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Armed with a logged-in firing practice and a name to follow up, plus owing a favor, Greta drove off.
She texted Jasmine and asked for a check on Joseph Snyder. Since it was Saturday, she didn’t expect a quick response, which was fortunate. The predicted storm came on time that night, then stalled and battered the county for the next three days. Everyone in the department worked extra shifts to handle traffic accidents, roads flooding, a collapsed house roof trapping the owner inside, and two incongruous building fires during the worst of the wind and rain. The second night, when she got home for a few hours’ sleep, she checked the Internet and found nothing of substance about Mr. Snyder, except that he worked at the Tillamook Cheese Factory as a warehouse foreman and lived on Sandpiper Drive, not six blocks from her house.
On Tuesday morning, the report on Snyder came back from Jasmine: two arrests for disturbing the peace, two fights with the parties mutually responsible, half a dozen speeding tickets, and three complaints by neighbors of suspected domestic violence to his wife, although no charges were filed.
And he likes handguns for real men and dumdum bullets, Greta thought, shaking her head. Sounds like a real sweetie pie.
Another week passed before things quieted down enough for her to get back to Snyder. She wanted to increase the chances he would be home, so she waited until mid-morning on Saturday to visit. Dressed in her full regalia, she parked her sheriff’s utility vehicle in front of 117 Sandpiper Drive at 10 a.m. It was a nondescript house for the neighborhood. The front yard was neat enough and the house well maintained. She walked up the front walkway and rang the doorbell. A woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was of average height, slightly overweight, with brown hair neatly combed and clipped to the right side. Greta got a first impression of resignation from the woman.
“Can I help you?”
In her best “friendly law enforcement woman” voice, Greta introduced herself. “I’d like to speak to Joseph Snyder, please.”
“What’s it about?”
“I just need to speak with him for a few minutes. Is he home?”
The woman hesitated and glanced to one side.
Greta thought, He’s here, but she’s unsure whether he wants to be disturbed or wants to talk to a deputy—or she’s nervous about any dealings with Mr. Snyder. Maybe all three.
“Are you Mrs. Snyder?”
The woman nodded.
“It’ll only take a few minutes and save me having to come back or asking him to come up to Tillamook City to the sheriff’s office.”
See if he likes those options, she thought.
“I’ll see if he’s around,” the woman said and closed the door.
Greta stood on the porch for two minutes before the door opened. Snyder was on the squat side, maybe five foot seven, making him eight inches shorter than her. One look at his expression told her he was a man with grudges against just about everything, particularly people much taller than him and especially a taller woman. He was also unshaven and could stand to lose forty pounds, mostly in his extended belly. Greta felt her skin crawl from an odor that wafted through the door as he appeared.
Good grief! she thought. That woman shares a bed with this troll?
Greta put on her professional face and addressed Snyder, while internally adding comments she couldn’t voice to a member of the public.
“Hello, Mr. Snyder [you cretin], I’m Deputy Sheriff Greta Havorsford [and I’m a hell of lot taller than you]. I’m looking for some information and wanted to ask you a few questions [not that I expect direct answers].”
“About what?” he said with a growl.
“Do you know a Howie Toompas?”
He stared at her, annoyed. “Never heard of him. Why do you want to know?”
r /> She’d suspect he was lying, although somehow she could believe he never read the newspaper or watched the news. Forget the Internet.
“Just checking and gathering information about Mr. Toompas. We understand you may have done target shooting with him and that you had similar interests in .357 Magnum revolvers.”
Snyder’s expression turned to guarded. “I already said I didn’t know this Toompas guy, and who said I have a .357?”
“That’s not important. So, you do own a .357?”
Wariness turned to irritation. “I want to know what this is about before I answer any questions. I know my rights.”
In her sweetest voice, Greta agreed with him. “Of course, you have your rights, Mr. Snyder. I’m sure I can check records for your purchase of a .357 or whether you’ve bought ammunition either locally or with a credit card. But that would take some of my valuable time. In fact, it might take so much of my time that although I would get the information, I wouldn’t have time to come and ask questions here at your house. In that case, you would have to come up to the main office in Tillamook City. I understand you work at the Cheese Factory. I’m sure they would give you time off. In fact, I could contact them to request your presence at the sheriff’s office.”
“Now, no need for that,” Snyder blurted out, his mood instantly shifting.
