Forgotten Creek

Chapter One

Ashland, Oregon

October 28, 2002

In the pre-dawn darkness around 6 a.m., Michael Cornelius, a bloody knife in his right hand, crouched behind the Lithia Park restroom, his back against the rough cinderblock wall. Known as Corndog ever since age six when he’d refused to eat anything else for an entire month, Cornelius was no stranger to darkness. Darkness was solid and more remarkable than just an absence of light. It fell over his exposed skin with a cool touch far softer than sunlight. Inside it he felt invisible and safe.

As the minutes passed, something niggled at him and when he closed his eyes, he could see brief snatches of images. They flickered as fast as hummingbird wings then faded to black, and he couldn’t remember what had forced him into hiding. An uneasy awareness seeped into him. The muscles in his thighs ached. How long had he been crouching here?

Hiding. He was always hiding. Hiding was his way of life. After the terrible things happened, hiding became meditation, his daily prayer, and his hopes for the wife and daughter he still loved. Hiding was the only god he could believe in now.

Ever since the war he’d had blackouts, long gaps in his memory where he’d lost time—sometimes hours, sometimes days. The shrinks at the VA told him they’d go away with time. But they were wrong.

In 1980, more than twenty years ago, Corndog, a police officer in Cottage Grove, Oregon, had shot and killed a fourteen-year-old boy. He and his partner were called to a breaking and entering at a downtown pharmacy. The boy, Lan Duong, was so dirty and unkempt, wearing layers of filthy clothes, they’d mistaken him for a grown man. Corndog thought Lan had pulled a gun and was about to kill his partner.

Or maybe it was his ink-black hair and Asian features. Maybe Corndog had one of his flashbacks and thought Lan was a Vietnamese soldier—the one who’d killed his best friend. Turned out the boy who’d robbed the pharmacy held only a cap pistol.

Corndog closed his eyes and tried hard to remember last night. But the only image he could bring to the surface was Tadeas Phan’s dark eyes, open and unseeing. And then the flash of his own hand jerking a knife from Tadeas’s chest.

Oh, my God. Have I done it again? Have I killed another boy?

* * *

When his cell phone vibrated around 6 a.m., Detective Winston Radhauser rolled over and groaned into his pillow. Dispatch. No one else would call at this hour. He lifted Gracie’s warm arm from his chest and placed it on the mattress. After more than a decade of marriage, he was still amazed by the softness of her skin. The even purr of her breathing told him she hadn’t awakened. He answered his cell in a whisper.

I’m sorry to call so early, boss. But you better get down to Lithia Park. Looks like we’ve got another dead body. Perkins is waiting for you at the scene.

Radhauser stumbled from his bed with the phone clapped to his ear, tiptoed down the hallway into the kitchen and flipped on the light. His carry-on still sat on the floor where he’d left it earlier that morning after his late-night flight from Phoenix.

The ten days in Arizona had tired him to the bone, emotionally and physically. He’d gone back because Uncle Roger, the man who raised him, was near death and wanted to say goodbye. In his uncle’s deathbed confession, Radhauser learned both his parents, whom he’d believed dead, were alive. His mother was incarcerated for the murder of a baby sister Radhauser didn’t know existed.

How does a man cope with learning everything he once believed about his past had been a lie?

He shook his head to clear the memories. Thanks, Hazel. But can’t McBride handle it? If it’s a serial killing, she got the first case, so this should be hers as well. I only got home a few hours ago.

I know, sir. But… well… Captain Murphy’s orders. Or should I say Acting Police Chief Murphy? When the former police chief resigned, Murphy was appointed to stand in until the upcoming election.

Radhauser sighed, then drummed his fingers against the kitchen counter, deliberating what to say. He’d been gone ten days, and had never left his family for that long before. His kids, seven-year-old Lizzie and two-year-old Jonathan, were asleep when he got home. He’d planned to have breakfast with them and drive Lizzie to school, drop Jonathan off at preschool, then spend the day with Gracie. Maybe take a trail ride into the mountainous Bureau of Land Management acres above their ranch.

Hazel sympathized. I told the captain you’d be exhausted.

Murphy’s expectations, as usual, were unreasonable. Maxine McBride, Radhauser’s partner, was a capable detective and it was time she flew solo. Okay, so it had been a week since a homeless man was found murdered in the Shakespeare theater courtyard. Maybe she didn’t solve it during Murphy’s allotted time frame, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. Some cases took longer than others.

Murphy wants you to take over both cases. Perkins found the body on a bench near the lower duck pond, Hazel said.

