Shallow Waters

by Kay Jennings

  “Don’t you think your mom or dad would have mentioned this to us?”

  “Probably not if they killed her. Don’t you think?” Unblinking still.

  Matt was completely flummoxed and couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Jack. The two sat staring at each other.

  “You’ve been helpful, Jack. I’ll see you later,” he managed. “Stay home today, OK?”

  Matt hurriedly left Jack’s room, found Fern in the kitchen, and tersely said, “Ready to go.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Tuesday, 12:30 p.m.

  On his way out, Jay stopped at Mary Lou’s desk. Two other patrol officers trailed behind him. “Mary Lou, will you call Russell Throckmorton at the garbage transfer station and tell him we’re leaving now? Here’s his phone number.” The three cops took off, leaving Mary Lou to imagine how things could get any more bizarre. She picked up the phone and dialed the dump.

  Jay had rounded up officers Doug Lewis and Ralph Newman, who weren’t currently engaged in Emily’s casework, and they scrambled up the highway. He’d even put the siren on in the patrol car, which he’d done only once before.

  The nice lady in the station’s traffic booth directed them to the Commercial Truck Area, ahead on the right side of the facility. He screeched the car to a stop and got out to talk to the two attendants who waved them down.

  “How can we help you, officer?” said Russell Throckmorton, who had worked at the transfer station since the day it opened in 1981. He had retired early last year, but when his youthful replacement turned out to be a complete dud, the Chinook County administrator had talked Russell into coming back for “a couple of months” until they hired another site supervisor. That was eleven months ago, and Russell’s wife, Janis, had cancelled their retirement trip to Scandinavia twice now.

  “Are you Mr. Throckmorton? Did I talk to you on the phone a while ago?” asked Jay.

  “Yes, sir, that’s me. You’re trying to find out who killed the mayor’s little girl, huh? Terrible thing, that,” he said, shaking his head. “What can we do to help you?”

  * * *

  Tuesday, 1:50 p.m.

  “Jay, where are you, man? I need you to drop everything and listen!” Matt said.

  “I’ve reached the pinnacle of my career, boss. I’m at the dump looking through garbage.”

  “Perfect!” replied Matt. “I can now tell you precisely what I think you’re looking for. A pair of boys’ silver-and-black Nikes, probably about size eight. I think they will have a great deal of blood on them.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. They belong to Jack, and he threw them in the garbage Friday night. Unless I’m really wrong, I think they got picked up Saturday morning, and they will have Emily’s blood on them.”

  “Better to be lucky than good, my grandmother used to say,” said Jay, shaking his head through the phone. “Mr. Throckmorton here tells me that Port Stirling’s garbage usually leaves here for southern Oregon on Mondays, but everything is still here because of yesterday’s holiday.”

  “That’s a good break, Jay. I think you’re also looking for a boys’ red sweater. There might a black one with blood on it, but I think you’re looking for a red sweater. And, of course, a knife. Do you have guys helping you?”

  “Yeah, Doug and Ralph are with me.”

  “This is a priority, Officer Finley. Perhaps the most important work you’ll ever do. I’ve got some loose ends here, and then I’ll come out and help you search.”

  “The transfer station manager and a couple of his guys are going to help us, so I think we’re good. You do what you have to do, and leave the garbage to me. If there are bloody Nikes here, we’ll find them.”

  “You’ll call me?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  “We are looking for a pair of shoes,” Jay explained to Russell Throckmorton, his crew, and his two police colleagues. “We believe they are silver and black Nikes, and that the size would be about eight, somewhere in that neighborhood. They may or may not have blood on them.”

  “Oh, my,” said Mr. Throckmorton.

  “Yeah,” Jay agreed. “They could be a very important piece of evidence for us, so if any of you find these shoes, don’t touch them—just yell at me. We’re also looking for a boys’ red sweater that may also have blood on it, and a boys’ black sweater, same deal. Plus, we’re looking for the murder weapon, which we believe to be a kitchen-style knife, probably eight-to-ten inches long and serrated. Any questions about what we’re hunting for?”

