Cantina Valley (A Ben Adler Mystery Book 1)

CANTINA VALLEY

A Ben Adler Mystery

by

Trevor Scott

United States of America

Also by Trevor Scott

Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller Series

Fatal Network (#1)

Extreme Faction (#2)

The Dolomite Solution (#3)

Vital Force (#4)

Rise of the Order (#5)

The Cold Edge (#6)

Without Options (#7)

The Stone of Archimedes (#8)

Lethal Force (#9)

Rising Tiger (#10)

Counter Caliphate (#11)

Gates of Dawn (#12)

The Jake Adams Cold War Espionage Short Story Series

Reykjavik Sanction (Mission #1)

Napoli Intercept (Mission #2)

Wueschheim Imperative (Mission #3)

The Tony Caruso Mystery Series

Boom Town (#1)

Burst of Sound (#2)

Running Game (#3)

The Chad Hunter Espionage Thriller Series

Hypershot (#1)

Global Shot (#2)

Cyber Shot (#3)

The Keenan Fitzpatrick Mystery Series

Isolated (#1)

Burning Down the House (#2)

Witness to Murder (#3)

Stand Alone Mysteries and Thrillers

Edge of Delirium

Strong Conviction

Fractured State (A Novella)

The Nature of Man

Discernment

Way of the Sword

Drifting Back

The Dawn of Midnight

The Hobgoblin of the Redwoods

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.

CANTINA VALLEY

Copyright © 2016 by Trevor Scott

United States of America

trevorscott.com

Cover image of Bigfoot Xing Sign by
JLFCapture

Background cover image by author

1

Cantina Valley, Western Oregon

Deputy Sheriff Lester Dawson sat in his patrol truck trying his best to forget his personal problems.
 
He was at least twenty pounds overweight, and would need to buy new uniforms soon if he didn’t cut back on beer and barbeque.
 
He wasn’t sure which one would be easier to kick—probably the barbeque, since the beer at least made his problems go away temporarily.
 
If he had any real plans for himself by the time he reached fifty, he would have to make a move soon or be relegated to small city law enforcement until he either retired or ate his gun.

He picked up his empty Coke can and spit some tobacco juice into the drink hole, wondering now if this nasty habit had somehow made his wife leave him for another man.
 
No, she was a smoker herself.
 
But she had quit.
 
And damn it, he had never quit at anything in his life.
 
Losers quit.
 
His internal organs were there to be punished.

This night was what Lester called an asshole night.
 
It was as dark as the inside of an asshole, and you had to be an asshole to be out in the torrential rain.

When Lane County built a sheriff’s department annex to cover the northern part of the county about halfway between Eugene and Corvallis, Lester had been chosen to run the annex.
 
Part of that, he knew, had to do with his house being located in the area.
 
The department liked to position its deputies in familiar communities.
 
And, since Lester had grown up in the area and knew the residents, he was the logical choice.
 
Truthfully, Lester guessed the department was saving on gas.
 
Oregonians loved to save the damn environment for the animals, so humans could live in misery.

Suddenly his radio came to life.
 
“Lester, you’ve got a ten fifty-four at Cantina Creek, at the north bridge crossing.”

That was a possible dead body.
 
“Is the person dead or not?”

“Not sure,” dispatch said.
 
“The nine-one-one just relayed the witness report.”

Lester started the engine on his truck.
 
“All right.
 
I’m on my way.
 
ETA in five.
 
Who’s on scene?

“Meet a Jim Erickson.”

“Roger that.
 
I know Jim.
 
He owns the land on both sides of the creek.”

Lester hit the lights and the gas simultaneously.
 
Rain pelted his windshield harder as his speed increased.
 
Soon he slowed for a ninety degree corner and his headlights picked up the tail end of a tractor just behind the small bridge over the creek.
 
He parked his patrol rig just behind the tractor and shut down the engine, but left the flashing red and blue lights on.
 
He knew this road ended just a little past Jim’s ranch house at the old Adler homestead.
 
So it wasn’t likely to have a lot of traffic.

He got out and put his Resistol Peacemaker cowboy hat on, thankful he had covered the tan felt with a plastic cover.
 
Lester spit out the glob of tobacco and ground it into the road with his boots.
 
Then he walked toward the bridge where Jim Erickson stood with a flashlight.

Jim was a tall, slim man who had been a great athlete in his youth—an all-star basketball player who had gotten a scholarship to the University of Oregon in the 60s.
 
But Jim blew out a knee before he played one game, losing his scholarship, and making him eligible for the Army draft.
 
Lester guessed the Army thought Jim’s knee had healed enough to fight in Vietnam.

“What the hell brought you out on a night like this, Jim?” Lester asked.

Jim shook his head and said, “My daughter was driving home from dinner at our place and saw one of my cattle out on the road.
 
She gave me a call once she got cell service.
 
Some yahoo left one of my gates open.”

“Dispatch says you found a possible dead body,” Lester said.
 
