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Authors: Patricia H. Rushford
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out of his left jacket pocket. “Detective Callen Riley. I’m with the Oregon State Police. We’re investigating a burglary.”
The fisherman glanced at the badge then turned back to his task. A stream of water shot from the nozzle, hitting the deck full force. The wind picked up some of the spray and tossed it in Callen’s direction.
He stepped back.
“Sorry about that.” The fisherman turned the nozzle on the hose to shut it off.
“No problem. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Nope.”
Despite the man’s lined face, Callen judged him to be in his thirties, already a crusty fisherman.
“Uh—name’s Dean Jenkins.” The fisherman jumped onto the dock, setting it to rocking so hard that Callen had to grab hold of a nearby piling to keep from toppling. He set his legs apart to maintain his balance.
“How long have you been here today?” Callen asked.
“Depends. I came out around 4:00 this morning. Took a couple guys out bottom fishing. We all got our limits and came in. Been in for about an hour.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual around here this morning?”
Jenkins frowned then turned the nozzle back on, moving the stream of water back and forth across the dock, where the morning’s catch had apparently been gutted and cleaned.
“Nope. Why’re you asking?”
Callen used the back of his arm to wipe perspiration off his forehead. Even though the temperature was only in the high sixties, the sun was baking him through his jacket and sweatshirt.
“There was an armed robbery at the pharmacy up the street around 9:00 this morning.”
“Sorry. We were still out past the breakers then.” Jenkins turned off the water at the spigot and began wrapping the hose in loops around a hook protruding from the piling. “Anybody hurt?”
“Mr. Bergman was injured, and we have one fatality.” Callen withheld the boy’s name and the circumstances.
Jenkins frowned and shook his head. “Too bad. You might want to talk to the guy who owns that rig across the way.” Jenkins pointed to a thirty-foot sailboat on the next dock over. “The owner lives aboard. Fellow by the name of Jake Ensley. Better do it quick though. He’s just passing through on his way to Victoria.”
“Thanks.”
Callen walked back up to the main dock. Coming up the ramp, he noticed what looked like a person lying inside the fence and directly behind the abandoned cannery. His system went on alert. He ducked beside a dumpster, checking the area. From his vantage point, he couldn’t tell if the guy was dead or just sleeping off the remnants of cheap booze.
There didn’t seem to be anyone around, so he hurried back the way he’d come and stopped at the fence. Whoever it was didn’t appear to be moving. Looked like a corpse to him—especially considering the dark stain on the bleached wood next to the body. The stain could be wine, but experience told him otherwise. He had to check it out before calling for another crime lab team.
Using his cell phone, he notified dispatch and asked to be connected with Nick Caldwell. While he waited, he looked for a way around the fence. The only way he could see to get in other than to cut off the lock was to swim.
He told Nick what he’d seen and asked him to bring cutters to deal with the lock. “I don’t see any easy way in here,” he said. “The building is boarded up.”
“Copy,” Nick said. “But we don’t have to go through the gate. Come on up to the front of the cannery. There’s a place on the far west end where the boards are loose that will give us direct access.”
Minutes later the three men squeezed through an opening that should have been boarded up to prevent trespassers from entering a dangerous area.
The rickety dock groaned and swayed with their weight as they walked the twenty or so feet to the body. Nick emerged from the building and joined them.
Callen hunkered down to get a better look. A kid, eighteen maybe. “He’s dead.” He glanced up at
The fisherman glanced at the badge then turned back to his task. A stream of water shot from the nozzle, hitting the deck full force. The wind picked up some of the spray and tossed it in Callen’s direction.
He stepped back.
“Sorry about that.” The fisherman turned the nozzle on the hose to shut it off.
“No problem. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Nope.”
Despite the man’s lined face, Callen judged him to be in his thirties, already a crusty fisherman.
“Uh—name’s Dean Jenkins.” The fisherman jumped onto the dock, setting it to rocking so hard that Callen had to grab hold of a nearby piling to keep from toppling. He set his legs apart to maintain his balance.
“How long have you been here today?” Callen asked.
“Depends. I came out around 4:00 this morning. Took a couple guys out bottom fishing. We all got our limits and came in. Been in for about an hour.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual around here this morning?”
Jenkins frowned then turned the nozzle back on, moving the stream of water back and forth across the dock, where the morning’s catch had apparently been gutted and cleaned.
“Nope. Why’re you asking?”
Callen used the back of his arm to wipe perspiration off his forehead. Even though the temperature was only in the high sixties, the sun was baking him through his jacket and sweatshirt.
“There was an armed robbery at the pharmacy up the street around 9:00 this morning.”
“Sorry. We were still out past the breakers then.” Jenkins turned off the water at the spigot and began wrapping the hose in loops around a hook protruding from the piling. “Anybody hurt?”
“Mr. Bergman was injured, and we have one fatality.” Callen withheld the boy’s name and the circumstances.
Jenkins frowned and shook his head. “Too bad. You might want to talk to the guy who owns that rig across the way.” Jenkins pointed to a thirty-foot sailboat on the next dock over. “The owner lives aboard. Fellow by the name of Jake Ensley. Better do it quick though. He’s just passing through on his way to Victoria.”
“Thanks.”
Callen walked back up to the main dock. Coming up the ramp, he noticed what looked like a person lying inside the fence and directly behind the abandoned cannery. His system went on alert. He ducked beside a dumpster, checking the area. From his vantage point, he couldn’t tell if the guy was dead or just sleeping off the remnants of cheap booze.
There didn’t seem to be anyone around, so he hurried back the way he’d come and stopped at the fence. Whoever it was didn’t appear to be moving. Looked like a corpse to him—especially considering the dark stain on the bleached wood next to the body. The stain could be wine, but experience told him otherwise. He had to check it out before calling for another crime lab team.
Using his cell phone, he notified dispatch and asked to be connected with Nick Caldwell. While he waited, he looked for a way around the fence. The only way he could see to get in other than to cut off the lock was to swim.
He told Nick what he’d seen and asked him to bring cutters to deal with the lock. “I don’t see any easy way in here,” he said. “The building is boarded up.”
“Copy,” Nick said. “But we don’t have to go through the gate. Come on up to the front of the cannery. There’s a place on the far west end where the boards are loose that will give us direct access.”
Minutes later the three men squeezed through an opening that should have been boarded up to prevent trespassers from entering a dangerous area.
The rickety dock groaned and swayed with their weight as they walked the twenty or so feet to the body. Nick emerged from the building and joined them.
Callen hunkered down to get a better look. A kid, eighteen maybe. “He’s dead.” He glanced up at
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