by Kay Jennings
Jay was happy for a few minutes alone in the police car while he waited for his new boss. It was a good time to collect his thoughts. While Matt had let himself into his new home to change clothes, Jay made two calls to Oregon State Police lieutenant Ed Sonders and Chinook County victims’ advocate Fern Byrne. Both were horrified at Jay’s news, and agreed to meet them at the Bushnell residence.
Jay was beyond grateful for Matt Horning’s arrival in Port Stirling, and wondered what the hell the police department would have done today with old George still on the job—thank God he retired. Jay was not used to this kind of violence—he’d never been exposed to it and never expected it to happen in his town. A coked-out drug dealer ineffectively waving a hand gun around in the air was the worst thing he’d encountered in his years on the job.
Without completely understanding why, Jay already had a lot of faith in his new chief, even though he didn’t know that much about him. The City Hall grapevine rumored that there had been some sort of trouble for Matt in Dallas, but Jay hadn’t paid much attention to the gossip, figuring he would get the scoop directly from the chief if and when he wanted to share the details.
Before Matt had arrived, Jay had been expecting a stereotypical Texas cop as portrayed in the movies: beer belly, balding, red-faced, kind of stupid looking. Looking at Matt now, he realized he’d seen too many movies—his new boss was exactly the opposite of the stereotype.
“You married?” Jay asked, as Matt smoothly slid into the passenger’s side of the patrol car.
“I was, but she didn’t buy into being a cop’s wife,” Matt said. “When we first met, I was in the NFL, played for the Cowboys, but got hurt. It’s a big leap from NFL wife to cop’s wife.”
“Get out!” Jay exclaimed. “You played in the NFL?”
“Yeah, I was a cornerback until I blew out my knee. Played under Mack Brown.”
“You must have been pretty good. The Cowboys. Wow. I’m speechless.”
“Yeah, even though I didn’t last long, it was a cool experience,” Matt said.
Chances were good that Jay would never look at his boss the same way again.
Back to business, Matt said, “How long will it take us to get to the mayor’s house?”
“Oh, about two minutes, give or take a minute,” Jay answered.
“Huh?”
“Everything in Port Stirling is close by. Your house is squarely in the middle of today’s action. The mayor’s house is back up Ocean Bend Road toward Lydia Campbell’s house, and then off to our right. Do you remember the sign for Whale Rock Wayside we passed on the way here?”
“Yeah.” Matt’s stomach growled loudly.
“Well, directly across the road from that is the street the mayor lives on—Cranberry Drive. Have you had anything to eat yet this morning? Do you want to stop and grab something real quick?”
“Nothin’ but some peanuts on the plane out of Portland. But I’ll get through notifying the family and then we can worry about food. Let’s do this, pardner.”
Chapter 4
Saturday, 10:05 a.m.
Cranberry Drive was a small development of homes on the east side of Ocean Bend Road opposite the entrance to Whale Rock Wayside, a state park. The Bushnell house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. The Pacific was not visible from it, but it was an easy walk to the Wayside’s beach staircase. Even though the family house was across the road from the clifftop, Matt guessed correctly that they could hear the ocean’s bellow with their windows open.
A pale blue Volkswagen bug was parked in front of the Bushnell home when Jay and Matt arrived. The VW had a single red rose in its dashboard flower vase. Of course it did. Had to be Fern Byrne’s car, Matt figured. And what was up with that name?
The wide-eyed female face that peered at Matt through the VW’s rolled-up window had a scared-stiff look on it, similar to Jay’s pasty pallor when they first met on the beach. But as Fern Byrne unfolded her long legs out of the compact car to meet the cops, she presented a calm, professional demeanor, if somewhat wary.
“I’m Matt Horning,” he said, sticking out his hand, and locking on to Fern’s direct gaze. “Thanks for coming. Not sure if this is your pay grade or not, but we could use a steady helping hand with the family about now.” After what he’d just viewed on the beach below them, the red-haired, freckle-faced, tallish, slender woman in her 30’s before him seemed to usher in a breath of fresh air right off the ocean. The blue sweater she wore fastidiously over a black slim skirt and boots reminded Matt of the color of the Pacific Ocean when he’d interviewed on that bright sunny day in December.
