by Dianne Emley
KISSICK TOOK A DETOUR THROUGH THE BAY FRONT TOURISTY stores and did a little shopping before heading to Montaña de Oro State Park. On the way, he passed the estuary, hearing through his open car windows a cacophony of bird songs from the cormorants, herons, and egrets. The eucalyptus tree branches were clogged with nests. Farther off, through clutches of trees, he glimpsed the bay where birds soared and moored boats rocked.
Passing through Los Osos, he entered the state park. The road meandered across the bluffs above the dunes, giving a vista of the miles-long, wide unspoiled beach. The road then ducked inland, and he drove in speckled sunlight beneath the canopy of a dense eucalyptus grove. His tires crunched the brittle acorns that had rolled onto the road. Through the open car windows, he drank in the eucalyptus’s dusty pungent odor.
At Spooner’s Cove, waves crashed against the rocks that sheltered the small beach there. He turned onto a path between Monterey pines that led to the white clapboard Spooner Ranch House, circa 1892, where the visitor’s center and Park Service headquarters were located.
Kissick parked beneath a sprawling Monterey cypress. A Park Service jeep was the only other vehicle in the packed-dirt lot. The wind had whipped up a dust devil. He grabbed his manila folder and headed for the house’s wooden wraparound porch. A sign posted beside the screen door said the visitor’s center was closed. Pamphlets about the park were stuck inside the screen door’s frame.
He tried the screen door and found it unlocked, as was the heavy wooden door behind it. When he stepped inside onto a wood-plank floor, he was surprised by a sharp, loud sound. He jerked his head around to see that he’d startled a ruddy-faced older man.
“Zeke Denver?”
He’d apparently been catching a nap in a rocking chair in front of a stone fireplace. The loud retort had come from a hardcover book that had slid from his lap onto the floor when Kissick had jolted him awake.
“Yessir.” He pushed himself up with the assistance of the chair arms. He was tall. “You must be Detective Kissick.”
Kissick took the gnarled hand he offered. “Call me, Jim, please.”
“Everyone here calls me Zeke. Nice to meet you. Welcome.” His big head was crowned by a mass of wavy silver hair that he wore parted on one side and combed back. A well-trimmed mustache was the same burnished silver as his hair. Bright blue eyes stood out dramatically. His barrel chest and round belly tested the shirt buttons of his moss green uniform. His long legs were slender in comparison. His eyelids were still at half-mast. He blinked as he struggled to wake up all the way.
Kissick would never have matched Denver’s soft telephone voice with a man of this stature. The ranger was also older than Kissick had anticipated. Judging by his crow’s feet and the texture of his skin, Kissick guessed he was at least sixty.
“Nice to meet you, too. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Zeke.”
“Anything for Marilu. We still haven’t gotten over what happened to her. Can I offer you some coffee? I’ve got a fresh pot. Sorta fresh.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“I’ll be back in two shakes.” The clomp-clomp of his footsteps drew Kissick’s eyes to the ranger’s ornately tooled cowboy boots. At a doorway into another room, he turned back and asked, “How do you take it?”
“A little sugar and cream.”
Kissick set his file folder on top of a small counter in the corner. He wandered around looking at the historic photos on the walls, and then meandered into the back room where Denver had gone. He didn’t see the ranger, but heard him rustling in yet another room in the far back. The middle room had displays about the local flora and fauna, with taxidermic specimens of a mountain lion, lynx, raccoon, rat-tlesnake, and sea otter on display in glass cases decorated to mimic their natural habitat. A stuffed hawk was suspended from the ceiling, wings spread. Windows on the two outside walls were furnished with aged Venetian blinds.
“How much sugar?” Denver stepped into the doorway, holding a cardboard box of sugar.
“About a teaspoon.” Kissick walked over to him and observed as Denver poured sugar into a dark green mug of coffee.
“That’s good. Thanks.”
