The ring. I might as well just go ahead and wear it to the station. Thanks to Dorie and her network of church ladies, a good portion of the county’s seven thousand residents would know about my engagement by end of day.
“Duncan and I are getting married.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
Besides being my landlord, Dorie was my surrogate mother. It was a role she took very seriously.
“It only happened last night.”
She reached across and gave me a hug. “I thought I heard some celebratin’ up here last night.”
I could feel my face pink up with heat. “No date set or anything.”
“I’m so happy for you. Except it means I have to find a new renter.”
“Damn, that reminds me. I owe you rent money.”
I stood and snared my checkbook from a kitchen drawer.
“Don’t worry about it right now. And stop your dang cussing.”
“Thanks.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I really should get going.”
She rose from her chair. “Zoey would be so pleased.”
My mother. Before her suicide, Dorie had been her closest friend. I wasn’t so sure Zoey would’ve been pleased, though. Not because of Duncan, but because she had hated this county, called it a place to abandon before it abandons you. I did abandon it for a while, but in the end, I came back to stay, as much for the land and the sky and the scent of river, sagebrush, and juniper as for anything.
Before heading downstairs to open her thrift store for the day, Dorie took my left hand. “The ring is beautiful. Duncan’s not only a good man, he’s got good taste.”
Surprisingly, Al Bach and Ray Gattis weren’t out in front of my police station waiting for me to unlock the door when I drove onto the lot and parked. It occurred to me those two must be tired beyond measure. All that traveling from burg to burg, extracting evidence about dead citizens. But when they did arrive, they appeared refreshed, cheery even.
“Anyone for coffee? I just made a pot.”
“Tea drinker, remember?” Bach held up his thermos.
“I’ll have a cup, Maggie.”
I poured a mug full for the doc and another for me.
She sipped, and I waited for her to make some smartass remark about my barista skills. “Mmm, I love strong coffee,” she said.
I raised my mug, signaled my agreement.
Al lifted some notes from his pack. “Before leaving the motel this morning, I spoke to Hollis and everyone else on your list, except one. Duncan McKay.”
“Isn’t that your boyfriend?” Ray asked.
“Your boyfriend?”
God, I hated that term. “Yes. We’re in a relationship. I talked to him briefly by phone between Sergeant Lake’s visit on Thursday morning and the discovery of his body.”
“What about?” Bach asked.
“Dinner plans.”
“I see. Did you call him from the office?”
“No. On my cell phone while driving back from Dave Shannon’s place.”
Al consulted his notes. “Sherry Linn Perkins indicated your conversation with Sergeant Lake on Thursday morning was clearly confrontational, but short. She also said you didn’t leave until eight forty-five a.m. That’s when you went to investigate Mr. Shannon’s theft complaint and have the fugitives’ car towed. He and Mr. Kern corroborate all that.”
Bach swallowed some more tea before continuing. “You were back at the office by nine forty-five a.m., Ms. Perkins said, and you didn’t leave again until the call came in around two in the afternoon regarding Sergeant Lake’s body. Murderers Creek Guard Station is at least twenty-one miles from Mr. Shannon’s sheep ranch, most of that is rugged forest road, not paved highway. Don’t believe you would’ve had time to take his theft report, search the Toyota, deal with the towing company, and drive to the murder scene and back. Even if you had done that, Dr. Gattis has estimated the sergeant was likely killed closer to one p.m. or so while you were here in the office.”
“Yes, I know.” Still, I wasn’t sure this was the end of the matter.
“I don’t believe I need to speak to your boyfriend, either.”
“There you go, Maggie,” Ray chimed in. “You’ve been exonerated.”
Detective Bach stepped out to give Ray a ride to Sam Damon’s Juniper Chapel Mortuary and Crematorium. In the meantime, I scrawled Jeremy Todd Lake and the date of his homicide on a white sheet of chart pack paper. Then I sat at the card table in the alcove where we gathered for lunch and staff meetings and stared at the dead man’s name. It felt inexplicably eerie that, despite our fraught history, J.T. Lake was now the subject of our OSP murder board.
My phone trilled, breaking through the silence. Harry Bratton’s name flashed on the screen.
“Thanks for returning my call, Harry.”
“Maggie. Haven’t talked to you since the Nodine murders. But let me guess, this is about Sergeant Lake’s homicide, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know him, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t brothers.”
Harry was ex–State Police. Like most paramilitary organizations, once in, you were a lifetime member of its so-called brotherhood. Good cop, bad cop, or otherwise. Unless you were a woman, or a person of color, or anyone else who didn’t fit the straight, white male profile.
He cleared his throat. “This time my services are gratis. No contract needed.”
“I’m betting the detective won’t allow that.”
“Why does he have to know?”
“Because this is Al Bach we’re talking about.”
“Okay, but I’m donating all of it to the family.”
Technically speaking, J.T. had no family. Both parents had passed. No siblings. No offspring, at least none that I was aware of.
“I believe the only family is his fiancée,” I said.
“That’ll do. Just make sure I get her name and contact info.”
