Secrets, Lies & Alibis

by Patricia H. Rushford

  PATRICIA H. RUSHFORD

  HARRISON JAMES

  SECRETS, LIES & ALIBIS

  Copyright © 2003 by Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James.

  Published by Integrity Publishers, a division of Integrity Media, Inc., 5250 Virginia Way, Suite 110, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  HELPING PEOPLE WORLDWIDE EXPERIENCE the MANIFEST PRESENCE of GOD.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  Cover Design: The Office of Bill Chiaravalle | www.officeofbc.com

  Interior: Inside Out Design & Typesetting

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rushford, Patricia H.

  Secrets, lies, and alibis / by Patricia H. Rushford and Harrison James.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-59145-081-0 (tradepaper)

  1. Police—Oregon—Fiction. 2. Man–woman relationships—Fiction.

  3. Oregon—Fiction. I. James, Harrison. II. Title.

  PS3568.U7274S77 2003

  813'.54—dc21

  2003010477

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 DPS 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  The authors would like to dedicate Secrets, Lies & Alibis to our country’s fallen law enforcement officers and their families, who have given the ultimate sacrifice to their communities.

  To my wife and daughters. I love you so much.

  —Harrison James

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to our families for their patience and understanding during our long hours of writing and editing. To our agent, Chip MacGregor, and the people at Integrity Publishers who believe in us and in our project. A special thank you to the Oregon State Police. And thanks to the folks at Brewed Awakenings for providing great lattes and a perfect place to work out snags.

  Chapter One

  The wind lifted Megan’s hair as she floated skyward on her backyard swing. Her father’s hands lightly brushed her shoulders as she returned to earth for another push. The sun warmed her face. She peered through squinted eyes at the wispy clouds. Megan could almost touch them as the swing lifted her higher and higher.

  Her saltwater sandals pointed toward the sky as she leaned back in the familiar rubber seat, supported at the end of two rusty chains. The chains creaked and groaned with each push. Megan found comfort in the sounds. The rusty chains joined with the distant hum of a neighbor’s lawn mower. Rustling leaves complemented the backyard symphony.

  The sounds reminded her of home and safety.

  But Megan was not home. And she was not safe.

  MEGAN SLIPPED BACK INTO CONSCIOUSNESS, back into the nightmare. Her neck was bent backward over the edge of the bed. The swing of her youth had been a dream, an oasis in the desert of her desperation. She tried to inhale. Her nostrils found no air, only the black plastic bag that had been wrapped around her head.

  Can’t breathe. She stiffened and tried to move as panic set her heart racing once more. Oh, God, will it be over soon? Please make it be over.

  She cried out when her attacker straddled her on the creaking bed, swearing and punching at her face and chest.

  Megan swallowed harder, trying to choke down the salty blood that filled her throat. Duct tape covered her lips and cheeks, and a rag stuffed in her mouth degraded her screams to guttural moans.

  Please God, let me die. Take me home. Would He hear her pleas after all these years? God, how could You let this happen?

  No. How could I do this to myself? I came here on my own. I didn’t know . . . Hot tears cascaded from her eyes into her hair.

  In the distance, a child laughed, oblivious to the horrific crime occurring in the dark, dirty bedroom of the low-rent apartment building. Megan prayed for her dream to return. She longed to be a child again, floating on her swing in the endless summer days of her youth. To feel her father’s hands upon her shoulders. To know his love. She was the oldest daughter of an Episcopal priest, and a devoted Christian until . . . When had she stopped? When he died.

  Daddy, I’m sorry.

  Her tormentor tore the ornate silver cross from her neck, breaking the chain.

  No! Please. She had little time to think about the cross and its significance. It had been a gift from her father on her confirmation.

  Thick, hard hands closed around her throat, crushing her fragile windpipe. The bones in her neck cracked and Megan’s desperate prayer was answered.

  Chapter Two

  Friday, August 23

  3:12 P.M.

  Preston Collins drove along the frontage road of his riverside property. He lifted his faded straw hat and mopped his brow with the sleeve of his stained denim shirt. In addition to the local news, the radio in his 1971 Chevy pickup filled the cab with static. Still, he could make out the five-day weather forecast for the Portland-Metro area: “Mid-nineties with no rain in sight.”

  “Great. Just great,” Preston grumbled. Hobo, his black-and-white Border collie, sat in the passenger seat panting heavily. Hobo gave his master a shared look of contempt for the weather before hanging his head out the window of the battered pickup.

