Dark River Rising, page 1
When Detective Winston Radhauser’s phone rings in the middle of the night, he knows something terrible has happened. On this night, a homeless man, rummaging for food in a local dumpster, finds the body of a severely beaten young woman. On scene, Radhauser estimates the victim to be in her early twenties. He's overcome when he learns the forensics reveal she is the girl whose disappearance has haunted him for three years—Ava Cartwright.
In broad daylight, Ava's bicycle had been found parked with the kickstand down near a wooded area. Search parties inched their way through every portion of those woods, the neighborhood, nearby Lithia Park, and along miles of railroad tracks, but there was no sign of the little girl.
Where has she been all this time? And why was she dumped on the eve of her thirteenth birthday? There must be something, some tiny detail, he missed that will give him a lead. This time, Radhauser won’t quit until he finds it.
DARK RIVER RISING
Winston Radhauser Series, #13
Susan Clayton-Goldner
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2023 Susan Clayton-Goldner
Cover Art: Cora Graphics - http://www.coragraphics.it
Editor: Lucy Felthouse
Proofreader: Adrienne Rieck
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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DEDICATION
To my dear friend, beta reader, and reviewer, Pastor Dan Curnutt, who planted the seeds that grew into a Dark River Rising. This one is for you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Novels never make it into readers’ hands without help from others. I owe many thanks to the people who helped me along the way, including my on-line critique group. A special thanks to my beta readers Shirley Reynolds, Dan Curnutt, Debbie Jamieson, Cathy Geha, Candy Robosky and John Karam who gave me valuable input on the manuscript before I sent it to the publisher. A shout of gratitude to my early reviewers who read the book and posted their reviews on Goodreads and Amazon. Your continued support means everything to me.
As always, I want to thank James N. Frey—my mentor for two and a half decades. He taught me so much about the craft, and is always just an email away if I run into a wall or need advice or help with plot.
And last, but never least, my sincere gratitude to my editor, Lucy Felthouse, for her careful readings, Cora at Cora Graphics for her incredible cover designs, and Tirgearr Publishing, best small press in the world, for taking a chance on this unknown writer. Special thanks to Ashley Brunette for the author photo.
DARK RIVER RISING
Winston Radhauser Series, #13
Susan Clayton-Goldner
“The river in front of her is dark and rising.
It contains unseen things.
Some of them are evil.”
— Susan Clayton-Goldner
Chapter One
Tuesday, October 7, 2003
When Detective Winston Radhauser’s phone rang at 12:15 a.m., he rolled toward the nightstand with a groan. It could only mean one thing—something terrible had happened in Ashland. Not wanting to wake his wife, Gracie, he silenced the phone, then hurried into the hallway to answer. Even though the door to the nursery, where his newborn twins were actually sleeping for a change, was closed, he spoke in a whisper. “Radhauser. What’s up?”
Hazel, the police dispatcher, gave him the details. A man who claimed he was homeless and didn’t have access to a phone banged on the police station door around 11:45 p.m., demanding to see Radhauser. The man was out of breath from running the three blocks from the Food Co-Op, and nearly hysterical. He claimed there was a dead woman behind the grocery store. “I radioed Corbin and Perkins and they were on the scene in less than five minutes,” Hazel said. “Corbin estimates the victim’s age to be between twenty and thirty.”
Radhauser knew how unusual it was for a homeless person to contact the authorities about a dead body. They feared blame. And rightly so. He thought about Corndog, Banjo, and the other men he’d met in the homeless camps last year while investigating two murders in their community. He felt proud he’d connected with those forgotten people. Honored that one of them was trusting enough to ask for him by name.
“Are you holding the man for questioning?”
“Corbin picked him up here at the station and has him at the scene in the back seat of the patrol car. But apparently, he won’t speak to anyone but you.”
Somewhere in the back of Radhauser’s mind he wondered if, or hoped, this death could be from natural causes, a heart attack or an accidental fall in the darkened parking lot—or even a drug overdose. Those were happening more and more, even in small, relatively affluent towns like Ashland. “Does Corbin think she was murdered?”
“Given the location they found her and the condition of her body, he’s calling it homicide.”
“Call Heron and tell him to meet us there. I’m on my way.” Radhauser dressed, left a note for Gracie, grabbed his gun and backpack, and drove toward town.
The night had laid claim to Ashland, the streets eerily quiet and empty. Burglar alarms winked their red eyes from the walls of slumbering shops on Main. Stars dotted the sky, the moon an icy-white wafer.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into the gravel lot behind the Food Co-Op to find Perkins’ and Corbin’s patrol car, still running and parked near the dumpster. Red and blue strobes pulsed arteries of light into the sky. Through the rear window, Radhauser saw Corbin sitting in the back seat with a bearded man, presumably the one who’d found the body.
