Deadfall (28 page)

“How did the truckdriver react?” Mac asked.

“He just sort of stared at me, like he was still waiting for me to answer.”

“Can you remember what he looked like?”

“About fifty, kinda like Todd, but shorter and with a potbelly. He was wearing a cowboy hat. I didn't answer quick enough, I guess, and the guy asked me if I was okay. Brad freaked out. Shoved the guy backward, and his hat fell off. Brad asked the guy if he was deaf and if he wanted a piece of him. I couldn't believe he actually said that. It sounded so corny I started laughing. It reminded me of some cheap movie or one of those fake wrestling shows.”

“I bet that went over well.”

Kevin caught Mac's attention, holding up his pager and indicating with his other hand he was going out to the car to make a call. Mac nodded.

“Not at all. I had both of them mad at me.” Jessica paused a moment before going on. “The truckdriver had to bend over and pick up his hat. Wait a minute. The guy's hair was all matted, black with gray streaks in it.”

“Good observation, Jessica.”

“You're right.” Her voice brightened. “I forgot about that part when I told the story to the deputies at the falls. Anyway, the truckdriver had this disgusted look on his face. His face was bright red when he stood up, and he didn't say a word. He just smashed his hat back on and went back to his rig.”

“Was this guy holding a weapon or anything that you could see on him?”

“No, nothing I could see, other than a flashlight he was holding. I didn't really think of that as a weapon. Do you think this guy had something to do with Brad's death?” Jessica sounded close to hysteria. “Oh my gosh, what if we made him so mad he . . .”

“If he was responsible for Brad's death, it wouldn't have been your fault, Jessica. At this point we haven't eliminated anyone. We still have a lot of questions. On that note, could you tell me if you or Brad owned any firearms?”

“I didn't, but Brad did. He had a pistol; I don't know what kind.

It was black and had one of those clip things that you put in.”

“Do you know what happened to his gun?”

“Yeah, I pawned it. That was one of those things I was telling you about that I wanted to get back.”

“Can you remember which pawnshop you left the gun with?”

“I pawned everything in Portland, in one of those shops down on Division. It's the one by David Douglas High School. I can't think of the name, but I have a card somewhere.”

“I think I know the one. So tell me how you came to possess the gun.”

“Well, like I said, when Brad went missing I was left to deal with his neurotic parents and sister. After a week, I figured Brad had skipped out or had an accident or something. I wanted to come back home, so I took a few of his things to hock. I took his guitar and some skiing and snowboard equipment, along with the gun. I only ended up with about eight hundred dollars for the stuff, but it got me home. I planned on paying him back once he showed up, but he never did.”

“Did you use your name on the pawn slips?” Mac wanted to secure Brad's possessions himself.

“Not exactly. I used a fake ID. I didn't want to get busted for stealing the stuff. Sorry, I wasn't thinking.”

“So what name did you use? And why do you have a fake ID?”

“I've had this fake card for years so I could get into bars before I was twenty-one. It has the name Cynthia Richardson on it.

That's the name on the pawn slip. Sorry, I know it looks bad, but I wasn't thinking very clearly then.”

“I understand. Like I told you earlier, I just want to find out who did this to Brad. Anything else you can give me to work on before we meet in person?”

“I can't think of anything. Would the day after tomorrow be okay? I'm pretty sure I can catch the bus to Portland.”

“That would be fine. Tell you what, you tell me the bus number and time you arrive, and I'll pick you up myself. I'll take you to wherever you want to go.”

“I have your office number and your pager. I'll give you a call when I get the time firmed up, if that's okay.”

“Perfect. We'll see you in a day or two.”

“Thanks, Mac. I'm glad you're on the case.”

Mac hung up the phone, then he pulled the earpiece from his ear and gave the time into the microphone to indicate the conversation was over.

“How'd it go?” Kevin asked, startling Mac.

“Okay. I didn't hear you walk in.”

“What's the scoop?” Kevin sat down.