“I can arrange that.”
“So, what do you have for me?”
“Not much, but Bach and I are meeting this morning to kick around a few things. I can get back to you after that.”
“That works. I’ve gotta wrap up all of this by Labor Day weekend, though.”
“That might be cutting it close, Harry.”
“It’s the best I can offer.”
“All right. I guess we’ll have to make it work. I’ll talk to Detective Bach this morning about drawing up a contract and getting it to you as soon as possible.”
“Let me know if you need my services before the thing is ready for me to sign. Like I say, I’m willing to do the work for free.”
“Nah, but thanks. I’ll make sure you’re paid for any hours you put in prior to signing the contract.”
“Whatever. Hear from you later, then.”
Al returned from dropping Dr. Gattis off at Sam’s funeral home, where the bodies of Cruise and Porter had waited on hold for her examination. He found me futzing over the murder board. I’d barely managed to add the location and approximate time of death.
“So, Harry’s all in on working for us again,” I told him.
“Great. I’ll have my assistant draw up the contract and email it to him.”
He sat at the card table across from me. “On another topic, I know Ray pronounced you exonerated, and I didn’t want to talk about this with her in the room, but you’re not exactly off the hook where Sergeant Lake’s killing is concerned.”
I was half expecting something like this, but I was still taken aback. And Bach apparently caught on to the fact I wasn’t taking it well.
“I know that’s not great news,” he began. “But the fiancée spoke with Corporal Macintyre and suggested you be interrogated. You recall during the last homicide cases you were involved in, Sergeant Lake made some accusations regarding your fitness to participate in any murder investigation. So the corporal obviously knows there was animosity between you and Lake.”
“Did you share the results o
f your discussions with all those folks who confirmed my whereabouts?”
“Not yet. Hopefully, that’ll be the end of it when I do speak with him, but I think there’s some possibility he’ll seek an Internal Affairs investigation.”
“Which would mean administrative leave and the end of my role in the case.”
He nodded. “Corporal Macintyre and I are supposed to meet sometime tomorrow and talk it over, which says to me he’s not taking the fiancée’s concerns all that seriously.”
“I hope you’re right, Al. I don’t think I could stand not being involved.”
“I know.” He pointed toward the fledgling murder board. “So in the meantime, what else do we know for a virtual certainty?”
“Sergeant Lake was the victim of a homicide, knifed to death while on the property at Murderers Creek Guard Station. Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter absconded with his belt buckle, hat, and severed left ear.”
“Those two. Suspects for now, I suppose.”
“I agree, but why would they kill him?”
“Obviously, they had stopped at the guard station. Possibly Sergeant Lake identified himself as a police officer and they panicked?”
“I can see that happening, all right. And without his service revolver, there wouldn’t have been much of a way to defend himself. On the other hand, they were packing heat. Wouldn’t they just shoot him, not pull out a knife?”
Bach scowled. “I’m also troubled by the lack of any clear evidence at the scene. Other than the body.”
“I am too. I’d like to drive back out there and have a second look around. And also check out some private property close to the spot where those two careened off the mountain yesterday.”
“What’s that about?”
I rattled off my musings about Sugar Muldaur’s private hunting retreat on Forest Road 2170 and the possible connection to Cruise and Porter.
“So you’re talking about a theory.”
“Yeah. What else do we have to go on right now?”
He nodded, acknowledging the lack of evidence. “Let’s check out the crime scene property first, though.”
On the ride to Murderers Creek Guard Station, Detective Bach following me in his Ford Police Interceptor, I listened to case/lang/veirs. Their song “Atomic Number” sounded from the speakers of my state-issued rig. I took the lyrics to be some reflection on human nature or a metaphorical use of the periodic table of elements. Maybe both. But I didn’t care about its intended significance. Its harmonic eccentricity served as a distraction as I wound back toward the Aldrich Mountain murder scene, a smattering of pale clouds drifting overhead.
Al and I arrived a little after eleven and found our crime scene tape tentatively anchored to the front door. Loosened by an errant breeze, much of it now lay across the small yard in frail, yellow drifts reminiscent of the aftermath of a kid’s birthday party.
As we stepped from our rigs, a small crew of US Forest Service workers pulled into the driveway behind us aboard a ubiquitous green Ram Quad Cab pickup. We all gathered in the front yard shaded by tall Ponderosas, where the driver introduced herself as Evie. Her name tag read Evelyn Kwan, Lead Forest Technician, and she was about my age, petite and pretty, with a bit of a lisp that only added to her charm. A crew of three young guys hung back, seemingly awaiting her instructions.
Bach and I made our introductions and explained the compound was the scene of a recent homicide.
Evie showed us her official ID. “Yeah, I’d heard a stabbing death occurred out here. Does that mean we can’t go ahead with our scheduled maintenance?”
“Well, we’re here to conduct another search of the property, make sure we didn’t miss anything,” Al explained.
“How long will that take? We’ve come to clean the cabin and empty the vault toilet, that kind of thing,” she answered.
“Not long. This is just a standard follow-up.”
