by J. S. James
“Four idiots ran past us, goin’ upriver like bats in the fog, and hit something creepy.”
“A log?”
“Worse.”
“He meant something very aberrant.”
“Whatever, Kenny. Somethin’ that can rip off the bottom unit of a two-hundred-horse Mercury outboard and flip over a twenty-footer sure don’t belong in a river.” He jerked his thumb toward the end of the hallway. “Talk to the Iraq vet runnin’ that boat. Soon as he thaws out.”
She opened her Toughbook, waited a moment, and took down names. Berlson had been driving the boat, according to Zack. She looked up. “You two picked all four off an island farther upstream? How’d they get there? Swim?”
Zack shook his head. “Crazy thing was, them and the boat they clung to shoulda drifted downriver. ’Cept those yahoos were already on that island logjam when we made it upriver. You gotta hear it from Berlson to believe it, Detective.”
“That how you saw it, Kenny?” she asked, entering more notes.
“Pretty much what Zack said. But he’ll have to go back upriver for the decoy bags I had to unload. Otherwise, those guys would’ve swamped our boat. Us with it.”
“Anything else?”
“Kenny did a heckuva job, helping out on the river. Make sure he gets recognized for it.” With that last from Zack, her regard for him climbed a notch or two.
She closed the book and stood. “I need to interview your ice pops, but can you stick around?”
“Hafta drop Kenny off at Greyhound. If it’s about those, uh, hunters you found, I can come back.” Kenny showed no sign Zack had leaked anything to him. One more notch.
She glanced at her watch. “Creekside Dining in one hour? It’s in Building D.” He nodded, and she headed down a hallway flanked by a series of ER bays.
A nursing assistant pointed her toward an open bay where a balding man lay cocooned in a forced-air warming blanket. “Roger Berlson?”
“That’s me.” His voice was steady and he wasn’t shivering, so she proceeded.
“I’m Detective Delia Chavez, here to ask some questions about your boat getting wrecked.”
“Fire away.”
Scooting a chair closer to the bed, she woke the Toughbook. “Let’s start with a rundown of events beginning with when and where you launched your boat.”
As he gave his account, Delia entered details of a boat race in a foggy darkness, all of it sending chills down her spine.
Duck hunters.
On the latest entry, her fingers froze over the keyboard. “Wait. In the beam of your spotlight? Sparkly what?”
“Yeah, like a row of diamond dust out front, just before the boat flipped. Damn glad we had on life jackets.” A change in MO? she wondered.
“Your rescuers said you should have drifted downstream. How did you get upriver to that island?”
“Damnedest thing.” His arms flew out, gesturing. “We’re all in the water, hanging on to my upturned boat, when we get floodlit.”
“By what?”
“Well, see, I was Navy, boatswain’s mate, during Iraqi Freedom, and I know an assault ribbie when I see one.” She canted her head, and he clarified. “Rigid-hull inflatable. That big Zodiac circled us with its light rack blazing. We yelled for help but got no answer. Then somebody hooked a line onto our boat and towed us into shallow water at the end of that island.”
“Intending to rescue you,” she offered.
Berlson snorted. “Half-assed, if that. Dropped the towline and powered out of there. If those other hunters hadn’t come along …”
“How many in the Zodiac?’
“One guy. A six-foot shadow. He stayed behind the lights, so I can’t tell you what he looked like.”
“Anything else? What the man wore?” she asked, noting down the last items Berlson gave her.
“Not a hunter. Long coat, brimmed hat.”
She glanced up, recall kicking in. “Boat markings?” Could this boat crash have something to do with Grice acting cagey over a fugitive warrant?
“Couldn’t see numbers. A weird up-down camouflage pattern ran along the sides. Check with my buddies.”
“Next on my list,” she said, noting a reminder before saving what she had and bagging the computer. Standing, she paused. “One more question. Have you had any run-ins with antihunting groups? Maybe putting your boat in during the opening-day protest?”
He fiddled with the patient control, raising then lowering the bed angle. There it was, that clamshelling hunters did with cops. Her, anyway.
“Nah. We were nowhere near Buena Vista.”