  “A young boy did this horrible thing?” Throckmorton asked in pure disbelief.

  “We don’t know that yet,” Jay said quickly. “But it’s possible, and we have to pursue every suspicion and every lead. You’re not to discuss this with anyone, gentlemen, is that clear? We could be barking up the wrong tree here, and there’s no use alarming any of our fellow citizens until we know for sure what we’re dealing with. Got it?”

  Nods around the circle.

  Jay continued, “Can you point us to a logical starting place for us to look? The garbage in question was picked up by Port Stirling Disposal Saturday morning at a house off Ocean Bend Road. Would you have any idea what part of this area they might have dumped that truck in?”

  “That driver would be Terry Hillstrom,” said Throckmorton, “and he likes to unload in the far back right-hand corner. His truck is the biggest, and there’s more room at that end. Terry’s load would have been among the last ones brought in. Because of the holiday yesterday, there haven’t been any new loads. There may have been one truck Saturday after his, but that’s it. Terry’s load should be close to the top of the pile. Did you bring gloves and boots?” Russell looked at the officers in their nice uniforms and dress shoes. He was dressed in a denim work shirt and jeans with more than a few years on them, along with sturdy boots and heavy-duty safety gloves. Otherwise, Russell Throckmorton, with his neatly-trimmed beard, rash of styled, wavy, dark hair, and lively brown eyes would look more at home in a fine liquor ad than he did at the dump.

  “We’ve got gloves and boots in the car,” Jay responded. “And, honestly, I don’t care if my uniform gets trashed, as long as we find those shoes.”

  The six men divvied up the pile in sections and set to work. About an hour into their search, Jay later recalled to Matt and Fern, he laughed to himself that this is what he’d gone to college for—to dig in a pile at the dump. But he and the five others kept at it.

  Chapter 25

  Tuesday, 5:45 p.m.

  “Nothing yet, Chief, and we ran out of daylight,” Jay said into his

  cell phone.

  “Dammit!” Matt swore. “I was so sure.”

  “You could still be right . . . we’re not finished, we’re going back at sunrise tomorrow. There’s a shitload of garbage, and we’ve still got lots of places to look, according to the manager. Who’s a good guy, by the way.”

  “Guess I was hoping those damnable Nikes would jump into your hands. Maybe Jack tossing his in the garbage Friday night is a coincidence.”

  “His shoes are there, Chief, or something diabolical is—I can feel it. I know that sounds a little woo-woo, but there is something there. You know how sometimes the hair on the back of your neck and arms stands up? Well, mine did today. Plus, you know you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “True, I don’t. And I also don’t discard woo-woo. Who am I but a speck on this earth, and how do I know the forces that could be at work? If you felt something, you felt something. Take a breather, clean up, and get yourself some good grub tonight.”

  “We don’t have ‘grub’ in Oregon, sir, we have farm-to-table.”

  “Whatever. You’ve earned it.”

  * * *

  Tuesday, 7:45 p.m.

  Matt pulled his squad car into the restaurant parking lot, not ev
en arguing with himself tonight that he ought to hit the market and cook for himself. Just too tired and spent.

  Near the front door, he tripped over something, looked down, and saw that it was an elderly man wrapped in a filthy blanket.

  “Hey, watch out,” he yelled up at Matt.

  “Sorry, man, I didn’t see you. Here, let me help you up.”

  “Don’t want up. Sleeping here tonight.”

  Matt took a hard look into the man’s bloodshot eyes, and got close enough to smell the booze on his breath. “You can’t sleep here. What’s your name?”

  “Robert.”

  “You can’t sleep here, Robert. This is private property and, besides, it’s cold and wet.”

  “So what else is new?” Robert said.

  “Here, take my hand,” said Matt, giving the old geezer a hand up. He walked him across the parking lot to the Pacific View Motel, where he registered at the front desk, and gave the clerk his credit card.

  “Take this key, Robert, and go get a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. I’ll be back in the morning to pick you up.”