Lithia Park didn’t officially open until 8 a.m. Did that mean the victim had been sleeping there? Was this one also homeless?

Ashland was his town. What kind of lead detective would he be if he ignored two murders in the place he called home? What was he thinking? The least he could do was have a look, report his findings to McBride, then turn the case over to her capable hands.

Okay, I’m on my way. Have you notified McBride and Heron? Dr. Stephen Heron was the medical examiner for Jackson County.

I’m on it, Hazel said.

And Hazel?

Yes?

Does McBride know Murphy has reassigned her cases?

Not yet, sir. But I’m sure the captain will let her know.

After splashing water on his unshaven face, Radhauser brushed his teeth, then dressed in the laundry room where he always kept spare clothes for early morning calls like this one. He grabbed his gray Stetson and denim blazer, his gun and holster from the locked cabinet, and pulled on his cowboy boots. He left a note for Gracie, picked up his backpack with his digital camera inside, then headed to the barn overhang where he parked his car.

The exterior motion lights came on as he neared the barn. Giant golden leaves from the big-leaf maples covered portions of the gravel drive and rustled beneath his feet. Their earthen, fermented smell filled the brisk morning air with October.

Sensing his approach, his stallion, Ameer, whinnied, and though Radhauser felt bad, he couldn’t take the time to say hello. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d scratched under Ameer’s chin, then walked down the center barn aisle repeating the ritual with Pride, Mercedes and the others. The horses had come to equate Radhauser’s departure in the morning and his evening arrival with a handful of sweet feed with molasses. He made a silent promise to make up for it later. For now, he needed to focus on the body Perkins had found in Lithia Park.

He parked on the Plaza across from the police station, laid his head on the steering wheel and closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself, then realized he couldn’t allow himself the luxury. If he did, he’d fall asleep and not awaken for hours.

After locking the car door, he jogged toward the asphalt pathway leading into Lithia Park. Fatigue plagued him and he slowed to a walk. His flashlight punched bright holes through the darkness as he headed toward the lower duck pond. This time of year, the sun didn’t rise until a little after seven.

Officer Terrance Perkins paced in front of a bench facing the duck pond, about thirty feet from the victim—near enough to keep watch. He was in his late twenties, six feet two with a chiseled and handsome face, bright blue eyes, and hair the color of pecan shells. On the lighted hillside above them, the open-air Elizabethan theater loomed—a little slice of London dropped down into southern Oregon.

Radhauser approached Perkins and laid his hand on the young officer’s shoulder. Even in the dim light, he could see the anxiety lines on Perkins’ brow. Hey, Perk. How’d you end up with bodyguard duty?

Just lucky, I guess. I was the one who found him. But now that you’re here, is it okay if I go home?

Perkins hadn’t been on the force long, and Radhauser knew this was his first dead body. Afraid not. You were the first person on the scene. No leaving before you fill me in on what you observed.

Not much to say, sir. The man was dead. Perkins shifted his gaze left then right, as if he feared a murderer lurked in the rhododendron bushes.

Have a seat and walk me through what happened.

Once Perkins was seated, Radhauser took the place beside him, then pulled his pen and notebook from his inside jacket pocket. When did you find the body?

Perkins pushed the button that lit his watch. His hand trembled. About forty-five minutes ago, sir. A little before 6 a.m.

Radhauser jotted down the time.

Walk me through the minutes before and after you arrived at the scene.

As if he couldn’t bear to look in that direction, Perkins jerked his head toward the other bench. I spotted something over there. I thought it was a pile of old clothes. I’m always finding their homeless crap on benches around here.

Radhauser cringed at Perkins’ callousness, then brushed it off, trying to understand how finding your first body could be traumatic for a lone rookie on night patrol. What happened next?

I moved closer. When I prodded the pile, I realized there was a person inside. He smelled awful, like he’d… messed himself or something. I figured he was drunk or on drugs. Perkins talked with his hands, and even in the diffuse lighting around the pond, Radhauser saw they were still shaking.

Not every homeless person is an alcoholic or drug addict, Radhauser said with a little more patience than he felt. What’d you do next?

I pulled back the blanket and shone my flashlight in his face.

What did you see?

His eyes were open and kind of frosted looking. But I could tell they were dark, almost black. I checked his carotid for a pulse. Perkins’ voice was ragged and laced with shock. I never touched a dead body before, sir.

It’s a hazard of our profession. Radhauser wasn’t without sympathy, but confronting death was a rite of passage every cop must go through.

