Red Hatchet Falls

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  A baby, a little over a year old, stood, hanging onto the side of her crib, crying and hiccupping. Her round face was red and streaked with snot and tears. Fine tufts of yellow hair stuck to her cheeks like corn silk. Even her sheet and blanket were soaked with urine.

  The moment Radhauser lifted her from the crib, she quit crying—like a switch had been turned off. He wanted to hand her over to McBride so he could question the boy who sat on a twin bed on the other side of the small room. “You ever changed a diaper, McBride?”

  “No, sir. My sister lived in Montana when my nephew was a baby.”

  “Maybe it’s time you learned.”

  “I’ll give it a try, sir. How hard can it be?”

  He set the baby on her changing table and began unsnapping her soggy pajamas. “Step right up, I’ll give you a lesson. In this job, we do what we have to when it needs to be done.”

  McBride smiled and stepped closer to the changing table. “I’m eager to learn, sir.”

  Radhauser released the adhesive tabs holding the diaper in place.

  McBride gagged and stepped away. “I’m sorry, boss, but from the smell of that one, I’m not sure we wouldn’t have a bigger mess to clean up if I made the effort.”

  Before Lucas was born, he couldn’t imagine changing a diaper either. “You’re such a lightweight. See if you can find some clothes for the boy.” Radhauser had the baby cleaned up, diapered, powdered and smelling better in no time.

  While McBride rummaged through the dresser drawers, looking for his clothes, the boy, who appeared to be about four or five, stood and held his splayed hands in front of his wet Spiderman pajama bottoms.

  Radhauser set the baby, wearing only a disposable diaper, on the floor. He gave her a pacifier attached to a stuffed monkey and then moved slowly toward the boy. "It's okay. We're the police and we're here to help you. My name is Winston Radhauser, but my friends call me Wind. What's your name?"

  The boy didn't respond. He kept backing up until he hit the wall. A two-inch long, deep and scabbed-over scratch marred his left cheek along with a dark bruise under his eye. "I want my mom.”

  Radhauser was grateful he didn’t have to tell the boy his mother was dead. He’d leave that to the social workers. “She’s not here right now.”

  “Is she in trouble?" His blue eyes were round and filled with fear. “Did someone tell you…about the…” He stopped and started again. “Did my mom go to jail?” He pushed at his eyes with his fisted hands.

  “Of course not,” Radhauser said. “Why would your mom go to jail?”

  The boy appeared to relax a little as his gaze scanned Radhauser's boots, his western cut jeans and blazer, then landed on the belt buckle he always wore in memory of his first son. Lucas, along with Radhauser's first wife, had been killed by a drunk driver headed south in the northbound lane of the Interstate. It happened more than a decade ago, but the memory could still kick Radhauser in the gut.

  “Are you a real cowboy?”

  “Well, that depends on how you define real. What do you think makes a real cowboy?”

  “A man who wears a cowboy hat like that.” He pointed to Radhauser’s gray Stetson, a Christmas gift from his wife. “And he rides horses and shoots the bad guys.”

  Radhauser chuckled. “Sometimes I do ride horses. And I almost always wear my cowboy hat. But so far, I haven’t shot many bad guys. How about you tell me your name and we’ll see about some breakfast? It looks like my partner found some dry clothes for you.”

  The boy stared at him for a moment, as if trying to determine if he should answer. “My real name is Sherman Lee Parsons, but everyone calls me Junior.” He cocked his head and looked at the floor. “I had to pee and I couldn’t make the door open. I’m a big boy now and my mom’s gonna be really, really mad, but it wasn’t my fault. Would you tell her, please?”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t your fault if the door wouldn’t open. What happened to your eye? Did you get in a fight with one of those bad guys? Maybe a bank robber?”

  Junior laughed. “No, my…I think I…I mean…I probably fell down at the playground.”

  Radhauser’s sensors went on high alert. “Were you in Lithia Park at the playground yesterday?”

  “No. It was some other day.”

  “Are you so smart you can tell me how many days ago it was? Was it two?”

