by Nenny May
She wasn’t satisfied.
She had a theory; she didn’t have concrete evidence.
Until she did, no one would need to know what she had cooking up.
Her phone continued to blare against her hand and Lisa Patterson swiped the screen. “Hello?” She called to the unknown and unregistered number.
“It’s Regan, longtime no see, how are you?” Regan was polite. Lisa sat up in her seat, unhooked her legs from the chair legs.
“I’m great and you?”
“Doing my best with what’s been tossed in my direction. I have to file charges against whoever did this to the poor late Campbell woman and I don’t even know who this killer could be.” Color drained from her face.
“Umm… why do you have to do it?”
Regan chuckled.
“The office of the D.A. was very strict about its terms and conditions when they hired me.” Lisa Patterson’s eyes widened. Julie- Huggins-Sinclair. Regan Sinclair. How couldn’t she have drawn the conclusion? The District Attorney of Tillamook was aware of her intercessions. Her stomach rumbled.
“Now Julie didn’t tell me much, but she said I would have to meet with you to discuss the details and I was wondering if you could come down to my office mid-day tomorrow. We can have a quick chat before you can get on your way, you must be a busy woman and I wouldn’t want to keep you too long.”
Lisa was beginning to rethink her decision.
◆◆◆
Paul Campbell knew American Angels. He knew the only branch in the small town, He’d only been there a handful of times. One of which had been when he’d tasted beer for the first time with a counterfeit license. He’d been seventeen and it had been on a dare. He hadn’t gotten caught the first time. But when he’d found himself returning there day after day with a band of rather unpleasant seventeen-year-olds, he’d just as easily been picked out and trudged to the City P.D. for underaged drinking and possession of a counterfeit license. He couldn’t rid his mind of the shrill panic that had embraced him in a taut grip.
That was just one of the times American Angels had sent him to the police station facing charges. The other he could remember was after a long night of downing drink after drink, he’d been stopped not too far on the drive from the bar and accosted for DUI. Fear had abandoned him.
The bar had changed little since he’d been gone. It was dark, save for the lights over the bar and individual chairs and booths. Business was slow when he’d pushed through the doors. The number of customers were countable. In the middle of the room, still stood a pool table, one he’d gotten his first kiss against. He was yet to tell Claire that story. It had been with Samantha Baker, quite a looker. She’d had sparkling eyes, a sunny blue, skin of milk that he’d run his hands over as his lips claimed hers. They’d been leaned against the pool table, she’d been pressed against him, his hands firm on her waist as he stabled himself against the game table that had been mounted to the ground.
He had no idea what happened to Samantha Baker and the table, it was in use by a line of men. Three of which had been waiting for their cue, and one of which had been leaned against the table, his eyes fixed on the white ball.
And then it hit him.
Not the pool ball.
But a bitter realization.
He didn’t know who he was looking for.
On the road to the small neighborhood bar, he’d rehearsed what he would say to the coroner. He hadn’t put a face on him, but he’d had a name.
The crowd was little. A family sat in the far end by the window, two girls sat up front in the table for two, and by the bar was a man with a newspaper and thick rimmed glasses and a cup of what Paul assumed to be coffee, and a woman still adorned in her workday get up.
He didn’t know what had gotten into him. But he hadn’t fought it.
“AYEE!” He screamed at the top of his lungs. Heads snapped in his direction and he ignored the lurching feeling in his chest and the chiming voice at the back of his mind telling him to stop and leave. He would get a chance to speak to the coroner when work hours resumed in the morning. The problem? He couldn’t wait till morning. “I’M LOOKING FOR A FINN, MEDICAL EXAMINER AT THE SHERRIFF’S DEPARTMENT!”
Roars and cheers filled the air. His skin prickled.
“Are we going to see a fight?” A woman asked.
“Look at that man, he’s going to beat Finn to a pulp!” A man chimed. The one from the bar.
“What could he have done?” Another voice asked.