As Denver stirred the two coffees, Kissick looked around the room that was crammed with old furniture and office equipment. Above the table with the coffeemaker were two framed photos of Marilu Feathers. One was her official photo. The Park Service headquarters had faxed this to the PPD. The second photo was new to Kissick. It showed Marilu from the waist up, wearing a short-sleeved uniform shirt. An official patch on her shirt had a California grizzly bear on it. Binoculars hung from a strap around her neck and she was wearing a heavy backpack. The sun was harsh as her Ranger Stetson cast a shadow across half her face and she was still squinting. Her right arm was raised and bent, her forearm protected by a leather sleeve on which a falcon was perched. Her mouth was open as if caught in mid-sentence. She was turned slightly away from the camera, showing her sharp jaw and square chin.
On the table beneath the photos was a glass vase of blue wildflow-ers and sprigs of woody stalks with small grayish leaves. They looked freshly cut.
Denver handed Kissick a mug. “Marilu loved the park’s wildflowers. Loved everything about it, but especially the flowers. The park was named Montaña de Oro because of the poppies and wild mustard that turn the hills golden during springtime. Marilu used to say that being here was like living inside a potpourri bag.”
He pinched a few leaves from the woody stalks, rolled them between his thumb and fingers, held them to his nose and sniffed. He held the crushed leaves up for Kissick. “That’s sage.”
Denver led the way to the front room. He set his mug on the fireplace mantel, rolled over a wooden desk chair from behind the counter, and placed it in front of the unlit fireplace.
“Take a load off, Jim.”
Denver bent over to pick up the book that had slid from his lap. It was a well-worn hardcover edition of Lonesome Dove. He also picked up a bookmark printed with a photo of California golden poppies, found his page, about a quarter of the way in, and slipped in the marker. He set the book on the mantel.
Kissick inclined his head to indicate the book. “You a McMurtry fan?”
“Oh, yes. I must have read Lonesome Dove ten times by now.” Denver retrieved his coffee mug and slowly lowered himself onto the rocker that released an almost welcoming creak beneath his weight. “How about you?”
“It’s possibly my favorite book. That and Moby-Dick.”
As Denver rocked the chair, it sent forth a different chorus of creaks. He plunked his boots on top of a crate that was standing on its end. “Of course. Ahab and the white whale. Another tale of an obsessive quest that eventually destroys the hero even though, at the end, he achieves his heart’s desire.”
Kissick got the file folder from the counter and sat on the desk chair. He sipped the coffee. The brew was much better than he’d expected.
“This is a theme that perhaps resonates with you, Detective.”
Kissick nodded. “I like the epic aspects of those two books. The male bonding. They’re classic buddy stories.”
“They are that, but we can’t discount their larger themes.”
“Absolutely, but being a bit narrow-minded myself, I like to focus on the journey and not the end.”
The ranger’s eyes brightened. “I suspect you’re anything but narrow-minded, Jim.”
“My ex-wife would probably disagree with you on that last point.”
Denver chuckled heartily.
Kissick changed the subject. “What can you tell me about Ranger Feathers?”
His boots on the crate, Denver rocked the chair, tipping the crate as well. He held the mug between both hands against his belly and gazed out a dirty window. His mood grew heavy. The room was silent other than the creaking of his chair.
Kissick didn’t even hear a car pass outside.
“Marilu … Where do I begin? Horsewoman. Nature lover. No. Stronger than that. She reve
red nature. Markswoman. Loved children. Loved animals. Loved to laugh. Loved everything that was simple and pure. She was simple and pure. The purest soul on God’s green earth that I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. That’s a peregrine falcon perched on her hand in that picture in there. Morro Rock is a protected falcon reserve.”
“I didn’t know that. I used to climb it years ago.”
“No more. Now it belongs to the falcons. Marilu loved those falcons.”
His blue eyes that had sparkled with amusement a minute before grew dark. He stopped rocking.
Outside, Kissick heard the screech of a bird.
“I’ll never get over it,” Denver began. “It happened on Christmas Eve, you know. The timing was what made me think he’d planned it. He knew the park would be empty. He knew a campfire on the beach would draw a ranger’s attention, especially in the snowy plover habitat. I’ve always wondered. Did he target her or was he gunning for any ranger who showed up? Guess we’ll never know.
