Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  “Let me guess. Close to when she was pushed from the tower.”

  “Yeah. And not too terribly long before I arrived and found her.”

  I realized my voice was shaking.

  “Are you okay, Maggie?”

  “I’m fine. There’s some evidence Janine fought like hell before the railing broke and whoever did this managed to force her off the tower catwalk. I’m hoping there’s a way to ID the guy. If not through those photos, maybe from fingerprints on the phone.”

  “Got it. The phone pictures and prints will be a priority. As an update, there were no prints on the bales of smack or the paraphernalia, so I sent all that to the evidence warehouse in Bend. But I did ID one of the three sets of prints I found on the tackle box.”

  “Cecil Burney, by any chance?”

  “Yeah, that old grouch. How’d you know?”

  “After I dropped the tackle box off with you, he reported his had been stolen, same brand and color. Taken out of the back of his pickup, supposedly, sometime between last Tuesday and Sunday, when he filed his theft report.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “More interesting is the Buck Guthook knife Burney said was stored inside the tackle box.”

  Harry’s bug-eyed expression intensified. “Are you going to tell me why the knife is so interesting?”

  “It might be a match for the possible murder weapon found at the scene of Lake’s killing.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “My thought exactly. And I just have to say, as out-of-focus as those photographs on Janine’s phone might be, I don’t think the guy is Burney.” But as I said that, I half wondered if it might be his nephew Lyle. Nah, couldn’t be, I couldn’t fathom it—the boy slicing open J.T. Lake’s neck or pushing an older woman off a fire lookout? No fucking way.

  He stepped to his fingerprint comparator sitting in a corner of the room. “Let’s see what the prints on the phone tell us.”

  I remembered Detective Bach was on his way, might even already be waiting for me in my police shop. “I’m going to step out for a minute to make a call,” I said.

  Al usually drove from Bend to Burns on Highway 20 and then turned north on 395. That took him past Silvies before heading on to John Day. If I reached Bach soon enough, it made sense to suggest he stop at Harry’s place and get the forensic scoop from the man himself. Assuming there was a forensic scoop to get.

  The detective answered my radio call right away. “Just about to reach Burns, Maggie. Should be there within the hour.”

  “I’m out at Harry’s lab in Silvies. You’re only a half an hour away, Al.”

  “Should I stop by?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “It’s one of the only residences there, right?” he asked. “With the Welcome to Silvies sign not too far away?”

  “Yeah. You’ll also see Bratton on the mailbox out front and a bunch of old-growth Lombardy poplars. The modular he uses for a lab is just past his house at the end of the driveway.”

  “What brought you out to Harry’s?”

  “Long story, but I dropped by with a cell phone I wanted to have checked out. I’ll explain all about that and other recent events when I see you.”

  “How about that tackle box Trooper Vaughn discovered at the headwaters of Murderers Creek?”

  “Yeah, Harry found three sets of prints. One belongs to Cecil Burney, so it’s likely the tackle box Burney reported as stolen.”

  “Mr. Burney is someone we should have another conversation about,” Bach said.

  “I’ll add it to our agenda.” Hopefully, I didn’t sound dismissive, especially since I’d already made up my mind regarding Cecil’s involvement in Grant County’s latest crime spree. Even though I could be dead wrong.

  “And the other two sets of prints on the tackle box?”

  “Harry wasn’t able to ID those, Al.”

  “Okay, Maggie. See you shortly.”

  “That’s interesting,” Harry said to himself as I re-entered his lab.

  “Did you find something?” I asked.

  “Think so. Come look at this.”

  I moved to his fingerprint comparator. He was seated in front of it, so I stood behind his chair. Two sets of partial prints were displayed on the comparator’s screen.

  “What am I looking at?” I asked.

  “On your left you can see three digits, commonly referred to as the middle finger, pointer, and thumb, of course.”

  “Okay…”

  “On your right are two digits—thumb and pointer. The left side of the screen shows the prints from one of the other individuals who handled the tackle box. The prints on the screen’s right were lifted from the phone.”

  “They’re similar?” I asked.

  “They’re more than similar. They’re from the same person. And assuming Janine’s are the second set of prints on the phone and she never handled the tackle box, they could be from whoever tossed the phone. I’m certain this individual touched both.”

  I leaned closer. “I can see now they’re from the same person. Were you able to identify who they belong to?”

  “They’re not in the western states fingerprint database. So, I sent a copy of them to my buddies at the state lab. They have access to IAFIS.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stands for Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System,” he explained. “It’s the FBI’s much larger cache of prints, and one I can’t tap into. If they’re in IAFIS, it means this person has been fingerprinted in the US at some point. But if they’re not in that system, you’ll have to come up with a suspect who’s a match.”

  “How soon might your buddies at the state lab get back to you?”

  Harry picked up his phone. “I’ll call ’em right now.”

  17

  Afternoon, August 18

  When Detective Bach arrived, Harry Bratton was still on the line with the state lab waiting for the results of their fingerprint analysis. In the meantime, Al and I bided our time standing outside, where a smoky haze had taken over the sky.

  I explained what I knew about the attack on Janine and tried to ignore the acrid scent hanging in the air.

