The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  PJ sniffed and dried his eyes against Butch’s sleeve, clearing his throat.

  “I—I don’t know. Three or f-four days.”

  Butch turned his head, resting his chin on PJ’s shoulder.

  “You must feel like shit.”

  PJ closed his eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  Butch held his palm briefly on PJ’s forehead and then moved it to his face and neck.

  “You still have to buy me a new paddle.”

  chapter nine

  PJ

  Detective Porter entered the room holding two steaming paper cups, a file folder wedged against his side with his arm. He sat, pushing one of the cups across the table to PJ, who pulled it in with a thankful nod. From a drawer under the tabletop, he produced a voice recorder, which he turned over in a brief inspection before setting it down between them. He opened the folder and began sorting a collection of files on the table.

  “Get any sleep last night, PJ?”

  “Not much. Maybe an hour or two.”

  Porter offered a sympathetic nod.

  “Sure. So…are you from the area originally?”

  PJ lifted his tired gaze from the shuffling documents.

  “No. Madison. My dad’s only been at the lake full time the last couple of years.”

  Porter leaned forward and set his forearms on the edge of the table, his hands folded over the sorted files.

  “So it was a weekend place before that?”

  “Right.”

  PJ glanced at the documents. Catching the hint, Porter straightened in his chair.

  “Well, it’s a beautiful spot,” he said, placing his hands on either side of his stack. “So…before we get started, I’d like to record our conversation if you’re okay with that.”

  PJ shrugged as he raised his cup.

  “That’s fine,” he said. PJ sipped his coffee as Porter fumbled with the recorder, glancing into the cup with an approving nod as he swallowed. “Not bad.”

  Smiling, Porter set the recorder down in the center of the table.

  “You obviously need more sleep, PJ. Okay, first of all…anything unusual with the house since we spoke last?”

  PJ nodded.

  “His safe’s gone. Did you take that too?”

  “No. What’s he keep in the safe?”

  “I don’t know. Mostly important papers, I think.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I’d just be guessing. I haven’t looked in there in years.”

  “It could be helpful.”

  Porter leaned back and sipped his coffee as PJ stared at the table, searching his memory. The detective looked into his cup, wincing.

  “Well, my college diploma’s in there, I think. I don’t know…birth certificates, insurance policies probably.”

  “Uh-huh. Does your father have a will?”

  PJ rotated his cup on the table.

  “Yeah. That could be there too. I don’t know.”

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “No.”

  With a nod, Porter set down his cup.

  “Other family?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Was there anything else missing from the house? Or different?”

  “That’s all I could find. Where are you with this?”

  Porter slid a single piece of paper across the table.

  “This is the 911 call that came in Friday night.”

  PJ read the transcript, the thin facsimile paper quivering in his hands. He set it on the table and read it a second time before pushing it back across. Clutching the chair’s metal armrests, he eased back and stared at the ceiling, his knees bouncing.

  This isn’t happening.

  PJ reconstructed the call, struggling with the accusation. Training a vacant stare on the detective, he leaned forward.

  “Any of this make sense, PJ?”

  “No. This is bullshit. Someone’s messing with you,” he said, motioning to the transcript. “Any idea who this is?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What did you find on my dad’s computer?”

  Porter slid the transcript to the bottom of the stack.

  “Nothing I’d want to speculate on at this point,” he said with a reassuring smile. “But I assure you, PJ, your perspective is crucial on this, so I’ll update you when I can. I promise. Now, has your father mentioned having trouble with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Has he been acting different lately?”

  PJ stared at the stack of papers, breathing deeply through his nose.

  Christ, he’s got a file.

  He looked up.

  “No. Don’t you need a warrant for his computer?”

  Porter nodded.

  “Our initial entry into the house was in response to the 911 call, so we did a limited search of the premises at that time. We obtained your father’s computer under what they call exigent circumstances. We didn’t search the computer itself until we received this the next morning.”

  He pushed another file across the table.

  “This is a telewarrant from a state judge in Texas.”

  PJ leaned over the warrant, his hands on his knees, scanning its dry, official format. He pursed his lips and began to read. The scope of the warrant covered his father’s computer and storage media, as well as his cell phone and digital camera. Any files or correspondence mentioning demands for money from specific oil, coal and timber companies was to be relayed to a district court in Houston.

  His head began to throb, and PJ looked up in a daze. Porter motioned to the warrant with a tip of his chin.

  “Anything ring a bell?”

  They held a brief, but tense stare. With a sigh, PJ looked away, shaking his head.

  “No. Did you look at the Tim-Oil file?”

  “I’m sorry,” Porter said, straightening in his chair. “Tim-Oil?”

  “Yeah. He’s presenting it to Congress in a couple of weeks. That has to be what this is about, right?”

  Porter leaned forward with a nod.

  “Do you know what’s in the file?”

  PJ withdrew, his brow furrowed.

  “No. You mean you haven’t seen it?”

  “No, but we’ll take another look. So he’s—you say he’s presenting what’s in this Tim-Oil file to Congress but you don’t know what it’s about?”

