by Doc Macomber
“Did you talk to the police that day?”
“Well, no. We were not with that hiking group per se.”
“But you were in the vicinity?”
“Yes.”
“Did you or any of the scouts see anything unusual that day?”
“If I had I would have reported it.”
“Let me ask you another question. Has your group ever taken a trip to the coast?”
The man made a quick course adjustment with the tiller, rolled on the throttle while he thought it over. “We make yearly trips to the coast. It’s part of our coastal sailing program. We spend three days going over techniques that have been taught in the classroom throughout the year. We touch on celestial navigation, coastal sailing, tide tables, calculate how current affects charting. We practice sea survival skills. It is a very busy and exciting time for the boys and girls. I must say, it is one of my favorite parts of the program.”
“Do you happen to remember the dates of your last coastal trip?”
“It was sometime in August, if I remember correctly. We try to coordinate it with the annual Scout Master Convention held there at the same time. Since the scout convention was cancelled this past August, we opted to sail to Beacon Rock trip instead.”
Colefield fell silent, thinking about Costa’s profile of the killer. This man fit the description. A leader, forceful, and surrounded by young boys. He didn’t seem the least bit nervous answering Colefield’s questions. Yet, he could still be hiding something.
Colefield pulled out his cell and punched in Costa’s number. After the third ring, her phone went to voice mail. He left a brief message and then hung up, stuffing his phone back inside his jacket.
“Let’s hoist the sails, shall we? Start with the main line to your left there.”
Colefield frowned. “I’ve sailed before –”
The man looked surprised. “In that case, hoist away, Deputy.”
Colefield grabbed onto the main line, held it tight and began pulling on the rope until the sail shot up. Then he hoisted the jib. Quickly, he tied off the line. When the rush of wind hit the sails, the little boat heeled, almost taking on water. Colefield clutched the side rail, steadied himself while the boat shot ahead, water gushing against the hull so close you could reach out and stick your toe in it. At one point in his life, this had all been so very exhilarating.
The other boats kept their pace upriver. Colefield’s boat started gaining ground. One by one it passed up the slower boats. The Scout Master signaled for the other sailors to allow him by. As they neared the lead boat, the red-headed boy stole the jib line away from his skinny boat mate and re-trimmed the headsail in order to gain speed.
“We’re losing them!” Colefield shouted.
“They have half the weight we do. He probably thinks we’re racing!”
As a last attempt, Colefield waved his arms to get their attention. The other boy in the boat glanced back at them. A concerned expression painted his face. He shouted at his boat mate. Then Jeb did something that Colefield would later find so calculating. He reached around and unfastened the boy’s life jacket, and before the kid knew what happened, tossed it aside.
Then, without warning, the tiny boat turned into the wind, bow first, the tiller flung hard right. The sails slackened until the boat made its full turn. The boom swung to the opposite side, and the sails filled with wind again. The sudden movement of the turn jostled Jeb’s mate and he lost balance and was unable to get out of the way of the swinging boom in time. The impact knocked the boy backwards over the rail and he plunged into the swift river.
The other boats were moving at high speeds, swerving to alter their courses when Jeb’s boat made the 180-degree turn straight into their path. Two of the boats veered to miss him, but ended up colliding, sending a second scout into the icy river. Colefield grabbed the tiller from the Scout Master and yanked it sideways, steering the boat toward the boys.
The scout without the life vest sank quickly below the surface. The boy might have been unconscious from the impact with the boom.
Suddenly, the boy’s head broke the surface. He was coughing, gagging, and spitting river water.
“I’m going in!” Colefield shouted.
He plunged into the frigid water and swam toward the drowning boy. He reached him, hooked his soggy sleeve, kicked hard, and swam backwards. The boy fought with the deputy, but was no match for Colefield’s powerful legs. Colefield dragged the boy through the water to the Scout Master’s boat, which was now hove-to in the wind, idle, and poised for a well-rehearsed recovery.
