by Dave Edlund
“Good,” Darnell said, his eyes again on the checks he continued to sign. “I want you to truck all of last night’s production to the Warm Springs reservation. The tribal council is expecting the donation.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “Excuse me, sir? But that’s more than seven thousand bottles. That’s a lot of product.”
“I can afford it, and it’s for a good cause.”
“But we’ve already donated more than a hundred cases to the tribal council.”
“Well, with about a third of the population living below the poverty line, I figure they could benefit from a little help. Besides, I won’t hold it against your sales targets.” Darnell knew what motivated his VP of sales. “Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “the entire output of the day shift is to be palletized for shipment to Nigeria.”
“Excuse me?” Ben said, certain he did not clearly hear this last directive.
“Nigeria. Africa. There’s a cholera outbreak there. It’s a small donation, but everything helps.”
“Okay, Mr. Price. You’re the boss.” Ben’s tone indicated it wasn’t okay, but he knew better than to press the issue. He closed the door on his way out. The operation was small by any standard, and that meant margins were always tight. The brand was gaining market share, but the competition was stiff.
Ben returned to his office and composed an email to the day-shift operations manager, but he couldn’t let go of the thought. He just didn’t understand why his boss was giving away bottled water—first to the Warm Springs tribes and now Africa. He’d never donated product before, instead staying focused on sales and margins. What could possibly be the reason for giving away so many cases of water? The company should be investing in the brand, not giving away the profits, slim as they were.
Darnell signed the last check, meticulously stacked the papers, and closed the folder. He delivered the folder to the accounting department before moving on to the Operations Manager. The door was open, and he saw the day-shift manager at the desk.
“Wendy, at the conclusion of your shift I want you to sterilize the new ultrafiltration line.”
She looked at Darnell with a confused expression. “But it just went into service last night. Those filters aren’t scheduled for cleaning for another four weeks.”
“I understand, but I’m not taking any chances that the technicians who did the installation did their job correctly. I’ve seen it before—the guys doing the work have their mind elsewhere and details get overlooked. At the end of the day, it’s my reputation and the reputation of this company that are on the line.”
“But—”
“Wendy, just humor me, okay? Shut the line down at the end of the shift and sterilize all the filter housings with bleach, along with the connecting pipes and valves. Then install new filters and flush the line thoroughly. I know it’s extra work, but I want to be certain the quality of our product is not sacrificed.”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “Okay, Mr. Price. If you say so. But the line will be shut down for at least four hours until the bleach is completely flushed.”
Chapter 7
Bend, Oregon
March 8
Deschutes County District Attorney Neal Lynch anxiously read the report from the Oregon State Police Crime Lab. It concerned fingerprints lifted at the forested crime scene just north of La Pine, apparently the site of a dog fighting ring. The case was being investigated as a triple homicide, spiced up with two assault victims. Since murder was a rarity in Deschutes Country, this case was his department’s top priority.
One of the victims, a low-life thug named Reggie White, had been tied up and severely mauled by a dog. He was hospitalized in serious condition. An ear was missing, and the side of his face was lacerated. One hand had been amputated, and several toes on both feet had also been surgically removed. The surgeons reconstructed as best as possible the vascular network in his feet, hoping to save them. Time would tell.
The DA had no pity for Mr. White. Their investigation had quickly revealed that White owned the property where the crimes had occurred, and that he orchestrated dog fighting to gain from money bet on the contests. Serves the asshole right. Lynch had two dogs of his own—well-trained and well-pampered. Animal abuse was on his top-five list of despicable crimes, and training dogs to fight to the death certainly fit the category of abusive treatment.
As a professional in the criminal justice system, he also knew that persons who abused animals were more likely to move on to violent, even homicidal, behavior toward people. Still, despite the fact that he did not have an ounce of sympathy for the victims, his duty was to investigate the case with the goal of convicting the perpetrator. That assumed law enforcement was able to find and arrest the suspect. Which was why the crime lab report he was now reading was significant.
The other survivor, an employee of Reggie White, was found by the sheriff deputies hog-tied next to the kennels. Not far away, the deputies recovered a pistol, presumed to be carried by the hog-tied victim based on fingerprints found on the weapon. But there was a second set of prints. Those prints were matched to a thumb and index finger in the database.
“Now that’s interesting,” he spoke to himself as he continued to read the report. Following a routine search of the fingerprint database, the technicians determined that the second set of prints matched prints recovered from weapons used in a brazen assault of military precision that had transpired in the Cascade Mountains not far from Bend eighteen months ago.
Lynch lower the report to his desk and stared at the far wall of his office. What are the odds of that? He read further, expecting the prints to be confirmed as from one of the captured or killed assailants from that assault. “No way,” he muttered. “How is that possible?”
Lynch picked up his desk phone and dialed a number from memory.
“State Police Crime Lab,” the voice said.
“Yeah, hi. This is DA Lynch from Bend. I’d like to speak to…” he glanced at the author of the report. “Marissa Mendoza.”