  Bach coughed. “Do you think she’ll survive?”

  “I’m surprised she’s managed to live this long. She fell at least two stories.”

  “Pretty miraculous, I’d say.”

  That comment served as one of Al’s not-so-subtle references to his maker.

  “How long have you known her?” he continued.

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “Ah…”

  “And she’s been immensely helpful this last week. If you recall, she contacted me Friday after watching Cruise and Porter drive all over Aldrich Mountain in that stolen vehicle.” I refrained from mentioning she’d also given me a hint about how I could gain access to Muldaur’s padlocked property, which allowed me to take an unauthorized tour.

  “That’s right, I remember now,” he said. “Afraid I’m overseeing too many homicide investigations at the moment.”

  He did seem frazzled, but I decided not to go there. Instead, I explained that Janine had also gotten in touch with me yesterday morning regarding someone, in essence, reenacting Cruise and Porter’s trek to the area, this time in a red pickup truck.

  “How was she able to see all this from the lookout tower?”

  “Just like she’s able to spot smoke. Janine looks through her fire finder. It’s a nifty piece of equipment, plus she’s got a first-rate pair of binoculars to home in on the likely location of the blaze. But moving vehicles go in and out of view based on distance and the terrain.”

  Also told him about the blood sample from the tower, along with the boot prints and tire tread I’d found a short distance down a logging road near the lookout. Pointed out I’d been able to make some decent castings.

  “Harry will take a look at all that after he finishes examining Janine’s phone. Speaking of, I think she might’ve
managed to photograph her attacker with it. The shots are distorted, but hopefully Harry can manipulate them and come up with a clearer image. If not, maybe his state lab buddies can.”

  “That’s quite a few puzzle pieces you’ve collected, Maggie.”

  “There’s more, Al. Bratton found a set of prints on the phone that matched one of the sets on the tackle box. But they weren’t in the western states database. That’s why he’s on the phone with the lab in Bend now.”

  “Bend is going through the FBI’s system?”

  “Right. I’m hoping we can sit down and come up with a theory or two out of all the puzzle pieces. Hollis is off today, but I’d like him to be part of the discussion tomorrow. Not just because he’s a Web magician. He makes for a good foil when ideas are being tossed around.”

  He nodded. “Was Ms. Harbaugh able to identify the make of the truck?”

  “She texted me shortly before she was shoved from the tower and said it was definitely a Ford. But she couldn’t make out the license number, thought it might be a specialized plate of some kind.”

  Harry opened the door to his modular, cast a look of frustration, and beckoned us inside.

  “It’s good to see you, Detective Bach,” he said as they shook hands.

  Bach smiled. “Plain Al works for me.”

  “Was that smoke I smelled outside?” Bratton asked as he shut the door.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Heard something on the radio about wildfires in Northern California,” Al said. “Smoke’s being carried north.”

  Harry nodded. “It’s that time of year, I guess.”

  “What can you tell us about the fingerprints?” I asked.

  “Have a seat.” He signaled for us to take the two chairs near his desk. “I’m afraid there’s no match in the FBI’s database either. You’ll have to come up with a suspect in Janine’s attack, someone who doesn’t have a police record. It’s the only way to ID the fingerprints. All I know for certain is that it wasn’t Cecil Burney who tossed her phone.”

  “How do you know that?” Al asked.

  “Because I was able to ID Burney’s prints from the tackle box, but they weren’t on her cell phone.”

  I had to force myself not to eye the detective. There was some possibility he’d already decided to pin all of it—the killing of J.T. Lake, the heroin hidden in the tackle box, and the brutal assault of Janine—on Cecil.

  “Maybe Mr. Burney wiped down the phone before he tossed it on the ground,” Bach speculated.

  “Uh,” Harry began. “That would pretty much remove any other prints, too.”

  We all sat for an uncomfortable few seconds.

  I cleared my throat. “What should our next steps be, Al?”

  “Maybe we should borrow Ms. Harbaugh’s fire finder,” Bach mumbled sarcastically, not to mention uncharacteristically.

  It was getting close to three o’clock, and Bratton’s lab had turned humid. “It’s been a long day already, and I have a few reports to catch up on,” I said.

  Bach stood. “Thank you for your help, Harry.”

  “That’s what you’re paying me for,” he answered. “I’ll be in touch after I’ve finished examining the blood sample and casts. Then I’ll see what I can do with those photographs. Speaking of photographs, I’ve been meaning to tell you. Those shots taken of the ATV tracks near the Murderers Creek headwaters are pretty much worthless in terms of getting an ID on the tread or ATV size, make, or model.”

  I thanked Harry and also rose from my chair. “I’ll contact the hospital and get Janine’s blood type, if it helps.”

  “That’ll help winnow things down some, Maggie.”

  “Just what I’m looking forward to,” I said. “A winnowing down of things.”

  Al and I gathered beside his Ford Interceptor supposedly to have that chat about next steps, but our convo soon devolved into a gripe fest about the heat and the smoke. This morning’s startling cornflower sky had turned sepia, casting a pall over the high desert and the mountains and river valleys beyond.