The other boats were dangerously close to running into each other. The boat with Jeb aboard zeroed in on the second kid, splashing about in his life vest. Colefield caught a glimpse of the boat about to make contact when to his surprise Jeb dropped the sails and glided to within a meter of the struggling boy. As the boat drew down, Jeb leaned over the bow, hooked the boy’s arm and pulled him aboard the swaying boat.
Colefield couldn’t believe his eyes. He reached the Scout Master’s boat. With the other man leaning out toward him they hefted the barely conscious boy’s body up inside. Exhausted, Colefield knew he couldn’t survive long in the cold water. Hypothermia would paralyze his limbs. Already the cold clawed at his arms and legs, an evil monster stronger than any man. But his weight would be too much for the Scout Master’s boat now. Staying much longer in the water was a sure death sentence. He spotted a third boat, slightly larger than the rest, with two small boys frantically waving at him.
He kicked onward. The boat slowly floated toward him.
The scouts were shaking with fear. Colefield talked them down. In a calm voice he told them each what to do.
He hefted his chest up on the stern, while the boys steadied the bow. He muscled his way aboard like a cranky seal, his boots and jeans clinging and heavy as dumbbells tied around his ankles.
Now, out of breath but safely aboard, shivering and exhausted, he sat upright and glanced back over his shoulder. “Is everyone out of the water?” he asked.
The boys nodded.
He searched the other boats, in particular for Jeb. Jeb, the brave sailor, was tending to the shivering boy he’d pulled from the water. Jeb couldn’t have counted on the second sailor falling overboard. Had he wanted to save his boat mate for show?
He reached inside his wet pocket. His hand sloshed back and forth against his cell – a soaked rock against his side now. “Either of you have a phone?”
Before the scouts could answer, the Scout Master shouted from his boat. “He’s breathing! I’ll call for an ambulance to meet us at the marina!”
“Have them dispatch the River Patrol. They’ll know what to do.”
Within minutes, the familiar aluminum patrol boat charged through the water toward them.
Chapter 22
Bart’s eyes widened in surprise as the patrol boat idled down to a throaty purr and glided alongside the sailboat. Colefield sat hunched over the bow of the small craft, his sodden clothes giving the appearance of wet concrete.
It was Weaver who spoke first. “What are you doing here, Red?”
“Working the case.” Colefield offered a pathetic frozen smile.
“How many more are there?” The experienced deputy grasped Colefield’s arm and pulled him aboard.
Colefield pointed out the two injured boys as the Scout Master’s boat approached. While he hooked the bow line, the other deputy leaned down and lifted the shivering boy from the sailboat and carried him inside the main cabin.
Bart noted the bluing skin and shallow breathing as he stripped the boy’s clothing, wrapped him in a wool blanket and moved him next to the propane heater. Bart examined the bloody cut on the boy’s forehead and applied a clean dressing to the wound while Weaver helped Colefield secure the second boat.
Jeb’s passenger was trembling and unstable on his feet but otherwise unhurt. As Colefield guided the second boy in, Weaver told the Scout Master they would handle transportation of the injured bo
ys and that an ambulance would meet them at the marina. The Scout Master looked toward the wheelhouse and then back at the scouts, unsure what to do.
Colefield emerged from the cabin, staring hard at the conflicted Scout Master. “Keep it together. We’ve got this handled.” He glanced at the scared boys bouncing on the water. “Your troops need you.”
Nodding to Colefield, the Scout Master turned and waved to the boys.
“They’ll be fine. Now follow me, sailors. There’s hot chocolate waiting for us back at the clubhouse.” And with that he hoisted his boat’s sails and began leading his flock back home.
Weaver signaled to Bart to take the helm as they moved back inside. Colefield walked up to the first boy whose eyes now hovered at half-mast. “How’re you feeling?”
“OK, I guess. What happened?”
“You took a tumble after a boom hit you in the head.” Colefield kept his voice calm.
The second boy jumped to his feet. “Red saved my life.”
Was he referring to him?