“Fern Byrne,” she replied, giving Matt a firm handshake and a flitting smile. A little wave in Jay’s direction. “No problem, Chief. I don’t know if you’re technically the chief yet, but I guess this”—she jerked her thumb toward the house—“makes you THE CHIEF.”
“Yup, it does, ma’am. I understand that you know the family.”
“Yes. Not well, but I’ve met them all, including little Emily,” she said and her chin quivered for a moment. “Before we go in there, I want to make sure I have the facts correct. Emily’s body was found in the tunnel in Whale Rock earlier this morning. She’s dead, right? Are we sure?” Fern looked at Matt with hope in her eyes, trying to push out the dread.
“She’s been stabbed multiple times, Ms. Byrne. Yes, I’m afraid Emily is dead. Her body is being moved to the morgue in Buck Bay, and the medical examiner will perform an autopsy this afternoon, once her family makes an official identification.”
Fern gulped, and it came out rather loud sounding.
“And you don’t know who the murderer is, correct?”
“That’s correct. Emily was killed by person or persons unknown.”
Fern put one hand up over her mouth, and took a deep breath. “You know this doesn’t happen in Port Stirling, don’t you?” she said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“We protect our children. We don’t kill them.”
Although she was clearly upset, Matt detected competence and steel in Fern Byrne. Jay had been right; Fern was the perfect person to help the family get through the truly awful news they were about to deliver.
An Oregon State Police car, thankfully with its lights not flashing, pulled in right behind Jay’s vehicle, and skidded to a stop.
Matt felt a strong hand on his back and turned around to see the uniformed officer from the state police. At 5’11” inches, Matt had to look up at the 6’4” cop.
“There goes my Saturday morning golf game,” the big guy said, but under his breath and leaning in so only Matt could hear him. “Edward J. Sonders, Oregon State Police,” he pronounced, and clasped Matt’s extended hand in a death grip. “Heck of a first day on the job, Chief. Welcome to Port Stirling.”
Sonders had a stern, barely-lined face, broad shoulders, and a barrel chest. He looked tough-as-nails in his spotless dark blue uniform and darker blue broad-brimmed hat with the state seal. He was wearing a tie, and a prominent badge on his chest, but Matt’s eyes went right to the gun holstered around his not insubstantial waist. Sonders’ eyes twinkled in spite of the grim circumstances and his intimidating appearance. Matt liked him on the spot.
The two-story Bushnell house was set back from the street on its pie-shaped lot, and had a pretty wishing well and what were probably colorful flowers in the spring and summer, set around a big lawn. The three cops and the county advocate gathered in an informal circle in front of the house’s low, decorative gate. Fern had pulled a black raincoat out of her car, and now wrapped it tightly around her, securing the coat’s hood over her hair, which was threatening to frizz up. Fat raindrops dripped off the brim of the men’s uniform hats, and Matt realized that his official chief’s hat would likely be the key ingredient in his new Oregon uniform . . . hatless, he was getting soaked.
“OK, here’s how this is going to work,”
Matt said to his rapt audience. “We’ll take the family all in one room, and the four of us will stay together while I tell them we found Emily. Then, once I gauge the reaction of each person, I’ll ask each of you to take a statement from one of them. One of us will be assigned to each parent, and I’ll take mom or dad, probably dad. I will designate one of you to go with the other parent, and one will take the three siblings. Fern, we’ll most likely want you to be in the room with the mother because she’s usually the most upset and in need of care in cases like these. Sexist, I realize, but that’s been my experience when a child dies.”
Fern nodded.
“Lieutenant Sonders, do you know the mayor?” Matt asked.
“Yes, Chief, I do. But I’ve never met the family, only been in official meetings with Fred along with Jay here. I’m sorry for their loss, but you all need to know that there is a very good chance someone in that house is the perpetrator.”
