by Doc Macomber
“We’d love to do that,” Costa said.
“You think she took your boat?” Colefield asked.
“Probably. She knew where I kept a spare key onboard.”
“Was there anyone on the island that might have wanted to harm Timmy?” Costa looked Jeb in the eye.
“Why? He was just a kid.”
“Maybe Penny’s boyfriend got jealous.” Colefield prodded. “I’ve met him. He seems capable.”
“He’s a punk. He has trouble tying his own shoelaces.”
“You sure?” Costa cut in, staring directly at the boy, then down at his nervous twitch. Jeb cupped his hand, which hid his jumpy digit. “If you’re trying to analyze why my finger shakes, I dislocated it on a camping trip. It’s still screwed up. Maybe if you lock me up, Agent Costa, I can get a cute nurse in Juvie to look at it.”
“No one is going to lock you up,” Colefield said. “We’re just trying to gather all the information we can and make sense of this tragedy. If you prefer we end it here, we can. It’s your choice.”
Jeb looked right at Colefield. “Timmy was immature, spoiled, a momma’s boy, and...”
Before he could finish, Deputy Weaver pulled open the pilot house door and reminded Colefield about the log debris ahead and the unexposed dolphins along the southern portion of the Columbia.
Colefield moved Jeb aside and regained control of the helm. Costa was staring out the cabin window at the snowcapped peak of Mount Hood in the distance and the gloomy storm clouds blowing in from the south.
“I knew there were sea lions up here, but dolphins?” Costa queried. Colefield wondered what the Admiral’s daughter was up to.
Colefield explained. “Dolphins are trunks or logs that protrude out of the water or lay right under the surface like a booby trap. By the time you see them, it’s too late.”
Jeb spoke up, with a smug look on his face. “Hey maybe Timmy got caught by a land dolphin.”
“What do you mean?” Costa asked.
“Maybe he flushed out a killer instead of a quail.”
Chapter 17
Monday morning Colefield left the houseboat later than usual. He stopped to knock on Montgomery’s door. A hand scrawled note posted there read: “Enter at Your Own Risk!”
Colefield poked his head in the door. “Bill! It’s Jason! Can I come in?”
“Up here old boy! In the Penthouse!”
Colefield stepped inside.
As usual, the place was in general chaos. He ignored the piles of trash and papers, shifted a few clothing items from the bottom of the spiral staircase and climbed to the second level. That is where Montgomery slept and stored his vast collection of military knives, sniper rifles, handguns and classic 70’s pornography. A wooden hot tub sat off the bedroom in a private bath that had a large stained-glass window with a private view of the Willamette River. In the back part of the bedroom was where Montgomery had a complete workshop for reloading ammo, cleaning guns and manifesting general mayhem. He found Montgomery sitting at his bench beside stacks of ammo boxes, shells and rifle stocks. NRA caps and shooting vests were strewn about everywhere there wasn’t a box of bullets, collectable bayonets, swords, or other war memorabilia.
Montgomery slid back on his stool and lifted his magnifying hood. “I’m about to crack your golden goose egg.”
“Great. I could use some good news.”
“We both could. You notice that the dredge work started down at the north end of the dock?”
“I did.”
“You call Ms. Sally?”
“I did. Her daughter will be in town using the loft.”
“So you’re going to share a bed?”
“No, Bill. Sally said I’m out of luck.”
“You fucked?”
“Where are your hearing aids?”
Montgomery searched his bench for the brown case, extracted a bulky ancient hearing aid and popped it in the ear closest to Colefield. “I suggest you start buttering up that bartender of yours because it’s time to fly the coop.”
“I’m renting a hotel room.”
“You’re not planning on deducting that from the rent?”
“I might. In the meantime, what’d you find out about the shotgun shell?”
Montgomery dropped his hood and slid over to his bench. “It’s a reload. Lines on the casing indicate it has been reloaded several times. And as you can see from the longer brass head, it’s referred to as a high brass. You can get a hotter powder charge using more metal. According to my criteria, what you have here is your standard BB shot, which is typical for game birds. Here’s the catch my boy, it’s not steel shot but lead. Lead is a big No–No. As you may or may not know, you cannot legally hunt game birds with lead shot on certain State and Federal refuges. These areas have what is called a Toxic Shot Restriction. Non-toxic shot must be used when hunting waterfowl. No exceptions. Either your hunter was ignorant of the law or comingled his shells by accident. All the same, you should drop the hammer on him, Bucko. He’s giving us hunters a bad rap!”
“Lead, eh?”
“Old Leadbelly himself.”
Colefield retrieved his bag of shot taken from the duck carcass at Dave and Anita’s house. “Could you take a look these pellets? I need to know – lead or steel? These are supposedly from the stepbrother’s gun.
Montgomery slid them under his microscope.
“Steel shot. Legal shot.” The news deflated Colefield, who had begun to like Jeb for the shooting.
“Scarbough Senior doesn’t strike me as a guy who would accidently comingle shells. So maybe he wasn’t hunting ducks with that gun after all?”
