Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  Next, I listened to the voicemail on my cell phone. Trooper Abbott had awakened me from my nap before calling my office number. I glanced at my watch and grabbed my desk phone’s receiver to make the dreaded call to IAD, but not before Sherry Linn had patched through a call from Dr. Hilliard.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant Blackthorne.”

  “Hello, Dr. Hilliard. Are you calling with news about Janine Harbaugh?”

  “As of early this afternoon, she was alive, but her condition remains critical.”

  “Any word regarding DNA from the fingernail samples?”

  “I asked them to contact you with the results.”

  “So, no,” I replied, perhaps too tersely. It wasn’t Hilliard’s fault I hadn’t heard from the state lab. But we damn well needed something to go on, and we needed it soon.

  I decided to change the subject. “Would you be able to tell me Janine’s blood type?”

  “Absolutely.” Hilliard shuffled papers in the background. “O positive.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate you keeping me posted.”

  “There’s another matter I wanted to speak to you about,” he began. “I’ve learned that a patient visited emergent care yesterday evening with severe facial scratches. Claimed it was caused by barbed wire fencing.” He paused. “I thought you should know, the nurse on duty has confided in me the markings were definitely more reminiscent of fingernail wounds than abrasions caused by barbed wire. This nurse has seen it all, by the way. From the hideous excoriations of violent sexual assault to major lacerations brought on by an errant chainsaw.”

  “And, of course, the patient’s name is privileged information?”

  “Unless you’re able to obtain a court order countermanding that privilege. You may be already aware, but Oregon statutes are quite strict about adhering to patient privilege, so convincing a judge could be a hard sell. Unless, of course, you have additional, more compelling evidence.”

  “Even in a police investigation of a violent assault, possibly a homicide?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can share Janine’s blood type with me but not the name of her possible attacker?”

  “Yes, a victim’s blood type can be given out to law enforcement, but without definitive proof the patient with facial wounds has committed a serious crime, that patient’s name cannot be released without a court order.”

  I was at a loss when it came to what to do with Hilliard’s information and almost wished he hadn’t contacted me with this new bit of intrigue. But in the end, I thanked him and told him I’d get back to him after discussing the situation with the lead investigator.

  After hanging up, I dialed Al. When he didn’t answer, I retrieved my keys and headed for the front door. The in-and-out board listed Taylor and Vaughn as logged out for the day, but Sherry Linn stood at the bank of file cabinets busily organizing documents.

  “Something’s come up, and I need to talk to Detective Bach. He didn’t answer his phone, so I’m off to Mack’s Motel to see if I can track him down there.”

  “Maggie, it’s none of my business, but you seem a little harried.”

  “That’s not the half of it.”

  “Just don’t forget to breathe.”

  Bach’s Ford Interceptor pulled into the parking lot at Mack’s Motel and parked near the office. From my Tahoe, I watched him go inside and chat with the woman staffing the reception desk, finally emerging after several minutes with his room key. He removed luggage and a bag of groceries from his vehicle and walked to his room.

  I moved from my rig and hailed him as he slid the key card and opened the door. He signaled for me to come on in. Once inside, we were greeted by that odor motel rooms seem to be born with—part bleach, part mold, and part nicotine.

  “I was on the phone with Ray Gattis when you called.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She has reason to believe the suspected double suicide of those twins in Baker City might be murder-suicide.”

  “One girl killed her sister and then herself?”

  “It’s not confirmed yet, but likely will be.”

  I sat in the one chair available. “The poor parents.”

  “Yes, it’s…” he said, trailing off. “Anyway, you had something you want to talk to me about?”

  I spieled off a summary of my conversation with Dr. Hilliard. “And he indicated that statutorily, it’s difficult even for law enforcement to convince a judge in Oregon. But Hilliard also suggested more compelling evidence might do the trick.”

  “Well, not if we don’t know who the perpetrator might possibly be,” Al said, massaging his neck. “Let’s just focus on finding Sergeant Lake’s killer, shall we?”

  And with that very unsatisfactory response, I took my leave.

  18

  Evening, August 18

  Back at the office, Sherry Linn was leaving for the day. “You had a call about fifteen minutes ago from someone named Harry Bratton. Since you weren’t here, he said he’d send along an email.”

  I explained who Harry was. “We’re lucky he retired nearby. It speeds up some of the forensic work.”

  “He’s got a nice phone voice.”

  “Guess I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “It’s always a good sign about a person.” She clicked her meticulously manicured nails on the counter. “Promise me you’ll head home soon, Maggie. You seem dog-tired.”

  “Dog-tired. Is that another one of your mother’s expressions?”

  “Yep. See you in the morning.”

  “Have a nice evening,” I said and strolled wearily to my desk. Thinking I might still be able to catch Harry, I rang his number. It went straight to his recorded message. Sherry Linn was right. He did have a nice phone voice.

  I opened the email he’d sent. “The tire tread came from a 275/60 R20 OWL all-terrain tire. Brand new. Likely a Goodyear product,” it read. “Boots are men’s size 14 or women’s size 16, or thereabout. Don’t know what to tell you about the brand. The blood sample was indeed fresh and from a human. You’re looking for someone with type AB negative blood. Only 1% of the population is AB negative. I’ll tackle the photos next.”

