Shocking True Story

by Gregg Olsen

  "I don't have much to say to you," she said. "I am only meeting you because I don't want you to make a freak show out of my son. He's a victim, you know."

  "I know," I said.

  "He didn't do anything wrong but get involved with the wrong girl. That happens every day. I suppose you're going to believe those inbred idiot Parkers. My son taunted their precious Danny? That's a laugh. That's the biggest laugh in the county."

  I told her I hadn't talked with the Parkers yet, though it was my intent to do so.

  Mrs. Cameron gulped her coffee. She watched the baseball players as they carried their banana splits and curly-topped cones to an adjacent row of tables.

  "You people just want to write a book and make money and move on to the next freak show. You don't care what happens to anyone."

  I had heard that argument before. Many times. The woman was half right. True crime writers wanted to make money, but we seldom did. Sure we eked out a passable living, but the smartest of us held down a regular job and did their writing on the weekend or in the evenings.

  "I do care about victims," I told her. "Have you read any of my books? I don't exploit the victim. I'm trying to shed a little light here and help people come to grips with what happened—and why it happened in the first place."

  Anna Cameron stiffened her already unyielding posture.

  "Listen," she said, "if you mess with me, my boy, or anyone in my family, I'll take you down so fast you won't know what happened to you."

  "More coffee?" I asked, hoping my interruption would slow her tirade.

  "If you mess with Deke, you mess with me."

  "I don't intend to mess with anyone. I'm just trying to get the story right."

  "You are a long way from getting it right," she said. "You're getting your facts from known liars."

  "Who?"

  "Connie and Janet, that's who. I know for a fact that you have been seeing them up at Riverstone. Plus that Parker bitch and her clan of dumbshit mountain men... she's always whining about her poor son, victim of love."

  I stared hard at her. "I won't deny that I've interviewed Janet and Connie, but don't you see that it's my job to talk to both sides?"

  Mrs. Cameron jumped up, shaking the tabletop with her palms planted firmly against its bright orange plastic surface. She was a curious blend of incredulity and anger.

  "Job? I have a job driving a bus. I do four routes in the morning and three in the afternoon. I drive a ski bus on Saturdays to Crystal Mountain. It is a job. On Sundays, I cut lawns in the summer. In the winter, I clean apartments for move-ins. I don't see how you can call what you do a job of any kind."

  "Mrs. Cameron!" I called after her as she stomped out of the Dairy Queen. "Sure you don't want another refill?"

  Apparently she was certain. I reached down for my coffee and as I put it to my lips, I noticed it was nearly butterscotch color. She had left with my coffee and I had her cup. I loaded up her tray with her spent cream containers and cup and dumped the garbage into the swinging hatch of the Formica trash container. I considered Anna Cameron to be a somewhat hostile source. Even so, I wouldn't give up on her. I was convinced she didn't agree to meet me just to threaten me. She met me because she didn't want her family dragged deeper into the mire. I planned on calling her later. She would talk.

  They almost always did. The TCD effect never failed.

  ♦

  MY NEXT STOP WAS THE FLYING J FAST FUEL just off the freeway for seven dollars' worth of gas. Just enough to get me home. When I arrived in Port Gamble, it was dark. I slowed as a mother raccoon and her babies looked at me as they skittered across the road. Their eyes were a string of garnets in my headlights.

  A beam of light soared from our front window, turning tree branches into spider webs of light. I found Valerie sitting in her chair, her drugstore specs sliding down her nose, and once again fiddling with the checkbook and calculator.

  "Can we make it through this month?" I asked, putting my briefcase away.

  "This week's a little iffy," she said, taking off her glasses. "Kevin, we've stretched it to the limits. We've got to have this book be your greatest success or we've got to find another way to live."

  I knew she was right, so I didn't argue. Genuine desperation filled her eyes. I knew I had used up my quota of arguments to justify this life that I chose.

  "I'm willing to do my part. You know that, honey. Just tell me what to do, Kevin. Tell me how I can help you make this book a success. I'll do anything."

