Not Before Midnight (Sheriff Bud Blair Oregon Mystery Series Book 5)

by Rod Collins

  A podium with a microphone was parked under one of the basketball backboards. Bud headed for the podium while Judge Lynch tested the microphone with, “Could we have it quiet please.”

  When all but a few side conversations stopped, Lynch said, “It is with great pride and deep respect that I give you Sheriff Henry Blair. I don’t think it is any exaggeration to say that Sheriff Blair, assisted by the law enforcement officers of Lake County, saved our town.”

  The applause reached a deafening crescendo, then faded as Bud walked behind the podium and faced the crowd. Someone yelled, “Give ‘em hell, Bud.” A rumble of laughter chased the silence and then petered out.

  He cleared his throat and let his eyes wander the crowd, making eye contact with people on all sides of the gym before focusing on the reporters in front of him. When an anxious reporter said, “Sheriff, how did you know…”

  Bud interrupted and said forcefully, “I have a prepared statement I’d like to read before taking any questions. He looked directly at the reporter and said, “So hold that one for a bit.”

  He took a folded piece of printer paper from his left shirt pocket and smoothed it on the podium.

  “Let me begin by saying no one does anything as important as law enforcement alone. I certainly can’t. And I didn’t. Thanks to a tip from an unidentified source, we knew large numbers of people affiliated with The Romans, an outlaw biker gang, were headed for Lakeview. We had previously arrested three members of that gang for attempted murder for hire, and we were holding them in our jail.

  “I enlisted the help of our three city police officers, led by Chief Augustus Hildebrand, and four officers from the Warner Creek Correctional facility, led by Bob Blankenship, and one state trooper.” Bud stopped for a split second when he realized he didn’t know the trooper’s name. Got to fix that, he thought, and then continued.

  “With the six-person force of the Lake County Sheriff’s Department and myself, we all, emphasis on ALL, confronted and arrested fifty of the fifty-two members of The Romans who had come – as stated by their leader to me directly and openly – to free their friends from jail … or else. The “or else” was a threat, clearly stated, and readily understood by the officers within hearing of the man. He said, ‘or else we will tear your town apart.’ Our answer to this was to subdue and arrest them all.”

  An impatient reporter shouted, “Sheriff, what did you do with them?”

  Another voice asked, “Who was the big black guy with you?”

  And with that, Bud’s carefully prepared statement flew out the window. The press did not want to hear a carefully written statement. The press wanted immediate answers to the questions viewers were asking via social media. How long have you been sheriff? Are you married? Who is the big black deputy? Are you wearing a bulletproof vest?

  He took each question in turn, but it was clear to those who knew him, he was miffed. The questions reinforced his dislike of the press.

  Bud finally took control when a young female reporter asked, “What happened to bikers fifty-one and fifty-two?”

  “One was hospitalized due to a vehicular crash. He has since been cited for riding a motorcycle on a sidewalk and returned to prison for parole violation. He is also being charged as a convicted felon in possession of a firearm.

  “The other is waiting to be transported back to Yakima, Washington, for trial in connection with a homicide.”

  “Sheriff, isn’t it true he was struck with the butt of a shotgun and injured?”

  Bud took a deep breath and shook his head. Here it comes, he thought.

  “That one was reaching for a pistol. Rather than shoot him, which we had the right to do, my deputy hit him with – as you say – the butt of a shotgun. I have the pistol carried by the man in our evidence locker.”

  “Didn’t you actually plant the pistol on him? A “throw down,” I believe it’s called. We have film that proves it.”

  Bud looked at the man and asked, “Which news team are you with, son?”

  “The Eugene Register-Guard.”

  “May I suggest your employer have your eyes checked. It happened as I reported it. May I also suggest that if you have an agenda other than the truth, you just trot on home and write whatever you damned well feel like.”

  A roll of laughter filled the gym, and the young reporter turned beet red.

  When another reporter started to ask a question, Bud said, “Copies of my statement are available on tables by the door. What I would like to do now is turn this press conference over to Carol Connor of the Lake County News. She may actually know more about this than I do. Thank you.”

  A scattering of applause followed Bud through the nearest exit and out onto the sidewalk and his truck. He recognized Carol Connor’s voice on the public-address system, but he couldn’t understand what she was saying over the hum and hubbub of the crowd.

  The short drive from the high school back to his office cooled his anger a bit, but when he parked his ire spiked again. Standing by the door of his office was the attractive blonde anchor woman from the Klamath Falls TV station.

