Footprints to Murder Page 8

  ‘You think Jim Davis caught Martin spying on him and snapped?’

  ‘It’s certainly possible. How well do you know the Davises?’

  The question caught me a bit off guard. ‘Hardly at all. I talked to Jim and his wife last night at dinner. They don’t seem like devious types to me. Jim really believes that Bigfoot exists and that it’s just a matter of time before he or someone else captures one – dead, alive or on film. You should have seen the look on his face this morning, Jake. The man was over the moon when his alarm went off. I don’t think he’s that good an actor. And Athena?’ I paused. ‘She was positively levitating.’

  Jake leaned against a tree trunk, deep in thought. When he didn’t comment, I said, ‘You told me you’re a believer. Tell me about the time you saw Bigfoot.’

  ‘I was around twelve,’ he replied. ‘It was winter and I was out duck-hunting with my dad and my uncle. We were riding snowmobiles through a track in the forest going maybe twenty, twenty-five miles an hour. Uncle Joe’s vehicle turned left ahead of us …’ he demonstrated with his hand, ‘… and as we banked into the turn, too, I happened to look to my right and there, staring at me from behind a tree was a hairy, ape-like creature. About eight feet tall, I reckoned. Widow’s peak, wrinkly leather-like face, the whole nine yards. He looked at me, I looked at him, then he took off running.’

  ‘Did your dad see it, too?’

  Jake shook his head. ‘I was too scared to ask. Kept the story to myself for years.’ He smiled. ‘You’re only about the second person in the world I’ve told.’

  The silence between us was shattered by a ringing phone, causing me to jump.

  ‘Sorry, mine,’ Jake said, fishing in his breast pocket.

  I scowled. ‘If you have a phone, why’d you need to borrow mine?’

  He showed me his phone then flipped it open. A basic, no-frills clam shell. ‘I’m a low-tech kind of guy. No camera.’ He put the phone to his ear. ‘Cummings.’

  As I waited, listening in, Jake gave someone directions to our location then snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye. ‘Sheriff’s on the way,’ he said. ‘Just rounding up her posse.’

  Thinking about a monster that could still be running loose in the woods around us, I asked, ‘Do you carry a gun, Jake?’

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘Lord, no. I have grandkids at home.’

  ‘Wise,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen too many kids …’ His voice trailed off. ‘Not going there.’

  That was when a parade of five individuals in uniforms approached, three in khaki and two in dark blue, snaking single file through the trees and down the Riverwalk Trail. Every one of them was packing heat.

  ‘Sheriff’s department from Sisters,’ Jake told me as the officers drew nearer. ‘Headquarters in Bend.’

  A female officer, hatless, her medium-length dark brown hair twisted into a no-nonsense knot at the nape of her neck, took a quick look at the body then approached us and introduced herself. Detective Lieutenant Barbara Cook wore a shiny badge, a star patch on her sleeve and a frown. ‘We don’t get many murders here, Cummings. Mostly speeding, hazmat and animal control.’ She jerked her head backward, indicating the two deputies who were pounding metal stakes into the ground and stringing yellow crime scene Do Not Cross tape between them. ‘What does it look like to you?’

  ‘Early days yet,’ Jake said. He took a moment to explain how Harley had picked up a scent and followed it up to the parking lot where the trail had gone cold.

  Lieutenant Cook nodded. Glancing with approval at her team who were busily securing the crime scene, she asked, ‘Reckon it was a grizzly?’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Nothing would surprise me but I like to leave those things up to the ME.’

  Barbara Cook was solidly built, like she might have played women’s soccer in college and been very good at it. Like she kept herself in shape at the gym. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Someone from the ME will be here shortly.’

  Jake introduced me and explained briefly how we’d come to be there.

  ‘So, you’re one of the organizers of this Sasquatch do?’ she asked, turning to me.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. When we’re done here I’ll need you to go up to the lodge and organize an interview room for us. Board room, conference room, something like that. If someone’s already in it you have my permission to boot ’em out. How many people are attending this conference, anyway?’

