Dead Float (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

I set my coffee down and stood up to face Philip. “You're sure?”

“Yep. The spring grass where he stepped hasn't recovered yet. And the pissed-on area was still damp. Had to have been last night.”

After another maddening pause, I asked, “Anything else?” I kept my tone patient. I knew better than to rush my laconic friend.

“Uh, yeah. The tracks go both ways.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning someone walked in here from the switching area and then walked back. Or vice versa, I suppose.”

“Did you see anything at the other end, at the switching area?”

“No. The area's all gravel and rocks. Lost the trail immediately. But I didn't have time to really give it a careful going-over.”

“Any idea what the train was doing over there last night?”

“I think it was two trains coming in opposite directions.”

“That happens?” I said, a little surprised.

“Sure. One pulls off on the siding while the other goes by. Last night it sounded to me like they both stopped, so maybe they switched some cars as well. That would explain why it took so long.”

“You may be right, Philip. I remember thinking I heard trains going in opposite directions just before I fell back to sleep.”

I looked up in the direction of the dirt road on the other side of the railroad tracks. A patrol car, an ambulance, a van, and an unmarked sedan came around the bend. The patrol car had its emergency lights on but wasn't using its siren.

“Looks like they brought half of Madras,” Blake said.

We all gathered at the base of the hill and watched them work their way down to the campground. There were two uniformed officers, two detectives in shirts and ties, two crime-scene technicians in white smocks, and a man in a rumpled suit who got out of the ambulance with the driver. I assumed he was the medical examiner.

The lead detective quickly introduced himself and his team. His name was Vincent Escalante. Strikingly well-groomed, with short-cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, the guy looked like he just stepped out of the shower. His brown eyes were deep set and moved quickly as he talked. His partner, William Dorn, looked more like an ex-linebacker for the Green Bay Packers. With slabs for shoulders, a barrel neck, and huge, gnarled hands, he probably had ten years on Escalante. Dorn didn't say much, seeming to prefer grunts to words.

The ME and the forensic technicians quickly set to work on the blood-soaked area near the body. The two detectives spent fifteen minutes or so checking out the immediate crime scene and then dispatched the two uniformed deputies to begin searching the campground, much as I had done. They then announced they were going to interview each one of us separately. Setting up three camp chairs in the shade, they began the questioning with Philip. The rest of us were requested to remain at the table near the campfire.

It was then I began to wonder about the whereabouts of two items—my knife and my jacket. I can't tell you what triggered the thoughts. They just popped into my head. I'd left my jacket on the back of a chair, and I'd used my fishing knife to peel potatoes. I was pretty sure I'd left the knife on the fold-out table where the utensils were stored. Philip had told me none of the knives were missing. But would he have missed mine? Probably not. I got up and casually walked over to where the kitchen utensils had been left the night before. My knife wasn't there.

I still hadn't seen my jacket, either. “You see my North Face jacket, the blue one? I asked Blake. “I left it on one of these chairs last night.”

“No, Cal, I haven't.”

I was in an unsettled state when Escalante called my name. I sat down and faced the two detectives, telling myself I had nothing to hide and nothing to worry about.

“So, Mr. Claxton, I understand you were the take-charge guy this morning? Do you have a background in law enforcement?” His smile was affable, but his eyes were like brown lasers.

“I was a Deputy DA for the city of Los Angeles. I did mainly prosecution of felony cases.”

“I see,” Escalante answered as he glanced at his partner.

Dorn grunted. “Well, don't be surprised if we do things a little differently out here.”

Escalante did most of the talking, and his questions were more or less what I expected. It took only about fifteen minutes for me to lay out everything I knew. I mentioned the tracks that Philip had picked up on the trail to the switching area. Escalante seemed mildly interested and said they would follow up after they finished the preliminary interviews. I could understand his lack of enthusiasm. He knew that the odds were high that someone in our group had done the deed. He didn't want any distractions.

Since Escalante didn't ask if I actually knew any of the clients, I decided not to reveal that I'd had an affair with the victim's wife. However, I knew that I'd have to own up to that uncomfortable fact, probably in the next round of questioning. After all, there were plenty of phone records that would link Alexis and me. What would she decide to say, I wondered? It wouldn't look good if she told them about the affair, and I had neglected to mention it at this juncture. The thought caused my already sour stomach to ball into a tight fist.

By this time, the entire campground had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. Everyone averted their eyes when Bruckner was zipped into a body bag. I was encouraged to see that after Philip's interview, Dorn, Escalante, and the forensics team followed him over to the path leading to the switching area. The group periodically knelt down as Philip pointed out the tracking evidence. Photos were taken as well. A sample of the soil where Philip noticed the urine was also put in an evidence bag.

When the group returned to the campground, Dorn and Escalante walked over to the spot where Bruckner had been killed and stood looking out at the river. Dorn lit up a cigarette while they talked with their backs to us. A couple of salmon flies darted through the smoke as it drifted downriver. Then Escalante placed a call on his cell. I caught just enough of the conversation to know he'd requested a team of divers to search the gravel bar for the murder weapon.

