The Body in the Woods

  “We talked to the bird-watcher and the mountain biker. But so far we haven’t been able to locate either the guy running with his dogs or the homeless man.”

  “What about the ones you did talk to? Did they see anyone?”

  He let out a huff. “Ruby. I can’t really talk about that.”

  Was she going to be the sole witness who could put the guy with the duffel bag on the scene? Surely he was having the others view the photo lineup. But what would they say? “Are you having Nick and Alexis come in, too?”

  Detective Harriman said, “Right now I’m interested in what you saw, Ruby. Not them.”

  “It’s just that I’ve read people are much better at picking out faces of people who are within their own race. Only all the people we saw that day were white except the homeless guy. And I think Nick is half African American. That might affect his perception.”

  “Ruby, I appreciate that you are a crime buff.” There was a dissonance between his words and the expression on his face. “But let me remind you that this is my investigation.”

  “Okay, okay.” She nodded rapidly. “What about this guy’s shoes?”

  “Shoes?”

  “What did the soles of his shoes look like?”

  “We didn’t recover any clear prints made by anyone other than people in SAR and the first responders. That’s why we printed you guys that night. For exclusionary purposes.”

  “If I saw that footprint again, the one that was next to the body, I could tell you if it was the same one.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Ruby.” Detective Harriman leaned back, lacing his fingers across his belly. “You may have already given us everything we need.”

  CHAPTER 23

  FRIDAY

  IF THEY KNEW THE TRUTH

  Late afternoon, and he was bored. People treated him as if he didn’t matter. As if they didn’t even see him. Their ignorance grated. If they knew the truth of who he was, of what he had become, the stupid smirks would be wiped from their faces. Their mouths would fall open. And then they would tremble in fear.

  At moments like these, when everyone tried to make him feel powerless, he returned again and again to the memory of his first time, playing it out in slow motion. He let the moments slip through his mind like pearls on a string, each one precious and distinct.

  He had met her downtown. She told him she was hungry, and the hollows in her cheeks underlined the truth of that. At a nearby McDonald’s, he bought her a hamburger, fries, and some kind of abomination called a McFlurry, but suggested they go elsewhere to eat.

  They went to the park. It was a perfect Indian summer afternoon, the turning leaves, shades of yellow and red, silhouetted against the bright blue sky.

  The food was gone in just a few bites. She sucked the salt and ketchup from her fingers, but her fingernails were still rimmed with dirt. Her eyes were shadowed. She told him stories, some true, some maybe not so true. Her life, it seemed, was a mess. She had run away from her family in San Diego, spent time with a cousin in Vancouver, and then found it necessary to move on to Portland.

  In turn, he shared a little about himself. About his interests. Tried to explain them to her.

  But while she listened to him—or pretended to listen—her face, which had been so animated when she spoke about herself, about her problems, grew slack and expressionless. And then when he had tried to interest her further, she had been careless. Had nearly broken something that was precious to him.

  He had only meant to reprimand her, but things had escalated and she had gotten upset. Then he had simply sought to stop her shrieking. But she had fought him, forced his hand.

  He remembered how her eyes had widened. How her hands had clawed at her slender throat. How her mouth had opened and closed, the cords standing out in her neck. And how she had finally, finally stilled. Then he had laid her down and regarded his handiwork.

  She had given him a present, without even meaning to. A wonderful surprise.

  Her death had showed him the gift of life. A gift which was within his power to give.

  Or to take away.

  CHAPTER 24

  SATURDAY

  STILL GONE

  Alexis started up on one elbow, her pulse racing. She had left the lamp on in the living room, and now she stared at the empty rectangle of light framed by her doorway. Had she heard the lock turning in the door?

  “Mom?” she called, then held her breath so she could hear the answer. Her alarm clock read 2:38.

  No footsteps, no shadows. Not even the sound of another person’s breath.

  It must have been another tenant. Or even a dream. Her mom was still gone. Slowly, Alexis lowered her head to the pillow.