“Okay, thanks for your help.” She shook his hand, this time making a mental note. She hadn’t mentioned where the protest had taken place, but he could’ve heard it in the news. “And thank you for your service.”
* * *
Finished interviewing three more hot-air-blanketed hunters who’d echoed Berlson’s story, Delia bought a salad at Creekside Dining and took a corner table. Hospital dining might’ve changed, but they were still hospitals. While she ate, a flight of questions circled for a landing inside her head.
Who was the guy in the Zodiac, and did he have a peg leg? How many more booby traps had he set? Was that how Ham Tran and the dead hunter found in Yamhill County had been stopped before being killed? If so, why had the guy halfway rescued his latest victims?
Pushing aside the kale with her fork, she let her mind wander into uncharted territory. Was all of this some form of ultimate protest against the killing of animals? Certainly not against the taking of human life.
Her pocket vibrated. Not her personal phone, the one Grice had given her. Shit. She hadn’t given him an update since the Blue Garden.
“Where are you and why haven’t you updated me on your investigation?” Highway sounds. Grice was driving somewhere.
“Salem Hospital. Just finished interviewing four hunters who got their boat swamped under suspicious circumstance. I’m pulling together the details now, but I still need to run boat IDs, several truck and trailer plate numbers.”
She gave him a thumbnail sketch of what she’d learned from the four hunters.
“What’s that got to do with the homicide case?”
“A potential suspect? Also, there’s a connection we’re missing, maybe with the antihunting set. And there’s other elements. Appears that boat was deliberately wrecked by someone in a big Zodiac. Someone I might have seen before.”
“Enough for now. Just pulled into Marion County Sheriff’s for a meeting. Oh, and you’ve been on marine patrols, right? Operated large boats?”
“No.” Electricity or something like it charged through her brain. “Never been on one.”
“Marine patrol? Or large boat?”
“Any boat.” Her heart galloped. “All my duty tours have been on dry land.”
“Until now. Better find somebody to show you the ropes.” She winced at the slam of his car door. “I’m about to twist Sheriff Chop Tellson’s arm for a loaner to replace the boat Harvey Schenkel put out of commission.”
He rang off.
For a while, the phone seemed stuck to her ear.
* * *
By the time Zack Lukovsky strolled up to Delia’s Creekside table, she’d calmed her nerves with a scroll through her case notes. She’d marked SME beside items he might help with, except for the last item, hoping to God she wouldn’t need boat training.
He sat across from her, one leg stretched out to the side. The stocking face mask and hip boots were gone, replaced by straw-blond hat hair and mud-toned outdoor boots.
“Thanks for agreeing to help, Zack.”
He leaned over the table, speaking barely above a whisper. “Foul play, you said. Like murder?”
She nodded. “First off, what goes between us—I mean everything—you keep to yourself.”
“No problem,” he answered, an eagerness in his voice. “What d’you need?”
“Where would I look for these?” She handed him printou
ts, tapping on the photos and IDs. “An Isuzu pickup and a Calkins trailer with these plate numbers, and a Starcraft boat with this bow number.” From Ham’s duck call moniker she’d easily gotten the rest, pulling stock ad photos off the Internet. “I’ve canvassed the county boat launches and asked everyone loading up whether they’ve seen the Starcraft.”
He pulled at a corner of his mustache, turning the photos around, then pointing at the Isuzu. “Some farmers let hunters launch from irrigation pipe lanes. I’ll scope out the ones I know of.” He pointed to the boat pictured in red and white. “No duck hunter would leave it that color, probably spray on flat army tan or camo tones.”
He gathered in the photos, his head shaking. “I’ll ask around. Keep my eyes open, but it’s been a while back. That boat could’ve drifted clear into the ocean, or been rain-sunk. Might’ve been weighted down with rocks.”
“I appreciate your willingness to do this, Zack.” She stood, shouldering her computer bag.
“That it?” he asked, getting up, too.
“For today.” No need to signal this was a test.