I stood there listening to the blood pounding in my ears. I reminded myself I was an innocent man. And then I reminded myself again. But I couldn't shake this feeling—like watching a big, silent thunderhead boil up just before the hail cuts loose.

Chapter Twelve

When the interviews were finished, Philip laid out some fruit and crackers for the group to nibble on, but nobody touched the food. Alexis was calmer now and managed to take a few sips of bottled water. But as soon as she saw her husband's body being carried up the slope to the ambulance, she broke down again in deep, rhythmic sobs.

Perhaps she'd loved her husband more than I realized, or more likely she was simply reacting to the shock of the murder. Frankly, I felt a sense of relief that I think the others shared when the body was finally out of sight in the ambulance. The bled-out corpse seemed to have no connection to the man we had been with the night before. An assemblage of bones and flesh, its lifeless presence had hung like a huge weight on our psyches.

Our sleeping bags and most of our personal belongings had been placed in evidence bags for screening at the county crime lab. I had nothing left except the clothes on my back and my fly rod. They even impounded my fishing vest. I imagined some fly fisherman in the sheriff's department helping himself to my fly collection.

Around 3:30 Escalante called us together and said we were free to leave the site but warned us not to the leave the Portland area without notifying him or his partner. He also told us we could expect further interviews as the case progressed. As Escalante talked I stood off to the side with my hands propped in the back pockets of my jeans, watching the group. The afternoon was hot and still. The only background noises came from the random slosh of the river and an occasional bird call. Alexis had recovered her composure and was standing between Mitch Hannon and Daina. I thought it likely she would come into a sizeable amount of insurance money. How much? I also wondered about NanoTech. Would she get that too, or had Bruckner made other arrangements in the event of his death?

Hannon stood very close to Alexis, his open hand pressed lightly on the center of her back in a gesture of support. He'd been sleeping with his boss' wife. He also wanted his boss to give up private ownership of the company or, as he called it, the “platinum mine.” How much would that enrich him personally?

Standing next to Hannon was Andrew Streeter—a brooding, unpleasant man anxious to please, especially Hannon. Why had he acted so erratically on the river the day before?

Duane Pitman stood apart from the group. Slightly stooped, he looked thin and gaunt, as if the events of the day had weakened him physically. Pitman seemed to admire Bruckner, but at the same time he was mad as hell about not being recognized for his technical contributions to NanoTech. How deep did that anger go?

Then there was the consultant, Daina Zakaris. Bruckner had brought her in to help him smooth out the relationships within his management team—a tough task given the deep divisions that existed between them. She had sensed me watching the group at the restaurant and had figured out I wasn't a full-time guide. And she had instantly concluded Alexis and I had been lovers. I was sure of it. The latter made me nervous, and I wondered what else she might know or suspect.

Since our cars had all been ferried down to the take-out point below Maupin, we had to wait for them to be brought back. Fortunately, Philip had had the foresight to call the ferrying service around midday, and they arrived a little after four. I kept expecting—dreading would be a better word—that the press corps would rear its ugly head, but it never happened. Philip, Blake, and I stood watching as our clients headed off for Portland. Pitman was with Streeter in his Hummer. The behemoth spanned most of the width of the road. Alexis, Daina, and Hannon vanished behind the heavily tinted windows of Hannon's Lexus and sped off into Streeter's dust.

As they rounded the bend, Philip kicked the dirt and sighed. “Shit, this isn't going to be good for business.”

Blake nodded his head in agreement, exhaling sharply through his nose.

I said, “Well, there's no need to panic. Just make sure they spell Northwest Experience correctly in the paper, and you'll be fine.”

They both chuckled at that.

Philip sighed again and turned to Blake. “Escalante told me we can come back tomorrow afternoon and pick up the boats and the raft, after the divers do their thing. So how about driving my rig back to Madras? You can stay at my place and we can get the boats tomorrow.”

As Blake was pulling out in the extended cab, Philip said, “Figured we needed to talk. Did your jacket turn up?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I left it on one of the chairs last night after dinner. I went back to get it, but it was gone.

“That's weird.”

I nodded. “There's also a problem with my knife. You know, the one Claire gave me with the salmon fly in the handle.”

“Problem?”

“I'm not sure where it is. Thought I left it drying with the other utensils last night. But it wasn't there this morning. I'm hoping I put it back in the boat instead.”

“Probably in the boat,” Philip responded.

“Uh, and one more thing.” I needed to get this behind me.

“What's that?”

“I, uh, started seeing Alexis Bruckner after your birthday dinner at the Lyle last fall. It only lasted eight weeks or so, but there it is.”

Philip looked at me with an incredulous half smile. “You
what
?

Chapter Thirteen

Philip's half smile crumbled as my confession about Alexis Bruckner sunk in. He exhaled loudly and locked onto my eyes. “Damn it, Cal! I guess I neglected to tell you the first rule in river-guiding—Don't fuck the clients!” He looked away as color rose in his neck. He was pissed. I didn't blame him.

“I wasn't working for you then.”

