I read it over. “Looks good. Here, Hollis. Anything missing?”
He took the request and skimmed through it. “House. Property and outbuildings. Vehicles. Computer. Cell phone. Got it.”
“All right. We’ll be back soon,” she said.
While Sherry Linn and Taylor were at the courthouse, Hollis and I made an attempt to catch up on our report writing, but largely we strategized about the best way to go about our search. In the end, I decided we’d bring Taylor along to keep an eye on Shannon.
“You remember what happened last time we had Mark keep an eye on suspects?” Hollis asked.
“Sure, you got yourself shot.” I could joke now, but that had been a horrible moment. Holly could easily have died.
“Not until after John and Ruben Vickers managed to overtake Mark and wrestle away his Glock.”
“That won’t happen here. The Vickers boys were big guys with criminal minds.”
“If Dave Shannon’s done what we think he has, I’d say he’s got a pretty criminal mind.”
“My theory is he’s a twisted individual. Wanted his father to give a care about him, and when Bob Cole didn’t, Shannon turned that into something rotten. One of the last things Janine told me was that her attacker kept asking her over and over who took it. But she didn’t know what he was asking about.”
“Any thoughts about that?”
“This is all a guess, but maybe Shannon thought she knew where the fishing tackle box packed with heroin had gone.”
“He’s a heroin dealer now?”
I heard Sherry Linn and Taylor enter the building. “Might explain how he could afford a twenty-thousand-dollar upgrade on his truck.”
We arrived at Shannon’s around eleven a.m. and presented him with the signed search warrant. Hollis had traveled with me, and Mark Taylor drove his pride and joy, a newly issued white Ram 2500 truck, the Oregon State Police logo encircling the enlarged star on its front door panels: * Honor * Loyalty * Dedication * Compassion * Integrity *.
Dave Shannon opened the door to his small abode before we reached the front step. I had no idea if his boots were size fourteen—which had been Harry’s assessment of the boot casts—but I could see now that Shannon had relatively large feet.
“Maggie, you’re back. Without the detective this time?”
“Nope. You remember Senior Trooper Hollis Jones.”
“The Allis-Chalmers tractor fan.”
“And this is Trooper Mark Taylor.”
“Like I told you yesterday, I don’t have enough chairs to seat four people.”
“We’ll work it out. Now, can we come in?”
Shannon swung the door wide open, and I noticed the left side of his face appeared to be more swollen than it had been yesterday.
Once the three of us entered the house, he closed the door and sat down on the tall stool perched next to it. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like he had cleaned the place up a bit since our visit the day before.
“So Dave,” I began. “We’ve come with a search warrant signed by the circuit court judge.”
I held out the folded warrant for him to take and examine, but he kept his hands stuffed inside his pockets.
“All right,” I continued. “I’ll just put it right here on the side table. While Trooper Jones and I search your property, Trooper Taylor is going to sit in here with you. But first he’s going to pat you down, and then I’d like you to move to the chair on the other side of the room.”
I’d remembered there was no back door to the place, so I planned to station Taylor by the front door. That would make it more difficult for Shannon to take off, should he be so inclined.
Taylor did the honors. “He’s good to go, Sergeant.”
“What’s this all about?” Shannon asked.
“Just move to the chair, Dave,” I said.
After Shannon lumbered to the far corner and sat in the chair, Hollis took his leave. We’d agreed on the drive over that he would search the outbuildings, farm equipment, and the man’s vehicle first, after which, he’d go through the computer and cell phone.
“Can you tell me what you’re looking for?” Shannon asked.
Proof that you killed Janine Harbaugh, I wanted to say. But other than him confessing to it, there likely wasn’t much evidence of that here.
Then I had a thought. “How about your birth certificate? Will I find it anywhere in your house?”
“Don’t have a copy of that.”
“Is that because it would verify you’re actually John Robert Davidson, that your mother was Shannon Davidson, and your father is Robert Cole, Sr.?”
“So that prick fucked my mother, so what? And I changed my name. Who cares?”
I’d gone down this road too soon. I could give him a sob story about his family in White Salmon being worried after he disappeared. I could say all kinds of things, but the best thing for me to do right then was to shut the hell up and search the place.
I began with Shannon’s bedroom, and as expected, it was a serious mess. Piles of filthy clothing and a few bloody bandages took up much of the floor, and the sheets on his bed had likely not been laundered in some time. I pulled on gloves and picked through the clothes, and finding nothing of interest, I bagged the bandages. I checked between and under the bedding, ignoring the sour odor as much as possible, and again came up with nada.
The closet was empty except for a few hung shirts and jackets, along with a cardboard box of crap, which I pulled out and placed on the bed. Inside the box I found some high school annuals, a few letters from his mother written while little Johnny Davidson was away at camp one summer, various photos of him as a boy standing by the ewe he’d raised that year and taken to the county fair, and some 4-H medals he’d won along the way.
I pulled out a couple of photo albums placed at the bottom of the box and began going through them quickly, not allowing myself to linger over evidence of a lonely kid and his quite beautiful single mother. Besides, a lot of people grew up the only child of a single parent, or single for all intents and purposes, as in my mother Zoey’s case; Daddy Tate had been a falling-down drunk, and pretty much out of the picture, for most of my formative years.
