Deadfall

by Patricia H. Rushford

  “She actually agreed to come back for an interview?” Kevin looked surprised.

  “Not agreed, she offered. Maybe a little too cooperative?”

  “Maybe, we’ll see.” Kevin stood up. “Anything else raise any hairs?”

  Mac looked over his notes then shook his head. “Nothing really. You can listen to the tape on the way down the mountain.

  Her story was still pretty consistent after all this time. We still have her and this truckdriver to clear out of the person-of-interest column. Not much to go on with the trucker, I’m afraid, but she was able to remember a couple of details about him.” Mac pulled the mini cassette from the tape recorder, punching out the plastic tabs on the cassette with a pocketknife so the tape couldn’t be recorded over. “And we still don’t know who this Jeremy character is,” he added as he stuffed the tape and knife back in his pocket.

  “We do now.” Kevin waved a piece of paper with a name and address on it and slid it over to Mac.

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s our next stop, Mac. We’re heading to Estacada to contact Jeremy Matthew Zimmerman. He goes by J. Z., according to his CCH anyway. That page was from Allison at the lab. She hit that love letter from Romeo with the fume gun and lifted a print right away. She said AFIS churned out old Jeremy Zimmerman in less than forty-five minutes. He’s got a minor rap sheet, mostly misdemeanors for theft. Here’s the interesting part. Get this: our pal J. Z. has a handgun registered to him, a little purchase he made at the Expo Center.”

  “Expo huh? A gun show?”

  “That’s my bet. Looks like he purchased the gun from one of the few dealers who register their sales like they are supposed to.

  And you’ll never guess what old J. Z. bought just ten weeks ago.”

  “Let me guess, a .357.”

  “Bingo, a .357 Smith and Wesson Chief Special, one of those little five-shot jobs with no hammer spur. Great little gun for concealing in your pocket, no hammer to hang up on your clothes when you pull it out. I wouldn’t mind owning one myself.”

  “You think he still has it? What do you want to bet it’s conveniently lost or stolen?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  25

  AS MAC ROARED WEST on Highway 26 to the Highway 211 junction in Sandy then turned south toward Estacada, he phoned the office and spoke to a patrol sergeant, asking for an officer to hit the pawnshop Jessica had described. He wanted to see if Brad’s handgun was still in hock. If so, the gun would go to the ballistic tank at the crime lab, where Wain would run tests to see if the bullet was a match.

  At the same time, Kevin was on his mobile phone, lining up a polygraph examiner in the event they needed one. Cutbacks had forced the Portland poly detective back into patrol work, so the closest examiners were now stationed in Bend and Salem. Mac, thankfully, had escaped the cuts. Kevin claimed Mac’s luck was due solely to his prayers.

  “Patrol sergeant has a car on the way,” Mac said as they entered Sandy. “He’ll call when the troop gets some info. Do we have a polygraph available?”

  “Sarge thinks so; he’s working on it. Looks like they wrapped up that murder-for-hire caper, so Philly and Russ are back in the loop.

  The detectives down in the valley can clean their own fish now.”

  “Clean their own fish?” Mac asked. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “Do their own follow-up.” Kevin grinned. “We’re going to have a remedial class for you so you can catch up on all the lingo.”

  “That could take a while. You guys make up most of it as you go along.” Mac slowed as the highway wove through town. “Where in Estacada does our friend Jeremy live?”

  “DMV and the handgun unit both have him living out by Faraday Lake, up on Moss Hill Road. You know that area by now, don’t you? It’s less than two miles from the abandoned sawmill.”

  “Yeah, I know the place.” Mac let out a long breath. He knew the area all too well, the sawmill murder only adding to his grim list of memory markers. “I responded to a fatal automobile accident on the highway by the lake a few years ago. A boozer was driving back from Ripplebrook after an evening of drinking and popping pills. He dozed off at the wheel and swerved off the highway, killing two boys who were riding their bikes.”

