CHAPTER 22
“Detective.”
Lang strode through the front doors of
the department instead of the back because he’d parked his Jeep on
the street rather than in the rear parking lot, which was currently
full of potholes as deep as the Grand Canyon. May Johnson, the
unsmiling, heavyset black woman who manned the front desk, spoke
the single word like a cannon shot. She didn’t much like Lang, and
he didn’t much like her. He thought she was arrogant and
uncompromising, and she’d disliked him on first sight as well,
seeming to regard him as too loose on rules, too entitled, too,
maybe, male. She definitely considered him a cowboy in both dress
and spirit, and now, looking down at his dusty boots—definitely not
department issue—Lang allowed that yes, that part was probably
true.
He reluctantly slowed his steps and
gazed at her expectantly. He’d just come from the scene at Seagull
Pointe, and he wanted to report to Sheriff O’Halloran before he
headed back out. “Yeah.”
“Sam McNally returned your
call.”
Lang lifted his brows. Geena Cho was
dispatch, and to date Johnson had let her deliver all Lang’s
messages rather than go out of her way to make sure he was
informed.
“Thanks.”
She nodded curtly, then nearly bowled
him over by asking, “How’s the adoption going?”
Johnson’s icy facade was at a
full-blown thaw. Lang could scarcely credit the change. “It’s
going. Slowly.”
Lang’s fiancée, Dr. Claire Norris, was
trying to adopt a baby girl whom she’d grown extremely close to.
Lang, too, hoped it would happen soon and had been mulling over
dragging his beloved to the altar to finalize that step and
hopefully give that process a jump start when Turnbull’s escape
completely screwed up his timetable.
As if embarrassed by her familiarity,
Johnson turned abruptly away, and Lang walked along the counter
that stretched the length of the reception area, ending at the back
door, then turned down a hallway that led toward the main part of
the building and the jumble of offices therein.
The smell of old coffee crept through
the hallways from the lunchroom, and phones jangled. A couple of
deputies who’d pulled all-night duty at the Tyler Mill fire still
smelled of soot as they walked by.
Sheriff Sean O’Halloran was in his
office, at his desk, looking troubled. His normally smoothed gray
and white hair was in disarray, and his blue eyes, usually bright
with inner humor, looked dull and tired. “Goddamn Turnbull,” he
said.
“Goddamn Turnbull,” Lang agreed. “Looks
like he smothered his mother and strangled this other woman, whom
we’re trying to identify.”
“She still alive?”
“Just.”
“Nobody knows her?”
“Nobody at Seagull Pointe,” Lang said.
“Savvy and I checked with everyone on staff and the patients who
could be of help. We did a turn around the parking lot, checking
for extra vehicles. No other cars than those that belong to
residents. Also, no security cameras, although the director was
quick to point out that they planned on getting some soon. Lot of
good that does us. The upshot is we don’t know who she is or how
she got there. She’s young. The theory is, she ran into Justice
somehow and he strangled her and killed his mother.”
“Any chance—any chance at all—it wasn’t
him?”
Lang hesitated. “That a rhetorical
question?”
The sheriff sighed
heavily.
“You want us to work some other angle?”
Lang asked.
O’Halloran shook his head. “Nah. Not
until we count out Justice Turnbull completely.” The two men
discussed the case at length, then, after they’d exhausted all the
new information and Lang turned to go, the sheriff added, “Got a
call in from a farm east of Garibaldi. Seagulls and buzzards
circling something, which turned out to be a dead body. Male. Sent
Delaney down there. The guy’s been dead a couple
days.”
Garibaldi was south of the city of
Tillamook, but still in Tillamook County. “Any missing person
reports?”
“We’d checked the tags on this hippie
van that’s been parked overnight in that day lot viewpoint north of
town for two nights. Called ’em up to tell them it was going to be
towed, and this woman just started screaming that her husband was
missing. So, we think our body could be this guy. Actually, he’s
her significant other. They haven’t officially tied the knot. But
the van’s in both their names, and he left their happy home in
Salem in a huff a couple days ago and hasn’t been heard of
since.”
“Maybe he’s just cooling
off?”
“According to her, they fight, he
leaves, and he always comes right back within twenty-four hours.
It’s just their way.”
“Sounds like the body’s him,” Lang
agreed.
“Could very well be. Description
matches. Got his picture from the DMV.”
O’Halloran seemed to be holding back
something, something important. Lang thought a moment, then said,
“Exactly when did this guy take off?”
“About six o’clock Friday
night.”
“And he drove right past Halo Valley
Security Hospital on his way to the coast from Salem. That puts him
right in harm’s way.”
“It’s a theory,” O’Halloran
allowed.
“God damn it. He was Justice’s ride!”
Lang was running with it. “How was he killed?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head. Talk
to Delaney.”
“I will,” Lang said with meaning. He
was already ahead of himself, putting the pieces together of
Justice Turnbull’s escape. “So, Turnbull took the van, then dumped
it right away. Why?”