  ‘Two hundred, more or less. I don’t know how many are on the hotel staff.’

  ‘Jimminy.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Oh, well, it is what it is. We’ll need bottled water, ice and soft drinks. Talk to the kitchen and see if you can round up some sandwiches. Nothing fancy. I figure we’re in this for the long haul.’

  While she dealt with us, two crime-scene technicians – one with a camera – were dealing with the late Martin Radcliffe. ‘Who was he, anyway, the victim?’

  ‘He’s a TV star from LA,’ I said. ‘His job is to make people look either dishonest or stupid. I imagine he has lots of enemies.’

  ‘But who in this bunch might have had it out for the guy?’

  ‘Nobody’s going to be wearing a black armband,’ I said.

  Cook frowned. ‘An insider, then. I’m going to assume that nobody’s going to be making a fun trip up to Oregon when they could just as easily bump the guy off in LA.’

  ‘They might,’ I said. ‘Particularly if they wanted to pin it on Sasquatch.’

  Cook’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of them, too.’

  ‘A Squatcher? Not really. Just doing a job. Helping out a friend.’

  Cook made a flapping motion with her hand. ‘Better get the show on the road, I guess.’ Meaning me.

  With a nod to Jake, I made a wide circle to avoid the crime-scene tape then headed up the hill. When I was about halfway up the path, Cook called after me. ‘And I’ll need a complete list of attendees!’

  I waved, indicating that I’d heard.

  EIGHT

  9 December 1882. ‘A few days ago I saw one of these strange creatures … on the coast between Bateman’s Bay and Ulladulla. I should think that if it were standing perfectly upright it would be nearly 5 feet high. It was tailless and covered with very long black hair, which was of a dirty red or snuff-colour about the throat and breast. Its eyes, which were small and restless, were partly hidden by matted hair that covered its head.’

  H. J. M’Cooey, ‘The Naturalist: Australian Apes.’ Australian Town and Country Journal, December 9, 1882, p. 23

  When I emerged from the woods I found three official vehicles blocking the trail head, two white cruisers labeled SHERIFF – the blue letters leaning back as though facing into a high wind – and the Sisters/Camp Sherman Fire Medic ambulance. If the vehicles were not already a dead giveaway (so to speak), when I caught up with Susan a few minutes later I learned that the bad news had spread through the lodge faster than rumors of an increase in the minimum wage.

  With the possible exception of a quiet heart attack by some septuagenarian on a weekend canoodle with his ‘secretary,’ the staff at the lodge were not used to dealing with sudden, violent death investigations. They lived, after all, in Flat Rock Freaking Oregon.

  It had been impossible to keep everyone in the conference room, as Susan had been instructed.

  Tina, the server, had fled almost immediately, getting those in the kitchen stirred up: ‘The conference will have to be cancelled, the temp staff let go! Everyone is under suspicion!’

  Susan Lockley had been cornered by a worried group of attendees in the hallway outside the Meriwether Lewis Room.

  ‘I paid good money to attend this conference!’

  ‘If it’s cancelled, will I get my money back?’

  ‘My tickets are non-refundable, in case you didn’t know!’

  Meanwhile, Ron Murphy, who was seeing the prospect of two years of planning swirl down the drain, could be seen wringing his ball
cap in his gnarled mechanic’s hands while enduring a spectacular E. Gregory Gilchrist tongue-lashing where every sentence was prefaced by the words: ‘My attorney …’

  Sensing defeat, Susan had given Ron Murphy the task of juggling the ruined program and escaped to find the hotel manager. After a quick consult with the front desk, that’s where I found her.

  The manager, Jared Tucker, had the clean-cut good looks of a young man fresh from a two-year stint as a Mormon missionary. When I barged in, he and Susan were in the midst of a heated discussion that my arrival did nothing to cool.

  Susan turned on me. ‘What the hell did Jake Cummings want you for, anyway? Leaving me to deal with all this … this …’ She flapped her hand.

  ‘A witness, I think.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you answer my texts?’