A man stepped out from the line of men waiting by the pool table. He’d come along with his cue stick. He was a lean, heavy-lidded dull man with a crooked nose and full lips. Not what Paul had been expecting, He had a thick beard that Paul could only imagine himself having. “Got a minute?” His tone was soft, pleading. Paul walked closer to the man who visibly tightened his grip around his cue stick. “You’re not going to need that,” Paul pointed to the stick. The man was uncertain.
Paul tapped the man’s arm.
“AYEEE, WE’RE NOT FIGHTING, GO BACK TO YOUR DRINKS,”
“Piss off!” A woman responded.
Tough crowd.
Paul looked back at the lean man with the twitching eyes. “I just need a minute and I’ll be on my way. My wife is probably worried sick about me,” He thought yet again of Claire and he was sick to his stomach. And excited. He was beginning to see her as more than just his fiancé. She was his wife. She would be if he could wrap his hands around this situation with his mother and return to the life, they’d left on pause in Portland. He’d never been gone this long without an explanation. He’d stolen a glimpse at his watch, it was nearing midnight. His stomach was in knots.
Finn whispered something to the man closest to him and handed him his cue stick.
Paul subtly pumped a fist.
He led the way towards the front of the bar, next to the woman who hadn’t looked up from her phone once since Paul had wondered into the bar, the woman in her workday attire.
“Can I get you boys anything?” A voracious blonde leaned against the bar her inflated chest pressed against the marble. Paul shrugged and looked to Finn who couldn’t take his eyes of the woman’s chest.
“Nothing thanks,” Paul answered on behalf of the coroner.
“Got some real balls stalking someone from the Sherriff’s department.”
“I didn’t stalk you,” Paul corrected. “I didn’t even know what you looked like till you walked out with a cue stick,”
“Who the fuck are you and how the hell did you know I would be here?” Finn rephrased and looked at Paul with angry doubtful eyes.
“I’m Paul Campbell, the son of the woman you’ve been tearing open and studying for days now down at the county morgue.” His eyes went round. Paul ought to be used to that reaction. “And a sweet-old Gertrude Green let it slip that you would be here.” Paul gestured to his surroundings. He felt compelled to add; “And I’m not new to Tillamook as you must know having access to my family’s file. So, American Angels was an easy drive.”
Finn whispered something beneath his breath then said; “Mr. Campbell, how can I help you?” The man’s countenance changed. Not only had his shoulders eased, but his eyes had blazed with excitement. It was his turn to tap Paul on his forearm. “Don’t take my initial reaction to heart, I’ve had quite the day and being cooped up in a morgue can get to ya’.”
“I can’t imagine,” Paul managed.
“Let’s get a drink, huh? What’s your poison?” Finn waved the blonde over.
“That won’t be necessary, got the wife waiting remember?”
“Ahh, she wouldn’t mind a couple guys getting a drink and opening up, would she?” The blonde approached them.
“What will it be?”
“Heineken, two bottles, and make them chilled.”
Paul cleared his throat.
“One,” He shooed her away, then returned his attention to Finn, his expression closed up and eyes warning. “Don’t take this
the wrong way, buddy, but I don’t know you, nor do I want to. I admit it, I stalked your ass, but it sure as hell wasn’t to share a beer. I just want to claim my mother’s body and I would be on my way with my wife to Portland.”
The man lifted an eyebrow seemingly unfazed by Paul’s outburst.
“What do you mean by claim her?” He leaned against the bar.
“I want possession of her body so it can be laid to rest next to my father,” His jaw tightened at the mention of his father. It had been decades since he’d visited his father’s grave. Blake hadn’t permitted visits, she believed he was with them, in their home. In a bloody picture. The thought had him shaking his head.
“Mr. Campbell,” He was flung back to reality at the sound of his name. “I hate to be the one to break it to you since this is your first murder investigation, but…She’s the government’s property.” Paul Campbell’s expression hardened. “She is not to be moved or touched by anyone outside the morgue staff until a killer is caught and a verdict is reached as to what sentence that man would face.” Finn explained.