O’Halloran snorted. “You wouldn’t have
to ask if you saw it. Damn thing’s painted all over with flowers
and leaves and shit. Hippie stuff. He’d need something a little
less conspicuous.”
Lang thought a moment, his mind
spinning with different scenarios, then settled to the only
conclusion that made sense. “The woman strangled at the nursing
home. Justice found a way to take her car after he unloaded the
van.”
The sheriff sighed. “You think he
picked up her car at the same viewpoint?”
“Or close by.” Lang shook his head.
“Why not just kill her and leave her?”
“She would have been found sooner.
Let’s just hope she wakes up and can ID the bastard.”
“Hell,” Lang muttered, rubbing the back
of his neck. The woman was near death when he’d left her, the EMTs
refusing to give any prognosis as they tried to transfer her to a
hospital. “We’ve got to find out who she is. Someone must be
missing her. I’ll get a picture on the news. Who is this woman? If
you recognize her, call the TCSD. Something like
that.”
“Do it,” O’Halloran said.
Lang strode out of the sheriff’s office
and nearly ran over Savannah Dunbar, who was looking a little
white-faced. “What?” he asked.
“She . . . died.” Savannah exhaled
heavily. “The Jane Doe at Seagull Pointe. About twenty minutes
ago.” She let out a long breath. “The EMTs thought they’d save her,
but . . .” She shook her head. “She was DOA at Ocean
Park.”
“Damn!” He thought of the comatose
woman he’d seen at Seagull Pointe, how young she was, and he
wondered about her family. If she didn’t have kids of her own or a
husband, she was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s
sister.
“They might have saved her if the
caregivers at the nursing home hadn’t been so incompetent,” she
whispered harshly.
“There’ll be an investigation into
their practices.”
“And hopefully charges leveled!” She
was seething. Upset.
“Why do I think you’ll see to
it?”
“’Cuz you can read me like a damned
book.”
Lang nodded. “This is all the more
reason to find out who Jane Doe is. I was going to put her picture
on the news.”
“Crime scene techs took photos of the
scene. They got Madeline Turnbull and Jane Doe, while she was still
alive.” She was shaking her head.
“There may be one of her we could
post.”
“Maybe,” she said and met his gaze with
her own troubled eyes.
“This isn’t your fault,” he
said.
“No, it’s not.” Her lips tightened.
“Seagull Pointe’s staff missed the obvious signs, and they know it.
The nurse and director were busy covering their
asses.”
“If you’re right, there will be an
investigation.”
“Damned straight.” Her smile held no
mirth. “I’ll see to it.” She was already walking toward her desk.
“I’m going to write up a report.”
That should take care of any flaws with
Seagull Pointe. Savvy wouldn’t let their incompetence go unnoticed.
He passed several deputies in the hallway, one who nearly ran into
him, sloshed her coffee, and sent him a pissy glance.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” she
said, then muttered something under her breath about stupid
jerks.
Lang ignored her bad mood and thought
about going to his own desk to call retired homicide detective Sam
“Mac” McNally, who Johnson had said had finally gotten back to him.
The next second he changed his mind, choosing his cell instead as
he headed back outside to his Jeep, giving Johnson a hand lift of
good-bye, to which she managed a nod. Placing the call, he was
frustrated when he got McNally’s voice mail yet again, but this
time he asked him to phone his cell instead of the department.
McNally had been the lead investigator out of the Laurelton Police
Department, the city where Justice’s last rampage had begun.
McNally knew Justice Turnbull as well as anyone, and he’d worked
with both Fred Clausen and Clausen’s ex-partner, Kirkpatrick, who’d
since moved on, leaving a position open at the TCSD, the position
that Lang now owned.
Clausen had told Lang that McNally was
an “okay guy,” high praise from the terse and generally gloomy
detective. Lang had wondered if Clausen might be feeling a bit
overlooked since O’Halloran clearly expected Lang to be the lead
dog in this investigation, instead of the more senior Clausen.
Clausen, however, didn’t seem to mind. He’d told Lang to call
McNally, and Lang had, only to learn that Mac was now retired and
on a weekend camping trip with his son. The Laurelton PD had given
Lang McNally’s cell number, and he’d phoned and left a message on
the man’s voice mail. Mac had apparently picked up that message
sometime during the camping trip and had called back, but now it
was Lang’s turn to keep up with their telephone tag. And all the
while Justice Turnbull was at large.
As he pocketed his phone, he caught a
glimpse of Clausen behind the steering wheel of his vehicle as he
drove into the back lot. Lang circled the outside of the building
on foot to meet with the older man. Clausen was just climbing from
his department-issue Jeep, a twin to the one Lang drove, when Lang
reached him.
“Hey,” Fred said, stepping out and into
a deep puddle up to his ankle. He swore for a full minute, and Lang
said mildly, “Not to be an ass, but that’s why I park out
front.”
