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And Toompas! he thought. How did I get on a list of associates of a man I’d never spoken to or been seen with?
CHAPTER 16
Greta gave the Toompas case a day off, after the extremely thin leads of Simpson and Balfour crumbled. A serious Pacific storm was due the following day, so she planned to fill the day with secondary priorities and new calls that needed action.
First up was a straight two-mile section of Sandlake Road north of Pacific City, the longest piece of road without curves in her patrol district. The road ran past farms and scattered homes. Several local residents had complained about speeding, a repeated problem. Once a month, Greta would lurk at the junction of Sandlake and Calloway Road, facing south in the gravel parking area in front of the Nestucca Volunteer Fire Station. Trees blocked her vehicle for drivers coming south, and she had a long view of those coming north. With her radar gun, she could check as they approached and receded. Across the street sat a small store and a two-pump gas station. The straightaway served as an eternal temptation for teenagers, people on the way to work, and tourists exhilarated to find a straight section of road after endless miles of thirty to forty mph speeds around forested curves. The road was also straight enough for daredevils to find out exactly how fast a vehicle would go and for the generally clueless, who thought that obeying speed limits constituted a failure of will.
The morning proved profitable for Tillamook County; their coffers increased by almost $2,400 for four hours of Greta’s day. By the time she moved on, she had issued eleven tickets. Fines varied, depending on how fast the driver was going, whether the vehicle was a car or a truck, whether it was a repeat violation, and whether she thought the driver was a threat in any way. It could have turned into a cash cow for the county, except that these occasional enforcement days suppressed speeding as word got around. Then, when people’s memories faded, their speeding increased until Greta’s next lurking session.
Among the classic miscreants were mothers whose kids had missed the school bus (Greta might give them a pass after a stern warning if it was the first time), repeat offenders who believed getting one ticket lowered their chances of future ones (they were wrong), and those who thought their vehicles were invisible (also wrong).
The latter group mystified Greta or amused her, depending on her mood. Not only were those drivers speeding, which could happen even to the best and most careful of motorists, but they often drove without carrying a license, proof of insurance, or current registration; with obvious vehicle deficiencies (lights out, dragging parts, no windshields); or any combination of these infractions. It never ceased to amaze Greta because they almost asked to be pulled over with multiple violations but then acted shocked or angry when it happened.
Today, she gave out simple citations for single violations that weren’t too egregious. By comparison, on other days things got complicated. Once she had pulled over so many vehicles with multiple violations that she had to impound all the vehicles and confiscate the licenses. The towing companies took hours to transport all the vehicles to the impound lot.
She finished replenishing Tillamook County coffers, as hunger pangs rumbled in her stomach. The first high clouds to precede the coming storm front appeared when she packed up her citation concession and drove out to 101. She parked off to the side in plain sight, while she ate a sandwich, an apple, and a Hershey’s chocolate bar. She ignored any traffic, figuring she could take a lunch break and pretend to be lurking for speeders. It also gave her a chance to think about the Toompas case.
Although she recognized that giving up was always an option, she hated the thought. She mentally browsed over the items in Toompas’s car again. It was certain the killer had transported the body in the trunk of the car, so were any of the items in the car connected to the killing? The receipt and the diving gear had both led somewhere, although not to where she wanted to go. The bullets came to mind, especially the .357 Magnum pistol dumdum bullets.
There being no database of gun owners, no one knew how many .357 Magnums existed in Tillamook County. They didn’t find a gun in Toompas’s car or trailer, so why did he have the bullets? Who needed that powerful a handgun? An intent to use, like in a robbery? Was it just one of those macho associations? A powerful gun making the person feel more empowered? If Toompas had a .357 Magnum, did he take it out to fire it? If he did, it would probably be either out in the woods or at a firing range. She suspected Toompas went out into the woods, but only ranges provided any place where she could check.
Tillamook County had two firing ranges. One was south of Tillamook City, a formal gun club. Not a Toompas demographic, but worth a check. The other range was more basic, more like a cleared alley set against a hillside with some targets set up. It had a proprietor and a clientele of mainly local drop-ins.
Department policy required Greta to fire once a month with each of her assigned firearms. She had to write in her log book the dates and places where she had fired. The duty officer in Tillamook would then look at the log every few months. She also had to turn in the empty cartridges of the required rounds: fifteen (one magazine) of the .40 caliber rounds for the Glock pistol, five for the Remington 870 pump shotgun, and nineteen rounds for the Colt .223 caliber AR-15 semiautomatic carbine. Officers could fire as much as they wanted, but the department paid for only the required rounds.
Greta had never even held a firearm before taking the job in Tillamook County. It wasn’t that rural Missouri lacked firearms, just that no one in her immediate family had them. Some of the girls her age either hunted or at some point had boyfriends who took them shooting. Greta had never experienced either situation.
The first time Greta shot a gun had been at the Oregon Police Training Academy in Portland. There she had classes and range training in the basic weapons adopted by most Oregon departments, including the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department.
Although she didn’t think she would ever be comfortable with guns, she picked up the basics quickly. Other women in her training sessions had more problems with the range aspects than she did. Her size and throwing events in track and field stood her in good stead, especially with the kick of the shotguns and the pistols. The AR-15 had so little kick, a child could fire it easily, but its deadly nature made her wonder why the Tillamook Sheriff’s Department needed it.
One answer was obvious. The men liked to play with AR-15s. The department even had a “SWAT” team with its five members, a sergeant and four patrol officers from the northeastern districts, all buddies of Wallace. Those five and the sheriff got together once a month to play at hostage and terrorist scenarios and shoot up targets with enough ammunition to supply a small war. Somehow, the strict limit on regular range rounds didn’t apply to Tillamook’s elite reaction force. If the North Koreans ever invaded the Oregon coast, Tillamook was ready.
Greta had missed her monthly range visit, due to Christmas, so she needed to catch up anyway. The small range east of Beaver provided a twofer—she could get in her range time and inquire about .357 Magnums. She drove into the gravel parking area in front of the dilapidated building that served as the range office. Through a window, the property owner saw her car and came out to meet her.
“Hey there, Deputy Greta, how y’all doin’?”
Rick Rhodes was a chimera out of a mixed-up casting attempt. Fifty-something, he had tattoos, one earring, a Mohawk haircut, and one front tooth missing. He was a certified gun nut and a survivalist, with a Southern accent dripping in fried food—yet all in all, a genuinely polite man.
“Hi there, Rick. What’s shakin’ in the end-of-the-world community?”
“Ah keep tellin’ yuh, it’s gonna happen. Jus’ yuh wait’n see.”
“I bet you been telling people that the last forty years.”
“And ah’ll be warnin’ anyone who’ll listen right till it happens.”
It was a variation on their regular exchange. Rhodes had been curious about the new female sheriff’s deputy when she first arrived, and her friendly attitude toward him and her earnestness at improving her shooting skills made him warm to her. She suspected that he had tried to hit on her a couple of times at first, if that was what he was doing. She politely turned him away, though she appreciated the intent.
“Good luck with that. I’m here for my monthly practice. Range free right now?”
She assumed it was because she hadn’t heard shots or seen other cars, but she always let Rhodes check her in formally.
“No problem. All quiet so far today. Maybe later, ah’ll get sum uh the boys comin’ in to beat the storm they say’ll hit tonight. Yuhr usual trifecta?”
“Yep. All three guns and the minimum rounds.”
“Ah also keep tellin’ yuh if yuh practiced more, yuh’d be a crack shot. Not many female types got yuhr natural feel fur guns.”
