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“A number of disorderly conduct occurrences, meaning somewhere more than thirty over the years. Some for noise, drunk and disorderly, and occasional fights. No charges ever made for fights. Seems that he liked to pick fights once he was good and soused, but he always lost, so opponents never filed charges, and the local authorities evidently saw no reason to charge a fight loser for starting it.”
Connors quit reading from the reports and looked up.
“The impression is a small-time felon, not too smart, living on the edge of legality, going over the line occasionally, although not too far over as yet. It’s still too early to rule anything out, but Detective Tomasek and I are starting off with the two obvious possible motives. First, that one of Toompas’s illegal activities went bad; and second, his tendency to alienate other people.”
Alienate other people? Greta thought. Why don’t you come right out and say he was always pissing people off?
The pseudo-formal speech endemic to the legal system was one of her bête-noires, along with news media referring to “the suspect” who might have confessed while holding a knife and standing over a body that a dozen witnesses said he stabbed fifty times.
“Even if everything indicates that Toompas was small time, there’s always the chance he tried to expand his activities into things more serious. That’s why Homeland Security is interested. Smuggling drugs into the western U.S. via boat has been creeping up the coast. Last year it was up to northern California, though already this year we had a case in Coos Bay in southern Oregon. So far, there’s no indication our current case is related, but we need to keep an open mind.”
A man standing near Greta whispered in the ear of the man next to him, “Homeland is always looking to get a finger into anything to justify their existence. Watch them go ballistic if we come up with a suspect with an Arabic-sounding name.”
Greta suppressed a laugh. It looked like some of the Lincoln people had a sense of humor.
“The other piece of progress is that we obtained search warrants for Toompas’s house trailer and car,” Connors continued. “We searched the trailer yesterday afternoon and pulled numerous sets of prints that we sent to Salem for records searches. Several weapons were seized, along with drug paraphernalia now being tested. There was no obvious sign the killing took place at the trailer.
“Deputy Boylan found Toompas’s car in the north part of Lincoln City at the Road’s End State Park parking lot this morning. We checked it on site, then had it towed to the Lincoln City Police impound lot, where a thorough search was carried out.”
Connors paused and surveyed his audience, an anticipatory smile on his face.
They found something important in the car, Greta thought, and he’s playing it for all it’s worth. Get on with it!
“The steering wheel, dashboard, and all interior and exterior door handles were clean of any fingerprints.”
Sighs and murmurings cycled through the room. Door handles always had fingerprints. Somebody had wiped the car clean.
After a dramatic pause or whatever Connors thought he was doing, he continued. “When we opened the trunk, there were a number of items, including a pool of dried blood on the trunk floor and a tooth—an upper left molar, according to the medical examiner and confirmed by a local dentist to be from Toompas.”
He paused again to give his audience a moment to appreciate the stellar detective work underway.
“So. Here’s our current scenario. Toompas had an altercation with a second party who struck him a fatal blow to the back of the head. When Toompas didn’t immediately fall, a second blow hit the left side of the head, glancing down past the jaw. The instrument was blunt, such as a hammer. The body was put into Toompas’s trunk, driven to where it was dumped alongside 101, and then the car was driven to Lincoln City and the Road’s End Park. Any surfaces that might have had fingerprints were wiped clean, and the car was left there.
“Why he was killed, who killed him, and where and how they left after dumping the car are unknown at this time. That’s where we are at the present. We’ll know more when all tests are completed.”
Connors turned to Sheriff Harward to indicate he’d finished his summary.
“Any questions?” asked the Lincoln County sheriff.
There were.
“When did the initial report come in?”
“At three nineteen a.m. yesterday.”
Greta groaned inwardly. Come on, people! They already said that.
“When was the car found?”
“This morning at eight thirty-seven.”
Alex had to look at his notes to confirm the exact time. Why that time was important enough to ask, Greta couldn’t see, but it seemed to satisfy the questioner.
“Who was the truck driver?”
“One Bill Bowlers. A long-time resident of Warrenton, up in Clatsop County near Astoria. Coca-Cola driver the last eleven years, no known felony records, two speeding tickets with his own car, not the Coke truck.”
A sly smile and an expectant look to the audience accompanied Connors’s last answer. The Coke trucks, especially when fully loaded and outbound on deliveries, were notorious for their lack of get-up-and-go on the winding, forested, coastal roads. Their only saving grace was that most of the drivers were good at using pull-outs and letting traffic pass. Connors’s statement was rewarded with chuckles, as most people in the room mentally replayed their own experiences with the big red trucks.
