No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  Twenty minutes later, I saw a couple of deputies creeping around in the trees at the periphery of the clearing, carrying semiautomatic rifles. I sent this text—

  I see your men getting into position. No sign of either brother outside or any activity inside. You’re good to go.

  I tensed and waited… Another fifteen minutes elapsed before two squad cars pulled up next to the Ford in front of the house. Rice and three deputies got out and stood behind the cars. Amplified by a microphone, Rice’s voice boomed out, “This is the Coos County Sheriff’s Office. All occupants of this house are requested to immediately come out with their hands behind their heads.” He waited. No response. He repeated the request. He waited some more.

  At that point, I saw movement at the back of the house and focused in. Darnell burst out the back door, carrying a rifle, and started sprinting toward the tree line. Two deputies, one on either side of him, stepped from behind trees and ordered him to stop. He swung his rifle around in the direction of one of the men, and I heard the report of a gunshot. Both deputies opened up on him in response, the multiple shots reverberating up the hillside.

  It was over in a heartbeat. They cut Darnell down.

  “No, goddamn it,” I screamed from my lonely perch. “I need him alive!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  I worked my way down the steep slope through the trees—careful to make sure I didn’t get shot like Darnell—and when I reached the clearing had enough signal to call Claire. Darnell’s body had already been covered, and there was no sign of Robert or the white Honda on the premises. “It looks like Robert’s in the wind, so get your butt over here,” I said after I told her what had just gone down. “Wait for me on the highway at the entrance. There’s a deputy posted out there, I’m sure.”

  Rice was talking to the deputies who’d shot Darnell, and when he saw me, he patted them both on the shoulder and came over and pumped my hand. “Thanks for the help, Cal. You’re quite the cowboy.”

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t sure they were here and didn’t want to waste your time. I, uh, saw the shooting. It was righteous. Darnell fired first.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said. He glanced over at the shooters. “Tim and Henry will be glad to hear they have a witness. These things can get gnarly. I’ll need a full statement.”

  “Of course.”

  He eyed me with curiosity. “How did you find this place, anyway?”

  “My daughter, Claire, found it with the help of a North Bend librarian. This property belongs to the brothers’ great-aunt on their mother’s side. We took a flier, thinking they might be here.”

  He pushed his bottom lip out and nodded. “Impressive work. It’s a damn shame we killed him.”

  I shook my head and scowled. “Your guys had no choice. Who knew Darnell was going to react like that? Take Robert alive, whatever you do. He’s in a white Honda Civic. He can’t be far.”

  “What year?” Rice asked. I said I didn’t know and waited while he called the information in. He gestured toward the Peterbilt truck. “Is that the rig that knocked you in the Umpqua?”

  “Looks like it.” We walked over to it, and I examined the steel bumper, pointing to a smear of paint. “That’s the exact color of my old Beemer, metallic gold. They didn’t even bother to remove it. Then again, those two aren’t exactly shining lights of criminal intellect.”

  Rice chuckled. “Douglas County’s going to be interested in the truck.”

  I looked at him and cracked a smile. “I hope there’s something here for all of us.”

  Rice went on, “I’ll apprise them. They’ll probably bump your case from a hit-and-run to attempted murder now.” He withdrew two sets of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and handed me a pair. “We’ve cleared the house and barn, and I figure I owe you a look-see.”

  We gloved up, and I followed him to the barn first. Stuffed with rusting, cobwebbed farm implements and tools, the poorly lit interior reeked of chemicals and mildew. Once my eyes adjusted, I pointed to a roll of small-diameter steel cable sitting on a work bench next to a scattering of tools, including a large pair of heavy-duty cable cutters. “I’ll bet that’s the wire they used to tie up Howard Coleman.”

  Rice said, “That was an early clue that Sloat trucking might be involved, right?”

  I had to smile. “I was just spit-balling then. I happened to see a roll of similar cable when I was snooping around in their shop. It was just a hunch. You know how that goes.”