* * *
An hour later, Gus rolled out of Marion County Sheriff’s, heading for the Salem-Dallas Highway, last mission not accomplished. His meeting with Chop Tellson, an enforcement division commander at Marion County, had not gone well. No boat loan from the marine patrol. The SOB had whined he had every unit tied up after all the rain and flooding and shitty weather. Ole Choppy’d almost acted like he didn’t want to be seen with Gus.
The fog had lifted to a low overcast. He skirted around West Salem and was well into Polk County when his cell phone buzzed.
“Grice here.”
“The Bastard. Tell me you have a fix on him.” Bannock’s words dribbled off a thick tongue, sounding like so much mush.
“What I have, John, is a whole lotta questions about this maverick operator of yours.”
“Meaning you don’t have a fix on Bastida.”
“Meaning I’m worried. About just how far the cheese has slipped off his cracker.”
A pause. A sound like liquid poured from a bottle traveled over the line. “I’m losing patience, Grice. Already told you he’s obsessed with this personal vendetta thing.”
“Against hunters?”
Bannock didn’t seem surprised. The long silence confirmed Gus was on track.
“Listen, John, we’ve got an assault boat running up and down the Willamette like it’s the damned Amazon. And now casualties are turning up, two dead hunters that we know of. Time to can the need-to-know military bullshit and detail out exactly what kind of black-ops freak I’m up against. Otherwise, I’m tempted to pull the plug on this deal.”
“The hell you say.” A crashing noise pummeled Gus’s phone ear, then another that sounded like wood splintering. “No goddamned plug-pulling, you motherfucking turd. The fucking plug stays put.”
In the relative quiet that followed, Gus released a silent whistle, mighty glad the naval officer was three thousand miles away. Damned sorry he’d used up what Bannock had sent him.
“Okay, John. But you’re going to have to up the ante to keep us looking.”
Gus held the phone away from his ear and waited.
He’d come around. Gus was out here and Bannock was way back there.
15
Delia entered the next morning’s debriefing with the sheriff prepared to argue for outside resources. In addition to a preliminary report on Harvey’s “accident,” she’d armed herself with a rudimentary murder book that revealed glaring holes. She intended to make the case that collaboration with a larger agency, such as OSP’s Criminal Investigations Division, was necessary to fill those holes.
Grice’s office-door greeting and broad smile—all teeth, no gums—had thrown her off-balance. He’d ushered her to one of two leather wingbacks flanking his desk, then plied her with freshly brewed Kona. “Pure estate peaberry,” he’d crowed. “Not that ten-percent-blend crap you get in stateside stores.” She didn’t know peaberry from pee-holes in the snow, but found herself into her second refill of really great coffee as she waited to answer his questions. Grice drained his reloaded “Hula Babe” mug while paging through the material on Harvey.
He flipped her report over and pushed it aside, no questions asked, then opened the murder book, skim-reading while Delia summed up what few case developments there were. She led off with the Polk County ME’s confirmation that Ham Tran Snyder’s death was the result of an ultra-sharp four-sided projectile, shot or driven into his neck, then retrieved by pulling it the rest of the way through. She made particular note of Ham’s severed index finger before moving on to the second autopsy she’d witnessed that week.
“A six- to eight-month window on time of death?” Grice grumbled. “No chance it wasn’t more recent? August, maybe?”
Delia nodded at the Yamhill County ME’s photos depicting partial remains. “Likely the Falls City hunter who went missing last season. The Yamhill coroner’s findings came from a badly decomposed torso, lower jaw, and not much neck to speak of.” She omitted the part about leaving her lunch in the drain beneath the morgue table. “The coroner’s waiting on dental records. Legs and arms were mostly intact. What stopped me was the index finger cropped off the guy’s right hand.”
“Cut. Not rotted off?” Grice tilted his head back, scrutinizing her from narrowed eyes.
She answered with a solemn nod. “Same knucklebone markings as for Snyder, same torn edges on the flesh. Done with a serrated knife.” She blew air up toward her eyebrows and shook her head at the implication. “Kind of a leap, with everything else happening on that river, and going on a body count of two, but I’m thinking we’ve—”
“Got a nutcase out there who’s not finished.” Getting caught up with her thinking had prompted him to set aside whatever had been making him drag his feet.
