Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  The deputy returned to his swivel seat at the lunch counter and stared down at the plate of cold steak and eggs. It looked as sad and distasteful as he now felt inside. He felt his shoulders slouching low. He was disappointed with himself. His exciting day of police work had come to a dead end. The sheriff is going to be angry, thought Sparky, real angry.Oh well, he’d deal with that when the time came; he had to take care of priorities.

  “Ellen,” Sparky called out, holding up his cold dinner plate. “Could you please pop this into the microwave for me now?”

  Twenty-Five

  Ontario (Oregon)

  Most people are familiar with Lake Ontario or the Canadian Province of Ontario, but far fewer know about the small city in eastern Oregon by the same name. It seems the name Ontario may originally have been derived from an Iroquoian Indian name meaning “sparkling water” or “beautiful water.” In the case of the sparkling waters of Lake Ontario, the appropriateness of this name is obvious. In the case of Ontario, Oregon, perhaps it is not so.

  Ontario, Oregon, sits along the Snake River, and it turns out that in 1883 a real estate developer by the name of James Virtue thought the location would be a perfect place to begin a town. It wasn’t a totally random choice. A stop for a railroad was planned for that part of the state, and seeing the potential economic benefit of the new railroad, Mr. Virtue and some other developers got together and essentially created the town on pure speculation. Its location on the Snake River, where certainly the water was sparking and beautiful, may have been a factor in determining the name of their new town, but even more importantly, no doubt, was the fact that James Virtue was from Ontario—Canada.

  Very close to the town of Ontario, Oregon, and running nearly parallel to Interstate 84 that runs through the town, are the remnants of the old Oregon Trail. This is the famous trail that brought hundreds of thousands of frontier settlers out west to claim new lands in the name of “Manifest Destiny.” The Oregon Trail really experienced its beginning and boom years in the 1840s—about the same time that John Audubon officially recognized the existence of Sturnella neglecta. Lesser students of history often confuse the Oregon Trail with the much more rugged and further to the north trail taken by Lewis and Clark some 40 years before the Oregon Trail got started. It was on that famous trip they had first spotted the Western Meadowlark, before the bird was ‘neglected’ for four decades. It is also a fact that the countryside around Ontario, Oregon, enjoys some of the densest populations of that species of bird anywhere in North America. The intricacy by which history is woven together is not unlike a finely made quilt of infinite color and variety.

  The historical significance of the countryside Agent Westmore was traveling through was of no importance to him. Bleary-eyed, he exited the highway into the small town of Ontario, Oregon. He was tired and hungry. A history lesson was the last thing he could possibly care about. He pulled into the town just after sunset, got a room in a budget motel near the highway exit, and then proceeded to unload his single small suitcase from the trunk, the cooler from the backseat, and his briefcase filled with Matthew Duncan’s case history documents from the front passenger seat.

  Across the street from the motel was a fast-food restaurant that caught the agent’s attention as he was unloading his car. Once he was settled in his room, he walked over to pick up dinner and then returned to his room to eat. He stripped down to his T-shirt and briefs but kept his dark socks on as he stretched out on the motel bed. On one side of him, he had his open briefcase full of read and unread documents, and on the other side, his bag of fast food. Slung over the back of the chair next to the bed was his deadly, effective, and powerful Glock 21 pistol in its black leather holster.

  The hamburger had way too much ketchup on it for the agent’s liking, so he scraped some of it off onto the foil wrapper, placed the flat and doughy top bun back on, and took a bite.

  This kind of food is gonna kill me someday.

  He took another bite and a sip of the pure liquid-sugar soft drink from the super-large-sized cup he had propped between the pillows.

  But, what a way to die!

  Over the years, Agent Westmore had tried on several occasions to eat healthier—especially when he was traveling—which was almost always. Each time, however, the convenience of fast food, his confessed addiction to it, and his self-acknowledged personal laziness prevented any long-term success at holding to a better diet.

  Someday, I’ll quit eating this crap…but not today. Yum!

