Bone Maker: Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 1

by D. F. Bailey

  She rested her chin in the palm of one hand and nodded. “No surprise, really.”

  “Jesus.” Finch glanced away. “What about the two bullets you found?”

  “What bullets?”

  Again Finch turned his eyes away. He stared at the Columbia River passing under the long bridge. So, we’re back to playing games with one another. Finch held up a hand, cop-style, bringing a line of traffic to a halt. “Sorry, Jennie, but with every second step forward I feel as though I have to negotiate the ground rules with you.”

  She took a sip of her coffee and sat back with arms folded. “Why? I was the one who called you about the bear. And let you sit in on the necropsy. Do you think I always do that?”

  He studied her a moment. “Look, I have a story to write. And you’re probing a case that we both know isn’t exactly what it seems.”

  “So what is it, exactly?” She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. A self-assured look came over her face.

  “I’m talking about those two slugs you found in the bear,” he said with a gasp of exasperation. “Look, forget about all that for now. What matters more is that you’re obviously afraid of something. Maybe you’re afraid of over-stepping your bounds. Maybe it’s your boss. Who do you report to anyway?”

  “Officially, Oregon’s chief medical examiner. But in a town this size … practically speaking? Gruman.” She rolled her lips together and looked away.

  “And you already had a little tug-of-war with him over the disposition of Toeplitz’s car.”

  She nodded as if, with some patient prodding, she could add more details, but then Manfred Dilkes appeared at the restaurant door, strode over to the table and sat opposite Finch.

  “Hi there.” His face bore an expression of enormous self-satisfaction.

  “Hello.” Now that he’d been forced away from talking about the slugs discovered in the bear’s gut, Finch could barely acknowledge the intern.

  “You know, the video technology we use is state-of-the-art.” Bemused, Manfred grinned at Finch. “I had a chance to forward the necropsy video clip of your double-pirouette to my classmates at Oregon Health and Science. I think it’s going to be a hit.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, the dean emailed me back to say it’s already going viral on You Tube.”

  “Are you serious?” Finch’s voice rose a notch. This was exactly the sort of thing that could destroy his credibility on the story. “Really?”

  “No.” Manfred nodded yes, but was saying, no. A smile stretched across his face.

  “Which is it? Yes or no?”

  Jennie laughed and put her coffee mug aside. “Lighten up, Finch. Just because we live in the backwoods doesn’t mean we drink the local moonshine.” She waved to the waitress and mouthed the words, “Check please.”

  When she saw the look of dread lingering in Will’s face she added, “It’s a joke.”

  “Sorry. Just kidding,” Manfred said in an apologetic voice. “Had you there!”

  Finch tried to laugh. “All right, let’s move on.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Donnel Smeardon stood behind the shrubs bordering the cemetery on Miller Lane and waited for Sheriff Gruman to kill the squad car engine. The vehicle was standard issue, a Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, black-and-white with a gold badge emblazoned on the front doors. When the engine switched off, Donnel could sense the world shrinking around him. That afternoon a thick fog had rolled in from the Pacific and he felt a chill crossing his shoulders. A shiver flushed through his spine.

  The darkness and fog provided a screen and at this time of night he figured the chance of anyone spotting him as he climbed into Gruman’s car was close to zero. He wished he still had the iPhone. Then he could secretly record the conversation he was about to have with the sheriff. His insurance policy. He’d recorded every word Gruman had spoken when he’d busted Donnel last weekend, and if the cop ever threatened him, he’d replay their conversation on CNN. Another Anderson Cooper scoop. It’d be enough to put Gruman away for a long time. He was sure of that. Certain of it. All the more reason to get the phone back from Ben Argyle.

  He stepped onto the road and tapped on the passenger windshield. It lowered a few inches and he tipped his head toward the opening. When he couldn’t make out anyone at the wheel he whispered in a shallow voice. “Sheriff?”

  “Open the door and sit yourself inside.”

  Donnel pressed his lips together as he opened the door and sat on the passenger seat. He could smell tobacco, years of it oozing from the upholstery.

  “Close the door, Donnel,” Gruman said and pointed a thumb to the roof. “Even the ghosts can see you sitting here when the dome light’s on.”