“That Christmas Eve, I was home with my wife. My kids and the grandkids were over. Marilu lived in the ranger residence in the park. Ten years ago, ranger staffing was thin. It’s even worse now, with the budget cuts, but don’t get me started. We usually patrol the sandspit by Jeep, but when it was quiet, Marilu liked to take out her horse Gypsy. The most she’d expect on an evening like that was to cite someone for walking their dogs on the beach.”
“Horses are allowed but dogs aren’t?”
“That’s right. Again, don’t get me started. So, Marilu was planning on spending Christmas Eve with her parents, brother, and his family. Nice people. Her father’s dead now. Must be six years. I think what happened to Marilu killed him. Mother still lives up in Cambria. She’s a retired professor. Taught sociology over at Cal Poly.”
While Denver talked, Kissick slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and felt for Vining’s necklace. He rolled the pearls between his thumb and index finger.
“Round about six-thirty that evening, the gal that runs the private stable where Marilu kept her horse called me and said that Gypsy had come back, but without Marilu. This is a small community. We all know each other. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I knew something was wrong. I called Ranger Dispatch and Marilu hadn’t reported that she was off-duty. Course I thought Gypsy had thrown her someplace. I checked with her parents. They hadn’t seen her. Then I called the county sheriff’s. They offered to put their bird in the air and start looking for her. I came out. Thought I’d take the Jeep along Mar-ilu’s usual route across the dunes and onto the spit.
“Didn’t take the sheriff’s helicopter long to find her. One sweep down the beach did it. The tide was coming in and had nearly lifted her into the surf. If we’d waited any longer, we might not have found her body. There were footprints and hoofprints in soft sand, but nothing distinct enough to recover. Never found her Stetson. I think about that hat sometimes. Wonder if someone in Australia picked it up out of the ocean.”
Denver slowly pulled one foot then the other off the crate, rocking the chair upright. “We didn’t have any experience investigating that sort of crime, so the sheriff’s took over. They’ve got the files on it. I kept close to it, though. They did a hell of a job, but didn’t turn up a thing. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. Just like that. Marilu was gone. Twenty-seven years old.”
He gulped his coffee and stretched to set the mug on top of the mantel, beyond his easy grasp, as if he was finished with it.
Kissick downed the last of his. It had gone cold. “What was Mar-ilu’s background? How long had she been a ranger and what had she done before?”
“Marilu was born and raised in Santa Maria, about forty-five miles south of here. She told me she always loved the outdoors, ever since she was a little girl. She was a tomboy. Her father would take Marilu and her brother hunting and fishing. They’d go camping right here in this park. One summer vacation when she was in college, she went to the Yosemite Rock Climbing School. That’s when she decided she wanted to be a park ranger. She followed her dream.”
“How long have you been here, Zeke?”
“Feels like I’ve always been here. Twenty-nine years. I could retire, but my wife won’t let me. Doesn’t want me underfoot at home.” The ranger chuckled, and then fixed Kissick with a steady gaze. “What sort of lead are you following that brought you here, if I may ask?”
Kissick felt the lawman’s heart that beat beneath Denver’s grandfa-therly surface. He rose to set the empty mug on the counter, and then returned to open the file folder. He pulled out the photocopies of Nitro’s four violent drawings, and handed them to Denver.
Finding the one of Feathers, Denver said, “Lord have mercy. That’s Morro Rock and that’s Marilu. Looks just like her.” He looked at the others. “Who drew these?”
Kissick took out a snapshot of Nitro. “They were found in the possession of this man. We believe he drew them. Do you recognize him?”
Denver drew his fingers down his silver mustache as he scrutinized the photo. “Can’t say that I do.”
“How about this guy?” Kissick took out the composite drawing done based upon Vining’s description of her attacker.
Denver shook his head. “You think one or both of them had something to do with Marilu’s murder?”
“Possibly. Was Marilu ever involved in an incident on duty that was in the news?”
Kissick elaborated while Denver thought it over. “Something that would have put her in the public eye, like a shooting on duty, arresting a celebrity, or—”
“There was something like that.” Denver stood and went behind the counter where he began looking through a low bookcase beneath a window. “I know it’s here somewhere.” His boots scuffed against the wooden floor as he shuffled to maneuver his large frame around the small area. He grunted as he pulled something from a bottom shelf. He rose with an old scrapbook and blew the dust from it as he carried it to the fireplace. He dragged the rocker closer to Kissick and sat with the book on his lap.
