Shallow Waters

by Kay Jennings

  “So she was a perfectly healthy child?” asked Fern.

  “Yes. Everything completely normal. Who told you she was ill?”

  “Jack, her brother,” Matt answered. “He told me that Emily’s parents had taken her to the doctor a lot lately, and he thought there was something bad wrong with her.”

  “They may have taken her to the doctor—I couldn’t say. But that girl didn’t even have a cold.”

  “It looks like Jack either has a wild imagination, or he was trying to throw us off the track,” Matt said.

  “You should talk to Emily’s regular physician to be sure,” said Bernice. “But I’m telling you that the only thing wrong with Emily was a knife in her abdomen.”

  “Thanks, Bernice,” Matt said. “And I’m sorry if you thought I was questioning your judgment. I may have dropped the ball on Jack initially, and I need to be sure we don’t miss something else. My bad.”

  “No hard feelings. This is a tense time for all of us. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do, Bernice. And thanks again.”

  Matt hung up the phone and looked over at Fern. “Do you suppose it’s possible that you are the only person in Oregon who doesn’t think I’m an idiot?” he smiled.

  “Oh, I think you’re an idiot, too,” she deadpanned.

  “Great. I’m on an island. Horning Island, where no one dares to be seen.”

  “Shall we call Emily’s doctor next?” Fern suggested. “I think the family goes to Dr. Richards at the Port Stirling Clinic.”

  Matt jumped on his phone, looking up the clinic’s number.

  “This is Police Chief Matt Horning,” he said to the clinic’s receptionist. Pause. “He retired, and I’m the new guy. I’d like to talk to Dr. Richards if he’s available.” Pause. “Oh, OK, could you please get a message to him as soon as he gets there? Please tell him it’s urgent. Can you do that?” Pause. “Great. Matt Horning.” Matt gave her his number.

  He moved to the wall board and studied the columns under Jack and Marjorie. While he would wait for a definitive statement on Emily’s health from the Bushnell’s doctor, Matt trusted Bernice’s diagnosis. Which meant that Jack either erroneously believed she was gravely ill, or he was deliberately trying to divert attention from himself onto his parents. Diabolical, indeed, and Matt wrote “Lied about Emily’s health—why?” in one of the squares under Jack’s name. Under that note, he wrote “Where did he go after he left the movies?”, and under that one “What happened to his sneakers?” And, last, “Why would Jack want Emily dead?” Not because she threw a measly piece of crab at him, surely.

  The notes under Marjorie’s name were more centered on motive, and, on the surface, she appeared to have more reason for wanting Emily out of the way. But Matt struggled with Marjorie’s opportunity to commit the murder. Would Fred really sleep through his wife getting up out of their bed, getting dressed, sneaking out and sneaking back in? It seemed implausible. Did Fred know the truth, and was he covering up for his wife?

  The one thing in this entire mess of a case that Matt was certain of was that Marjorie was not going to crack. She was either guilty of stabbing her own daughter, or she was protecting someone in her family whom she knew to be guilty, or she really didn’t know what happened to Emily. She wasn’t doing much to help the police, but Matt didn’t know if that was because she was hiding something, or was pissed at them for outing her affair with Kenton.

  Matt reluctantly made one note to Fred’s column “Paternity test”. Man, he hated to go there, but if Fred wasn’t Emily’s father, it was important to confirm that piece of information. What if, somehow, that truth was about to come out, Marjorie feared it, and took matters into her own hands? Or, what if Fred knew that Emily was not his child, and he didn’t want that truth out there?

  Matt knew that once he broached this topic to the mayor, there was no going back. It might be crucial evidence, and he knew he would have to go to the mayor—his boss’s boss—and ask him to take a paternity test. Sweet Jesus.

  Chapter 37

  Wednesday, 8:00 a.m.

  Fern walked over to the board, and drew big X’s through Gary and Susan. Then, she added a note under Marjorie’s name: ‘Exhibits personality characteristics consistent with other mothers who’ve murdered their children, specifically narcissism and violent outbursts’.