Matt looked first at Fern and then at Jay. “The lieutenant is right. The odds and statistics say when a child is murdered, it’s usually a family member. One positive this morning is that I have no pre-conceived notions or judgments about the victim or her family—all I know is the crime scene. So, give them your condolences and empathy, as I will, but keep in mind we have a job to do, OK?”
Matt didn’t wait for an answer, and strode up to the front porch. His three colleagues marched behind him. Drooping Christmas lights, still up ten days after the holiday, surrounded the red door. Matt rang the doorbell. A hearty gust of wind from the southwest blew some dead, wet leaves across his black Cole Haan loafers as he stared unblinking at the front door.
Chapter 5
Saturday, 10:10 a.m.
The mayor answered his door. Fred Bushnell was wearing khaki pants and a forest green sweater. His wife, Marjorie Bushnell, was standing slightly behind him in close-fitting, almost tight, jeans and a white, untucked blouse. She was wearing fuzzy turquoise slippers.
“Thank God you’re finally here,” Fred said sharply. “Are you Horning?”
“Let the poor man come in, Fred,” said his wife, taking a step forward. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Horning. Bill Abbott says wonderful things about you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, ma’am. Mr. Mayor.” Matt shook both their hands in turn, and looked them in the eye. “I’m sorry the circumstances aren’t better.” He turned to indicate his colleagues. “I think you know Officer Jay Finley and Lieutenant Ed Sonders from the state police?” he asked the mayor, who nodded. “And this is Fern Byrne, who works for Chinook County. May we come in?”
Mayor Bushnell eyed the entourage, and held open his door for the visitors to enter. “What are you doing about my daughter’s disappearance?” he demanded as the cops grouped in the foyer.
Matt ignored the mayor’s question. “Let’s all sit down somewhere,” Matt said instead, his voice resolute.
Marjorie ushered the party into the sunken living room off to the right of the foyer, and pointed her guests to a seating area in front of the welcoming red-brick fireplace. Only Sonders remained standing, and he had positioned himself in the archway between the others and the front door, the top of his hat nearly brushing the arch. Fred and Marjorie sat opposite Matt and Jay on a newish-looking, ivory-colored sofa. A glass-topped coffee table was between them. Two large, coffee-table-ish books sat on top; one called “Cheese”, and the second one “Great Links Golf Courses”. In the center of the table was a spectacular four-flowered red amaryllis that must have politely bloomed right at Christmas time.
“Would any of you like some coffee?” Mrs. Bushnell offered. An odd question, considering why they were here, and Matt and Fern, who was seated in a floral chintz chair flanking the Bushnell’s sofa, exchanged a quick glance.
“No thank you, ma’am. I’m afraid I have very bad news,” Matt started. “The worst possible news.” He let that sink in a moment before continuing.
Marjorie Horning rubbed the side of her nose and almost imperceptibly shook her head “no”. One of Fred’s legs seemed to have a mind of its own, and twitched up and down.
“What is it?” Marjorie said first, her fingers now tapping, impatiently, on the arm of the sofa.
“I’m afraid it’s about your daughter, Emily.” He paused, and lowered his voice to a gentler range. “I’m sorry to tell you that her body has been found on the beach this morning.”
“Well, is she alright?” Fred asked, not understanding. He crossed his legs in a futile attempt to stop the twitching one.
“I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr. Bushnell. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not possible. I put her to bed myself last night.” Fred’s face turned pallid and he suddenly looked ill, as the reality of what Matt said was beginning to sink in.
“Emily can’t be dead,” cried Marjorie. “She’s my baby. You must be mistaken.” Tears started down both parents’ cheeks, and they stared at Matt as if he had the power to fix this. Fern reached across the sofa arm, and tried to take Marjorie’s hand, but she swatted her away, as if Fern were an annoying bee.
Undeterred, Fern stayed close and said to both parents, “I’m sorry, but Chief Horning is not mistaken. Jay has unofficially identified Emily’s body, and he’s sure it’s your daughter.” Fern rose and went over to the mayor, perching on the arm of the sofa, and putting her hand on his shoulder. “I can’t tell you and your family how sorry we are,” she said softly. “Please accept our deepest sympathies.”