He smiled as he turned the pages. He pointed at a photo of a group of rangers in uniform in front of the ranch house. “That’s Marilu when she first came here.” The pages were of cardboard covered with semi-adhesive cellophane that held the items in place. The cellophane had grown cloudy with age.
Kissick tried to nudge him along. “You said that Marilu was involved in a newsworthy incident.”
Denver sped up, moving to the back of the book. “Here we go.” He read the headline from an old newspaper clipping. “‘Park Ranger Kills Child Molester. Montaña de Oro Ranger Hailed as Hero.’ Nine years ago last July. How time flies.”
He carefully peeled away the cellophane, removed and unfolded the brittle newspaper clipping, and handed it to Kissick.
As Kissick skimmed it, Denver recounted the events. “Bud Lilly was a local creep. His mother lived in Los Osos and he stayed with her off and on. He was always showing up in the park, hanging around the beach or the campgrounds. There were stories about Bud exposing himself to little girls. All the kids in town knew to stay away from him. Whenever I found him in my park, I chased him out.”
Kissick looked at Lilly’s mug shot in the clipping. He was Caucasian with a shock of mussed hair. Nondescript, except for dark pop-eyes on a diamond-shaped face that made him look like a bug. Something about him shouted, “Scumbag.” The article said he was thirty-two years old.
Denver continued. “The police finally arrested Bud for fondling a twelve-year-old girl in a bathroom in Vegas. He got a wrist slap and was out of jail in no time. He had no place to go, so he came back to his mom’s. Of course, he started showing up here again, where all the families and kids are during summer. To make matters worse, he’d bought himself a van.
“One July day, Bud drove his van to a campground and tried to drag a ten-year-old girl into it. The girl started screaming, attracting the attention of some of the adults around. The girl got away, and her parents hopped into their car and started chas
ing Bud in his van. At a bend up by Hazard Canyon Reef, Bud lost control and crashed his car into a tree. The girl’s father pursued him on foot, but Bud was faster and disappeared. Marilu was patrolling on horseback and joined in the chase. Bud headed down the bluff, probably thinking he’d hide in one of the caves there. Marilu cornered him. He pulled a gun on her and she shot him.
“No one around here shed a tear for Bud Lilly, but that shooting was investigated every which way. Marilu was vindicated. The incident was considered ‘suicide by cop.’ The TV stations and newspapers were all over Marilu. She hated the attention, of course, and was glad when it finally died down.”
Kissick reflected on the similarities between the on-duty shooting that had catapulted Marilu Feathers into the public eye and the incidents involving Vining and Johnna Alwin. Still, he resisted the notion of a criminal mastermind.
“Zeke, may I have a photocopy of this article please?”
“Most certainly. There’s a machine in the back.”
“One last thing …” Kissick took Vining’s pearl necklace with the pearl pendant from his pocket and handed it to the ranger.
“Do you know if Marilu ever received a pearl necklace similar to this one as a gift? It would have been given to her after the Bud Lilly incident had landed her in the news. It might have had a card with it that looked something like this.”
He handed Denver the panel card with the handwritten note: “Congratulations, Officer Vining.”
Denver scrutinized the necklace and shook his head. “People sent Marilu all sorts of stuff. Invited her to their homes to dinner. I don’t remember her mentioning having received a gift like this. You might ask her mother.”
“Zeke, thank you for your time. You said that Marilu’s mother lives in Cambria.”
“Be happy to call her for you.”
TWENTY
IN THE OBSERVATION ROOM OUTSIDE THE DETECTIVES SECTION INTERVIEW room, Vining held one earphone from a pair to her ear as she watched through the two-way glass. Detectives Louis Jones and Doug Sproul were interviewing yet another in a series of street gang members they’d pulled in. They were working their way through the players in the Crooked Lane Crips, Pepper Street Bloods, and the Gangster Kings— African American gangs— and the Villa Boys Pasadena, North-side 18th Street, Latin Boyz, and Vario Pasadena Rifa— Latino gangs. Another team of detectives were grilling a gangbanger in an adjacent room.