“Or maybe it wasn’t his gun, old boy? Maybe he found it in the field, recognized the owner and confiscated it.”
“We have it in evidence. I’ll check it out.”
“Anything else?”
“I could go on how lead is heavier, faster, and travels farther. It’s superior. Kills cleaner. Birds don’t suffer as much. Is that enough?”
“You’re the pro, you tell me.”
“Thank you. It’s important to be known for something other than drinking rum to excess.”
“What about the make of the reloader? Any luck there?”
“Oh, yes. Whoever reloaded this shell used a standard Lock-N-Load classic. A single stage press. Retails for about the cost of a quality bottle of single malt at your local retail outlet. Probably get it on-line for less. They are so simple to load a girl could use one.”
Montgomery was old school and believed as a true chauvinist that women belonged in the kitchen cooking and not in the field killing.
“Can you narrow down the manufacturer?”
“Not with any precision. Sorry. My Jarhead skills take me only so far.”
Montgomery scooped the pieces into a plastic bag, zipped it closed and turned the evidence over to him. “Good luck with this case. By the way, how’s it going?”
“It’s murky.”
“Death is tricky business.”
“It’s still cool if I use your car?”
“Consider it yours until it isn’t.”
“See you around. And thanks!”
“Out by day after tomorrow. OK?”
“That’s an affirmative.”
“Adios bravado de’ Colefield. Go forth. Be bold. Kill all the pukes!”
Chapter 18
The old Federal Building still housed a small division of the FBI among other federal agencies and was located downtown on Second Street. He took in the surrounding view, mostly office buildings and renovated condominiums. Just down the road was Waterfront Park, a large outdoor concert space that overlooked the Willamette River.
Colefield parked Montgomery’s beater downtown, got out and headed toward the main entrance. On the way, he pulled out his new cell phone, a purchase he made that morning. Supposedly all his old information was transferred from his old pile of parts, but he’d have to check that out later.
He checked in with the Sec
urity Desk in the lobby and took the elevator to the Ninth floor.
A narrow corridor lead toward glass doors marked with bold lettering: Federal Bureau of Investigation. Through the window he could see a conservatively clad receptionist behind a large faux maple desk looking bored. Above the door was a video camera that followed his movements. His photograph had probably popped up on some computer screen with his stats next to it. He stated his intention to the receptionist, put his hand on the door and waited to be buzzed in.
The woman told him to wait for a moment while she made a call.
Eventually, Costa appeared through a side door, wearing an equally conservative gray suit. She skipped any type of formal greeting.
“Come in,” she said, tipping her head toward the open door.
Agent’s Costa office was small and contained your usual government dull-gray desk and filing cabinets. The carpet smelled like petroleum. On the wall behind her was a fading picture of J. Edgar Hoover. The view out her window was of the back of another building.
“I’ll be a minute, Jason. I’m just finishing up.” Costa left.
He wandered about the office. He stopped at the bookshelf in the corner, removed a technical book on Forensic Science Investigation and skimmed through it before shelving it beside a stack of law books. He wandered over to the window but the lack of a view depressed him. He glanced at a few citations on the wall. None belonged to Costa. He stopped at her desk and picked up a framed photograph. This one actually had a connection to her. It was a photograph of her posing on a sandy beach somewhere in the tropics. She wore a skimpy swimsuit. Her arm was around a man Colefield assumed was her soon-to-be ex.
“Keep your hands off my stuff.” Colefield hadn’t heard her come into the office. She took the photograph back and put it down on her desk. “Have a seat.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“You know who. Now sit down.”
Why is the ex’s picture on her desk?
Colefield wanted to ask her that, but instead said: “I need for you to check on the type of pellets that were used to kill Timmy.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“The shell I took from Scarbough’s gun contained lead shot. Never used for hunting waterfowl legally. I suppose Scarbough could have used it on grouse on his private land. But that’s pushing it … since the majority of the island’s federally protected. Clay targets, yes. Birds, very unlikely.”
Costa perked up. “I’d love to tie him to the shooting.” She picked up the phone, then hesitated, flashing steely eyes. “I didn’t notice that a shell had been logged into evidence last week...”
Colefield shrugged it off. “I’ll have to ask Bart about that. Probably just a paperwork glitch.”
“You never did like doing things by the book. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Costa dialed. He waited until she hung up.
“We’ll have results by tomorrow morning.”
“It would have taken me three weeks to get a result. Nice to have FBI credentials.”
Costa smirked, removed her overcoat from a rack behind her desk and put it on.
“Ready?” she said, turning to face him.
They took a different elevator to the basement which led out to a private parking garage. Costa’s sedan sat at the far end. She marched toward the car with purpose. Colefield followed close behind in the wake of her freshly washed hair. That night in the locker room it had smelled the same. It caused him to smile. Yet he didn’t feel particularly like sharing the thought.
“What’d you do last night after we got back?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Worked.”
“Why didn’t you call? We could have gone out to dinner. Or something…”
“Or something?”
