Perfect Son: A Lynzee Rose Mystery

Copyright © 2013 Victoria Walters.

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This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-2949-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2950-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-2948-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011918513

WestBow Press rev. date: 1/7/2013

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

About the Author

First in the Lynzee Rose Mystery Series

For my dearest friend, Lela Watson, whose shared love of a great mystery gave birth to this one. And for my newly discovered cousin, Geri Redmond, editor and enthusiast.

Special Acknowledgement

To My Son and Story Developer Supreme,

Seth Michael Williamson

INTRODUCTION

FRIDAY, MAY 20TH

One bizarre theory of the origin of Mima Mounds, pronounced Mima (MY-ma), is the northwestern Pocket Gopher. These potato-sized creatures were said to have created the Mounds over generations of frantic territorial construction.

Over thirty other theories attempt to explain the Mounds ranging from ancient fish nests to asteroid impacts. In actuality, they are prairie lands full of thousands of closely packed ‘Mounds of Mystery’ with as many ongoing theories as to their origin as there are mounds.

Found only in limited areas in the United States, the primary mound-bearing prairies of the Puget Lowlands lie in the prairie lands of Thurston County, Washington. They are the nation’s best example of the unusual phenomena. Today Mima Mounds Preserve included something more unusual … . . a new mound.

CHAPTER 1

SATURDAY, MAY 21ST

Lynzee, meet me ASAP. Body. Probably not by natural causes. I want you in on it from the get go. I have the go ahead from the higher ups. Soon as you can, then.

My lack of response clued him in he may have missed something.

Sorry to be so short. Lack of Sleep. I should have first asked if you are available to do some more work for us before I start ordering you around. Are you?

Better, I thought. I appreciate the consideration, Carl. Tell me what you have, and we’ll go from there. I listened as he rolled out a two-minute summary of his past twenty-four hours, and something about ‘ruffled feathers’ when I’d heard enough.

I’m in. On my way.

The snap of his cell phone ended the call. One of Chief Deputy Detective Watson’s many skills did not include the art of conversation, at least the two way kind. A man of few words, our brief exchange informed me of a discovery at one of earth’s strangest landscapes located in the humble prairies twelve miles south of my home in Olympia, Washington. The remains of a young man have been discovered.

I dressed quickly to the hum of the morning news and aroma of freshly brewing coffee, the latter brewed with a hint of caramel today. The fragrance followed me around all four hundred square feet of my studio sized home as I rushed about making myself presentable. Today, that entailed passing a brush through my hair, a toothbrush over my teeth, and soap and water across my face.

Carl, my friend and part-time employer, asked me to meet him at Mima Mounds, located in the middle of nowhere. One never knows what to expect in the middle of nowhere; so, I packed accordingly. I filled my coffee thermos, threw in a bottle of water, and packed a sandwich.

Gathering up what the predicted forecast assured me I would need, a light jacket for a cooler than expected late May day, I added an umbrella, having little trust in anyone whose job security isn’t based on performance. In the maritime climate of Western Washington, summers are cool and winters wet, or is it the other way around? Realistically, all twelve months are the same. Wet. I live in an area referred to as ‘Puget Sound’, technically the name of a body of water, but the rains fall so much here, the distinction gets lost.

When I pulled into the visitor parking lot, the clock on the dash read nine. I rolled down the window. The crispness felt fresh but chilly. A canopy of Douglas fir, overhead, was out of place in the surrounding prairie land and added to the coolness of the morning.

I spotted a restroom and lectured myself. ‘Better do it now, Lynzee. It’s not going to go away by itself. You’re the one who had to drink the whole thermos of coffee on the ride down. Okay’, again to myself, ‘I better go.’ I rolled the window up and locked the car. Hurrying back from the minimal facilities, I started the car and fired up the heat to get warm again.

My candy apple red Transit was like a beacon; out of place in this au natural setting. Ecological correctness won over. I turned off the engine and watched for a signal from Carl.

Thinking of the many theories of how Mima Mounds were formed, I remembered first becoming aware of them a decade ago. However, it was making out with a long ago work mate, Jim, in the parking lot I remember most.

From the expansive entrance, the Mounds look like a sea of giant buried bowling balls, reminding me of an old folk tale about a man who slept for forty years and wakes to the sound of crashing ninepins.

These little hills became a part of the region’s history when Charles Wilkes, leader of the expedition charting the Pacific Northwest, happened upon them in the mid eighteen hundreds. Thinking they were Native American burial sites with hidden treasure, he destroyed many, finding only earth inside. History doesn’t focus on this hideous act of their travels.