  “No, just that it involves timber and oil companies somehow. It was right on the desktop, you really haven’t seen it?”

  “Like I said, PJ, we’ll keep looking. In the meantime, if you find out anything about it or remember something, let me know.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” PJ said with a quizzical air. “You find his phone yet?”

  “Not yet, but that brings me to another point. We’ve been able to roughly triangulate the location of his phone in the days following the 911 call. It looks like he—or at least his phone—was in the Chicago area as recently as early Saturday morning. Did your father mention any plans to go to Chicago, or did he have regular business there?”

  “No. Is he still there?”

  “It wouldn’t appear so. The latest signal put him back in Vilas County late yesterday. We haven’t picked up anything since.”

  “Do you think he turned it off?”

  “Possibly. Or the battery could be dead. I don’t know how often you’ve been trying to reach him, but our calls started going straight to voice mail this morning.”

  PJ eased back in his seat, shaking his head.

  Shit. What the hell, dad?

  “So,” Porter said, again folding his hands on top of the files. “Where do we go from here, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The D.A.’s office in Houston is going to be taking over this case for the most part, so they’ll be contacting you.”

  PJ set down his cup, swallowing hard.

  “The charges in the warrant fall under their jurisdiction, but the 911 call and your father’s whereabouts are under mine.” Reaching
for the phone on his belt, Porter turned his head aside. “Mike? You copy?”

  A pause, followed by a tinny response.

  “Yeah, Steve?”

  “How long on that evidence?”

  “It’s done. I’ll bring it over.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, we’re going at this two ways,” Porter continued. “My job is to find your father and get his side of what happened Friday night. As for his involvement with the groups mentioned in the warrant, my hands are somewhat tied. That aspect of the investigation will be driven from Houston. Now the two may or may not be connected, but I’m moving forward under the assumption that they are. So, in that respect, there will no doubt be some overlap. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  PJ shrugged.

  “Whatever. As long as we find him,” he said, motioning to the detective’s side. “What’s this evidence?”

  “Just a couple of things I want you to look at. Now, as far as you know, you’re the last person to have been with your father since the sixteenth?”

  “Yeah. What did the neighbors say?”

  “We’re still in the process of canvassing, but so far, no one’s had any significant contact with him since then.”

  “Has anyone seen him?”

  “Sandy Johnson, next door, said he left his house at around three on Friday afternoon. That was several hours before the 911 call.”

  Porter slid a criminal rap sheet across the table. The photo was dated, but the eyes peering from behind the unkempt facial hair left no doubt.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  Porter drew the file back.

  “When was the last time you saw Mr. Flemming?”

  “It’s…been a long time. I was—”

  There was a knock on the door, and Porter motioned for PJ to hold his response as he turned to summon the visitor inside. A uniformed officer entered the room, holding a pair of clear bags, their contents obscured by evidence tape. He handed them to Porter and pointed to his empty cup. Porter waved away the offer.

  “No, thanks. PJ? More coffee?”

  His gaze fixed on the swinging plastic bags, PJ shook his head. Porter set the bags on the table, looking up at the officer.

  “We’re good. Thanks, Mike.”

  The door clicked shut as Porter sent over the first bag, now turned over to reveal a small flashlight inside. PJ glanced up at the second bag, its contents still hidden.

  “Have you seen this before, PJ?”

  PJ stared at the flashlight, its metallic finish reflecting the glow from the fluorescent fixture overhead.

  “Yeah. That’s my dad’s. What about it?”

  “We found it just inside the gate near his car. Close to where you were standing when we met this morning.” Porter held up the second bag, which contained a cigarette butt. “We found a number of these on the hill overlooking the house as well. Is your dad a smoker?”

  “No.”

  “You?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Well, judging by their condition and the weather we’ve had recently, it looks like both the flashlight and the cigarettes were dropped in the last couple of days. We’re running them for prints and DNA.”

  “Okay. What about his car?”

  “Besides its unusual location, nothing stands out at this point, but we’re still looking at it. Did your father discuss a meeting he might have had or was going to have with someone?”

  “No.”

  PJ slid the flashlight back across the table.

  “So, getting back to Mr. Flemming,” Porter said, scanning Jim’s sheet. “You said it’s been some time since the two of you have had any contact?”

  “Yeah. I was in high school the last time I saw him. Maybe four, five years ago.”

  “Uh huh. And what about your father?”

  PJ considered his response, glancing thoughtfully at Jim’s photo.

  “He saw him before our trip, but I’m not sure what they talked about.”

  Porter leaned in, his fingers laced together on top of the sheet.

  “You’re not sure?”

  “No. Dad told me, but…I was on some pretty strong pills for my ankle. It’s kind of a blur.”

  “What do you remember?”

  PJ hesitated.

  “Just that Jim was going up to his camp in the mountains near his house. Other than that, I don’t know. He might have stayed at the house while we were on our trip, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “Your father’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  From Porter, a measured nod.