“Detective, we could search the outhouse first so they can clean it once we’re done,” I suggested.
“Will that work for you, Ms. Kwan?” Al asked.
“Sounds good. And you’re welcome to call me Evie.”
Having dusted for prints and checked for other evidence previously, there didn’t seem to be much follow-up needed in the outhouse. But just in case, I again shined my Maglite into the depths of the toilet and held my breath. It held a lot of shit and TP and smelled exactly as vile as it had two days ago. In the end, we found traces of nothing more than the remains of our two-day-old fingerprint powder, which clung to the inside and outside walls, the windowsills, and the commode.
Bach gave Evie and her team the okay to proceed with the cleanup of the outhouse, and he and I moved to the cabin for our re-check of its rooms and storage compartments. Including the one unofficial search of the cabin in the hour or so after identifying J.T.’s body, this was my third exploration of the tiny, simple space. I assisted Al in tipping the couch and two stuffed chairs to re-inspect the lining at the bottom of each piece of furniture, and we again removed cushions and examined any dark spaces where objects might be hidden or lost. All of it resulting in nada.
After nearly twenty minutes of fruitless search, we heard a knock at the front door and saw Evie peering through its small window. We replaced the cushions and set the furniture upright.
“You’re welcome to come in,” I said, opening the door. “We’re about done.”
Evie entered the cabin and removed a heavy-duty mask. “We found something.” Her soft voice quavered.
“Show us, please,” Al said.
We followed her to the backyard where her crew waited. They stood over a large fiberglass box with a closed toilet seat at the top. It had been placed on a heavy-duty cart. Their masks were properly affixed, but that didn’t help disguise the fact they were all three green around the gills.
“Is that the actual toilet?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s a portable vault, usually called a drum privy. When full, it’s removed and replaced with a clean one. The waste is then processed offsite. ” Evie handed each of us a mask and raised hers back over her mouth and nose. “You’ll want to put those on before I open it up and show you what we found.”
Bach and I did as suggested. “Is it normal to open it before taking it away?” he asked.
“Yeah. The waste has to be treated first.”
“I see,” he said.
“When we stirred the biological activator into the drum privy, we found this.” Evie bent down and opened the lid.
A knife—obviously bloodstained—lay amid the putrid miasma of human excrement.
“God,” I said hoarsely. “I didn’t see that either time I checked the toilet.”
“Neither did I,” Al added. “I suspect it’s heavier than the waste and sunk to the bottom of the drum privy. Does that sound right, Evie?”
She stood. “That’s my thought. Until we mixed in the activator, that is.”
Al scrutinized the object intently. “It’s a Buck Guthook hunting knife.”
He put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled a large evidence bag from his pocket. Crouching over the drum privy, he removed the barbed implement in one ghastly, swift yank.
8
Midday, August 15
Bach cautioned Evie and her subordinates the hunting knife could be evidence in a crime and firmly counseled them to refrain from talking to anyone about its discovery. They all nodded solemnly.
“When you’re through in the cabin, I’d like to begin cleanup, Detective,” Evie reminded him.
He looked over at me. “I believe we’re finished, unless Sergeant Blackthorne has a concern.”
“No, but if you find anything that seems suspicious, or if you wonder about it later, here’s my contact information.” I passed around a business card to each.
Evie sent the rest of her team inside to begin the cabin cleanup. “I don’t know the guys on my crew very well, but I think they can be trusted to keep quiet about finding the knife.”
&
nbsp; She paused a few beats. “I saw on the news the man stabbed to death was a State Police officer. My dad was a cop too, in San Francisco. Killed in the line of duty. That’s my way of saying you can trust me too.”
“Sorry to hear about your dad,” Bach said.
Evie shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I was just a kid.” She kicked at the duff-covered ground. “I should join the guys.”
She walked to the cabin, her small frame dwarfed by giant conifers. Al and I watched her draw aside the flittering crime scene tape, open the door, and slip inside.
“Do you think we can rely on Ms. Kwan and her people to stay quiet for a few days?” he asked.
“I think we have to.”
“You’re right, of course. In the meantime, I want to get this to the lab in Bend.” He meant the bag holding the Buck Guthook knife.
“What about Harry Bratton?”
“I don’t think Harry’s set up for something like this,” Al replied.
“I suppose not. Might require pretty sophisticated instruments to separate blood splatter evidence from other residue.”
“I don’t know about that for sure, but certainly for identifying prints, if that’s even possible in these circumstances. Anyway, I’m assuming this involves more complicated forensics than Harry’s equipped to carry out.”
He paused before continuing. “It also looks like I’m headed back to Bend sooner than planned. Ray texted to say she’s finished examining the bodies and asked me to drive her back to her office this afternoon. Apparently, she can’t get a flight out of John Day today.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll look around the guard station grounds again. Are you going to call out your OSP search team to scour the surrounding forest?”
“Think I’ll wait and see what regional lab comes up with on the Buck knife.”
“How soon might they have results?”
“It’ll be a priority, and they’ll treat it like one.”
“Because the case involves one of us.”
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 7
