Strung out to Die: Doug Fletcher, #15

Chapter 1

As Grace Watanabe crested the hill approaching the Manzanar National Historic Site, she was surprised to see a Toyota Prius parked alongside the entrance road with the driver’s door open. Drawing closer, she noticed that there seemed to be something entangled in the barbed wire fence behind the car.

Grace, who was not a morning person, was driving to Manzanar to open the site. Still half asleep and sipping iced coffee from her travel mug, she assumed an animal had run into the fence the previous evening, and that one of the rangers was checking it out. Yes, there’s a ranger there. Wait, why is he tangled in the fence?

Pulling off the access road and parking near the Prius, Grace trotted to the scene, her mind unable to comprehend what she was seeing. At first, she thought someone had dressed a mannequin in a Park Service uniform and tangled it in the wire as a joke. Getting closer, she saw blood staining the ranger’s shirt.

Oh geez! It’s Red Petersen! Stopping a few feet behind the abandoned Prius, Grace dialed 911.

Inyo County 911. How may I assist you?

There’s a dead ranger at Manzanar.

Where is Manzanar, and are you sure the person is dead?

Manzanar is a national historic site off the highway. It’s where the Japanese Americans were relocated during World War II.

Can you provide a nearby crossroads?

Grace, who’d driven to her ranger job on the same route for 37 years, looked over her shoulder at a passing car on the highway. The shock of the discovery caused her mind to go blank. There’s no crossroads. The entrance is right on the highway. You can see the guard tower from miles away.

Which highway?

Becoming infuriated with herself and the dispatcher she replied, There’s a long name for the highway. The Grand something or other.

Is there a road number?

Of course, there is. I’m standing here staring at a dead body and the highway number isn’t coming to mind.

Is the historic place on ‘The Grand Army of the Republic Highway’? That’s Highway 395.

Yes, Grace sighed. Can you send someone?

You said there’s someone dead there? Are you sure the person is deceased?

Cocking her head, Grace watched several flies buzz around the victim’s neck. I’m reasonably certain. I mean, there are already flies circling his body.

Do you know the deceased person?

I’m pretty sure it’s Erik Red Petersen. He’s the only red-headed ranger here.

I’ve dispatched a deputy. What’s your name?

Grace. Grace Watanabe. I’m a ranger here.

Ms. Watanabe, can you stay at that location until the deputy arrives?

Yeah. Sure. This is where I work. I’m technically on duty now.

Ending the 911 call, Grace punched in her superintendent’s phone number. What’s up, Grace?

Red is dead. I found his body when I arrived at the visitor center this morning. The Inyo County dispatcher is sending a deputy.

Red is dead? Was he in an accident on the highway or...

It appears his throat was cut. His Prius is parked outside of the entrance and his body is hanging from the barbed wire.

What the hell? Ed Richardson asked rhetorically. Everyone liked Red.

While not looking directly at the body, Grace tried to keep the growing hysteria out of her voice. Clearly, not everyone liked Red.

Chapter 2

Converting a back bedroom into a home office offered me privacy and fewer interruptions, allowing me to dig through piles of US Park Service cold cases. The downside was the lack of interruptions left me sitting in my chair for hours at a time without mental or physical breaks from the files. The silence, compared to the constant background noise and interruptions of working in my North Padre Island National Seashore office, seemed like a godsend. After a few weeks of working from home, I discovered that I missed walking to the break room for a cup of coffee where there was always a ranger to speak to. The topics of weather (hot and humid), and sports teams (I didn’t care) seemed inane, but they offered me a chance to stretch and talk to someone besides my wife. They also brought me up to date on North Padre Island National Seashore gossip, as well as updates on new stores, restaurants on the island, and Texas politics.

I missed all that as I walked to my home kitchen and poured my third cup of coffee from a carafe that had been cooking down since I brewed it at 6:30 AM. A splash of creamer diluted the acidity and nearly covered the burnt flavor. I was pouring the dregs into the sink when the front door opened and Jill, my wife and investigative partner, walked in. Quickly assessing the coffee situation, she shook her head. Let’s buy a Keurig. Every cup is fresh.

The old Mr. Coffee machine still works.