  It took her a long time to get back to sleep, and when she woke, nothing had changed. It had been forty-eight hours since her mom raced out the door.

  Alexis was going to have to do something. But what? If she went to the police, they would ask questions, and everything would spiral downward from there. Her mom was always saying it was just the two of them, that “they” wanted to put her away, wanted to split them up. For a long time, Alexis had thought that when her mom talked about being put away, she meant jail. Only as she got older did she realize her mom meant a mental hospital.

  Was that where her mom was? But then wouldn’t they have done something about Alexis, too? Taken her off to foster care when they realized she was all on her own?

  Where could her mom have gone? Alexis checked the basement laundry room, but it was empty. Next she stopped by Perk Up, the coffee shop down the block, where the owner sometimes paid her mom a few dollars to sweep the floor or wash dishes.

  “Sorry, honey, I haven’t seen her,” Mara said. She rubbed her eyes, looking as tired as Alexis felt. Mara was not just Perk Up’s owner but the sole employee, selling coffee in a city where there was a café on every corner.

  Alexis scribbled her number on a napkin. “Could you call and leave a message if you do see her?”

  “Of course.” From the day-old basket, Mara took a cinnamon roll wrapped in plastic and pressed it into her hand. “Is your mom okay?”

  “I hope so,” Alexis said. “She just got upset about something.”

  In the park two blocks from their house, she peered behind bushes and under evergreens for places her mom might have nested. All she found were empty beer bottles, fast food wrappers, and two discarded needles.

  Back in the apartment, she unearthed a phone book and called the closest hospital, Emanuel. “Um, do you have a patient named Tanya Frost?”

  “She’s not in our listing.”

  Alexis tried to keep her voice from shaking. “Well, do you have any unidentified female patients who have been brought in during the last few days?”

  “No.” The operator’s voice changed. “Honey, is everything okay?”

  Alexis hung up.

  Presumably there was also a morgue she could call, but again, that seemed like it would result in too many questions.

  Plus, wouldn’t she know in her heart if her own mother were dead?

  Maybe she was going about things in the wrong way. If official people had her mom, they would have contacted her. She needed to look in places that weren’t so official. Her mom wasn’t homeless, but when she was off her meds, she certainly seemed to be. The best place to be crazy in Portland was downtown. If her mom wouldn’t come to Alexis, then maybe Alexis would have to go to her.

  On the bus downtown, Alexis made herself eat the cinnamon roll. It was hard to swallow, but she told herself that was because it was a day old.

  The bus let her off a few blocks from the main library, which opened at ten. While she waited for the doors to be unlocked, she covertly surveyed the people waiting on the stone steps. A mom with two little kids. A gray-haired old lady with a stack of books. But it was the others Alexis focused on. The girl in front of her wore her hair in two high pigtails, and one of her sneakers flapped at the toe. The guy next to her had black
pants hacked off at mid-shin. His red socks didn’t match in length or hue. Both he and Pigtail Girl smelled. It wasn’t just BO but the smell of clothes that had layers of dirt and spilled food ground into them.

  How long would it be before Alexis was homeless herself?

  A figure appeared on the far side of the library’s doors. Everyone shuffled forward. As soon as the door was unlocked, Alexis raced to nab one of the computers.

  On Facebook, Ruby had sent her a message with a link to a story on KATU.com about the guy with the duffel bag. His name was Jay Adams, and he had been charged with Miranda’s murder. Alexis looked at his booking photo for a long time. His eyes were small and set deeply in his full face. His mouth was a line. She wondered what it would feel like to turn your face to the camera, to know this photo of you would always be associated with a horrific crime.

  A law enforcement officer who wasn’t authorized to speak about the case said that Adams had been cultivating a marijuana patch deep in Forest Park. From that site as well as Adams’s home, police have reportedly recovered a .45-caliber handgun, two knives, and 56 marijuana plants. The source said Adams had cut down several trees to increase the amount of sunlight and had also run irrigation lines from a nearby creek.

