I was sure it was possible worse things could end up happening to Dave in his lifetime, but I didn’t go into all that. “Looks like it was a couple of assholes who took your new rig. And when you get it back, don’t park it next to the highway.”
He handed me the title to his pickup. “Yeah, I got it. Especially unlocked and the keys dangling from the ignition.”
I pretended I didn’t hear that last part and began scribbling down the details of his stolen vehicle. “Caribou? Is that the official color name?”
He nodded. “I would’ve said it was brown myself.”
I signaled my agreement. “I need to search the Toyota, and then I’ll call Whitey Kern’s towing company and have it hauled away.”
“All right, Maggie. I’m already late getting to my chores. Call me if you find my truck.”
“Will do. Sorry this happened, Dave.”
“Ain’t the end of the world, I guess.”
I returned the title to his F-150 and gave him a copy of the theft report. He nodded and climbed aboard his all-terrain vehicle, as forlorn as I’d ever seen him.
The Toyota was unlocked, so I slapped on latex gloves and checked for weapons and other remnants of the wanted hooligans. I found no signs of opioids or their derivatives, such as fentanyl and OxyContin. Not even an aspirin or a breath mint. But tucked under the driver’s seat lay a detailed atlas of Oregon, some seventy or so pages thick. The primary Grant County pages were bookmarked, and someone had used a yellow highlighter to call out Murderers Creek.
About nine thirty, Whitey arrived with his tow truck just as I finished going through the Toyota. I filled out an authorization form to move the old flivver to the evidence lab in Bend. It would sit there until Vincent Cruise, Jr., and Anna Jo Porter went to trial, assuming they were ever caught.
Whitey looked worn out and more red-faced and jowly than usual. He also appeared to be fighting a cold, but I’d known him since forever and was well aware he wouldn’t tolerate a conversation about his health. But I could ask about his very pregnant daughter.
“How’s Olive?”
“Anxious for this new baby to get itself born.” That sent him to coughing. “Finally told her it was time she quit working as my backup driver.”
“Be sure to tell her howdy for me.”
“Will do, Maggie.”
Shortly after two, Hollis and I sat at our desks browsing through the Oxy slingers’ atlas and speculating about what attracted them to our county and Murderers Creek, when Sherry Linn patched a call to my desk phone. A woman identifying herself Margaret Kennedy—a name that seemed vaguely familiar—said she was looking for her fiancé. Then I remembered how I knew that name. Her fiancé was Sergeant Jeremy T. Lake.
Margaret wanted to know if I’d spoken to him lately, and I told her yes, I had, just this morning. Told her I’d signed the paperwork he’d brought with him.
“Thank you for that, Sergeant Blackthorne.”
I didn’t do it for J.T. or for this woman, but I refrained from saying so.
“He was also supposed to be scouting out some nearby Forest Service cabins for our honeymoon. Did he mention that?” she asked.
“Didn’t mention it.”
“Trouble is, I haven’t been able to reach him. Last time I talked to him was this morning, right before he got to your police station. I was expecting him to call me over an hour ago.”
She paused a long moment before continuing, her voice trembling. “We’re supposed to be meeting with our priest right now. And Jeremy promised he’d call me by noon if he couldn’t get here on time.”
I considered advising Margaret she might as well get used to J.T.’s lack of concern about making good on his word.
“He was here when I arrived just after eight, but we didn’t meet for more than fifteen minutes,” I said. “Where was he supposed to be headed after that?”
“I wrote it down. I’d never heard of it before, and I’m not sure how it’s pronounced. A national forest, called the M-A-L-H-E-U-R,” she said, spelling it out.
“The Malheur National Forest covers a lot of territory. Any other clues?”
“I’m afraid not. Except he did say the cabins were kind of on the way back home. Back to Bend, I mean.”
That covered a lot of territory too.
“What was he driving?” I hadn’t paid attention earlier. “And the plate number if you know it.”
“He has a newer Volvo SUV. Black. A vanity plate, of course.”
At least the woman had a sense of humor. Or maybe she simply suffered no illusions when it came to the man.
“JT, space, LAKE,” she said.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” I offered. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. There are plenty of locations out in backcountry where cell service is spotty or nonexistent. Plus a lot of the roads are slow going.”
“I hope you’re right, Sergeant. And I appreciate you checking it out.”
“All part of my job.” That said, it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn J.T. had driven the four hours to Nevada and was holed up in some brothel just across the state line.
Minutes after I got off the phone with Margaret Kennedy, another call came in. A couple had discovered a body on the grounds of Murderers Creek Guard Station. The guard station was comprised of a small cabin, a vault toilet, and a weathered outbuilding, all of which sat on a quarter acre of land. The couple, elderly citizens visiting from Portland, had booked a stay at the Forest Service cabin some months before. They were appropriately freaked out at discovering human remains on the property.
I arrived at the scene around half an hour later, finding the clearly distraught Mr. and Mrs. Curtis. They definitely had no intention of staying anyplace where a murder had just occurred, and what else could a blood-soaked corpse dumped behind the cabin possibly mean other than homicidal violence? Especially since the man’s throat had been slit wide open.
