“I’m always suspicious of Cecil Burney.”
“Cecil Burney? How do I know that name?” Al asked.
I hesitated. “He withheld some information relevant to the Nodine killings last year. Finally came forward with it late into our investigation.”
“How can Burney be trusted at his word, then?”
I could tell by his voice that Bach had his doubts about Burney, and not without good reason.
“You’d never want to trust him completely,” I said. “That’s why I questioned him regarding his whereabouts last Thursday. He claimed his nephew drove him to and from a doctor’s appointment in Boise. Separately, the nephew backed that up.”
“And you were convinced?”
“Convinced there wasn’t evidence to arrest him. Yet, anyway. Besides, I don’t think Burney is stupid enough to report the theft of a tackle box if it contained the Buck knife he’d used to kill a man a few days before. And for all of the alcohol-induced stupidity and wrongdoing he’s committed over the years, none of it had anything to do with illicit drugs,” I said, regurgitating some of the rationale I’d offered Hollis.
“All right. I have to trust your judgment.”
Which was not the same thing as telling me he trusted my judgment completely.
Bach continued, “I plan to make it back your way tomorrow. Maybe we’ll hear something from the state lab folks by then.”
“And let’s hope it’s something other than DNA on knife not identifiable.”
“Yeah, I agree. There is one other thing, Maggie.”
That particular add-on to our discussions was never a good sign.
“Sergeant Lake’s fiancée has put more pressure on Corporal Macintyre. So to appease her some, he’s ordered an internal investigation,” Bach said.
Fuck.
“But he agreed there would be no administrative leave for now. He expects your full cooperation, of course. And so do I. However, he did assign Trooper Steve Abbott, a lower-ranking IAD investigator.”
“Which means?”
“I interpret that as the investigation being a low priority for Corporal Macintyre.”
“It might also mean it’s a higher priority for Trooper Abbott.”
“Could be, I suppose.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I know I’m not.”
That was easy enough for him to say. “I’ll try not to, Al. Talk to you tomorrow.”
I hung up, propped my elbows on my desk, and buried my head in my hands. I soon caught the scent of Sherry Linn’s perfume.
“Maggie? Let me make you some more ginger tea,” she offered.
I raised my head. Unfortunately, Sherry Linn had removed the light jacket she’d worn earlier. The covering had obscured her migraine-inducing, fluorescent-green top.
“More tea would be nice, thank you,” I said.
“I’ll be right back.”
I considered scrounging through my pack for my sunglasses before she returned, but I went back to writing my report instead.
“Here you go.” Sherry Linn placed the mug of hot tea on my desk a few minutes later. “If it’s all right, I’d like to take a longer lunch hour today and leave earlier than I normally do. I’ve got a little shopping to take care of.”
Happily, she was wearing her jacket again. I picked up the mug.
“Hey, I haven’t seen that ring before,” she said. “Is it…? Did you get engaged?”
“Oh. Yeah, just this past Friday night.”
“Mind if I ask who to?”
“Sure, there are no secrets in this town. Duncan McKay. He runs his family’s feed and tack store.”
“I know who that is. Really nice guy. And there aren’t many of those around here.”
“You’ve noticed, huh?”
“Couldn’t miss it if I was blind.”
I brought up the mug of tea. “I really like how this smells.” As opposed to the flowery scent of her choice in eau de cologne.
“It’s meant to soothe what ails us,” she noted. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time.” I really did mean that, and not because I was glad to be rid of Sherry Linn or her perfume for a while. She definitely deserved a long lunch hour every now and again.
A short time after she grabbed her office keys and signed out for lunch, Sherry Linn’s phone rang from the front counter. I picked up the call on my extension.
“Oregon State Police, Sergeant Blackthorne speaking.”
“Maggie, something weird is going on out here.” It was Janine Harbaugh calling from the fire lookout on Aldrich Mountain. “A red pickup truck—a Ford, I think—is driving around all over. Stopping occasionally. Up one road and down another, like the driver’s looking for something.”
“You get sightseers out there occasionally, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, could be that. But I thought you’d want to know, what with those two car thieves driving around Aldrich last week and it not being that long since a damn murder.”
“Are you able to make out a license plate number?”
“Nah. But it seems like some kind of specialized plate or some such.”
“Trooper Hollis Jones from my office plans to patrol the area at some point today. I’ll radio and have him drop by right away. And I’ll head out there too.”
“Okay, I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Don’t worry too much in the meantime, okay?”
“Ain’t worried, Maggie. I can usually take care of myself.”
I hung up, retrieved my keys and pack, and locked up the office. I radioed Hollis from the road but got no answer. He was likely busy ticketing someone, so even though it was probably uncalled for, I gunned my Tahoe and activated the siren for emphasis.
I turned south onto Forest Route 21 for what seemed like the hundredth time since J.T. was murdered four days ago. Fortunately, I hadn’t yet lost cell service, so I called Sherry Linn’s desk phone and left a message detailing where I was going. After that, I tried Holly’s radio again.
“Ten-four, good buddy?” he answered.
Ignoring his little jest, I asked where he was.
