Deadfall (11 page)

How dare she imply that Brad would end his life!

Vicki tossed the report on the pile. She knew that report by heart—she could recite it in her sleep. Still she read it every day, hoping it would trigger something, reveal a new clue.

“What a load of bunk.” Vicki slammed the binder shut. The daily ritual of reading the report brought the usual anger and frustration— at the deputy, at Jessica, and even at Brad. And then there was the issue of his car keys. Jessica said he'd left them with her. But Brad always kept them in his pocket—he wouldn't have gone off without them.

Had he tossed her the keys before he went off in this alleged rage? “How did you get those keys, Jessica?” Vicki asked aloud.

“Why did you move away so quickly? And why did you tell Deputy Wyatt about the marijuana and the mysterious truck-driver, but not us?”

Vicki folded her arms on the table and dropped her head to them, weariness overtaking her despite the caffeine. Jessica had avoided talking to them that first week. She hadn't even come out to the falls except for the first day. How could the authorities just let her walk? Couldn't they see she was lying?

“You are not getting away with this, Jessica. You know what happened to Brad, and I'm going to hound you until I have some answers.”

Vicki grabbed a pen and a clean sheet of paper.

Dear Jess,

I hope this letter finds you well. The weather is treacherous
here, although beautiful with all the ice on the trees
and power lines. The sun came out this morning, but it is
still well below freezing.

Jessica, please tell me what happened to Brad! I know
you know more than what you told us and the police. I will
forgive you if you only tell the truth. We treated you like
family, Jess, because Brad loved you. Was there an accident?
Did Brad fall or take some type of drug that harmed him?

If you ever really loved Brad, call me and at least talk to
me. I need to know what happened to my son. Not knowing
is worse than death. Unless you are a parent, you could
never understand the hurt inside a mother's heart when her
child is missing, hurt, or even worse.

Jessica, I pray for you every day. I pray you will find it
in your heart to tell me the truth, even if it is just me. Todd
and I don't want you to get into any trouble, and we won't
ask the police to get involved if you are afraid.

I fear the worst, Jess, and I know in my heart that you
hold the key to Brad's disappearance, if only you would talk
to me.

Why did you move away after Brad went missing? How
come you didn't stick around and see what happened to him?
And Jessica, why did you take Brad's clothes and guitar when
you left? You knew he would want them when he returned.

Jessica, is Brad dead? He is my son, and I need to know.
I need to know. Call me anytime. Call us collect, Jess, or
write. Please.
May God guide your actions.

Victoria

Ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks,Vicki folded the letter and enclosed some stamps and a blank envelope before stuffing the package into another envelope. She tapped the letter against her hand, wondering if sending it was the right thing to do. The deputies had told her to let them handle the investigation and to run any ideas she had through them. Vicki had lost patience with the deputies— with everyone, for that matter. Sending the letter wouldn't hurt. She doubted Jessica would respond, but she had to try.

Leaving the letter on the table, she walked over to the kitchen counter, picking up her now-cold tea. She took a sip and grimaced, then poured the tea down the sink. Maybe she would grab a chai tea on her way to mail the letter.

10

M
AC SQUINTED through the rain-soaked trees and tried to control his breathing.
In through the nose; out through the mouth.
He jogged up to a fifty-gallon barrel, lifted the muzzle of his Glock .40 over the top, and peered over the sights.

“You ready, Mac?” Kevin asked, keeping his voice low. He slid in next to Mac behind the hard cover.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Mac whispered back.

Kevin slumped behind Mac. Placing his left elbow on Mac's broad right shoulder, the senior detective lifted the muzzle of his handgun to eye level and advanced on the threat.

“Let's move in. I'll follow your lead.” Mac rose slowly, still peering over the sights of his semiautomatic pistol.

“You step, then I'll step. We'll move as one unit.”

“Wait.” Mac peered at the figure to their left. “Is that guy holding a camera or a gun?”

“I can't tell. We need to move in and take a look.” Kevin inched ahead. “Let's move in behind that second barrel.” Mac shadowed Kevin, the detectives moving together.

“Police! Don't move!” Mac ordered. “Oregon State Police.