Regardless, it was up to me to examine the remains and attempt identification. That last didn’t take long. Wide-eyed and ghostly, a very dead Jeremy T. Lake lay sprawled in the middle of the cabin’s backyard, staring vacantly toward the hot, blue sky.
It occurred to me I might have been among the last to see him alive. Then it occurred to me how surreal today’s final encounter with J.T. had been. And then it occurred to me that I might be expected to prove my whereabouts since then.
2
Afternoon, August 13
I was in the middle of what felt like a gin martini hangover. Dull throb in the frontal lobe, breakfast roiling in my gut, all attention to protocol and reason lost for the moment. I should have radioed regional dispatch ten minutes ago instead of replaying the grisly sight of J.T. Lake’s mutilated body lying on the grounds of Murderers Creek Guard Station. Blood caked on his Wranglers and blue-flowered shirt. The shock of the unexpected, the unfathomable, it was too damn much to process.
But instead of curling up in the front seat of my Chevy Tahoe, I did my job and radioed regional. The dispatcher didn’t seem to know Jeremy Lake was an Oregon State Police sergeant, and she didn’t register much reaction when I described the cause of death. After I listed off all of the necessary particulars, I asked her to connect me with Homicide Detective Alan Bach.
“Maggie,” he answered. “How are you?”
We’d had several friendly conversations over the past eighteen months, but he wouldn’t be very happy about my news.
“I’ve been better, Al. I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“A couple visiting from Portland has found what appears to be the victim of a homicide. On the property of the Forest Service cabin they’d rented for a couple of days.”
“Well, discovering the remains of a dead person is always terrible for somebody.”
“This is an OSP sergeant. And someone we both know.”
He hesitated. “Are we talking about Sergeant Lake?”
“Yes.”
> “Where are you?”
“Still at the scene. Right before the couple reported finding the body this afternoon, Sergeant Lake’s fiancée phoned looking for him. He’d stopped by my office early this morning. Had papers for me to sign.”
“Papers?”
“A petition for an annulment of our marriage, even though we were already legally divorced.”
“Catholic? The sergeant was a Catholic?”
“Yes. And so is his fiancée.”
“Have you notified her?” Bach asked.
“Not yet.”
“Let me handle that. I’ll need to ask her about the conversation she had with you.”
“Because?”
“Because, Maggie, unless things had changed drastically in the relationship between you and Sergeant Lake, you could be perceived as a possible suspect. And I say that because I know he treated you disrespectfully while he had the authority to make your professional life difficult. I say that because I understand there has been ill will between the two of you for a long time. I say that not because I believe you actually killed him, but to protect your interests. And mine, frankly.”
“My interests don’t need protecting, Detective Bach,” I said, despite having wondered earlier if I might have to explain my whereabouts during the six hours or so after J.T. took leave of my cop shop.
“Sergeant Blackthorne. I’ve worked with a lot of police officers. Most nowhere near as smart as you, but even smart cops mess up. You’re to follow my instructions on this. Don’t make a move until I get there. I’ll notify the fiancée about the sergeant’s death and ask about the discussion you had with her earlier.”
“Then you’ll also need to talk to our new office manager. She overheard my conversation with Sergeant Lake. At least in terms of volume.”
“Which means I’ll need the contact info for the office manager and anyone else you spoke to or communicated with after Sergeant Lake left your office, up and until his body was discovered this afternoon.”
“All right,” I said glumly. Because I’d phoned him earlier and proposed a picnic supper at Strawberry Lake, the list would include Duncan.
“And, Maggie. This is a matter of protocol, not trust.”
“Thanks?”
He sighed. “Text me the fiancée’s contact information and the dang directions to the cabin. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Strangely, my phantom gin martini hangover had disappeared, replaced by a leaden sense of disquiet. I contemplated the cabin and its surroundings. How had J.T. ended up dead out here? Bad luck? Certainly poor timing. Unless he’d planned to meet someone, and that someone ended up killing him. Which still qualified as bad luck and poor timing.
I got out of the Tahoe and drew in the dry air, tinged with the scent of juniper and Ponderosa pine. To the east stood the stark, ancient peaks of Moon Mountain and Mount McClellan, igneous twins that had risen up from a Pliocene ash flow. And further beyond, the rugged Strawberry range.
I walked the half-acre perimeter of the property. Fenced, but easily accessible. I crossed the gravel driveway behind the Curtises’ Subaru and was reminded that J.T. had been driving a Volvo. But where the hell was it?
I knocked at the cabin door. Moments later, the couple opened it.
“Sergeant Blackthorne,” Mrs. Curtis said. “We would really like to get going. I talked to that nice Forest Service lady in John Day, and we’ve been booked into Short Creek Cabin not far from here. A much nicer facility, and she didn’t charge us extra.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the homicide detective gets here. He’ll want to learn details from you directly.”
She drew her shawl across her chest, paused, and raked two fingers through her silver hair. “But we already told you how we came upon that poor man.”
Personally, I thought she had a point. But Al would have a shit-fit if I let them leave.
“I know, ma’am. And I am sorry, but I have to follow protocol.” Follow an order, was more like it.