  “If we don’t find that calf pretty soon, old boy, the coyotes will.” Preston veered off the main road and headed toward the river. A new calf had escaped through the downed fence and stood little chance of survival—especially in this heat.

  As Preston eyed the wooded area along the river for signs of his missing livestock, he noticed several magpies floating down into the brush. “Looks like those birds have found a carcass of some
sort.” He spat out the window. “Hope it’s not our calf.”

  Hobo’s ears perked up as he sniffed the stale summer air from the open window. Preston turned his truck into the dusty wayside to inspect the magpies’ target.

  The bent yellow license plate that was wired to the old pickup dangled in the dust as Preston eased closer. He set the emergency brake and worked the door latch from the outside. The pickup door’s inner assembly had been broken for years.

  “You better wait here, Hobo. I don’t want you smelling like a gut pile.”

  As he made his way to the river, Preston noticed trash and broken glass scattered alongside the road. “Darn kids,” he grumbled. “They’ve turned this place into a garbage dump with their booze and drug parties.” He kicked over a shiny object on the dry summer earth, his curiosity rewarded with a bottle cap. While he owned a prime piece of property, he had the misfortune of bordering Bonneville State Park.

  Preston pulled a cigarette pack from his left front shirt pocket and tapped the pack on the palm of his hand as he walked down the grassy slope to the area where the birds had landed. While he watched a magpie hop along a fallen maple, Preston paused to light up. The magpie didn’t much like Preston being there, but it didn’t seem all that interested in leaving either. The wind shifted a bit and the putrid smell of rotting flesh sank into his nostrils. His stomach rolled and he backed away.

  Preston looked at the afternoon sun. Must be going soft. He’d experienced tropical heat in a combat zone for Pete’s sake. Not soft, he decided, just old. He tucked the lighter back into the pocket of his khaki work pants. Whatever was giving off that stink could wait awhile. It was way too late for a rescue.

  He took a long drag from the cigarette, then another, ignoring the growing ash column. When he’d smoked the cigarette down to the filter, he was ready to face whatever morbid carcass had attracted the birds. Preston ground the butt into the ground, making certain there were no stray ashes. The last thing they needed was a forest fire.

  Preston descended the dry overflow ditch that ran adjacent to the road. At the far side of the ditch he spotted a mass of long blonde hair. Preston waited for his eyes to adjust to the shady, treeprotected slope. The hair on his arms and neck rose, sending a chill through him.

  “Dear God! What in tarnation is that?” He took in a gulp of air, realizing he had not taken a breath for the last twenty seconds.

  The hair was attached to a human skull. The skull lay several yards away from the remains of a nude female torso. It was partially obstructed by ferns and ground foliage, but he could see it well enough—too well.

  He turned and scrambled back up the incline, his heart and lungs heaving with the exertion. When he reached the top of the ditch, Preston looked back. Had he really seen what he thought he’d seen?

  Preston climbed back in the truck with Hobo. Still trying to catch his breath, he stared out through the dusty windshield. Although he had not seen a dead body since the war, he had not forgotten the look and smell of decaying human flesh. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, noting the horror reflected in his eyes—the pallor in his deeply lined face.

  Hobo turned around in the seat twice, whimpering and licking his master’s hand as though offering his condolences. Preston blew out a long breath, then pulled another cigarette out of the package. With the cigarette lit and dangling from his lips, his composure slipped back into place.

  Preston scratched Hobo between the ears. “C’mon, boy. Ranger station’s closer than the house. Let’s head on over there. I gotta make a phone call.”

  Chapter Three

  Eleven-twenty-five.” The dispatcher’s voice sounded scratchy over the car radio.

  “This is eleven-twenty-five.” Dana Bennett responded quickly, her heart fluttering. She’d only been on her own as a state trooper for two days and was still learning the ropes.

  “What is your location?” Dispatch sounded annoyed.

  Dana flushed with embarrassment, hoping she didn’t sound too much like the novice she was. “Oh, sorry. I-84 near the Troutdale exit.” She’d just written a ticket to a guy going eighty in a fifty-five mile per hour zone and was still parked on the shoulder of the freeway.

  “Proceed to the entrance of Bonneville State Park; contact reporting party, Preston Collins, on report of a twelve-forty-nine.”

  Dana checked her laminated twelve-code cheat sheet on the visor of her patrol car. The code was new to her. She thumbed down the sheet. “Let’s see, twelve-forty-nine—here we go, twelveforty-nine is a . . . Oh my gosh. A homicide investigation.” She twisted the key in the ignition and eased onto the freeway.