Paul gritted his teeth.
◆◆◆
Claire Fisher had perched herself by the hotel window, drawn the thin white curtains out of her way, her feet tapping against the wooden floorboards, her hip jutted out and hands folded over her fairly large chest. She’d been beckoning the familiar robust build of the Sienna she and Paul had collectively rented for their stay in Tillamook to pull into the rear parking lot. It had occurred to her that he could have pulled into the front parking by the main entrance to the building, but she didn’t have a view of that.
And she hated to admit it, but this was a distraction from the anxiety that surged violently through her veins.
They hadn’t started their day on the best foot. The silent treatment had been their morning and being the bigger person, she’d tried to break it with a text that had been viewed and ignored. She’d barely taken it into consideration. That had been in the afternoon and she’d been on the computer delving into her revisor of legal knowledge. She’d seen the news reports. She had the facts. Blake Campbell had been pursued from her kitchen up to the master bedroom and stabbed a total of twenty-two times in the chest and stomach regions and when that hadn’t been enough, she’d been strangled to death. The detail of a wedding dress threw the authorities and many reporters for a loop.
Claire had looked through Tillamook’s online registry of elopement centers and chapels. There was nothing on a fifty-six-year-old bride to be. What type of wedding would that be anyway without the presence of her only son? Claire tossed out the idea of a wedding. This was more than mere provocation. This was premediated, and Claire was convinced the dress had to be a taunt by the killer. A way of marking his territory… not that she was going to work Paul up with the information.
A keenness had seethed within her. Since their flight had scraped its tires against the tar on the Tillamook General Airport almost three nights ago, Claire Fisher had found a purpose aside sitting and waiting for her grieving fiancé. And for that reason, she’d poured herself into a theory that might answer the question burning at the back of the mind of everyone in the small town; who was responsible for the brutal murder of Blake Campbell.
Claire Fisher had researched into this family, whatever the internet had on the Campbell’s she’d printed and spread out on the carpet. The afternoon had burned out, her zeal hadn’t. It was after the darkness had come out to play that she’d really gotten into her work. The first article that piqued her interest beneath the night that featured a glacial air creeping in from the open window, was a short one. It made mention of the rather messy divorce between Christopher Campbell and a Melissa Slater. The divorce had been a no-fault, the website had mentioned ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the reason for separating, the petitioner for the divorce; Christopher Campbell.
There wasn’t much else written on the website aside the fact that it had been filed in a Circuit Court for the State of Oregon for the County of Tillamook. The documents she’d had present for the case had been the Petition for Dissolution of Marriage and Decree of Dissolution of Marriage as well as an Affidavit Supporting Stipulated Judgment of Dissolution Motion for Waiver of 90 Day Waiting Period, Notice of Statutory Restraining Order Preventing Dissipation of Assets. Under Missing the website had listed Marital Settlement Agreement. How then had they been able to move forward with the motion?
Divorces in the United States were fault and or no-fault and she didn’t know much about Tillamook but from what the internet provided it seemed to be no-fault. But whatever the case, a motion for a divorce could be hindered by improperly filed documents.
Leaving the tab open, she’d leaped to another and run a background search on Melissa Slater. Having to alter her search by adding the year the divorce was filed she was able to pop up an image of a man recognized as Christopher Campbell and a woman Claire assumed to be a Melissa Slater. She was young, Caucasian. She’d had short, curled hair and thin glinting eyes. The picture was barren of color. Melissa had apparently been an antique store founder and owner. She’d founded a company she’d opened with her then husband Christopher Campbell, a store that was known popularly as Campbell’s antiques.
Blake Campbell had taken over Campbell’s antiques and run it as her own company.
Had ownership been legally transferred?
What had happened to Melissa after the divorce?
Claire had paced the room unable to calm her restless mind. The night had still been young as at then.