  “How in the hell did you get here ahead of me?” He asked.

  “While you lectured that young goofball from Eugene, I beat feet. Managed to park and run to your door so I could look cool and nonchalant when you drove up. Beat you by maybe ten seconds.”

  “And you want what?”

  “To interview the real Henry Bud Blair. I’ve become friends with Michelle Trivoli. She has a lot of nice things to say about her former boss. And if you remember, about two years ago you said you would consider letting me do a story about a rural county sheriff. So here I am.”

  Bud studied her, thought about how fairly she had treated him during the Gooding murder investigation – more fairly than he probably deserved – and then he smiled. “You drink coffee?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Bud stuck his head in the door and hollered to Karen, “I’ll be right down the street at No-Dunks Donuts.”

  They crossed Bullard and walked to the donut shop. “I’m sorry,” Bud said, “but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Now that really hurts,” she said. But she smiled. “I’m Anna McBride.”

  “Right. Now I remember.”

  “And you don’t watch my show very much, do you?”

  He looked a little embarrassed. “I know it’s a crummy attitude for a cop, but I hardly ever watch or listen to the news. So far as I know, when something important happens, someone always tells me about it. Saves time and angst.”

  Chapter 66

  Miranda Blushed

  MIRANDA OVERSLEPT, tired from the excitement of meeting the president, the awards ceremony in the J. Edgar Hoover building, the briefing she was asked to give over and over, and the long flight home. She was twenty minutes late for work.

  Walking into the entry of the FBI building, she was startled by an easel supporting a big 24x36-inch photo of Wilcox, Brandt, Miranda, and the beaming FBI Director Bidwell. In the photo, the medals hanging from ribbons around their necks were clearly visible. On another easel were posted the written citations for each medal.

  Still tired and morning-cranky, she grumbled, “Crap. I don’t need this.” But she was secretly pleased, nonetheless.

  She used her security card, waved a greeting to Inez Sanchez, their information receptionist, then – heels clacking and echoing down the hallway – headed for her desk in the analysis section. Dutch’s secretary, Janet Long, a tall, distinguished-looking woman, short hair turning a proud gray, was standing midway down the hall by the door to the big conference room.

  She was dressed as she always dressed: black skirt and jacket, white lacey blouse, sheer stockings and polished black flats. She looked like a consummate professional. That she was also pretty, in a severe sort of way, enhanced her professional appearance. The only anomaly today was a red rosebud pinned to her jacket lapel.

  Janet smiled. “About time you showed up. Dutch has everyone
assembled and the three amigos are late. I think he is slightly miffed.”

  Miranda shrugged. “Overslept.”

  “Understandable.” The sound of footsteps drew her gaze back down the hall. “Ah, I see the other two amigos have arrived. Now we can get on with it.”

  “It?” Miranda asked.

  “Yes. It. The SAC wants us all to share in his appreciation for what you three have done.”

  Wilcox said, “I heard that, Janet. What is it we have done?”

  “Dutch will enlighten you. Get in here.”

  Brandt grinned, gave a half bow and said, “Yes, boss. Right away, boss.”

  Janet frowned before saying, “None of your smartass comments today, Douglas. Dutch is serious about this.”

  When they followed Janet Long through the conference room door, Dutch said, “Ah, ha. The prodigals have finally arrived. Let’s give them a big hand.” He started clapping and ninety-plus others filled the big room with applause. A few whistles were heard, then someone started singing to the tune of “He’s a jolly good fellow.” Only the words were a bit different. Miranda heard, “For they are jolly good agents, jolly good agents, for they are jolly good agents, and nobody can deny.”

  Miranda blushed.

  Heaped with praise, rosebuds, and handshakes, they were finally released from the trials of good-natured ribbing and unwanted celebration, but not before Dutch said, “I’ll see you in my office right after this is over.”

  Wilcox looked at Brandt and then at Miranda. “What?”

  Brandt just shrugged. Miranda said, “I don’t have a clue.”

  ***

  As special agent in charge, Dutch had the privilege of an office on the third floor in the northwest corner of the building.

  It came equipped with a view of Mount St. Helens to the north and the city of Vancouver, Washington, on the other side of the Columbia River. In his opinion, the only drawback was the noise of jet aircraft coming and going from Portland International Airport, a short distance east. The building was designed to be quake proof, but Dutch swore he could feel the building shake when a jumbo airliner roared by at eye level.