  Dana flipped the visor back up and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Homicide.” She gulped and thought back to her one-hour class on crime scene preservation that she’d had during her basic training two years ago. She hoped she could remember everything.

  “Eleven-twenty-five, did you copy?”

  Dana jumped. Would she ever get this right? “Yes—I mean, copy.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. You can handle this. You know you can. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have experience in police work. After graduation from police academy, she had worked in the Portland Police Bureau, with a goal of eventually becoming a homicide detective.

  Then her sister, Laina, had developed breast cancer. Dana quit the bureau and moved to Iowa to care for Laina and her four children while she went through chemo. With Laina newly divorced and the cancer recurring, the brief stay turned into two years. Her sister had died six months ago. Laina’s ex-husband took the kids, and Dana eventually moved back to Portland, where she applied for a job with the Oregon State Police and went through their training program.

  For two days she’d been driving solo, and both days had brought new experiences.

  She could and would do fine, she reminded herself, and eventually she’d achieve her ultimate goal to make detective.

  The dispatch came in again. “Eleven-twenty-five, Detective Sergeant Evans will be notified and the medical examiner will be en route.”

  “Eleven-twenty-five, copy.” She tried to sound intelligent even though she hadn’t quite digested all the information. “I’ll advise status upon arrival,” she added, feeling the need to say something over the police airwaves so her peers had the impression she had control of the situation.

  “It’s not that big a deal,” she mumbled to herself. “All I have to do is secure the scene until the homicide detectives get there. Make sure none of the evidence is disturbed.” Her nervousness diminished as she determined her responsibilities and decided she could handle them just fine.

  As she approached the ranger station where she’d been told the reporting party would be waiting, she spotted an old broken-down pickup. An older man, who didn’t seem to be in much better shape than his vehicle, paced back and forth, smoking a cigarette and looking extremely nervous.

  Dana’s stomach tightened. He was probably a very nice man, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to spend too much time alone with him. “Just don’t turn your back on him,” she muttered to herself as she opened the door of her patrol car and walked toward the man.

  DETECTIVE SGT. FRANK EVANS sat at his cluttered desk in a cubicle at the detectives’ office in Portland. He supervised the area’s violent offender section of the Oregon State Police. Frank had the misfortune of reviewing every crime report generated by his team of detectives, including violent person crimes ranging from sex abuse to prison crimes to homicide.

  Frank scanned the stack of police reports heaped on the in-box that demanded his review and signature before being routed to the district attorney’s office. He picked up the report on top of the pile and looked over the summary. It detailed a prisoner at the Oregon State Penitentiary who had been assaulted by another inmate. Both suspect and victim refused to talk to police. Other inmates reported they had not witnessed the assault.

  “Humph. Dirt bag versus dirt bag; no human involved.” Fran
k put his initials on the report and threw it in the out pile. “Prosecution declined.”

  Frank scanned the rest of the reports, then he leaned back in his chair, loosened his tie, and glanced over at the picture of his family that had been taken at the beach a few years back. He wished he could be lazing on the beach now instead of sitting here in his stuffy office. Heck, he wished he could be anywhere but here. Well, he soon would be. He stacked the reports in a neat pile and slid them into his briefcase. They could wait until he got back from vacation.

  As Frank grabbed his sports jacket from the back of his chair, the pager vibrated on his left hip. “Shoot.” He tossed the jacket back on the chair. “Should have left ten minutes ago.” Before checking the readout he knew it would be one of those Friday afternoon calls. He’d had far too many of them in his thirty years on the job. The investigations invariably kept him away from his home and family. Family outings had always been a rarity, but these days with all of the budget cuts, they were practically nonexistent. He glanced at his pager and groaned. 12-49, Bonneville State Park, advise ETA.

  Frank hit the speed-dial button on his phone to the state police dispatch center, which dispatched emergency calls to troopers in the majority of the state.

  “State police dispatch.”

  “Yeah, this is Sergeant Evans. The supervisor just paged me.”

  “One moment, sir,” the woman responded.

  While Frank waited, he transferred the call to speakerphone. With his hands free, he removed his .40 caliber Glock from the top desk drawer and placed it securely in his black leather hip holster. He also clipped his badge to his belt and slipped a pair of stainless-steel handcuffs around his belt at the small of his back. He remembered a time when his gear hadn’t given him a sore back at the end of the day. Seemed like a long time ago.

  “Thanks for holding,” the dispatch supervisor answered. “This is Sue.”

  “Yeah, Frank here. Got your page on a body call.”

  “Hey, Sarge. Looks like the real deal on this one, not just another animal bones call. We have a trooper at the scene.”