Drop the weapon or you may be shot!” He and Kevin jumped for cover behind a second metal barrel. Before Mac could give a third command, Kevin's weapon exploded. Mac discharged his weapon a heartbeat later.

“Drop the gun, drop the gun!” Kevin fired two rounds into the chest and one more to the head. Mac double-tapped two in, the first hitting the torso and the second hitting the shoulder.

“Get down on the ground! Let me see your hands!” Mac yelled. The suspect still hadn't flinched and still pointed a submachine gun at the two detectives.

“Cease fire, cease fire.” The range master's monotone voice preceded a shrill whistle. The Oregon State Police training instructor looked at his stopwatch and headed toward Mac and Kevin on the gravel firing range. “Not bad for a couple detectives,” he said. “Just shy of forty-five seconds, with five of six rounds in the kill zone.”

“Five of six, what five of six?” Kevin asked.

Mac eyed the target. They'd fired six shots, and one of them had missed the target's center mass. Mac was certain the missed shot hadn't been his.

“Ask your partner.” The senior trooper lifted his pen from his clipboard and pointed it at the “bad guy” silhouette at the end of the pistol range.

Kevin walked from the fifteen-yard line to examine the paper target. “Humph.” He gave Mac a crooked grin. “One of us threw a round out into the shoulder. Looks like there are two in the head and three at center mass. If I had to guess, I'd say this shoulder shot was fired by the officer on the left side of the fire line.”

“First rule of detectives, partner—never guess.” Mac smirked and shoved a fresh magazine into his pistol. “I deal in facts, old buddy. I'd say an aging detective with bad eyes is more likely to put a round into a shoulder than a young officer with twenty/twenty vision.”

“Possible, yes,” Kevin replied. “Likely, no. See this?” He pointed to his gold-colored OSP baseball cap. The gold hat was rewarded to troopers in the agency who have shot a perfect score on the twenty-five-yard handgun qualification course. Mac had been close a few times, but never higher than the ninety-eighth percentile.

Phil Johnson, a.k.a. Philly, sidled up to Kevin and slapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, but tell Mac when you won that hat, you old buzzard.” Philly pulled out his earplugs and smashed them into his pocket. “I think we were, what, half a year out of recruit school?” Philly tried to knock the hat off Kevin's head. “That hat's older than you, Mac.”

Kevin ducked and blocked Philly's hand before it connected. “I don't remember you ever having an expert cap, Philly.” Kevin held onto his hat while he picked up his spent casings.

“I'm a lover, not a shooter,” Philly joked, finally grabbing the hat with his thick fingers and tossing it over to his partner, Russ.

“Look at that—still got my catlike reflexes.” Philly struck his best Bruce Lee pose.

“Better ease up, Karate Kid, before you split your pants again.”

Russ handed the cap back to Kevin with a laugh. “You look like a constipated goose when you do that, Philly.”

“Lucky for me I don't value your opinion.” Philly tried his best to look offended.

Mac shook his head. Russ and Philly had been partners since Russ made detective two years ago.

“All right, all right,” the range master interrupted the banter.

“Can I get you ladies together for a few minutes so we can review?

I have some real troops arriving at noon, and I'd like to get the range ready for them, if you don't mind.”

“Get the range ready?” Philly looked around. “It's freezing out here. If you think I'm picking up my brass in this ice and snow, you got another think comin', troop. Who picked this range date, Frosty the Snowman? I'm freezing my tail off.”

“That's senior trooper to you, Detective Johnson.” The instructor slapped his clipboard. “And you know darn good and well the captain sets up training for the quarterly shoot, one per season. The last time I checked, winter is still a season.” The instructor, an ex-Marine, glared back at Philly, almost daring him to complain again. “And yes, you will pick up your brass, Detective.”

“My brass is frozen out here,” Philly mumbled, no doubt needing to get in the last word.

The instructor glared at him again.

“What?” Philly feigned innocence.

“Okay, let's review,” the firearms instructor continued, apparently deciding to ignore Philly's whining. “First, let's review our deadly physical force policy. Deadly physical force may only be used when you, or another, are in danger of serious physical injury or death. Any questions?” he asked before continuing. “Any of you guys want to give me the department force continuum?”

