Knife River, page 13
“Should it be? Is there something you need to be tested about?”
She ignored my question as she poured her juice. She drank half of it in one gulp before she made eye contact with me.
“You’ll always be my daughter,” I said. “I’d think you’d be accustomed to that fact by now.”
“I’m still working on it.”
Cricket took her time putting the juice bottle back into the fridge, then turned and leaned against the counter and gazed out the window at her mom.
“I hear the flies are hatching up on the Knife,” I said to Cricket. “Want to come fishing with me?”
The corners of her lips curled upward, and she moved her shimmering blue eyes to me.
“Do we have to talk?” she asked.
“Nope.”
She finished the remainder of her juice and placed her empty glass into the sink, and she smiled.
“I’ll get my stuff and meet you at the truck.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MONDAY MORNING, I drove to Lewiston to testify in court. The case involved a simple B&E that had devolved into a savage and repugnant sexual assault against an elderly deaf woman. The defendant was a peripatetic former cow buster named Jake Relfe, who by all accounts had left his eggs in the pan far too long. I finally had my chance to return the recidivist shitweasel to the Oregon State Correctional Institution for the remainder of his useless life. I wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip by.
I spent the first half of the day waiting in the hallway to be called into the courtroom, seated on an uncomfortable hardwood bench that put me in mind of the pews in my grandfather’s Methodist church. The long, narrow corridor was an endless procession of anguish, fear, torment, and regret, the accompanying soundtrack the echo of stiletto slingbacks and polished brogans bouncing between windowless walls and waxed linoleum. I read the daily newspaper from front to back and had made it halfway through a castoff copy of Life magazine when the judge called for a lunch break. The courtroom doors swung open and a convoy of weary and bored-looking people filed out, so I fit myself into the flow and moved down the staircase to the double doors that led outside.
I crossed the street and went to where I’d parked my truck behind the Lewiston substation, collected my sack lunch from the ice chest I’d left on the seat, and carried it back to enjoy it outdoors in the courthouse quadrangle. I sat by myself on a park bench in the shade of a Fuji apple tree, a gift from the Aomori Prefecture, Lewiston’s sister city, according to the bronze plaque in the planter. The sunshine warmed my back as I ate a roast beef and lettuce sandwich in the coruscated light and watched a pair of gray squirrels engage in a boisterous squabble as they balanced in the branches of the tree. I pulled the tab off a can of RC Cola, took a long pull while I skimmed my attention across the forecourt. Amid the jurors smoking cigarettes and court employees enjoying their brief lunch breaks with eyes tightly squeezed and faces upturned to the sky, I recognized a man I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to see again until I faced him from my seat on the witness stand.
He had the carriage and demeanor of a tennis pro, wavy blond hair swept off an unlined forehead, and a country club suntan. He wore his trademark smug expression behind his Foster Grants as he sauntered from the parking lot across the plaza with his slender leather attaché in hand.
I turned away and fed my bread crusts to the fractious squirrels, wadded my rubbish into a ball when I felt a man’s shadow fall across the bench I was sitting on. I twisted in my seat and squinted into the noonday sun. He was standing close to me, intentionally too close, his profile in stark silhouette against the glare.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“How could I forget? You’re Cameron Ducoyne, staunch defender of the status quo. You know very well that you shouldn’t be speaking to me without the DA present.”
“We’re just two professionals having a casual word, Sheriff Dawson.”
“Make that one professional and one white-shoe attorney,” I corrected. “Where do you get off accosting me in public, outside the county courthouse?”
He cocked his head in mock puzzlement, shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other.
“As I said—” he began.
“I believe you are seeking to create grounds for a mistrial,” I interrupted.
Cameron Ducoyne was both a media whore and malignant narcissist, locally famous for his legal representation of a disgraced Portland lawyer and politico whom I’d arrested as a part of an ongoing scheme that involved the trafficking of heroin and underage girls. I assumed Ducoyne was in town that day requesting a bail reduction for his client, an accommodation I sincerely hoped would be denied. At a minimum, his client deserved to rot in county lockup while awaiting his trial rather than in the relative luxury of house arrest.
I made a mental note to stop off at St. Stephen’s to light a candle, with a prayer that my perp would be forced to live out the remainder of his miserable life looking over his shoulder in the yard at the federal supermax and having to stoop down like a chimp to retrieve fallen soap from the floor of the shower. If it was mercy and absolution the man desired, he could take it up with God. I’d done my part already.
“I would advise you to stop talking to me and walk away,” I said to Cameron Ducoyne. “One more word from you, I will see that you face charges of contempt and sanctions from the bar.”
The attorney shook his head and feigned insult.
“Rookie move, Sheriff,” he said. “You’re going to regret having spoken to me that way.”
“You know, I think I got something stuck in my eardrum when I was out riding my horse,” I said. “I just can’t seem to hear too well today.”
Ducoyne made a tsk with his teeth and strolled away.
I finished collecting my rubbish and threw it into the garbage can. As I was making my way back to spend the last few minutes of the lunch break with the squirrels, I spotted the new district attorney, Bridger Midland, heading my direction. He had recently replaced a man I hadn’t ever had much use for, but Bridger had already earned more of my professional respect during his short tenure than his predecessor had in the whole time he had served as the DA.