“Just a moment while I transfer your call. Her extension is 334, if we get disconnected.”
After a short wait, a pleasant feminine voice answered. “Mendoza speaking.”
“Ms. Mendoza, this is DA Lynch, Deschutes County. I just read your report on the print analysis from the triple homicide outside La Pine five days ago.”
“Oh, yeah. Just wrapped that up last night.”
“I’m interested in the thumb and index fingerprints lifted from a pistol, a Taurus Model 92—”
“What page are you referring to?” she interrupted.
“Uh, bottom of page two. You said the prints are not from the hog-tied victim and presumed carrier of the gun. Furthermore, you reported that the prints turned up in the database. They are associated with one or more persons connected to that gun battle in the Cascade Mountains.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“But the prints are not from any of the captured or deceased assailants from that incident. Did I read that right?”
“Yes, Mr. Lynch, you did.”
“So, who are the prints associated with?”
“Beats me. Could be almost anyone. All I can say with certainty is who the prints are not associated with.”
Lynch was silent, contemplating the statement.
“Mr. Lynch? You still there?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, thank you. Just thinking. So, these prints belong to someone who was at the scene of that attack in the Cascades, but not among those captured or killed.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Look, when the fingerprint was placed on the weapon is indeterminable. But, off the record, fingerprints on something that is handled and manipulated aggressively, like a firearm, don’t last long. We got a bunch of clean, crisp prints from an unknown person from one of the weapons recovered at the Cascade Mountain crime scene eighteen months ago. My hunch is that person escaped the scene and has not resurfaced.”
“Until now,” Lynch muttered.
“Sorry?”
“Uh, nothing. Thank you, Ms. Mendoza.”
s
Lynch carried the folder with the crime lab report and drove the short distance to the Bend Police Station. He showed his ID at the window and asked to speak with Detective Ruth Colson. He was buzzed through the security door and a uniformed officer led him to a conference room where he was joined by the detective. He quickly brought her up to speed, pointing out the key portions of the report regarding the fingerprint evidence.
“I understand you were the lead investigator for the Bend PD on that case, the gunfight near Broken Top.”
“Yeah,” she said with a frown. “That was the oddest case of my career. The newspaper ran a headline calling it “The Battle at Broken Top.” The name seems to have stuck. I was involved only because the case began and ended here in Bend, but the dramatic shootout that you’re referring to in the Cascade Mountains is obviously outside of Bend jurisdiction. The state police and the Deschutes county sheriff ran that part of the operation.”
“That makes sense,” Lynch said. “I’ll reach out to those agencies, but I wanted to speak with you first. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I did a little research on the case before I came over. You know it happened before I was elected DA.” Lynch had been in office for only a few months.
Colson nodded.
“It seems a Bend resident was at the center of the entire affair.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Peter Savage. He got wrapped up in some sort of security issue with the Feds. At one point, he handed me a memory stick that he claimed had important information relative to the case, but before I could look at it, the Feds—”
“FBI, right?”
“That’s right, FBI. They demanded that I turn it over to them.”
“And you did?”
“I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. Anyway, a week or two later, a local reporter for the Bend Bulletin published an exposé about the real events involving an attack on the USS Liberty by Israeli military in 1967. Citing unnamed sources, the reporter presented evidence that the government had been covering up an act of treason by then-President Johnson and his Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara. She won a Pulitzer for her reporting. I’ve always suspected Peter Savage was her source.”
“But if that information was on the memory stick that Mr. Savage gave to you, how did the reporter get it?”
“Heck if I know,” Colson replied with a shrug. “Maybe he had a copy.”
Lynch nodded. “Before the ordeal was over, Savage and a woman were kidnapped and later rescued from a location in eastern Oregon, correct?”
“Yes,” Colson said. “I was there when they were rescued, although they’d done a damned good job of defending themselves. If you ask me, they didn’t need our help.”
“And the woman?” Lynch pressed. “Nadya Wheeler?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. I can check my notes and official report if you like.”
He shook his head. “That’s not necessary. Just want to make sure I’m tracking with you.”
“Anyway, Ms. Wheeler and Mr. Savage were brought back to Bend along with the man behind the crime spree, a Mr. Claude Duss. We were to meet right here in this conference room the next day, only Ms. Wheeler never showed. The FBI issued a warrant for her arrest, but to my knowledge she has never been apprehended. Duss pled out of federal charges in exchange for information. We pressed charges and, as you know, your predecessor successfully prosecuted Duss on several felonies. He’ll be in prison for a long time.”
“Thank you,” Lynch said. “That’s consistent with what I gleaned from the report before coming over here. But I’m interested in the woman, Nadya Wheeler. In particular, I want to know why her fingerprints showed up on a pistol recovered from a crime scene outside La Pine five days ago.”
Colson shrugged. “Can’t help you with that one. As I said, she never showed for our meeting. You might want to ask the Feds. If anyone knows where she is, it would be them.”
