Red Hatchet Falls

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  His top priority was to find Sherman Parsons.

  After reporting their progress to Captain Murphy, Radhauser headed for Costco in Medford. Once there, he made his way through the usual Saturday afternoon crowds and straight to the back of the store.

  He pushed open the heavy door that led into the meat processing and packaging area. The air was cold and smelled like a fresh crime scene. More than a half dozen employees, in blood-stained white aprons and thin plastic gloves, stood behind a long, stainless-steel table. Like an assembly line, they packaged, sealed, weighed and date stamped hamburger meat that had been formed into generous patties.

  A tall, very wide-boned man with black bristles about ¼ inch long sticking out all over his shaved head, hurried toward Radhauser. “Hey. What do you think you’re doing? Customers aren’t allowed back here.” He nudged Radhauser toward the door.

  Radhauser reached into his inside jacket pocket to retrieve his badge, but before he could take it out, Bristlehead grabbed him by the arm and shoved him against the wall. “No exceptions. I don’t care if you’re the FBI.”

  “I’m a detective with the Ashland Police Department and I’m searching for Sherman Parsons. You don’t want me to bring you in for assaulting a police officer. If I’m not allowed back here, we can talk somewhere else.”

  Bristlehead backed away. "I'm in no mood to talk to anyone right now."

  “Your mood is not my concern. We can talk here, or I can arrest you for failure to cooperate in a murder investigation.”

  “A murder investigation?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Wendell Stevenson.”

  “Are you in charge here, Wendell?”

  “Yeah. I got called in when Sherman failed to show up for work. And though I may have felt like it, I didn’t murder him.”

  Radhauser gazed around the huge, refrigerated area, focusing on each item. Cleavers and meat saws that resembled your garden-variety hacksaws. Grinders, packing machines, and band saws. An assortment of boning and fillet knives and others used for skinning hung on a board above the long table. One thing was certain—if Sherman Parsons wanted to murder his wife by cutting off her hand, all the necessary instruments were at his disposal. This place had more weapons than Hannibal Lecter's basement.

  “I was supposed to be at my kid’s swim meet today.” Bristlehead slipped off his plastic glove and offered his hand. Though he appeared to be cooperating now, the big man radiated pissed off from his work boots to the top of his bristled head.

  They shook. Stevenson’s hand was meaty, his fingers big as sausages, and slightly damp from the gloves. “Do you have any idea where I might find Sherman Parsons?”

  “If I did, he’d be here doing his job and I’d be watching my boy swim the fifty-yard freestyle. What’s he done?”

  “I don’t know that he’s done anything. But at the moment he’s a person of interest in one of my cases and I need to find him.”

  Stevenson shrugged. “I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “I’d appreciate any information about Parsons you could give me. Especially if it helps me locate him.”

  After fixing Radhauser in his gaze, as if assessing his motivation, Wendell said, “I can tell you something about him. I don’t like him much anymore now that I’m off the sauce. That man loves his booze. More than his wife or kids.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He raised both bushy black eyebrows. “Me and the wife had dinner with him and Marsha a few times at their house over in Ashland. He was drinking a lot and treating his wife like shit. But maybe he was just having a bad day.”

  “Did this happen more than once?”

  Stevenson crossed his arms over the front of his bloody apron. “What do you want me to say? The man can be a jerk, but can’t we all?”

  “How does he get along with the other employees here?”

  He pursed his lips and looked away for a moment. "He must do okay. He's been here for over a decade. And I'm usually not one to gossip about my co-workers. What's this all about? You threatened me with failure to cooperate in a murder case. Has Sherm gone off and killed one of those diaper heads he's always talking about? Some Muslim?"

  “I was just trying to get your attention. I’m not at liberty to discuss an open case.”

  “And I’m not at liberty to take a break any time I want one. If that’s all you need from me, I’ll get back to work.” His tone had turned as cold as the room. He took off his other glove and tossed them both in the trashcan, then pulled a clean pair from one of the many boxes set around the area and slipped them on.

