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  DEAD BY SUNRISE

  A Chief Mattson Mystery

  Copyright © 2019 by Richard Ryker

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons living or deceased, establishments of any kind, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Connect with Richard Ryker:

  https://www.facebook.com/RRykerAuthor

  www.richardryker.com

  Chapter 1

  Brandon Mattson, newly hired police chief of Forks, WA kept one hand on the steering wheel of his F-150 as he scrounged around the glove compartment and found his Metallica: Ride the Lightning CD. He popped it in, cranking the volume. A sign off to the right told him he had ninety-nine miles to go.

  He’d left Seattle a few hours earlier, said goodbye to his daughter Emma and his ex-wife Tori.

  He downed the last drops of coffee from his thermos as he sped through the hodgepodge of new growth Douglas fir, clear cuts, and untouched, dense forests that lined the southern approach to Forks. The western slopes of the Olympic Mountains were an unchanging landscape that had put more than a handful of drivers to sleep under a wave of evergreen monotony.

  The drive left him plenty of time to remind himself why abandoning a ten-year career as a homicide detective had been a good move. The Chief of Police job was a step up, a chance to return home. He’d had his fill of big-city crime.

  If it was such a good move, why was there a knot forming in his stomach?

  Not far from Forks, the road swerved to the west, revealing a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. Sunlight glimmered off the seemingly endless horizon. Closer to shore, whitecaps crashed against the log strewn beach. The temperature dropped as the highway plunged back into the shade of an impenetrable coastal forest.

  He spent the last few miles rehearsing what he’d say to his officers when he arrived. He’d grown up in Forks, but to most in the town of thirty-five hundred, he’d be a stranger and, homegrown or not, Brandon would have to prove himself to his new department.

  Unlike his brother Eli, Brandon had escaped the small town two decades earlier. If Eli hadn’t been killed in the line of duty, he’d have earned the Chief of Police moniker, not Brandon. But life wasn’t always fair, and you learned to roll with the punches or end up on your backside.

  Brandon slowed his truck to 30 as he entered the city limits. A few blocks later, traffic came to a stop as a cluster of tourists crossed the two-lane road that passed for the town’s main street.

  He glanced up at a vinyl sign stretched across Forks Avenue. It read, Welcome to Forks, Moonbeamers in dark red letters. The advertisement, swaying back and forth under a slight breeze, announced the date of the upcoming Moonbeam Darklove festival. Brandon hadn’t read the bestselling series that had put Forks on the map. Teen angst and blood sucking creatures weren’t his thing. He’d seen enough real blood during his tenure as a homicide detective with the Seattle PD.

  When the street cleared, Brandon took a right on fifth and headed for city hall and police headquarters.

  An older Native American woman greeted him at the station’s reception area. Outside the temperature had barely touched seventy, but the air conditioner was on overdrive.

  The woman pointed at the door. “Close it. I like it cold.”

  Brandon considered the woman’s thick, woolen vest and long-sleeve shirt. The Hoh Tribe’s symbol was embroidered on her vest.

  “Then why—”

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I hope so, seeing as I’m your new boss.” He held out a hand. “Brandon Mattson.”

  She picked up a pair of glasses and slid them over her nose. A smile crossed her lips. “Sorry, Chief.”

  “Sue McDermott. Chief secretary,” she said, standing. “Only secretary, as a matter of fact.”

  “You been here long, Sue?”

  “Long enough to know you’re the prodigal son coming home.”

  Brandon twitched at the word prodigal. His parents had always opposed his move to Seattle. But that was twenty years ago. If leaving town to have a career and raise a family made him a prodigal son, so be it.

  “Look, Sue. I don’t know what you’ve heard—”

  “It’s all right, Chief Mattson. No need to worry about me.”

  She’d missed the point of his question. It was small talk. The sort of thing you did to get employees to like you. Apparently, Sue was immune to small talk.

  “I need to meet with my team.”

  “Okay, but I’ve got a few things for you.” She was a little over five feet and due to her ample mid-section, waddled as she crossed the room to a box sitting on a chair.

  She pulled out a badge, handing it to him. “Papers for HR in here too. Insurance, that sort of stuff. And here’s your uniform. She stepped back, considering Brandon. “I guessed extra-large.”

  “That’s about right,” Brandon said.

  “Good. No one smaller than extra-large should be chief of anything.” She glanced at him. “In my opinion.”

  “Thanks, Sue.” He winked at her.

  “Your key’s in there too, and the code to the door—90210.”

  “Like Beverly Hills?”

  Sue rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer.

  Sue’s phone rang and she answered it.

  Brandon turned to the door and punched in the code.

  “Just a second,” Sue said. “Chief.”

  “What is it?”

  “Police Chief Simpson from the Quileute. I’ll transfer him to your office.”

  “Tell him I’ll call him back.”

  He’d scheduled the meeting with his officers a week ago. Some of them were in on their day off. Simpson could wait.

  “It’s about a murder,” Sue said.