  Robert locked his red eyes onto Matt’s and said, “Thanks.” He took the key from Matt’s hand, his own hand shaking but determined.

  * * *

  “Well, if I’ve ever seen a man more in need of a drink, I can’t remember when,” Vicki greeted him. Pointing at his chest, she said “You, I’m bringing a Deschutes Black Butte Porter tonight. Try to relax before I get back—your shoulders are touching your ears.”

  Yeah, I’ll get a man right on that relaxing thing. How the hell can I relax when there’s a killer out there outsmarting me, and my town has homeless old men sleeping outside in January? As if to drive home his point, rain was starting to splat hard against the restaurant’s big windows, and Matt could see the wind bending the trees just beyond at a severe angle.

  Not only am I being outsmarted, it’s probably by a 14-year-old boy or by an unstable, cheating housewife. Matt sipped the excellent porter, and made an executive decision: Then there were two. Time to focus.

  Fergus Dunbar is clean. He was home sending emails to his mom, and unless he plugged in his PC in Emily’s tunnel, the timing makes him innocent. No opportunity to commit the crime. And, on a hunch, Matt had phoned the town’s lone butcher this afternoon and asked him if he ever featured chickens from Dunbar’s farm. Jim the butcher had said, “Oh, yeah, Fergus raises the best poultry in the county, and I buy them from him regularly.” Then he had laughed. “Have to go out there and butcher them myself, though. Fergus is wimpy on the back end.”

  So, Dunbar hadn’t been joking when he’d said he couldn’t even kill a chicken.

  Ted Frolick is no murderer either. I hear a ‘but’ in there, Matt said to himself. But, he does have a reputation for being a little crazy. But, he was the first person Lydia thought of. But, he lives directly above the murder scene. But, he slapped a child six years ago and got fired for it. And, but, his alibi is unprovable.

  Were he and Patty being charmed by Frolick? People liked Ted Bundy, too.

  “Word is you’re runnin’ out of suspects,” Vicki said, sliding a plate full of razor clams in front of Matt.

  “That might have been mentioned once or twice today,” Matt said drolly.

  “Are we gunna be votin’ for a new mayor soon?”

  “That’s pure speculation, Vicki, and you know I can’t comment.”

  “Oh, I know. Truth is we’re all gettin’ nervous.” She played with the strings of her apron. “You want another beer?”

  “No thanks, not tonight. I hear you, and I still have work to do.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Wednesday, 6:15 a.m.

  Matt woke up on this gloomy, wet Wednesday morning unable to stop thinking about yesterday’s interrogation of Jack. He dressed quickly, pulling on old jeans and a Cowboys sweatshirt, in case he was needed at the dump later. Coffee in hand, he stopped at his window to check on his pet. Roger was nowhere to be seen, but Matt talked to him anyway.

  What the hell happened in Jack’s room yesterday? That kid is a piece of work.

  Jack got rid of his shoes because they were covered in blood.

  When I asked him what he was wearing Friday night, I’m sure he lied to me. He was wearing jeans, a red sweater, and Nikes. He doesn’t have a red sweater in his closet, but he started to say he was wearing one, I know he was. Is it covered in blood, too, and at the dump with his shoes? Had Jack worn a red sweater on purpose because he planned to kill Emily and thought it wouldn’t show any blood splatters?

  Did Jack talk Emily out of her room Friday night, and walk her down there with the promise of some sort of adventure?

  Did he really think his sister had a brain tumor? Did she, or did he deliberately make up this story to throw me off? Had Jack just tried to pin Emily’s murder on his parents? Was he that diabolical?

  Just then, Roger appeared in his usual spot, waggling along, and staring directly at Matt on the bluff above the water line. Matt smiled at the seal.

  It could have been him, Roger. He’s only a kid, but it could have been him. There’s something in him, something beyond his years. Something scary. He thinks he’s smarter than I am.

  Roger nodded, as if in total agreement with Matt, and flipped over, floating belly-up. The look on Roger’s face said, “Organize your thoughts, don’t waste a minute, Chief.” Roger called him ‘Chief’.

