by Dave Balcom
“Well, they don’t have God on their side,” I tried to joke.
“Satan’s no slouch, Jim,” Elmo said. “This ministry isn’t looking for warriors or conflict. We’re not looking for champions; we have our call to a mission of peace and good will...”
“I’m with you all the way,” I said, “I’m sure if these people who ganged up on Ahmed are reasonable, we won’t have any further trouble. I just want to reason with them, really.”
I was holding my hands out in a “what me?” gesture, but Elmo was all serious, “We’ll pray, that’s how we reason, hear me?”
“Amen.”
Chapter 6
Pete Boyd was at his desk, the only officer in the State Police Post, when I stopped there after my visit with Elmo and Ahmed.
“Hey,” He said, looking up from a file open on his desk. “I was going to call you later, update you in a way.”
“Good news?”
“No,” he was shaking his head with a rueful smile, “I wouldn’t go that far... Jim, there’s nothing good to report when you realize you’re being stonewalled by another agency.”
“That so?”
“Sit,” he waved at a chair. “I’m not prepared to make any kind of accusation, but I’m also getting zero cooperation from anyone at the County Sheriff’s office.”
“What about the city?”
“They’ve had nothing for me, either, but in their case it’s more like, ‘Really? What can we do to help?’ as opposed to the ‘Get out of here with that bullshit!’ I’m hearing at County.”
I appreciated his depiction of the two receptions, but wondered if he was reading them correctly.
“Of course, my boss didn’t receive a call about a ‘rogue Statie’ poking around, jeopardizing the longstanding cooperation that has existed between the OSP and the department.”
“That call came from the county attorney?”
He nodded.
“Smoke?” I asked.
“You know what they say...”
“Did you hear about an assault that happened behind the Table of Grace last evening?”
“No, what?”
I explained Ahmed’s story.
“Did he go to the hospital?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“He needs to document his injuries and the circumstances. He’ll want to file a complaint with the city cops, too.”
He caught my look of doubt. “Jim? This is how we do things when we really don’t want to physically confront or beat the hell out of the bastards...”
I heard myself sigh, and saw the smile light up his eyes as he recognized my acceptance. “I’ll tell him.”
He handed me his phone; I opened my call history and dialed Ahmed’s number on Pete’s phone...
When I was done briefing Ahmed, I listened, and then hung up. “He’s going to the cop shop as we hung up. He thanked me. I didn’t mention you.”
“I heard and approved; now, what’s the next step?”
“I’m going to ride shotgun with Ahmed this afternoon...”
I watched Pete process that information without expression. “I’m curious; you packin’ right now?”
“No,” I answered. “It’s locked in my truck. I just came from the Table; they don’t want weapons on the premises.”
“I wondered if you honored that sign. You think you’ll leave your weapon in your truck when you’re riding along today?”
“I hadn’t considered it.”
“Consider it now, please; and consider that a dustup that ended in a dead or critically wounded attacker could easily complicate the Table’s mission beyond comprehension. There’s no shortage of people in this part of the world, people who comprise a large portion of the jury pool in Umatilla County, who would not understand armed conflict over a bunch of hungry undocumented aliens.”
“I hear you, Pete; but how will those people react to the beating of a volunteer in the war against hunger?”
“Beating a person named ‘Ahmed’? Medals are not out of the question.”
I was stunned by his apparent acceptance of such a thought.
“Medals?”
“Don’t confuse the message with the messenger, Jim. I would like nothing better than making a case of assault, assault with intent, or, even murder if we can tie these asses to Mr. Travis’ death; but we really need live culprits to put on trial and convict. I’m just telling you that our outrage won’t carry the day; we’ll need rock hard evidence.”
I let that sink in and felt myself taking control of my pulse and breathing; felt myself committing to a concept. “I’ll do my best, but I won’t die or let someone else die in the effort.”
Chapter 7
We had used the Table’s van to deliver boxed meals to shut-ins around town, and then, back at the kitchen, we’d loaded coolers full of boxed meals into my pickup; bags of clothing and even two sleeping bags were stuffed in the jump seat of my rig as we rattled down a rocky trail at the base of the Blues.
“Ever been here?” Ahmed asked.
“Years ago; early-season mushroom hunting.”
“There were about twelve people camped here last night...”
We found the bank of the Umatilla River in a clearing. There were three tents pitched on the edge of the clearing. A clothesline stretched between two trees was adorned with towels and underclothes.
A woman peered from around a tree behind one of the tents as we pulled to a stop. As Ahmed stepped down from the truck, the woman’s face broke into a wide smile of welcome.
She barked what sounded like orders in Spanish, and faces appeared all around the clearing. Children raced to the truck; a wizened old man hobbled up to Ahmed and closely examined the purplish bruise that covered half his face. He tentatively reached out to touch it, but pulled his hand back while he made tsking noises of sympathy.
Ahmed squeezed the old man’s shoulder before busying himself with the business at hand. He took a bag of clothes and one of the sleeping bags out of the truck as I opened the tailgate. Two youngsters – eight or nine years old – hopped into the truck and started dragging coolers to the tailgate.
