The old Federal Building still housed a small division of the FBI among other federal agencies and was located downtown on Second Street. He took in the surrounding view, mostly office buildings and renovated condominiums. Just down the road was Waterfront Park, a large outdoor concert space that overlooked the Willamette River.
Colefield parked Montgomery’s beater downtown, got out and headed toward the main entrance. On the way, he pulled out his new cell phone, a purchase he made that morning. Supposedly all his old information was transferred from his old pile of parts, but he’d have to check that out later.
He checked in with the Security Desk in the lobby and took the elevator to the Ninth floor.
A narrow corridor lead toward glass doors marked with bold lettering: Federal Bureau of Investigation. Through the window he could see a conservatively clad receptionist behind a large faux maple desk looking bored. Above the door was a video camera that followed his movements. His photograph had probably popped up on some computer screen with his stats next to it. He stated his intention to the receptionist, put his hand on the door and waited to be buzzed in.
The woman told him to wait for a moment while she made a call.
Eventually, Costa appeared through a side door, wearing an equally conservative gray suit. She skipped any type of formal greeting.
“Come in,” she said, tipping her head toward the open door.
Agent’s Costa office was small and contained your usual government dull-gray desk and filing cabinets. The carpet smelled like petroleum. On the wall behind her was a fading picture of J. Edgar Hoover. The view out her window was of the back of another building.
“I’ll be a minute, Jason. I’m just finishing up.” Costa left.
He wandered about the office. He stopped at the bookshelf in the corner, removed a technical book on Forensic Science Investigation and skimmed through it before shelving it beside a stack of law books. He wandered over to the window but the lack of a view depressed him. He glanced at a few citations on the wall. None belonged to Costa. He stopped at her desk and picked up a framed photograph. This one actually had a connection to her. It was a photograph of her posing on a sandy beach somewhere in the tropics. She wore a skimpy swimsuit. Her arm was around a man Colefield assumed was her soon-to-be ex.
“Keep your hands off my stuff.” Colefield hadn’t heard her come into the office. She took the photograph back and put it down on her desk. “Have a seat.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“You know who. Now sit down.”
Why is the ex’s picture on her desk?
Colefield wanted to ask her that, but instead said: “I need for you to check on the type of pellets that were used to kill Timmy.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“The shell I took from Scarbough’s gun contained lead shot. Never used for hunting waterfowl legally. I suppose Scarbough could have used it on grouse on his private land. But that’s pushing it … since the majority of the island’s federally protected. Clay targets, yes. Birds, very unlikely.”
Costa perked up. “I’d love to tie him to the shooting.” She picked up the phone, then hesitated, flashing steely eyes. “I didn’t notice that a shell had been logged into evidence last week...”
Colefield shrugged it off. “I’ll have to ask Bart about that. Probably just a paperwork glitch.”
“You never did like doing things by the book. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Costa dialed. He waited until she hung up.
“We’ll have results by tomorrow morning.”
“It would have taken me three weeks to get a result. Nice to have FBI credentials.”
Costa smirked, removed her overcoat from a rack behind her desk and put it on.
“Ready?” she said, turning to face him.
They took a different elevator to the basement which led out to a private parking garage. Costa’s sedan sat at the far end. She marched toward the car with purpose. Colefield followed close behind in the wake of her freshly washed hair. That night in the locker room it had smelled the same. It caused him to smile. Yet he didn’t feel particularly like sharing the thought.
“What’d you do last night after we got back?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“Worked.”
“Why didn’t you call? We could have gone out to dinner. Or something…”
“Or something?”
Costa ignored the implication.
“Where does Timmy’s dad work again?”
“DeMarco Manufacturing in Beaverton. He’s the production manager.”
“Who called who?” Colefield asked.
“We made the notification, but he already knew.”
“But he didn’t contact the police?” Colefield was incredulous.
“He said something about how he wanted to discuss it with his wife first….”
