by Doc Macomber
“Can we call someone for you?” Colefield asked.
“Who? My worthless husband?”
“Another relative, perhaps?”
“That rotten no good two timing prick! He’s off with that blonde bimbo again. I know it! And detectives? He’s the one you should be harassing! Not me! Go arrest the big hunter!”
The woman swiped at the tears running down her face.
Penny stood up and moved over by the table near her stepmother. “When did it happen?” Her voice barely a whisper.
“When did you last see Timmy?”
The tough streetwise girl had given up. Penny tried to grab Anita’s hand for comfort but her stepmother was having none of it. She pushed the teen away and swayed to her feet.
Detective Redden put his hand on the mother’s shoulder. “Ma’am, I’d feel more comfortable if you sat back down.”
The woman shrugged him loose, picked up the loaf of bread off the counter top and began savagely screaming while shredding it and hurling it in every direction. Only then did she return to her chair, as if some relief had been gained from her outburst. She sagged down, her battered face as white as the bread she’d just attacked.
Detective Redden took the lead.
“Anita, you said Timmy lived with his grandparents. When did they drop him off?”
“How can I know that if I thought he was with them?”
Penny shouted. “You were here when they dropped him off!” The angry teenager was back.
Colefield counted at least a dozen or more beer bottles and cans lying around. No telling how much Anita had consumed over the last couple of days. At least a case, he assumed.
Colefield looked at the girl. “When did the grandparents drop Timmy off?”
“Wednesday — Wednesday night, late.”
That seemed to fit what Detective Redden had told him earlier.
“You’re positive it’s Timmy?” The mother tilted her head, eyes closed.
Detective Redden stepped toward the table. “Well, Ma’am, we’ll need you to come down to the morgue to ID the body to be certain. That is, after you’ve had a chance to sober up.” The comment didn’t seem to penetrate her pained face.
“It can’t be my son.”
Colefield looked at the detective. Detective Redden reached into his jacket pocket and removed a Ziploc, then held it out for the woman to examine.
“Do you recognize this?” Detective Redden stared at her. “We believe this is your boy’s signature.”
Her eyes briefly glanced over the hunting permit and shotgun certification visible through the plastic before looking elsewhere.
“Had your son ever gone hunting on the other side of the island before?” he asked.
Before the woman could answer, the teen interrupted. “Tell them Timmy only went hunting because he hated it here. How else was he supposed to get away from this house?” She began to cry.
Anita shot her a look. “No, you’re wrong. Jeb hunts with him and so does your bastard father.”
“That’s a load of crap!” Penny snapped.
“Who shot the ducks in the sink?” Redden asked calmly.
“I don’t want anything to do with him or his stupid birds.”
“Did you find a shotgun?” the teen asked next.
The two men looked at each other. Since it was Redden’s case, Colefield held his tongue.
Anita reached toward her beer bottle and accidently knocked it over, the foamy river streaming across the table and straight onto Colefield’s pants.
Sighing, Redden righted the bottle. “I’m going to look around.”
Detective Redden left. While he was away, Colefield studied the girl. She seemed to be caught half-way between wanting to be helpful and wanting to fuck the world.
“I need to lie down.” The stepmother’s eyes drooped.
Her head wagged from side to side like a bobble head doll. It was all Colefield could do to restrain himself from placing his hands on her head to hold it still. He could hear the homicide detective opening and closing cupboards in the next room, rattling doors. The teen went over to the sink and stared repugnantly at the birds. “These are disgusting!”
Colefield moved next to her. “Who else knew that the grandparents were dropping Timmy off for the weekend?”
“Just Jeb and me.”
“You’re certain?”
“Look, once upon a time, he lived with that wreck over there. That’s when she and dad were first married.”
“What happened?”
“They started fighting all the time.”
“And?”
“And what?” She glared back. "She and my dad fight constantly, you know. It’s her fault dad’s a drunk. I blame her for this whole mess. She gave Timmy away.”
This must have been the point the woman was trying to make when she said she didn’t have a son anymore. That she valued her relationship with her husband more than she did her kid.
“So the grandparents were raising him?”
“I said that.”
She glanced back down at the sink. “She doesn’t do anything around here but drink.”
The teen plucked one of the ducks by the neck and tossed it out the front door into the yard. She did the same with the second bird and then returned to the kitchen, agitated.
She squirted a glob of soap into the sink, constantly biting at her piercing – a nervous tick. When she was done cleaning the sink but not the dishes, she backed herself into the corner digging at her lower lip with a soapy pinky finger, looking distraught.
“What’s going to happen now?”
“We’ll need your mother – stepmother,” he corrected, “to come downtown and identify the body when she sobers up. Are there any pictures of Timmy in the house? ”
“I don’t think so.” She paused. “Wait. I think I’ve got one on my phone.” She reached into her pocket and after a few strokes held up a photo of her and Timmy dressed up like superheroes. “That was taken at Halloween this year.”
Colefield stared at Spiderman and Wonder Woman. With his face covered in blue Timmy was still a faceless child. Colefield couldn’t stop his mind from substituting his own features for Timmy’s. Something about the look in his eyes. Perhaps they shared more than gunshot wounds to the face.
