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Was it a murder, like the examiner said? Why else would a body be in the middle of nowhere, right where a vehicle could make a quick stop?
Tomorrow they’d know for sure. The medical examiner would have a preliminary report by noon. Alex had called her around five in the afternoon and said there would be a meeting at the Lincoln County sheriff’s office in Newport at two o’clock the next afternoon. She was invited, though by whom he didn’t say. Newport was almost fifty miles south along coastal 101. It would take a good part of the day to drive the hour and a quarter, attend the meeting, and then the same amount of time back.
She pulled leftover meatloaf out of the refrigerator, set it heating in the microwave, and made a salad. She’d get up early to drive patrol before heading to Newport. If she reported activity early enough and then called in that she’d be down in Lincoln County for the meeting, Wallace wouldn’t complain. Wolfing down the food without noticing it, she thought again about the direction of her life and was in bed and asleep by eight-thirty.
CHAPTER 3
The next morning, Greta finished two hours of road patrol by nine o’clock, then checked in to the Tillamook headquarters. One non-emergency report had come in during the night, a suspected burglary at a weekend beach house south of Pacific City. The owner called in after he’d arrived from Portland to find a back door open. Even with no perpetrator found in the house, and the owner unable to identify anything missing, the call required a visit whenever Greta could stop by to take information.
She drove to the address of the reported burglary. Although no drizzle fell, a strong onshore wind pushed the fog right through the pores of her clothing. The owner of the house was a lawyer or something related to being a jerk. He berated Tillamook County “police” (he didn’t distinguish among agencies) for not keeping crime down, moaned about the lousy weather (So why the hell did you buy a house here? Greta wanted to ask), and wanted her to immediately catch whoever was responsible.
Greta was polite. She found it helped to deal with such sectors of the public by playing a game in her mind. She gave herself a grade based on her level of politeness as the interaction went along, always starting with an “A” and adjusting from there. Depending on her mood, the more idiotic the person, the higher her potential final grade. She mainly kept a solid “B,” though not always. Two not quite failing grades marred her record. On one occasion, she attributed her brusqueness with a slow-moving logging crew clearing a fallen tree across Road 130 to her being moody and cramping from a rare bad period.
The second time, a disgruntled driver she was citing for multiple violations gave up trying to impress her with his importance and segued into amateur lawyer mode. After patiently responding to his demands for details on what laws he had broken, her badge number, and what training she’d had, he crossed the line. He implied that she was an affirmative action hire. She told him, “Oh, go fuck yourself,” in anger and exasperation.
In both cases, she gave herself a “D” for public relations, figuring she avoided an “F” by not shooting anybody.
Today, she dutifully gave the impression of listening to the homeowner, wrote notes for her report, asked the man to check again for anything missing, conveyed sorrow for whatever had happened, smiled (she gave herself a bump in grade for that), and continued to her next stop, pleased with her “B” grade.
The beach at Sand Lake Campground lay eight miles north. It had a formal facility for day and vacation campers, including trailers, but was also one of many places along the Pacific Coast where more permanent residents set up anything from crude lean-tos and tents to mobile homes. By county ordinance and state law, such extended stays was illegal, though it was like legislating against the tide. Even if you ran them off, those setting up residence just moved to another beach site or waited until you left and then returned. By unwritten rule, authorities tried to keep the conditions within ill-defined acceptable bounds. At Salt Lake Campground, besides the formal camping areas, people drove out onto the expansive sand dunes and set up wherever piqued their fancy. She’d warn the people she could remember being in the same spot the last time she visited the campground or anyone whose “temporary” camp took on a permanent appearance.
The worst offenders included the scruffier segments of the Tillamook populace. Greta made regular visits to the campground for people disturbing the peace, taking and selling drugs, and breaking into vehicles and trailers, particularly those of tourists who didn’t know better than to leave things unlocked or valuables in plain sight. She didn’t worry about rougher elements. All the regulars knew the routine, and her being a woman wasn’t a problem. Word had gotten around that besides th
e uniform, they should not take lightly 6-foot, 3 inches, and upward of 200 mainly solid pounds of annoyed womanhood. That knowledge convinced the less cooperative denizens not to resist.