Fred looked up at Fern, his face a study in grief, and then bolted off the sofa and ran down the hallway on the other side of the entry foyer to his daughter’s bedroom. His plaintive wail came from the end of the hall.
* * *
Marjorie rushed down the hallway to her husband, who was doubled over in his own personal pain, hands on his knees. Sonders let them go, but moved with an agility that contradicted his size, discreetly blocking the door of what he figured must be Emily’s bedroom with his body.
Matt and Fern followed the Bushnells down the hallway. Matt whispered to her, “Best to give them a moment before we tell them what happens next.”
“Agreed,” Fern nodded.
Instinctively, Jay hung around the home’s front door…just in case.
Emily’s bedroom had two windows, and one of them was wide open, the sash thrown up to its limit. Delicate white eyelet curtains swayed in and out of the open window as the wind did its thing. The window sill was soaked, the carpet under it damp, and getting damper by the minute. Matt was somewhat surprised that neither parent had closed the window when they discovered their daughter was missing, even though he’d told them to not touch anything. Most people think that admonition doesn’t apply to them, but he was relieved they apparently hadn’t disturbed the scene.
Horning’s eyes went to the little girl’s bedside lamp, which featured a big pink butterfly on its base, and a pink shade with white daisies all over it. Mesmerized by that sweet lamp, Matt loved the little girl who had chosen it even more.
Emily’s twin bed had a slightly rumpled appearance, and the lime green coverlet was thrown back to reveal white sheets and one pink blanket. The small pillow was in place at the head of the bed, and had a few wrinkles in it. A tiny nightgown was laying sadly on the floor at the foot of the bed. The overhead light in the ceiling was off, as was her bedside lamp, and the closet door was gaping open. A child-sized clothes-hanger laid on the closet’s floor. Denim tennis shoes, one turned on its side, looked as if they had been carelessly discarded.
In a frenzied move, Fred slipped past Sonders, and advanced toward the open window. “Please don’t touch anything,” Matt said quickly, as Sonders moved to grab the mayor.
“I just want to see if Em is out here,” Fred sobbed and tried to stick his head out the open window.
Sonders put both hands on the distraught father’s upper arms, and physically lifted him away f
rom the window.
“I’m sorry, Fred—can I call you Fred?” Matt started. Fred nodded mutely. “I would give anything if I could bring your daughter back to you, but that’s not possible. She’s dead.” Matt looked over Fred’s shoulder to where Marjorie stood with her hands over both ears, as if she couldn’t bear to hear any more, and stared at the floor. Matt repeated, “Emily is dead, Marjorie. I need you both to tell me that you understand . . . Emily is not coming home.”
Fred moved next to Marjorie, but didn’t touch her. Marjorie said, “We understand, don’t we, Fred?” Fred used the back of both hands to wipe tears from his face. Silently, he nodded.
“OK,” Matt continued, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I can’t think of a good way to tell you this, but it looks like your daughter was murdered. I’ll need to get a forensics crew in this room as soon as possible. May I suggest that we move back to your living room?” Try to be gentle, Matt told himself. The mayor. Jesus.
Marjorie and Fred, who had simultaneously gasped at the word “murdered”, moved silently and numbly down the hall, Fred’s arm now around Marjorie’s shoulder. Likely holding her up. On Fred’s other side, Fern took his elbow and gently rubbed his back, and he, unlike his wife, seemed to appreciate Fern’s comforting gesture.
A hall door opened up before they reached the foyer, and 14-year-old Jack Bushnell appeared in his PJ’s, rubbing one eye. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Marjorie rushed to wrap her arms around Jack, tears streaming down her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come out. Jack stood silently with his arms straight down at his sides, allowing his mother to hold him. He looked over her shoulder at his dad with a “What the hell is this?” look on his face.
“It’s your sister, Jack. Emily.” Fred choked out the name of his youngest daughter. “These people are from the police. They think something happened to her.”
“How could something happen to Em? She’s friggin’ four years old,” said Jack in the cops’ direction.