  I decided not to mention my ‘lost’ iPhone. ‘I have a message from Lieutenant Cook,’ I said. ‘She’s the officer in charge. From what I can tell, she plans to interview everybody and they’ll need a conference room to do it in.’

  ‘Everyone? You have got to be kidding!’ Susan sputtered. ‘That’ll take forever. People have planes to catch, miles to drive, jobs to get back to.’

  I held up both hands, palms out. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Susan. I’m just telling you what Lieutenant Cook said. Maybe she exaggerates.’

  Susan took a deep, calming breath. ‘This is a disaster. From day one, it’s been a disaster.’

  ‘More of a disaster for the victim, I think, don’t you?’ I said reasonably.

  Susan collapsed backward into a chair, her arms dangling limply to each side. She looked as exhausted as I felt. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so stressed. It was Martin Radcliffe, wasn’t it? The green shoes? They were his trademark, apparently, so everyone says.’

  I squeezed my friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’m probably the only one in the world who hasn’t seen this morning’s video,’ Jared said. ‘Can you fill me in on what happened, please?’

  I summarized what I’d seen then added: ‘I didn’t get all that close to Martin’s body but I think, uh, maybe someone broke his neck?’ No need to go into the gory details, I thought. Martin Radcliffe would be just as dead no matter how simple or elaborate the tale.

  ‘Susan, the police want a complete list of conference attendees,’ I added, ‘presumably with contact information.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ Susan said, sounding relieved. This was something she could easily provide. ‘Jared, can we print it out here?’

  ‘Of course. And I’ll provide the sheriff’s office with a staff list, too.’ He managed a tight-lipped smile. ‘Although I can’t imagine that any among our staff would be involved. With very few exceptions, they’ve worked here for years.’ He checked his watch. ‘Ouch! It’s forty-five minutes until lunch. Do you want me to tell the kitchen to delay it?’

  Susan sat up straight and adjusted her straight black skirt which had ridden halfway up her thighs. ‘No, no. The sponsors and I agree that everything needs to go on more or less as scheduled. Besides, it’ll give folks something to do – something to talk about other than poor Martin.’

  ‘Is there a conference room the police can use, Jared?’ I asked.

  Jared nodded. ‘There’s a board room adjacent to the dealers’ room. We’ve been using it to store the cardboard boxes their stuff came in but I can get that cleared away, moved temporarily to the furniture storage area in the basement. We can have it ready by noon, I should think. What else do the police need?’

  ‘Coffee, tea, bottled water, sandwiches.’ I paused then dared to wink. ‘And some of your chocolate-chip cookies?’

  Jared managed a smile. ‘Sure.’ With a slight bow, and a ‘Ladies, if you’ll excuse me,’ he went off to see to it.

  When we were alone, I asked, ‘Susan, what do we do about the programs? Everything’s all screwed up.’

  ‘Ron and I worked it out. We’ll announce the changes at lunch and hand out copies of the revised schedule.’

  Thinking about how quickly the three talks on that morning’s agenda had simply evaporated, I asked, ‘How on earth did you manage that?’

  ‘If we shorten the lunch hour from an hour and a half to an hour and eliminate the mid-afternoon coffee break …’ She paused. ‘Don’t look so crushed! We’ll still have the coffee but people will just have to wander in and out of the sessions to get it.’

  ‘OK by me,’ I said. I was already running on an adrenaline high. I didn’t need to escalate it with caffeine.

  ‘We’re trying again with Professor Cloughly,’ she said. ‘Slotting her in just after lunch.’

  ‘Scat or hair?’

  ‘What?’ Susan looked puzzled, her mind already elsewhere. ‘Oh, right. Both. Scat and hair. We’ve still got the PowerPoint program queued up for her talk on scat analysis. The hair bit is simply an announcement of the results of the university’s DNA analysis of the samples. She says it will take ten minutes, max.’

  ‘Everyone’s been waiting for those results, especially Leah Solat,’ I said, thinking that the results might not turn out to be all that ‘simple.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Leah Solat. A reporter for The Sacramento Bee. One of the samples came from a sighting near Strawberry, California. Leah told me that somebody with ties to the paper had a summer cabin up there. When they returned for the season something had broken into the cabin and ransacked the place. They found fifteen-inch footprints in the snow outside one of the windows and tufts of fur on what was left of the back door.’