  He pointed at the cable cutters. “Those can leave a distinctive mark on the material they cut. I have the cable they used on Coleman. We might be able to prove where it came from.”

  At the other end of the bench, I spotted a couple of fly rod cases and a tackle box. While Rice poked around, I walked over to the fishing gear. The tackle box was open, and a handsome metal case containing a primo collection of steelhead flies sat right on top, the lid open. I eased the lid closed so I could read the name embossed on it—Howard Coleman.

  I called Rice over and showed him. “They didn’t just tie him up and throw him into the river, they stole his flies,” he said, then added with a deadpan expression, “That’s a worse crime than murder around here.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Let’s take a quick walk through the house before the forensic team and the ME get here. I’m going to be busy once they arrive.” He grimaced. “Then there’s the fatal shooting—as the officer in charge, I’ve got a shitload of paperwork and reviews to do for that.”

  The dust-layered front room of the house looked like a mausoleum decorated by a centenarian spinster. The only three rooms that appeared lived-in were two bedrooms upstairs and the kitchen, which had a collection of beer and hard liquor bottles on every flat surface and a rank, garbage smell from a stack of dishes in the sink. Rice stopped at the cluttered kitchen table and pointed at a cell phone resting between a plate with dried egg on it and a half full coffee cup. “Didn’t see that the first time through. Must be Darnell’s.” He picked it up gingerly, selected “recents,” and squinted at the screen. “Yep, he called out at 10:03. That’s right after we arrived. He probably warned his brother to stay away before he bolted out the back.”

  Our quick walk-through revealed plenty of evidence of wrongdoing, but nothing that caught my eye vis-à-vis the Sonny Jenson murder or Max Sloat. Not that I was expecting anything obvious. We found over fifty one-kilo packages of white powder that Rice said looked like pharmacy grade fentanyl, stashed in a bedroom closet along with a suitcase full of cash we didn’t bother to count. The other bedroom contained a laptop and a cache of weapons and ammunition, including a half dozen handguns of various sizes and shapes and two Colt AR-15s with large capacity magazines. A third AR-15 lay outside next to Darnell’s dead body.

  “Some arsenal,” Rice remarked.

  “What every sportsman needs,” I said.

  Rice hooked a pen through the trigger guard of one of the handguns, lifted it up, and smelled it. “This puppy fires a twenty-two round like the one your friend took in the shoulder,” he said, “and it smells like it’s been fired recently. We’ve got the slug they took out of him.”

  I nodded. “Don’t bet against it being a match.”

  We went back outside, and Rice had me give a detailed statement on a portable recording device. Afterward, he looked me in the eye and said, “I owe you, Cal. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you in the loop. If we find anything that pertains to Max Sloat and Sonny Jenson’s murder, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I wanted to ask why he wouldn’t tell his boss first but thought better of it. I shook his extended hand. “I appreciate that, Chet. Kenny could use a break.” I took a couple of steps, looked back, and said with a smile, “Remember, take Robert alive.”

  I started off down the dirt driveway just as an ambulance, an unmarked black sedan, and a panel truck passed by, marking the arrival of th
e medical examiner and the forensic technicians. A quarter mile later, Archie saw me first and almost knocked me over with an airborne greeting, and once I regained my balance Claire grabbed me in a bear hug. “Oh, Dad, I’m so glad to see you.”

  I patted my dog on the head and smiled at my daughter. “It’s mutual, sweetheart. I’m tired and hungry. Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  “So, they’ve got evidence now to charge our boys on Howard Coleman’s murder, our hit-and-run, Nando’s shooting, and drug trafficking,” Claire said as we headed back toward Coos Bay. “That’s quite a crime spree.”

  “Well, they won’t be charging Darnell with anything now, but Robert’s in the crosshairs. There’s a lot to this thing, but Rice’s a good cop. I think he’ll piece it all together.”

  “What about Sonny’s murder?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Either we get a break and Rice finds something at the house, linking them to Max and the murder, or he gets Robert to talk once he’s caught.”