“Was that who I think it was?” Bridger asked as we shook hands.
“Sure enough.”
“What the hell’s he doing talking to you out here in front of the angels and everyone?”
“I asked him that same question.”
“That man’s about as subtle as an enema.”
I glanced at my wristwatch, noticed we only had about fifteen minutes before court reconvened.
“How’s our trial going?” I asked.
“Like chewing on foil,” Bridger said. “I’m truly sorry, Ty. I thought I woulda had you on the stand by now.”
“Want me to stick around?”
“I’m afraid so. I can’t tell what the defense is up to, but their strategy seems to involve boring the jury into a slow, painful death.”
“I could think of better uses for my time, Bridger. I’ve already read today’s paper twice.”
“I understand,” he said and shrugged.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ve got some things I could be doing across the street. Call me at the station house, and I can be back here in five minutes. Fair enough?”
“Probably. Let me run it by the judge.”
“I’ll come with you.”
AS I waited to offer my court testimony, I used my downtime in Lewiston to have a look at the former sherrif, Lloyd Skadden’s, file archives to see what I could find regarding the McEvoy case. Between what I had learned from Lily Firecloud and the casual comment that Jordan Powell had thrown out about the place being bad luck, any tolerance I might have otherwise allowed for the existence of coincidence had all but evaporated.
AS ANYONE who has lived in a small town knows very well, you do not push against the rich or the powerful or those who wield political influence. Lloyd Skadden knew that game well. He was not a large man in conventional terms, but his carriage and brash personality created an impression of authority and prerogative that was at odds with both his physical stature and the weakness of character that I knew him to possess. Like my family, the Skaddens had helped to settle this valley and had earned themselves a modicum of respect in previous generations. But Lloyd Skadden’s father had proved himself to be neither a deft landowner nor a rancher, and his deficiencies had affected the family’s diminishing fortunes, though it failed to moderate young Lloyd’s sense of entitlement.
As it turned out, Lloyd Skadden found his salvation in politics, rescued from his own petty designs by a friend of his father’s, a man who taught Lloyd how to accumulate small pockets of influence by currying favor and exploiting the weaknesses of his peers. Lloyd won his first term as sheriff in 1955 and held on tight.
I had only encountered him after returning from my hitch in Korea, and then only in passing. Decades went by as I turned my attention to the Diamond D and my family, having only occasional social contact with the man at the annual rodeo or some other community event, always finding his manner both specious and unctuous.
Even all those years later, when Skadden had conscripted me to assist him—temporarily, he’d lied—I could still see the young man he had once been: making unwanted sexual advances in the back seats of jacked-up automobiles, swilling cheap beer and taking potshots at road signs with a .22 rifle from the bed of a speeding pickup, or shouting vulgar remarks to adolescent girls as they stood in shy knots outside the movie theater.
For nearly twenty years, Skadden had managed to hold the office of sheriff in his fist like a medieval lord before immolating himself on a bonfire of his own avarice. I had been there when he died—shot by a disgruntled business partner—was there when his eyes rolled back in his head as his life drained away, neither of us uttering a word.
I shook off the memory, unlocked the door of the office, and flicked the switch for the overheads. Errant specks of desiccation floated lazily as the fluorescent tubes fluttered to life, the stale air inside smelling of mildew and trapped heat, mingled with the remnant funk of human misery that still emanated from the disused holding cells in back.
As always, stepping into the Lewiston substation was like taking a giant stride backward in time, one that contained no fond reminiscences or sentimentality for me. This had been Lloyd Skadden’s domain, and I left it that way, every stick of his furniture, every fixture, every framed photo on the wall; even Skadden’s old office was exactly as he had left it on the day he’d been murdered. I moved the headquarters to Meridian when I became sheriff, leaving the Lewiston substation open only as a way station for my deputies when they patrolled this end of the valley and as a warehouse for Skadden’s old case files and evidence boxes.
I made my way back to the end of the hall, unlocked the door to the evidence locker. I scanned through the file drawers first, looking for anything that might connect to the McEvoy property and the cases that Skadden would have investigated during his tenure. I sorted through case names and dates from decades past, names that meant little to me, dates that my mind only correlated with my time overseas, events for which I had no personal recollection or reference. What I found most disturbing was the absence of any meaningful filing system, as though each drawer had been emptied of its contents then put back together at random. After sorting through three separate file cabinets, I gave up the hunt, moved to the back of the room where the evidence boxes were stacked floor to ceiling on high shelves and locked inside a cage made of galvanized wire. I used the keys on my key ring to spring a pair of padlocks on the gate, located the evidence log, and took a seat at a gray Steelcase desk in the corner.
The evidence log was in order, at least, divided by year and case number. I dipped into my shirt pocket and unfolded the slip of notepaper on which I’d written the names and dates I’d found in the library microfiche. The logbook only went back as far as 1960, so I had no choice but to begin with the most recent case on my list, the McEvoy suicide in 1971. I ran my finger down a long column of handwritten entries, starting with January of 1971, flipping through page after page until I located an entry from July of that year listing a number of items that had been bagged, tagged, and packed in a box somewhere on the shelves in this room. I noted the reference number listed in the book and worked my way down the first row of shelves.