The girl stared at him. “I’ll do it.”
“The boy’s in pretty bad shape.”
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t look the same.”
“They shot him in the face?”
Colefield nodded.
“The fuck!”
“When Detective Redden gets back I’ll talk to him. See if he thinks it’s a good idea for you to go downtown.”
She turned and stared toward the living room. “What’s he looking for anyway?”
“He’s just doing his job.”
A few moments later, Detective Redden returned looking disgruntled. Apparently the detective had not found a weapon that would link someone from the house to the boy’s murder.
“Ma’am, do you know where your husband keeps the keys to the gun safe?”
The woman didn’t open her eyes or look at the detective.
“Answer him!” The teen slapped her stepmother hard across the face.
“You hit just like your bastard father.”
Chapter 8
Gravel crunched in the driveway. The men looked at each other.
“I’ll see who it is,” Colefield volunteered, unbuckling the strap on his sidearm as he headed to the front door.
Peering out the screen door, Colefield smiled. He’d recognize that determined Italian face anywhere. He stayed put for a moment admiring the view, amused at the pissed-off manner in which she fussed with her dark hair. He was certain she was primping for him. Finally, she exited the car and headed toward the porch. A tailored blue suit highlighted her long legs.
Colefield secured his weapon and opened the door.
“Hello, Jason.” Agent Tamara Co
sta smiled.
She raised her arms as if she expected a hug. Colefield, however, aware of Detective Redden’s presence, didn’t reciprocate. A hurtful expression flashed across her face but didn’t last.
“I’m sorry we missed each other this morning,” Colefield began.
But Costa was staring past him at the disheveled house.
“I got your call that Redden had found the mother and needed help identifying the body.”
When she finished speaking and looked him in the eye, his knees nearly buckled. She still got to him.
“It’s been a long time, Tam.”
“Yes it has, Jason.”
Colefield stared at her for a moment, allowing his memories to fill the gap.
Finally, he said, “So you work for the Feds? How are those pussies treating you?”
“Like my shit don’t stink. How about the river rats down at county?”
“About the same.”
Her eyes crinkled as she smiled.
“How’s married life these days?” The question came out awkwardly. He wanted to take it back. Costa hesitated, needing a moment to gather a reply.
“Mark and I split the sheets three months ago. He wouldn’t leave a job in D. C. when I got transferred to Seattle. So I packed up the cat, wiped a few tears away and left.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“So was the cat.”
She paused a moment. “We haven’t filed divorce papers or anything, but that’s coming. I’m just glad we never had kids.” She shook it off. “How about you? Did you ever marry?”
The comment took him by surprise. He laughed at the thought.
After seeing Colefield’s reaction, it was back to business for Agent Costa.
“Shall we go in?”
Detective Redden brought her up to speed. She wanted to conduct her own interview. In the end, the teenager had gotten her way. Since the stepmother had been in no condition to do it, the girl had volunteered to identify the body at the morgue. It was an iffy call, but Redden wanted a positive ID before they went any further. Costa would handle the females from this point and transport Penny and Anita.
It was decided that Redden and Colefield would check out the tavern in search of Anita’s husband, who could also provide an identification. Costa and Redden exchanged cell numbers and Costa said she would follow them. No telling what trouble they might find if the hubby got out of hand. The man was clearly a wife beater. Often these short fused situations blew up at the slightest provocation. They needed to find out if he knew where his step-son Jeb was. There was also the more important question of whether he killed Timmy. At the very least, he was a person of interest.
As Colefield followed the sedan down the winding road the local tavern came into view. A neighborhood joint which once sported a big neon sign, it no longer resembled the place he remembered from his youth. The current sign hung from a rusted frame on the roof. It had more bullet holes than a WWII fighter plane. It had been used for target practice by generations of kids and drunks alike. Admittedly, Colefield had shot a few BB rounds of his own at it.
At one time, the sign read “Bert’s Tavern” but now most of the “B” and “Tav” had been shot out and so it read “ert’s ern.”
Colefield pulled in behind the detective’s car and parked. In the space beside his pickup was a muddy 4 x 4.
He climbed out and joined the detective at the sedan’s back door. Agent Costa’s car pulled alongside. Leaving Penny and her stepmother inside, Costa joined the two men.
“Anita identified that 4 x 4 as belonging to her bastard husband.” Costa laughed. “And that kid’s a handful. She just told me to fuck myself when she heard me call Child Protective Services about her.”
Colefield hadn’t considered that Penny might soon be chewed up by the foster care system. In many ways he sympathized with the girl. Living under the roof of abusive parents was tough duty. The path she was on would lead to the same self-destruction as the stepmother’s unless she received help soon. He made a mental note to call his friend at CPS to see if he could help smooth that transition and get the teen some counseling. If nothing else, the friend could see about getting her medical attention for the lip piercing, which he was sure was infected. And while they were at it, perhaps some birth control.
“So what’s the plan?”
