I’ve done what I can. So, I call Claire. Leave a voicemail. Tell her to consider talking to the cops.
Time to give my brain a rest. I turn on all the lights and secure the loaded gun in my shoulder holster. Then I defrost a frozen pizza and spend the rest of the evening listening to the radio and researching how to become a private investigator in the state of Oregon.
CHAPTER TEN
MONDAY MORNING I'M up early, after spending all night flipping from side to side like a fish on a riverbank, and getting all snarled in my blankets as a result. The past and the present have tangled themselves in the wrinkles of my brain. Dreams and thoughts and memories are all interwoven into a net, and I’m the unlucky salmon caught in the strands.
I make my way down the suicide stairs to the kitchen. I call them that because the risers are steep and the treads shallow, the railing is low and the window on the landing is placed exactly so that if I slip and fall, I'll crash through the glass and bleed to death from all the lacerations.
I drag the card table and camp chair over near the windows that look over the Columbia. A tugboat chugs up the channel, pulling a barge heaped with gravel. I feel a kinship with the tiny boat and its heavy load. Whitecaps appear and disappear as the wind stirs the chop. For now, the rising sun illuminates the streets, but purple-bellied clouds stack themselves up near the mouth of the river, promising future overcast.
March. What are you gonna do? If I was still in Colorado, it might be sunny or snowing or blowing this time of year, or doing it all at once. I feel a pang of homesickness for the Centennial State’s vibrant climate, which despite the wild springtime still remains largely sundrenched and inviting. I miss the sunlit days, the lapis blue sky with its untamed cloudscape, the horizon edged by sawtooth mountains.
Resolutely, I grind nostalgia to powder under a metaphorical heel. No going back, remember?
Last night, I discovered the licensing process for private investigators is mostly a matter of filling out forms and sending some money to the state board. Once they approve the application, I have to take the P. I. Proficiency Exam. I definitely have the work experience, but the necessity for three letters of reference gives me a hollow feeling in my chest. The detectives in my unit at DPD had either witnessed my breakdown or heard about it, and might not be inclined to say nice things about me. Cops are leery of mental illness. They see too much of the down side, people having freak-outs in the street with kitchen knives. I’d have to think carefully about who I asked for a reference.
Knock, knock, Lake. What about your MisPers? Today is day four.
I know, I know. I need to talk to Claire again, and Daniel, and Seth Takahashi.
In fact, maybe I should call the police.
You can’t trust them. You know how they are. First thing, they’ll check up on you. Find out you’re an unreliable witness.
Plus, the police will want to know all kinds of things that I won’t be able to tell them. I don’t have a picture, I don’t know her habits. I’ve only seen her on video snippets posted on the website. And the thing is, I know she’s dead. She isn’t lost or trapped somewhere. Her life isn’t depending on being found.
The best person to make the call would be Claire. Or Daniel. I’ve made my plea. The Astoria Police Department isn’t the DPD, but they can still get a warrant for phone and financial records. I wish I was still a cop.
Stop right there. No, I don’t. The overbearing authority of the Man; the paperwork; the testosterone-fueled hierarchy. I don’t miss any of it.
I run my fingers through my hair in frustration, then go out to check the mail, and get a breath of fresh air. I keep hold of my coffee, comforted by the warmth and familiar bitterness.
An older white woman walks down the street toward me, tugged by a smooth-haired gray and white dog. My muscles tense. Pit bull mix. Owners swear by the breed, but I’ve had too many run-ins with pit bulls trained into aggressiveness by drug thugs and other criminal types to treat the animals lightly.
“Hello,” the woman says, smiling. “You must be our new neighbor. Link said he’d met you. I’m Phoebe. And this is Delilah.”
Link. The judge. The man who brought me cookies and flowers. Belatedly, I realize I haven’t combed my hair and am still in the rumpled sweats I threw on when I got out of bed. Oh, well. At least there’s nowhere to go but up. And her husband has seen me worse. One good thing: this time I'm unarmed.
“Hi. I’m Audrey.” I gingerly dangle a hand for the excited Delilah to smell, and she leaves a smudge with her cold wet nose and gives it a hearty lick, tail circling like an industrial fan. Despite my wariness, the friendly canine makes me smile.
Phoebe is in her sixties, her graying hair cut into a fashionable shoulder-length wedge. Though lines web the corners of her eyes and mouth, her cheeks look as soft and smooth as a piece of fine linen. Intelligence gleams in her gray eyes, and I remember she’s a psychologist of some kind. More dangerous in her way than Delilah. If the dog attacks, at least I’ll see it coming, and the wounds will only be physical.
She glances at the cup in my hand. “I see you’ve already got coffee, but why don’t you come in for a bite? Link was baking scones when I set off on Delilah’s constitutional. They should be ready by now.”
Constitutional. Ye gods. But despite my inner hermit, I feel the need to connect with someone, to send the shadows back into their corners. I have to be friendly some time.
Plus, baked goods.
“Okay,” I say.
Like mine, the Rutherford house is on the downhill side of the street and accessible by a dozen concrete steps, but that’s where the similarity ends. Oh, it has some of the same Craftsman details — covered porch and knee braces under the eaves — but it's twice as big, with leaded glass transoms and cedar shingles. The forest green door has a geometric stained glass window, and a wind chime of dangling wood and metal hangs between the porch supports.
