Deadfall (13 page)

“That's good to hear.” Mac glanced at Kevin, who gave him an impatient, get-on-with-it look.

“Let me pull up the info on the death investigation, Detective. Ah, here it is. We received a call at about 0900 hours. A floater in the Columbia, just upstream from Kelly Point. A fisherman called it in, and we dispatched a game trooper to check it out. They confirmed it was a floater and towed it into the bank on the Oregon side of the river. The only information I have is that it is a nude white male adult with no obvious sign of death.”

“Nude?” Mac shuddered and glanced over at Kevin.

“Yeah, the game troop said he's in pretty bad shape. Looks like he's been in the water for a while. They're standing by with the body until you arrive. What's your ETA?”

“About thirty to forty-five minutes. I'm en route with Detective Bledsoe from the Columbia County range. What channel are they running on?”

“Channel nine. I'll let them know you're on the way. Just for info, I talked to the game officer, Trooper Ferroli. He told me about a barge accident two weeks ago on the Columbia near Rooster Rock. The tug stalled going upriver and accidentally reversed into the barge. Two men fell overboard. The Coast Guard was never able to find them. That's all I have.”

“Sounds good. Would you get the medical examiner on the way, please?”

“Notify M.E.,” the dispatch supervisor repeated. Mac could hear her typing the directions into the computer-aided dispatch, or CAD, as the dispatchers called it. “Anything else?”

“That'll do it.” Mac thanked her and ended the call. He turned his police radio to channel nine just as the dispatcher was calling the game troopers. Eleven-seventy-one responded.

“Who's eleven-seventy-one?” Kevin asked. “I can't put the voice together with a game officer.” The eleven prefix meant the trooper was assigned to Portland, and the secondary number in the seventies designated him as a game officer, just like the fifties series were set aside for detectives. That way, every other station would know the station and work assignments of other troopers as they traveled around the state.

“Chris Ferroli. He runs that big jet sled on the Columbia and Willamette Rivers.”

“Oh yeah, I know Chris. Sharp guy. Too bad he's a stump jumper. He'd make a great detective. Is he waiting with the body?”

“Yeah. Dispatch says it's a white male adult.” Mac relayed his conversation to Kevin.

“I remember hearing about the tugboat accident.” Kevin wiped down his glasses with a chamois cloth. “Or read about it, I can't remember. Something's always happening on those rivers. I can't count the number of times I've worked on accidental drownings or body dumps. The water is always cold, as I recall. The Columbia never warms up.”

“Guess you wouldn't have fared very well with Lewis and Clark as they traveled and mapped the river by canoe.” Mac eased over the chunky gravel lot onto the paved road that led to Highway 30.

“If it had been the Lewis and Bledsoe expedition, St. Louis would have been mapped as the West Coast.”

“Not if I would have had that yellow raincoat—nothing would have stood in my way.” Kevin chuckled.

Frank was still on his cell phone as they left the parking lot.

Mac shook his head. “Sarge is going to amp out one of these days.”

“Frank is one of those guys who runs on stress. He was made for the job.” Kevin glanced over his shoulder at Frank's shabby old Chevy Caprice. “You always know where you stand with Sarge.

He's not interested in promotion or fanfare, just in getting the job done. I have a lot of respect for the man.”

Mac nodded.

Kevin leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed.

“You taking a nap?” Mac asked.

“Just talking to the Lord before we get knee-deep in this thing.

You want to join me, partner, or are you just going to let me do all the work?”

“All the work?” Mac shook his head. “Since when is praying work?”

“I'm praying for you too—figure it's about time for you to carry your own weight.” Kevin opened one eye and peered at Mac.

“Tell you what, partner—you do the praying and I'll stick to the driving.” Though Mac was getting used to Kevin's prayers, he wasn't ready to talk to God on his own. While he respected Kevin, the counseling session with Linda's pastor had left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I hope for our sake I pray better than you drive,” Kevin teased. He turned down the fan on the defroster and added, “Better get going, driver.”

Kevin prayed aloud for wisdom and justice as well as for the safety of all involved. He also prayed for the soul of the unknown victim and finished with a robust amen.