Colefield glanced over his shoulder. The tavern had a front and rear door and sat at the edge of a cornfield. At this time of year, the field was just a flattened mess of rotting husks and tall grass. Good for rodents to hide in, but little else.
“OK,” Redden began. “We go inside. We play nice. We ask a few pertinent questions. We don’t like what we hear, we slap cuffs on him. Sound reasonable?”
“You think the wife will agree to press charges?” Costa asked.
“Those are long odds,” Colefield said.
“Keep your cool in there. As much as I agree with you about this asshole, we need to do this by the book.” Redden checked his weapon.
“I’ll provide backup for you two cowboys,” Costa said.
“Hold up,” Colefield said, getting an idea. “I want to check something first.”
Since the windows were down it would be a cinch to search the glove box of the 4 x 4. He reached in through the open window and popped the glove box latch. He fished through the junk papers and hand tools, but didn’t spot a weapon. He pulled out the registration, glanced at the name, and looked disturbed.
He rejoined the others at Costa’s car.
Motioning for the girl to roll down the window he leaned inside. “Is your last name Scarbough?”
The girl appeared suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”
“Are you related to a Hank Scarbough?”
“Yeah, sure. He’s my grandfather.”
“The same Scarbough that lives on the island?”
She nodded.
“Did he ever take Timmy hunting?”
“Grandpa would never hurt Timmy.” And with that the girl clammed up.
Colefield glanced at Anita passed out and slobbering in the front seat.
“Stay here with your stepmom. We’re gonna go get your dad. Then we’ll all head downtown together.”
So the grandfather knew the victim even if he claimed to not recognize him. His list of suspects continued to expand. Colefield’s mind made mental links as they opened the tavern door.
The inside of the bar looked as trashed as the sign. Between bar fights and general neglect, the place had taken its fair share of abuse over the years. Faded posters plastered along the walls hid large holes in the sheetrock. A fixture of fluorescents had burnt out over the bar. Upholstery was torn and tables and chairs were nicked and broken. At the bar men in dirty work clothes nursed their beers, their eyes glued to the big screen TV mounted on the wall. The men didn’t seem to notice the three strangers that had just entered their watering hole but several of the women noticed Agent Costa. It was in their DNA to spot potential interlopers. Costa hung back by the front door. The Oregon vs. Oregon State game was on, which explained why everyone was intently watching the TV.
Colefield scanned the crowd while Redden spoke to an employee. The barmaid pointed out their target – a large man sitting at a table in back stacked with empties. His pals, two middle-aged redwoods in greasy overalls, sat hunched over the table alongside the man, throwing back pints as fast as the skinny barmaid could deliver them.
The men headed toward the back while Costa took a central position, but they had waited too long. The man in question had a sixth sense like many criminals do. He jumped up with a full beer, lobbed it at Colefield and bolted out the emergency exit.
His companions rose from the table puffed up like roosters and blocked the door. Hearing the commotion, some men at the bar were jumping to their feet.
Costa didn’t hesitate. The situation was escalating by the second. She pulled her gun and displayed her badge. “Everybody calm down. This is police business.”
The
two hulks moved forward, their intent clear. Colefield knew the look. To them a fight trumped a college game on TV any day. Head down he charged toward the exit door.
His head and shoulder collided with the first man’s gut. Something he’d done hundreds of times before with favorable results. But this farmer was a walking, talking Peterbuilt who barely flinched when he slammed against him. The guy’s feet certainly didn’t buckle like Colefield had anticipated. His big buddy just grinned like Colefield had gone and made a really bad decision.
The man leaned over and wrapped his grizzly bear arms around Colefield’s torso, throwing him over a table as easily as tossing a bale of hay into the bed of a pickup truck.
Redden and Costa stepped forward and ended the fun. Redden calmly drew his Glock, pointing it in the big guy’s face. Costa swept the crowd by the bar.
The big men froze. “We’re just funnin’ here.”
Redden glanced over at Colefield who was on his feet, brushing a decade’s worth of dust off his pant legs.
The men kept their distance. Using his weapon as motivation, Redden waved them clear of the exit. The men sheepishly shuffled aside like chorus girls. As Costa backed out the front door, Redden and Colefield made their exit through the back.
The light outside was blinding. Colefield squinted across the field at miles of open corn stalks. Penny’s dad was nowhere to be found out back. They ran toward the parking lot just as Costa screamed: “Stop! Police!”
With gun drawn Costa aimed across the parking lot. The girl’s father and the teenager were already in the cab of the 4 X 4. Before shots were fired, the truck sped off, rifling the officers with bits of debris and gravel.
Redden rubbed dirt from his eyes. “What a shit show!” Turning to Costa, he yelled. “Call for backup!”
Costa nodded, holstered her weapon, and pulled out a cell phone.
Colefield and Redden ran for the sedan, pulling to a stop at the flat rear tire. Someone had stuck a knife blade in the sidewall, tearing a gash clean through. They also spotted a fresh cigarette butt smoldering on the ground beside the rear door, traces of purple lipstick on the filter. Colefield stomped the cigarette out with his toe. The men looked at each other. Was she or her dad responsible for this?