  “I’m sorry, Mac. That was a tough one. I remember reading about it.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t tell Kevin about the highway worker crying or about his own tears at seeing the mangled bicycles on the white fog line. Mac also remembered being disappointed that the driver had only sustained some injuries. “The driver should have been the one to die, but the drunks always seem to live while the innocent pay the price.”

  Mac glanced over at Kevin, hoping his disparaging remarks wouldn’t open the door to one of Kevin’s sermons. It didn’t. Kevin nodded in agreement. “Moss Hill intersection is right up here on the left.”

  Mac’s gaze took in the stark wooden crosses on the highway shoulder. One of the fathers of the victims still maintained the makeshift memorial after all this time.

  Mac eased the car off the highway, reading the scattered addresses on the mailboxes. This rural part of Clackamas County was a gateway to the Mount Hood National Forest and offered a place for people who liked a little space. Some of the residents liked their privacy for more reasons than one.

  “There’s the place.”

  Mac glanced at the homemade wooden sign attached to a tree trunk at the top of the drive. He turned in. Both officers unbuckled their seat belts as they started down the gravel drive—a habit from their patrol days. If something went down, you didn’t want to be strapped in your seat belt when it happened.

  “You want a crack at J. Z., Kevin?” Mac asked.

  “I know that sly grin. You just want me to have to write the report.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Mac climbed out of the car, and the two of them walked to the front of the two-story farmhouse. “It’s only fair.” Truth be known, Mac figured the younger man might have more respect for an older detective than one close to his own age.

  “Sure, I’ll take a crack at lover boy. I want to get hold of that handgun and see if he has any other guns in the house. Folks out here like their pistols.” Kevin knocked on the front door, while he and Mac positioned themselves on either side of the doorway. The door swung open immediately, startling them both.

  “What can I do for ya?” a forty-something woman with about a hundred pounds of extra padding asked, apparently out of breath. A stepladder stood just behind her.

  “Hello. I’m Detective Bledsoe and this is Detective McAllister with the Oregon State Police. We were hoping to talk with Jeremy Zimmerman. Is he at home?” Kevin showed the woman his identification.

  “Wonderful.” The woman pushed the ladder back and put her hand on her chest. “What’s J. Z. done now?”

  “Are you his mother?”

  “Stepmother.”

  “We don’t believe he’s done anything. We were hoping he might have some information on a case we are working on. Can I get your name?” Kevin asked.

  “Sure. Sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m Donna Zimmerman. Come on in. J. Z. is home; I’ll get him. I was just dusting the light fixture in the entryway. Sorry about the ladder and the mess.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Zimmerman,” Kevin said as he and Mac stepped into the entryway. “Does J. Z. live here with you then, or . . .”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t sound happy about it. “He still lives with us. Almost twenty-five and still no plans to do anything except play video games and snowboard. My husband, J. Z.’s father, is a long-haul truckdriver. He’s in the Midwest right now on a route.” Donna walked to a railing at the top of some stairs and yelled for Jeremy to come up.

  Moments later, a tall, thin young man with a navy blue stocking cap sauntered up the stairs. “What do you want?” J. Z. was unshaven and unkempt, with jeans sagging below his hips, baggy bell bottoms that rested on his unlaced tennis shoes.

 
“J. Z., these men are police officers, and they want to talk to you.” Donna motioned toward Mac and Kevin.

  “Jeremy is it, or do you prefer J. Z.?” Mac shook his hand and Kevin followed suit. He’d noticed a flicker of fear in the guy’s eyes, but that gave way to a disinterested yawn and a stretch.

  “Either is fine. What’s this about?” In an awkward gesture, he yanked off his hat, allowing his thick black curls to fall around his face.

  “Jeremy,” Mac said, “we want to assure you that you’re not in any trouble or anything. We’d like to talk with you about a case we’re working on.”

  “Sure, grab a seat,” Jeremy flopped onto a sofa in a slouch, crossing his arms and yawning again.

  “Did we wake you?” Kevin asked.

  “Nah, just zoning—watching the tube.”

  “Hmm.” Kevin sat at Jeremy’s right and Mac took a seat on his left. “Like my partner said, you are not under arrest or anything like that. If you don’t want to talk to us at any time, just say so and we’ll get out of your hair. Okay?”