Inside, the hardwood floor gleams with a high sheen, covered in the middle with an intricate Persian rug. The rug in turn is partially covered by a fuzzy gray Persian cat. It looks up as Delilah romps in and stalks away in a disgusted huff.
I like the cat.
“Link, we’ve got company,” Phoebe calls, and leads me into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Audrey,” says the judge with a smile. “Glad you could join us.” He hands me a plate.
I've already sampled the warm spicy aroma that wafts from the oven with my nose. Now my taste buds get some action. The scone is deep brown, sweet and gingery, with stripes of white icing that literally melt in my mouth. So much better than stale doughnuts or store-bought cookies.
I nod and smile around my mouthful. It's nice, talking to normal, friendly people. Relaxing. It makes me feel like an actual part of the human race. But small talk has never been my strong suit, and the case is at the forefront of my mind. Maybe Phoebe can cast some light on the more abstract, troubling aspects that have been chasing themselves around in my head.
Are you nuts? Oh wait, of course you are.
Chill. I’m not going to talk about myself. Not too much, anyway.
They ask me about my aunt and my family and past life. I tell them about my mother the architect, my father the cop. I explain that the house I’ve inherited belonged to my mother’s sister. But I don’t want to talk about my professional past, so I switch the focus.
“Phoebe, Link told me you’re a therapist.”
“Here and there. I’m a psychologist, half-retired, but still see some of my long-term clients.”
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Could I consult you — professionally?”
The judge coughs. “Looks like I’d better make myself scarce.”
“Oh, not for myself.” Let’s step on that idea before anyone gets the wrong impression. “I mean, I need some background for a job I’m doing.”
“What kind of job?” Phoebe asks.
“I used to be a cop, and I’ve taken on a private i
nvestigation.”
Link says, “Now I really had better leave. This sounds like a potential ex parte contact, and the last thing I want is to pick up any bias about a potential case.” He grabs his coffee and beats a retreat.
Great, I’ve already driven one neighbor out of the room, even if he’s got a valid excuse. “Phoebe? Do you mind?”
“What is it you need? I can’t comment on my patients, you know.”
“I get that. I don’t want to ask about a specific person.” At least, not yet. “I want to get your insight about cults. Leaders, followers, like that.”
She cocks her head. “Now I’m definitely intrigued. Okay, as long as general information is all you’re after, let’s go downstairs to my office and talk.”
Just what I asked for. And also what I dread the most. I swallow past the tightness in my throat.
Phoebe directs me to the outside stairs which lead down to another exterior door, the gateway to her office. It’s furnished with a leather-and-chrome lounge chair — the modern version of the head-shrinker couch, I guess — two comfortable armchairs, and an old-fashioned desk with a laptop and an ergonomic stool. The paint is a soothing cerulean blue, the carpet a deep-napped gray. Sunlight streaming through a window makes a bright rhombus on the floor.
The therapist points me to one armchair and sits behind her desk. “Now, ask your questions.”
I lean forward and steeple my hands. “What kind of person would join, or lead, a cult?”
Phoebe takes a handful of paperclips from her desk drawer and begins to construct a chain, linking them together. “I’ve never actually met anyone who was a cult leader, but some of the markers are pretty well known. Mind you, this is based mostly on testimony from cult followers. Not too many leaders want to be psychoanalyzed. In fact, they tend to reject any kind of close scrutiny.”
“I understand.” Nod, nod. Actually, this conversation feels good, two professionals exchanging information. I’ve consulted with experts galore in the course of my career, and now I’m back on familiar ground, investigating the possibilities. I uncross my legs and lean forward again.
Phoebe continues, adding a few links to her growing chain. “Your average cult leader tends to exhibit symptoms of a narcissistic personality disorder. They want adulation, control, power — and many are charismatic and know how to manipulate their followers into submission. Some are delusional, others are simply sociopathic. They often have a didactic dogma about life or religion that purports to be ‘the answer.’ Many will exploit their followers for money and sex.” She pauses, perhaps to gather her thoughts. Based on what I know so far about Victoria Harkness and her church, this doesn’t sound like a match.
Phoebe is speaking again, “You have to understand that this is at best a gross generalization. For example, I don’t think Marshall Applewhite — one of the founders of Heaven’s Gate — had sex with his followers. But, he did insist on celibacy, and he and some of his male congregants had themselves surgically castrated. So we’re still talking about sexual control. I would say the prime motivator for cult leaders is power, which is maintained by domination, manipulation, and aggression, and often justified by personal delusions of grandeur.” Once again she pauses. “What is it you are trying to figure out? Has someone gone off to join a cult?”
“Not exactly.” I wonder how much to tell her. “I’m trying to track down a missing person, who has associations with a religious group. I’m trying to get a handle on whether the disappearance is voluntary, and if so, where this person might go and what actions they might take.”
Thought you’d decided it wasn’t voluntary. Because, you know, the purse. No phone or keys.
It’s important to explore all the loose ends. Assumptions are dangerous.
