dangled down over his shoulders, and he was staring sullenly into the camera lens, as if he had too many things on his mind to smile. He was with friends, hanging out in a parking lot somewhere. He was smoking a cigarette. He wore a beaded necklace that looked like native American jewelry. I couldn’t make out the design… it was possibly a thunderbird.
Tanja frowned, staring at the image of the teen.
“His body language is open, but reserved,” she said. “Notice how he appears relatively at ease, leaning back against the car, but his legs are crossed? Even among friends, he keeps his upper body twisted slightly to the side, and his eyes are downcast. All signs of introversion and defensiveness. I doubt he’s the killer, but I would need to meet him to be sure.”
“The investigators were sure it was him.”
“Because of his hair, Joe. Seriously?”
“And the drugs.”
“Uh-huh. Drugs that are now legal in California, and half a dozen other states. I’m not going to make any assumptions about this kid. Especially not based on what those investigators thought.”
“All right,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to interview him for ourselves.”
Tanja turned on her laptop and ran a quick internet search. According to PeopleStalker.com, Jimmy Pishard, Jr. lived at a farm just outside of town.
“That was easy,” I said. “Shall we pay him a visit?”
Tanja glanced at the clock. “I suppose we might as well get started. The sooner we find the killer, the sooner we get paid.”
“Good attitude,” I said, and grabbed the Suburban keys.
The address was in the hills north of Vine Hill. The paved road quickly gave way to gravel and potholes, and I hit one of them hard before I realized how bad they were.
“Joe!” Tanja gasped, clutching her belly as we went bouncing across the road. “Slow down!”
“Sorry.” I eased back on the accelerator and took the rest of the drive at a crawl. It took fifteen minutes to drive a little over one mile.
Near the end of the road, we found a mailbox with the address we were looking for. I turned onto the steep, awkwardly twisting driveway and Tanja twisted her face up as she grabbed the roof handle.
“Hang on,” I said.
Thankfully, it wasn’t far. A hundred yards up the hill, the road leveled out and I parked in front of an old yellow farmhouse with faded, peeling paint and several missing pieces of siding. There was an old cedar barn standing in the background, and a scattering of rusty old farm equipment buried in weeds all around the property. A vineyard crawled up the steep hill behind the barn.
As we stepped out of the Suburban, a man’s voice shouted, “No Jehovahs!” I traced the sound to a shadowy figure sitting in a rocker at the far end of the porch. Tanja and I exchanged a glance.
“Perhaps you can help us,” she called out. “We’re looking for Jimmy Pishard.”
There was a shuffling noise as the man rose from his chair and came forward to the handrail. He was elderly, probably in his early seventies. He had thick white hair, long silver whiskers, and liver spots on his
face and arms. He was wearing a pair of overalls and a stained brown t-shirt that may have once been white.
“You cops?” he said suspiciously.
“No,” said Tanja. “We’re journalists. We’re doing a piece on unsolved mysteries. What was your name?”
“Mel Colson. What can I do to help you?” He stepped around the post and came down the stairs. Tanja reached into the Suburban and pulled out a notepad. I suppressed a grin as she started jotting something down.
“Mel Colson,” she repeated, as he sauntered up to us. “Mr. Colson, are you familiar with Jimmy Pishard?”
He scratched his whiskers. “Yep, sure am. He rented a space from me a while back. Interesting sort, that one.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, he was real quiet. Kinda shy. Didn’t talk to the other workers. Was always back in his room, reading or watching TV.”
“He worked for you?”
“Here and there. Helped out with the vineyard, did some odd jobs. When the season ended, I sent him on his way. I don’t mind payin’ gringos if they can work, but this ain’t a hotel.”
“I see,” Tanja said, apparently noting down everything he said in her notebook. “And when exactly was this?”
The farmer spit a big brown puddle of tobacco juice on the dirt between his tattered leather boots. Some of it dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it on the back of his sleeve. “Two years, I reckon.”
Tanja noted the answer. “Do you know where we could find him now?”
“Sorry, cain’t help you. When I said it was time, he was gone, lickety-split. I got a policy about vagrants.”
“I see. Well thank you, Mr. Colson. I’ll be sure to acknowledge you when our story is published.”
“That’s C-O-L-S-O-N,” he said helpfully.
“Got it,” Tanja said, smiling. We climbed back into the Suburban. Halfway down the drive, we both broke out laughing.
“Unbelievable,” she said. “I’ve never seen anybody like that in real life. He was like a character from a reality TV show.”
“Brace yourself,” I said. “The woods are crawling with them. I bet he had fifty pot plants growing out behind that barn.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t try to arrest him.”
“Very funny. First of all, I’m not a cop anymore, and second, what would be the point? There are a thousand pot farms between here and the Oregon border. If I turn in a person like that, I just make room for some hardcore drug operation to take his place. Besides, for all we know, the guy might be licensed by the state.”
Tanja tossed the notepad on the dash. I glanced at it, and saw that she hadn’t written down a single thing.
“How did you come up with that, anyway? Pretending to be a reporter?”
“It was off the top of my head. I was thinking novelist at first, but that didn’t make sense because there were two of us. Novelists work alone. Journalists made more sense.”
“How did you know it would work?”
She stared at me. “You do remember what I do for a living, right?”
“Amazing. It took you ten seconds to realize he’d open up for a couple of reporters. But why not just tell him that we’re private investigators?”
“Nope, not that guy. He won’t talk to cops, investigators, or even Jehovah’s Witnesses. He probably chases off the insurance appraiser with a shotgun.”