“Unbelievable. Planning damage control?” Colefield shook his head. “That poor kid.”
“Wait. It gets better,” Costa continued. “I finally tracked down the boy’s grandparents. We conducted an extensive interview via Skype. They claimed to be devastated by the news, but had no knowledge of who would want their grandchild dead. They stated that Anita and Dave were fine parents, but that Timmy needed a more stable environment than they could provide because of the challenges of raising Penny, who they claim had gone wild.”
“They are implicating Penny?” Colefield couldn’t believe it. “When are they going to be available for a personal interview? And I need to get inside their home as soon as possible.”
“They agreed to a search of their home, which is ongoing even as we speak. Then they asked if it was really necessary for them to return right away since it was their first vacation in a while, and with Timmy already dead, and no funeral planned, what was the harm if they finished their gambling junket with their friends?”
“Didn’t anybody in this world care about that boy besides his stepsister?” Colefield rolled his eyes.
“Speaking of which, I called dispatch. Still no sign of the girl.”
Costa drove as they headed west out of downtown and picked up Highway 26. Colefield stared up at the somber clouds forming over downtown, lost in a deep funk.
“What’s on your mind?” Costa said out of the blue.
“I was thinking about where we went wrong on the interview with Jeb yesterday. And if he knows where Penny is.”
“She’ll turn up. When I was that age, I’d take off for days at a time and wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“I remember a few of those times. I’m glad I never locked my bedroom window. Even if you did run away from a strict upbringing and military structure to experience freedom you always knew you could go home. Penny’s a wounded animal with no home or family to return to.”
Costa flipped the blinker on to change lanes. Traffic grew heavier up by the Zoo Exit. Drivers merged left and right, all at the same time, some trying to avoid large potholes in the road.
“Why exactly did Scarbough shoot you with rock salt?”
“He had it in for kids with motorcycles.”
“That’s how you remember it?” she said. “He said you were a repeated trespasser and vandal.”
“Maybe both statements are true,” Colefield admitted.
“Even with us you remember things differently.”
“What are you talking about?” Colefield turned toward Costa.
“You thought I dumped you because of college. That was never true. I broke up because you did the one thing that I couldn’t handle. You joined the Navy.” She glanced toward Colefield’s shocked face. “I had spent my whole life as a Navy brat. I didn’t want to spend the rest of it as a Navy wife.”
As Colefield’s eyes widened, a spot of sunlight broke through the clouds and rays of bending light reflected through the windshield. A shiny silver star pressed upon her forehead.
“You could have mentioned this before.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything. We both had futures that diverged.”
He thought about that for a moment. She was right.
“All I ever wanted was to do something important with my life. The FBI gave me that. It helped me grow up. Then it all just started falling apart. First the agency started downsizing and we lost some very good people. I put my job before my husband. No surprise the marriage went south.”
“We are more alike than I thought,” Colefield said. “You asked why I wasn’t married? I’ve been accused of putting my job first innumerable times.”
She was going to miss the exit. “You’ll need to get over in the other lane and take the next right.”
“Why doesn’t this cheap piece of shit have a GPS?”
He cracked a smile but it didn’t last. “Are you going through with the divorce?”
“Funny you should ask that. After all these years, I feel like maybe we don’t get a do-over in life. Something tells me I’m too late to fix my mistakes.”
Colefield wondered if she was talking about her marriage or their relationship.
“There it is, just ahead on the right,” he called out.
The sedan turned into the parking lot of a big blue concrete building with bright yellow trim. A giant tub of butter, dropped down in the middle of an asphalt slab, semi-tractor trailers poking out from each side of the building like gills on a steelhead.
Costa pulled into a visitors parking space and turned off the motor.
She turned and faced him. “Look. I want you to let me handle this. You were once a great listener. Would you do that for me?”
“I’m not making any promises.”