  He wondered if she was pulling his leg, but Sue didn’t seem like the kind of person to joke around about murder.

  Back in his office, Brandon picked up the phone. “Hey, Chief.”

  Brandon had met with Erik Simpson a handful of times before taking the job as chief. Simpson headed the Quileute Police Department in La Push. As tribal law enforcement, they had jurisdiction over the entire reservation. But the Clallam Sheriff, and by extension, Brandon’s department, had a shared jurisdiction agreement with the tribe. Through a new contract with the county, the Forks Police Department covered the southeastern area of the county.

  “I’m out here on First Beach. Staring at a young girl who appears to have drowned.”

  “Why call me? Why not EMS?”

  “Because I don’t think she drowned,” Simpson said. “You got to see this.”

  “You’re asking me to help?”

  “I’m asking you to take a look. You’re the homicide detective.”

  “Former homicide detective,” Brandon said. He paused, recalling the conversation with Simpson two weeks earlier. Brandon had told him to call for help any time. Not a promise he wanted to break his first day on the job.

  “We’ll be out.”

  Brandon headed for the conference room, where seven officers were waiting for him.

  “I appreciate you all coming in,” he said. His eyes caught on a sign above the door. Eli Mattson Conference Room. He masked his surprise, remembering the former chief had renamed the room last year, just months after Eli’s murder.

  Of the officers, the three he’d already met were Isabel Jackson, a reserve in her mid-thirties, Josiah Trent a local product who’d recently graduated from the academy, and Will Spoelman, an old timer who’d let Brandon know he planned on retiring soon.

  The last to shake his hand was Neal Nolan, the only officer to skip the “get to know
the new chief” shindig the mayor had put together two weeks earlier. Nolan was 42 years old, over six feet and had the arms, chest, and waistline of a man who spent time at the gym. They squeezed each other’s hands, eyes locked just long enough for both men to establish that neither one conceded anything. Like dogs pissing on trees, marking territory, Brandon thought.

  Nolan would be trouble, but Brandon liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, if for no other reason than to give them enough rope to hang themselves.

  “I knew your brother, Eli. Good man,” Nolan said.

  “I know,” Brandon replied.

  “Hard reputation to live up to,” Nolan said.

  “That’s why I’m not going to try.”

  No matter how well Nolan thought he knew Eli, they weren’t brothers. And Brandon wasn’t big on talking family business with strangers.

  “What’s going on in La Push?” Jackson asked.

  Although Isabel Jackson was new to the department, she’d worked on the force down in Portland prior to coming to Forks. Jackson’s black hair was pulled back tight, revealing blonde streaks throughout. Freckles spotted her light-brown cheeks. Brandon recalled reading in her file something about her family being from Cuba.

  “Possible drowning,” Brandon said. “But Simpson thinks it’s a homicide.” He glanced at the clock. He wouldn’t have time for the remarks he’d prepared for the team. He hated rah-rah speeches anyway.

  Instead, he focused on the one point he wanted to get across.

  “I know you’ve all been overworked since Chief Satler’s retirement. I hope to hire at least one additional officer soon. More if I can convince the mayor—”

  “The overtime don’t hurt,” Nolan said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Will said, pulling out a small pouch. He selected a toothpick and slid it between his teeth. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “Like it or not,” Brandon said, “We don’t have the budget to keep everyone at time and a half.”

  The move to have Forks PD cover what was formerly the Sheriff’s jurisdiction was part of the county’s cost-cutting strategy. Supposedly, local control meant more efficiencies—meaning they’d expect Brandon to do more with less.

  “Who’s on shift now?” Brandon asked.

  “I am,” Josiah said. “And Nolan. You want company?”

  “It’s probably just a drowned kid,” Nolan interrupted. “Tribal police overreacting.”

  Brandon hoped Nolan was right, that the girl’s death was nothing more than an unfortunate accident. But something had led Simpson to believe there was foul play involved. That, and a feeling Brandon had in his gut, told him Simpson was right.

  They wouldn’t get to the truth standing around talking about it.

  Brandon turned to Josiah. “Meet me at the police station in La Push.”

  Chapter 2

  La Push was about twenty-five minutes west of Forks. Brandon parked his truck near the beach and Josiah pulled his police cruiser into the spot next to him. First Beach was one of three popular seaside destinations known only by their numbers. Of the three, it was the only one entirely within the boundaries of the Quileute Reservation.

  They crossed a short dune and navigated through a maze of driftwood that had been part of the coastal landscape for as long as anyone could remember.

  There was something about standing at the edge of the continent, peering out into the seemingly endless ocean. It was like you were part of something that always had been, always would be.

  Chief Simpson had his back to the body, addressing a group of onlookers.

  He waved a hand to prevent a lookie-loo from photographing the girl.

  Off to the right, another tribal police officer interviewed a Native American woman in her thirties. She had her hand around two young girls. The woman pointed at the girl’s body.

  Brandon motioned toward the woman. “Find out what happened. I’ll check out the scene.”

  “Got it,” Josiah said.