  He nodded and, together, they stared at the board.

  “Do you want to hear what I think happened?” Fern asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I think Emily saw her mother and Kenton together, and said she was going to tell daddy. Marjorie panicked, took Emily out of her bed after Fred fell asleep and the other kids were gone, walked with her down to the beach—with that flashlight that Mrs. Campbell saw—took her out of sight into that tunnel and killed her. She thought the tide would carry her body out to sea. She disposed of the knife and her bloody clothes somewhere, and went back to bed before Fred woke up.”

  “She’s the child’s mother. Doesn’t that trump her fear of being discovered?”

  “She looked you right in the eye and told you a bald-faced lie. Don’t forget that, Matt.”

  “Yeah, I’ll give you that one. But wouldn’t you lie to keep your husband from finding out you had a lover?”

  “I don’t know what I’d do,” Fern admitted.

  “You wouldn’t ever find yourself in that position,” Matt said to her.

  “Thanks, I hope I wouldn’t,” Fern said seriously. “Marjorie’s psychological profile does match up with several women in the nation’s files who have killed their children. Having an affair. Burdened with more than one child. Narcissistic. Even some prominent women in their communities.”

  “So, if Marjorie killed Emily, she wouldn’t be all that unusual?”

  “No, she would still be an anomaly. In the files I read, most of the mothers who murdered their children were economically disadvantaged or mentally ill. In my professional view, Marjorie is neither.”

  * * *

  Matt’s phone jangled. He flinched at the noise. It was Mary Lou.

  “Two things, Chief,” she said briskly. “First, everyone on the county team will be here at 4:00 p.m. for today’s meeting.”

  “Great. What else is going on?”

  “I’ve got the Clarksville police chief, Bryce Ellington, on the phone for you. Says it’s important. Can you talk now?”

  “Sure. But if Dr. Richards returns my call, will you let me know? He’s a priority. And, hey, thanks for coming in so early.”

  “Sure thing. Here comes Ellington when I hang up.”

  “Chief Ellington? Matt Horning. How can I help you?”

  “Hi,” responded Bryce Ellington. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet, Chief, and I understand you are new on the job. I hadn’t realized that George Simonson had retired. He was a good old guy.”

  “Yep, that’s what I hear,” said Matt. “I was supposed to meet him this week, but that got postponed for now. You may have heard we’ve had some excitement down here. Where exactly is Clarksville? Still trying to figure out all the local geography.”

  “We’re up the coast from you. About 120 miles north. Is this a good time to talk? I think it might be worth your while,” Ellington said mysteriously. Chief Ellington was driving his patrol car over the Clarks Bay Bridge on his way back to the office after meeting up with one of his officers at Stoppard State Park.

  “Fire away.”

  “Have you found your murder weapon yet? The APB from the state police said it was a knife that was used to kill that little girl. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Our ME says it was likely a medium-sized kitchen knife with a serrated edge, and, no, it hasn’t turned up yet. My bet is that it’s halfway to Japan by now.”

  “Actually, I think it’s sitting here in the seat next to me,” Chief Ellington said.
>
  “Say what?”

  “One of my patrol officers studied the ocean currents analysis you sent over the wire, and he figured you might be correct about our area being a likely possibility. He’s off-duty today and was out for an early morning walk on the beach at our state park with his wife, and they found a knife in the surf, partially buried in the sand. The sun was glinting off it, and it caught his attention. It’s got some residue on it. Good chance this is your murder weapon.”

  “You mean I was right?” asked a stunned Matt Horning.

  Ellington laughed. “Currents around here are a funny thing. We might get part of a wharf from the Japan tsunami wash up on our beaches, or an old shoe from Brookings,” explained Ellington. “You just never know.”

  “Does it look like a kitchen knife?”

  “Yeah, it does. It’s got about an eight-inch stainless steel blade and what looks like a Rosewood handle. There is a ‘ChefsPlus’ logo on the blade. It’s what I would call a kitchen utility knife.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Bryce. ‘Thank you’ seems too weak.”