Jill stared at the tarry residue in the carafe. I know it just kills you to throw away things that are still functioning but think of it as moving ahead in technology. We got rid of our Blackberries, and now we have Android cell phones with more functions.

I never owned a Blackberry. I had a flip phone I used to make phone calls. I never needed all that other stuff.

I’m continually amazed that an intelligent man can’t throw away a coffee maker that came in a box with Joe DiMaggio’s picture. When did he die? Jill pulled out her phone and started pressing the buttons. There. A second-generation Keurig will arrive tomorrow by 7:00 PM. It’s coming with a K-cup sampler pack so you can decide which flavor of coffee you prefer.

Unhappy with the turn of events, or possibly about losing the argument, I rebelled. I like coffee-flavored coffee. I don’t need a sampler pack of foo-foo drinks.

Jill walked over and turned her phone so I could see her screen. All the options are coffee flavored. There’s Donut Shop blend, Hawaiian blend, Blue Mountain blend, Nantucket blend, and more. I didn’t buy you the assortment with hazelnut and cinnamon bun flavors.

My cell phone, still sitting on the desk in the other room, chirped. Dashing back to the office, I accepted the call and activated the speaker function before it rolled over to voicemail. Fletcher.

I’ve got an investigation you’re not going to like, my boss said.

Great, Jack. You seem to find a lot of those.

"I don’t find them, Doug. They just show up."

Do your other investigators get distasteful investigations, or do you save them all for us?

Most of our investigations are more straightforward. I need your detective expertise and Jill’s diplomatic skills in places I wouldn’t send my other investigators.

Curious about the conversation, Jill leaned against the office door. So, you’ve got another ambiguous case with political implications you’d like us to take?

Jack laughed. Jill, you make it sound like you have a choice in your assignments.

Jill sat in the chair next to the speaker. So, what’s the case?

A ranger was found dead in Manzanar National Historic Site yesterday morning. One of the other rangers came in to open the visitor center and found Erik Red Peterson, who’d been on duty the previous afternoon, dead. His throat had been cut and his body was draped over a barbed wire fence.

Frowning while deep in thought, Jill asked, Is Manzanar the World War II Japanese relocation camp?

That’s it. The location is just west of Death Valley National Park. It’s in California, not far from the Nevada border.

Was there something special going on with that ranger? I asked. A recent divorce or breakup? Financial problems? Gambling?

According to the superintendent, the victim was congenial and well liked.

Is there something going on at the site? Jill asked. Are they having protesters or is anyone suing the Park Service?

Richardson says, there’s always a low level of discontent among several groups. People show up on special occasions to hang prayer ribbons on the monument or a person might picket the gate. None of that has been going on recently.

You mentioned a political aspect to it, I said.

The Inyo County Sheriff’s Department was called to the scene. They apparently have problems with shipments of Mexican drugs moving up the highway past the site. The sheriff is convinced that the ranger was either dealing drugs, or he was killed by someone when a drug deal fell apart.

"Is there any reason to believe the dead ranger was involved in the drug trade?" I asked.

Not at all. By all accounts, Erik Petersen was a boy scout. He drank only to be sociable. He wasn’t in a relationship with any of the female rangers, although some of them thought he was cute. The superintendent was with the county deputies when they searched Petersen’s apartment, and they didn’t find drugs or drug paraphernalia. It’s highly unlikely he was into drugs.

Maybe he stumbled into a drug deal, Jill suggested.

That’s an angle to consider, Jack replied.

Why do you want us involved? Jill asked.

The superintendent told me the sheriff isn’t even going to look at any of the protestors or other parties with potential issues. The sheriff told Richardson that if the Park Service wanted something else investigated, he’d have to find someone to do it.

That doesn’t sound political, I replied. The sheriff is looking one way. We can look the other.

The problem may come if you find a murderer who isn’t part of a cartel. The sheriff might not be willing to accept that result. It would call his total focus on the drug aspect into question, which would make him look bad.

Jill grinned at me and said, A smartass former St. Paul detective told me to collect evidence, then let it lead me to the motive and murderer. By finding the solution first, cops tend to pick and choose evidence that fits their preconceived decision.

Does Jill always refer to you as a smartass? Jack asked.