Geologists and other experts provide dozens of hypotheses and theories of glacial freeze-and-thaw cycles, erosion, interplay between wind and vegetation, an earthquake or two, or perhaps a volcanic eruption.

My vote and favorite is the alien theory. I’m not alone.

Local folklore, too, offers a solution by way of a giant of a Northwest logger, Paul Bunyan. It goes something like this: When Paul dug out Puget Sound he created the Mounds. But, the ‘why’ or even the ‘how’ is missing for this theory to hold more than Paul’s Puget waters. Local lore also promotes a magic angle to these little hills, declaring that if you try to flatten them, they mysteriously reappear.

The debate continues. However, you tell the story of the existence of these mounds, one of these mounds didn’t belong here, and never did. From what I learned this morning, the Mounds was about to make news again, this time as the scene of a major crime.

My degrees in behavioral science and counseling, combined with a career as a mediator, opened up this new world of problem solving. A world outside the confines of a safe environment, my conference room. On a normal day, my world involves an issue-based process producing a result all parties can live with…best case scenario…win-win. Yet, here I am. A place where no possibility of negotiating exists. Death settled the matter.

The landscape, aching to bloom into a summer still weeks away, changed in front of my eyes as the sun pulled up over the Mounds like a blanket. Coming up on thirty minutes since I drove in, my thermos was empty, and my sack lunch was calling my name. I shivered. It would be noon before I shed my jacket. About to dig into my sandwich, I saw movement out the windshield.

Carl walked toward my direction. His tall slender build confessing that he was particular about what he ate. He was particular about many things, some of which including being determined, detached, dedicated, and, my least favorite, disciplined. My presence is due to another of those qualities, detail oriented, which sometimes includes the addition of my wider perspective approach, landing me on the County payroll from time to time.

Expressionless except for his lips pursed in his perpetual Mona Lisa smile, Carl raised an arm gesturing for me to come forward.

I exited my warm place and headed his way. Several others joined him, no one I immediately recognized. They stared at their feet as I approached, a frequent occurrence when I appear on a scene. I may be a sanctioned partner in the Thurston County Sheriff’s Department, but I remain a curiosity to officials who either won their positions in local elections or received their appointments because they helped those who were elected. The air felt tense. I decided not to offer my theory on Mima Mounds just now.

The County Coroner appeared from behind me, nodding in my direction, offering a muttered apology for the slight jolt as he passed by. His semi-stooped posture had the characteristic look of someone standing over an autopsy table for most of their adult life. His disheveled appearance confirmed my suspicion; he’d been here all night.

No problem, Doctor, I said as he passed. I forget his name. Part of my mediator training included keeping my focus off names and on problem solving. Names bring long forgotten personal memory association into the carefully structured neutral environment that mediation requires. Unfortunately, all those years of forgetting names have carried over into my private life.

Carl began making the introductions, awkwardly. This is my Investigations Consultant, Lynzee Rose. Eyebrows rising like the wave in a football stadium.

Among the group, he pointed out a photographer intern from a local college, the Park Ranger who found the body, and the Thurston County Commissioner who lives in nearby Littlerock. I remember seeing this Commissioner on the news not long ago. Something about tribal fishing rights. Thinking back to Wilkes’ obsession with Indian burial grounds, the fact she is a member of the Nisqually Indian Tribe might have some bearing on her presence today.

We exchanged contact numbers all around. I wanted to say ‘thanks for having me’ in some way that made sense at a crime scene. But, I was at a loss for the right words, so I smiled and nodded my hellos. Great. I have to come up with an appropriate crime scene greeting.

Commissioner Heather Whittier gave a slight nod in my direction and left with a cell phone pressed tightly against her ear. This scene spoke badly for the upcoming tourism season that keeps so many little towns across Washington alive for another year.

Ranger Dan Freis removed himself from the group muttering something about changing jobs.

The photographer intern, whose name I didn’t register, made his excuses; and, holding his camera up as proof of purpose, took off, he said, to develop his film.

More cuts in the budget, Carl? I mused as he shuffled his feet from side to side. The group now down to the two of us, I smirked up at him.

Standing at six feet- two inches tall, shuffling his size twelve’s without tripping over them in the process was no easy task. Yeah, we gotta take what we can get where we can get it. Kid’s a friend of my neighbor. Has a dream of going to work for CNN.

Cuts in the County budget, due to this serious economic climate, are no joking matter. Carl prided himself on a professional operation. His daily battles to keep department dollars from the budget trimmers ate into his street time. What I know about the cuts made to public safety budget cuts scares me more than a clown at my door on Halloween.

