by Doc Macomber
The boy probably had been dead a day or more. They’d had a cold snap. Nighttime temperatures had been in the low thirties, barely climbing above that during the day, which would explain why the body wasn’t covered with insects and flies. A warm day and the remains would have appeared otherwise.
Colefield took in what the kid was wearing – worn leather boots, denim jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a camouflage hunting vest too large for his small frame. The collar of a thermal undershirt showed at the neckline. An orange hunter’s cap lay on the ground beside the body. Given the cold winter weather, the boy had on appropriate hunting attire.
If his take on the entry wounds was accurate, the hunter could have been about twenty feet behind the boy when the trigger was pulled. He surveyed the surrounding area. The placement of the hands and the angle of the feet suggested the boy crawled along the ground either before or after he’d been shot, making him invisible in the tall brush.
He knelt down and examined what was left of the face. Next he studied the boy’s hands. The kid was a nail biter. Colefield curled his own hands into fists, an involuntary reflex he’d developed over the years to hide the same condition. If the hunter had moved the body, he couldn’t see traces of it in the grass.
Without disturbing the evidence he took a closer look at the body shot. The back of the vest displayed a symbol of some kind. Colefield’s childhood vest had borne the image of a motorcycle. Leaning down to examine the design more closely, his stomach clenched. Unless he was wrong, the boy’s symbol looked like it had been applied after the shooting. Colefield jotted notes and photographed everything.
Homicide would process the scene, but he wanted a record in case someone down the line got sloppy. Bart had finished cordoning off the area around the body with police tape. As he marched back over to his evidence kit to stow his gear he glanced over at his partner.
“Will our office assist on this?”
Colefield stopped writing. “What?”
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for nothing. Isn’t this Homicide’s case?”
Colefield didn’t respond. His attention was focused on the boy’s untied shoelaces.
He stopped writing. Behind him Scarbough paced.
“Did you disturb the body in any way, Mr. Scarbough?”
“I checked for a pulse.”
He signaled Bart to join him with the old man. On a hunch, Colefield squatted down and looked the Labs over. Sure enough, there was blood on Sadie’s muzzle and feet.
“Sadie went for the boy’s shoes before I could stop her,” Scarbough admitted.
“I need to see your shotgun, Mr. Scarbough.” Colefield’s tone hardened.
Since Bart was closer, he retrieved the gun. The hunter surrendered it willingly. Bart held it out to Colefield.
“Just see if it’s been fired.”
Bart checked the chamber, cleared one round, and then sniffed the barrel. He nodded to his partner.
“Could you empty your pockets for me, Mr. Scarbough?” Colefield studied the hunter.
Without objecting, Scarbough turned his pockets inside out. Both were empty.
“Your hunch is I shot the boy, Deputy?”
“Did you?”
Scarbough clenched his jaw.
Colefield stooped and picked up the ejected shotgun shell. He pulled out an evidence bag, dropped the shell inside and slipped it into his pocket. He had an idea about the shell that he wanted to check out personally.
“When was the last time you fired your shotgun?” Colefield asked.
“Right before I called 911. The dogs flushed a pair of grouse. I thought I winged one. Dogs went in. But the bird flew off. That’s when I found the body.”
Colefield glanced down at the man’s tan boots and seemed to be making a visual comparison to the impressions in the grass by the body when a bloodstain on the right toe caught his eye. Colefield pointed at the bloody smear.
Scarbough glanced at his feet. “That could have come from most anywhere. These are my hunting boots.”
“It looks fresh,” Colefield said.
The man stooped down to see for himself. Bart put his hand on the Scarbough’s shoulder. “Not so quick sir.” Scarbough shrugged him off and stood. He stared at the older deputy.
“We’re gonna need your boots too,” Colefield said.
Scarbough scowled, but remained silent.
Colefield glanced back at the body for a moment. “Did you hear any shots yesterday from your farm house?”
