Chapter 12
The next morning Colefield was back at work by eight. He stood on the dock giving the patrol boat the once over, climbed inside and glanced at the engine compartment. He flipped on a switch inside the cabin and checked the running lights. He stuck his head back outside and caught a brief glimpse of the sun poking its faint face through the scattered clouds, relieved the sky didn’t promise rain.
The river still had a strong current from last night’s storm. Mud and flotsam would clog the river in spots but at least there were no white caps forming. The ride to Sauvie Island would be calmer than it had been on the day they’d found Timmy’s riddled body.
According to the Sunday weather report, the severe weather pattern from the previous night had blown over and was now dumping twelve inches of snow in the Cascades. Half of the city had been without electricity the previous evening due to downed power lines. The Eastside had only experienced a brief power outage which he had no trouble remembering. Had it been more than just a wild unpredictable moment with Tam?
As he began to disembark from the boat, heavy footsteps started down the ramp toward him. He turned as Bart and Weaver appeared. They were dressed head to foot in standard black tactical gear. Ready for a day on the river.
Bart was the first to speak. “Hey, Colefield, you change your cologne again? Office smells like a whorehouse.” Bart had a big grin on his face. “You know anything about that?”
Tam’s perfume!
“I must have spilled some of my aftershave in the locker room.” Colefield tried to brush it off but no one was buying it.
“Tell Jill she needs to cut back on the sweet stuff,” Weaver said. “Or the Lieutenant will have your ass in a sling.”
A twinge of guilt crept in but he kept a straight face.
“I went through the pre-check. Everything looks shipshape. Someone throw me my gear.”
Bart reached for it just as Agent Costa came bobbing down the ramp, dressed for a day on the water. Even in foul weather gear, she could turn heads. All smiles and eager to help she reached for Colefield’s bag.
“I’ll get it,” she said cheerfully, full of spunk. “Hello, deputies. Mind if I tag along?”
Bart and Weaver glanced back at Colefield. He was as surprised as they were to see Tam after last night’s exit. Bart spoke up first. “Good to see you again, Ma’am. Deputy Colefield didn’t mention you’d be joining us.”
“He didn’t?” she said smiling. “We discussed it last night.”
The men worked to control their expressions as they put two and two together.
“Toss me your gear and climb aboard Agent Costa.”
She passed her bag of equipment over the transom, grabbed Colefield’s outstretched hand and climbed aboard. Colefield set her tote down by his leg and then helped the deputies with their equipment. Once the boat was loaded, Colefield took the helm. He fired up the engine allowing it to idle for a few minutes.
“Did someone think to carry down an extra air tank?” he asked the men.
Bart pointed toward a forward storage locker. “Stowed. Along with the evidence kit and tow line. I also threw in a spare dive suit should you need it.”
Weaver took the stern line, Bart the bowline. Costa stowed the remaining gear in a dry location inside one of the compartments astern. When it came to water or boats she acted like an old deckhand.
Bart gave the nose a push-off and climbed aboard. Colefield rolled back the throttle and the boat’s engine came to life, pushing the bow through the stiff current.
While the two deputies stowed the lines and starboard bumpers, Costa slipped inside the cabin and stood beside Colefield. She remained quiet, looking out through the misty windshield toward the expanse of water.
Colefield turned and looked at her. “Why’d you run off last night?”
“I think right now our energies would be better spent finding Timmy’s murderer.”
Colefield looked her in the eye. “OK. Since we’re moving on we are searching Anita’s place to see if they returned yesterday. On the way there I want to check out possible beaches where the killer could have come ashore. Bart and I found a second trail from the crime scene which we are also revisiting today.”
“Leading where?”
“Back down to the river. I believe the boy came ashore by boat.”
Costa nodded. “We’re on the same page. I hiked around a bit yesterday and I believe the boy could have arrived by boat.”
“There was a boat at the house yesterday, and I’d like to check it out for hull marks or anything that would indicate it was used to drop him off.” Colefield said. “He could have been shot by whoever delivered him. I figure if we can find that boat, we might be one step closer to finding the killer. But I’d like to take another look around the riverbank to be sure.”
Costa switched gears. “Bart told me this is his first homicide investigation.”
“Yeah. He’s a little green, but he’ll do fine.”
“I hope so.” Costa hesitated a moment and then took a deep breath. “You’ve read the files. As you know, I’ve been working a series of cases over the last three years, all involving children between the ages of ten and fifteen. At first they were thought to be accidental deaths. But a pattern emerged…”
“There was a case in Astoria three years ago involving a boy found crushed under a log along the beach. They found a single letter “C” inscribed in the sand next to his hand. I thought he was trying to write something – leave a clue. Because of the placement of the body and the incoming tide, it is possible there was more to the message before he was found. Or it could have just been a coincidence. That’s what everyone figured at the time. Local authorities interviewed his friend who was playing on the beach with him earlier, thinking he put it there. He denied it. Still, they didn’t suspect foul play. The death was ruled accidental. Beachcombing that day was heavy because of an International Scout convention in town which at the time didn’t mean anything.
A year later on the same day, a girl’s body was found just north of here on the railroad tracks. She’d been struck by a freight train. The engineer didn’t know he’d run over her until we traced the evidence back to one of his rail cars. Her body had been drug along the tracks for miles before it finally dislodged. She has never been identified. The interesting thing was that we found the letter “U” written on a piece of paper pinned to her backpack when it was recovered where we believe she planned to jump the train. The ME’s Office ruled it an accidental death. The thirteen year old was a runaway, and she had no identification on her or in her backpack. The theory was she made a miscalculation as she tried jumping onto an open boxcar.”
“And no one ever listed her as a missing person?”
“No.”
“And no connection to a Scout Master?”