I was supposed to be off duty more than two hours ago, but it's been a crazy night of protesting—both from the homeless and locals. I was late making my rounds of the park. Can I leave now? My wife will be worried. Perkins, a newlywed, turned his wedding ring on his finger as he talked.

Murder cases take priority over wives. Call her. Tell her you’ll be home when we’re finished here. Radhauser tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Now, let’s take a slow stroll through the scene.

Radhauser stood, then slipped on gloves and a pair of shoe protectors. It was always his procedure to examine the scene before he looked at the body. Like always, as he entered a crime scene, Radhauser paused to absorb his surroundings. The scene had a way of speaking, but he needed to silence himself and listen. With murders, he could almost always sense the rage and justification of the perpetrator. This one felt different—more like sadness and remorse. Was it his imagination? Sleep deprivation?

Perkins pulled on gloves and shoe protectors and reluctantly followed.

Using his Maglite, Radhauser searched the area around the bench where the victim lay. He spotted the puddle beneath it. Congealed blood, wine dark, but thicker. A large Starbucks coffee cup lay sideways on the ground beside the bench. Did you see any signs of a weapon? Something that might have caused that puddle of blood beneath the victim?

No, sir, Perkins said.

Got some footprints here. It had rained last night and the ground around the pond was still moist. He handed Perkins the light and Radhauser examined the shoe prints illuminated by the Maglite. Nice ones. I’ll want to take photographs and have forensics do casts. Radhauser removed two evidence tents from his backpack and carefully marked the prints.

They walked around the entire pond. It was about the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Radhauser used the Mag to search for anything that seemed out of place. He’d have to wait for more light to take his usual photographs. After finding nothing, they returned to the bench where the victim lay.

Perkins stopped about five feet away, frozen in place like a statue.

Radhauser pulled back the wool blanket covering the body. With the smell of vomit and excrement, he took an involuntary step backwards.

Do you ever get used to it? Perkins asked.

I don’t know how anyone could.

The body was lying face up, eyes open and cloudy. At first Radhauser had confused him with a grown man. But upon closer examination, the victim was young, only a teenager. With his caramel-colored skin, almond-shaped eyes and wide cheekbones, the boy appeared to be Asian. His face, hands and hair looked clean. Radhauser stared at the bloody mess on the front of the boy’s lightweight denim jacket—the fabric torn over the left pocket.

His son, Lucas, had worn a denim jacket like that one. Radhauser turned away and closed his eyes for an instant in an attempt to remove the memory of his thirteen-year-old son. The worst events of our lives never stop happening. They live in their own dimension, replaying over and over again.

He thought about his son’s voice, just beginning to change. About how embarrassed Lucas had been with the squeaky sounds, the way his face flushed as he cleared his throat and tried again. Radhauser had long ago accepted it would always hurt—you learn to live with the pain. The empty place inside would always be there.

Radhauser swallowed and returned his attention to the victim. The hole in the jacket looked more like it had been made with a knife than a bullet. He picked up the boy’s arm. Rigor mortis was pretty well developed. It appears he’s been dead for hours. Is there some reason you didn’t find the body sooner?

I was doin’ my job, Perkins said, a trace of defensiveness in his voice. Fights broke out with those protestors I mentioned. I called for backup. Sullivan, Corbin, and I broke them up. I didn’t patrol the park twice like I usually do. And when I finally got to it, it was much later than usual.

Radhauser carefully picked up the Starbucks cup, dropped it into an evidence bag, labelled it, then returned his attention to Perkins. What were they protesting?

The homeless are pissed off and think we should have made an arrest by now. Like we should drop everything for that… that… lowlife.

Radhauser stared at him, the silence between them growing thick. Every murder matters and deserves our attention. He thought about his infant sister, Hope, and the way they’d found her killer forty years after the murder took place. How many officers are working it?

Most of us, Perkins said. You’d think the mayor himself got whacked.

That’s the way it should be. All murder victims are created equal. Has Murphy made the homeless community aware of the department’s efforts?

He’s given a couple news conferences outside the station. Some of them were hanging around, panhandling in the Plaza like usual. Or holding up signs about how dumb cops are. If you ask me, people are right to want laws against camping in public places. Damn beggars. My in-laws came to visit from Iowa and when we took them through the park, I was embarrassed by all the—

Don’t let your personal feelings color your thinking about a case. Radhauser could feel the judgment coming off Perkins like humidity from summer asphalt.

Perkins sucked in a loud breath and took a step back. What are you trying to say?

Radhauser went rigid. His dial turned from simmer to boil. I believe I just said it.

Perkins clamped his mouth shut.