  “Did your father mention Mr. Flemming staying at his house at a time when you weren’t on the medication?”

  “No, but that’s—we don’t really talk about…”

  PJ trailed off, waving away his muddled response.

  “Okay,” Porter said, redirecting with a sympathetic nod. “Why do you think Mr. Flemming would stay at your father’s house while the two of you were away?”

  PJ slumped in the chair with a look of tired resignation.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were Mr. Flemming and your father working on the Tim-Oil project together?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Would Mr. Flemming have had access to your father’s computer during that time?”

  “No. Dad had it with him. Look, I don’t even know for sure that Jim stayed here.” PJ looked at Jim’s sheet, drawing it to the detective’s attention. “And that was a long time ago.”

  Porter smiled.

  “I know it was, PJ. And I know it must seem like it, but I’m not trying to lead this in any certain direction. I’m just trying to find out what happened on Friday night. Mr. Flemming’s relationship with your father could be helpful in filling in the blanks. Do you know if there’s any way we can reach Mr. Flemming?”

  Shaking his head, PJ shifted in his seat.

  “Not unless you send someone into the mountains to look for him. My dad was up there once, so he might have Jim’s camp marked on a map somewhere. I’ll have to check.”

  “That would be great, thanks.” Porter flipped through several pages in the stack. “So, unless you want to add anything or have any questions, I’d like to switch gears a little.”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “All right. I just want to get some background information on your father in case it might prove helpful in finding him.”

  “Okay.”

  “What does your father do for a living?”

  “He’s retired.”

  “What kind of work was he in?”

  “He was a scientist. At the UW.”

  “Is he pretty secure financially?”

  “I don’t know, I guess.”

  “So, he has a retirement plan or savings to pay the bills?”

  His brow furrowed, PJ nodded.

  “Yeah. And he’s been doing some consulting work for the DNR.”

  “What kind of consulting?”

  “Data collecting. Environmental stuff.”

  “Okay. Would you happen to know who his contacts there might be?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “That’s all right. We’ll start with our county office and work from there. Does he consult for any private groups?”

  PJ heaved a sigh.

  “Not that I know of,” he said, picking at a piece of loose trim on the edge of the table. “I haven’t been the best at keeping up with his career.”

  Porter paused in his inquiry to linger over one of the files. PJ drained his cup and set it down, craning his neck to look through the window in the door.

  “PJ, do you think it’s possible that…” Porter trailed off, measuring his question. “That this Tim-Oil project of your father’s could somehow be connected to any of this? The 911 call? The warrant?”

  “Oh my god. You can’t be—” Cutting himself off, PJ shook his head, glaring. First at Porter, and then at the recorder on the table. “I don’t know.”

  “It�
��s possible?”

  His expression softened, and PJ stared at Porter, calm and determined.

  “No,” he said, leaning forward and pointing at the stack of files. “And he didn’t steal anything from these people. Or try to extort money from them. Someone’s jerking you around.”

  PJ picked up his paper cup and crushed it, settling back in the chair.

  “That very well may be, PJ. But it’s also possible—and I say this with all due respect and sensitivity—that your father hasn’t told you everything. I can’t tell you how many times—”

  “I don’t care how many times you’ve seen it,” PJ said. He threw the crumpled cup into the corner of the room, missing the basket. “My father is not doing anything illegal.”

  Porter raised his hands, trying to calm the discussion.

  “I understand, PJ, and I sympathize with what you’re saying. And like you say, this could all prove to be some sort of conspiracy against your father, but you should look at this from all—”

  PJ stood up.

  “Now you’re patronizing me. Great. Can I go?”

  “PJ, I’m not. Honestly. It’s just that I’ve been a detective for twenty-two years, and nothing surprises me. It was a poor choice of words, and I apologize.” Porter motioned across the table. “Please, just a couple more questions.”

  PJ sat, tensed.

  “Check his finances,” PJ said. “He’s got everything he needs. He’s happy. There’s no reason for him to…”

  He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “I’m sure you’re right, PJ, and that will be part of our investigation. But something else I’ve learned over the years is how strong the lure of easy money can be. I think you should prepare yourself for that possibility.”

  PJ crossed his arms, lifting his gaze to the ceiling.

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I guess I just have one more question for you at this point.” Porter looked at the file on top of the stack. “You left a message on your father’s answering machine accepting a business proposition he made you. What was the nature of that business?”

  PJ’s throat tightened. Heat began to radiate from his brow as the puzzle Porter was piecing together became clear. He pursed his lips and with a sigh, placed his hands on the table, his eyes glazing. He wondered if maybe Porter was right.

  “I don’t know.”

  ***

  Water sprayed against the hull of the canoe, waking PJ with a jerk. His arm fell to his side and struck the floor with a hollow bang as an enormous swirl boiled off the port bow, barely visible through the mist. He yawned, watching with muted interest as it dissolved back into the glassy surface. With a grunt, he lifted his head from the seat and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck, squinting at his watch. Turning his head in a slow, tentative arc, PJ searched the enveloping fog.