  Junior used his fingers, pushing each one forward into his palm as he counted it. “No. Four days ago. But I’m on punishment now. No cartoons. No going to the park for two whole weeks.”

  A hurricane of questions battered Radhauser’s brain. Had someone hit this kid in the face? If his father had killed his mother, would he leave his children locked in a bedroom until noon? What was Junior so afraid of? And why did he think his mother had been taken to jail?

  “So, you’re on punishment, huh? That’s rough. What did you do?”

  “I…I wanted…My dad said…I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’m hungry.” Junior didn’t say, Daddy hit me in the face, but the words seemed to hang in the air as if they had been said.

  “Does your dad get angry?”

  Junior scratched the side of his ear and then studied the end of his index finger. “Sometimes,” he whispered. “Mostly at my mom. They yell a lot.”

  Were these children victims of abuse? Was this bedroom now their jail cell? Is that why the door was locked from the outside? “Have you and your sister ever been locked in your room before?”

  He shrugged and glanced at the door. "I know where Mom keeps the cereal. I can make my breakfast."

  "We'll find you something to eat, okay? As soon as you're dressed." Radhauser grabbed the underwear, shorts, and T-shirt McBride held and handed them to Junior. "What's your little sister's name?"

  "Jill." He laughed. "But Dad and me call her Jill the pill." Junior snatched up the clothes and ducked into the closet. When he came out a moment later, his shirt was on backward and inside out. "I need to find my mom." He headed for the door on skinny little legs covered with bruises in various shades of purple, blue and yellow.

  McBride stopped him and pulled the shirt up over his head, turned it right side out and put it back on. “That should be more comfortable. Your mom isn’t home right now, Junior, but we’ll take good care of you until someone gets here to help.”

  The little boy cocked his head and stared hard at McBride. “Did Daddy kill my mom?”

  Radhauser sucked in a sharp breath, then gently placed his hands on Junior's shoulders and turned him so they were facing each other. Could this boy's father have murdered his mother and then locked his children in their room? He crouched down to eye level like he always did when talking to a child. "Has your daddy ever hurt your mommy?'

  Junior lowered his gaze and stared at his untied, blue and white striped sneakers. “Sometimes,” he whispered. “Mommy says booze makes him into a meanie.”

  While McBride tied Junior’s shoes, Radhauser found another pair of footed pajamas, redressed the baby, and handed her to McBride. “See if you can round up something for them to eat. I want to ask Junior about the bolt and that prayer room.”

  After McBride headed into the kitchen with Jill, Radhauser lifted the boy and pointed out the lock installed at the top of his bedroom door. “Was that there when your mom put you to bed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you hear any strange sounds last night outside your door? Like someone using a drill? It makes a loud buzzing sound.”

  “I know. I seen my dad use one before. But I didn’t hear nothin’. Mom says I sleep like dead people.” He balled his hands and pounded them against his chest. “I’m Zombie Boy.”

  The irony in what the little boy said didn’t escape Radhauser as he headed down the hall to the prayer room. Did the murderer know the boy was such a sound sleeper? “I want to ask you one more question and then we’ll find some food, okay?”

  He nodded.

  They stood in the doorway to the small room with the Islamic
symbol on the wall, Radhauser still holding Junior. “Can you tell me about this room?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a police officer and I’m trying to find your mom and dad. Knowing about this room might help me find them.”

  The boy narrowed his eyes and stared at Radhauser as if trying to determine whether or not to trust him. “Me and Jill aren’t allowed in there. It’s Mommy’s special room.”

  “Does your dad ever go inside this room?”

  “Nope. He hates it.”

  “What does Mommy use it for?”

  His blue eyes widened. “Maybe something bad. She always closes the door, but I can hear her make funny noises.”

  “Has Mommy’s room always been like this?”

  “Nope. It used to be Jill the pill’s room, but now she has to sleep with me. I hate it. She always wrecks my towers and stuff.”