“My guess, based on your service, you know the difference between dead or not.”

“You got that right,” Jim said.
 
“But I didn’t get any closer than this.
 
Didn’t want to disturb the scene.
 
I guess I watched too many TV cop shows.”

“Male or female?” Lester asked.

“Looks like a man.”

Lester turned on his flashlight and aimed the beam down to the west side of the small creek.
 
The body lay in short grass a few feet from the creek, and was fully clothed in pants and a rain resistant jacket, face down.
 
“All right.
 
I’ll take a closer look.”

Climbing the barbed wire fence, Lester jumped to the other side and nearly fell down the bank toward the creek.
 
Not that it would have been a huge problem, since the creek was one of those feeder streams that came down from the Coast Range and ran into the Willamette River.
 
It was perhaps two or three feet at this stretch of the creek.
 
The ground here from November to May was always saturated with water to the point of being spongy.
 
Being November now, the saturation from the past week was not complete, but heading in that direction.
 
Still, the rain had added considerably to the flow of Cantina Creek.

He carefully made his way down to the bank of the river, staying out of the muddy trails used by Jim’s cattle in case there were tracks.
 
But all he saw so far was bovine prints, pressed deep into the muck.

When he got to the body he could tell that it was a man, or at least appeared to be so.
 
He would need to check for a pulse and turn the body over, though, to be sure.

Once he touched the wrist of the body, he saw all the black hair on the wrist.
 
Definitely a man, he thought.
 
Cold and dead.
 
No pulse.
 
The body was heading toward rigor.

Lester stooped down and concentrated his light on the back of the man’s head.
 
The short, black hair was matted with blood.
 
It was either a blunt force trauma mark or a bullet entry.
 
Probably the later.
 
Which made his next task even more difficult.
 
Depending on caliber, when a bullet enters a man’s skull it had just two possible outcomes.
 
With a smaller caliber like a .22, the bullet entered and bounced around, scrambling the brains.
 
Anything like a 9mm and larger cut through the gray matter and exploded out the other side, leaving a much larger exit than the entry.
 
It was also a damn mess.
 
Lester had experienced that first hand, being first on the scene of a number of self inflicted gunshot wounds.
 
But those always came from front to back, leaving a wall looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.

After putting on latex gloves, he gently grasped the body and rolled it far enough to see that much of the man’s face was missing.
 
Then he slowly set the body back in its original position.
 
His nostrils tweaked with the odor coming off the man.

Lester got on his radio and pushed to talk.
 
“We have an eleven forty-four, likely one eighty-seven.”

Now he checked the man’s pockets for identification.
 
Nothing.
 
That would have been too damn easy.
 
He moved back up the bank toward the road, and then climbed back over the fence.

“Dead guy, right Lester?” Jim asked.

“Definitely dead.”
 
Lester glanced about and said, “Did you round up your cow?”

“Just before I found the body.
 
It was a heifer.
 
I put her back into the pasture.”

“She was probably coming to the road to dry out her feet.”

“Naw.
 
They can move up the hills in the back to get away from the water.”

“Okay.
 
Well, unless you have something else to add, I’ll include your comments in my report.
 
I know where to find you if I need more.
 
Get the hell outta this rain.”

Jim didn’t wait another second.
 
He climbed up into his tractor, cranked over the engine, and drove off toward his ranch.

Lester took off his latex gloves and got back into his rig.
 
He considered calling in what he found, but decided not to put that info over the radio.
 
He never knew who might be listening.
 
Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and punched the green button next to the picture of his boss, the sheriff.

“What do you have out there?” the sheriff asked.

“Dead guy.
 
Perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties.
 
Looks like he might be an illegal.”

“Mexican?”

“Hell if I know.
 
Could be Guatemalan or Honduran.”

“Why do you think he’s illegal?”

“No ID.
 
Clothes look like thrift store seconds.
 
The guy looks and smells homeless.”
 
Lester had worked for years in Eugene, where the homeless smelled like wet dogs.

“Do I need to remind you that not many illegals are homeless,” the sheriff said.

The man had a good point.
 
The illegal aliens all seemed to find shelter with friends or family.
 
“No, sir.
 
I know the homeless here are usually drug addicts, psych jobs or former military.
 
I’m just going by smell alone.
 
But that could be simply bowel and bladder release upon death.”

“What’s the disposition of the body?” his boss asked.

“Dead.
 
Face down in a cow pasture along Cantina Creek.
 
Bullet appeared to enter the back of the man’s skull and blew half his face off.”

“So, then not suicide?”
 
The sheriff was holding back a snicker.

“No, sir.
 
Unless the man was an extortionists.”

“Contortionist.”

“Right.”

A long pause of silence made Lester think his boss had hung up.
 
But from time to time Lester could hear breathing and lips smacking.

Then the sheriff said, “All right.
 
We have a homicide.
 
Wait there for the forensics team and the ME.
 
How would you like to take led on the investigation?”