“Yeah. Well.” He stepped gingerly
around the monstrous puddle, which had also dampened his pant leg.
“You are an ass. Just for the record.”
Lang grinned.
“You seen the Breeze?”
“Glanced at it,” Lang
said.
Clausen snorted. Shook his foot. Swore
again, then said, “Harrison Frost is playing big shot reporter
again. Seaside PD busted this ring of high school students that
were invading and burglarizing houses, but Frost took credit for
giving them the tip. Whole article’s about the kids calling
themselves the Deadly Sinners, or something. Seven of ’em. Frost
got to know ’em, apparently.”
“This the same Harrison Frost who was
with the Portland Ledger?” Lang asked. He
knew enough about the man from when Lang was with the Portland PD.
Frost had gotten into hot water over the shooting outside a
Portland club called Boozehound. “He was related to one of the
owners of Boozehound and practically accused the other one of
instigating the homicide of his partner.”
“Ye-up. Same guy. Works for the
Seaside Breeze now but can’t stop stirring
up these big stories. He’ll be dogging us
before you know it.” Clausen slid Lang a glance as he walked toward
the building, his shoe still making a sloshing noise. “Turnbull’s
escape is just the kind of news he wants to report.”
“He’s left us alone so
far.”
“’Cuz of these kids.” Clausen snorted.
“Damn West Coast High teens. My stepson knows one of the Bermans.
Britt Berman. Her dad lives in Tillamook, and she’s at some of our
games. Bermans kinda think they’re better than everyone down
here.”
“She one of the seven Deadly
Sinners?”
“No.” Clausen waved a hand at him as he
pushed open the door. “Could be, though, I guess. She fits the
profile. But she’s the victim, in this case.” He sounded almost
disappointed, and Lang figured his stepson had been snubbed by the
girl, or something like it, to elicit this response from
Clausen.
“You’re not a fan of Frost,” Lang
observed. “Any particular reason?”
“The guy just wants to make mountains
out of molehills.” Clausen seemed about to say more, then changed
his mind. “But he’s right about the West Coast High kids. That
place is a breeding ground for entitled, selfish, ungrateful
kids.”
“Sharp as serpent’s teeth,” Lang
said.
“Huh?”
“Shakespeare. ‘How sharper than a
serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ ”
Clausen looked at him as if he’d
sprouted alien antennae. “Sure,” he said but obviously didn’t get
it.
“Learned that one from my mother,” Lang
said lamely. “I think I was a bit of a thankless
child.”
Clausen did not know what to do with
that. “Kids, huh,” he said and brushed past Lang as he headed
toward the restroom.
Lang half smiled to himself and circled
back to the front of the building and his own Jeep in search of
Deputy Delaney and the dead body found outside
Garibaldi.
Harrison checked the time on his cell
phone as he returned to the Breeze with his
follow-up article. Three thirty p.m. He hoped he could catch up
with Vic this time, and was about to ask about the paper’s
publisher when Buddy pointed at the phone on Harrison’s desk and
said, “Channel Seven on one.”
“What?”
“That’s what they said.” He shrugged.
“Look, I don’t have time to screen your calls, okay? I’ve got a
story to write. The Tyler Mill fire. No one knows for sure, but it
could be arson.” He appeared thrilled at the thought as he turned
to his computer.
Punching line one, Harrison picked up
the receiver. “Frost.”
“Mr. Frost,” a smooth, young female
voice said. “Channel Seven is following up on the Deadly Sinners
story. Are you available to answer a few questions?”
Harrison realized Pauline Kirby’s
production team had found the story and was running with it. He
wondered if she had any boundaries whatsoever. He was both
flattered that it had caught their eye and irked because Pauline
would usurp the whole damn thing if she could and take all the
credit. “I’m around.”
“Is there a better number to reach
you?”
“Nah. Call here. The paper’ll find
me.”
He hung up and Buddy grinned at him.
“Putting yourself on the map again with this story, aren’t
you?”
Harrison said dryly, “Rich kids
burglarizing other rich kids’ homes. Pauline Kirby loves that
stuff.”
“And so do our readers and her
viewers.” He watched as Harrison, who’d been shrugging out of his
jacket, thrust his arms back inside the sleeves. “Leaving so
soon?”
“Tell Vic I want to talk to him, when
you see him. I just want to check in.”
“Sure. You following up on these kids
some more?”
Thinking of Justice, he said, “That and
other things.”
“If the entourage shows up from Channel
Seven . . . ?”
“You’ve got my cell number. Call me.
Just don’t give them the number. I’ll call ’em back
later.”
“You’re a little nuts about giving out
your cell number,” Buddy pointed out. “You know that,
right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
It came from being hounded after his
brother-in-law’s death and the debacle that followed. Giving Buddy
a short wave good-bye, Harrison stepped back outside and into the
fingers of fog that hadn’t quite dissipated from yesterday’s deep
shroud.