THREE HOURS later, I gave up the hunt. My head ached, my eyes burned, and I had discovered exactly nothing so far. I still hadn’t heard from the DA, either, and likely wouldn’t, but I was obliged to remain close at hand until court adjourned for the day. I stepped outside into the afternoon light, drew a deep breath, and walked to my truck. I removed the last can of soda from the cooler, peeled off the ring top, and took it back inside to Lloyd Skadden’s former office.
I leaned back in the leather executive chair, rested my boots on the top of his prized desk, and massaged my temples. I nursed the lukewarm Dr Pepper as I scanned the detritus of Skadden’s career: framed photos with minor political figures positioned along the sideboard and shelves, a paperweight engraved with his initials, a bronze sculpture of a predatory bird coming in for the kill, and a collection of police shoulder patches from all over the country. Two mounted stag heads hung on either side of the door, and I flashed on something Lily Firecloud had said to me.
I picked up the phone and dialed the Meridian substation. Jordan Powell answered before the third ring, but I cut him off before he could finish.
“I just thought of something …”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I COULD HEAR Jesse and Cricket in the kitchen early Friday morning, trying not to wake me as they prepared to leave to film the concert at Half Mountain. According to Jesse, the plan was for Ian Swann to perform a small private show—two or three hundred invited industry guests—to serve as both a marketing tool and as a dry run for the musicians, roadies, and film crew in advance of the main public event that was scheduled for Saturday.
I had arrived home late the night before; my testimony, finally having been called on Thursday morning, ended up taking the entire day. As the DA had predicted, the defense team slogged through a litany of minutiae so arcane and esoteric that I suspected I would still be on the stand if the trial judge hadn’t intervened. As it turned out, justice was righteously dispensed, and the recidivist shitbird rapist against whom I testified was sent back to the pen.
It was still dark as I rolled out of bed and padded into the kitchen in my stocking feet and pajamas and robe, the air in the house chilled with the familiar vestiges of winter becoming spring. I looked outside as I passed through the living room, noticed the white patina dusting the potted boxwoods on the gallery and the windowpanes limned with frost.
“You’re getting an early start,” I said to my wife as I stepped to the pantry and took a ceramic mug off the shelf.
“Still a whole lot to do,” Jesse said. “Len Kaanan wants to shoot the preshow setup, do a sound check, and there’s all the backstage chaos …”
“Plus, Ian’s throwing a breakfast barbecue this morning for the band and road crew,” Cricket added as she shrugged herself into a knee-length woolen coat, her eyes bright with anticipation.
I topped off my coffee and watched the ladies gather their belongings, kissed my wife and daughter goodbye, and walked them to the door.
“I’ll be an hour or two behind you,” I said. “I’ve got a couple things to do before I drive out.”
Cricket looked at me with surprise.
“Why so early? Show doesn’t begin ’til dusk.”
“I’m meeting Captain Rose on-site for a security walk-through,” I said. “There’s a lot of ground to cover out there, as I’m sure you’re aware. And I need to pick up Sam Griffin from the station on the way.”
“Hmm.”
“Cramping your style?” I said and winked at Cricket.
I was gratified to see her cheeks flush as I opened the door.
CAPTAIN CHRIS Rose was standing at the Half Mountain Studio entry gate with about a half-dozen of his uniformed troopers when Sam and I drove up. Rose had an unlit cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth and was laughing at something one of the younger men had just said. He was gesturing across the two-lane access road, where Len Kaanan had wisely set up a campground area to accommodate the crowd that had already begun to arrive for Ian Swann’s show the next day.
I pulled beyond the gate and parked in a patch of dirt beside Rose’s unmarked squad car, allowed the truck to idle as I climbed out.
“Didn’t expect to see you here this morning,” I said to Chris Rose.
“Wouldn’t want to miss the freak show.”
“Hope you bring more men tomorrow,” I said. “I told you they’re expecting ten thousand kids.”
Rose grinned and strode a few paces away, where he leaned his elbows on the split rail fence and admired the tree-lined campsite across the road. He tilted his campaign hat back on his head.
“I didn’t just drop in here from outer space, Dawson. I know how to rally the troops. When these fellas go back to the barracks and tell the rest of the guys about all the pretty young things prancing around out here wearing short-shorts and halter tops …”
“You’d better pray the weather warms up quick,” I said. “Or they’re likely to be wearing parkas and salopettes. You’re liable to end up with a disappointed platoon.”
“Take a look across the road there, buddy. I got this thing covered,” he said. “‘God is on the side of big battalions’.”
“Voltaire. More or less.”
“Don’t look so surprised, Dawson. You’re not the only cop that went to college.”
Rose’s troopers piled into the back of my pickup, and Griffin drove them up to the amphitheater site. I watched the taillights disappear around a bend, and Rose stepped up beside me as I began to walk the property’s perimeter fence line.