  “Does Mr. Parsons have something against Muslims?”

  “Are you kidding? Ever since 9-11, he won’t let up. Thinks all of them should be sent back to Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell they came from. We have only one Muslim employee. His name is Ahmed, and Sherm watches him like he thinks he’s got a pipe bomb in his lunch box.”

  “Any possibility I can talk to Ahmed for a few minutes?”

  “He’s off today. But I doubt he’s done anything wrong. He’s a good man. One of the best workers we have.”

  “Does Ahmed feel the same way about Parsons?”

  "He doesn't say much. But I'm sure he hates his guts. Can you blame him? Marsha and Ahmed's wife, Daria, got friendly at the company picnic a couple of years ago and started doing things together. Afterward, Daria adopted some American ways Ahmed was not too happy about. She even got a driver's license. He blamed Marsha. Now if that's all you need from me, I do have to get back to work."

  Radhauser thought about what Heron had told him about the Islamic punishment sometimes administered to thieves. Could Ahmed believe Marsha's friendship with Daria stole something from him? It seemed pretty far-fetched, but worth investigating.

  “What’s Ahmed’s last name? And do you have an address for him?”

  “Azami. He lives over in an apartment somewhere in Ashland. Human Resources should be able to give you the exact address.”

  Radhauser made a note. “I need to know if you have any idea where I might find Parsons. Back when you used to be friends, did he hang out anywhere after work that you know of? Like a favorite bar?”

  “Any place that sells Johnnie Walker. And he’s not too fussy about the color. Red. Black. Polka Dot. He don’t care.”

  “Before you got sober, did you ever go out for a drink together after work?”

  “You don’t let up, do you, Detective? Did you check with his wife? Marsha keeps pretty good tabs on him.”

  “I’m afraid she’s unavailable for comment.”

  “I’m a recovering person. I stopped with the booze a couple years ago. So, we don’t go out drinking together anymore. But Sherm favors that place over in Ashland. The one up Main Street where they throw the peanut shells on the floor. That way if he gets too drunk to drive, he can always stagger home. Or if he’s hiding from Marsha, he’s been known to get a room at that cheap motel up the street, by the college.”

  * * *

  Radhauser knew both the bar and the bartender at the Nut House Bar and Grille. He and Officer Corbin sometimes dropped in for a beer and some peanuts after a particularly stressful day at work.

  It was close to five p.m. when he arrived back in Ashland. The sun had moved across the spring sky and now touched the upmost peaks of the western mountains, turning them pink. He parked in a public lot and when he got out of his car, the air had begun to cool.

  He opened the door to the Nut House Bar and Grille and stepped inside. The room was large and many of the booths along the walls were crammed with tourists and locals, waiting for the evening plays to start in the Shakespeare theaters. The bar served a limited menu, mostly hamburgers, and pizza. Huge barrels filled with peanuts were set around the room with a grain scoop on top and galvanized, quart-sized buckets stacked beside them.

  Red and white checked tablecloths covered the small round tables in the center of the room, the vinyl kind that could be wi
ped clean. Scatterings of peanut shells littered the concrete floor. Two walls, papered in jute-colored grasscloth, held framed, old-fashioned photos of nineteenth-century psychiatric hospitals, many of them surrounded by tall and spiked wrought-iron fences.

  Another wall was paneled with beadboard, painted white, and covered with disturbing photos of former patients. Many of them appeared comatose as insane-looking doctors performed lobotomies and other, now archaic and inhumane, procedures. A cruel testament to the treatment history of the mentally ill.

  Radhauser cringed. You'd either have to be drunk or mentally ill yourself to find this display amusing. But, to his surprise, he’d seen and heard many people laugh at the photographs.

  This bar was popular with the college kids, Shakespeare lovers, and old-timers, even though it wasn't typical of the politically-correct atmosphere that usually characterized Ashland. The area behind the bar, the entire length of the room, was mirrored and reflected shelf after shelf of liquor bottles.