  He shut the door and settled in the chair. You’re here now, he told himself. Best to keep this ride as short as possible.

  “Good to see you, Donnel-o.” Mark Gruman pulled a Lucky Strike from the pack in his pocket and fit it to his lips. He pushed in the dashboard lighter and squared his shoulders to the boy. “You asked, I answered. Now, tell me why I’m here.”

  “It’s about the stuff you borrowed from me last weekend, Sheriff.” Donnel stole a glance around the car. It appeared much the same as it looked last time he sat here, minutes after being busted by Gruman in the park outside Suomi Hall. He’d been forced to unload a dozen one-ounce baggies of marijuana from his backpack. And forced to surrender Ben Argyle’s gun. His only victory, a small one, lay in the five baggies he’d hidden in his pants. Gruman hadn’t demanded a strip search. At least he wasn’t a pervert. That alone suggested to Donnel that he could possibly trust Gruman. Maybe.

  “Borrowed?” The sheriff laughed at this and shook his head with a look of surprise. He pressed the dash lighter to the tip of his cigarette. “Now what exactly do you think I borrowed from you? Certainly not that stash of hybrid marijuana that you illegally acquired from Jackie Spitzer.”

  Donnel’s head dropped a notch toward his chest. “Did he talk to you?”

  “Talk to me?” Gruman let out a grunt of disbelief. “Donnel, look at me.” He waited until the boy’s eyes swept past his face and then added, “I said, look at me.” Donnel’s eyes wobbled and then held. “Now tell me who I am.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and glanced away.

  With his free hand Gruman reached across the car and turned Donnel’s chin towards him. The gesture was gentle, almost tender. “Donnel, tell me, what am I?”

  “You’re … ” he sputtered, “ … you’re Astoria’s sheriff.”

  Gruman released the boy’s head and smiled. “Wrong. I’m Astoria’s fucking sheriff.” He drew on his cigarette. The ember glowed at the center of the darkness surrounding them. “You know, last fall I was re-elected for a fifth term in this county. Won by the biggest electoral margin in eighty-eight years. Not that anyone pays attention to details like that. But what’s important about those numbers, Donnel, is the trust it conveys from the county to me. The respect the citizens have. The assurance that I will maintain our safety and security. That we can all sleep at night. That girls can walk unmolested. That we’re free of pedophiles. And drugs.” He paused, took another long drag on his Lucky. “And therefore it’s incumbent upon me to talk to every thief, pimp and dope dealer from here to Tillamook. People like Jackie. People like you.” He smiled again and felt the warmth of his power. He knew his reach was limited, but within his county — and certainly within this car — it was absolute. “So tell me, Donnel, what exactly is it that you think I borrowed from you.”

  Donnel moistened his lips. He felt his guts slipping open, his heart thudding in his throat. All sense of control began to slip from him. “The Glock,” he said finally. “The nine-millimeter pistol. I need it back.”

  This was promising. Last time, Gruman couldn’t squeeze any information about the semi-automatic pistol from the boy. He’d been too cocky, too sure that he had some inalienable rights that would shield him from divulging who owned the Glock. That was fine. Gr
uman knew the pistol was stolen and therefore valuable to someone. And he was certain that this nugget of information would slip into his hands sometime soon. Most likely within the next ten minutes. “Give it back? Then who would you give it back to?”

  Donnel nodded unsteadily. “Can’t say.”

  “Donnel. Look at me again.” He took a final drag from his Lucky and squashed the butt in the ashtray. Once he had Donnel’s attention he exhaled a dense cloud of smoke. “Now I want you to remember what I’ve done for you. Let’s face the facts. You’ve already been booked, printed and sent to juvenile detention for two months. Just six months ago, am I right?” He paused to observe Donnel nod his head. “And just recently I relieved you of criminal possession of a narcotic substance. Enough, I might add, to make a criminal rap for intent to traffic.” He held up a finger and then another. “Next, I relieved you of a stolen weapon.” A third finger rose in the stale air. “While it may still happen, so far I’ve reserved my decision to notify the local courts of any charges against you.” A fourth finger now stood with the others. “And I am speaking civilly to you right now. Instead of cuffing you, I am saving your fucking brown ass from the jailhouse plaything it will become if I present you to a judge and jury. Now do you understand what I have done for you?”