“Shoot first; ask questions later.” Russ folded his arms, apparently bored with the review.

“No,” the instructor growled. “Any other guesses?”

“Better to be tried by a jury of twelve than carried in your coffin by six?” Philly said, not wanting to be outdone.

“Good one, partner.” Russ elbowed Philly, offering his approval of the one-liner.

“Come on, you guys,” Mac interrupted. He'd had his fill of their goofing off like a couple of high-school dropouts. Wanting to bring the training session to an end and give the instructor a break, he recited, “Officer presence is first, verbal commands is second, and empty-hand custody technique is third.”

“Thank you.” The instructor looked relieved. “Go on, please, Detective McAllister.”

“Chemical spray or cap stun is fourth, strikes and kicks is fifth . . .”

“Teacher's pet,” Philly grumbled as he blew into his cold hands. “And baton blows is next, followed by deadly physical force at seven on the force scale. Blah, blah, blah, the same thing every time. And the precursor for use of force is means, opportunity, and intent.”

“Sorry to bore you, Detective Johnson, but this is required material.”

Philly pulled a piece of Nicorette gum from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth, providing company to the two pieces he was already chewing. The gum and a nicotine patch were his latest attempts to stop smoking.

“Any more words of wisdom before we shut this thing down?”

Philly glanced at his watch.

The instructor removed his safety glasses. “If I could leave you with just one thought. Did you all hear the verbiage Detective McAllister used?' Something to the effect of, ‘Don't make me shoot you; let me see your hands'? That was good material for possible witnesses. I'd rather be involved in a shooting and have the public hear that than the alternative statements I heard today.”

He tossed a warning glance at Russ and Philly.

“What? I got my point across, didn't I?” Philly squatted to pick up a piece of spent brass.

“I don't think the captain would want a potential witness hearing a trooper say, ‘Eat lead, sucker,' or ‘Say hello to my little friend.' Do you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Philly pouted as he began to walk away. “Come on Russ, I can't stay here a second longer and face this abuse.”

“What about your spent rounds and brass?” the instructor barked. “You need to help clean up.”

Philly raised his arm and waved the comments off.

“I'll get his casings,” Mac said, already picking them up. Philly had almost earned the right to be sarcastic, having been involved in two shootings in his career. The first had occurred when he was still a road troop, working 82nd Avenue outside Portland on the border of Clackamas and Multnomah Counties. This route was also State Highway 213, so the troopers worked the area often, giving it the nickname Felony Flats due to the high crime rate and the number of criminal interdictions in the area.

Philly had been on patrol in the area when he stopped a Plymouth Duster for not having a front license plate. Since this was the late 1970s, police technology and budgets did not yet allow for portable radios, or Philly would have known dispatch was calling him to let him know the car he'd stopped was stolen out of Umatilla in a strong armed robbery. Philly walked up to the driver, only to be met by the business end of a snub-nosed revolver.

Philly instinctively threw his ticket book at the driver. Shielding his face with his left hand, he drew his sidearm. The driver fired a round, blasting a hole through Philly's left hand and tearing away his earlobe. The driver fared much worse. The single .357 round from the police revolver did its job, sinking into the guy's temple. Philly lost some blood, but there was one less bad guy on the street.

The second officer-involved shooting happened about two years ago. Kevin, Philly, Russ, and Sergeant Frank Evans were hitting the front door of a suspected drug dealer's house in Molalla. While the sergeant and other detectives waited by the entrance, Kevin had made a cell phone call to the suspect, advising him that they had a search warrant. Kevin commanded him to come to the front door and give up. The suspect was believed to be handling large amounts of cocaine, in addition to having inappropriate relations with a twelve-year-old runaway who was staying at the house. The suspect came to the door all right, armed with an AK-47. The door splintered from the fire of the automatic rifle. Philly kicked in the door after the initial burst, just as the suspect was loading a fresh magazine. As the door exploded from its frame, Philly fired at point-blank range. Frank and Russ fired over Philly's shoulders. As the dust settled, the trio backed out and called for the OSP SWAT team.