“Don’t suppose you’d have a photo?”
“No reason to. Like I said, she was a victim when we first came in contact, not a suspect.”
“Okay. Well, I guess that does it. Thanks for your help. This is one strange case.”
Colson chuckled. “Get used to it. There is nothing ordinary when it comes to events involving Peter Savage and his associates.”
Chapter 8
Warm Springs, Oregon
March 14
Peter was sitting behind the wheel of the Rolls Royce Wraith, a beautiful and sleek two-door sedan—a gift from the Sultan of Brunei as a token of his appreciation for Peter’s efforts to protect the life of his niece not long ago. Although at first Peter had refused the automobile, the sultan was most persistent.
As the two-lane highway dropped from the high desert plateau down toward the Deschutes River, Mount Jefferson, still capped in snow, loomed ahead. The perfectly symmetrical volcanic peak dominated the skyline. Cliffs of igneous rock, the color of dark chocolate, loomed two hundred feet above the fast-flowing water. Above the cliffs, steep, grass-covered slopes were just beginning to green. Juniper trees dotted the sparse landscape.
The hour-long drive from Bend to the Warm Springs Reservation had passed quickly; Peter’s thoughts were preoccupied with why a tribal council member had contacted him and insisted on a face-to-face meeting.
He glanced at the GPS map shown on the in-dash display and signaled to turn right at the approaching intersection. A quarter mile ahead was his destination. He slowed the car to a stop in front of an old ranch-style house.
Paint was peeling from the trim, and the weathered and worn asphalt shingles cladding the roof were definitely at the end of their useful life. Around the spacious yard were rusted cars and pickups, all in various stages of disassembly. There was no landscaping to speak of, just a natural scattering of native rabbit brush and sage.
There was nothing exceptional about the house. The city of Warm Springs did not boast any high-end neighborhoods. There were no mini-mansions set back on well-manicured yards. If anything was remarkable about the community, it was the high unemployment rate and low standard of living, two facts which made Peter self-conscious of driving his luxury automobile to his appointment. He knew the Wraith cost more than most families in Warm Springs would earn in a decade, maybe two.
As he got out, he was greeted by a large man with raven-black hair braided in a ponytail that extended to the middle of his back. He was wearing worn blue jeans and a long-sleeve, salmon-colored western-style shirt beneath a leather vest. Around his neck was a black braided-leather bolo tie, adorned with a brown-and-black obsidian arrowhead. His tanned and weathered face hinted at his years.
The man said, “Nice car. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Rolls Royce on the reservation before.”
Peter extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Peter Savage.”
“Lee Moses. I’m the Paiute chief and member of the tribal council.”
They walked inside and sat at the wooden kitchen table. It was also old and worn, in keeping with the house. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Lee said.
“I have to admit, you have piqued my curiosity. Your request sounded important.”
Lee nodded. “Coffee?”
Peter shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Well, Mr. Savage—”
“Please. Call me Peter.”
“Okay, Peter. I’ll get right to the point, the reason I contacted you. I know you’ve volunteered your time teaching our school children about science, and your donations have been used to purchase computers for the high school. Our teachers are so used to making do with worn textbooks and a lack of supplies, that many thought I was joking when I announced your gift. You’re a hero to them.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t care about our young people.” Lee shifted in his
chair. “I’ve also read about you in the newspaper. Seems you have a habit of getting into trouble.”
Peter smiled at the understatement. Truth be told, his life seemed to be marked by one harrowing adventure after another. He didn’t seek out trouble, but invariably trouble found him. “I suppose I’d have to agree with you,” he said.
“And yet you always seem to be on the side of truth and honor.”
“I hope so. Those aren’t just words. They’re ideals that are very important to me. Call it my code of conduct, my moral compass.”
“I know,” Lee replied. “You know, we Indians have learned not to trust the white man. It’s not just a cliché. Of course, there are exceptions. But the history of relations is marked by lies, deceit, even murder. In the beginning, my ancestors signed treaties with the settlers, gave up our land in exchange for promises of peace. It was never long before the treaties were broken because the settlers wanted more land. The United States Army, in an act of biological warfare, even gave blankets infected with smallpox to Native Americans. The suffering was indescribable. Many died—mostly women, children, and our elders.
“Eventually, my people were pushed onto reservations—those that weren’t slaughtered by the army. On the reservation, the Bureau of Indian Affairs was supposed to look after our natural resources. But being as the BIA is part of the United States federal government, they did not care about being fair to my people, and we were cheated out of hundreds of millions of dollars in timber and mineral wealth.”
“I regret the way the indigenous tribes have been treated,” Peter said. “It was wrong, a tremendous injustice that Washington has not adequately acknowledged, or apologized for.”
“Believe me when I say that an apology is not what my people want. But I want you to understand why trust in the government is still lacking.”
“Certainly. And I do understand. But what does this have to do with me?”
“Exactly what I said. I think you are a man of truth and honor. A man who can be trusted. And my people need your help.”