Returning to the desk by the second window in the petite room, the curtains slowly flapping against the open glass, she tried and failed at drawing up information on legal transfer of ownership of Campbell’s antiques. She wasn’t sure what section in particular of the Uniform Commercial Code talked about transfer of title, it had been a while since she’d taught Commercial Law. Assumably, she’d run a brief search on sections two to four-hundred-and-three. Somewhere in there had to talk about a shift in title.
As time marched on, unaware of the panic her nervous system welcomed, she delved deeper into her findings from the world of legal research.
Essentially, If the title in the goods, the goods being Campbell’s antiques wasn’t properly transferred, ownership would still belong to the seller, Melissa Campbell.
Time had picked up it pace and by the time she’d decided to call it a day, it was 11:30 P.M. and she was yet to hear from her fiancé.
Worry hadn’t set in like a rock in a body of water. No. It had taken its time, coming in the form of a soft, unsuspected paranoia. Someone had gone after his mother.
A certain someone that Claire believed went by the name Melissa Campbell.
Not only had the divorce process been improperly finalized, but the ownership of the company she founded was improperly transferred.
There wasn’t much on Blake Campbell’s early life.
It was then she’d begun her glare outside the bedroom window. Urging their Sienna to pull into the rear parking.
With nothing better to do, and eyes too swollen from staring at the computer screen for hour at a time, she’d yet again peered over her shoulder at the wall clock. It was nearing 1:15 A.M. and Paul was yet to respond to the goofy faced emoji she’d dropped in his inbox, just as a way of checking in.
Their room was a mess with facts, statutes and cases she’d printed out and scattered over the carpet. She had a plan. She would make the most of her stay in Tillamook.
She wouldn’t be able to get anyone to believe her now, not until she had evidence.
But she had a suspect. Melissa Campbell, Christopher’s wife. She didn’t need to delve into the internet to confirm that his marriage to Blake Campbell was invalid as far as his marriage to Melissa wasn’t properly dissolved.
And to her that was enough.
Melissa Campbell had a motive, two for that matter. Her husband had left her for another woman who he’d been living with and sleeping with till he’d
died with his other woman, and her company he’d illegally handed over to his new woman. This was provoked, but it was as well premeditated, and it would answer the question of the wedding dress.
Claire fisher was restless, her expression twisted in anxious wait.
Even if Paul wasn’t too pleased with her, he’d never ignored her beyond a couple of hours. This was getting too much.
It was past one and she didn’t have it in her to stare at the room computer any longer.
She was more interested in the window and compelling a large Sienna to pull into the parking lot.
Her efforts had been in vain.
◆◆◆
Rachel Olson wasn’t one to go back on her decision. Especially not when it concerned something, she firmly believed in. She was convinced justice went a step farther than just catching a killer. No one could shift her perspective. It was more than putting some guy in prison. Who’s to say he once he was there, he could get his hands on a lawyer that would reopen his case? Who’s to say he wouldn’t find a way years later to get out on good conduct? To her, it meant working hand in hand with lawyers to ensure that whoever had hurt a victim would pay with their blood or tears. It had been difficult getting her off her high horse and onto the street towards the City P.D. on 3rd Street.
The Sherriff had been… rather compelling.
For the sake of her job, she’d crawled to the City Police Department, her tail between her legs and she’d requested for the office of Detective Chase Dawson. She’d been to the City P.D. quite a number of times. It hadn’t changed in the years she’d spent away. It was standard, white danced across every wall. The United States flag had been erected by the entrance as if to add color to the foyer. It had been clustered with people, many of which had been there to make a complaint. She’d barely had the receptionist’s attention. He was a middle-aged man with tired droopy eyes that sat behind a window. She’d been directed up the flight of stairs to his right and through a hall lined with officers who’d made notable enough names to be hung on the wall between the vending machine, a row of unmarked doors, and the lone file cabinet. Those pictures had lined either side and further down the hall she got, she hadn’t seen even one of Detective Dawson. Weren’t Detectives allowed on the wall?