  The source, who is close to the investigation, said the working hypothesis is that Miranda Wyatt had stumbled across the grow and that Adams strangled her to keep her quiet.

  That big blue duffel bag he had been carrying must have been filled with pot. Alexis remembered how he had shifted nervously while he spoke to them. What would he have done if they had asked about the bag?

  She printed out the article, which had Miranda’s photo at the bottom. Later, when her mom was normal again, she could show it to her. Because her mom would be okay, right? She always was. Eventually.

  Next Alexis printed out a photo of her mom from one of her Facebook albums. All their real photos, the ones printed on actual glossy photo paper, had been purged from their apartment last year when her mom had been off her meds and decided that they were graven images, something the Lord apparently didn’t approve of.

  After signing off the computer, Alexis went to get her printouts from the central printer. You weren’t allowed to sleep at the library, but that wasn’t stopping people from trying, propping their heads on their fists, or laying a book or magazine over their tilted-back faces. After scanning the room to make sure her mom wasn’t among them, Alexis slipped both printouts into her backpack and walked out the front doors. More homeless had gathered on the stairs and the concrete benches, turning their faces up to the weak late fall sun.

  So many of the homeless were her age. Sleeping curled in a doorway, sporting piercings or holding a cardboard sign, or cuddling a kitten or a puppy or a full-grown dog on their laps. But never a cat. Where did the cats go?

  Alexis shivered. She was wearing a hat, gloves, and a coat. Her mom had run out without any of those things.

  She walked for blocks and blocks, looking at dozens of homeless people, without catching a glimpse of her mom. She was going to have to start asking.

  A man in a black hoodie, dirty jeans, and heavy boots leaned against the wall of a building across from Pioneer Square. His cardboard sign read I WANT YOUR $. His bony face was unsmiling, as if you had better pay him or else.

  Most people were ignoring him. A few took the long way around.

  Alexis walked right up to him. “I’m looking for this woman.” She shrugged her backpack off one shoulder. “Last time I saw her, she wasn’t wearing shoes.”

  He scowled at her. His eyebrow and lip were pierced with silver. Still, he took the printout she handed him. “Yeah, I’ve seen her around.”

  “You have?” Excitement jolted up her spine.

  “Yeah. Freaking oogle.” He sneered at her. “So is that your game, too? Come in from the West Hills and do a little slumming? Pretend to be homeless and ruin it for the people who really are?”

  “What are you talking about? I’m just looking for my mom.”

  “That’s your mom?” He looked back down at the printout, equal parts puzzled and repulsed. “That chick’s not old enough to be anyone’s mom.”

  Alexis took the piece of paper back.

  She had shown him not the photo of her mom but the photo of Miranda Wyatt.

  CHAPTER 25

  SATURDAY

  ALL THE CHOICES IN THE WORLD

  The homeless guy was staring at her, confused. From her backpack, Alexis took the printout with her mom’s photo. “This is who I really meant,” she said. “This is my mom.”

  He squinted at the photo, then shrugged and leaned back against the wall. “At least that one looks old enough to be your mom. But her I haven’t seen.”

  This wasn’t getting her anywhere. But what he had said nagged at her. Why had he recognized Miranda? Alexis took out the news story again.

  “How do you know this girl? And what did you say she was?”

  “I don’t know her.” He looked at the headline. “Or maybe I should say I didn’t know her. Because it looks like she’s dead. But I’ve seen her around. She’s one of those stupid oogles.”

  “What’s an oogle?”

  “Oogles are posers. They like to hang out and pretend they’re part of the ‘homeless scene.’” He waved his hand at a man sleeping underneath a bench, a tattooed girl curled up on the pavement, an older couple with a dog and a coffee cup containing coins that the woman rattled hopefully. “Like this is a scene. Like this is a choice, like it’s some party you can drop by and then leave when you get tired of it. But for some stupid reason, oogles like to playact.”