“This man just lost a son. He doesn’t need a suspicious hard-ass coming down on him. I think you are too close emotionally to this case.”
“Everyone that had contact with the boy is a suspect.”
“Just let me handle it.”
Like the FBI, this facility had its own Reception area but with coffee and donuts for its guests. Colefield grabbed a cup of black coffee, dumped in a pile of sugar and fake creamer and grabbed the last glazed donut in the box. Costa skipped the snacks, spoke with the receptionist and then walked over to sit down beside Colefield. She checked her cell phone for messages.
It was a short wait. Colefield was knocking donut crumbs from his lips when an athletic looking man in his thirties wearing blue coveralls arrived in the waiting area and greeted them. The man wore a hair net and little plastic booties over his shoes. After introductions were made, he handed them each a hair net and pair of shoe covers.
“We have to cross the main floor to reach my office,” he explained. “We’re in the middle of a new production run. We’re required to suit up.”
Costa began to tuck her hair up under the hair net. “I want to say how sorry I am about your son, Mr. Dodson.”
The man glanced over at the receptionist who was all ears. “Let’s continue this discussion in my office, shall we?”
He and Costa followed the man through a double door and inside the restricted area.
The clean area was the size of a small football field, a maze of white-booty worker bees buzzing about like minions in a futuristic film. Turning knobs, punching buttons, cranking valves, climbing ladders to take product samples from inside enormous volcano shaped stainless steel vats. Colefield had read in the reception area that this corporation created over a dozen different oil and butter products, each containing a variety of creamy artery-hardening transfats.
They entered a large office that Jim Dodson shared with the supervisor of maintenance, a short, dark-haired man named Ben Ross. He rose from his desk holding a cup of coffee and excused himself from the room.
“Sit down. Please,” Dodson said, and closed the office door behind his co-worker.
Colefield glanced around. The room had the same sterilized feel of the restricted area. No personal objects with the exception of a Notre Dame coffee cup sitting on Mr. Dodson’s pre-fab desk in the corner.
“You play in college?” Colefield asked with curiosity at they moved toward chairs. Costa sat in a chair closest to the desk. She quickly turned and gave Colefield a look. A reminder that she was taking lead on this interview.
The man glanced down at his empty cup. “I had high hopes of playing baseball for the University of Washington, but it didn’t work out.”
“Don’t tell me: you threw your arm out during training camp?”
“No. I wrecked my Harley and ruined my elbow in the process. Ended any chance of playing again.”
“Mr. Dodson, again my apologies for not getting to you earlier,” Costa said. “We hoped we’d be coming to you with some better news. We were wondering if you could start from the beginning. Perhaps give us an account of when you last saw your boy. Anything you remember that might be of help to us…”
“Well, officers, that would have been a week or two before Christmas.”
“You didn’t visit your son after that?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m remarried and raising five girls. It keeps me pretty busy.” He paused. “I have no information as to who could have done this. Have you checked with his teachers at school?”
“We’re looking into that next,” Colefield said.
“What about his grandparents? What did they tell you?”
“They are as shocked by this as you are, I can assure you.”
“That’s not what I asked, Agent Costa.”
“As you may or may not know, they’re out of town. I conducted an extensive interview by Skype with them and they weren’t able to provide us with any useful information.”
Mr. Dodson picked up a pencil from his desk and began tapping it on the desk top. Colefield sat up straight. Dodson appeared more distracted than upset.
“How did you get along with the stepfather?” Costa asked.
“I’ve never gotten along with him. He’s a real son-of-a-bitch.
“How so?” Colefield asked.
“It stems from a fight we had years earlier. Old history. But we all do it, don’t we?”
“Do what?” Colefield asked.
“Hold grudges.”
“You fought over what, sir?” Colefield ignored Costa’s burning glare fired his direction.
“I caught him kissing Anita in the parking lot of a tavern. Up until then, I thought our marriage was good. I called him out and we exchanged punches. Nothing came of it beyond a few bruises. Anita broke it up. We divorced shortly after that. She went on to marry the SOB anyway.”