  Call Bernice and find out if she examined Emily’s brain during the autopsy. Talk to Emily’s physician. Check Jack’s school records and see if he’s had any behavioral problems. Don’t tell Marjorie or Fred anything about Jack yet; all you know for sure is that he left the movies early, and he threw away some shoes. Don’t overreact. Call Jay and make sure he’s got enough manpower to help him this morning.

  One chilling thought remained lodged deep inside Matt. Could Jack really be that demonic? What was he really dealing with here? What kind of monster?

  * * *

  Matt rapped on the door of room 121 of the Pacific View Motel. Robert answered dressed in the same clothes as last night, but smelling better and looking more robust.

  “Let’s go, friend,” Matt said, and Robert followed, carefully closing the motel door behind him.

  * * *

  Wednesday, 7:30 a.m.

  Matt pulled into the City Hall parking lot, which was empty except for one car. A powder blue VW beetle.

  He found Fern in the War Room with five reports spread out around her. Each report had the name of a Bushnell family member on it. Susan’s report had a big red X on the first page, denoting she was ‘crossed out’. Fern was studying her report labeled ‘Jack’.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Matt softly as he came into the room so as not to scare his colleague. Fern jumped anyway.

  “Oh, sugar!” she exclaimed. “You scared the bejesus out of me!”

  “Sorry. I tried not to. You were deep in thought.”

  “It’s Jack or Marjorie,” she said, looking up at Matt. “There is absolutely nothing in Fred’s, Gary’s, or Susan’s psychological profiles that indicate they are capable of murder. But Jack and Marjorie have some troubling tendencies. And, what the heck are you wearing?”

  Matt smiled and spread his arms out to present himself. “I’m going to the dump. Is this the right fashion?” He noted how sharp Fern looked in a green and black python print jacket, cream V-neck sweater, and black skirt.

  “Ah. Yes, I suppose it is.”

  When Matt prioritized what needed to happen today, finding Jack’s shoes ended up No. 1 on his list. He decided on the drive to his office that he would be too antsy to work on anything else while Jay and his buddies searched the dump.

  “I made a quick run on the Port Stirling Tavern last night. I went there to check for minors, but I discovered something more important; the who
le tavern is wired with surveillance cameras. The owner forgot they were there. I fast-forwarded through all of the tapes from Friday night, and Gary was there the entire time—from about 6:45 p.m. until well after midnight. No lengthy period of time when he was not there, and he had on the same clothes the entire night.”

  Fern drew a red X through Gary’s report. “I was stuck on the coincidence of Emily being murdered while Gary was home from college, but there is nothing in his makeup that points to homicidal tendencies or mental illness,” she said.

  “He’s out,” Matt confirmed. “So, now we’re down to three, and I’m choosing to focus on Jack today. Let’s track down Bernice Ryder first,” Matt instructed. “Stay here with me, and we’ll put her on speaker phone.”

  Not for the first time since he’d moved to Oregon, Matt was relieved that officials seemed to answer their phones here more often than in Texas. Dr. Ryder picked up on the third ring.

  “Bernice, it’s Matt Horning. Fern is here with me, and we have a couple of questions for you regarding Emily. Do you have a minute to talk to us?”

  “Of course, Matt. What’s up?”

  “It’s been suggested that Emily may have had a brain tumor or some other life-threatening illness. Did you uncover anything of the sort in your autopsy that might not have made it into your report?”

  Bernice laughed. Matt and Fern exchanged a quizzical look.

  “You may be used to big-city ME’s, Chief, but I can assure you that if Emily had anything life-threatening, I would have discovered it during my examination of her body.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, Bernice,” Matt said hastily. “I just wondered if your focus had been entirely on the wounds since we knew that was obviously the cause of her death.”

  “No offense taken. I’m having a bitch of a day so far, and I’m crankier than usual. But, no, I did a thorough exam of Emily, and there wasn’t one other thing wrong with her. No evidence of natural disease.”