“Brad owned a gun after all. I guess he wasn't as concerned about being a felon in possession of a firearm as his parents seemed to think. She described a semiautomatic though, so probably not a .357. She pawned the gun along with a bunch of other things Brad owned. I'll call and get a uniform down to the pawnbroker before we leave here. She used a fake name to pawn the goods. Said she was scared she would get pinched for the stolen stuff.”

“What's this new boyfriend business?”

“I didn't make issue with it, but she says she met him in California. He gave or loaned her money to get Brad's stuff out of hock. I'm meeting her the day after tomorrow at the bus station in north Portland.”

“She actually agreed to come back for an interview?” Kevin looked surprised.

“Not agreed, she offered. Maybe a little too cooperative?”

“Maybe, we'll see.” Kevin stood up. “Anything else raise any hairs?”

Mac looked over his notes then shook his head. “Nothing really. You can listen to the tape on the way down the mountain.

Her story was still pretty consistent after all this time. We still have her and this truckdriver to clear out of the person-of-interest column. Not much to go on with the trucker, I'm afraid, but she was able to remember a couple of details about him.” Mac pulled the mini cassette from the tape recorder, punching out the plastic tabs on the cassette with a pocketknife so the tape couldn't be recorded over. “And we still don't know who this Jeremy character is,” he added as he stuffed the tape and knife back in his pocket.

“We do now.” Kevin waved a piece of paper with a name and address on it and slid it over to Mac.

“What's this?”

“That's our next stop, Mac. We're heading to Estacada to contact Jeremy Matthew Zimmerman. He goes by J. Z., according to his CCH anyway. That page was from Allison at the lab. She hit that love letter from Romeo with the fume gun and lifted a print right away. She said AFIS churned out old Jeremy Zimmerman in less than forty-five minutes. He's got a minor rap sheet, mostly misdemeanors for theft. Here's the interesting part. Get this: our pal J. Z. has a handgun registered to him, a little purchase he made at the Expo Center.”

“Expo huh? A gun show?”

“That's my bet. Looks like he purchased the gun from one of the few dealers who register their sales like they are supposed to.

And you'll never guess what old J. Z. bought just ten weeks ago.”

“Let me guess, a .357.”

“Bingo, a .357 Smith and Wesson Chief Special, one of those little five-shot jobs with no hammer spur. Great little gun for concealing in your pocket, no hammer to hang up on your clothes when you pull it out. I wouldn't mind owning one myself.”

“You think he still has it? What do you want to bet it's conveniently lost or stolen?”

“Only one way to find out.”

25

A
S MAC ROARED WEST on Highway 26 to the Highway 211 junction in Sandy then turned south toward Estacada, he phoned the office and spoke to a patrol sergeant, asking for an officer to hit the pawnshop Jessica had described. He wanted to see if Brad's handgun was still in hock. If so, the gun would go to the ballistic tank at the crime lab, where Wain would run tests to see if the bullet was a match.

At the same time, Kevin was on his mobile phone, lining up a polygraph examiner in the event they needed one. Cutbacks had forced the Portland poly detective back into patrol work, so the closest examiners were now stationed in Bend and Salem. Mac, thankfully, had escaped the cuts. Kevin claimed Mac's luck was due solely to his prayers.

“Patrol sergeant has a car on the way,” Mac said as they entered Sandy. “He'll call when the troop gets some info. Do we have a polygraph available?”

“Sarge thinks so; he's working on it. Looks like they wrapped up that murder-for-hire caper, so Philly and Russ are back in the loop.

The detectives down in the valley can clean their own fish now.”

“Clean their own fish?” Mac asked. “I haven't heard that one before.”

“Do their own follow-up.” Kevin grinned. “We're going to have a remedial class for you so you can catch up on all the lingo.”

“That could take a while. You guys make up most of it as you go along.” Mac slowed as the highway wove through town. “Where in Estacada does our friend Jeremy live?”

“DMV and the handgun unit both have him living out by Faraday Lake, up on Moss Hill Road. You know that area by now, don't you? It's less than two miles from the abandoned sawmill.”

“Yeah, I know the place.” Mac let out a long breath. He knew the area all too well, the sawmill murder only adding to his grim list of memory markers. “I responded to a fatal automobile accident on the highway by the lake a few years ago. A boozer was driving back from Ripplebrook after an evening of drinking and popping pills. He dozed off at the wheel and swerved off the highway, killing two boys who were riding their bikes.”