  “Okay. So what’s this about?”

  “We’re looking into your relationship with Jessica Turner right now. She’s helping us with an investigation, and we thought you might have some information for us.”

  Mac caught Kevin’s eye. Smooth move.

  “Jess?” Jeremy came out of his slouch. “Is she in town?”

  “Like I said, she’s been very cooperative, and we’re hoping you will be as well. We’re looking into a situation involving Bradley Gaynes. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I know Brad. We go back a ways.” Jeremy folded his arms. “I’ll tell you right up front, there’s no love lost between Brad and me. I helped look for him when he went missing—more as a favor to Jessica. The guy just, you know, disappeared. Weird scene all the way around. I only know what Jessica told me.”

  “And what was that?” Kevin pressed.

  Mac leaned back, suspecting Jeremy would be a weak interview— easy to manipulate and easy to catch in a lie.

  “Just that Brad got rough with her and she broke it off with him. Guess he went for a walk and never came back. That’s it, man; that’s all I know.”

  “And when did she tell you this? Have you talked to her lately?”

  “Sheesh, I wish. Jess went stone cold when she moved out. Went to live with some family members in California or something. I haven’t talked to her since she left. Did you say she was in town?”

  “No, I didn’t say.” Kevin made a note on his pad. “I heard mention of some letters you wrote to Jessica. Some letters that indicated you would like to be more than friends?”

  “Did she show you those?”

  Neither Kevin nor Mac answered.

  After a moment, Jeremy said, “Yeah, I wrote a few letters. See, I used to ski with her and Brad. We would party at their place, have some drinks. Some of the guys smoked a little bud now and again.” He shrugged. “A few went with crack.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Nah. I drink sometimes but never got into the drug scene. That stuff messes up your brain, you know what I mean?”

  Mac nodded. Jeremy’s answer surprised him.

  “Jess didn’t do drugs either,” Jeremy went on. “She was okay with Brad doing dope for a while, but then she started getting on him. She wanted Brad to quit everything—the smoking, the drinking, the drugs. He didn’t like her telling him what to do. Jess was really unhappy, and sometimes when everybody else was bombed, she’d tell me stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Kevin settled back in the chair, obviously giving Jeremy some room.

  “Personal stuff.” Jeremy frowned. “Man, what do you need that for? I told you I don’t know anything about Brad going missing.”

  Kevin sat forward. “Brad isn’t missing anymore, Jeremy. He’s lying in a freezer in the morgue. We pulled him out of the river two days ago.”

  “No way.” Jeremy turned a pale shade of gray. “Is that why you guys are here? You think I had something to do with it? I swear I didn’t. You gotta believe me.”

  “We don’t ‘gotta’ do anything, Jeremy,” Kevin said. “But I would love to eliminate you as a person who would have the means, opportunity, or intent to pull this off. Are you going to help me do that?”

  “I’ll do anything; just let me know what.”

  “Have you ever taken a polygraph test?”

  Jeremy sighed. “Once, when I was accused of stealing money from work.”

  “How did that turn out?” Mac asked.

  Jeremy shifted in his seat. “Well, I never actually finished the test. Before they were through with their questions, I admitted to taking out a loan.”

  Kevin glanced over at Mac, trying not to smile. “So, are you willing to take one again?”

  “Sure, I’ll take it right now. Hook me up.”

  “We’ll have to make arrangements for that,” Kevin said, “but we appreciate your cooperation. Tell me more about the letters to Jessica and your romantic interest in her. You were talking about sharing. She shared what, thoughts, emotions, body fluids? You tell me.”

  “I wish. We just talked. Jessica had a lot on her mind. For a while, after Brad disappeared, I tried to convince her to go out with me. She said she couldn’t be with me because it would look bad.

  She said she was going to take some time in California and then come back, or I could go south if she found a good job. But like I said, she took off and I never heard from her again—no call, no letter.” Jeremy dipped his head and examined a spot on his jeans.

