B.B. Cantwell - Portland Bookmobile 02 - Corpse of Discovery Read Online Free PDF Page A

residents of Downward Dog Farm, the Rajneeshee spinoff commune
on nearby Sauvie Island. Now, has this cult’s disrespect for the rule of law
turned deadly, targeting one of our most prominent civic leaders? I, for one,
won’t rest until questions are answered. I’m Misty Day, for KSNZ News You Can
Use.”
    Darrow had learned
the hard way that trying to correct the wild ideas that some TV reporters
tended to sling about like gravy on Thanksgiving was about as easy as, well,
getting a gravy stain off a silk tie. He turned to face a problem he could do
something about: the crowd of onlookers who were starting to hop the police
tape. He grabbed a bullhorn from the trunk of Harry Harrington’s unmarked blue Caprice.
    “Hey, hey,
folks, let us do our job here, this is a crime scene and we will be here all
day, so please just go home,” Darrow beseeched, his amplified words echoing with
a tinny vibrato through the little canyon beneath the bridge.
    “But I was here
first and if I could just look for the Rose Medallion for two minutes I promise
I won’t touch anything,” pleaded a young mother in Coke-bottle eyeglasses and
chestnut braids with a crying baby in a knitted bag strapped to her chest.
    “NO, I’M SORRY –
” Darrow stopped and lowered the bullhorn as the baby’s cries turned to
shrieks. “I’m sorry,” he said in a muted voice. “We have what looks to be a
homicide here. It has to take priority, I’m sure you understand. Please just go
home.”
    Darrow hadn’t
had any coffee before setting out for his morning run, so now his head was
pounding from caffeine withdrawal. Added to the charley-horse in his right
calf, he was gimping about like Long John Silver after a hard night of
pillaging. He staggered over to his fellow detective.
    “Harry, it looks
like the crime-scene folks and the extra uniforms can handle this now. How
about giving me a lift back downtown?” he asked. “I need to interview a
librarian I know.”
    *     *     *
    DeWitt
Vanderpol had just turned off the television and was on the phone to his law
partner, Gerhard Gerbils.
    “Why do I have to be the one to make a statement about his death?” Gerbils asked, not
trying to conceal a prickly tone.
    “Because you’re
the firm’s spokesman, remember?” said Vanderpol, who did his best to conceal a
lifelong fear of public speaking which he had hoped to overcome by becoming a
lawyer.
    “I just think
you knew him better, you worked with him longer, and besides, I’m the junior
partner, which means you get 5 percent more of the firm’s gross than I do,” Gerbils
added snarkily. Suddenly, something dawned on him. “So…now that Pieter is gone,
shouldn’t we just split things 50-50?”
    “It’s way too
early to be thinking of anything like that!” Vanderpol snapped. “But we just
lost our biggest link to the community. There may not be anything left to split
unless we’re way out in front on this – ‘what a tragedy it is, but we’ll
continue serving our loyal clients, it’s what he’d want,’ all that kind of stuff.
I called the police chief and he expects to have a press briefing tomorrow. I
told him we’d be there.”
    *     *     *
    Pomp
Charbonneau plopped down in the dinette of his travel trailer, the cushions draped
with a French tricolor afghan knitted by Wife No. 2, and munched on a snack of
brie and Triscuits as he paused to admire the new antelope head mounted above his
portable television. He saw no need to tell anyone it was road kill from an
unfortunate accident he’d had driving across Malheur National Wildlife Refuge
on a recent trip to southeastern Oregon.
    He flipped on KSNZ
news in the hope of catching that foxy new anchor girl. So much better than the
old bag she replaced. And he always had an eye out for the “next former Mrs.
Charbonneau,” as he liked to call his romantic conquests.
    There she was!
     “Oh, my heart
goes pitty pat, mon cheri!” he cooed, holding up his wineglass