Ahmed and I handed out box lunches to waiting hands. The kids pushed the coolers back to the front of the bed, hopped down, and claimed their boxes.
“Adios!” Ahmed said with a wave.
“Hasta luego, señor!” came the chorus; “Gracias, amigos!”
“Twelve became 16 overnight?” I said with wonder.
“They’re getting by; waiting for better weather to make it to Boise; there’s no chance for them in the valley; too many people between here and the wet side.”
“Where do they come from?”
“Most of the adults have been in this country for years; most of the kids were born here and would be eligible for citizenship, but applying would bust the family to smithereens – the kids could stay; their folks would be sent back. Messy all around.”
We found our way back to the highway, and headed up the mountain. “There’s another campsite near Meacham; and then we’ll head back down the mountain, the back way into a camp that’s on McKay Creek near Pilot Rock.”
“I hunt doves along McKay up in that area every fall,” I said. “I’ve never known of a campsite in that area.”
He didn’t respond.
The site near Meacham was deserted. Remnants of makeshift lean-tos, fire pits littered with broken glass and burned clothing gave the area a look of desperation.
“There were 16 people here last night,” Ahmed said with a bit of wonder in his voice.
I knelt at the largest fire ring, and tentatively poked a finger into the ashes. It was dead, but warmth still lingered.
“They didn’t leave before lunch.”
“Looks like they left in a hurry,” Ahmed said, walking into the woods. I took the other direction, and we met back opposite the truck. “Any sign?” He asked.
“Nope.” I started walking back up the trail we’d driven in on, looking for t
racks in the mud.
Ahmed followed the trail that continued on past the site. I watched as the trail took him on a 90-degree right turn out of sight.
“Jim!”
I double-timed it down the trail and found him on one knee. “What’s the matter?”
“Look at this.” He had a hand spread on the grass that marked the center of the two-track logging trail.
Late afternoon was becoming dusk, and I strained to see it. “What, I’m not... oh!”
It was clearly blood; and it hadn’t completely clotted.
I stepped around him and found another a few yards further. “Here.”
He stopped next to me. “Stay with that one,” I said. In another few yards I found more, “It’s not arterial blood; looks like a gut wound.”
“You know of things like this?”
“I’ve hunted all my life.”
It was growing darker by the minute.
“I have a flashlight in my truck; you wait here.”
I ran back to the pickup, opened the console and removed the flashlight and my Taurus revolver. I used a key on my ring to unlock the pistol, stuck it into my belt, and locked the truck again as I ran down the trail towards Ahmed.
“I have no signal on my phone,” he reported as I neared him.
I opened my phone, “Same here.”
“What should we do?”
“Let’s see if we can find whoever has been shedding this blood.”
It took us another 20 minutes of careful tracking before we found a young woman’s body lying face down in the trail. There was no pulse. I figured she might have weighed 90 pounds before someone had stuck a knife into her belly.
Ahmed was frozen in place, his face registering his shock and dismay. “What the...?”
“We back out of here; go back to the truck, drive until we find a signal, and then call a state trooper I know. Let’s move.”
Chapter 8
My phone rang just as the state patrol car pulled up alongside my truck; it was Pete Boyd, “Jim? This is Trooper Brinks, goes by Jeff. He’ll follow you,” Pete said in his clipped fashion.
“It’s pretty rugged going down there, and worse coming up. Lots of scree; I don’t know if a wagon can navigate down there. We should probably wait for the EMTs, they can ride down with us, we can bring the body back up in my truck.”
“They’re bringing a four-wheeler of their own; Brinks will mark the trail with a flare.”
“I don’t think his squad can climb back out of there, Pete.”
“We’ll see. You lead him in,” he said as he disconnected.
I backed into a turn and headed down the trail. I saw the glow of the flare in my rear view.
We parked in the clearing and Brinks stepped out of his ride with a wide grin, “I’m Jeff Brinks; and I’m pretty sure I’ll be riding out of here in your truck.”
“I tried to warn Pete.”
“He’s sending a tow truck, but not until tomorrow. Can I hitch with you?”
“We’re ... Sure, we’ll ride you back to town.” I gave Ahmed a quick look, and he didn’t seem to be listening. We all heard the coroner’s vehicle rumbling down the trail at the same instant.
“You lead us to the body, then come back up here and wait, okay?”
It was a 20-minute wait until we saw the two technicians carrying the dead girl out of the night. They loaded her in their vehicle and pulled out without a word. We could hear the loose rocks hitting the underbelly of their truck as they went too fast up the scree.
Brinks came back, carrying his camera and mumbling into a tape recorder. Ahmed climbed into the back with all the box lunches that hadn’t fitted into the coolers in the bed.
Brinks inspected the cramped quarters, “What’s all this?”
“Food for hungry people.”
“You?” He looked at me.
“Ahmed and I are volunteers at the Table of Grace soup kitchen. After hours, Ahmed takes meals to people who can’t or won’t come into town...”