  “There’s a chance it’s not what you’re looking for, but it seems pretty coincidental. I’d say there’s a strong probability.”

  “Shall I send one of my guys to pick it up? Obviously, we need to see it, and then take a second look around our suspects’ kitchens.” Matt’s heart raced.

  “That would be great. I’m a little short-handed today. If you could have someone on the Port Stirling force drive up and get it, you’d get it faster. Tell me who you’re sending and when, and I’ll make sure it’s in good hands. We placed it in an evidence bag immediately, so it’s OK for transport.”

  “I’ll check with one of my officers, Rudy Huggins, and see if I can put him in a squad car right away. If it’s someone other than him, I’ll call you back.”

  “Sounds good. We’ll plan a get-together when your case is over,” Ellington said.

  “I’ll buy you dinner at your favorite place if this turns out to be my murder weapon!” exclaimed Matt. “Thanks again, Bryce. And please thank your officer for being so alert and heads up—I really appreciate this.”

  “You got it, Matt. Best of luck to you.”

  * * *

  “What?” said Jay, who walked into the War Room just as Matt was hanging up the phone. The Chief and Fern were grinning from ear to ear.

  “That was Clarksville’s police chief,” said Matt, beaming. “They found our knife.”

  “No shit! Where? How?” Jay asked.

  Matt related the conversation to Jay and Fern, and then the three planned out their morning. Fern would head back to the Bushnell house to ostensibly help them with final plans for Emily’s funeral tomorrow. She was really there to keep an eye on Marjorie and Jack, and to note any further suspicious behavior from the two.

  Jay would head to the dump with Doug, Ralph, and Walt, while Matt got their remaining officer, Rudy, started on his way to Clarksville, and, hopefully, talked to Emily’s physician. Matt would join them all at the dump a little later to continue the search for Jack’s shoes, or any items with blood on them.

  Were there any bloody items at the dump, or was this a wild

  goose chase?

  * * *

  Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.

  While Matt, Jay, and their colleagues were digging at the dump, Rudy Huggins raced up Hwy. 101 to the Clarksville PD. Most days, even on a dismal day like today, he would enjoy the drive. But not today. His new boss had made it quite clear that he was to hustle his butt up to Clarksville and get back as fast as he could with the goods.

  Rudy parked in front of the PD and met Chief Ellington in the lobby, who came out with the knife in an evidence bag. Huggins had been told by Matt what to expect, but he still felt a jolt looking at the knife. How was it possible that someone in his hometown had stuck that knife into the stomach of a little girl?

  “Here you go, Officer. I speak on behalf of the Clarksville PD when I say we hope this is what you’re looking for, and that it helps you catch this bastard, whoever he is. Be on your way, and safe travels,” said Ellington.

  “Can I use your bathroom?” asked Rudy.

  * * *

  Wednesday, 1:30 p.m.

  Matt continued digging through a mountain of garbage, while his brain raced through hundreds of, mostly unpleasant, thoughts. And where the hell is Rudy? Shouldn’t he be back by now with the knife? Matt stood up straight, stretched his back, and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Rudy, where are you?”

  “Almost there, Chief. A few miles north of Buck Bay. Be there in about half an hour.”

  Matt checked his watch—1:35 p.m. “Sounds good. You’re on 101, right? Do you know where the Transfer Station is? Stop here and ask for me at the gate. She’ll tell you where we are.”

  “Sure thing. Getting close.”

  “Thanks, Rudy. This could be our big break.”

  * * *

  Wednesday, 2:15 p.m.

  Matt left the dump and headed back to his office alone. Alone, that is, except for the bagged knife on the seat next to him. The bagged knife which matched the set in the Bushnell kitchen. The handle on this knife was exactly like the set sitting in the wood block in the Bushnell’s kitchen on the counter next to the sink. It was quite distinctive, and Matt was sure.

  Matt stopped at Mary Lou’s desk. “Any word yet from Dr. Richards?”

  “No, he hasn’t called. Doctors,” she said and rolled her eyes.

  Matt, holding his briefcase close, passed his office and headed to the squad room. Rudy had come straight back after their meeting at the dump.