Radhauser returned his attention to the boy. He’d been on the streets long enough for his clothing to be filthy, but not long enough for black circles under his eyes or sunken places beneath his cheekbones. His shoes were Nike Air Max, at least a hundred bucks, and though his ragged jeans were stiff with dirt, they looked expensive. If he had to guess, he’d say this kid had a family somewhere who was most likely searching for him. He looked like a boy someone had loved.

The cowlick at the back of his head stood up like a bird’s tail. His lashes were thick and dark, the kind that high-school girls swooned over. This boy was not much older than Lucas had been when a drunk smashed, head-on, into his mother’s car and killed them both. Radhauser’s heart pounded like a drummer on amphetamines. Investigating the death of a kid would never be easy, would always remind him of the event he most wanted to forget.

He took some deep breaths, knew he had to settle down, view the scene from the rational and unbiased perspective of a detective.

At least Lucas had died happy, after competing in a western pleasure event at a horse show, where he’d won a blue ribbon. At least his son hadn’t been homeless and a runaway—hadn’t been estranged from his mother and father. Those thoughts calmed Radhauser, and a feeling of gratitude washed over him.

Calmer now, he faced Perkins. Fill me in on what’s happened since I’ve been gone. And don’t leave anything out.

Perkins cleared his throat. We’ve become a town divided. Lots of heated talk and angry folks on both sides of the homeless issue. Mostly the protests are peaceful during the day, but after midnight, things change.

Change how?

No looting or property damage, at least not that I know of. But shouting insults. And a few fist fights broke out. Some bloody noses and cuts requiring stitches.

Radhauser now understood Murphy’s urgency in wanting him to return from his trip. He wanted to make Acting Chief a permanent position. And that wouldn’t occur if he didn’t keep the mayor and the city council happy. Did you see anyone around the victim when you found him—anyone loitering in the park?

No. It was quiet. Almost too quiet. The picketers had all gone home or wherever they spend the night. I really thought the guy was asleep.

Aside from checking for a pulse, did anything else happen that could have altered the scene?

Perkins stiffened, turned away for an instant, then turned back. I’m not a detective, but I know better than to mess with a crime scene. I put on latex gloves before I touched anything and I covered the body with the blanket the same way it was when I found it.

I’m not questioning your competence. I’m just trying to get a feel for what happened. Did you recognize the dead man?

No. But I could tell he’s Asian.

You got something against Asians, too? Radhauser regretted both the tone of his voice and the words as soon as he’d spoken them. He was tired and frustrated by Murphy’s reassigning him the case, but that was no excuse. I’m sorry, Perkins. That was unnecessary.

Perkins sighed, then hung his head. I didn’t mean any disrespect, sir.

An Asian boy would stand out in a crowd. Was he part of the protests? Involved in any of the fights? The boy didn’t have any wounds visible on his face or hands.

I’m not sure, Perkins said. There was a mob of people in the Plaza. And another one up by the theaters. He might have been among them.

See if you can get lighting set up around the victim, Radhauser said. Cordon off a fifty-foot perimeter around the crime scene. Tell Hazel to call Corbin, Rawlings and Sullivan. Have McBride organize an extensive search of the park. We need guards at all entrances. I want no one exiting or entering this park who isn’t a part of the investigation.

Do you think this kid was murdered?

That’s for the medical examiner to determine.

Why would someone kill a kid? Perkins shook his head and walked away.

No matter what the motivation, someone had murdered another homeless person. A boy about the same age as Lucas. Remembering his dead son and the drunk driver who’d killed him had made Radhauser’s blood boil fiery in his veins. All traces of exhaustion disappeared. Those two boys never had a chance to live their lives.

This was his case now. And he was determined to find this boy’s family and get justice for their son.

Chapter Two

The sky was lightening when the medical examiner arrived, followed by two white-suited crime scene technicians. One of them pushed a gurney. Over the years, Dr. Stephen Heron had become one of Radhauser’s best friends. The ME had taught Radhauser more than he’d ever learned at the police academy about forensic pathology.

Most local cops and lawyers called the ME Blue after the great blue herons that roamed the banks of the Rogue and Applegate Rivers. It was easy to understand why. Heron was Abe-Lincoln-tall and equally thin. He leaned forward as he walked, his long neck delivering his head into a space before the rest of his body got there. Heron was an exemplary man, smart as they come and with the grace and sensitivity of a poet. He had enormous respect for the dead, whom he called his patients. He believed if your bedside manner was caring, and if you listened hard, the dead would speak to you.