Next I rummaged through Shannon’s dresser, which was essentially empty, and scanned the few items on his dresser top—a key fob for his fancy new truck, a set of other keys, a nail file, and a pen. I found his wallet on the floor by his bed and pulled out a debit card, a credit card, an automobile insurance card, and his driver’s license. It read David J. Shannon, Mt. Vernon, Oregon. The wallet held no cash.
I stepped across the hall to his small bathroom and examined the contents of the tiny medicine cabinet, finding nothing of interest beyond a full bottle of paroxetine—generic Paxil. Interestingly, the shower, toilet, countertops, and floor were spotless, and the plastic trash container was clean and empty. Shannon had even dusted the sill of the narrow window, which ran the width of the south wall. He couldn’t easily escape out of the window either, as it didn’t open.
Moving out into the hall and back through the living room, I ignored Shannon’s glare and glanced at Taylor, who signaled things were fine. I entered the kitchen and inspected the refrigerator, cupboards, and drawers, coming up with little of note but a stack of bills in one drawer and a file box on the counter. The bills were predictable, but the damn file box required a key.
I scurried back to the bedroom, file box under my arm, and picked up the set of keys on the dresser top. Using the tiniest one, I opened Shannon’s Pandora’s box of possible evidence, beginning with two detailed topographic maps. The first traced the way to the source of Murderers Creek and included someone’s handwritten instructions in the sidebar. The second of the topographic maps showed the alternate course from Janine’s fire tower where I’d happened upon boot prints and tire tracks. A separate roadmap laid out the two main routes to the guard station, one off Highway 26 and the other off 395.
I dumped the rest of the contents on the filthy
bedding and unfolded a receipt for a small freezer locker at Terry Moore’s Storage Rental. Next, I picked up one of several packets of canceled checks the bank had returned after being processed. I flipped through those and found nothing particularly interesting, other than the luck of having a sample of Shannon’s handwriting, should we need it.
On the back of an envelope from the local power company, he had scrawled Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter, along with a date and time, 8/13, 8:30 a.m.—the morning they took off with his brown Ford F-150. On a large sticky note, he’d written: Per Blackthorne, Janice or Jean? Aldrich Mountain lookout—spotted my truck the day after those two stole it. At the very bottom of the pile of items from the file box were several photos of Robbie Cole banded together.
“Maggie?”
I fairly jumped out of my skin. “Damn, Holly, you startled me. Look at all of this.”
He took it all in, lingering on the stack of photos of Robbie Cole. “Wait until you hear what I found on his computer.”
“Porn?”
“No, a log of Robbie Cole sightings, beginning about six years ago. There’s a long period in which there’s nothing, and then he began logging Robbie sightings again this past spring.”
“Shannon moved here about six years ago. And Robbie got out of the Burns youth correctional facility and moved back home last spring. Was there anything worth noting about these sightings?”
“Didn’t check them out that carefully yet, but he stopped logging anything at all about two months ago.”
I removed the rubber band from around the collection of photos and began looking through them. Each was dated. “These go back to when the boy was in middle school or so.”
“That would’ve been about six years ago, right?”
“Yeah. I think it’s time to have a chat with the guy. Unless there’s something interesting outside or in the outbuildings.”
“I haven’t searched his truck yet, but the ATV is gone.”
I stashed the sundry items back in the file box. “We’ll ask about the ATV, too.”
Hollis and I moved to the front room, where Shannon sat fidgeting.
“Do you need a break, Trooper Taylor?”
He nodded and rose from the stool.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall on your left,” I said.
The rest of us sat in silence until Taylor returned to the living room. I took him aside before he sat back down. “I think we can handle it from here, Mark.”
“Are you sure, Maggie?”
“Yeah.” I turned to Hollis. “Would you escort Dave to the bathroom before we begin our questioning?”
“I’d rather have the other guy do that, if you don’t mind,” Shannon squeaked.
Tough shit. “I do mind. Trooper Taylor has other duties to attend to right now.”
Taylor gathered his hat and left, but Shannon remained in his chair.
“Either Trooper Jones accompanies you to the bathroom and stands in the open door while you conduct your business, or I accompany you,” I said.
“How long will your questions take?”
“That depends on you.”
He stood and shuffled to the bathroom, Hollis hustling behind him.
I removed the recorder from my pack and placed it and Shannon’s laptop on the side table, along with the file box, and sat in the chair next to it.
When they returned, Shannon reclaimed his seat, and Hollis moved the stool where Taylor had maintained his vigil and perched next to me.
I switched on the recorder, identified myself, and stated the date. “This recording is taking place at the home of Dave Shannon, an alias for his given name, John Robert Davidson. For the purposes of this interview, I will address the witness as Dave Shannon.”
The man was visibly nervous.
“Mr. Shannon, is your biological father Robert Cole who resides in Canyon City, Oregon?”
“Yes.”
“When did you learn he was your father?”