  "I know. My daughter has a baby brother and he makes her mad a lot, too." Radhauser set Junior back on the floor and nudged him towards the kitchen, diverting his attention away from the sheet they'd hung over the dining room entrance. Did Marsha install the bolt after the kids were asleep? But why would she do that? Could it have been installed by her murderer to protect the children?

  Radhauser would lay odds it was the latter. Did he or she want to prevent the kids from seeing their dead mother? Or was it from fear they might interrupt the act of mutilating the victim?

  He led Junior into the kitchen where McBride had strapped the baby into her highchair. She found her sippy cup in the sink, rinsed it out and filled it with orange juice, then dumped a mound of Cheerios on the tray.

  While checking the freezer, Radhauser found a container of frozen blueberries and added a handful to Jill’s tray. He poured a bowl of Captain Crunch for Junior.

  McBride got a carton of milk from the refrigerator and handed it to Radhauser.

  He gave her a friendly punch on the arm. “At least you’re good for something.”

  She clubbed him on the shoulder and whispered, “There’s a bunch of white uniforms and aprons in the laundry room. Might explain the bloody one I found in the hamper. They’re way too big for our victim. I’d say Sherman Parsons probably works in a kitchen somewhere. Maybe as a chef.”

  Radhauser pulled out a chair and sat across from Junior. “Let’s play a game. I’ll ask some questions and if you can answer them, I’ll give you ice cream for dessert.” He’d already spotted a half-gallon of chocolate in the freezer.

  Junior gave him an incredulous look. "We don't get dessert for breakfast."

  “Well, we cowboys often eat chocolate ice cream for breakfast,” Radhauser said, though it was already past noon. “Are you ready for the questions?”

  He nodded.

  “What are the names of your mom and dad?”

  “Easy, peasy. Mom is Marsha. My dad is Sherman, like me, but nobody calls him Junior.”

  Outside the raised kitchen window, a neighbor cut his grass. The noise and smell, ones Radhauser always associated with childhood, drifted into the room. “Do you know where your dad works?”

  “In Medford. At Costco. He’s the man who cuts up the meat.”

  At the sound of her quick intake of breath, his gaze met McBride’s. “So, your dad is a butcher?”

  Through a mouth full of Captain Crunch, Junior said, “I guess so.”

  That would probably account for the bloody apron McBride had found in the hamper. “Does he work on Saturdays?”

  "I don't know. Mom made pisghetti and meatballs, but he didn't come home last night. I could tell she was real mad ‘cause she was a meanie and made us go to bed right after dinner. It wasn't even dark outside," he said, righteous indignation in his voice.

  “So, what happened to your face?”

  Junior's gaze darted around the kitchen as if searching for someone. "I already told you, I…probably…fell down at the park."

  “I’m not sure that’s the right answer.”

  “I don’t wanna play this game anymore.”

  “Ah, come on. You like ice cream, don’t you?”

  “Okay.” He held up his index finger. “Only one more question and then I get ice cream, okay?”

  “Do you have any idea where your dad goes when he doesn’t come home for dinner?”

  McBride cocked her head and gave him a look that said he’s just a little boy, how would he know something like that? But Radhauser had kids and he understood they always knew one hell of a sight more than their parents thought they did.

  “While me and Jill was eating the pisghetti, Mom talked on the phone to her friend, Daria. I heard Mom say he was probably at some bar.” Junior pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose, thoroughly disgusted. “One time, Mom and me went inside to get him. Peanut shells were all over the place and they made a cracking noise when you walked. It was gross. And nobody cleaned them up. Mommy hates that place.”

  Radhauser had a pretty good idea what bar Junior was talking about—the Nut House Bar and Grill on Main Street. And maybe he’d been wrong about the bolt. If Marsha planned to go out in search of her errant husband, she might have installed it to keep her children safe in their room. But wouldn’t she have unlocked it when she returned? Maybe the killer didn’t give her a chance. But that didn’t make sense either. She was dressed in her nightgown and it looked as if her bed had been slept in. Had the murderer set up the tarp and chair in the dining room while Marsha was asleep?

  “Do you know Daria’s last name?”