She took a last sip. It was time to make her case. “Sheriff, this investigation is on the verge of snowballing. Way I see it, we don’t have a choice except to collaborate with—”
“Damn the budget.” Grice slapped the desktop so hard she jumped, slopping tepid Kona onto her merino-wool slacks. “You need help and I’m gonna bring it.” He thumbed the com button on his desk phone. “Annie, remember that ex–Coast Guard search-and-rescue guy, swung by last month? The one pitching a county co-op scheme to contract out his jet boat?”
“Oh, let me think now.” Annie’s sultry tone made Delia glance up from daubing at the coffee spill. “Pinch-me blue eyes, sandy-blond hair. Pair of shoulders filling your office doorway. But didn’t you just talk—”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. See if you can rein in your hormones long enough to find his card.” Waiting, Grice cupped the side of his mouth as if somebody else might overhear him. “Tellson put the kibosh on a patrol boat loan, but I’ve ginned up a better option.”
The squeak of chair rollers came back over the speaker. “Right here in a special corner of my cork board. Jerzy Matusik.”
“Ring him and transfer it in.”
Grice switched to phone receiver, pulled out a drawer for a footrest, and settled back into his swivel. He stared at the ceiling, clearly not interested in Delia’s input on the “help” he was about to recruit for her case.
The tightly balled napkin she flicked at his wastebasket missed by a mile. She stayed seated, rattled by the image of her clinging to a jet boat—whatever that was—piloted by this Matusik guy. “Sheriff, we’re better off hooking up with an established water patrol unit—Oregon State Police or Marion County.” Far better off. Their guys would do the water work and she’d keep her feet dry.
“Nope. Like I said, this investigation stays inside our jurisdiction and solely under my direction.”
“This Coast Guard guy. Does he have any law enforcement training or experience? Any at all?”
Dismissed with a shrug. “He’s got a boat, an expensive piece of equipment that’s no longer in our inventory, thanks to Schenkel’s carelessn
ess. Also, we need Matu—”
“Carelessness?” Ears prickling with heat, she hammered the mug down onto Grice’s desk. “That’s what you think put Harvey in the hospital? Guess you missed the part where they lifted a set of partials from the truck’s brake handle. Matched the prints and rap sheet on a guy named Moon—”
Bang, bang, bang.
Grice gaveled his desktop with the phone receiver. The old Grice, barely skin deep.
“You are in my office.” He pointed the phone at her. “When you’re in my office and I’m talking, please show the courtesy not to interrupt.”
Delia sat back, folded her arms, and fumed. Her report spoke for itself, if he’d read it. Harvey could not have launched without setting the truck’s emergency brake, and there was no sign of mechanical failure. Also, Harvey had mentioned a boater in the vicinity around the time of the accident.
The color in Grice’s face subsided. “As I was about to say, Matusik’s got the chops. Coast Guard and more. He’s dive-rated, qualifying in and performing air-sea rescues. Served a tour with a tactical pilot recovery unit in the Iraq invasion. Besides, the guy grew up fishing and hunting on the Willamette River. Knows it like the back of his hand. What’s more, he’s affordable.”
Delia unfolded her arms. Grice and this local yokel had already talked money. “So, no law enforcement training or experience whatsoever? Sheriff, I don’t get it.”
“That’s obvious, especially the elements driving this investigation. First, you’ve got hunters—two dead ones with protesters out there wishing more would die. Next you have its watery underpinnings.”
She stiffened. “By watery, you mean the river. So far, I’ve canvassed every boat launch and dock in the county. Questioned over a hundred and forty hunters, boaters, kayakers, lookie-loos, antihunting groups, you name it.”
“And produced no leads, no suspects, not even prospects. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have not been on the Willamette, not investigated where the killings took place.”
There it was again. “Sheriff, that crime scene has forty miles of brushy, wooded riverbank. Between those shores, a fast-moving current over a hundred and fifty yards wide that destroys any sign of criminality in minutes”—she couldn’t stop the heat from creeping up inside—“and fucking hard to do with no boat.”