  While he waited for his agents to arrive, Dutch swiveled his chair and watched about two dozen sailboats tack back and forth across the river, trying to catch enough wind to move upstream. As far as he could tell, their forward progress was neutralized by the heavy current. Some kind of race, I suppose, he thought. Seems silly to call it a race. Sometimes they hardly move. A contest might be a better description.

  Janet knocked and, without waiting for an invitation, announced, “Agent Smith is here, sir.”

  “Come in Smitty. Have a seat. Our honored guests should be here soon. Before they get here I wanted to let you know I’m sending Wilcox to Seattle. It’s a six-month acting assignment as your counterpart in the Seattle office.

  “And I’m going to ask you to step up our operations regarding gang-related crime. It seems some of the biker gangs have started working for terrorist groups … in addition to the drug cartels.”

  “Bad business, Dutch. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m assigning six additional agents to your task force. Use them as you see fit, but first focus on The Romans. I want them brought down, Smitty … and soon.”

  “Amen.”

  Janet opened the door and ushered Agents Wright, Brandt, and Wilcox in. When they were seated, she said, “Coffee, anyone?” There were no takers.

  Dutch looked at Smitty and nodded.

  Smith took the hint. “Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. Wilcox is going to Seattle on a temporary assignment as acting leader of their joint terrorism task force.”

  Wilcox frowned and then said, “First I heard about it. Do I have a choice?”

  Dutch looked disgusted. He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Agent Wilcox, I would take it as a personal favor if you would accept this assignment.”

  “What about Douglas. Does he go with me?”

  “No. I haven’t had a chance to discuss this with Smitty, but I have something else I want him to do. He’ll partner with Agent Wright. And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

  Dutch rose from his chair and reached his hand across the desk to Wilcox. “Congratulations.”

  Wilcox took his hand and said, “Thanks, Boss.”

  Dutch pointed at Smith and Wilcox, “That’s all I have for you two. I want to talk to Brandt and Wright in private. Leroy, see Janet. She has the paperwork.”

  Smitty looked a little put out at being excluded, but he had the sense to be quiet.

  When the door closed, Dutch said, “This is a direct order. Your job is to find Winslow Butler. For the time being, that’s your first and only job.”

  Miranda watched the silent interplay between Brandt and Dutch and then asked, “Are you giving me a field assignment?”

  Dutch nodded. “This may call for more analysis than for fieldcraft.”

  Miranda looked at Brandt and said, “Are you okay with this?”

  Brandt suddenly grinned and said, “You know, it might be just the trick.” He then looked at Dutch as asked, “And when we find him?”

  “I don’t know, Agent Brandt. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. But get us there first.”

  Brandt said, “You do know we might never have stopped Al-Alwani without Butler. In my book, he gets credit for saving those girls in the container. And for delivering up Al-Alwani.”

  Dutch nodded. “Doesn’t make it easy, does it?” He paused and a smile tugged at his mouth. “Find him and we’ll work on the details after that.”

  Brandt said, “I hear we offered Al-Alwani witness protection. Seems strange we would to that for a terrorist and then arrest Butler.”

  “You are beginning to try my patience, Douglas. Have a little faith. Now get out of here and get to work.”

  As they reached the door, Dutch called out, “Nice work, you two.”

  They stopped and looked back.

  He said, “Agent Brandt, you can shrug off your part in bringing down Al-Alwani and stopping his slave trade if you want to, but your character and your honesty led Butler to trust you with key information. In his own perverted way, Butler holds you in high esteem.”

  Brandt looked skeptical, but he nodded without saying anything, then held the door open for Miranda. When the door closed, Dutch took a deep breath and said quietly, “I hope you two learn when to lie.”

  When they were in the empty hallway, Miranda grabbed Brandt’s sleeve and stopped him. “What did you mean when you said it might just be the trick?”

  Brandt grinned and said, “Miranda, you are a beautiful woman. So, I’m thinking that if we’re paired up, Jenny might be jealous and start paying attention for a change.”

  In a disgusted tone she said, “Men,” like it was a cuss word.

  Chapter 67

  Finding A Good Butler

  EXCITED BY THE NOTION of a field assignment, Miranda insisted on developing a good plan on which to base their search for Winslow Butler. She reserved a small conference room, then took her laptop and set two chairs side-by-side so Brandt could look at the screen with her.

  Brandt just listened and nodded, amazed by how fast she could talk, how easily she was sidetracked by new thoughts, and then how quickly she would bring herself back to the main topic – which in this case was simply where to start their investigation. Now I know why she’s called Motormouth Miranda. Talks non-stop when she gets excited. But I have to admit she’s really smart.