She shooed off half a dozen regulars from their encampments, answered questions from several tourists, and came close to making one arrest. The sight of a man taking a dump in the sand next to his dilapidated trailer, right in full view of others, should have resulted in his arrest on several misdemeanor charges. Today, that fine specimen of humanity lucked out. Greta didn’t have time to drive him up to the Tillamook jail, book him, do the paperwork, and still be in Newport for the two o’clock meeting. She settled for giving him fifteen minutes to hook up his trailer and be out of the park before she set fire to the piece of junk. He was three minutes over the deadline. She let it slide. She wondered how she would have written up this incident. Could she have gotten away with calling him a “squatter”?
The Greta Havorsford who had arrived in Tillamook a year ago would have acted and thought differently. The more reserved Greta still lurked, particularly in personal matters, although more often she observed in herself an alternate persona that made her either uneasy or perversely pleased, depending on mood and circumstance.
She headed south toward Newport at noon. With the forecast for fog and drizzle that morning, she had worn the uniform and the heavy coat but had opted to start the day without a bra. She had extras in a carrying bag, in case she needed them. But rather than do a quick change in the vehicle, she made a short stop at home in Pacific City and donned a sports bra. She used them when exercising and when she attended an indoor meeting with her jacket removed. They “flattened” her out so that the obvious possession of D-cups wasn’t added to her already noticeable features. She didn’t know whether it was necessary, but she had gotten in the habit, and she felt less self-conscious and more like a law enforcer. She only chided herself occasionally.
Fully equipped, she continued south on 101 along the coast to Newport. One advantage of the highway south of the county line was that the road hugged the shore much of the way. On overcast days, you didn’t have to worry about driving in and out of fog banks. At least, you knew what the conditions would be in the next mile, with the added benefit that the fog rarely reached sea level.
She drove into the Lincoln County sheriff’s parking lot in Newport at 1:20 p.m., forty minutes early. You couldn’t miss the office. Highway 101 went through the city and past the sheriff’s office and jail. She disliked others being late for appointments and made a point of always being on time or early if possible.
She noted a Quizno’s sub shop a block north and walked over, bought a beef-and-cheese sub and water. After a longing look, she resisted the lemonade and the chips—too many empty calories. She wolfed down the repast, walked the block back to the sheriff’s office, and entered the building at five minutes to two. A polite receptionist asked her business, but before Greta answered, Alex appeared from within a knot of men. He signed her in and led her to the meeting room.
“They’re coming out of the woodwork for this,” he said in a low voice. “First murder in Lincoln County in three years, so everybody and his cousin think they have to be here.”
“So, it was a murder?” asked Greta.
“Definitely. You’ll hear the preliminary medical examiner’s report, and there’s other information that confirms it.”
They walked down a hall to a room that would comfortably hold twenty-five. Thirty people milled around inside, and more were gathering from the hallway.
“Think you got enough people involved in this?” Greta cracked.
Boylan laughed. “Hell, I should sell popcorn to help get me a new vehicle.”
A dozen chairs sat around the central table and another fifteen or more along two side walls. Many of the chairs already had occupants, and those at the table had place name cards.
“As one of the lead investigation team members, I’m supposed to be at the table. Meaning I do most of the legwork in Lincoln County, while the detectives play Colombo. You, on the other hand, being from a foreign power, get to find a chair along the wall or stand in back.”
A deputy she didn’t recognize snagged Boylan, and he had to take a chair at the table. Greta looked around. She was already near the back of the room and didn’t see a close empty seat. During the moments they had stood and talked, the room had filled even more. She edged her way a few feet to the back wall and leaned against it.
She wondered how long this would take and whether it would be one of those “go around the room and tell everyone who you are” sessions. Wallace liked those when he either wanted to impress someone attending or had no real agenda.
A middle-aged, gray-haired, uniformed man interrupted her musings by walking to the podium at the front of the room.