  That bit about the blood type was interesting. Janine Harbaugh’s was O positive, the same as mine, and also the most common blood type.

  I dialed Dr. Hilliard to make a case for foregoing privilege, particularly if the blood type of the patient he’d mentioned in our previous conversation—the person whose face had likely been clawed by fingernails—was AB negative. But that call also went to voicemail.

  Disheartened, I brooded, wishing I’d at least tried to make the case earlier to Al that there was some chance, perhaps a really good chance, that J.T.’s murder, the appearance of Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter, the heroin found in what appeared to be Cecil Burney’s stolen tackle box, and now the attack on Janine were all related somehow.

  I scrambled to the murder board and added everything having to do with Janine’s assault and its aftermath. Following that, I took a clean sheet of chart pack paper and began grouping events by date. Thursday 8/13: J.T. Lake stopped by station @ 8 a.m. but was found stabbed to death at Murderers Creek Guard Station shortly before two; statewide bulletin re fugitive drug dealers, Cruise and Porter (C&P), distributed; same fugitives stole Dave Shannon’s Ford F-150 pickup.

  I continued on with the timeline right through today, hoping to find links or patterns. But I was drained and nothing was clear. I staggered back to my desk, reached to turn off the computer, and suddenly remembered Deb Anderson from the Health Department. She ran the blood drive every year.

  It was close to seven thirty, so I snatched the dainty local phone book from my desk drawer. It held the numbers of everyone in the county with a landline, except for those who chose to be unlisted. I turned to the Canyon City page, located Anderson, Debra and Thomas, and dialed the number. Their boy Van answered, and I asked to speak to Deb.

  “If this call’s about politics, I don’t g
ive my views to strangers, especially over the phone,” she yelped into the receiver.

  “This is Maggie Blackthorne, Deb. And I hear ya, I don’t share my views to strangers, either.”

  “Oh, hi, Maggie. What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to call you at home, but I’m hoping to find someone in the county with type AB negative blood. I thought since you handled the blood drive every year, you might have the inside scoop, especially since AB negative is so uncommon.”

  “Does this have anything to do with what’s been going on lately out in the Murderers Creek area?”

  Well, in fact it did. “I can’t give you specifics, Deb, but it does have something to do with an ongoing investigation.”

  “Okay, but I’m about to sit down to supper. I’ll check my database afterward and get back to you.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  She paused, and I figured she might be about to tell me she was uncomfortable sharing a donor’s personal information.

  “No problem, Maggie. I’m only too happy to help law enforcement whenever I can. Just give me your number, and I’ll get back to you later this evening.”

  I passed along my phone number and refrained from concerning myself with any possible ethical implications of our interaction. But denial and avoidance can be dirty dogs, in this instance reminding me that I’d procrastinated returning the call to Steve Abbott at the Internal Affairs Division.

  After ending the call to Deb, I rang Steve Abbott, fully expecting to leave a list of reasons—honest ones too—about why I hadn’t been able to get back to her before now.

  “IAD. Steve Abbott here.”

  “Oh. This is Sergeant Maggie Blackthorne. Apologies for not returning your call earlier. I’m working a murder investigation here. Also another case that appears to be an attempted murder.”

  “Yeah, I get that. I’m under the gun myself. So to speak. About tomorrow?”

  “Homicide Detective Bach and I are set to run through our murder board and interview some people.”

  “Uh-huh. You need to be in my office tomorrow at three o’clock.”

  “That means I’ll have to leave before noon.” I sounded pathetic.

  “It does indeed.”

  And she was also a bitch. Like someone else I knew.

  “I’ll see you at three o’clock tomorrow,” I acknowledged.

  “Till then,” Abbott answered tersely and hung up.

  I reflected on the conversation. I’d been right about Trooper Steve Abbott—this internal investigation was a high priority for the woman.

  Louie greeted me as I opened the front door and scooted outside. Duncan was lying on the daybed working away at finishing No Respect: Class Wars in America.

  “How’s the book going?” I asked.

  “I’m learning I’m part of the problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “The white male ownership class. Technically, I’m a member.”

  “What can you do about it?”

  “I’m hoping the author gets there. But so far it seems I need to stop running Mom and Dad’s store.”

  “I don’t think your mom and dad would like that,” I said, playing along.

  “No, I don’t think they would either.”

  “Keep me apprised, just in case I’m the one who has to break it to them.”

  He affixed his bookmark and set the opus on the end table. “I broke the other news to them. Told them we were engaged.”

  “You didn’t want me to be there?”

  “Of course I did, but I had five or six customers pass along their congratulations today. Then Dad and Mom dropped by and asked me in person.”

  “Ah, the source of all that would be Dorie. Were your mom and dad pleased?”

  He rose from the daybed, pulled me into his broad chest, and wrapped me in his arms. We kissed for a long minute.