“How many people were you expecting to feed down there?”
“I never know,” Ahmed said, “I just pack up what it took the previous day and add as many as makes sense, hoping it’ll go around... nothing ever goes to waste.”
“How many people were down there tonight?”
“One. The woman.”
“Last night?”
“Sixteen.”
“Was she one of them?”
“I don’t know. I dealt with an old man and his wife; the rest of the people stayed in their tents until I left.”
“So you only left 16 meals because they told you they needed that many?”
“Actually, I left 18; I round up.”
“So where were the rest of these going?”
Ahmed didn’t respond.
“Are you thinking you’ll still deliver them tonight?”
“Yup.”
“I won’t stop you, but I’ll want to go too. Can we do that now?”
Ahmed didn’t answer, I had the truck creeping up the trail in four-wheel, low, trying to keep from spinning my tires or taking a beating from ricocheted stones. As we cleared the scree and reached the corner, I finally answered, “Sure; okay with you, Ahmed?”
“The officer’s presence is going to cause a lot of fear...”
“There’s a good chance some of the people who were here last night will be at another camp tonight, right?” I asked.
“I’d think so, but maybe not. Most of these people aren’t bothering anyone; they want to be left alone.”
Brinks spoke up in a non-threatening tone, “There’s a murder, I think; that has to take priority here. You feed ’em, I’ll see if anyone’s forthcoming about what happened. I’ll walk as softly as I can.”
At the road, Brinks called his office, and explained our plan.
“Where to?” the officer asked. I checked on Ahmed in the rear view, and our eyes met and held. I waited.
“Turn left,” Ahmed said. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea, but I can’t stand in the way of the investigation, either.”
The next leg in the trip took only fifteen minutes. “Turn left here,” Ahmed said, pointing over my shoulder.
This two-track trail was not as steep as the first, and it wound through the forest for only a few hundred yards until it spilled into a clearing. As we pulled in, our headlights strafed a series of makeshift tents and lean-tos. We were met by three men, and when Brinks climbed down from the truck, I could see their demeanors change, the smiles vanished, and were replaced instantly with frowns.
Ahmed hurried out of the back with a box of food in each hand. “Como esta, amigos!”
The men recognized the veterinarian, but the expressions on their faces didn’t change.
“No hablo español,” I said lamely. “Habla English?”
“We all do,” the man appearing to be the oldest of the trio said. “Why do you bring police?”
Brinks spoke up, “I’m Trooper Brinks of the Oregon State Police. These men found a dead woman at a campsite where they expected to find people to feed. They called me, I went down there in my car, but couldn’t make it back up, so I asked them to let me ride with them. They’re here to deliver food. I’m hoping somebody here might know something about the dead woman.”
Ahmed was busy pulling coolers to the tailgate, “How many meals do we need here tonight?”
“Twenty-four,” the spokesman answered.
Ahmed’s head snapped up at that answer. Brinks read that reaction as well.
“A big increase over last night?”
“Nearly double,” Ahmed said.
Brinks sighed, “I guess I’ll have to meet everyone here. I’m not interested in resident status, but if anyone can identify that woman, I need to know.”
The three men were obviously nervous.
“Gentlemen, please introduce me to your newcomers. Can you do that? I don’t want to have you all taken into custody, please?”
&nbs
p; The spokesman said two words, and the others headed for tents as the spokesman whistled shrilly. A few heads poked out, and lanterns were lighting all over the camp. “Trooper? We will have each person come to receive their dinner, and we’ll ask each one if they know of this dead woman.”
The people crowded around the tailgate, and each was asked until a middle-aged woman nodded. The old man spoke up, “She came here from the camp of which you speak. She says the dead woman is Anita Lopez Martinez.”
“Does she know how the woman died?”
“No, sir,” the woman answered. “I was told we were moving away because Anita had been injured.”
“And your name?”
“Marianna, señor.”
“Who told you about Anita?”
“Her father, Thomas.”
“Is he here?”
“Si,” she said, nodding to a man with a box in each hand who seemed to be waiting for her.
“Thomas?” Brinks said, pronouncing the name correctly.
“Si, señor.”
“Gracias, Marianna,” Brinks said to the woman.
Brinks and the spokesman herded Thomas away from the crowd, and the spokesman then raised his voice, “Anyone who came from the camp with Thomas, please, bring your food and come with us.”
In seconds everyone had their box; Ahmed took another cooler off the truck and traded it with a cooler he had left the night before.
“There should be two coolers here. They didn’t leave one at the first camp...”
I took that information to Brinks. The spokesman asked a question to the group, and another woman answered.
“The people who didn’t come with us; they have the cooler.”
“Do you know where they went?” Brinks asked.
The woman polled the group with her eyes, and received a shake of each head.
“No, señor,” she said.
“Did any or all of those folks travel with you before?”
“No, señor. They joined us at the camp last week. They were all younger; no families. They have no documents.”
“How long have you been in this country?” Brinks asked.
“All my life. I was born in California.”
“Does anyone here know what happened to Anita?”