“Then what can we do for you, Sergeant?” Mr. Curtis asked. He appeared to be a guy who got straight to the point, sans any BS or friendly banter.
“I wondered if either of you saw the victim’s vehicle—a black Volvo SUV—parked nearby? Or maybe you passed it on your way to the cabin?”
“Not that I recall. Don’t believe we passed or saw anyone on the road after we turned off the main highway.”
His wife exhaled. “Not one car. Now can we at least go for a short walk?”
“Sure. It’ll be a while before the detective and the medical examiner arrive.”
Mr. Curtis nodded and closed the door.
Using mobile comp in my Tahoe, I entered the Volvo’s description and license plate number provided by J.T.’s fiancée and put out the word about his killing and his missing vehicle. OSP troopers would be all over that. Next I got in touch with Hollis and shared the details, told him Detective Bach was on his way.
“Are you doing okay, Maggie?”
“Well, I was more upset than I would have expected, I guess. It might’ve been all the blood.”
“Damn.”
It occurred to me I probably should have nixed the idea of the couple in the cabin going for a stroll in the woods. Just because they were elderly didn’t make them senile or too frail to kill someone.
“In case they’re fraudsters and possibly murderers, would you do some sleuthing for me and check out the people who called in the body? Loralie and Ben Curtis from Portland.”
“Address, et cetera?”
I recited the contact info listed in my notes. “And, Holly, I neglected to tell you. J.T. stopped by the office this morning.”
“The guy always did have strange timing.”
“I’ll fill you in later, but I’d like you to make your way out here as soon as you can. I’m feeling the need for some backup.”
“Is this about the Curtis couple?”
“No. Al Bach. I’ll explain that later too.”
The Curtises, walking sticks in hand, shuffled up the road heading west. I could have stopped them, told them I’d had second thoughts. But watching them, my gut told me they weren’t homicidal. It’s hard to fake trauma, and both demonstrated signs of it. I wondered if it was Mrs. Curtis who’d discovered Jeremy Lake’s mutilated body. She had been especially anxious to get the hell out of here, and who could blame her. I was pretty anxious to get this all over with myself.
I contacted the nice lady at the Forest Service office in John Day to verify the couple had actually booked a stay at the Murderers Creek Guard Station. They had, and given the circumstances, she had re-booked them into the nearby cabin at Short Creek. Just like Loralie Curtis said.
Back in the cab of my police vehicle, I rolled down my window and fiddled with the AM radio until I picked up KJDY in the static. Willie Nelson and his son Lukas sang an aching, lovely duet. I listened to their rendition of “Just Breathe” all the way through and stared at the old cabin.
Assuming the Curtises had left it unlocked, I decided to inspect its interior while they were on their walk. Despite Al’s specific instructions to wait for him, I slipped out of my rig and put on latex gloves. The door was ajar and appeared to be swollen, weather-warped, and askew in the doorframe, possibly susceptible to easy entrance, no key required. If so, both J.T. and his murderer could have spent time in the cabin.
The tiny open floor plan made my inside search simple. In one corner, the visiting couple had stashed their bags. I’d need their permission to peruse those; at least I’d prefer to have their permission. A couch, two stuffed chairs, and empty bookshelves took up most of the space. Along the east wall, someone had lined up a sink, a few shelves and cupboards, an old stove, a heater, and a small refrigerator. Lights and appliances were powered by propane, which left the minuscule space smelling faintly of gas. An odor masked somewhat by a scent I took to be the stink of mold.
I checked kitchen drawers and cupboards for sharp knives and th
e bathroom for razor blades but found only thrift store utensils dull with age and an empty tube of toothpaste. I could have dusted for fingerprints, but Bach finding powder residue all over the cabin would tip him off to my insubordination.
Out of the bank of windows on the south side of the living room, I could see the backyard and the body prostrate on the dead grass. Mr. and Mrs. Curtis had covered J.T. with a wool camp blanket before I arrived. Lying there, a stranger passing by might’ve mistaken the corpse for someone napping peacefully in the heat of the afternoon.
I assumed Detective Bach also expected me to wait until he arrived before going on a search for J.T.’s Volvo, so I returned to my rig and radioed Hollis.
“On my way,” he answered.
“Be on the lookout for J.T.’s black Volvo SUV.”
“The one with the clever vanity plate you mentioned in your alert?”
“That’s the one. I passed by a wayside just before I got here. Check that out for sure.”
Cell service was erratic, so I trod to a rise a half mile from the cabin property hoping to register enough bars to reach Sam Damon, the local funeral director. I stood where the hill crested and looked out over the rolling patches of wheat grass, golden and sassy in the light breeze.
A text from Al Bach noting his ETA lit up my phone screen. I read it and punched in Sam’s number. “Afternoon. It’s Maggie Blackthorne.”
“How can I help you, Sergeant?”
“Homicide victim.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’ll be a while before we need your services, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. The body’s out at Murderers Creek Guard Station.”
“Don’t know where that is.”
“It’s an old Forest Service post, rented out now to tourists. The quickest route is to take 26 west past Mt. Vernon about ten miles. Then turn left onto Road 21 and drive another twelve miles.”
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 2