“It’s hunting season. What do you think?”
“Have you ever seen the boy before?”
Scarbough shook his head and sighed.
Colefield thought it over hard for a few moments and then told Bart to turn the gun over to the lab techs when they arrived. He was unsure how to process the dogs.
“You’re making a mistake, Deputies.”
“Just following protocol,” Colefield explained. “If you’re cleared, you’ll get your gun back.”
“Don’t you mean when I’m cleared?”
“I said it right the first time.”
Chapter 2
The dogs were the first to hear the noisy approach from the opposite end of the field.
“Here comes the Cavalry!” Bart shouted, returning his cell phone to his jacket pocket. Three four-wheeled quads bounced over the rough terrain. Each had a rifle attached to the front and equipment attached to the rear rack.
Colefield thought he recognized a familiar face among the helmeted riders. Bart fumbled around with his clipboard and seemed nervous about what to do next. Colefield quickly assigned him a task.
“Stand guard,” Colefield said. “Ensure no one goes in or out of the scene without signing your log sheet.”
Scarbough, who earlier had been told he couldn’t leave with his dogs until a detective spoke with him, found a stump where he could sit down, hold the dogs at bay and wait. Rattled by all the police activity, the barking Labs fought their leashes. Scarbough on the other hand, silently sat.
Colefield strolled over to greet his old pal, Detective Harvey Feinstein. The stocky detective climbed off the first quad and began removing his gloves and helmet.
“Damn, Jason, could you have picked a more remote location?” The detective dislodged a hunk of mud from the corner of his eye before peeling off his riding jacket. “I hear River Patrol has been working a lot of overtime lately.”
“You could say that,” Colefield smiled. It was well known that Portland’s bridges provided more than an expansive view to those despondent enough to end their own lives.
“Five jumpers just last week? Gotta be a record.”
“It’s the holidays,” Colefield said. “Happens every year. We’ll see another surge end of January when the credit card bills come due.”
Harvey wagged his head. “Every month when my credit card statements arrive I know I want to jump off a bridge.”
Colefield smiled, remembering Harvey bemoaning what it cost to clothe a teenage girl these days.
“Hey, which reminds me, my daughter wants to go on a ride-along. Think you can arrange it?”
“I’ll set it up … after things slow down a little.”
“Great. So what kind of mess we talkin’ about here?”
Colefield pointed toward the taped off area. “A boy’s been shot twice with what looks like a 12-gauge. I haven’t rolled the body. He’s on his stomach just like we found him. The cheek that hasn’t been blown off still has some baby fat on it. I’d put his age around twelve or thirteen. We’ll compare notes later.”
“Find any spent shells?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it still hunting season?”
“Until the end of the month.”
“Who’s the grumpy guy with the dogs?”
“He called it in. Name’s Hank Scarbough. He lives on the island.”
“His story check out?”
“It’s a stretch. But 60/40 says he’s not telling us everythin
g.”
“He recognize the kid?”
“Says no, but with the boy’s face all shot up, he might be telling the truth.”
Harvey looked back over at the hunter about the time Scarbough lit a cigar.
“Well, don’t let him wander off. I’ll want a word with him later.”
“His dogs were with him when he found the victim and might have compromised the scene.”
“OK. I’ll make a note not to look for a killer with paw prints. Anything else?”
“I bagged grumpy’s boots. I think there’s a recent blood stain that might be of interest, and figured you’d want to make a size comparison with the imprints around the body.”
“OK.” Harvey switched gears. “So it sounded like Dispatch said the body was near the riverbank. So why are we in the middle of a friggin’ field?”
“Dispatcher error.”
“How fresh we talking?”
“One day – two tops.”
As the two approached the body, Harvey’s assistants hefted their cases down off the racks and got to work. After the techs finished their preliminary examination, Feinstein waived Colefield over.