  “Robert’s brother is dead now. Why would he admit to anything about Sonny’s murder?”

  I shrugged. “He doesn’t have a lot to lose. Coleman’s murder alone could get him the death penalty. Maybe his older brother did the actual killings. It’s hard to say how he’ll react once he lawyers up. One thing about lawyers, they like to make deals.”

  “What if they don’t catch him?”

  “They will. He probably went out to buy beer. How far could he get?”

  We drove along the winding Millicoma in silence for a while. The river’s color mimicked the sky in the bright, midday sun. After calling Sissy Anderson and leaving her a message to get in touch, Claire released a long breath and crossed her arms across her chest in that familiar pose of hers. “Maybe I should feel encouraged right now, but to be honest I don’t. We’ve solved every damn crime but the one that counts, Dad. And the truth is, we don’t have any leverage. Rice and Stoddard have it all.”

  I couldn’t disagree. “Keep the faith,” I said as much to myself as to my daughter. “We’re not done yet.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  We stopped for clam chowder and fish and chips at a little joint on Highway 101, then swung by the hospital to check in on Nando and bring him up to date. We arrived at his room just as Sissy Anderson was leaving. “I just dropped by to wish him well,” she said, showing a somewhat embarrassed smile. “Brought him some cookies.”

  We exchanged greetings, and Claire asked Sissy not to leave, announcing we had important news. I began describing what happened that morning at the Gunderson property, and when I finished recounting how we’d discovered the Barton brothers’ hiding place and the shooting of Darnell Barton, Sissy sucked a sharp breath and started to cry. Claire enveloped her in a hug.

  “Sorry,” she said, moving free of my daughter, looking at each of us in turn, and forcing a bitter smile. “I don’t know why I’m crying. These aren’t tears for that bastard.”

  “It’s okay to let some emotion out,” Claire told her.

  Nando filled the awkward silence that followed. “The younger brother, Robert?”

  “He wasn’t there,” I answered. “Chet Rice promised to call me when they pick him up.” I went on to describe the evidence that was immediately apparent in the barn and house. At the mention of the fly case with Howard Coleman’s name on it, Nando—who enjoyed playing devil’s advocate—pointed out that Howard could have lent his fishing flies to the brothers.

  Claire said, “He has a point. We learned yesterday that they fished together on the Millicoma just a month earlier.”

  Sissy laughed with disdain. “Howard would never loan his steelhead flies to anyone, let alone those two idiots. Sure, he fished with them, but he didn’t respect them.”

  “Well,” I said, “judging from what I saw, Rice will find plenty of evidence against them. They’re sloppy and he’s a thorough detective.” I went on to describe the money and weapons, leaving the suspected dope for last. “There was also a large amount of narcotics in the house. Rice thought it was high grade fentanyl.” I looked at Sissy. “You could get drawn into this investigation in a hurry. If they bring you in for questioning, I’d advise you to get an attorney.”

  “You?” Sissy asked.

  “No. I’ve got all kinds of potential conflicts.” I dug Mimi Yoshida’s card out of my wallet and handed it to her. “If they bring you in, call her. She’s the attorney Howard was going to see before he was killed.”

  Sissy took the card and blew a breath in disgust. “Howard didn’t say anything about fentanyl. I know that shit’s bad news. He told me they were just dealin’ a little black market weed. I—”

  I put up my hand. “Don’t tell us anything you’re not willing to tell the sheriff, Sissy,” I warned. “We can be questioned as well.”

  “Okay,” Sissy said, looking chastised. “But I don’t know hardly anything about the drug dealing.”

  “Good,” I said. “The less you know the better.”

  Nando changed the subject. “We now know the brothers own a logging truck. This will presumably lead Rice and the Douglas County investigators back to Sloat Trucking.” I nodded, and he continued. “Aside from Howard Coleman’s tally sheet, which is circumstantial at best, this could be the first direct evidence linking the brothers to Maxine Sloat.”