  “They were really pleased,” he said. “Kind of put out that other people knew before they did, but I reminded them there’s been a lot going on.”

  “We should invite them for dinner.”

  “Good idea. I have an even better one, though.” He placed his hands on my bum and again drew me close.

  “What’s that?” I asked, playing along once more.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day. About that one particular move you have.”

  The thought of making love felt so right, despite my exhaustion. I unbuckled his belt and pressed my body against his.

  “God,” he whispered. We climbed the stairs, all the while fondling, kissing, and shedding clothing.

  I woke at nine twenty at night, my phone buzzing from the pocket of my pants draped over Duncan’s dresser.

  After clearing my throat, I answered. “Hi, Deb.”

  “Strangely, there are two individuals in our databank with AB negative blood. I don’t know either one personally, but the first is an elderly woman living in an assisted living facility in Prairie City. The second is a younger guy with a Mt. Vernon address.”

  I assumed Janine was still alive and resting in the hospital in Bend three hours from here and not at risk of being attacked again by her assailant. So I decided to wait and check out Deb’s information in the morning. I thanked her profusely and asked her to send the names to my work email.

  I hung up and reminded myself to leave the email for the morning, and also to wait until I was in the office to peruse it. Duncan was downstairs fixing supper, and for many reasons, I owed him my full attention tonight. Plus, I had decided to tell him my news. Our news.

  I found Duncan in the kitchen on his phone. “I’ll be right there. In the meantime, try to stay calm, okay?”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked when he clicked off.

  “That was Mom. She took Dad to the hospital. He thought he might be having a heart attack.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Nah, stay here, babe. But you could call Kat for me. No, never mind, I’ll call her on the way.”

  “I don’t mind making the call.”

  “I know, but Kat might mind,” he said and grabbed his keys lying on the kitchen counter. “As it is, she’ll likely be a little put out that Mom didn’t call her herself.”

  We hugged before he opened the door.

  “Call me when you know anything,” I said, but he was already racing toward his truck.

  I covered the salad he’d made for supper and placed it in the refrigerator. I turned off the chicken breasts that had been browning on the stovetop and moved back to the daybed and picked up my novel. I read and re-read several pages. I checked the time. Duncan had been gone for less than twenty minutes.

  “You’re being ridiculous, Blackthorne.”

  My phone rang suddenly, and seeing it was Hollis, I picked up on the first ring.

  “Holly? Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, but you sound upset.”

  “Duncan’s mom drove his dad to the hospital a short while ago. He might’ve had a heart attack, I guess.”

  “Hope everything’s okay.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Um, this might be a bad time, but I thought we could have that friend-to-friend chat now.”

  “Sure. Would you like to come over?”

  “That would be better than over the phone, thanks.”

  “I’m at Duncan’s place. See you when you get here.”

  While I waited, I wrapped the chicken breasts in foil and put them in the refrigerator next to the salad. Louie scratched at the door, and I let him in and made sure he had an ample supply of food and water. Finally, I busied myself looking for some nice background music, selected my Preston Reed channel, and turned the speakers down a bit.

  Hollis arrived with a six-pack of beer, opened one for him and one for me, and stashed the remainder in the refrigerator. We sat across from one another at the dining table.

  He took a swig from his beer bottle. “I’m pretty sure you know Lil has cancer. The two of you went for
coffee on Saturday, and then when I asked for leave because of her upcoming surgery, you didn’t dig for details. The Maggie Blackthorne I know would be all over that.”

  “Sorry, dude. I wasn’t attempting to make light of any of it. Just wanted to give you whatever space you needed.”

  “No apology necessary. I appreciate it, in fact. I needed time, but now I need you to be my closest pal. My rock. Whatever you want to call it.”

  To seal the deal, I tipped my beer toward his and we clinked the bottles together.

  “Anything you need, Holly, all you have to do is ask.”

  He took my hand. “I know that, Maggie.”

  I feared I might start crying, as I was wont to do of late.

  “There’s something else,” he said. “None of my business, but I know some of the signs. One being, you haven’t had even a sip of your beer. Are you pregnant?”

  I brought my pointer finger to my lips and drew an imaginary X. “I haven’t said anything to Duncan yet. Was planning to do that tonight, but life got in the way.”

  My phone buzzed. It was Duncan this time. “How’s your dad?”

  “Resting. He had a mild heart attack, but the doc thinks he’ll be fine.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “I’ll be home in about an hour.”

  “Louie and I’ll be waiting.”

  “Are you and Louie living here full-time these days?” Holly asked once I ended the call.

  “Yeah. I still have a bunch of crap at the apartment, but I plan to vacate for good soon.”

  He nodded and stood. “I’m taking off now. Tell Duncan howdy for me.”

  “Take the rest of the six-pack with you.”

  Hollis winked. “Nah, my father would turn over in his grave if I ever did such a thing.”

  We had hastily consumed our late dinner of salad and cold chicken last night and gone off to bed. Duncan’s worry over his father had compelled me to wait until another time to give him the pregnancy news. I couldn’t possibly be very far along, so there would be plenty of opportunity in the coming days.