Costa ignored the implication.
“Where does Timmy’s dad work again?”
“DeMarco Manufacturing in Beaverton. He’s the production manager.”
“Who called who?” Colefield asked.
“We made the notification, but he already knew.”
“But he didn’t contact the police?” Colefield was incredulous.
“He said something about how he wanted to discuss it with his wife first….”
“Unbelievable. Planning damage control?” Colefield shook his head. “That poor kid.”
“Wait. It gets better,” Costa continued. “I finally tracked down the boy’s grandparents. We conducted an extensive interview via Skype. They claimed to be devastated by the news, but had no knowledge of who would want their grandchild dead. They stated that Anita and Dave were fine parents, but that Timmy needed a more stable environment than they could provide because of the challenges of raising Penny, who they claim had gone wild.”
“They are implicating Penny?” Colefield couldn’t believe it. “When are they going to be available for a personal interview? And I need to get inside their home as soon as possible.”
“They agreed to a search of their home, which is ongoing even as we speak. Then they asked if it was really necessary for them to return right away since it was their first vacation in a while, and with Timmy already dead, and no funeral planned, what was the harm if they finished their gambling junket with their friends?”
“Didn’t anybody in this world care about that boy besides his stepsister?” Colefield rolled his eyes.
“Speaking of which, I called dispatch. Still no sign of the girl.”
Costa drove as they headed west out of downtown and picked up Highway 26. Colefield stared up at the somber clouds forming over downtown, lost in a deep funk.
“What’s on your mind?” Costa said out of the blue.
“I was thinking about where we went wrong on the interview with Jeb yesterday. And if he knows where Penny is.”
“She’ll turn up. When I was that age, I’d take off for days at a time and wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“I remember a few of those times. I’m glad I never locked my bedroom window. Even if you did run away from a strict upbringing and military structure to experience freedom you always knew you could go home. Penny’s a wounded animal with no home or family to return to.”
Costa flipped the blinker on to change lanes. Traffic grew heavier up by the Zoo Exit. Drivers merged left and right, all at the same time, some trying to avoid large potholes in the road.
“Why exactly did Scarbough shoot you with rock salt?”
“He had it in for kids with motorcycles.”
“That’s how you remember it?” she said. “He said you were a repeated trespasser and vandal.”
“Maybe both statements are true,” Colefield admitted.
“Even with us you remember things differently.”
“What are you talking about?” Colefield turned toward Costa.
“You thought I dumped you because of college. That was never true. I broke up because you did the one thing that I couldn’t handle. You joined the Navy.” She glanced toward Colefield’s shocked face. “I had spent my whole life as a Navy brat. I didn’t want to spend the rest of it as a Navy wife.”
As Colefield’s eyes widened, a spot of sunlight broke through the clouds and rays of bending light reflected through the windshield. A shiny silver star pressed upon her forehead.
“You could have mentioned this before.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything. We both had futures that diverged.”
He thought about that for a moment. She was right.
“All I ever wanted was to do something important with my life. The FBI gave me that. It helped me grow up. Then it all just started falling apart. First the agency started downsizing and we lost some very good people. I put my job before my husband. No surprise the marriage went south.”
“We are more alike than I thought,” Colefield said. “You asked why I wasn’t married? I’ve been accused of putting my job first innumerable times.”
She was going to miss the exit. “You’ll need to get over in the other lane and take the
next right.”
“Why doesn’t this cheap piece of shit have a GPS?”
He cracked a smile but it didn’t last. “Are you going through with the divorce?”
“Funny you should ask that. After all these years, I feel like maybe we don’t get a do-over in life. Something tells me I’m too late to fix my mistakes.”
Colefield wondered if she was talking about her marriage or their relationship.
“There it is, just ahead on the right,” he called out.
The sedan turned into the parking lot of a big blue concrete building with bright yellow trim. A giant tub of butter, dropped down in the middle of an asphalt slab, semi-tractor trailers poking out from each side of the building like gills on a steelhead.
Costa pulled into a visitors parking space and turned off the motor.
She turned and faced him. “Look. I want you to let me handle this. You were once a great listener. Would you do that for me?”
“I’m not making any promises.”
“This man just lost a son. He doesn’t need a suspicious hard-ass coming down on him. I think you are too close emotionally to this case.”
“Everyone that had contact with the boy is a suspect.”
“Just let me handle it.”
Like the FBI, this facility had its own Reception area but with coffee and donuts for its guests. Colefield grabbed a cup of black coffee, dumped in a pile of sugar and fake creamer and grabbed the last glazed donut in the box. Costa skipped the snacks, spoke with the receptionist and then walked over to sit down beside Colefield. She checked her cell phone for messages.
It was a short wait. Colefield was knocking donut crumbs from his lips when an athletic looking man in his thirties wearing blue coveralls arrived in the waiting area and greeted them. The man wore a hair net and little plastic booties over his shoes. After introductions were made, he handed them each a hair net and pair of shoe covers.