“Could be an accidental shooting. Yet boys will be boys. They like to hunt and kill things at this age. Interesting time for a kid. He’s old enough to have a Youth Permit, but I didn’t find one in his pockets. Found a few coins and some chewing gum. No wallet. He’s probably too young to have an interest in carrying one yet. Kid could have been taking a shortcut to the river and some hunter shot him by mistake. ‘Course the grass isn’t over four feet tall. A hunter would have seen the back of his head especially since he was wearing an orange cap. Unless, the hunter was extremely short. Any midgets on this island?”
Colefield couldn’t tell if he was joking or was actually pondering the possibility.
“What’s your take on this?” Harvey asked him.
“If the boy was hunting, where’s his shotgun?”
“How about the marks in the dirt?” Harvey continued.
“It looks like he was crawling.”
Harvey pointed to the drawing on the kids vest. “What do you make of this?”
“Looks like an infinity symbol.”
“Thanks, sport, but I wasn’t being literal. The bigger picture…”
“I think it was made after the kid was shot,” Colefield squatted down by the body. “See how the paint penetrates the gunshot wounds?”
Harvey joined Colefield for a closer look. “So we concur this could be a possible homicide?”
“Looks that way to me.”
“Help me roll him over.” Harvey slid his hands under the legs. Colefield took the spine and head. “On three, ready? One, two, three…”
Trapped air released from the body as they eased it onto its back. Both of them stared at the bloody hole where his cheek should have been. Colefield stepped back. He’d seen enough. The frail boy with long eyelashes closed over a ravaged face struck a familiar chord. Colefield rubbed the scars on his own cheek. Another inch and that could have been me.
Harvey poked around the sinus cavities and then completed his examination of the body.
“It is odd – that symbol.” Colefield pondered. “I think it means ‘without end’.”
“Death is a pretty final end.” Harvey didn’t look up from the body. “My guess? The symbol is part of a bigger picture. We got a memo last week asking to report any deaths involving letters, numbers or symbols to the FBI.”
Harvey studied the boy’s neck and hands. “Rigor mortis has set in. He’s been dead at least twenty-four hours.” He took a closer look. “It doesn’t appear that he fought with his killer.”
“No. It just looks like he was trying to get away.”
Bart, who was standing off to the side listening, turned to the technician, “You think you can get a brand of spray paint off the vest?”
Colefield looked over at Harvey. He was shaking his head like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard.
The technician strode over. “Maybe. I’d like to try.”
“What were the symbols found at the other murder scenes?” Colefield asked.
“Don’t remember the specifics.” Harvey stepped aside to allow the techs to move the body. “Body looks like it has been out here overnight. Kind of rules out your suspect unless he came back today to throw us off the scent.”
“He could have painted the symbol so it wouldn’t look like a hunting accident,” Colefield mused.
“His shotgun been fired recently?” Harvey asked.
“Yeah… What do you want to do with it?”
“Deputy Ryan said he was shooting grouse?”
Colefield nodded.
“I think we’ve got probable cause to hold it.” Harvey turned toward the hunter. “If he puts up a stink and lawyers up, we’ll have to return it unless there’s other evidence linking him to the scene. We’ll check him for paint residue. Anything else I should know about your 60/40 suspect before I have a word with him and his two dogs?”
Colefield spied Harvey’s neatly tied shoelaces and smiled. “Nope.”
Chapter 3
It was another hour before Detective Feinstein had finished questioning Scarbough and cleared the Medical Examiner to transfer the body to the morgue. The best way to do that was by air transport. A helicopter was dispatched. Within minutes, it had circled overhead and landed. Colefield studied the ground beneath the body. It revealed nothing new.
He turned back toward the chopper in time to see Bart and a rookie paramedic struggling with the litter, trying to lift it through the chopper’s small door. Colefield hustled over to give them a hand.
Together they slid the stretcher inside without incident.