  Agent Westmore took another bite of the rapidly diminishing hamburger and picked up the next document in the stack. A bit of tangy mustard had squeezed out of the hamburger, and he licked it from his lower lip as he began reading:

  Edgewood Police Department

  Detective’s Case Report

  Case #020086044

  Detective: Vernon Mitchell

  Suspect Name: Matthew William Duncan

  Current residence: Unknown—he had been stationed as a ranger at Mount Rainier National Park (U.S. Forest Service employee)

  Current status: Being held in Edgewood Municipal Jail, awaiting arraignment

  Charges: Criminal trespass, Manslaughter

  Case History: Prisoner was admitted to Edgewood Medical Center after sustaining a head injury while performing his duties as a ranger at Mount Rainier National Park. After being treated for his head wound, he was sent to the Psychiatric Unit at the hospital for further evaluations and observations.

  During the evening of his second day at the hospital, the prisoner was found by Nurse Dora Watson in the room of the deceased, Mr. Dominic Montoya. Mr. Montoya was being treated in the Critical Care Unit on an entirely separate wing of the hospital. In reviewing the security systems and procedures at the hospital, it appears the suspect would have to have the specific intent to evade these security measures in order to make it from his room to that of Mr. Montoya’s. In a statement given by Mr. Duncan, he did not deny entering Mr. Montoya’s room. Mr. Montoya passed away a few hours after Mr. Duncan’s visit to him.

  In a statement given by Mr. Montoya’s physician, Dr. David Spears, he claims that though seriously wounded with multiple puncture wounds to the chest caused by what is believed to have been a knife, the patient’s condition had stabilized and was improving before being visited by Mr. Duncan. Based on Dr. Spears’ medical opinion, it is the contention of the hospital that Mr. Duncan’s visit to Mr. Montoya resulted directly or indirectly in Mr. Montoya’s death. Though according to the testimony of Ms. Watson, it doesn’t appear that Mr. Duncan actually touched or interfered directly with any of the medical equipment in Mr. Montoya’s room, Ms. Watson states that Mr. Montoya was extremely agitated and upset after Mr. Duncan’s visit, and he began to grow progressively worse almost immediately after the visit and died approximately 3 hours later.

  Criminal History: Background checks on state and federal databases show no prior criminal history for Matthew Duncan.

  Security considerations: As mentioned, the prisoner was a patient in the Psychiatric Unit at Edgewood Medical Center. After review, I would rate the security of that particular unit as moderate, and overall I would rate the security systems Mr. Duncan would have had to evade to get from his room to Mr. Montoya’s room as high. Having displayed the ability to evade these security measures, though the suspect does not appear to be violent or a physical threat, he does seem to be cunning enough to evade tight security measures, and I would recommend he be held under heightened security, pending arraignment and throughout his trial. Further attempts to escape should be considered as likely.

  Agent Westmore stared at the last sentence in the case detective’s report. “You got that right, my friend,” he said to himself as he put the report with the others on the stack of completed ones, grabbed a handful of fries, stuffed them into his mouth, and picked up the next report. It read:

  Edgewood Municipal Court

  Public Defender’s Case Notes

  Case #020086044


  Attorney: Jenna Yates

  Defendant: Matthew William Duncan

  Sex: Male

  Case Summary: During his arraignment, the defendant entered a split plea of guilty to the charge of trespassing and not guilty to the charge of manslaughter. I was assigned to the case after the defendant stated to the court that he did not intend to hire a lawyer to defend him. The trial date has been set for December.

  In meeting with the defendant, while at times his word choices are unusual, and certain statements are confusing, in general, he seems very intelligent and fully understands the serious nature of the charges against him. He is fully convinced of his innocence of the charge of manslaughter.