  The spectators parted to let Brandon through.

  “Thanks for coming out,” Simpson said, shaking Brandon’s hand. “The medics already came and went.”

  Simpson was in his late sixties and had been a beat cop up in Port Angeles for years before moving back to the area, where he’d grown up. Technically, he was a member of the Hoh Tribe, about an hour to the south, but from what Brandon had heard, he had a good reputation in the Quileute community.

  Simpson swatted away another cell phone.

  Brandon wheeled around to face the onlookers.

  “Did any of you witness what happened?”

  Most of them said no. Others just shook their heads.

  “And were any of you here when the body was discovered?”

  “We found the two girls just after,” an older woman said. The man next to her bobbed his head in agreement.

  “There’s a police officer over there. I need you to tell him what you saw. The rest of you, the show’s over,” Brandon said. He had little patience for gawkers who gained gratification from the suffering of other humans.

  “And you are?” a man to his right asked.

  Brandon wasn’t in uniform. He’d left his badge in the police cruiser. He tried not to stare at the manbun perched atop his head.

  “I’m the Chief of Police. Now beat it.”

  At that, the rest of them slid away without protest.

  Simpson rose an eyebrow.

  “I am the chief, just not here,” Brandon said. He hoped Simpson didn’t mind Brandon taking charge. “Were any of those schmucks local?”

  “Hell, no,” Simpson said. “Tourists.”

  Brandon scanned the area. The midmorning sun had just breached the ragged cliffs above First Beach. A cool breeze swept off the Pacific, the wet air heavy with the salty odor of kelp. Seagulls scavenged the beach for crabs and mollusks abandoned by the tide. More time at the beach was one of the perks he’d considered before returning to Forks. But this wasn’t how he’d imagined his first trip back to the ocean.

  Brandon kneeled next to the young woman’s body.

  “How long has she been here?” he asked.

  “Got the call almost two hours ago. EMS came and went.”

  “You’re not convinced she drowned,” Brandon said.

  The girl’s face was swollen, her eyes shut.

  “There’s a cut on her head,” Simpson said.

  The injury was about two inches long and wide enough to cause significant bleeding. There was no visible blood, but she’d been in the water.

  “You turn her over?” Brandon asked.

  “Didn’t want to touch anything. Just in case. Coroner’s on the way.”

  The young woman wore a red and yellow bikini top and jean shorts. She had black hair and was probably Hispanic.

  Something caught his eye.

  “You got a pen?” he asked.

  Simpson handed him one. He took the pen and slid the girl’s thick, wet hair away from her neck.

  About an inch below her right ear, there were four puncture wounds.

  “What the hell is that?” Simpson asked.

  “Good question.”

  “Looks like a snake bite, but bigger.”

  “Human,” Brandon said.

  “No normal person has teeth that can do that,” Simpson said.

  Brandon stood, circling the young woman’s body. “The gash on her head could be from a fall or something that happened in the water.”

  There were no other obvious signs of foul play, but considering the bite marks, there could be more to this than a routine drowning.

  “Any ID?” Brandon asked.

  “Not that I could find with her in this position,” Simpson said.

  A death that looked anything but routine and no ID. And this was the weekend he’d planned to get the house set up and the department in order. Something told him he wouldn’t be doing either of those any time soon.

  “How long until the coroner gets here?”
>
  “She’s coming down from Port Angeles.”

  Simpson considered the girl. “I’m hoping you’ll take this case over, Brandon. I don’t have the resources for a murder investigation. And I don’t need a bunch of feds poking around here, either.”

  “I’m not exactly flush with extra officers,” Brandon said.

  “But your experience as a homicide detective—”

  “Former homicide detective,” Brandon reminded him.

  He’d left homicide behind for a reason. The endless hours, attorneys, dealing with death and crime scenes every day. Running a small-town police department wasn’t a cakewalk, but it wasn’t any of those other things, either.

  “I’ll lend you any support you need,” Simpson pleaded.

  There were aspects of the situation that would be over the head of any cop without homicide experience.

  And besides, it was just one case.

  “Alright,” Brandon said.

  “I owe you one.”

  “More than one, depending on where this goes. Can you do me a favor and let Josiah know I need to talk to him?”

  “Will do,” Simpson said.

  While he waited for Josiah, Brandon kept the girl company.

  Despite the number of murders he’d worked, studied the means and circumstances of their deaths in detail, he’d never lost sight of the fact that the victims were people. A son or daughter or parent. Even the loneliest soul had someone who cared. Whether they knew it or not was another story.

  The girl was in her early twenties. That meant some parent would have to bury their child. He thought about his own daughter, back home in Seattle. She was just fifteen.

  Being a parent was hard, but being a cop and a parent, when you’re daily reminded of the depravity of certain elements of the human race? It was enough to drive some cops to drink.

  Josiah’s form peaked the dunes near the parking lot. He jogged down the hill, stumbled as he reached the bottom, and sprinted to Brandon. He came up short at the sight of the young woman.