Someone had turned all the parking lot lights on, taped off a twenty-foot perimeter around a big green dumpster, and set up spotlights.
Radhauser said a silent prayer that the man had found the victim on the ground. There was nothing worse than a body discarded into a dumpster with so much disrespect. He picked up his phone and let Hazel know he’d arrived at the scene and asked her to deflect any calls from the media or curious residents. “Just tell them someone reported an incident and the police are investigating.”
Before Radhauser could reach for the handle, Officer Terrance Perkins, the newest and youngest member of the Ashland police department, opened the car door.
Perkins was a handsome man, about six-foot two, with cobalt-blue eyes and pecan-colored hair worn so long it constantly fell over his forehead and into his eyes. Despite his lack of experience, Perkins was a good police officer, motivated, and, of late, willing to work most any shift. This was a real plus with a small police force. He’d gotten married over a year ago and Radhauser guessed this recent work ethic showed the honeymoon was finally over.
Perkins nodded toward the green dumpster sitting at a cockeyed angle about twenty feet from the back wall of the store. “The victim is over there. We pushed back some of the debris from around her upper body. From what we could see, someone beat her pretty badly.”
Radhauser looked at the dumpster. The lid was divided down the middle and both sides of it were open. Trash bags piled to overflowing on the right side, and two alley cats circled the base, scavenging for food scraps. “Is she actually in the…?” Hoping beyond hope it wasn’t true, Radhauser let his words trail off.
“I’m afraid so, boss.” Perkins shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Radhauser grabbed his camera and Maglite from his backpack, then got out of the car. His cowboy boots crunched against the gravel as he moved closer. Like always, he swept his gaze over the entire scene first, tried to imagine what kind of person could murder a woman, then throw her into a dumpster. Given the height of the metal container, about five feet, it must have been a man or a very strong woman. It wouldn’t be easy to hoist a dead body up and into that huge container.
He wandered around the parking lot for a moment, getting his bearings. This was what he did at the start of an investigation. He needed to fix in his mind the geography of the place where the crime had been committed or the body dumped. It didn’t take him long to conclude the murder did not take place in the parking lot.
He asked himself the usual questions. What had the victim meant to the perpetrator? Was she his wife? Girlfriend? Daughter? Or was she a stranger? If the killer hadn’t murdered her in this parking lot, then why transport her here? Why this particular dumpster? Surely the killer could have found one in a less populated area.
Because it was his habit to begin his investigations by taking photos, Radhauser snapped a few overview shots with his wide-angle lens, then hung the camera around his neck and moved closer—studied the dumpster. The plastic lid on the left side hung from a partial hinge—cockeyed, like a broken limb. He shifted h
It looked as if she’d taken a nosedive into the bin. Her foot was small, the skin as pale and smooth as a mannequin. The smell of decaying fruit, vegetables, meat, and God knew what else triggered his gag reflex, and he turned away for a moment.
There it was again—that deep repugnance he felt when about to witness a violent death. It didn’t matter how many times he experienced one, he got that quaking in the pit of his stomach, and his breathing labored.
What was wrong with him? It wasn’t like he was a stranger to the things human beings could do to each other. He’d seen it so many times. And he didn’t have the luxury to look away. This was his job. The way he’d chosen to spend his life. But, more and more, since Gracie’s last pregnancy and the birth of his twins, he wondered if he’d made the right choice.
He adjusted his attitude, slipped on latex gloves, and tossed another pair to Perkins. After lifting some of the top garbage bags from the right side of the dumpster, he handed them to Perkins. “Sift through these and see if you find anything that might connect to the victim.”
The young officer sighed. They all hated dumpster duty. "You looking for a murder weapon?"
"I doubt we’ll get that lucky, but you might find something." Radhauser circled the dumpster, taking photos of the victim from every angle. Wanting a better look, he searched for a stick he could use to push some more of the debris away from her. He found a discarded piece of wooden molding about three feet long.
Not wanting to disturb the body before Heron arrived, Radhauser aimed his Maglite at the victim and used the molding to push a cardboard box further away from her face. Her head rested on a box of rotting apples on the bottom of the bin and was turned away from him, her neck tilted at a strange angle.
From what he could see of her thin body, it held many bruises. Razor cuts and burns scarred the flesh of her upper arms and shoulders. The burns looked recent and as if lighted cigarettes or cigars could have made them. Dried blood matted her dark hair. Flakes of it dotted her pale shoulders. A wave of dizziness washed over Radhauser. He bent at the waist, put his hands on his knees and blew out a long breath.
Perkins cleared his throat. “I think she may be a… a… prostitute.” He uttered the word “prostitute” as if it hurt to say it.
The quick-to-judge attitude struck Radhauser like a bullet. He tensed. “Why would you say that?”