  Complete psychological examinations have been performed by the court psychologist as well as by an independent psychologist agreed upon by the prosecuting attorney and myself. Their separate judgments determined that Mr. Duncan is not suffering from any type of classifiable mental illness. Each found him to be completely lucid, suffering no breaks with reality as defined by standard psychological tests. Most importantly, they each found him fit to stand trial under the laws of the State of Washington. The strongest statement either one of the psychologists offered was that Mr. Duncan “appeared slightly confused or unclear” about what actually happened when he visited Mr. Montoya.

  Mr. Duncan has stated more than once that he strongly feels Mr. Montoya’s death was merely “delayed” so he could be given the choice of whether or not he wanted to “change his life.” This conviction, though odd, is not in itself reason to exempt Mr. Duncan from the trial process, nor do I feel it indicates any necessary or provable connection between Mr. Montoya’s death and my client’s visit to his room a few hours prior.

  Background investigations have revealed an unusual occurrence involving the deceased while he was in emergency surgery. Those same investigations also revealed that the defendant was nearby, receiving treatment during that episode. I suspect the prosecuting attorney’s strategy will no doubt be to prove that Mr. Duncan had overheard the staff talking about the event while he was being treated, and that he used that information to fabricate his story about being responsible for the deceased’s so-called “miracle recovery” while in surgery.

  Other investigations have also revealed that Mr. Montoya had a long history of gang activity, several prior convictions, and one charge of second-degree murder, of which the jury failed to find him guilty. Police records indicate a gang-related incident led to the deceased’s admittance to the hospital for multiple stab wounds.

  While it is unclear how Mr. Duncan acquired any of the background information related to the deceased, if indeed that is what he is referring to when talking about the deceased “changing his life,” it seems that information is irrelevant to the essential facts of this case.

  The defendant has repeatedly made known to me his intention to take the witness stand in his own defense. I have tried unsuccessfully to discourage him from this action, submitting to him that he is presumed innocent, and he might not help his case by taking the stand. I have still not given up on my attempts to dissuade him from this action.

  My general strategy in this case shall rest on raising reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind as to the reliability of the medical models for what actually caused Mr. Montoya’s death. I have some degree of confidence that I can raise doubt in the minds of jurors; however, Mr. Duncan’s potential personal testimony on the witness stand is a huge and unknown wild card, as the prosecuting attorney would undoubtedly try to use that testimony to tear apart my client’s credibility.

  Agent Westmore set the report aside on the bed and took a deep breath. He needed something. Something was missing for him. He had an empty and incomplete feeling, though his brain wouldn’t let his heart look beyond his stomach for that missing something. He smacked his lips.

  A chocolate milkshake!

  He slipped a pair of sandals on over his black socks, put on some shorts, and, out of habit, strapped his Glock 21 pistol in its holster under his left armpit. He left his motel room to cross the darkened and quiet Ontario, Oregon, street. Like a moth to a porch light, the glowing and happy neon of the fast-food restaurant drew the agent onward in his quest for a chocolate milkshake.

  He stepped into the restaurant and looked around. It was empty, except for a small huddle of teenagers sitting at a booth. The agent stepped up to the counter and ordered his milkshake.

  “Sorry,” said a thin teenaged boy with glasses, standing behind the counter. He quickly eyed the agent’s pistol in its holster. “We’re…uh…all out of chocolate tonight. We’ve got vanilla, I…I think…” He turned around to look at the milkshake machine and then back to the agent. “Yep, we’ve got vanilla.”

  The agent shook his head. “I really want a chocolate milkshake. That’s all I want. How can you be out of chocolate?”

  The young man nervously eyed the pistol again and said in a somewhat squeaky voice, “Well, I…suppose I could check with my manager to…see if we have some chocolate back in storage, but…it’s gonna take a while to thaw out.”

  “No, that’s okay,” said the agent. “Just give me a vanilla shake.”

  “Uh…what size?”

  “Large is fine.”

  As the attendant turned and walked over to the milkshake machine, Agent Westmore glanced toward the group of teens. The biggest of them was wearing an obnoxious orange jumpsuit; it was hideous. It reminded the agent of the kind of suit that an auto mechanic would wear on a very bad day if all his other ones were greasy and dirty, or if he were colorblind. This one though, while a bit dirty, was not greasy.