“Where was your boy at the time?”
“With Anita’s folks for the weekend.”
“Are these the same grandparents who raised him?”
“Yes. Clarence and Hazel. They’re good people. They must be really torn up over this.”
You’d be surprised.
“Why didn’t Anita raise him?”
“Our marriage and then her marriage to Dave were rocky. So many fights and splits … his whole life the only stability Timmy ever knew was with his grandparents. They practically raised him from an infant. Even back before our marriage hit the skids when he was still in diapers we left him with them. We worked opposing shifts. She’d stop by after work to see him for an hour or so. I’d see him on weekends. Then I went to work for the Woodburn Police Department. Things sort of went south between us and we divorced not long after that.”
“How long after your divorce did she remarry?”
“Two months.”
“Ouch.”
“They had been seeing each other while we were still together. I’m sure of it.”
“OK. Let’s focus on the boy now. Did he have many friends?”
“A few.”
“Did he ever go hunting with them?”
“As far as I know, just with BB guns,” he said. “He had a buddy named Kyle who lives in California now. They used to go shooting together. He might hang out with some of the neighborhood boys but I couldn’t tell you anything about them.”
“You ever take Timmy hunting?”
“No.”
“What about the grandfather?” Colefield asked.
“His grandparents are not all that keen on him hunting. No handguns or shotguns that I know of. In his day the guy hunted deer and elk, but he was mostly into fishing. He did shoot a nice six-point buck that was mounted and hung on the wall in their hallway. He never expressed an interest in teaching Timmy how to shoot. I was going to do that, but…”
“… but you’re a busy guy,” Colefield interrupted.
Costa cleared her throat and frowned at Colefield.
“Did the grandparents lock up the guns they owned?”
“Not that I know of, but you’re on the wrong track looking at those people. Dave had an armory of guns and is a violent guy. If it was me, that’s where I’d start my investigation.”
“We did,” Colefield said. “He has an alibi for the time in question.”
“What about his son, Jeb?”
“The boy admits dropping him off along the riverbank and claims he went back to pick him up, but couldn’t find him.”
“What about Dave’s dad, Hank Scarbough? He found the body. Could he be covering up for someone?
“He is a person of interest in the case, but we have nothing specific to tie him to the murder yet and he has not made Dave or Anita available for questioning,” Costa said.
“What about the Sea Scout Master?”
“Timmy was a Sea Scout?”
“Timmy went to a few of their outings. I’ve never met the man.” Dodson dropped his head into his hands. “Just throwing out everything I can think of.”
Colefield flexed his fingers. “Where can we find this person?”
“Anita should know.”
“She’s not in any shape to share information at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“She’s sedated,” Costa said.
“Is that what they’re calling it now? Well, she’s extremely talented at staying ‘sedated’.”
Costa leaned forward in her seat. “We’ll check it out.”
“Go talk to his friends at school. Somebody should know something that could help.”
“We’re headed there next.”
Silence filled the room. The interview was over.
“If you think of anything, feel free to call Deputy Colefield or myself. We appreciate you taking the time to talk with us.”
Colefield stood, but didn’t offer to shake hands. Costa stood next to hand Timmy’s father a business card.
Colefield laid his card down on the desk and then turned and started out the door without waiting for Costa to join him. He made no apologies.
Costa caught up to him out in the Reception Area. Colefield was struggling with one of the elastic booties caught on the toe of his shoe.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Costa said, slipping off her hair net.
“The father moved on years ago. He didn’t even see his son at Christmas and probably missed his birthdays. He didn’t call the FBI and hadn’t even bothered to call the grandparents after learning of Timmy’s death.” Colefield ripped the bootie free.
“I’m beginning to share your opinion that nobody even cared enough about this boy to shoot him.”
“Death by Apathy. That’s a first.”