  It smelled like wood shavings, peanuts, Italian seasonings, spilled beer and red meat broiled over open flames. There were four old-timers at the bar watching the Yankees play the Mariners on television and munching peanuts. A group of students, probably from Southern Oregon University, had pulled several tables together and were sharing pitchers of beer.

  One of the waitresses approached their table carrying two large pizzas. Peanut shells crackled under her cowboy boots like insects roasting in one of those bug zappers Gracie had bought for the back patio.

  Radhauser took a seat at the bar, as far away from the others as possible, and waited for the bartender to notice him.

  Sean Larrimore was a clean-cut young man of about twenty-five. He wore the uniform of the Nut House, a pair of western jeans, a white western shirt with a red western bandana tied around the neck and a pair of tooled cowboy boots. “What can I get you tonight, Detective?”

  “Just a Coke, Sean. I’m still on duty. But I’d like you to look at this photograph and tell me if you recognize this man.”

  Sean held the DMV photo in his hand and began nodding before the words exited. “Sure. He’s in here all the time. Name’s Sherm Parsons. Seems harmless enough. What’s he done?”

  “Probably nothing. But I need to talk to him about a case I’m investigating. Was he here last night?”

  Sean nodded. “It’s a rare Friday night when he isn’t here, spouting off about Islamic terrorists.” He stepped away to get Radhauser’s Coke, returned a moment later and set the glass on one of the cardboard Hamm’s Beer coasters strewn across the top of the bar.

  “Do you know what time he left last night?”

  “It was early, about nine.”

  “Did he leave alone?”

  Sean was silent for a moment. “I don’t want to get him in any trouble. His wife has quite a temper and I’ve watched her drag him out of here a few times.”

  “Did he leave alone last night? It’s important.”

  "My customers talk to me like I'm their psychiatrist or something. It's important for the business that they trust me." He smiled like he expected Radhauser to understand.

  “It’s a simple question. And I need an answer.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “Then I’ll have to ask you to come with me to the station where we can talk in the interrogation room. It’s kind of intimidating in there and sometimes it loosens the tongue.”

  Sean slapped his palm against the bar. “All right, damnit, Radhauser. Parsons left with his arm around some broad.”

  “Does this broad have a name?”

  “I’m sure she does, but I don’t know it.”

  “What did she look like?”

  Someone a half dozen stools away called out. “Hey, Sean. You got other customers, you know.”

  “I gotta take care of that guy.”

  “I can wait.” Radhauser lifted his glass and took a long swallow of the Coke.

  Sean got the man another bourbon and water, then checked in with some other patrons. He delivered two more pitchers of beer to the college students’ table before returning to Radhauser.

  “Can you describe the woman Parsons left with?”

  “Mid-thirties. Dark hair. Too much makeup. Brown eyes. False eyelashes. I’ve seen her in here more than a few times. Last night she wore tight black jeans and a black, low-cut sweater with red lace inserts. She had on three-inch red heels and was pretty plastered. Parsons, too. I was surprised either one of them made it out the door.”

  Radhauser jotted the description and the time that Parsons left the bar into his notebook. Heron estimated the victim died between ten and midnight. That would give Parsons plenty of time to have a quickie with his lady friend, then stagger home and do the deed. Could a man as drunk as Parsons pull off such a meticulous crime? "Did she happen to pay with a credit card?"

  “Sherm paid her bill.”

  “Have you seen them together before?”

  Sean nodded. “Off and on for about a year now. I wish I could remember her name. But we get so busy on the weekends.”

  “Did his wife show up last night?”

  He shook his head. “No. Thank God. I can’t imagine the scene if she had.”