  “I see.” Kevin looked at his notes, more for dramatic effect than anything else. “So tell me, Jeremy—just so I can understand correctly. You don’t know anything about Brad’s death, is that correct?”

  “I swear on a stack of—”

  “Don’t say that, please. I don’t want you regretting those words.

  A simple yes or no works fine with me.”

  “Okay, then—no.”

  “Good. Then it’s safe to say you have nothing to hide.”

  “Right.” He spread his hands. “Nothing.”

  “Good, very good. Tell me about that five-shot revolver you bought at the Expo.”

  He looked from one detective to the other, surprise registering on his features. “How’d you know about that?”

  “Those forms you fill out and the electronic fingerprint imaging scan you used when you bought the gun.”

  Jeremy grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Those records are maintained by our department, so I know what you bought and how much you paid.”

  “It’s legal, right? I don’t have any felonies on my record, so I can have a gun.”

  “Yeah, you’re okay. I just don’t want you going sideways on us. Tell us about the gun, Jeremy. Why did you buy it, and where is it now?”

  “There’s not much to tell. I bought it when I was with my dad at a gun show. He loaned me a little cash, and I’m paying him back. The gun is downstairs in my nightstand. You want me to get it?”

  “Not right now. We’ll get to that in a minute.” Kevin looked Jeremy in the eye. “So why did you buy the gun—a .357 Smith, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve been working a little security up at the mountain at night, you know, watching over some of the ski-run grooming machines. Some guys were messing with their snow cats and other equipment, so they hired me to watch the yard at night. I make a few bucks, mainly get vouchers on some food and lift tickets. It gets a little spooky out there at night, so I decided to start carrying the gun with me.”

  “Do you have a concealed weapons permit?” Kevin asked.

  “Um . . .” Jeremy winced. “No, but I should have, right? Are you going to take my gun?”

  “We’d like to take your gun and run a couple of tests on it,”

  Kevin said. “With your consent, of course. And I would be willing to forget about that permit thing if you’re willing to help us out.”

  “Sure, but wh
at kind of tests? Will it wreck the gun?”

  “No, not at all. I just want to have one of our gun experts examine the gun. You’ll have it back by week’s end if it checks out okay. Then I suggest you get that permit.”

  “Sure, okay then. Do you want it now?”

  “Mac will go with you to get it.” Kevin motioned toward Mac.

  Mac accompanied Jeremy downstairs to his living quarters and asked him to point out where the gun was stored. “Thanks, Jeremy. Now I’m going to ask you to stay right here while I get it, okay?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Mac retrieved the handgun from a bedside table and secured it before following Jeremy back upstairs. Once he was in better light, Mac opened the cylinder and extracted five hollow-point cartridges into his hand, rolling them around momentarily for his partner to see. When Kevin saw the hollow-point bullets atop the shiny aluminum casings, he raised an eyebrow. They were the same type of bullet found in their victim. The same caliber firearm.

  “Any more guns in the house?” Mac asked.

  “Lots. My dad has a gun safe in his bedroom.” Jeremy glanced toward a closed door. “He’s a big-time hunter.”

  “Could we take a look at those guns too?” Kevin asked.

  “Sorry, I guess Dad isn’t the trusting type. I don’t have the combo.”

  “Any more .357s or .38s in the safe to your knowledge, Jeremy?”

  “Dad carries a .357 Chief Special, just like mine. That’s why I bought that one. I think he has some more handguns, and he has about five rifles for different game, but I’m not sure what caliber. He won’t be back for a couple weeks, sorry.”

  “Will he be calling in while he’s gone?”

  “Probably. You’ll have to ask Donna.”

  “We’ll do that,” Mac said.

  “Will you be at this residence for a while, and can we contact you here?” Kevin asked.

  “No immediate plans, and yeah, you can call me here.”

  Kevin jotted down the phone number, telling him they would be in touch about the gun and a polygraph examination. Mac gave Jeremy a business card. After talking briefly to Donna, the detectives left the residence. Donna promised to have her husband call them if and when he contacted her.