  ‘Makes me glad I live in a condo,’ Susan said, rising wearily from the chair. ‘On the seventh floor.’

  ‘There’s a bit of time left before lunch,’ I said. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do?’

  ‘Yes, please. After you help get the conference room set up, could you cruise through the dealers’ room and let everyone know what’s going on? As far as I know, they were all busy at their booths when Jim’s camera alarm went off. If they’re worried, please explain that nobody’s going to cancel anything. We’re in it for the long haul.’

  ‘I’d been wanting to visit the dealers anyway. Catch you at lunch?’

  ‘Not much of an appetite, I’m afraid, but yes.’

  For some reason, the events of the morning had sharpened my appetite rather than killed it, but I wasn’t about to announce that fact. ‘I’m not all that hungry either,’ I lied.

  After giving my old friend a reassuring hug, I trotted off to take care of arrangements for Detective Lieutenant Cook and her staff and, after that, to check out the exhibits in the dealers’ room.

  NINE

  ‘… The DEC does not recognize the occurrence of Big Foot in [New York] state, therefore it is not addressed directly in our hunting regulations. Because it is not addressed there is no open season on Big Foot and they may not be taken. We are confident that the current laws and regulations afford adequate protection for Big Foot if one were to be found in NY.’

  Mark Kandel, Regional Wildlife Manager, New York State Department of Environmental Conservation, August 13, 2012

  After running several laps between the lobby and the Sacajawea Board Room by taking a shortcut through the dealers’ room, I finally slowed down long enough to take in my surroundings.

  Fifteen vendors had paid the two-hundred-and-fifty dollar fee for the privilege of exhibiting at the Flat Rock Sasquatch Sesquicentennial. A combination of modest tables and more elaborate booths lined the walls of the room, while a four-sided, free-standing display featuring an electronic device called the FLIR One occupied the center.

  Among all the booths, however, Prairie Flower’s Trading Company made the biggest splash. Native American art covered the wall just behind the booth and her tables – three long ones arranged end to end – displayed a variety of merchandise. Books, T-shirts, calendars, glassware, mugs, keychains, jewelry. A bumper sticker proclaime
d ‘I Brake 4 Bigfoot.’ From Prairie Flower I could buy a cutting board shaped like a footprint carved out of Oregon myrtle wood, or if that was too expensive, a bathmat. For the children in my life, a Sasquatch doll – ‘Squeeze the Squatch’ – or a ‘L’il Squatch’ onesie. For my husband, Bigfoot playing cards. Clearly, Bigfoot was a star. His image appeared on more T-shirts and hats than Blitz, the Seattle Seahawk. You’d think he was the mascot of the Northwest.

  I was tempted to browse but first I had a job to do.

  With my back to the FLIR display, I used my loudest outdoor voice to get everyone’s attention, introduce myself, explain what little I knew about Martin’s tragic death and the ongoing investigation and announce, as Susan had instructed, that in good, old-fashioned ‘the show must go on’ tradition, the show would, well, go on.

  It may have been my imagination but a collective sigh of relief rippled around the room, setting the table skirts aflutter. From a booth somewhere behind me, someone began to applaud.

  Poor Martin, I thought. Gone and so quickly forgotten. But perhaps he was destined to live on forever through syndicated late-night re-runs.

  FLIR, I learned, when I turned in the direction of the applause, stood for forward-looking infrared. FLIR One was a clever gizmo that instantly converted your smart phone into a thermal imaging camera. ‘It works by detecting heat energy,’ the salesman told me when I asked him, holding one up. ‘It gives you the ability to see and measure minute temperature variances. You can use it to detect energy leaks, empty propane canisters, hidden moisture and other problems around your home.’

  ‘That would come in handy,’ I said, thinking about the drafts that plagued us, particularly in the basement office of our centuries-old house in historic downtown Annapolis. The $200 price tag seemed like a good investment.