  “True,” I said. “I’m hopeful they’ll find more direct evidence at the house. There was a cell phone in the kitchen and a laptop sitting in one of the bedrooms. I’d love to get my hands on both of them.”

  “Sounds like nothing has changed,” Sissy said, curling her lip in disgust. “Evidence? Some things you just know, and I know Howard and my dog would still be alive if that woman hadn’t ordered those two lowlifes to kill them.” She swung a pointed finger around to include us all. “And she nearly succeeded in killing all three of you.” Her eyes burned bright with a kind of manic quality. “She won’t get away with this.”

  Claire said, “We’re as frustrated as you are, Sissy, but we’re getting close now.”

  I said, “Look, Sissy, this is an investigation, and we don’t have any direct evidence that Max Sloat ordered anything at this point. You’ve got to trust the process.”

  Sissy glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get to work.” Emotion distorted her face, and she teared up again. “I’m sorry. I know you have your hearts in this.” With that, she turned and left.

  Claire frowned and shook her head. “Wow. Getting one of Coleman’s killers off the board didn’t move the needle much for her, did it?”

  I nodded agreement, and Nando said, “She has the thing about Maxine Sloat, and Sissy Anderson is a woman to be reckoned with.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Claire and I left Nando’s hospital room that day on a down note. When I asked if the feeling in his left hand and fingers was coming back, he said, “Not yet.”

  Concern gathered in Claire’s face. “What are the doctors saying?”

  He shrugged his right shoulder. “Nerve recovery can be slow, that it is too early to tell. I am not concerned, though.” He flashed his broadest smile, but traces of worry around his eyes gave him away. Nando was a handsome man who carried himself with the physical grace of a bull fighter. Having a useless left arm would be a devastating blow for anyone, but most especially for my friend. I cringed at the thought, and judging by the expression on Claire’s face, she had the same reaction.

  We left without letting on, hoping for the best.

  When we got back to the beach house, I found a letter in the mailbox addressed to me from the Department of Corrections. The letter was short and decidedly unsweet, confirming that Kenny Sanders’ request to be transferred to the state prison in Pendleton was denied. The letter stated that, as Kenny related, the Security Management Team at the Salem facility made a determination that the threat
was no longer extant, and in view of this, the DOC Director had denied the request. The response was no surprise. Aside from the fact that lifers were seldom granted the luxury of a transfer, validation of the threat by the SMT would be tantamount to an admission that the prison couldn’t protect one of its own.

  Claire went out on the deck with Archie to watch the sun boil into the Pacific. I sat hunched over my computer at the kitchen table and began researching the case law for prison transfers in Oregon. After two hours I had a petition roughed out to the Honorable Donald Armstrong of the Marion County Circuit Court in Salem requesting a court order to halt the reintroduction of Kenny into the general population at the prison, pending a hearing on the merits. The refusal to grant the transfer, I argued, was an abridgment of Kenny’s Eighth Amendment right to protection from cruel and unusual punishment and to his right to humane facilities and conditions, two inalienable entitlements of every prison inmate. To my surprise, I found and cited the case of a man who was beaten to death in his cell at the Snake River facility. An artist, he refused to do tattoos for a white supremacist gang. He was temporarily removed from the prison but forced to return, despite his plea to be transferred. Prevent the state of Oregon from making another tragic mistake, I implored the judge.

  * * *

  “The request for a hearing on the transfer’s done,” I told Rori in a phone conversation after dinner that night. “I’ll send it registered mail tomorrow. I think we have a good chance of prevailing.” I didn’t mention the killing at Snake River, figuring that would only upset her. I went on to describe the scene at the Gunderson property, and we discussed the ins and outs of that situation.

  “You and Claire must be exhausted, Cal,” she told me as we wrapped up. “I hope you know how much Kenny and I appreciate all you’re doing.” I told her we did, and she said, “I had a visit from Walter today. It was, ah, interesting. He mentioned a meeting you had with him a couple of days ago. I think his visit resulted from that. He wanted me to know he had nothing to do with Sonny Jenson’s murder.”