They drove east on Highway 30 through northwest Portland, taking Marine Drive to Kelly Point Park. Kelly Point marked the confluence of the northerly flowing Willamette River into the westerly flowing Columbia River. The back eddy at the merge of the two massive rivers often trapped river debris and dead animals, occasionally those of the human species.

“I think he's out at the end of Lombard.” Mac scanned the riverbank of the Columbia for signs of the big silver jet sled that was operated by Trooper Ferroli. The jet sled was a popular fishing and enforcement boat in the Pacific Northwest, a steel-hull boat powered by a jet pump rather than the traditional prop-and-propeller mode. The jet pump allowed the boats to run over sandy river bars as low as four inches deep. The state troopers who worked the area had three at their disposal. The largest, a twenty-six-footer, ran on the tide-influenced Columbia River.

“There he is, Mac.” Kevin pointed out the large silver boat with a blue canopy, identified by the words State Police written in black around a silver star on the hull. It was anchored less than fifteen feet from the sandy beach. The white-tipped waves licked at the sides, reminding Mac of how choppy and dangerous the river could be.

Mac parked above the beach to avoid getting stuck in the soft sand. “We better walk from here,” he told Kevin. “I don't want to end up digging our car out of the sand.”

“Good thinking.” Kevin shoved open the door. “You grab the camera, and I'll get the crime-scene kit.”

“You got it.” Mac slammed the car's gear shift into park.

“Let's go ahead and get a crime-scene log started.” Kevin checked his watch. “Call it 1200 hours for our time of arrival. Dr.

Thorpe should be the only other person on the scene, but go ahead and get the paperwork started.” Kevin glanced over at the state patrol unit pulling up beside them and grinned. “And Dana Bennett. Now, why am I not surprised?” Giving Mac a wink, he added, “I tell you, Mac, she's following you. Is there something you're not telling me?”

“She's following us—or to be more precise, the crime scenes.

She wants to make detective.” Mac felt his face flush and blamed it on the cold wind.

“So you've been telling me.” Kevin nodded a greeting to Dana.

“She's relentless; I'll give her that.”

“So when's she going to make detective?” Mac hoped it would be soon. Dana had worked hard—above and beyond. She was logging in more overtime than he'd ever thought of doing. He wondered how her boyfriend handled that. She'd never said.

Hopefully better than his own fiancée. Mac's time on the job was one of Linda's biggest complaints.

“You'll have to ask Frank about that,” Kevin said.

“Hey, guys.” Dana ducked into the backseat to grab her heavy OSP jacket then shrugged into it. The blue Gore-tex waistcoat fitted like a waiter's jacket to sit above her gun belt. It had a zip-in fleece liner with silver reflective letters spelling out State Trooper on the back. Her silver badge was pinned on her left chest exactly where it should be. Her grin widened as she approached them.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Mac waved the clipboard. “Just in time, Dana. How about keeping the crime-scene log for us?”

“Sure.”

Mac opened the back door and snapped open his briefcase, securing blank log sheets, which he placed under the wide metal clip. “Here you go.” His words came out in puffs of steam as his warm breath connected with the frosty air.

“Pop the trunk, would you?” Kevin stood at the rear of the Crown Victoria and rubbed his hands together. The wind was blowing the icy rain downriver.

Mac reached over and depressed the dash-mounted trunk release. Then he joined his partner at the trunk.

Kevin pulled out his long yellow rain slicker. “Want to make fun of my coat now?” Kevin slipped up the collar and fastened the snaps down to his knees.

“I stand corrected.” Mac shrugged into his own rain jacket, pulling a knit cap and gloves out of the pockets. “Of course, my jacket does come with a matching pair of Gore-tex pants.” Mac pulled the blue waterproof pants from his large black duffel bag and tugged them on over his dress slacks. He tied the drawstring around his waist and donned gloves.

“When did the department start issuing those pants?” Kevin reached for the plastic crime-scene box.

“About five years ago to the patrol division. They're pretty nice. They have short waists so they snug up right under your gun belt. Maybe you ought to start reading the memos.” He chuckled. “I'll help you fill out the stockroom request form. I'm sure the backorder should arrive with your rain gear around mid-July.”