“The girl was wearing a Girl Scout shirt, so I filed it away as a piece of information that needed to be revisited.”
“Look, kids dress up in uniforms all the time.”
“That’s what the press said.” Costa glanced at her notebook. “Did you know that Scarbough used to be a Scout Master?”
“Yes. You’re not trying to tie him to these killings are you?”
“I do believe he is involved somehow,” she said. “Look I wasn’t certain how I felt about either death until this summer when they discovered the hiker.”
“I remember that.”
“His death occurred on the same day. A fourteen-year-old Boy Scout. Supposedly, he fell off a rocky embankment while on a hiking outing with his troop. Nothing out of the ordinary there, other than we found the letter “L” written on the palm of his right hand.”
“He could have written it himself.”
“He was right handed, so he would have written it on his left palm.”
“So you think somebody else put it there?”
“That’s the theory.”
“Could mean anything. Or nothing.”
“In all three of these cases there was a time lapse between when the death occurred and when the body was actually reported to the police. In the hiking incident they thought the boy had gone ahead. So it was almost an hour before the Scout Master turned back to look for him. I thought the Scout Master was guilty. I grilled him over and over.”
“Scarbough?”
“No.” Costa furrowed her brow. “We didn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest.” She heaved a long sigh before continuing. “Now we’re to present day and Timmy’s case. Bear with me for a moment. The boy, also a boy scout, was shot while supposedly hunting. Without the symbol written on his vest, I wouldn’t have made a direct connection. There was a lag between the death and discovery, but the day is different. The perpetrator could be upping the tempo.”
Colefield thought about it. “So the killer is leaving some kind of message with each body?”
Costa nodded. “Or clue. Serial killers tend to gloat over their skill.”
As the patrol boat reached speed and noisily banged through the rough water, further conversation became impossible. Costa moved onto the bow just as the boat roared under the I-5 Bridge, spooking a gaggle of birds from the rusted steel beams.
Up ahead the narrow railroad bridge came into view. Costa turned and pointed out the retired naval ship moored next to the former luxurious Thunderbird Hotel, which was now just a vacant shell – one of endless abandoned buildings left to decay by the river’s edge. At least the Sea Scouts were restoring the old naval ship. A few of them were aboard in white uniforms, painting the upper deck. Colefield had seen a group of them working on the boat off and on since the spring. A couple of the boys stopped painting and waved. The Admiral’s daughter saluted back.
Colefield kept his hands on the wheel and tried to remain focused on the open river. From time to time his eyes drifted toward the woman who stood at watch, enjoying the way her long chestnut hair caught the breeze.
The same old youthful feelings stirred, but were quickly replaced by his torn feelings for Jill. Was he going to throw that away? After she cooled off, Jill might come back around. Wasn’t she just testing his resolve? What were the odds of being dumped by a woman who he could see spending his future with, only to be pursued by another who arrived from his past?
He put them at a million-to-one that Tam would show up and get assigned to the same case. Or that he would have a run-in with old man Scarbough. Or that Jill would jettison him because of a ski trip. Maybe old Harv had been right. Maybe it was karma.
Off his port bow the patrol boat neared the houseboat community along the western end of Marine Drive. Colefield eased back on the throttle and glanced toward shore at the colorful homes linked together like a string of mismatched beads.
Just ahead he could see the sweeping bend where the converging waters of the Willamette and the Columbia rivers met. It was an epic vista of which he never tired. The current grew swift there. It churned and rolled with mysterious whitecaps boiling to the surface like a great cauldron in the comingling waters.
Bart stuck his head inside the cabin. “Are we heading to the eastside of the island first?”
“Thought I’d backtrack. See if we missed anything Friday.”
The river made a sort of “Y” shape as it converged. The Columbia continued to bend north while the Willamette joined in from the south. Colefield eased back the throttle, made a course change to the south, and crossed the current at an angle to avoid chopping through the rough whitecaps. On deck, Costa jumped back as the bow dipped down in a rolling wave. She nearly made it before the frigid water crashed over and sprayed down.
She made a dash for the dry cabin. Once inside she brushed water from the front of her windbreaker.
“That couldn’t be avoided.” Colefield was grinning from ear to ear.
“Pay back for last night, right?”
Chuckling, Colefield increased throttle to power through the last of the stiff current. From there they traveled a short jaunt upriver on the Willamette, leaving the mighty Columbia in their wake. Weaver pointed out the opening to the Multnomah Channel. No more than a few boat lengths wide and just a mere finger of water, the channel would steer them to Sauvie Island.
He kept to the center, following the markers before they entered the narrow strait, passing several boat repair yards and more houseboats scattered along the riverbank. In the distance, the Sauvie Island Bridge emerged, its rusted arches outlined on the horizon.
“I like the Scout Master theory. But it will be hell on the organization if that turns out to be the case.”
“Were any Boy Scouts on the island last week?” Costa asked. “I haven’t been able to reach anyone at the local office.”
“I don’t know. It’s easy enough to knock on their door. They’re right downtown near the Federal Building. I think Scarbough is long retired from that.”
“He isn’t – I checked that much out.”
Colefield turned and focused on the helm. His mind was churning.
Costa continued. “We need to interview the kid’s stepbrother and sister, the father and stepfather, the grandparents and the boy’s friends. Hopefully we can round a few of them up today.”
“We can try. Aside from the grandfather, everybody else is in the wind. The mother was incapacitated by alcohol and didn’t even know the kid was staying with her, and the rest of the family hasn’t been located.” Colefield paused. “You were serious last night?”
“About what?”
“The case. We’re teaming up on this?”
“We’ll make a formidable team.”
Colefield raised an eyebrow. “This case is already shaping up to be one big clusterfuck. I think you just want someone besides you the FBI can blame when it all goes to shit.”