She does, and I want to file a harassment complaint.

No problem, Jack replied. Fill it out on the Park Service Human Resources database. Make sure to cite specific incidents and the dates they occurred. The Park Service will have an inspector general or legal counsel contact you to discuss your complaint. Jack paused. Oh wait, that won’t work because Jill does all the computer paperwork. You probably don’t know how to pull up a form in the HR database.

Snorting, Jill replied, He’s a dinosaur, Jack.

Ignoring Jill’s dig, I asked, Which airport is closest to Manzanar?

You can take your pick. Las Vegas, Reno, and LA are all about two hundred miles away.

Great, I replied. Centrally located in the middle of nowhere.

Jack laughed. Fletcher, you were the person who told me he hated big cities. There are no big cities near Manzanar. You’ll love it.

How soon do we need to be there? Jill asked.

The body was found yesterday. The superintendent called me this morning after talking with the sheriff. I think the sooner you get there, the sooner you can stop the sheriff from running too far down the wrong rabbit hole.

We’ll book flights and start packing, Jill replied as I ended the call. Looking at me, she asked, What are you thinking?

I think this sounds suspiciously like the Hawaiian case where the ranger had decided what happened, sent in his report, and closed the case before looking at the evidence.

Jill patted my arm. Don’t worry, I won’t make you go on a helicopter ride with a suicidal killer on this trip.

That won't be a problem, I said as I walked to the bedroom and took out a pair of well-worn suitcases. "You will never get me on a helicopter again. NEVER."

It wasn’t so bad. Your eyebrows grew back after the fire. She looked at the small carryon I’d opened and gave me the look. You need the big suitcase. Your uniform and bulletproof vest won’t fit in a carryon.

I hadn’t planned on being shot, so I wasn’t going to bring my vest.

Pulling the large suitcase out of the closet, she rolled it to me. We didn’t plan on being shot in Wyoming. Yet, there we were in the middle of a gunfight. Pack your vest.

Staring at the suitcase and contemplating the hassle of checking and collecting the bags at the airport, I paused. The airlines lose checked bags.

Fine. Wear your vest on the plane while we’re flying.

The prospect of sitting in an airline seat wearing a bulletproof vest, along with the undue attention we’d attract, made my decision easy. I set the carryon aside and opened the larger suitcase.

I noticed Jill’s smirk as I packed the vest as the bottom layer in the suitcase. I really don’t need to bring a uniform. We’re investigators, we can dress casually. Tell me what you know about Manzanar.

I heard it’s located on the site of a Japanese American relocation and internment camp. People were uprooted from their homes, jobs, and businesses, then sent to Manzanar. It was one of the ten relocation centers built in the western US during WWII. That’s about all I’ve heard.

By today’s standards the internment of a whole group of people seems incredible. There are rules and laws about unlawful arrest, seizure of assets, etc.

Pearl Harbor had just been bombed by the Japanese Imperial Navy. There was a lot of distrust and fear of anything Japanese. Things were different.

Yeah. As a kid I remember hearing stories about German immigrants who changed their names, so they sounded more American. Intrigued, I asked, How do you know all this history of the internment camps?

Jill smiled. Maybe I stayed awake in my history class.

Chapter 3

After looking at a map of Manzanar and speaking with the government-approved travel agency, Jill booked flights into Las Vegas. I called our friend Matt Mattson, asking if he or his wife would water our plants and keep an eye on the house while we were gone.

Of course, we’ll water the plants and chase away the burglars, Matt replied. When are you flying out?

Jill booked flights to Las Vegas for tomorrow morning.

Hang on, Doug. I waited while Matt passed the information to his wife, Mandy. A moment later, Matt was back. "Mandy says supper will be served at 6:00. Bring your departure information because she’s driving you to the airport. She added that there would not be any discussion about that arrangement. She is driving you to the airport. You won’t take an Uber. Understood?"

Yeah. Tell Mandy the message is understood. Can we bring something for supper?

No. Just pack your bags and get your butts over here at 6:00. Mandy is walking out of the door to buy groceries.

Jill walked into my office as I ended the call. Are we going there for supper, or is Mandy preparing a traveling feast to be delivered here?