  Donnel squeezed his abdominal muscles and prayed that he would not shit. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “As you well know, I knew your father. We spent weeks fishing together.” He shook his head dismissively. “I am trying to save you. Don’t you get that?”

  Donnel felt the world collapsing around him. His father dead. Mother gone to who-knows-where. “I know.”

  “All right, let’s try one final time: Who owns the Glock?”

  “Ben Argyle’s dad.” The words spilled out of him in one breath. He could barely believe the sense of relief flooding through him. It felt so powerful that he quickly added. “But I never used that gun. I only had it for show in case Jackie Spitzer put up a fight. I never fired it once.”

  Argyle? Gruman lifted a hand to his mouth and considered the possibilities. A trump card. Argyle, for Christ sakes.

  “I swear I did not fire that gun at nobody, Sheriff.” Donnel shuddered. A tear began to slip down his cheek.

  Gruman felt a tinge of elation rise through his veins. He had so many options. With the journalist probing into things, now he could make a few bluffs. Throw some straw into the wind and let Will Finch fly after it. “All right. I believe you, Donnel. Still, there’s a price you’ve got to pay.”

  Donnel felt his chest tighten again. “A price?”

  “Nothing to worry about.” Gruman rested his fingers on the steering wheel. “You ever seen my boat out on the water?”

  “The Gold Coaster?”

  Gruman nodded.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

  “I’ve got four prawn traps waiting for me just south of Clatsop Spit. I could use a hand pulling them up.” As he smiled, his lips thinned and pulled tight over his yellow teeth. “Are you up for a two-hour run out in the salt chuck?”

  ※

  The Gold Coaster was a lobster boat, a flat-decked working boat with the wheelhouse set in the bow and a retro-fitted diesel engine that enabled Gruman to cruise the Pacific coast for almost two days without refueling. Everyone in the office had laughed when they saw the “prize” that their sheriff had purchased at auction for six thousand dollars. Despite the sheriff’s bluster and boast, to everyone else The Gold Coaster appeared to be a clunker. Built back in Maine, it was worn, old, noisy, awkward, slow. But a thorough inspection proved that it had been properly maintained. A back-to-the-grain paint job restored the finish, and with a new diesel engine Gruman knew the boat would swim like a fish. Besides, he’d learned a lot about lobster boats the one summer he spent in Bangor with his uncle aboard The Skillet. Together they’d ridden out the tail end of an early season hurricane that took down six other boats. “A lobster boat, Mark,” Uncle Frank had told him as they pulled into the Bangor harbor. “You can’t even push ’em under the water.”

  Gruman led their way onto the wharf and down the third finger to his boat. He pointed a narrow-beam LED flashlight straight ahead as he slipped quietly along the rubber deck pads. He’d instructed Donnel Smeardon to keep his mouth shut until the boat cleared the harbor. “In this fog,” he’d told him, “sound carries right into the center of town.”

  The boat swayed and dipped as Donnel’s feet left the wharf and landed on deck. “Never been on a boat before,” he whispered. “I didn’t think they wobbled so bad.”

  “Just set your feet wide apart and you’ll steady out.” Gruman tossed his satchel into the wheelhouse and started the ignition. While the engine began to warm he unknotted the ties from their stays and pulled all the lines aboard. Then he led Donnel into the wheelhouse, closed the door and pointed to the bench seat on the starboard. “Just sit there. Your work doesn’t start until we reach the prawn traps. Depending on the tide, it could be an hour.” He turned on the GPS and radar navigation screens and lit another Lucky Strike while he waited for the GPS to acquire its satellites. When they had a fix, he shut the overhead light, pushed the choke down to a low idle and listened to the engine’s baritone hum. When everything was operational he lit a propane spot-heater and rubbed his hands above the corona of heat that it cast into the air.

  “Everything ready?” Donnel’s voice betrayed some doubt. He could see two or three boats on both sides of The Gold Coaster, but beyond that, everything slid into the mist. How could anyone navigate their way out of the harbor in this fog, let alone down river and out to Clatsop Spit?