  Chapter Seven

  Radhauser pulled into the Siskiyou Motel lot with a spray of gravel, parked, and headed toward the door marked Office. No one would call this motel Ashland's finest. It was a one-story, L-shaped brick and clapboard structure with its twenty-four room doors opening onto the gravel parking lot. What it lacked in ambiance, it made up for in location—situated a few blocks up Main Street from the Nut House Bar and just south of the SOU campus. It catered to lust-driven drunks, parents of university kids who flew in from out of state and didn't want to rent a car, and tourists attending the Shakespeare plays who'd waited too long to make their hotel reservations.

  It was after seven in the evening and the sky was beginning to streak with yellow and pink.

  The middle-aged man behind the counter wore a pair of wrinkled khakis and a pink oxford shirt with a plastic nametag that read Jesse. Circles of perspiration stained his underarms and his belly hung over his belt. A cigar stuck out from between his teeth.

  When Radhauser stepped up to the desk, Jesse pulled the cigar free from his teeth and set it, still smoking, in the ashtray. The cigar was chewed at the base, and wet and shiny with saliva. Radhauser’s empty stomach grew queasy.

  “Single or double?”

  “Neither.” Radhauser introduced himself, then set the photograph on the counter. “Have you ever seen this man before? His name is Sherman Parsons.”

  A faded and yellowed rendition of the Ten Commandments, its edges torn and curling hung on the wall behind Jesse.

  "This is a busy place," Jesse said. "It's hard to remember any one face."

  "Did you work at the desk last night? Say around nine-thirty."

  “I work every night, in exchange for living here.” He nodded toward an open door behind him that led into his living quarters—little more than a motel room with a small kitchenette. The last rays of sunlight stretched dusty rectangles on the gray, linoleum floor.

  “Good. Look at the photo again and try harder. He probably had a woman with him. Dark hair and lots of makeup.”

  “Look, I need this job. And this is the kind of place where people expect some privacy.”

  “And I’m the kind of detective who expects some answers.”

  “I don’t get paid a lot. You have to understand…” His pleading gaze lingered on Radhauser.

  “I do understand. And I won’t be publishing your answers in the newspaper or talking to your boss about them. This is between you and me.”

  "Okay, there was a guy who come in with a woman last night." Jesse gave the same description the bartender had given of the woman's clothing.

  “What kind of shoes was she wearing?” Radhauser asked.

  “I ain’t got one of them photographic memories. People come and go all the time around he
re. I can’t be expected to remember every detail about all of them.”

  “I’m not asking you to remember all of them. Just this man and his lady friend.” Radhauser jabbed at the photo with his index finger.

  Jesse paused, sucked in a breath and focused on the picture of Sherman Parsons. “Yeah, I seen him. He’s been here a few times. What’s he done?”

  “Was he here last night?”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions here. So, answer me. Or I’ll have to bring you down to the station for questioning. I suspect your boss wouldn’t be happy about your leaving the establishment unattended.”

  Jesse let out a long sigh and snuffed out his cigar. "Checked in a little after nine."

  “Was the woman with him?”

  He laughed. “She was hangin’ on his arm like he might disappear if she didn’t hold on. And she had on red high heels. And was havin’ a little trouble walkin’ in them.”

  “So, you’re saying she and Sherman were both drunk?”

  “I’d say she was in better shape than he was. But she wasn’t feelin’ any pain, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Have you ever seen them together here before?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did they check out this morning?”

  “You sure my boss won’t hear about this?”

  “Not from me, he won’t.”

  "She left last night. Couldn't have been more than a half-hour after they checked in. I guess they had what you'd call a quickie. Or maybe they got into a fight. Or he'd drunk too much to get it up. Whatever.” He flicked his hands away from his body as if wanting nothing to do with whatever happened in that room last night.

  "Did you hear signs of a struggle? Yelling or screaming before she left?"

  Jesse paused and shrugged. “No, but I was watchin’ television.” He nodded toward an old set mounted on the wall. “I man the desk until ten-thirty every night, then I leave the note to ring the bell if anyone needs service.”

  “And?”