Perkins shifted his weight and lowered his head slightly. “Maybe because of the way she’s dressed.”
The victim wore a low-cut sleeveless tank top with narrow straps, no bra, and a short denim skirt that had ridden up to her waist, revealing red thong underpants. “First rule of police work, Perkins. Don’t jump to conclusions. Wait until you have all the evidence before you make a judgment.”
The young officer stiffened. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
Perkins was still soft, a little too sensitive, but basically a good man who was eager to please. But, in a murder investigation, Radhauser didn’t have time for coddling. Police Chief Murphy expected him to teach the newbies how to scrutinize and dissect a crime scene objectively, even if they were officers and not detectives. Radhauser needed to remember that Perkins was trained as a responder, not an investigator. There was a difference in both duties and responsibilities. With a small force, though, the boundaries were not always clear.
“Hazel phoned. Heron is on his way.” A lock of hair fell over Perkins' forehead, and he threw his head back, John Travolta style. When it flopped over his eyes, he pushed it into place with his hand.
“Good. Now tell me what you have so far.”
Perkins told him what Hazel had already reported about the victim being somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age. “From what I can see of her clothing, without moving the body, it’s worn, but clean.”
“What does that tell you?”
Perkins didn’t hesitate. “Because there are multiple wounds on her face and arms and no blood on her clothing, it tells me maybe someone dressed her after the beating.”
“Good. You’re thinking like an investigator. Is the man who found her the one with Corbin in the car's back seat?”
Perkins nodded, a slight smile of relief on his face at getting the answer right. “Officer Corbin is trying, but the man won’t talk. To me, he appeared to be drunk. Corbin is staying with him to keep him from running.”
“I’ll talk to him and tell Corbin to give you a hand with those bags.”
When Radhauser opened the back door of the cruiser, he smelled alcohol and lowered the windows.
Corbin slipped out of the back seat, looked at Radhauser, and shrugged. “Good luck getting anything out of him.”
The bearded man was asleep, his mouth open and snoring.
“Perkins is sifting through the contents of the dumpster, looking for a weapon or anything else that might be relevant.” He tossed Corbin a pair of gloves. “Give him a hand, would you?”
“Sure thing, boss.” Corbin slammed the car door.
With the loud thump of it closing, the homeless man startled and sat bolt upright.
Radhauser turned on the car’s overhead light.
The man wore a pair of coveralls, stiff with dirt, and a long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt with holes at the elbows and mismatched boots—one brown, the other black.
Radhauser introduced himself.
“‘Bout time you got here. Banjo told me you was one of the good guys, but I need some proof, so I’m sure you is who you say you is.”
Radhauser took out his badge and photo ID. He shined his Maglite on the photo.
The man stared at the picture, lifted his gaze to Radhauser’s face, then looked at the photo again. Finally, he nodded.
“I understand you found the woman in the dumpster.”
The man rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his dirty fists. “Yeah, I found her all right. But I didn’t do nothin’ to her. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
“I don’t have any reason to think you did,” Radhauser said. “And I really appreciate your reporting what you found. It took courage. In my eyes, that makes you a hero. My questioning you is merely routine. It’s crucial to a homicide investigation that we talk to the person who discovered the body.”
Radhauser took out his notebook. He asked for the man’s name and where he lived.
“Name is Steven Sanders, but everyone at the Bear Creek encampment calls me Saltine, ‘cause of the way I love them crackers. Corndog is my friend, and he said if I ever got into any trouble, I could trust you. That I should never leave the scene ‘cause it could make me look guilty. Banjo even wrote a song about you.”
Corndog, a homeless man, was arrested about a year ago for two murders he hadn’t committed, and Radhauser didn’t stop investigating until he’d found the real killer. But this song was news to Radhauser, and he couldn’t help but feel touched. Banjo, also homeless, was a fine musician and often entertained tourists in Lithia Park with his songs. “Why do you think you’re in trouble?”
“Because I ain’t got no address, it makes a lot of folks think I’m a bad person, maybe even a threat to ‘em.”
“I’m not a lot of folks,” Radhauser said. “Do you know what time you found her body?”
“I ain’t got no watch, but I reckon it was about a half hour after the store manager closed up.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I always wait a while after everyone leaves afore I go lookin’ for dinner. It's amazin' what people throw out. I opened up the right lid and found some spareribs from the deli sittin’ on a clean paper plate right on top of the trash. They was still warm and in the carton.” He licked his lips. “Reminded me of the ones my momma used to make. But after I ate ‘em, and put the plate and empty container back in the trash, I was still hungry, so I opened up the other side of the dumpster and ran my flashlight over what was inside. That’s when I seen her foot. At first, I thunk it was one of them dummies, like in the department store windows, but when I touched it...”