  “Just enjoy the ride, Donnel.” He flicked on the night lights, set the transmission in reverse and eased out of the slip. When he skirted the edge of the jetty, he pulled the wheel hard to the right, popped the engine into low gear and set them on a course to the entrance of the wharf, the engine whispering a bass melody now, pushing them forward a mere knot or two faster than the current.

  After they’d cleared the marina, the boat eased into the slow westward flow of the Columbia River. At this point the current was modified by the tidal action of the Pacific, and now that the tide was ebbing, it dragged the boat forward at a good clip.

  “Have you any idea why I’ve got you out here with me, Donnel?” Gruman asked as he glanced back at the bridge.

  The boy turned toward Gruman, studied the green and blue shadows cast onto his face by the GPS and radar screens. “I thought it was for the prawns.”

  “Partly.” He stood at the wheel and gazed into the mist ahead of the boat. “But it’s also to give you a sense of living beyond the foster home you’re in. Among other things.” He frowned and thought about the care homes he’d seen over the years. “By the way, who’s your foster mom?”

  “Jill Hudson.”

  “Jill.” He nodded. He’d known Jill from tenth grade. On grad night Scoop Bensen had knocked her up, then she disappeared for some years and suddenly materialized on the arm of Jeremy Stent, a fisherman who went missing in a storm five years ago. The Coast Guard dragged his swamped seiner was into Astoria, all hands lost at sea. By then Jill had three more kids in tow and decided to use the foster program as a built-in meal-helper for her own brood. “Well, she’ll keep you warm and fed,” he said and looked to the boy.

  Donnel shook his head and stared at the ship’s clock on the wall. Five-twenty. He felt like he was back in juvie. Life was all about flopping from bed to sofa to dining hall chairs — and staring at the clock. And now this: slave labor for the local sheriff. He decided to wait out the rest of the night in silence, pull Gruman’s fucking prawns on board and after that, see what what he could do to recover the Glock.

  “And she’s a looker,” Gruman continued, with the image of Jill in mind. “You know, she’s always had that bundle of red hair.” When he saw Donnel look away he kicked up the throttle and pushed the boat toward the ocean. The fog seemed to be thinning and with luck, they’d discover it
was just an onshore system that they’d clear when they passed the mouth of the river into the sea.

  Gruman considered Donnel’s silence as a form of defiance. Fine. So be it. Just makes the end-game that much easier to play. Still, obviously the boy had lessons to learn and Gruman was in a teaching mood.

  “You know I’ve seen a lot of people go through this life without ever living it.” He let this idea sit a moment and then continued. “People doing jobs they hate, marrying women they soon can’t abide, raising their kids like strangers. When they see it in themselves, this disaffection, it can become a drowning pool. They start numbing themselves with booze and drugs. Internet porn. Just one long sequence of mindless diversions.” He looked at Donnel. “You know what I mean?”

  Donnel flexed his shoulders. He decided it might be smarter to play along. “Yeah. I’ve seen it.”

  Gruman nodded. “Maybe in your own family. Maybe in yourself, right?”

  “What the fuck?” Donnel shot him a look of despair. “I don’t know, man. Shit, I’m just trying to get by.”

  “I know.” He felt a small spark of sympathy and quickly snuffled it out. “You know the years I spent in the military, they marked the beginning of my life. Desert Storm. The concentration of awareness you acquire. The intensity of life flowing second by second in your veins. That moment when the man next to you disappears in a vapor of blood mist.” He paused and cocked his head. “Oh yeah, I’ve seen it. And lived it.”

  Donnel held a hand over his mouth. For a moment he thought Gruman had lost his mind. “How long until we get to the prawn traps?”

  Gruman shrugged. “ ’nother ten minutes.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “I got four buoys. We pull them up one at a time, empty the prawn traps into the catch bin, re-bait them, slip them overboard. Job done.”

  “Then we head back, right?”

  Gruman considered this. He didn’t want to lie to the boy. He wanted to face this with honesty, not deception. “Soon as we’re done, I’ll be turning The Gold Coaster straight back to Astoria. Just in time for breakfast.”