  Junior shook his head. “Nope. And you said only one question and then I get ice cream.”

  Radhauser opened the freezer, grabbed the ice cream and dished up a bowl for Junior and a small one for Jill. He found a tiny spoon in the dish drainer and handed it and the smaller bowl to McBride. “You’ll have to feed her. Play ‘here comes the airplane’. Babies like that.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  "I'm going to have a look around the rest of the house. Keep them occupied until the social service workers get here."

  “That I can do, too, sir. I’ve got some cuffs out in the car.”

  He gave her a thumbs up. With any luck, this could turn out to be the easiest and fastest murder case Radhauser had ever investigated. Easy peasy.

  A butcher pissed off at his wife for dragging him out of his favorite bar, locks his two kids in their bedroom, cuts off his wife's hand, then leaves her to bleed to death while he drinks and tosses peanut shells on the floor.

  He reminded himself he wasn’t the kind of detective who believed in luck. Why would Sherman Parsons take his wife’s hand to Lithia Park playground and bury it in last year’s leaves, exposing only the ring he’d had custom made for Mother’s Day?

  Chapter Six

  Radhauser stepped aside as Heron pushed the gurney through the front door and parked it just outside the entrance to the dining room. After the two children were packed up and taken into the custody of Services for Family and Children, the sheet covering the doorway was removed.

  Heron gave Radhauser a brisk nod. “From the microscopic examination of the tissue on the hand, I’m fairly certain it was cut off between ten and midnight last night. Let’s see what her body has to say about it.”

  Radhauser lifted the crime scene tape and ushered the ME underneath.

  Heron spent about fifteen silent minutes pondering the victim and her surroundings.

  In the meantime, two men from his forensics team printed the doorknobs into and out of the garage and kitchen, along with the doorknob and bolt on the kids’ bedroom. They scoured the house and grounds for any evidence McBride and Radhauser may have failed to identify.

  Heron’s gaze settled on the huge puddle of blood on the tarp for a moment, then shifted to the body. “I’m so sorry someone did this terrible thing to you,” he finally said.

  After forensics dusted the duct tape for prints and found nothing, Heron gently released Marsha Parsons’ left arm and ankles, as if he feared he might further injure her
. He lifted each limb and tried to straighten her neck. “From the extent of your rigor, I’d say your hand told an accurate story. Your death probably occurred somewhere between ten and midnight. I wish we’d found you sooner.”

  Radhauser remained silent, watching him work. The way Heron treated the dead was often a subject of ridicule for other members of local law enforcement. But Radhauser admired the man, both for his expertise and for the level of respect he showed the victims he served.

  Heron held her left hand, studying it before he bagged it in plastic to protect any DNA evidence that might be under her nails. “No doubt this is the owner of the hand you brought by earlier,” he said sadly, then stood and moved the gurney into the dining room.

  After lowering it, he spread a body bag on top. With Radhauser's help, they placed Marsha Parsons into the bag. Heron raised the gurney, then pulled the zipper up as far as her chin. He stroked her forehead, pushing her blonde hair away from her eyes, then gently closed them. "Whatever your body has to say to me, I'll listen. You can count on it." He finished zipping the bag, then turned to Radhauser. "I should have a report for you first thing in the morning. I suspect exsanguination. I didn't find any other obvious signs of trauma severe enough to cause her death. But I’ll know more once I get her on the table.”

  * * *

  Radhauser returned to his office. While McBride canvassed neighbors on Vista to see what she could learn about Sherman and Marsha Parsons, he printed DMV photos for both of them and ran their names through the system. Marsha’s record showed nothing. Six weeks ago, Sherman had been arrested for DUI, spent the night in Ashland Holding, and paid a pretty hefty fine along with receiving a ninety-day suspension of his license.

  Radhauser also printed the shots he'd taken at the crime scene. Using them, along with the ones Sully had provided of the hand, Radhauser started to put together his murder board. He did a quick computer search for similar crimes in other Oregon counties, but found nothing that included amputating the victim's hand.