Did you listen in from the hallway?

No, I just know Mandy. She’ll have to pick us up before 6:00 tomorrow morning to make our flight.

And we both know her hair will be perfect, and her makeup will be done. I suspect she may have to stay up all night just to be prepared to deliver us to the airport.

Jill turned to leave and said, I’m sure that’s all part of her debutante training.

"She can’t leave the house unless she looks like she’s put together," I said to the empty doorway.

From down the hall, Jill responded, You’re catching on, dear.

* * *

THE AROMA OF BOILING shrimp preceded our arrival at the Mattsons’ door. I handed over a growler of Lazy Beach beer when Matt met us at the door. I have beer, he replied, looking at the brown half-gallon glass jug. But this looks more interesting.

Jill pushed past us and was met with a hug in the kitchen. Looking over Jill’s shoulder, Mandy smiled and said, Y’all get your fannies in here. The shrimp are done, and the margaritas are poured.

Over dinner, we shared what we knew about the case. Jill provided the details on which plants needed watering, and Mandy chatted about her improving golf scores, which she attributed to a new putter.

Matt carried the growler of beer onto the patio while the ladies cleared the dishes. Closing the door, he refreshed our mugs of beer as I sat in a chair overlooking the lawn. I spoke with Ed Richardson, the Manzanar Park Superintendent, Matt said as he settled into his chair. He warned me that the Inyo County Sheriff will not be pleased that the Park Service is sending investigators. The sheriff views the case as his, and your assistance will not be appreciated.

Yeah, I got a little of that from Jack when he called to tell us about the case. Jack said the reason he assigned the case to us was because of the political considerations. He thinks Jill can keep the sheriff at bay while I dig into the case.

Looking over his shoulder at the women through the patio doors, Matt said, Jill is good, but Richardson made it sound like mere diplomacy will not overcome the sheriff’s stand. You may want to return to Las Vegas and catch a couple of shows rather than sitting in your local motel room.

The travel agency booked us into the Mount Whitney Motel. It sounds like the pool and cable television are their big attractions. If we’re really blocked from the investigation, I think we’ll call Jack and tell him we’re changing our flights and returning to Texas. I’m too old, cynical, and grumpy to stay where I’m unwanted.

Matt’s smile and stare were hilarious. Gee, I wouldn’t have used those adjectives to describe you. I must be too polite.

But you’re not arguing about my choice of words.

Not at all. I’m just saying I’m too polite to describe you like that.

I lifted my beer mug and touched it to Matt’s. A toast to cynical park rangers everywhere.

After sipping his beer, Matt shook his head. You know, park rangers don’t get cynical like old cops. We just get tired of smiling and acting interested in the repetitive questions our visitors pose.

Like telling people why they can’t keep the silver coins they find on North Padre Island National Seashore beach?

That, and politely telling people that smoking marijuana is illegal in the park and asking visitors to pick up the debris from their picnic tables and campsites, and deposit it into the provided waste receptacles before they leave.

I leaned back in my chair as the patio door opened. Jill and Mandy joined us. Sensing that they’d interrupted a conversation that was inappropriate or about them, Mandy put on her best debutante smile and asked, Which one of us were you talking about, dear?

Matt shook his head. We were talking about getting old and cynical. You two were not the topic of our discussion.

Mandy’s smile went from forced to softer when she turned to Jill. As much as my mother taught me to be polite, tolerant, and considerate, young people try my patience. The poor young thing who rang me up at the grocery store didn’t know how to make change. She was counting out seven dimes and eight pennies to give me seventy-eight cents in change. I suggested three quarters and three pennies would be better, and she looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. It made me wonder how she passed third-grade math.

Jill stared into her margarita glass. Doug’s cynicism runs deeper. Sadly, it’s starting to rub off on me. Glancing my way, she added, There are still nice, polite, and genuine people out there, but we usually deal with folks at the other end of the spectrum.

Mandy’s forced smile returned, and she looked at me. Can we move to a happier topic? When none of us offered conversation, she said, When we were teens, my best friend, Alli, took me to the swimming hole and suggested we go skinny dipping.

All three of us were stunned. Matt, who’d been married to Mandy for thirty years said, "You never