by Doc Macomber
“We have to cross the main floor to reach my office,” he explained. “We’re in the middle of a new production run. We’re required to suit up.”
Costa began to tuck her hair up under the hair net. “I want to say how sorry I am about your son, Mr. Dodson.”
The man glanced over at the receptionist who was all ears. “Let’s continue this discussion in my office, shall we?”
He and Costa followed the man through a double door and inside the restricted area.
The clean area was the size of a small football field, a maze of white-booty worker bees buzzing about like minions in a futuristic film. Turning knobs, punching buttons, cranking valves, climbing ladders to take product samples from inside enormous volcano shaped stainless steel vats. Colefield had read in the reception area that this corporation created over a dozen different oil and butter products, each containing a variety of creamy artery-hardening transfats.
They entered a large office that Jim Dodson shared with the supervisor of maintenance, a short, dark-haired man named Ben Ross. He rose from his desk holding a cup of coffee and excused himself from the room.
“Sit down. Please,” Dodson said, and closed the office door behind his co-worker.
Colefield glanced around. The room had the same sterilized feel of the restricted area. No personal objects with the exception of a Notre Dame coffee cup sitting on Mr. Dodson’s pre-fab desk in the corner.
“You play in college?” Colefield asked with curiosity at they moved toward chairs. Costa sat in a chair closest to the desk. She quickly turned and gave Colefield a look. A reminder that she was taking lead on this interview.
The man glanced down at his empty cup. “I had high hopes of playing baseball for the University of Washington, but it didn’t work out.”
“Don’t tell me: you threw your arm out during training camp?”
“No. I wrecked my Harley and ruined my elbow in the process. Ended any chance of playing again.”
“Mr. Dodson, again my apologies for not getting to you earlier,” Costa said. “We hoped we’d be coming to you with some better news. We were wondering if you could start from the beginning. Perhaps give us an account of when you last saw your boy. Anything you remember that might be of help to us…”
“Well, officers, that would have been a week or two before Christmas.”
“You didn’t visit your son after that?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m remarried and raising five girls. It keeps me pretty busy.” He paused. “I have no information as to who could have done this. Have you checked with his teachers at school?”
“We’re looking into that next,” Colefield said.
“What about his grandparents? What did they tell you?”
“They are as shocked by this as you are, I can assure you.”
“That’s not what I asked, Agent Costa.”
“As you may or may not know, they’re out of town. I conducted an extensive interview by Skype with them and they weren’t able to provide us with any useful information.”
Mr. Dodson picked up a pencil from his desk and began tapping it on the desk top. Colefield sat up straight. Dodson appeared more distracted than upset.
“How did you get along with the stepfather?” Costa asked.
“I’ve never gotten along with him. He’s a real son-of-a-bitch.
“How so?” Colefield asked.
“It stems from a fight we had years earlier. Old history. But we all do it, don’t we?”
“Do what?” Colefield asked.
“Hold grudges.”
“You fought over what, sir?” Colefield ignored Costa’s burning glare fired his direction.
“I caught him kissing Anita in the parking lot of a tavern. Up until then, I thought our marriage was good. I called him out and we exchanged punches. Nothing came of it beyond a few bruises. Anita broke it up. We divorced shortly after that. She went on to marry the SOB anyway.”
“Where was your boy at the time?”
“With Anita’s folks for the weekend.”
“Are these the same grandparents who raised him?”
“Yes. Clarence and Hazel. They’re good people. They must be really torn up over this.”
You’d be surprised.
“Why didn’t Anita raise him?”
“Our marriage and then her marriage to Dave were rocky. So many fights and splits … his whole life the only stability Timmy ever knew was with his grandparents. They practically raised him from an infant. Even back before our marriage hit the skids when he was still in diapers we left him with them. We worked opposing shifts. She’d stop by after work to see him for an hour or so. I’d see him on weekends. Then I went to work for the Woodburn Police Department. Things sort of went south between us and we divorced not long after that.”
“How long after your divorce did she remarry?”
“Two months.”
“Ouch.”
“They had been seeing each other while we were still together. I’m sure of it.”
“OK. Let’s focus on the boy now. Did he have many friends?”
“A few.”
“Did he ever go hunting with them?”
“As far as I know, just with BB guns,” he said. “He had a buddy named Kyle who lives in California now. They used to go shooting together. He might hang out with some of the neighborhood boys but I couldn’t tell you anything about them.”
“You ever take Timmy hunting?”
“No.”
“What about the grandfather?” Colefield asked.
“His grandparents are not all that keen on him hunting. No handguns or shotguns that I know of. In his day the guy hunted deer and elk, but he was mostly into fishing. He did shoot a nice six-point buck that was mounted and hung on the wall in their hallway. He never expressed an interest in teaching Timmy how to shoot. I was going to do that, but…”
“… but you’re a busy guy,” Colefield interrupted.
Costa cleared her throat and frowned at Colefield.
“Did the grandparents lock up the guns they owned?”