You just don’t want her to be dead.
So sue me.
Untouched by my inner dialogue, Phoebe says, “People don’t usually vanish after joining a group; they want to remain where they can access it, get that validation. Again, Heaven’s Gate was an exception — the founders and their followers did seem to disappear for a while but were later discovered to be living a transient lifestyle, off the grid. That was before they settled in California and committed mass suicide.”
“This person is the leader of the group. And the group is still around.”
“Then it makes even less sense. As I said, cult leaders crave adulation. They want to surround themselves with people who support their grandiosity. They can’t do that by leaving their followers behind.”
I shake my head. “After hearing this, I don’t think the group qualifies as a cult. It seems benign, if unorthodox.”
“Then maybe your missing person is just trying to escape the pressure. People often have unrealistic expectations of their spiritual leaders, and are offended and outraged when they prove to be all too human.”
Yes. Escape the pressure. Leave everything behind to become someone else. Or maybe to escape the person you had become.
We talk about what might be early indications and warning signs of an emerging cult, but I think this is a dead end. None of it seems to connect to the pastor’s disappearance.
Someone knocks on the door of the office. Link’s voice comes through, slightly muffled by the barrier. “Are you ladies done?”
Phoebe glances at me before rising to open the door. “I think so. Is something the matter?”
He seems distracted, frowning. “I heard something on the scanner.”
“What’s that?”
“They’ve just found a body in the river. Down by the Cannery Pier Hotel.”
My attention narrows to a laser focus. Link’s troubled face fills my vision.
“No! Do they know who it is?” Phoebe flicks her dismayed gaze to me. She suspects, as I do, and the possibility distresses her. Not just the cool, clinical psychologist, then. I like her better for it.
“It’s a woman. At this point, no one knows her identity.”
But I’m afraid that I know, and my chest seems to fill with icy water.
I make my excuses to the Rutherfords, jump in my car and rush down to the docks. All the time my heart is on overdrive, and my muscles clamp my bones like steel shackles. I’m like the tin man of Oz before the oil can.
The Cannery Pier Hotel is three stories, barn red with beige accents and a standing seam metal roof. It has a kind of industrial chic. The building and parking lot are actually located beyond the bank on the river itself, supported on a forest of pilings and accessible by a built up causeway on a foundation of boulders, almost like a jetty. A small crowd mills about on the macadam of the causeway. Some have sought refuge under the carport that shelters a small fishing boat — a bow picker, according to the informative placard. Two men in wetsuits are debriefing with the square bulk of Detective Olafson and a gawky blonde woman sporting a sheriff’s badge. An ambulance is parked nearby, and the attendants are unloading a gurney.
Some uniformed patrol officers are starting to shoo people away. I’ve made it just in time.
I give the law enforcement a wide berth and join the group beside the bow picker on display. A female reporter and a male photographer, both with lanyards from the Astorian newspaper are talking to a young couple who are as pale as the sheets that drape the gurney.
“I still can’t believe it’s a body,” the man is saying. “I thought it was a mannequin.”
“Until the seagull landed on it, and started pecking.” The woman closes her eyes and presses a hand to her mouth.
The reporter turns to the photographer. “See if you can get a picture of the remains. I know the pilings might be in the way. Do your best. Also, take some general shots. And when the divers go in, get some images of the recovery.”
The photographer nods and goes to the edge of the parking lot. He kneels and begins clicking away.
The reporter notices me. “Are you with the police?”
“Not exactly. But I’m involved in an investigation that might tie into this incide
nt.”
“How so?”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment at this time. Don’t interrupt your interview on my account.”
She frowns, but apparently doesn’t want to leave the couple until she’s wrung them dry of details. Meanwhile, I’m watching the men in wetsuits. They’ve picked their way over the boulders that edge the causeway, and wade in among the pilings. And now, I can see what they are heading for. A bundle of clothes, floating. A mass of long dark hair that resembles a clot of seaweed. It does look unreal, like an inflatable doll or an oversized puppet. But I’ve encountered enough corpses to know one when I see it.
As the men in the water secure the body between them and work to bring it to shore, I feel the now-familiar frisson, and know without a sliver of doubt that the remains must be those of Victoria Harkness.
That evening, the local radio news has more details. Standing at the windows of my empty house, looking out over the river as a squall spits rain against the roof and siding and tangles the branches of the tree next door, I listen with a kind of resigned anxiety.
“Earlier today, a vacationing couple staying at the Cannery Pier Hotel spotted human remains floating face-down in one of the piling fields along the shore. The pilings are all that is left of the huge cannery industry that once thrived along the Columbia before the devastating 1922 fire.
“The remains were recovered by the Clatsop County Sheriff’s search and rescue team, but there was no hope of resuscitation or rescue. According to the EMT’s, the body is that of a white woman who has most likely been dead for several days.
“The remains have now been identified as Victoria Harkness, pastor of the Church of the Spirit, a local religious group. Anyone with any information should contact the police. At this time, the cause of death is unknown. A candlelight vigil will be held Tuesday evening at 7:00 p.m, at the Church of the Spirit, and the community is invited to attend.”
A Memory of Murder Page 7