“I’ve known since I was a boy. My mother told me.”
“Your mother, Shannon Davidson, is deceased, correct?”
“She died seven years ago. Miss her every day.”
“Trooper Jones spoke with your uncle, and he said you were pretty upset after she died.”
Shannon glanced at Hollis. “You talked to my uncle?”
“Yes,” Hollis said. “He and others in your family have been worried about you.”
“It was a really bad time for me. I kinda went nuts.”
“But you’re better now?” I asked.
“Yeah, much better.”
“The antidepressants have helped, then?”
He nodded but wasn’t happy I’d brought up the antidepressants.
“Did you move to Grant County to be near your father?”
“God, no.”
“But you asked him for a job not long ago.”
“I put in applications everywhere. Nobody was hiring, so I got desperate.”
Wasn’t sure I believed that, but quizzing the guy about his animosity for Bob Cole didn’t seem germane at the moment.
“I moved here to be near my little brother,” Shannon affirmed.
I nodded toward his laptop. “Is that why you’ve kept track of what appears to have been nearly every time you saw Robbie over the last several years?”
“Yeah. And I took pictures sometimes.”
“Saw that. Do the dates on the photos correspond with some of the dates you happened to see him?” I asked.
“I never just happened to see him. It was always planned.”
“Did you ever talk to him when you saw him?” Hollis asked.
He hesitated. “Not until recently.”
“May I ask what took so long?” Holly’s deep voice and cadence were soothing, and I suspected Shannon had figured out that Hollis was the good cop in this scenario.
“Spying on Robbie meant I had control of things, that I could stay close to my only blood relative, and not risk anything.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “You had your mom’s family. And your father, too.”
“My mother was adopted. And the sperm donor was never interested.”
I leaned in. “Why’d you stop noting your sightings of Robbie in your computer?”
“He caught me watching him, and he didn’t like it. But I can be a sweet-talker when I put my mind to it. I told him I was his brother, and I didn’t want him to shove me outta his life. Although I wasn’t supposed to, I even lent him that loaner truck one day this week. And this morning, I let him borrow my ATV.” Shannon paused. “Wait a minute. Is Robbie the real reason you’re here? He’s in trouble again, right?”
28
Midday, August 21
Dave Shannon had just tossed us a curve ball, possibly an effort to kick Robbie Cole under the bus. I decided to ignore his obfuscation, spieled off his Miranda rights, and handed him a waiver to sign.
“I found Janine Harbaugh’s phone,” I said once he passed me his signed waiver.
“Who’s Janine Harbaugh?”
I dipped inside the file box, pulled out the sticky note I’d found in the box, and read it out. “Per Blackthorne, Janice or Jean? Aldrich Mountain lookout—spotted my truck the day after those two stole it.”
“Oh, that lady. I want to thank her for sending you after the thieves who stole my new F-150.”
“You’re too late, I’m afraid. She died yesterday.”
“That’s too bad. Sounds like she was a good person.”
“Speaking of the thieves who stole your pickup…” I retrieved the envelope on which he’d scribbled. “You wrote down the names of Vincent Cruise and Anna Jo Porter, as well as a date and time.”
“I saw their names in the newspaper, and I knew what date and time my truck was stole. Anyway, I wrote all that down after it was totaled so I could have it handy when I made my insurance claim.”
“Seems more like a reminder you’d made an appointment with them.”
&n
bsp; “An appointment for what?”
“Why do most people make appointments with drug dealers?”
“I already told you I wrote the names down so I could give them to my insurance guy.”
I removed the topographic maps from the file box and began with the one leading to the source of Murderers Creek. “Tell me about this.”
“Why’s that a big deal?”
“One of the game wardens in our office found an army-green tackle box stuffed with heroin in that exact spot.”
He took a long breath. “You might have to talk to Robbie about all that.”
“Yeah, I intend to. His fingerprints were found on the tackle box.”
That last appeared to distract him for a moment, prompting him to knuckle-rub the large bandage on his face.
I brought out the second topographic map, the one laying out an alternate route from the fire tower down Aldrich Mountain. “Explain this.”
He pointed to a small bookcase in the corner of his living room. “I’ve got a bunch more maps like those two. I use ’em when I take out my ATV.”
“I’m surprised you loaned your ATV to Robbie. He’s pretty young to entrust an expensive piece of equipment to.”
Shannon shrugged. “The kid doesn’t have much. I didn’t have much when I was a kid, either. It’s a rotten spot to be in.”
Christ on a crutch, bring out the violins.
“He owns a Ford Fiesta,” Hollis corrected.
“That piece of crap?”
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t have minded having one when I was a boy.”
“I would’ve given anything to have my own car in high school,” I threw in.
Shannon smiled. “Well, everybody’s different, I guess.”
Perhaps the taint of poverty was responsible for his interest in top-of-the-line pickup trucks.
I offered my own smile. “Different strokes for different folks, right?”
I held up the roadmap showing the two different routes from John Day to Murderers Creek Guard Station.
“What’s your fascination with that place?” Hollis asked.
Murderers Creek (Maggie Blackthorne Book 2) Page 26