Radhauser filled Heron in on the body Perkins had discovered and what evidence they’d gathered so far. After the forensic team made a cast of the shoe prints in the muddy area behind the bench, Radhauser led Heron to the victim. The ME slipped on his gloves and carefully removed the blanket, then knelt on the concrete walkway in front of the bench, careful to avoid the puddle of blood. You’re just a boy. What happened to you, son? Heron gently wiped the boy’s hair away from his forehead. Why aren’t you sleeping in a clean bed down the hall from your parents? Who hurt you? How did you wind up like this?

With Radhauser’s help, Heron unzipped and removed the boy’s jacket. He wore a tattered, blood-soaked T-shirt with a photograph of the Beatles—the words All You Need Is Love beneath it. That struck Radhauser as sadder than anything he’d seen in a long time. And he couldn’t help but wonder about this boy’s life. Heron’s questions returned to him. Had this boy’s parents loved him? And if so, what happened? How had he come to be homeless in Ashland, Oregon, where less than two percent of the population was Asian?

Radhauser sucked in a breath and tried to study the boy’s body for every clue it might offer. The stained olive-green backpack the boy used as a pillow. The vomit and excrement could be a sign of food poisoning. Or the normal release of body fluids with death. They’d know more after sending blood and tissue to the lab and analyzing the residue in the Starbucks cup. The Air Max shoes with their heels worn down and a hole over each big toe told Radhauser the victim had done his share of walking and that his feet had grown since he’d left home. Radhauser knew from his time with Lucas that teenage boys grew quickly. Of course, it was always possible this boy stole the shoes from another kid.

The holes in the toes, along with the fact that this boy’s jacket sleeves didn’t reach his wrists, suggested he’d been homeless for at least a few months. Long enough to outgrow his clothing. Maybe he’d run away. Maybe he’d had a brush with the law. But this boy was not the alcoholic with a red-veined nose and rheumy eyes Radhauser had expected to find on a park bench. He made a note to run a check of the database for missing teenage boys. In all his years in Ashland, Radhauser had no memory of ever seeing a homeless Asian man on the streets, let alone an Asian boy.

Once Sullivan and Perkins got the lights set up and the scene cordoned off, they joined the other searchers.

Radhauser removed his digital camera from his backpack. The lab men would take their own, but the photos were part of Radhauser’s routine and often came in handy when trying to recreate a crime. As he walked around the scene snapping photos of both the victim and the surrounding area, questions rose.

Was the fact that the boy was Asian related to the motive?

The first homeless man, killed while Radhauser was in Arizona, also had a Starbucks cup beside his body and multiple knife wounds. Aside from that, what did the two victims, a boy and an older man, have in common?

Or did the murderer have motives unrelated to the identity of either victim?

If so, why choose this time and this place to act on them?

After examining the wound, Heron speculated the weapon was a serrated steak knife, not unlike the one used in the previous homeless murder. I’ll know a lot more once I get him onto the table.

While Radhauser rummaged through the victim’s backpack, Heron checked the boy’s pockets, but found nothing, not even a wallet. Had someone robbed him? Or did the perp want to keep his identity unknown?

The backpack held three books—The Catcher in the Rye, Light in August, and Angle of Repose. The Catcher in the Rye was no surprise for a young teenage boy to read, but the other two were pretty literary and told Radhauser the kid was smart. There were some miscellaneous clothing items in the pack. A pair of socks, underwear, and a worn, khaki-colored Ralph Lauren sweater. The books and sweater hinted of a comfortable and educated background.

He dug deeper into the pack and found a toothbrush, sample-sized tube of toothpaste, shampoo, a used bar of soap, and a stained washcloth. There was also a collection of heart-shaped rocks in a Ziplock with the name Carey written in marker on the bag. Rocks were not the things he’d expected to find in a teenage runaway’s backpack.

Radhauser held up the pack. Okay if I keep this? It might help us identify him.

When Heron nodded, Radhauser placed the backpack into an oversized evidence bag.

Together, they loaded the body onto the gurney and wheeled it across the bridge to the Winburn Way parking lot. Once the victim was safely in the back of his van, Heron dropped a hand on Radhauser’s shoulder and squeezed. I’m glad you’re back, but I know you had a rough week, Cowboy. He shook his head. I’m sorry for your loss. You’ve talked about your uncle so many times. I know how much you loved him.

Radhauser’s eyes stung. He tipped the brim of his hat and gave Heron a quick nod. Thanks. Uncle Roger was a father to me.

As he headed back to the crime scene, Radhauser picked up several discarded signs he presumed last night’s picketers, both homeless and residents, had left on the grass and park benches.