“Son, I…” And then it dawned on him that the Scarbough boy was red-headed and probably had the same nickname. “Jeb? I guess he did now, didn’t he? You were both lucky today.”
Weaver turned toward them. “You three were lucky, you mean. With the winter runoff, this river is a glacial graveyard.”
Based on the numbness creeping through Colefield’s bones, no one needed to point that out to him. “I need to change out of these wet clothes. We still carry a spare set aboard?”
Weaver nodded. “And we’ll need to debrief the boys and interview Jeb Scarbough back at the clubhouse.”
“Their parents should be present for this,” Bart chimed in.
“Our moms will be there to pick us up.” The second boy spoke up. “Except for Jeb. His grandpa gets him.”
The first boy stirred. “You’re not going to arrest Jeb, are you mister?”
“Nobody’s going to get arrested.” Colefield fingered water from his ear and concentrated on stripping off his sodden shoes. “We just have to make an official report.”
Ten minutes later, as a KGW-NEWS helicopter circled overhead, the river patrol boat pulled up to the marina and tied off. Two paramedics approached as the waiting ambulance’s lights pulsed a scarlet heartbeat on the water.
Colefield stood by as the men came aboard and performed a preliminary examination.
“We’re taking them both with us,” one of them said. “The contusion needs immediate attention. And both boys show signs of hypothermia.” The paramedic stared at the soaked clothes on the floor, then at Colefield’s wet hair and runny nose. “Deputy, I need to take a look at you as well.”
“I’m fine.” Colefield waved him off.
The paramedic raised an eyebrow.
“Look, after we complete our report, I’ll get checked out.” Colefield followed them to the ambulance where the Scout Master stood guard as the boys were loaded inside. He had recovered his persona as the man-in-charge.
“I’m meeting their parents at the hospital and I’d appreciate it if you would stay here until all the boys are picked up.” The Scout Master climbed inside the ambulance. “There’s hot cider and cocoa in the clubhouse.”
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll be sending a deputy over to the hospital to interview all of you there.” Colefield then told the boys the ride to the hospital would be a blast, winking at the driver, who gave him a thumbs-up. Colefield stepped away as the back door swung closed. Within seconds the ambulance was spitting gravel as it exited the lot, siren screaming.
Colefield rejoined Bart and Weaver. “Hobo, I’m gonna need you to head to the hospital to collect statements from the boys and Scout Master.” Colefield looked around at the excited scouts, parents and curious gawkers who were watching the activity from the sidelines. “Have you seen the Scarbough boy?”
“He went inside the clubhouse with his grandfather and a reporter,” Bart offered.
“Alone? With a reporter?” Colefield realized he hadn’t briefed his squad on his thoughts about this afternoon’s “accidents”. He turned to the milling crowd and shouted.
“OK everybody, the excitement’s over. I’m going to need all the scouts and parents to join us inside for hot cider and cocoa. To the rest of you, have a good day.”
Colefield led the way up the narrow flight of steps leading to the clubhouse as Bart brought up the rear.
The interior had a large open space with old furnishings and a nautical theme. The wood floors creaked as Colefield moved deeper inside. He made out some fresh wet footprints, leading to a separate room.
“Jeb! You in here?” Colefield shouted. “I need to go over a few things about what happened today.”
He followed the prints toward the open door of the room. Old maps and historic whaling pictures from the Northwest caught his eye along the walls. Spread out on a large round table in the center of the room was a marine chart of the Columbia River. There were pencil marks where the boys had been practicing navigation techniques.
Jeb was leaning over the map, pointing out specific spots to his grandfather and a reporter. They looked up when Colefield’s long shadow blocked the light to the map as he entered the room.
“Jeb has been telling us about how you two saved those boys on the river today.” The reporter extended his hand. “Would you mind standing together by the map for a photo?”
Colefield was beyond shocked. The last thing he expected was to be hailed as a hero with a potential psychopath.
