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“What’s the word, Alex?” she asked.
He looked more interested in the situation than he had earlier. “Medical examiner took a quick look and thinks he was dumped after being killed from one or more blows to the skull. Sheriff Harward assigned Mitch Connors here to the case.”
Connors nodded. “Of course, we have to wait for a complete report, though for the moment we’ll classify it as a suspected homicide and proceed accordingly. He had his wallet on him with a couple hundred bucks, so not likely a robbery. Got his name and address from the driver’s license. One Howard Toompas, lived in a trailer park the other side of Lincoln City.”
Alex gave Greta a slight wink with the eye hidden from Connors. “I’ve been telling Mitch you responded quickly to my call and might be interested in helping out, even though it’s our case.”
Yes! she thought. Something besides traffic tickets, accidents, drunk and disorderly, and misplaced dairy cows!
She and Boylan had commiserated about wanting occasionally to be involved in something more exotic. The two of them didn’t exactly wish for such events to occur, but if these things happened, why not get involved?
Greta nodded. “Of course. I’m always ready to assist any way I can.”
Conners looked at her slightly askance. They had met briefly twice, though this was their first real conversation.
Bet he’s wondering how to get a male deputy from Tillamook, she thought but kept a “Look how helpful I can be” expression on her face.
“Yes, well, we’ll let you know when we need any help,” the detective finally said.
“Good,” Boylan said. “If this does turn out to be a homicide, there’ll have to be a liaison with Tillamook because of where we found the body. And there’s bound to be people in Tillamook County we’ll need to question. Greta can help with that.”
Boylan gave her another slight wink, then continued. “Of course, that depends on who Sheriff Wallace might assign. As I recall, Tillamook is down one detective right now, so he might assign either Brunwald or Plummer, the only two detectives on staff right now.”
The Lincoln detective looked like he had just bitten into an apple and seen half a worm. In Greta’s opinion, Brunwald was a complete ass and a bosom buddy of Wallace—two strikes right there. Plummer seemed innocuous.
Conners looked again at Greta, this time more closely. “Now that I think about it, perhaps Deputy . . . he looked at her nameplate, “ . . . Havorsford would be useful in the investigation. I’ll speak to the chief to see if he can ask Wallace for her assistance.” He paused. “If necessary.”
“Good idea, Mitch,” Boylan deadpanned.
Connors nodded at Greta and walked back to the side of the highway where the medical examiner studied the body. At least, Greta assumed he was doing that because she wasn’t inclined to confirm it.
“You’re bad, Alex. Bad, bad. And I owe you one,” said a smiling Greta to an equally smiling Boylan.
“No problem, Greta. Now just hope Wallace doesn’t have any new hair up his ass and still assigns Brunwald or Plummer.”
“I’ll give him a call and tell him I convinced you guys that it was a Lincoln County case and that you wanted to make us take it. Only my persuasive ways kept Tillamook from having its first murder case in . . . how many years? Five? I’ll also hint you agreed only if I have to spend time helping out.”
Boylan shook his head. “And you called me bad.”
It was eleven o’clock in the morning before the Lincoln people finished with the scene. The body was being transported to Newport, the county seat, for a thorough examination. Innumerable photos had been taken, and the various officers went on
their way. Also departing were several reporters who’d started showing up around eight o’clock. Fortunately, Greta hadn’t had to speak with them because it was Lincoln’s case. One reporter, failing to get air-worthy sound bites from the Lincolnites, tried to engage her for details. Her brief, vague answers and referral to the Lincoln people quickly had him moving on, still searching for anything reportable or rumored, which was just as useful for the local evening news.
The mist had dissipated by eleven o’clock, and the sun peeked out in patches. Greta and Boylan cleaned up the highway, throwing used flare remains off the road and picking up their cones. She teasingly put one of his new ones in her pile, a trick she had no expectations of succeeding with, yet it gave both of them a laugh. Then she headed north. It wasn’t yet noon, and she’d been on the job eight hours. She still had regular patrol duty.
She called Wallace to report. For once, he acted almost friendly toward her when she apprised him of how she had saved his election campaign by sloughing off a murder case to Lincoln County. She hadn’t worded it quite like that, but the intended message came across. Not only could she serve as the liaison to Lincoln County on the case, but he actually thanked her.
Hope he doesn’t choke or have a heart attack later, she thought, when he comes to his senses and realizes he was almost nice.
Yet worse things could happen.
Routine filled the rest of her day. She stopped at home for a quick sandwich and got back on the roads. She drove two hundred miles along smaller county roads, not to answer any specific call but just to “show the colors” of law enforcement, one of Wallace’s “standard operating procedures.” Greta had come to reluctantly agree with the policy, despite the source, and recognized the importance of letting people know that law keepers were around. It made law-abiding citizens feel safer and others leerier.
Another SOP was not to keep a regular timetable of routes. Given her current location, the minor roads in this far southern portion of Tillamook County were the obvious choice to finish the day. For the next few hours, she drove along Cascade Head Road to its end and back; on Slab Creek Road and Widow Creek Road to the county line and back, all narrow paved roads with no center lines; on gravel roads; on dirt roads noted for either dust or mud, depending on the recent weather; along winding logging roads until she hit Road 130; and then east to the Yamhill County line and a crossroads dubbed “Dolph” on the maps. She still didn’t know why it had a name because there wasn’t a single building in sight.
From there, she returned to 101 to deal with two dispatches: a disturbance at a home on the other side of Pacific City (a marital argument—lots of noise, though no violence) and a suspicious man near one of the schools in Cloverdale (a ten-year-old’s uncle waiting to pick up his niece). Then she closed out the day watching for speeders between Cloverdale and the turnoff from 101 back to Pacific City.
She pulled into her garage at half past six. Drizzle had started again. She had been up and on the job for sixteen hours. She thought about calling Bruce Penderman, the retired deputy sheriff whose position she’d filled and who had mentored her, but she decided against it. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, she felt like relaxing and mulling over the day. The first part of the day had been almost invigorating. This realization caused a pang of guilt that she was excited by someone’s death.