  Something on that orange jumpsuit didn’t register in the agent’s mind at first, but then he noticed it and looked more closely. In black marker, written on a plain white label above the breast pocket, was the name—not a full name, but the name!

  The label read M. Duncan. It was followed by the number 15-56983. He looked at the label and then up at the teenager wearing the jumpsuit. Impossible! The kid was at least ten or so years too young.

  “Two fourteen,” said a voice from behind him.

  He turned around. The attendant was looking at him, and a vanilla shake was on the counter. The agent reached into his back pocket for his wallet. My wallet! Mechanically, and knowing even before his hand reached down that the wallet wouldn’t be there, he felt his other pocket and then the front pockets of his shorts. He pulled out his motel room key, but nothing more.

  “Shit,” said the agent to the expressionless attendant. “I left my wallet in my room across the street!”

  “You can go get it,” he replied. “I’ll wait.”

  The agent stared at the young man and then turned and looked at the table of teens. They appeared to be getting ready to leave at any moment. The teen wearing the orange jumpsuit glanced up at Agent Westmore and then back to his friends as they all started whispering and glancing in his direction.

  “Never mind,” said Agent Westmore, turning only part of the way back toward the shake on the counter and the attendant who was still watching him.

  He started walking toward the table of teens, but the attendant stopped him. “Here, take it,” he said, “for free. I’ll just throw it out anyway.”

  Agent Westmore smiled and picked up the vanilla shake. “Great…thanks,” he said, distracted by the teens.

  He then turned and moved over toward the table of teens—toward the orange jumpsuit. He took a sip of the shake. I hate vanilla. Why did I order this?

  The buzz at the table stopped and all heads turned to look at him.

  “Hey guys,” he said, “mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Eight suspicious eyes met his with silence, glancing constantly at the Glock 21 pistol in its black holster. He knew they were staring at the weapon. He liked these late-night displays of his authority in awkward backward towns he’d likely never pass through again. It made up for all the awkward teen years he’d been just like them—too big to be a kid but too
young to be treated as a full adult.

  The stare-down lasted a few moments, but finally the kid in the orange jumpsuit spoke up. “What kind of questions?” he asked.

  “Well, actually, I was wondering where you got that jumpsuit. It’s a pretty nice piece of attire….”

  “What, you don’t like it?”

  “Oh no, I do. I noticed it right away when I walked in. It’s like a big orange sign. What’s not to like? I’m just wondering where you got it.”

  “My dad,” he said without blinking.

  The other teens at the table snickered.

  “Your last name is Duncan then?” asked the agent before the snickering had completely died out.

  “Nope,” said orange jumpsuit. “That’s my dad’s name.”

  More snickers.

  The agent took a sip of the shake. Ugh! I hate vanilla! He didn’t let the teens see how much he hated it. “So is your dad’s first or last name Duncan?” asked the agent.

  Orange jumpsuit looked down at the name badge by the pocket, turning his head slightly to read it and taking a few seconds to study it. He looked back up at the agent. “His last name is one five dash five six nine eight three.”

  The loudest snickers of all and then some outright laughs broke out.

  After the laughter died out a bit, the agent leaned over and rested his hands on the table, still holding the vanilla shake in one of them. The Glock 21 in its holster fell forward to rest against the back of his arm. He stared right into orange jumpsuit’s eyes.

  “Listen carefully to me,” the agent said with a quiet but intense tone. “My name is Agent Westmore. I’m from the Washington State Bureau of Investigation. I’m here on official police business. What you’re wearing right there is the uniform worn by an inmate from one of my state’s prisons. I don’t know how you got it, but I am certain it wasn’t from your father. You can either tell me everything you know about how you got it, or I will haul your ass down to the local police station, and they’ll lock you up until you tell me. This is not a joke, and if you mistakenly think it is…just try me.”