  I kissed her gently on the cheek. It was a sweet kiss, brief and soft. It drank the moment in. Her skin was still flawless. Her hair accented by sandy streaks, was full and shiny. I imagined that I could send all the love from my heart to hers. If a choice were ever forced upon me, I would choose Valerie Ryan over a serial killer or an ax murderer any day. I just didn't want to be forced into making that choice.

  "Just keep reading the chapters and keep your fingers crossed. It'll work out. I know it will. This one's the one."

  "I know," she said as she had countless times before. Sometimes I detected a sad and knowing look on her face; the kind that troubled people had likely seen when their friends plotted a drug abuse intervention.

  "By the way, Anna Cameron phoned about an hour ago."

  I brightened. "Great, she's coming around. She probably changed her mind about an interview."

  Valerie didn't think so. "Let's see... her words were, 'Mrs. Ryan, tell your bloodsucking husband to stay away from my family.'"

  "I knew Mrs. Cameron would come around," I said, ignoring the reality of the words relayed by my wife.

  Val gave me an annoyed look.

  "Well, she called, didn't she?" I shrugged as I turned to make my way to my own private hell, my office and the blank screen of my computer.

  “I'll leave the next chapter on the kitchen table,” I said, knowing Val would fall asleep before I finished.

  I started to type.

  ♦

  Love You to Death

  PART TWO

  THE YOUNG MAN WAS IN AND OUT of consciousness. No one could get more out of him than his name and the name of the girlfriend he blamed for the shooting. At one point, Deke Cameron muttered the name of Danny Parker as someone involved in the shooting. He didn't know who was holding the gun, Danny or his love, Janet. For the most part, his admittance form remained blank. What hospital staff did know was that he had been the victim of a terrible shooting, the kind no one likes to see. The kind that usually ends in death.

  Deke Cameron was anesthetized and put under the knife twelve minutes after his arrival at Pac-O. With his clothing cut from his body and most of the blood swabbed away, it was easier to see the extent of his injuries. They were severe. He had been hit three times at close range—or so it was initially believed—with what the doctor who hunted guessed was a .20-gauge shotgun. Chunks of flesh had been blown from his chest and leg, and his left arm was shot halfway off. With his arm laid flat against his side, it was clear Deke had been shot once there. The blast damaged both arm and torso. Two shots total.

  The dull clink of pellets hitting a stainless steel tray was the sound of the tedious collection of evidence.

  An X-ray had revealed a spray of pellets spread throughout his lower torso like measles. It would not be medically necessary to remove each bit of metal from the victim, nor would it be necessary from a police perspective. The silvery tray was peppered black on the bottom.

  "Looks like he'll make it, though he'll be setting off airport metal detectors for the rest of his life," an ER surgeon said as he exited the operating room.

  "When can I talk to him?" Detective Raines asked.

  "It'll be a while. Have some coffee."

  Martin Raines passed on the coffee and cooled his heels outside in the waiting room as Deke Cameron was wheeled into recovery. A nurse told him that Deke might be able to make a brief statement, provided the anesthesia had worn off sufficiently.

  Twenty minutes later, the detect
ive was shown inside.

  "Deke? I'm Detective Raines. I'm here to ask you a few questions."

  The young man winced as he nodded. Though he was flat on his back, still feeling the effects of the drugs that had delayed the pain he would feel for weeks to come, Raines judged the victim to be at least six feet tall and 215 pounds. His hair was dark and wavy; his eyes were blue, dull and heavily lidded. Under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the hospital, the lines underscoring his eyes and the subtle cracking around his mouth indicated he was a man close to thirty. Cut in an exaggerated mullet, his medium length hair was either too young for him or indicated he was stuck with the hairstyle he wore in high school—a common occurrence it seemed in Timberlake.

  He was awake. Weak, but awake. There was no telling if he'd live long enough to give a statement. Some might have considered forcing him to do so at such a time bad taste. Poor judgment. Cruel.

  Martin Raines called it a job.