“Well, yeah. I guess you weren't, but who the hell knows that except you and me? No, this isn't going to look good for either one of us. Shit, Cal, she came on to me, too. She's that type.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“The type that marries up and fucks down. You know, Lady Chatterley.”

I looked away and felt my checks burn as I resisted an urge to swallow.

“So who knows about this affair?”

“Just Alexis and me and now you. Problem is we exchanged several phone calls last fall. When they check, they'll find them.”

Philip shook his head, kicked at the dirt with his boot, and said, “What'd you tell 'em this morning?”

“They didn't ask, I didn't tell. But I'll have to come clean next time they interview me.”

He shook his head again. “That won't look so good, will it?”

I shrugged. “It is what it is. Look, Philip, I had no business screwing around with one of your clients. It was stupid, and I apologize.”

“Accepted,” my friend answered in a tone that let me know the beef was over.

Then he added with a sly grin, “Truth is I remember the way she looked at you that night at the Lyle, man. It was lust at first sight.”

After a good chuckle, our first of the day, I said, “You know, the best thing that could happen for both of us is for Bruckner's murder to get solved in a hurry. Otherwise, both our livelihoods could take a pounding when this hits in the press. Frankly I don't have a lot of confidence in that Jefferson County team, particularly the big guy, Dorn.”

“It's Bull,” Philip replied with a wry grin.

“What?”

“Bull. That's his nickname. I heard Escalante call him that.”

“That fits.”

We sat for a few minutes gazing down at the river in silence. I pulled out my cell phone and redialed Chad Harrelson. He didn't answer, and I left a message for him to call me. I sighed and flipped the phone shut.

Philip read my look and didn't say anything. We both watched as a bald eagle dropped like a dive bomber and took a squirming trout from the river. Finally, Philip said, “So, what do you want to do, partner?”

“For starters, I'd like to go to the switching area and go over it with a fine tooth comb. I'm convinced that's where the killer came from.”

“Let's do it.”

We drove around the bend in the dirt road and parked adjacent to the switching area. A sign on a tall metal pole next to the tracks said simply,
Kaskela
. We fanned out on either side of the tracks and started working our way back toward the campground.

“What are we looking for?” Philip asked.

“Anything unusual, anything that shouldn't be there.”

As we inched our way along, oil and diesel fumes bloomed off the hot gravel, causing my eyes to water. The ground was littered with the usual railroad detritus, rusty spikes and bits of braided cable, spent flares, and the occasional untarnished aluminum beer can. I became discouraged almost immediately but didn't let on. Thirty minutes later, Philip had finished his half of the search. I was nearly done. Neither one of us had found a thing.

Philip had worked his way over to where the trail led off to the campground and with his eyes to the ground started moving down it one more time. Suddenly he bent down and pointed at something in the grass. “Looks like I missed something this morning.”

“What?”

“A cigarette butt. Can I pick it up?”

I hesitated for a moment. It was physical evidence, but the area had already been searched and cleared. “Yeah, go ahead. They can get a DNA profile from the urine sample.”

Philip picked it up and put his nose to it. “Jeez, smells like camel dung, but it's fresh, probably less than twenty-four hours old. He took several more steps and said, “Here's where he took a leak. Looks like he flicked the butt away while he was peeing.”

“Nice work!” I said as I came over to have a look. The filter was still intact and some unburned tobacco was packed in against a ridge of remaining paper. I brought the butt to my nose and smelled it. My head kicked back reflexively. “Camel dung's putting it mildly. People actually smoke this crap? Can't be American tobacco.”

We went back to the car, and I carefully wrapped the butt in a tissue and put it in the glove compartment. “So, you think our guy dropped it?”

“My gut says yes. The trailhead's at the northwest corner of the switching area, a good fifteen yards from the tracks, and the urine spot another twenty yards down the trail. It's unlikely the butt was dropped by a railroad worker, but I guess I can't say for sure.” He paused again and nodded toward the glove compartment. “You sure we shouldn't give it to Escalante?”

“Nah. We've compromised the chain of possession. Besides, I don't want him to get the impression we're trying to lead him. After all, you already showed him the tracks and all.”

“Yeah, and he wasn't very impressed. I think he likes one of our party for the killer. He won't want to hear any phantom of the railway theories.”

“You're right. I shudder to think what a good prosecutor would do to your description of how the spring grass was bent but not broken. Good Paiute tracking work but not strong physical evidence in a court of law.”

“Figures,” Philip answered.

“But we know someone came down that path last night. That's the important thing. And we know he was probably a smoker. That's more than I could have hoped for an hour ago.”

We sat in my car for a while, not saying anything. It suddenly occurred to me that my friend had never once questioned my innocence. He'd taken my explanation at face value and had thrown himself into the task of helping me without a word of complaint.

A cool breeze sprang up. Across the river a pinto mare and her colt grazed languidly on the grass that carpeted the slopes running down from the basalt formations. Below, the surface of the Deschutes glittered in the sun's angled rays like a strand of braided gold.

We didn't need to say it. It was a given that we both longed to be down there, wading in that cold, green water, waiting expectantly for the next strike. But the events of the day had pushed that possibility away. It looked like we had a lot of work to do before we would be fishing together again.