  “I’m going to pick up some groceries from Chester’s Market and then check in to my room at Mack’s Motel. How about we tackle all this first thing in the morning?” he suggested.

  “Sounds good. I’m planning to stop at the house on my way back to town before I head back to the station.”

  “Oh, you moved out of your apartment?” he asked.

  Since I was about to fess up to Al Bach I’d been living in sin with my boyfriend, I turned a bit sheepish. “I’m about to. I’ve been staying with my fiancé most of the time.”

  “You’re getting married again?”

  Now it was Al who turned sheepish.

  “Sorry, Maggie, that was a rude thing to ask. More to the point, I asked it rudely.”

  I was just happy not to get any kind of preachy advice from the guy.

  “No worries. You’re not the first person to comment on my third trip down the aisle.”

  “Still,” he countered, “it’s none of my business. Unless it’s another OSP officer.”

  I shook my head. “Been there, done that.”

  “Now I recall. A few days back you said something about dating someone. Owns some kind of store, right?”

  “Yeah, McKay’s Feed and Tack.”

  Bach smiled, a little too patronizingly. “Well, marriage can be a wonderful blessing.”

  “Apparently I keep on hoping you’re right about that.”

  “See you in the morning, Maggie.”

  On the road back, I called my desk phone and checked for messages. Having none, I contacted Sherry Linn.

  “Afternoon,” I said when she answered. “Anything exciting to report?”

  “It’s been quiet around here all day.”

  “Too quiet?”

  “I’ve gotten lots done.”

  I took that as a yes.

  “I haven’t had time for lunch today, so I’m stopping off for a bite to eat. But call me if you need to.”

  “Will do, Maggie.”

  I was barely hungry, but I needed a short nap. Turning up the road toward Duncan’s house on the hill, the smoke haze seemed thicker here than it had in Silvies. I wondered if it would get better or worse with a strong wind, but I still made a pitch to the weather gods to blow in some rain and wash it all away.

  Louie barely raised his head to greet me when I opened the door. He had taken on the habit of sleeping nearly all day, and I now envied him for having the liberty to do that. I grabbed a handful of green grapes and a glass of water and parked myself on the daybed in the so-called great room.

  My ringing phone woke me from an unsettling dream of being chased by a bear through a shadowy grove of lodgepole pine, their brick red and gray bark oozing with pitch.

  I rose slowly and let the unfamiliar number go to voicemail.

  Collecting myself, I carried the empty glass and the remains of the grapes to the kitchen, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror next to the front door, and marched out to my Tahoe.

  On the way to the station, I drove past the park in Canyon City. The boy who’d been beating the tar out of Lyle Davis two days ago lay on top of one of the picnic tables. I drove around the block and parked in front of Grant County’s only organic food market, out of view from the park. I wasn’t sure why I was so curious to know who the little shit was, given the unsolved murder and attempted murder on my hands, but I was.

  He was asleep, so I shook him slightly. “These tables aren’t for sleeping on, son.”

  He jerked awake. “What the fuck, bitch?”

  Oh, this was going to be fun.

  “I said these tables aren’t for sleeping on. Son.”

  “I ain’t your damn son,” he said.

  “Are you sure? Sit your ass up and show me some ID.”

  “What for?”

  “For if you don’t, I’m going to cite you for vagrancy.”

  The kid sat up and pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jean
s.

  “Take your ID out and hand it to me,” I ordered.

  He handed me his driver’s license. Oh, I knew who this asshole was. Robbie Cole. I just hadn’t seen him since he returned home last spring after spending three years inside the Eastern Oregon Youth Correctional Facility in Burns. He’d grown taller, bigger, and he now had whiskers. Not to mention more of an attitude.

  I gave him back his license and decided not to bring up his bully bashing of Lyle Davis. Would only serve to make it harder on Lyle the next time.

  “Sorry I missed your welcome-home party,” I said. “But don’t let me see you sleeping on any more picnic tables. And say hi to your dad for me.”

  “Don’t know your damn name,” Robbie hissed.

  “Where are my manners?” I put out my hand, but he didn’t take the bait. “Blackthorne. Sergeant Maggie Blackthorne, Oregon State Police.”

  Walking to my rig, I thought about Robbie’s father, Robert Cole, Sr. He’d been three grades ahead of me in high school and would’ve graduated with Duncan. But that wasn’t in the stars. Robert Senior had also served a stint in a facility for delinquent youth, but he hadn’t gotten out until his twenty-first birthday.

  Mark Taylor was entertaining Sherry Linn and Doug Vaughn when I finally arrived at the office. Having missed the premise of whatever story he was wading through, I said my hellos and moved past the front counter to my desk, where the phone blinked anxiously. I clicked on the recorded message. It was Steve Abbott from Internal Affairs asking me to call back at my earliest convenience.

  “Huh,” I whispered when the message ended. “Steve Abbott is female.”

  I listened to the message a second time. Afterward, I checked the State Police online employee listings, information supposedly available to supervisors only, but Hollis had never had any trouble gleaning information from it. Anyway, there she was, Trooper Stephanie A. Abbott. She had transferred to IAD from Klamath Falls two months ago.