  “Wait. You’re saying this girl liked to pretend she was homeless?” Alexis thought of the other dead girl in the article Ruby had shown them. That girl had been homeless.

  “Some rich kids get off on that. They come around, and they try to talk the talk, walk the walk, the entire act. They’ll get a piece of cardboard and make a sign and spange.”

  “Spange?” Alexis echoed.

  “Beg for money. You know”—he changed his voice to a whine—“‘Got any spare change?’ When really they’re all from Beaverton or the West Hills, and they’re not homeless. They’re just bored. And because they’re bored, they’re the ones who get drunk and stupid, they’re the ones who vandalize stuff or tag, and we’re the ones who get blamed for it.”

  Alexis nodded slowly. Now Miranda’s Facebook photos made sense. She had been slumming, partying with the homeless. Or, perhaps more likely, with other kids who liked to pretend they didn’t have parents or homework, that they didn’t even have a home.

  “They try to act like they’re just like us. But at night, they’re not sleeping in a shelter or behind a Dumpster. They’re not going to bed hungry. Because they have nice warm beds and nice warm meals waiting for them at home.” He spit out the word home like it was an obscenity. “It’s like sitting in a wheelchair because you think it will be fun and then hopping out when you get tired of it. Well, we don’t get to hop out. Do you think I like living like this? I don’t have any choice, but those stupid kids have all the choices in the world.”

  “But my mom’s not an oogle.” She dared to say the truth out loud. “She’s mentally ill.”

  He didn’t seem to find this remarkable. “Out here, who’s not?”

  Even though she couldn’t really spare it, Alexis gave him a dollar before she moved on to ask more people if they had seen her mother. No one had. Lunchtime came and went. All she had had to eat today was the stale cinnamon roll. But she never stopped scanning the people she saw, looking for that familiar tall, lean form. And not finding it.

  Finally Alexis gave up and decided to go home. Maybe her mother would be there. Or there’d be a phone message. Or even a letter. Still scanning faces, she walked to the bus mall. She had spent enough time waiting here to know that many of the people milling about under the shelters had no intention of riding the bus. Some were homeless. Some simply liked having a place to si
t out of the rain. And panhandlers and proselytizers were drawn to a captive audience who didn’t want to walk away in case that was the moment the bus came.

  Alexis had long ago developed a stare that said, Don’t mess with me. It went well with a set jaw and narrowed eyes.

  But in the mirror this morning, her eyes had been haunted, her face pale, her mouth trembling. And she couldn’t deploy her don’t-mess-with-me blank stare because she was still looking for a glimpse of her mom.

  Her eye was drawn to a man and a teenage girl who were arguing in low voices. The guy was nondescript—especially when Alexis was just looking at the back of his head—but the girl was a hot mess, with her greasy black hair, dirty clothes, and the tiny blue star tattoos swirling on one cheek.

  He yelled at her, then grabbed her wrist, but she twisted free and ran past Alexis. It all happened so fast that she didn’t know if she was the only one who had seen him grab her.

  The man took a few steps to follow the girl, then stopped, shaking his head in frustration. He turned and walked away.

  Alexis was frozen in place, had been since she saw his face. She knew this guy, even though he was dressed in a dark sweater and jeans and didn’t have any dogs with him.

  It was the guy they had seen running along the trail the day they found the dead girl.

  CHAPTER 26

  SATURDAY

  STEP ONE

  One point three miles, the trail marker said. George Hines could do that, easy. After all, he had done it seven years ago. It was just a little day hike. Step one in getting back in shape.

  It wasn’t long before he was audibly huffing. The trail—not paved, just a rutted track in the dirt, winding between evergreens—was much steeper than he remembered.

  Fifteen minutes after he began, George’s eyes were focused only on his blue Nikes as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t turn back around. What kind of man was he if he couldn’t even hike 1.3 miles?

  But seven years ago, George had been fifty pounds lighter. Seven years ago, he hadn’t yet taken up smoking again. And seven years ago, he had begun this hike at eight in the morning in June, not three in the afternoon in early November.