“Not that I know of, but you’re on the wrong track looking at those people. Dave had an armory of guns and is a violent guy. If it was me, that’s where I’d start my investigation.”
“We did,” Colefield said. “He has an alibi for the time in question.”
“What about his son, Jeb?”
“The boy admits dropping him off along the riverbank and claims he went back to pick him up, but couldn’t find him.”
“What about Dave’s dad, Hank Scarbough? He found the body. Could he be covering up for someone?
“He is a person of interest in the case, but we have nothing specific to tie him to the murder yet and he has not made Dave or Anita available for questioning,” Costa said.
“What about the Sea Scout Master?”
“Timmy was a Sea Scout?”
“Timmy went to a few of their outings. I’ve never met the man.” Dodson dropped his head into his hands. “Just throwing out everything I can think of.”
Colefield flexed his fingers. “Where can we find this person?”
“Anita should know.”
“She’s not in any shape to share information at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“She’s sedated,” Costa said.
“Is that what they’re calling it now? Well, she’s extremely talented at staying ‘sedated’.”
Costa leaned forward in her seat. “We’ll check it out.”
“Go talk to his friends at school. Somebody should know something that could help.”
“We’re headed there next.”
Silence filled the room. The interview was over.
“If you think of anything, feel free to call Deputy Colefield or myself. We appreciate you taking the time to talk with us.”
Colefield stood, but didn’t offer to shake hands. Costa stood next to hand Timmy’s father a business card.
Colefield laid his card down on
the desk and then turned and started out the door without waiting for Costa to join him. He made no apologies.
Costa caught up to him out in the Reception Area. Colefield was struggling with one of the elastic booties caught on the toe of his shoe.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Costa said, slipping off her hair net.
“The father moved on years ago. He didn’t even see his son at Christmas and probably missed his birthdays. He didn’t call the FBI and hadn’t even bothered to call the grandparents after learning of Timmy’s death.” Colefield ripped the bootie free.
“I’m beginning to share your opinion that nobody even cared enough about this boy to shoot him.”
“Death by Apathy. That’s a first.”
Chapter 19
It was déjà vu all over again. The last time Colefield strolled the hallways of junior high was when he was a student. Even then he didn’t like being there especially didn’t like sitting in the Principal’s office, but that’s where he now found himself, plunked down on a chair made for a child. Costa sat on an adult chair across from him, grinning at what Colefield imagined was a ludicrous scene. He toughed it out...
Principal Reagan hung up the telephone. “Now where were we, Deputy?”
“You received the news that Timmy Dodson has been murdered?”
“Yes. It’s tragic.”
“We’d like to speak with a few of Timmy’s classmates if we may.”
“Let’s see…” Principal Reagan glanced at her watch. “They’ll be on a lunch break in ten minutes. I believe that would be the most appropriate time to engage with the children. They’ll be in the cafeteria or outside among the food trucks. Some of the students throw Frisbees on the football field. You might have luck there as well.”
“One other thing, I understand his stepsister, Penny Scarbough, attends this school. Do you know if she showed up for classes today?”
“As a matter of fact, her name was added to the Non-Attendance Roster. This makes the sixth missed day this year. I’m afraid if the girl does not start attending classes, we will be forced to expel her.”
Colefield tried to stand but his ass was stuck in the chair. “Due to the circumstances regarding the death of her brother, you might want to cut her some slack.”
Colefield fought his way out of the chair and stood.
“It’s not up to me. We have Federal and State guidelines we must follow,” she said. “Regarding the girl’s absenteeism, there is very little leeway in what we can and cannot do.”
“Exceptions can be made, Ms. Reagan,” Colefield said. “Everyone makes them.”
The principal sat back in her chair and stared disconcertedly at the deputy and then turned her attention toward Costa. “I hope you plan on conducting the interviews with the children, Detective.”
“The deputy is just worried about the girl, ma’am, as is the FBI.” Costa opened her notebook. “Now what can you tell us about the boy?”
She glanced down at the open file on her desk that her secretary had delivered earlier. “Let’s see here. From what I can tell, Timmy was an average student. His grades reflect this. His attendance was good, but several of his former teachers indicated that his motivation needed improvement. Also, his math scores were quite low, but he seemed to be excelling in the Industrial Arts.”
“What about his classmates?” Colefield interrupted. “Did he have any squabbles with them?”
“Squabbles? Let me see here, no … wait, yes, there does seem to be a notation that he had a disagreement with a fellow student about one month ago. Yes, I see that we notified the parents. No wait, I see here that he lives with his grandparents. Yes, we contacted his grandmother, a Mrs. Wells, and discussed the matter. It appears there have been no further issues with the boy or any of his other classmates since.”
“What was the fight about?” Costa asked.
“Let’s see. Well, let me read this comment from his Homeroom teacher. It appears that it was over a harsh comment the other boy made.”
“And?”
“The boy made fun of Timmy’s lisp.”