  He wasted no time. "What I'd like to know, is, where were you when you got shot? Do you know?"

  "I think, the Edge Road there by Ruston, I'm not sure."

  "The Edge Road by Ruston?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You were in your car when you got shot?"

  Deke shut his hooded eyes and nodded. The sharp smell of vomit wafted from his lips.

  "The whole thing of it is," he said, as if a picture of what had happened snapped him back to attention, "I was with my girlfriend, we were driving along fine. She hops out, so I get out, and when I get out, I get shot. She takes off, I was screaming and hollering for her. She's nowhere to be found. I get hit twice. I didn't realize what happened."

  "Do you know who shot you?"

  "All I can say is, I think it was Danny Parker, because his car was there, too. I turned my car around... his car was there."

  Raines asked what kind of car Parker was driving, and the man in the hospital bed said something about a Ford Escort hatchback.

  "Hatchback?" the detective asked.

  Deke Cameron's eyes rolled back for a second. "Yeah. Blue and white."

  The investigator knew it was time to leave, time to let this guy get some rest before he died in the middle of a police interrogation. It wouldn't look good in the papers.

  "I haven't got too much more time here," he said, "but is there anything else you can tell me, like why you were there?"

  Deke tried to lift up his head, but seemed unable to gather the strength.

  "I was set up, man, swear to God," he whispered. "We'd been drinking a little bit, and I was getting sick. I don't know why, I jumped out of the car for some reason. I should never have got out, 'cause that's when I got... I think I got hit once in the car. I think so."

  "You got out of the car and were hit?"

  "I got hit twice, after I got out of the car."

  "Do you know if Janet got hit?"

  "No. I think she was in on it, 'cause she disappeared. I couldn't... I was screaming for her to take me to the hospital."

  "Did you hear the car leave?"

  "Uh-huh. Yeah."

  "Okay. Do you know why they would shoot you?"

  "Danny don't like me. I mean, he wants to be her boyfriend and whatnot, and they been friends for years."

  "Okay. Janet was with you all evening? You picked her up at her house."

  "Yeah... uh-huh."

  "Is there anything else you can tell us? Where can we find them?"

  "I don't know, if they're not in town, they're hiding out on a logging road somewhere."

  "A logging road someplace?"

  "Uh-huh. Back roads from here to uh, shit, where he is, it's near where his mom and dad live at."

  "You probably better rest now. Be talking to you a little later. Okay, Deke?"

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You say you were at the old Edge Road?"

  "I think so."

  "By Ruston?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Thank you very much, Deke. See you later. Good luck."

  The man in the bed mumbled a thank-you as his eyelids dropped to a thin slit. In a second, the sound of snoring mixed with the beeps and tones of a hospital room.

  Detective Raines felt his pockets for a roll of Tums. Looking at Deke Cameron and his gargantuan wounds turned his stomach even more so than the enchiladas. Blood oozed from the dressings. And the corrosive smell of vomit coated every word he uttered. It was too early in the morning for the sights, sounds and stomach-turning smells of a crime scene. Violence, he knew, did not punch a time clock.

  "The clothes and personal effects from our guest," a pretty young nurse said as she and Raines walked toward the doorway out of the recovery room.

  She handed the detective a Santa-sized bag, the kind with a yellow drawstring used in summer for hauling lawn clippings and in winter, soggy leaves. Inside were Levis, men's bikini briefs, a long-sleeved shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, some work boots, socks, and a bloody pair of ladies' slippers. Everything had gone into clear plastic bags before being placed in the larger black bag. The procedure was in accordance with Pac-O and sheriff's procedure for the preservation of evidence.

  Raines did a double-take on the last item.

  "What gives with the fuzzy slippers?"

  "Like I would know?" the nurse said with a half-laugh. "I only work here."