“Please, officer. It would mean a lot to the boy, especially in light of his recent loss.” Senior Scarbough turned to the reporter. “His brother was recently found dead. Possible hunting accident.”
The reporter, sensing a bigger story, made a quick phone call to his stringer at the television affiliate.
Could he have been wrong? Colefield listened with a police officer’s ear as Jeb described trying to save his friend from yellow jackets by jerking his boat mate’s life vest away, just as the wind changed and the boom knocked him into the frigid water. It was plausible, but it looked premeditated to him. He couldn’t prove it, but he thought Jeb targeted the boy on purpose. Maybe save him to throw suspicion elsewhere? Could a boy really be that calculating? He couldn’t have anticipated the second scout falling into the river. Lucky break for Jeb – who came out of this smelling like a rose.
So while Bart made cocoa and took notes at the clubhouse, and Weaver retrieved statements from the boys and Scout Master at the hospital, Colefield smiled woodenly for the camera. The evening edition of the paper would show a large man with matted red hair in an ill-fitting shirt, with his arm around a beaming boy that could have passed for his own son.
* * *
Back at headquarters, Colefield was telling his story to the Lieutenant before he left for a luncheon meeting. His boss stepped out of his office, jacket in hand, heading for the door.
“The kid’s as slippery as a brook trout.”
“I’m late – Colefield. Fill me in later. Re-interview the boy tomorrow.”
“I’ll head back out to the island first thing.”
“Just make sure you do it by the book. Even if he is a potential suspect, he’s just a kid.”
“He’s not just a kid. He’s a dangerous, unpredictable killer.”
“All the more reason to be careful. Take one of the other deputies with you. Better yet, take Agent Costa. Bring the kid back in for questioning. If anyone pitches you shit, call Children’s Services. In the meantime, check out the Sea Scout connection.”
“If I’m right, we can place Jeb at three out of four scenes.”
“Not so fast, Colefield. Think this through before you jump to conclusions. Could have been Senior Scarbough or even Timmy. He was bullied, a loner … he might have been responsible for more than we know. This could be far more complicated than we first thought.”
“You’re now talking about multiple killers?”
“I’m just saying. Do your
homework and tie it up nice and neat. Find a connection between the kid and the girl scout.” The Lieutenant looked at his watch. “Shit. I’m late. The Mayor is uptight over the increase in our response times. Says they are substandard. He overlooks the fact that ninety percent of our ‘recoveries’ are dead as soon as they hit the water.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m just glad no one drowned today. You did all right, Colefield, saving that kid.”
“Use it for leverage with the Mayor.”
After the Lieutenant left, Colefield sat down at his desk and stared toward the river. The coastal range stood out against a leaden sky. The Interstate Bridge was lifting, stopping commuter traffic along the I-5 corridor while a barge passed under the steel beams. There was more activity across the river on the Washington side but Colefield couldn’t focus. It had been a long day and it still wasn’t over. Not for him. But it could have been over for good.
He couldn’t wrap his head around the day’s events, even though he had experienced it firsthand when Jeb had turned him into a pawn for the media. Or had he? Colefield rubbed his temple.
He played back Jeb’s earlier reminiscences about killing fish. Maybe the first strike with a club didn’t always do it, but only made the fish flop madly on the deck. How many times had the boy just missed killing the fish in order to torture it first?
Could Jeb’s killing tendencies have brought on the smile he thought he witnessed today as his boat mate plunged into the frigid river?
A cold splintering pain ran through his body, an aftershock of being subjected to the icy river. Every muscle seemed to ache; every joint throbbed, almost like the bends that he got during training as a Navy diver. He closed his eyes, took in deep breaths, and blew them out slowly.
He got up and checked his watch. He had to get moving. Because as minutes ticked by he was seriously losing his motivation.
A half hour later, he walked down to the moorage, relieved to be home, even if it was only for an hour. Maybe a cold beer and short nap would help. Then he caught sight of the enormous dredge churning at the end of his marina and it made some metaphorical sense.