  “Hey,” Matt said to him. “I want you to stick around here. We have a county meeting soon, and I want the ME to see the knife. Once she’s given an opinion on it, I’ll want you to continue your journey today, and get it to the lab. It’ll probably be about 4:30 p.m. OK?”

  “You bet. I’ll give them a call and let them know I’m coming.”

  * * *

  Wednesday, 2:30 p.m.

  Why? Why? Why? Why doesn’t that dopey Fern leave us alone? Why am I stuck in these walls listening to her drone on? I have voices of my own to listen to, don’t I? Well, don’t I?

  Funeral. Funeral! Tomorrow I’ll be free. Eat! Shark!

  Funeral! Freedom! Funeral! Fun! Goodbye, Emily! Bite! Funeral!

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.

  Before he headed down the hall to the War Room, Matt called Jay one more time.

  “Any luck yet?”

  “Nope. Sorry. But we still have a lot of crap to wade through,” Jay reported. “I’m not going to make it to the meeting. We’ll keep going here until we lose the light.”

  “I hope this isn’t a waste of your time,” Matt said.

  “It might be,” Jay conceded. “But I still have that funny feeling, and something’s telling me not to give up yet. Instincts are important in this biz, right? Didn’t you say that?”

  Matt laughed. “Yeah, I said that. Instincts are important. Catch up with me later, OK?”

  Matt hung up and had a hangdog expression on his face. Shit. No bloody shoes. A possible murder weapon that is the very definition of long shot. County crime team meeting No. 5. Are we any closer, or are we spinning our wheels?

  You’re a good cop. Keep going.

  And he did, down the hall where he sat quietly, alone, in the War Room staring at his big board.

  Everyone else arrived promptly at 4:00 p.m., which continued to amaze Matt—it was so un-Texas like. The team was missing Jay, whose absence Matt said he would explain in a minute, but he’d made sure Dr. Ryder was back for this meeting. She, hopefully, could tell them if the washed-ashore knife was consistent with Emily’s wounds.

  Matt took the bagged knife out of his locked briefcase and placed it on
the table in front of him. He filled in the team on Chief Ellington’s discovery up north, and the news from Clarksville elicited shouts of jubilation.

  Ed Sonders spoke for the group. “Thank you, ocean currents. Do you think it might really be our knife, Chief?”

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  Fern got up and walked over to Matt’s chair, and leaned over the table to get a good look. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “That’s from the Bushnell’s kitchen set.”

  “Yep,” verified Matt. “I recognized it immediately, too. It’s our knife, Ed. We’re going to send it to the lab for tests. I just want Bernice to take a look at it first, and let us know if it’s consistent with Emily’s wounds. Bernice?”

  Bernice got up and slowly walked to Matt’s end of the table. She put on glasses that had been perched on top of her head, and took the bag from his hand, picking it up gingerly at one end. She studied it for about 30 seconds. “I’d want to look at my photos from the autopsy to be certain, but I would say that the size of this knife and the edge of this blade match up perfectly with Emily’s entrance wounds. This is your murder weapon, people.” Bernice handed the bag back to Matt and said, “Have the lab check for any blood remnants. If they can capture anything, I’m sure it will match Emily’s.” Quietly, she patted Matt on the shoulder.

  “So, we are definitely down to the family, then, if this knife’s edges match the wound, and the knife set in their home,” said Patty, shaking her head. She looked sad.

  “If it matches the set at the Bushnell’s,” emphasized Dalrymple, who had been silent while the knife drama unfolded. “I’d want to make sure that this particular knife is not common around here. What if Ted Frolick has the same knife set?”

  “Point taken, David,” Patty said. “We’ll go back to his house and check.”

  “Alright, then, we’re in business,” Matt said taking charge. “Rudy is standing by to get this over to the lab immediately. We’re looking for blood, hair or skin fragments—the usual; they’ll know what to do.”

  “How can there still be meaningful traces of anything?” Dalrymple persisted. “Wouldn’t the ocean have washed everything off?”