  ♦

  The next morning, I found my pages marked up, the coffee still hot, and a note from Val: Like it. Glad you skipped starting with the Michener-style “Two million years ago, glacial ice carved the valleys of what would be Timberlake, Washington...” Also, thanks for mixing the words blood-oozed, corrosive smell of vomitAND enchiladasin the same paragraph. I'll never eat Mexican again. I'm sure you'll answer, but what's up with those slippers? —V

  Chapter Fourteen

  Late Sunday, August 18

  WHO KNEW JOAN JETT COULD BE SUCH AN INSPIRATION? Her greatest hits owned my iPod as I finished my latest chapter of Love You to Death. The rock anthem that made her name—"I Love Rock 'n Roll"—was probably the best tune I'd ever typed to. I downloaded the album from iTunes and must have hit replay ten times.

  And as always, in my head, I changed the lyrics.

  I love true crime books!

  Write another chapter about some serial killer, baby!

  I love true crime books!

  I Googled a bit while I waited for the new chapter to roll off my printer, stopping once to shake the toner cartridge to eke out a few more pages. The last thing I needed was Val saying that the type was too faint to read—glasses or not.

  TODAY'S LIST

  Google: Crime case in the news with the most hits: Rick Rosen, an Ohio doctor, was arrested for the murder of his wife, Carlene. Carlene Rosen reportedly slipped on a layer of bath beads when getting into tub. She hit her head, slipped under the water, and drowned. Turns out the doc's first wife, Shannon, met a similar fate—she drowned during a boating accident on Lake Erie.

  Possible book titles: “The Depths of Evil” or “Slip 'n Die.”

  Amazon ranking for backlist: No change. But a two-star review on my first book made my blood boil. The reviewer "didn't like" the ending! Jesus! This is a true story! I can't change the damn ending!

  Need from the store: Printer toner and Kit Kats.

  To do: Take Hedda to Shampooch. Advertise on Craigslist for a new web person to replace Jeanne Morgan.

  ♦

  Love You to Death

  PART THREE

  ADRENALINE AND CAFFEINE PROVIDED THE RUSH to keep the sleep-deprived Martin Raines and his fellow officers awake as they made their way to the Parker residence in search of a big dumb kid named Danny. It was 3:30 a.m. when four cars—two marked, two sneaker—cut their headlights and pulled up the road fronting the Parker's address. November gusts off the ocean had knocked several large limbs on to the driveway.

  No one knew what kind of reception the law would get in the backwoods part of a county so rural its largest city was a paltry 14,000. Most who lived
in the woods were folks who had something to hide, didn't like people, or couldn't afford better. None particularly cared for the police. The cops, they figured, meant bad news was coming their way.

  A couple of officers stepped out of their cars to pull the impeding Douglas fir branches aside. The wind howled through the foothills and rain pelted their faces with needle-sharp pricks.

  Raines dialed the Parker phone number from his cell phone. A moment later a light came on, illuminating the figure of a man lumbering toward the incessant ringing of a telephone.

  "Hullo?" a groggy young man said.

  "This is the county sheriff," Raines announced with firm, practiced authority. "We have surrounded your residence and we want everyone outside now. Hands in the air. We want you to come out and lay down on the grass, face down."

  "Huh? This is a joke?" the young man said.

  "This is no joke. We want you and everyone outside right now." Raines flashed his headlights as proof that there was somebody out there to make good on his implied threat.

  The man on the line mumbled something about getting dressed and hung up. A few seconds later, more lights went on.

  Raines didn't ask if the man was Danny. He figured it had to be.

  Three minutes after the call, the front door swung open and the group of officers tightened their grip on their guns, now pointed at the house. Three figures emerged from the flood of light: The man who had answered the phone, presumably, along with an older woman in her nightgown, and an old man in a wheelchair. The woman was crying.

  "Don't shoot! We done nothing wrong!" the younger man called out.

  The woman pushed the wheelchair onto the grass, cutting parallel slices through what in the spring had likely been a lovely flower garden. Dogs circled the three and barked in the direction of the intruders.

  "My husband can't walk! He can't get onto the grass!"

  Jesus! Raines thought. The woman was trying to pull the man out of his chair.