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“Nothing to be sorry about. And even if there was, it happened after the fact. When the time came that something needed to be done, you did it. That’s all that counts.”
“Thanks,” she said with a wan smile.
“So, here are the main features of the report I intend to file. We went to Umstead’s house to question him about the Toompas case. We accidently stumbled on him and two others engaged in suspected methamphetamine production.”
“A meth lab?”
He looked surprised. “You couldn’t smell it? The whole property reeked of the chemicals. Some of the jugs even still had the original chemical labels on them. I recognized the ones used to synthesize meth, and there was a regular chem lab in the garage. I’ll be surprised if the tests don’t confirm meth production. Anyway,” he continued, “when confronted, Umstead drove his vehicle deliberately at me with intent to do bodily harm, and only my quick reflexes saved me from serious injury or worse.”
Plummer laughed. “Okay, so the quick reflexes are a bit of a stretch. Anyway, as he attempted to flee and you saw him try to run down a fellow officer, you shot out a rear tire to disable the truck. This prevented him from getting on the road and possibly endangering other officers or civilians. You then pulled him out of the damaged truck in case it caught fire and rendered first aid.” Plummer laughed. “Hey, it sounds heroic and like sterling police work when you put it that way.”
“I didn’t really do anything for him.”
“You didn’t shoot him. I count that as rendering aid. I’ll recommend charges of assault on a law enforcement officer and fleeing the scene of a crime. I’m sure once the tests come in, there’ll be other charges. Do you have any other views of what happened today?”
She was quiet for a good half mile. He had recited the story that would minimize any blowback on their actions, alth
ough, as she thought about it, the story was accurate. They had caught Umstead with chemicals used to make meth, Umstead almost ran Plummer over, and he had attempted to flee. She couldn’t see anything to change with the basic story.
“No. That’s what happened. I just keep going over it in my mind to see if I should have done something different.”
“Greta,” he said with a patient yet chiding tone, “wondering if you could have handled any situation different is fine. Some would even say more than just fine. However, such thoughts will only get you in trouble if they appear in print or you say anything. Lawyers will look for any crack to jam a foot into. The more nuanced your recollection, the worse it will seem. It’s not always right, or at least it might not feel right, but it’s reality. Keep the story simple.”
They got to the main office at twenty past three that afternoon. The incident at Umstead’s was the only topic of the day. Every staff member came up and asked about them, wanted to know what happened, and congratulated them on the arrest. Greta felt exhausted, both physically and mentally, and she could tell that Plummer’s ankle pained him.
Wallace insisted on getting a full verbal explanation of everything that happened. They had their matching stories down to fine details during their drive to the office, and they satisfied Wallace by their third time going through events. Greta had the distinct impression that having their story straight was Wallace’s main interest. Only when Plummer’s wife showed up to take him home did Wallace relent and let him and Greta go. Wallace instructed them to be back in the office the next morning for a full formal debriefing and to file a report by noon the next day.
Plummer suggested they get their reports written while they had their stories fresh in mind. He talked to his wife, and she said she’d return when he called. It took about an hour and a half to do most of the paperwork. When Greta lagged, Plummer told her he’d handle the rest of the forms that didn’t necessarily need her input. She thanked him and left.
When she got home, she had too much adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She chugged a glass of wine, which helped a little. After that, she donned a heavy jacket and walked out to the beach. A stiff wind blew off the water. She stood at the top of a dune and relished the wind on her face. After twenty minutes, a chill seeped through her clothes, and she felt hungry. The events of the day lingered but had faded enough for other needs to come to the fore—warmth and food.
For a moment, it flashed through her mind to go out to eat at either La Fiesta or the Surf’s Up Restaurant, but both had too many reminders of the Toompas case. What she craved at that moment was anything that didn’t remind her of work. She went to her freezer and pulled out a TV dinner of Salisbury steak with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. She slowly sipped another glass of wine, while fast-forwarding through a recording of that week’s Dancing with the Stars. She felt less interest than usual. She zipped through the insipid “stars” and the hammy judges to get to the dances, and even those she only half-consciously watched. When she went to bed, instead of falling asleep within seconds as usual, she lay awake for over an hour before drifting off.
She called in sick Friday morning, still rattled from the Umstead incident. She went back to bed and slept until almost ten. Once up, she cleaned the house, then walked out to the beach. She sat on a driftwood log and watched the waves, the seagulls, and an occasional human for two hours. Back home, she pulled weeds in front of the house, napped for an hour, and topped off the day by watching The Sound of Music for perhaps the twentieth time.
On Saturday morning, she rose at eight o’clock and went running. She felt a little guilty leaving the paperwork in Tillamook for Plummer, but if he hadn’t filed the reports yet, they could damn well wait until Monday. The weather was chilly as usual, due to the onshore wind, and today’s version of local weather was among the most distinctive. A heavy fog blew directly off the water, the layer only twenty to thirty feet deep. If she looked straight up, she could see solid blue sky, not a cloud. She knew the phenomenon was transient, and by the time she returned home, the last of the fog had dissipated.
Plummer called as she opened the front door. Umstead was singing away, evidently as soon as he realized they had come to his house about the Toompas murder. The DA agreed to lower the most serious charges if he cooperated on both the Toompas case and the meth lab. Plummer, as the target of the assault charge, agreed to the deal. Under questioning, Umstead had very little new information, only the people whom he supplied the meth to and the identification of the other two men, who were the meth cooks. He had no information relevant to Toompas, burglaries, or anything about the murder.
“He admitted he knew Toompas, but only as a little prick who started fights he couldn’t finish,” said Plummer, disgusted. “He also says Toompas had hinted to him once about burglaries and asked Umstead if he was interested in partnering up with him for extensive house looting. Umstead says he blew Toompas off. He had the impression Toompas planned to strip a house of its furniture and sell it around Salem or up in Portland. He didn’t get any more details, says he figured Toompas couldn’t plan himself out of a puddle.”
“Do you believe him?” Greta asked in resignation.
“Afraid so.”
“And he gets off on the more serious charges while giving us nothing useful?”
“Pretty much. Oh, his information will let the state police roll up people on the meth distribution end. The DA says they’ll question him more at length, but he is cooperating, even if it’s of no obvious use to the Toompas case. DA says a lawyer would claim we were reneging otherwise and might get a judge to support the claim. They don’t want to take the chance. It’s also likely the meth charges will be downgraded. He wasn’t making it himself or distributing—mainly providing a remote location. They’ll give him credit for cooperating.”
“So, what’s the bottom line from yesterday?”
“Likely six months for him and two to three years for the other two guys. Umstead will probably be out in three months.”
She sighed. The wheels of justice.
“So, it’s back to canvassing today?”
“Back to the grind,” he agreed. “Real detective work. Hour after hour of going nowhere. My ankle is better, but I’ll call you if it acts up and I have to quit walking.”