“Well played,” I said. “Unfortunately, it sounds like Jimmy Pishard has gone off the grid. How are we going to find him now?”
“Let’s try his father. According to the website records, James Pishard, Sr. owns a boat dealership in Santa Rosa. With any luck, he’ll still be there.”
“Sounds good.”
“But Joe, one thing first.”
“What’s that?”
“Find me a bathroom.”
Santa Rosa is a small city about 15 miles south of Vine Hill and fifty miles north of San Francisco. Zoning laws restrict any building larger than four stories, which creates a deceptive small town atmosphere, but also forces the city’s ever-growing population to expand outward rather than upward. Combine that with the amount of Sequoia real estate already tied up in vineyards, and you have a recipe for sky-high property prices. Sometimes, I’m amazed at the number of people who can afford to live there.
I stopped at a gas station on the way to Santa Rosa. After Tanja had relieved her uncomfortably compressed bladder, we headed for the highway. Traffic was light. Fifteen minutes later, I took the exit in south Santa Rosa and cruised down the narrow lane, moving south on Auto Row past a dozen different new and used car dealers. At the very end of the road, I found the place we were looking for. It was a large single story building with a banner hanging from the roof that said, “Sequoia Marine Sports.”
I hadn’t even locked the doors before a salesman pounced on us. He was in his early forties, balding and thirty pounds overweight. I noted flashes of gold on his fingers and around his throat. Dress for success, the old adage says. If you look successful, you will be. I had a feeling this guy repeated that mantra in his sleep.
He gave us a beaming smile as he approached us, and I noticed his gaze lingering on my wife. Normally, sizing up a man’s pregnant wife is just asking for trouble, but I ignored it. Tanja has that effect on men. She’s a tall curvy blonde with amazing hazel eyes and an athletic build that even in her late stage of pregnancy was hard not to notice. Besides, even in her condition, I knew Tanja could drop the guy in about two seconds if she wanted to.
“I’m Shane,” he said, smiling as he reached out to shake my hand, a mouthful of perfect pearly whites gleaming like something out of a toothpaste commercial. “What can I show you today? We’ve got the biggest selection of boats in the north bay. We’re exclusive dealers for several popular lines. Are you looking to upgrade, or is this your first boat?”
“Actually, we’re looking for James Pishard,” Tanja said. “Is he available?”
Shane’s face fell. He’d been hoping for a sale, and since it was February, he probably needed one bad. He recovered instantly, though. The smile was right back in place.
“Sure thing, I’ll grab him for you. Feel free to look around.”
As he disappeared into the building, Tanja sighed.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“I suppose this is the part where they let us wander around the lot for half an hour, hoping something will catch our eye.”
“In that case, I guess we’d better start wandering.”
I headed for the front of the lot and Tanja followed me. I was moving with just the slightest pronouncement of a limp. Someone who wasn’t paying attention wouldn’t even have noticed. I felt a dull ache in my hip and knew a storm was coming, but for the time being, I was fine without my cane.
James arrived fifteen minutes later. Tanja and I were admiring a sleek sailboat with silver racing stripes. I was admiring it. She was telling me repeatedly, “It’s not going to happen.”
“Fine vessel there,” James said as he approached us. “I’ve been eyeing that one myself. I’m James Pishard, the owner.”
He was tall and thin with a confident swagger. His hair and eyebrows were the sort of black that only comes in a bottle. He quickly sized up the two of us, observing our clothes, our shoes, our jewelry, anything else that might indicate how much money or credit we had. I also noticed the slight double take he did when he noticed that Tanja is taller than I am. He didn’t show an outward sign of this observation, but I’m sure he found it amusing.
“Mr. Pishard,” Tanja said. “I’m Tanja Shepherd and this is my husband Joe. We’re investigators working with the Sequoia Sherriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your son, Jimmy.”
Pishard’s face darkened, and his smile vanished. “What has the punk done this time?” he said under his breath.
“This is regarding the death of Becky Sweet, five years ago,” Tanja said.
“Did you finally get some evidence?”
“I haven’t seen him in ages. The last I heard, Jimmy had moved into a trailer up in Fort Bragg. He was working at some junkyard.”
“According to our records, you said that you believed Jimmy was capable of murder. Is there any reason for that?”
“The kid’s a psychopath.” He unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up, displaying a long angular scar that ran from just above his wrist to the inner elbow on his left arm. “This is what he did to me before I kicked him out. Came after me with a butcher knife.”
“That’s frightening,” Tanja said. “He could have killed you.”
“Would have, if I hadn’t knocked him out cold.”
“Did this sort of thing happen between the two of you very often?”
Sensing a trap, Jim gave her a cockeyed look. “You mean him attacking me? It happened a couple times, I guess.”
“How many times did you beat him, before he fought back?”
Jim went rigid. “I never hurt that kid,” he said, curling his lips. “I fed him, clothed him, did all that after his mom left. I provided for him.”
“When did your wife leave you?” Tanja said. Jim clenched his jaw, and I saw the muscles bulging on his temples. He stepped forward, a little too close for comfort, and lowered his voice.
“Look lady, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but you better mind your own business.”
I tensed up. I could see that Tanja was pushing him, looking for some sort of reaction, but I couldn’t understand why. The man was obviously emotionally unstable. It was dangerous, especially in her condition.
“Did it make you feel strong?” she said.
He reached out, poking his index finger into her shoulder. “Lady, I should-”
