The 9-1-1 operator instructed Peter to remain in his car on the shoulder of the road while she dispatched a sheriff patrol car. About ten minutes later, with blue and red lights flashing, the deputy pulled up and stopped behind Peter.
The uniformed sheriff’s deputy introduced himself and took notes while Peter retold the attempted murder. Another fifteen minutes was consumed by the deputy taking photos and completing a cursory examination of the Rolls Royce. “I don’t see any indication that your car was struck by a bullet or shot,” he said.
“When I slammed on the brakes, he was taken by surprise. If he’d pull the trigger a second sooner, you’d be scraping my brains off the upholstery.”
“You’re pretty sure he fired a shotgun?”
“No doubt at all. Double barrel. Side by side. The barrels were short, and he held it one handed by a pistol grip.”
“That’s a lot of detail to capture.”
“When you have a sawed-off shotgun pointed at your face from only a few feet away, you tend to take notice.”
Skeptical, the deputy pressed. “You’re sure it was a shotgun and not a pistol?”
Peter stared back in silence, irritation beginning to take hold.
“You know something about firearms?” the deputy asked.
Peter nodded.
“So you can tell me what I have holstered?”
Peter glanced to the deputies sidearm. “Glock,” he said matter-of-factly. “Probably 9mm or .40 caliber.”
The deputy raised his eyebrows; he’d thought he had him. “Yes, .40 caliber. Okay, so you know what you saw, I believe you. Can you give me anything on the driver?”
“No, just what I already told you. It happened so fast.”
“Nothing on the truck?”
Peter shook his head. “Just that it was a black, full-size pickup. I’m sorry.”
The deputy closed his notepad and returned his pen to a breast pocket. “Well, I’ll be honest with you. There isn’t much to go on. I’ll write up the report and forward it to the DA, but it’s unlikely an arrest will be made. Maybe if we get lucky and the guy is arrested for another crime, and says something during questioning, we might be able to tie him to you. But it’s a long shot. This might have just been an extreme case of road rage.”
“There was no one else on the road. He had the left lane all to himself. It’s not like I was holding him up.”
The deputy shrugged. “You’d be surprised at how the smallest thing can set off some guys. It’s really hard to say.”
“Can I go now?”
“Sure. Thank you for your statement. We know where to reach you if anything comes up, but I wouldn’t expect much.”
At least the questioning by the sheriff’s deputy helped Peter to calm down. He drove the dozen miles to his condominium in the Old Mill District without any other incidents. He thought pretty hard about having a shot or two of Scotch, but then remembered the data that Lee Moses and Lucy had promised to email. Instead, he opted for a mug of strong coffee. A poor substitute, but the better choice under the circumstances. He needed to keep a rational mind.
He turned on his computer, and there it was, an email from the Warm Springs health clinic. It had the spreadsheet as an attached file. Lucy had also attached a digital map of Warm Springs that used two different colored icons to denote the locations where the patients lived and worked or attended school.
As he sipped the brew, he studied the map. There was nothing obvious, no patterns were unveiled to his eyes. The homes and apartments where the patients lived were scattered randomly across the city of Warm Springs, and several were in rural areas outside the city limits. The same was true for the work locations.
Peter opened a new window in his browser and pulled up a description of the city water system, such as it was. City water was limited to a small portion of central Warm Springs. Most residences and business operated on independent wells.
Striking out with the map, he turned to the spreadsheet. As before, he initially scanned the entries, looking for obvious commonality. There wasn’t any. But then again, many of the cells were empty, especially regarding what the patients had consumed—food and drink—over the days prior to becoming ill. Five had consumed salmon, but did they all? Hopefully the answers would come from further questioning. And there was no data regarding the use of tobacco products, alcohol, or illegal drugs. Could meth or some other drug be contaminated, and that’s the cause? As quickly as the thought came to mind, Peter began to discount it since two of the patients were school-aged boys. Although it was possible they were drug users, their young age made it less plausible.
One potentially important factor missing from the spreadsheet was who each patient had been in contact with. Maybe they all contracted the illness from a common carrier? Peter made a note to raise that question with Lee Moses and ask that this be included with the questions asked of the patients and their immediate family and close friends.
Peter’s education in science had taught him that coincidence was rare, being simply a product of statistical probability. Almost always an event predictably followed a cause. In this case, he just needed to identify what the cause was. The medical treatment and cure—if a cure was known—would come from the medical community.
After a frustrating hour of pouring over the spreadsheet and digital map, Peter concluded he had gleaned all he could from the meager data. Shifting gears, he opened his browser and started searching orchitis, focusing on the symptoms and cause. As he researched, he took notes—painful inflammation of the testes… usually caused by a viral infection… although rare, most commonly occurs in post-pubescent males who have contracted mumps… not life-threatening… no cure… patients typically recover in one to two weeks.
Peter rubbed his temples. “I feel like a pre-med student cramming for a final,” he mumbled. He decided that a walk and fresh air might help clear his thoughts. Pushing away from his desk, he called his canine companion. “Diesel.” Startled from his slumber, the red pit bull rose to his feet and trotted to Peter’s side. One ear was torn from a fight with another dog some time ago. It had healed well, but with half the ear missing it gave the pit bull a very distinctive appearance, not comical but certainly unusual. Years earlier, Peter had adopted the eight-month-old dog from the Central Oregon Humane Society. The puppy had been confiscated from a dog fighting ring. As Peter nursed the dog back to health, a deep trust and bond had developed between the two, to the point where they had become inseparable companions.
Since Peter’s children were both grown and following their own lives, Diesel was a welcome companion. He passed a photo hanging on the wall in the entry. The image was of a young woman, her smile radiant. It was Maggie, his wife and mother of their children. When she died in a car accident years earlier, Peter felt his heart had died, too. Only recently had he been ready to date another woman. There was still distance between Peter and Kate, and she seemed to understand that his wounds had to heal before their relationship could have a chance to grow. At least for the moment, she was content with that.
“Let’s get you leashed up,” he said. Minutes later they were enjoying the pine-scented air as they walked along the sidewalk in the Old Mill District. They strolled past store windows displaying a range of upscale merchandise from apparel to lingerie to fine art. Amongst the retailers were many popular restaurants, including Anthony’s, a favorite of Peter’s.
Diesel kept his nose low to the ground for the most part, drawing in an unimaginable range of scents. Occasionally, he’d greet a passerby, wagging his tail in a steady beat as the visitor petted his blocky head.
After they’d completed the circuit around the shops, Peter led the way back to his condo. The sun was low, nearly touching the snow-crested Cascade Mountains to the west. And as the sun settled lower, so did the air temperature. In tandem, man and dog climbed the steps to the massive, solid-wood front door.
Across the street, wearing a black windbreaker and sunglasses, a stocky man with shaved head watched patiently.