“Thanks for the assist. I tweaked my back yesterday.” The paramedic winced as he pulled himself up inside the chopper, waved goodbye and closed the door. The deputies stepped back as the whirling blades picked up speed and the helicopter lifted off.
Scarbough, shoeless and exhausted, left the area propped up on the back of a quad, his Labs leading the way home.
Colefield told Bart to wait by the tree while he went over to talk with Harvey one last time.
When he returned, Bart was leaning against the trunk relieving himself.
Colefield spied the spent cigar butt. “Hey, don’t piss on that.” He pointed to the inch-long stogie. “Bag it and let’s go.”
Bart finished, put on gloves and scooped up the evidence. Colefield was already on the move. Bart picked up the forensic case and hustled after him. “Learn anything new from Feinstein?”
“We compared notes. We’re going to take a different path back to the boat. Follow me.”
“Shouldn’t we see if any of the neighbors heard or saw something?”
“Harvey’s handling that. We’re gonna have a look down by the riverbank. We have jurisdiction there.”
Colefield cut through the brush in a zone all his own. His mind took in the sound of the geese flying overhead. The way the grass and twigs scraped his pant legs. The sound his boots made as they sank into the mud. He spotted a number of broken twigs and down by his feet the grass had been flattened. In some areas it was springing up again, toward the rays of sunlight filtering in through the dense brush and cottonwoods. It was clear to him that someone had recently made this path.
When Colefield reached the river, they came out at a lower section of the island. Still plenty of room for a boat to pull ashore and with fewer embankments to climb. Bart stopped and set the case down. He stood back while Colefield searched down to the waterline.
Bart shouted. “Should I wait here?”
“Yeah. Take a breather. I think we can slip around this ledge and get back to the boat without backtracking. There’s something I need to look for.”
Bart squatted down on his heels and watched the deputy search the riverbank for God knows what.
At one point Colefield knelt down and studied something resting atop a stump. He pulled out a Zipl
oc bag and placed what looked like a cigar butt inside. He studied and photographed hull markings along the bank and footprints left in the deep muck. Markings that, because of the rising and lowering tides, had already lost much of their original shape.
“You want to grab some food on the way back?” Bart shouted and then mumbled something about being able to devour an entire cow. They had gone hours without eating, but the job wasn’t always conducive to a timely appetite.
Colefield continued to focus on the riverbank. Awhile later, he hiked back up the ridge.
“What’d you say about food?” Colefield asked and handed Bart the evidence bag with the cigar butt inside. Bart opened the lid on the forensic case and stuffed it inside an empty compartment, pulled out a log sheet, made an entry and closed the case.
“You up for some chow?”
Colefield glanced at his wristwatch. “Lieutenant is expecting us back at the office. We can follow the ridge from up here. You’re still good playing pack mule?”
Bart nodded.
Colefield led the way again and after a few strides along the ridge, his partner asked, “What were you looking for down there?”
“To see if any boats have come ashore recently. Hull marks mostly. And footprints.”
“I don’t suppose the cigar butts are for your homeless pals down on Burnside?”
“Bart, you might want to start paying more attention to your surroundings.”
The exhausted deputy stumbled over a rock. “Guess you’re right.”
“Didn’t you notice that Scarbough was smoking a cigar?”
“Yeah – so … not a crime to smoke yet, is it?”
“And no harm in collecting butts either. It could be nothing but what are the odds that we’d find a cigar butt along the riverbank, especially with the fluctuating tides?”
Bart thought a moment. “I don’t know. Probably about as good as me finding my future wife in a titty bar.”
Chapter 4
The River Patrol building sat at the edge of the Columbia River. Windows faced the water, framing a view of Mt. St. Helens. From inside the deputies could see the public boat ramp and several enclosed floating garages that housed patrol boats and a boat for the fire department. In the summer the scenery markedly improved. The nearby beach filled with sunbathers. Nothing took a lawman’s mind off a dull day better than watching bikini clad women lolling about in the sun.