“On the flats north of Seneca. I just busted a couple of speed racers taking advantage of an empty stretch of 395.”
“I’m on my way to the Aldrich Mountain fire lookout again. Janine Harbaugh phoned me at the station. Apparently somebody else is out there driving all over the place, seemingly looking for something. It’s probably nothing, but to be on the safe side, I’d like you to meet me there.”
“Just curious, why’re you thinking both of us need to go?”
“Might not be necessary for either one of us to rush up there, but given all that’s gone on in the area this past week, I don’t want to chance it.”
“Ah, I get it—an abundance of caution. I can head there from here if I take Izee Road, right?”
“Yeah. How close are you?”
“It’s just up the highway.”
I thought for a few seconds. “So, when you get there, travel east about five or six miles. You’ll come to the southern entrance to Forest Route 21. It’ll be on your right, with a sign directing you to Murderers Creek and the fire lookout. Everything’s clearly marked. You can’t miss it.”
“All right, Maggie,” he said. “See you there.”
“And, Holly. Along the way, if you spot a red pickup truck—Janine couldn’t read the plate number, but she was fairly sure it was a Ford. Anyway, if you come across it—Ford or not—pull the driver over and radio me.”
“Two-ton? One-ton?” he asked.
“Janine didn’t say.” And I had neglected to ask.
“All right, I’m about to turn onto Izee Road,” he called out and signed off.
I sped on toward the fire tower, my police rig churning particles of gritty dust in its wake, the sun fierce with heat and light. Ten minutes or so later, I reached the dirt arterial I’d taken twice in the last several days—first
to follow Vincent Cruise, Jr., and Anna Jo Porter in Dave Shannon’s stolen vehicle, and then again on Saturday to check out Sugar Muldaur’s private hunting retreat.
Continuing on FR 21 toward the tower, I noted a single set of fresh tire tracks on the roadway up ahead. I hadn’t paid attention before, but it appeared someone had driven this way not long before me. I was close enough to the lookout for Janine to spot me through her fire finder. So if the tracks I followed now were made by the red truck she’d called about earlier, she would’ve seen it too and attempted to contact me.
I peeked at my phone. It now registered no service and possibly had for some time. Her ham radio operated on a different frequency than the police radio in my Tahoe, rendering both entirely useless under the circumstances, so I pumped the gas pedal and accelerated, my heartbeat following suit.
When I reached the parking lot, it was empty except for Janine’s small SUV. I got out and advanced up the hill. At the base of the fire lookout, I stopped to retrieve my breath, and then I took the steep stairs to the observation deck. Janine wasn’t inside tending to her fire finder.
I paced the outdoor catwalk surrounding the window-walled viewing space, moving from the east side of the lookout to the south side. A piece of the catwalk railing was suspiciously broken away. I surveyed the property below and shouted Janine’s name, my voice echoing from a far ridge. Soon, I spotted her twisted body lying midst a plot of purple-blue gentian flowers. I tore back down the stairs and ran to where she lay surrounded by mountain blooms. She was unconscious but alive.
14
Midday, August 17
After radioing for an ambulance, I fetched the disaster quilt I always kept stashed in my SUV and hurried back to where Janine lay. In addition to the fall, she had suffered several serious scrapes, cuts, and bruises. Thick scarlet and purple welts were present on her neck, and she had bits of skin under her fingernails. I had to wait for someone else to officially call it, but whoever came after the woman had clearly tried to strangle her. Janine had fought back and managed to claw her attacker. That could make the perpetrator easier to identify, especially if he—or she—drove a red pickup truck.
I sat on the ground next to Janine and listened to her ragged breathing, anxious about the prospect of her dying on my watch. To ease my dread some, I looked out over the patches of scrub juniper, sage, and lodgepole in the valley below. Little wonder Janine had spent so many summers in the fire lookout suspended above it all, and how sad it would be if she couldn’t return to her patch of paradise ever again.
When the ambulance arrived, it headed through the parking lot and up the bypass reserved for utility and emergency vehicles, jolting to a stop near where I stood waiting. Two burly EMTs jumped from their ambulance and fetched a large stretcher. Janine groaned when they lifted her slowly and placed her on the sturdy pad. They wrapped her expertly, carefully in a Mylar rescue blanket.
“Smart to cover up the woman when you found her, Sergeant Blackthorne,” the larger of the EMTs said and handed me the disaster quilt. “Do you know what happened here?”
I pointed toward the tower. “She fell from up there.”
“Let’s get going, Lloyd,” the other EMT said.
As the ambulance drove back down the hill and past the parking lot, Hollis walked toward the lookout tower.
He indicated the siren now sounding through the forest. “What’s that about?”
“I found Janine unconscious in that patch of flowers.” I nodded toward the spot. “I’m sure she fell from the tower’s catwalk.”
“Damn.”
“And I’m positive she had help doing it,” I added.
“Jesus, really?”
“Lots of cuts and bruising. Dark strangulation welts on her neck. Skin under her fingernails.”
Hollis gazed toward the tower. “There, where the railing’s broken?”