“Watch it, smart-mouth. Remember who's the senior detective here. I could order you to hand them over.” Kevin opened the box, which contained rubber gloves, evidence collection equipment, and markers. “In fact, that's not a bad idea.”

“It's a terrible idea. They wouldn't fit. Face it, partner, you've got about twenty pounds on me.” Mac waited until Kevin had snatched his cap, then he closed the trunk.

“Humph.” Kevin pulled a black sock hat over his ears. Mac and Kevin were close in height, but Mac was thinner. Kevin had a stocky build, trim and muscular, and had once been a boxer.

Serious now, the detectives left Dana with the clipboard and headed toward the police boat. The dark-haired Fish and Wildlife trooper, wearing green hip waders, was standing in a few inches of water near the bow of the boat. Wearing the department's all-blue water survival suit and baseball-style cap, he walked up the beach to meet the detectives.

“Hey, Chris. How's it going?” Mac pulled off his right glove to shake the trooper's hand.

“Pretty good, Mac. A little cold. The wind chill must be down around ten degrees on the river.”

Mac nodded. The primary mission for wildlife troopers was to protect wildlife and natural resources. Bad weather brought salmon, so they would be on the big rivers eight or ten hours a day during fish runs. It was also hunting season, which meant troopers needed to be in the woods as well. All that, on top of arresting DUIIs or any other crime that crossed their path in the remote areas.

“You out on the river all by yourself today?” Kevin asked, shaking hands with the officer.

“Yeah. I thought it would be a quick trip before I got tied up in this thing. A commercial fishing gill net came loose from an outfit owned by some Native American fishing boats upriver, and I was hoping to corral it. I wanted to grab it before it ensnared any seals or sea lions.”

“I'm sure the commercial fisherman wouldn't mind if it did,”

Mac said. Fishermen who netted for a living hated sea lions and seals that followed the fish runs because the sea mammals cut down on profit by eating the salmon or killing the fish for fun.

Troopers often found dead seals and sea lions with bullet holes in their heads.

“Too true.”

Wanting to cut their frigid investigation short, Mac bypassed the possibility of more shop talk by asking, “Where's the body?” He squinted at the waterline but couldn't see anything unusual.

“He's tied to the back of the boat.” Chris pointed to the bobbing water craft. “A bank fisherman called it in, and a road troop took down his info. I found our floater about thirty minutes later in the eddy on the Oregon side of the river. He was bobbing facedown with a bunch of foam and river debris around him. I tried to heave him into the stern of the boat, but his skin is like tissue paper. It started to tear around his shoulder blade.”

“Skin slippage.” Kevin frowned. “The skin is waterlogged and will slide off like mush if we aren't careful. We can't remove the body until the M.E. gets here, even though this weather is miserable. I'll get on the horn and see how far out she is.”

“I'll stay and get some info from Chris for the initial report,” Mac said. “Let me know if it'll be long, and we'll wait with you back in the car.”

“Sure thing.” Kevin raised his shoulders as protection against the icy rain and hurried back toward the car.

“The boat's heated if you want to wait under the canopy,” Chris offered.

“Nah. I'm doing okay right now.” Mac turned his back to the biting wind, wishing he were wearing a survival suit. He'd had one when he'd done a stint with Fish and Wildlife. The Mustang suit was good to thirty below.

Mac turned his attention to the back of the boat and the gruesome cargo in tow. “Is the guy pretty bad off?”

“I've seen worse. I'll bet you a week's pay it's one of those guys who went overboard off the barge up near Rooster Rock.”

“Dispatch gave me a little on that. Can you give me some details?”

Chris pointed upriver. “A tug out of Astoria was pulling an empty grain barge upriver. They were idling downriver from a hogline of fishermen, waiting for them to give the right of way when the tug stalled.”

Mac nodded.
Hogline
referred to salmon fishermen who anchored alongside each other in their boats, sometimes reaching nearly all the way across the river. The big chinook salmon were called hogs, hence the term
hogline.