“Was he receiving any special attention for this?” Costa asked.
“Yes. We caught it early. With some additional work, we would have been able to correct the impediment without permanent consequences.”
Principal Reagan glanced down at her desk, re-checking the information.
“Anything else, ma’am?” Colefield asked.
“He came to school with a bruise on his face a couple of weeks ago.”
“When a student comes to school with a bruised face, do you take them aside and ask them about it?”
“We always make a point of addressing it.”
“Did you speak with Timmy Dodson about his face?”
“We did ask him about it, but he said it was an accident that happened at home.” The principal studied the file. “There doesn’t seem to be any follow-up discussion about it in his file.”
She closed the folder. “He had only been with us since September. I see here that he moved to this school district in July of 2012. Or, I should say, the district partitioned. Some of the kids that attended West Jesuit Junior High last year are now attending Parish Junior High. This was a budgetary decision affecting many students and families. School districts expand and shrink due to population statistics. If one district feels it is bearing too much of the financial responsibility, school districts get restructured. An arbitrary line is created.”
The hyperbole was getting a little deep for Colefield’s taste. He checked his watch and glanced at Costa.
Principal Reagan wasn’t prepared to end the discussion just yet. But Costa stood and the woman went along with the officer’s wishes.
“The children should be exiting the classrooms any moment now. Please be gentle with them. They are fragile at this age. Timmy’s death has been hard on the student body. Many of them just learned of it this morning.”
“We won’t water-board anyone,” Colefield said. “We’re just here to see if Timmy’s friends can help.”
“Very well then,” she said. “I’ll escort you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Costa volunteered. “If you could make us a quick list of his friends – we’ll mingle our way through. Thank you again for seeing us on such short notice. If we have further questions, we’ll be in touch.”
The principal jotted some names down on a piece of paper and then handed it to Costa.
Colefield nodded and then led the way out of the Principal’s office.
Standing in the hallway, Colefield turned to Costa. “You laid it on pretty thick in there.”
“Sure I did, Deputy Rogue. It’s my job. Got any other questions?”
Colefield shook his head and headed toward the Exit sign ahead.
Outside, the weather was marginal at best, a cross between dreary and dismal. A brisk breeze had kicked up since they arrived. The teenagers didn’t seem to mind in the least as they filed outside, their skirts, shirts and coats flipping about in the wind. It seemed that very few wanted to lunch in the cafeteria. The excitement was happening outside. Small groups huddled around the food trucks and around the back of the school at a row of picnic benches, munching on junk food. Across the football field, in a secluded culvert far enough away from the Principal’s watchful eye is where the bad kids hung. Smoked or did whatever. Ten or twelve had gathered there.
Costa studied the list. There were six names written out. She quickly tore the paper into strips and handed three names to Colefield. “You take the boys and I’ll check out the girls,” she said.
“Sure. I’ll meet you over by the Gymnasium when we’re through.”
Costa headed toward a group of students hanging around a food cart that had just pulled up out on the street. Colefield tagged along behind.
She stopped, annoyed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
“You take the smokers across the field. Go!”
His stomach growled in protest as he turned and headed toward the miscreants.
The group of kids, huddled around the culvert in their leather jackets and jeans, turned. Several dropped their cigarettes or joints and stomped them out on the concrete.
“I’m not here to bust anyone,” Colefield called out to the group. “Just relax. I’m a Deputy with the Multnomah County River Patrol. I need to ask you a few questions about Timmy Dodson.”
Colefield stopped a few feet away and looked for the person most in charge.
No one was volunteering any information, so he pointed to a stocky kid wearing a leather jacket with a chain wallet. “You there. Were you a friend of Timmy’s?”
“No, man,” the kid fired back. “None of us hung with the little dude.”
“None of you?”
Colefield unrumpled his list of names. “Anybody here named Tom? How about Chris?”
“Randy?”
A shy kid in a yellow ski jacket stepped forward, staring at the ground. “We didn’t hang, but I knew him. He was into boats and stuff.”
“Go on…”
Colefield stepped toward the kid but did his best not to intimidate unless it was necessary. The kid in the leather jacket stood between them. He had something to prove, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Coalfield needed to be proactive so he reached out, snatched the cigarette and flipped it into the sky above the kid’s head.
The group scattered similar to the way crowds do during a political rally when tear gas is shot off. The cigarette tumbled over the ground, landed in a puddle of water and sizzled out.
The kid folded and stepped aside so Colefield could get by. He stopped in front of the shy kid who was clearly frightened.
Colefield took him by the shoulder and led him off to talk in private. Out of earshot of the others, the boy seemed more relaxed.
“You a real cop?”
“I’m a real cop, Randy.”
The kid had some kind of allergy. He kept sniffling. He needed a Kleenex, but he’d just have to man up and spit it out or swallow it.
“It’s real bad to hear about Timmy. I liked him.”
“Yeah, you got a screwed-up family too?”
Kid nodded. “Who doesn’t?”