“Yeah. It was in one piece two days ago. Come on, let’s go check it out. I didn’t want to leave Janine alone while I waited for the ambulance.”
Hollis fell in beside me as we stepped toward the structure. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got a little lost.”
“Doesn’t matter. Given where you were when I radioed, I would’ve gotten here before you no matter what.”
I could see he was distressed about being uncharacteristically late and having gotten lost. In normal times, likely neither of those things would’ve occurred.
“I didn’t see any red truck on the way here, either. All those side roads and old logging roads, the truck could’ve gone anywhere,” Hollis added.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
He turned to me when we got to the top of the hill. “Are you feeling better than you were this morning?”
“Finding Janine near death didn’t help any, but I’ll be fine.”
We gloved up and climbed to the top of the lookout tower. He followed me to the broken railing on the south side of the catwalk.
“Right here and over there,” I said, gesturing toward possible signs of a struggle.
“Looks like scuff marks on the deck of the catwalk.”
“That’s right, on the railing, too. And possible blood residue.”
“Seems fresh, too. Maybe she was trying to get a better grip,” Holly suggested.
“She was trying to fend off whoever was choking her, is how I see it. If that’s human blood, it could be hers or the attacker’s.”
“She would have the strength to resist her assailant?”
“She’s a fit woman who’s worked this fire lookout every summer for years. A big gal, but strong, plus she has lots of common sense. I can’t believe she leaned too far over the edge, broke the railing, and fell. And she sure as hell didn’t choke herself in the process.”
“I hear you. I am surprised she doesn’t keep a firearm around for protection, though.”
“Maybe she does but chose not to brandish it for whatever reason.”
“Let’s have a look inside,” he said.
Hollis searched the top floor’s observation room for a gun while I checked Janine’s small living space on the floor below. Neither of us found a weapon, unless the paring knife found in the kitchen area could be counted as such.
“Just goes to show,” I said when Hollis joined me, “not everyone in this county packs heat.”
“Janine must have a trusting nature,” he said.
“Either that, or she doesn’t think anyone would go to the trouble of driving all the way out here just to mess with the fire lookout volunteer.”
“Let’s hope she survives.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“What are the chances of that?” Holly asked.
I breathed out heavily. “Not good, I think.”
Before leaving the fire tower property, I nabbed the camera I carried in my pack and snapped a few shots of the scuffmarks on the catwalk and railing. Next I scraped off a sample of the dark stains that appeared to be blood, and placed the sample on a slide. Hollis had already headed out to finish his patrol route by the time I walked back to the parking lot and climbed in my police vehicle.
When I backed up, then pulled forward to leave, I remembered the fresh tire tracks. Had they come all the way to the parking lot? No, they definitely had not. I idled there and considered what her attacker’s rationale had been for parking the vehicle elsewhere. Finally, I motored southeast toward the junction with Forest Road 21. About a quarter mile on, I made out a narrow and long-overgrown logging road off to my right. I’d missed this turnoff before, but now I could see it pitched steeply down the mountainside and had been driven over recently—quite recently.
I parked, turned off the engine, and got out. Two sets of pointed boot prints were now visible just left of the tire tracks. One set marched toward the main road and seemingly continued in the direction of the fire lookout. The second set seemed to file back the other direction.
Staying on the shoulder of the logging road, I followed the prints and tracks about
fifty feet until I came to a scattering of boot prints. It appeared this was where the driver had stopped and stepped out of the vehicle before walking to the tower and also where the driver got into the vehicle after walking back from the tower. To avoid overthinking the possibility my assumptions were incorrect, I pulled up the camera again and took several photos.
After that, I retrieved a plastic bucket and my impression kit from the Tahoe and mixed a batch of dental stone and water until it formed a thick white consistency. I poured the mixture over a sizeable patch of tire tread and a few boot prints and waited for the casts to harden.
The forested hollow where I lingered waiting for my timer to chime was quiet except for the soft breeze stirring above a stand of alders. A welcome calm settled in around me. Still, I felt lethargic, leaden. So much so, I sat down on a nearby stump and studied the surface of the logging road. The same tire tracks continued on, a sign the driver had taken that crude course out of here rather than the primary route.
Once the timer sounded, I lifted the casts. The impressions were good. The depth of the tire tread seemed to suggest newer tires, at least to me. And I was sure the boot prints had to be from the same person, likely a male given the size. Hopefully, Harry Bratton would be able to tell me for certain, maybe even ID the brand and size of both the tires and the boots. I placed the casts on the tree stump I’d used for a bench and photographed them, this time using my phone.
I would have to wait until I was in cell tower range before forwarding the photos to Harry, but the quality of the casts served to make me feel a bit livelier.
When I reached a point in my trip back down the mountain where I had a few itinerant bars of service available, I pulled over and sent the cast shots to Harry, asking him, “What can you tell me about the tire tread and boot prints?”
It took a while for the text to send. Once it was finally delivered, I put in a call to Duncan. When he didn’t answer, I told myself he was busy at his feed and tack store.
I sent a short message instead of punching in his cell number again or calling the store. “How’s your day going, Dun?” I texted.
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 13