My own mediation career has been taking a hard hit these days; people choosing to live with their problems rather than part with their money.

Getting myself back to the business at hand, I said, I meant the lack of crime scene investigators and the like. I did a slow turn around to emphasize my brilliant deductive powers of observation.

I’ll get to that, his few words on the matter. Looking outward into the Mounds from where we stood on one of several interpretive trails, Carl addressed himself, seemingly, to a particular mound. Hey, Bob. You about done?

Ah, now it came to me. Dr. Robert Wilson, Thurston County Coroner, going on twenty years in an elected position. That says something about the man or about his constituency anyway.

Standing up, he stepped to one side of a mound, coming into view. Hands cupped to his mouth, he yelled out to increase his volume over the distance between us, Yeah, well, this is some kind of …in all my years, was all I caught for his effort. Collecting his equipment and his thoughts, Dr. Bob came toward us scribbling in his infamous notebook. Rumor has it upon retirement he was going to write a book, though no one was sure what kind of book the good Coroner had in him to write. Got what I need for now, he said. It is a crime scene, in case you had any doubts. I can tell you more about cause of death after I examine the remains. I’ll be in contact. Nice to see you again, Ms. Rose. And, just like that, he walked off deep in analytical thought.

How’d you get this one, Carl?

He turned toward me as we started walking. We got it fair and square.

Rolling my eyes at him, he continued before I could complain.

Using his fingers to tick off his mental list, he said, "There are some interesting coordination matters. Not ‘jurisdiction’. Death occurred in Thurston County, til we know otherwise. There’s the Feds with this park designation. The town of Littlerock is about to come into tourist season. We’re sittin’ on two county lines next to our own. We have Native American interests popping up. And, let’s not forget the protected space activists around here in one group or another." He wiggled his fingers to emphasize his five points.

I noticed he didn’t include the alien theory of the Mounds in any of those scenarios. I nodded in encouragement and couldn’t help saying, When this is over, remind me to tell you my theory on all this, I said pointing out and across the Mounds.

Dryly and not very convincingly, Carl looked at me without expression, I can’t wait.

Stepping through a maze of mounds, the Ranger popped into view.

Holy shit, my screech echoed around me. I thought you left, I added trying to recover.

Carl raised an eyebrow at the reference to shit being holy and all, good Christian that he is.

Ranger Dan smiled at my attempt to recompose. I went to grab my stuff out of the truck. He lifted a bucket with, what looked like, gardening tools inside for us to see.

I put the Ranger under six feet tall, short by my standards. Topping out at five-six, my self-serving criteria may be due for an evaluation the next time I sit down with my new wine date, Francis Coppola’s Claret.

We started walking again, one mound shadowing the next, and the next. A good time to get my first question out of the way. The body was found this morning, right? Of the few vehicles in the parking lot, I had seen only two County logos.

While they fumbled with who should answer, I made a choice. Ranger Dan, how about you fill me in. You found the body, right?

Carl stared at his notes, his way of observing people’s behavior.

Dan took a deep breath and exhaled. The sun’s rays bounced off the red hairs on his arms prickling as he recalled the vision and memory. It was yesterday morning.

Resolving why so few officials and such limited activity were here now, I watched as the red sheen of the Ranger’s hair rose with the sun climbing behind him. The vision played havoc with my eyes. I plunged into my bag after my sunglasses but came up short, remembering I’d opted for the light jacket instead. Aargh. Northwest marine weather.

Coming to an ‘Army’ rest, he told his story. Upon his arrival at seven yesterday morning, he was surprised to see the local master gardener and his team of volunteers waiting at the gate. He learned they help with stewardship of the preserve every year by ripping out invasive plants. He opened the gate to the parking lot and the gardeners drove in and started disbursing themselves throughout the grounds. I’ve walked sections of these fields over the past month just checking for downed branches and other debris from winter and spring storms. I never noticed this new mound, he reported to us, adding, We’re officially closed after Labor Day until Memorial Day weekend so there’s not much activity here.

What caught your eye? Shading my eyes with my hand, I stepped to the side to keep from squinting at him.

Well, the one mound was unlike the rest. The volunteer team made the discovery, called me over. Once I saw it up close, the difference pretty much stood out. He pointed to the area we were heading to and continued. "There’s over six hundred acres here. As you can see, these mounds measure from fifteen to thirty feet across and up to eight feet tall. They number in the thousands and spread out from south of