“I'm sorry, Mac. That was a tough one. I remember reading about it.”

“Yeah.” He didn't tell Kevin about the highway worker crying or about his own tears at seeing the mangled bicycles on the white fog line. Mac also remembered being disappointed that the driver had only sustained some injuries. “The driver should have been the one to die, but the drunks always seem to live while the innocent pay the price.”

Mac glanced over at Kevin, hoping his disparaging remarks wouldn't open the door to one of Kevin's sermons. It didn't. Kevin nodded in agreement. “Moss Hill intersection is right up here on the left.”

Mac's gaze took in the stark wooden crosses on the highway shoulder. One of the fathers of the victims still maintained the makeshift memorial after all this time.

Mac eased the car off the highway, reading the scattered addresses on the mailboxes. This rural part of Clackamas County was a gateway to the Mount Hood National Forest and offered a place for people who liked a little space. Some of the residents liked their privacy for more reasons than one.

“There's the place.”

Mac glanced at the homemade wooden sign attached to a tree trunk at the top of the drive. He turned in. Both officers unbuckled their seat belts as they started down the gravel drive—a habit from their patrol days. If something went down, you didn't want to be strapped in your seat belt when it happened.

“You want a crack at J. Z., Kevin?” Mac asked.

“I know that sly grin. You just want me to have to write the report.”

“Guilty as charged.” Mac climbed out of the car, and the two of them walked to the front of the two-story farmhouse. “It's only fair.” Truth be known, Mac figured the younger man might have more respect for an older detective than one close to his own age.

“Sure, I'll take a crack at lover boy. I want to get hold of that handgun and see if he has any other guns in the house. Folks out here like their pistols.” Kevin knocked on the front door, while he and Mac positioned themselves on either side of the doorway. The door swung open immediately, startling them both.

“What can I do for ya?” a forty-something woman with about a hundred pounds of extra padding asked, apparently out of breath. A stepladder stood just behind her.

“Hello. I'm Detective Bledsoe and this is Detective McAllister with the Oregon State Police. We were hoping to talk with Jeremy Zimmerman. Is he at home?” Kevin showed the woman his identification.

“Wonderful.” The woman pushed the ladder back and put her hand on her chest. “What's J. Z. done now?”

“Are you his mother?”

“Stepmother.”

“We don't believe he's done anything. We were hoping he might have some information on a case we are working on. Can I get your name?” Kevin asked.

“Sure. Sorry, I forgot my manners. I'm Donna Zimmerman. Come on in. J. Z. is home; I'll get him. I was just dusting the light fixture in the entryway. Sorry about the ladder and the mess.”

“No problem, Mrs. Zimmerman,” Kevin said as he and Mac stepped into the entryway. “Does J. Z. live here with you then, or . . .”

“Yeah.” She didn't sound happy about it. “He still lives with us. Almost twenty-five and still no plans to do anything except play video games and snowboard. My husband, J. Z.'s father, is a long-haul truckdriver. He's in the Midwest right now on a route.” Donna walked to a railing at the top of some stairs and yelled for Jeremy to come up.

Moments later, a tall, thin young man with a navy blue stocking cap sauntered up the stairs. “What do you want?” J. Z. was unshaven and unkempt, with jeans sagging below his hips, baggy bell bottoms that rested on his unlaced tennis shoes.

“J. Z., these men are police officers, and they want to talk to you.” Donna motioned toward Mac and Kevin.

“Jeremy is it, or do you prefer J. Z.?” Mac shook his hand and Kevin followed suit. He'd noticed a flicker of fear in the guy's eyes, but that gave way to a disinterested yawn and a stretch.

“Either is fine. What's this about?” In an awkward gesture, he yanked off his hat, allowing his thick black curls to fall around his face.

“Jeremy,” Mac said, “we want to assure you that you're not in any trouble or anything. We'd like to talk with you about a case we're working on.”

“Sure, grab a seat,” Jeremy flopped onto a sofa in a slouch, crossing his arms and yawning again.