Decline into Depravity

By AJ Arthur

Once you embrace evil and wickedness, it's a slippery slide into depravity. High school teacher, Graham Spencer, is off on another adventure, and you can bet there’s murder in the air. Having finished his first novel, he’s embarked on writing his second—this time set in the La Grande, Oregon, area. Graham and his girlfriend, Kandis McFerrin, find themselves in the midst of the mysterious killing of an unidentified girl in the eastern Oregon winter. As they research this homicide, they become enmeshed in the case of a serial murderer, the I-84 Blackjack Killer. They begin to wonder if the two are related. As the action unfolds, Graham and Kandis are entangled in a larger web of secrecy and deception where all is not as it seems. A colorful cast of characters add humor to the mix, and some of AJ Arthur’s favorite recipes complement the plot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AJ Arthur
• Release date: Nov 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311359841

AJ Arthur

Rebecca "A" Cass, Molly "J" Brog, Dennis "Arthur" Cassaka AJ ArthurBecky is a retired elementary teacher. She was the poet laureate and sharp-eyed critic in the writing process.Molly, Becky's cousin, is a retired university professor and high school teacher. She was the word maven and fast- fingered typist of the novel,Dennis, Becky's husband, is a retired high school English teacher. He was the plot guy and humorist of the group.

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Acknowledgements

We would like to thank Theodore E. (Ted) Miller, Jr. for his creation of an aesthetic, unique, and very dynamic book cover. A former La Grande High School student turned professional artist, Ted got his post-secondary education at the Art Institute of Seattle. He took special care to create realism, mood, and local scenery for our cover.

We would also like to thank Eric Valentine, who helped us with information on Scouting; Tim Lathrop and Boyd Rasmussen, who aided with law enforcement procedures; Inn at Wecoma in Lincoln City, Oregon, for a wonderful stay for our writing retreat in January, 2014; Hayden Panike, who was our advisor for hunting and rifles/scopes; J. Glenn Null, for his guidance on legal procedures; Sharon Porter, for her excellent editing skills and continual support; and Teri Berry, Chrissy Hartvigsen, Emily Hartvigsen, and Pat Brooks for sharing some tried and true recipes.

Thanks, as well, to Bob Larison (owner of Nells-N-Out in La Grande, Oregon); Maggie, Michael, and Dionne Vali (of Vali’s Alpine Restaurant at Wallowa Lake, Oregon); and John, Joe, and Trish Yeates (owners of Mamacita’s International Grill in La Grande, Oregon) for some excellent meals and for letting us use the names of their restaurants. Thanks to Peggy Weishaar (owner of Alegre Travel in La Grande, Oregon) and agency employees for some wonderful vacation adventures, great friendship, and allowing us to use the name of the business.

A special thanks to Kelaine and Mellani for their insights and inspiration in the creation of this work. And grateful appreciation to all our readers and those who have encouraged us.

Dedication

To Mimi (Dennis’s aunt, Lute) and BB (Molly’s mother, Billy) for their inspiration and to our immediate and extended families for their input and support.

Many will follow their depraved conduct and will bring the way of truth into disrepute. (2 Peter 2:2, NIV)

Prologue

Don’t—I won’t tell anybody, I promise!

His beefy hand clutched the knobby pine branch that swung forcefully downward and connected with her frail shoulder, breaking the collarbone. She stumbled and fell to her knees, shrieking and writhing in pain. She cradled her left arm that hung useless at her side with her right hand as she tried to rise to escape.

Before she could regain her footing, he grabbed her flowered, cotton blouse by the collar and pulled powerfully downward, ripping the thin cloth and exposing her shoulder and worn, hot pink bra. She knelt for a moment, lifted her head, and raised her good right hand beseechingly, as if in prayer. I promise, I promise, hissed from her swollen and broken lips.

Then, he was upon the girl once more, tearing at her clothing. This time, he reached around and grabbed her blouse at the hem and, with great strength, yanked it upward, nearly jerking her to a standing position. As he continued to wrench the clothing up and toward her head, his index finger snagged her bra so that it, too, was pulled completely off along with the shirt, exposing her back. She howled and nearly passed out with pain as the blouse and undergarment were pulled over her head, further damaging her left arm and shoulder. The dark discoloration of emerging bruises and welts against the white skin of her back had already begun to show.

He dropped the tree limb that he used to beat the wounded girl into submission and, grabbing long, red-blonde hair, he hauled her, screaming, across a short expanse to the trees lining the small meadow. Bare legs and feet flailing, she tried in vain to gain her balance. Before the beating with the branch, she had already been stripped from the waist down to be whipped like a naughty child, and her now naked buttocks scraped across the dried grass.

The cloudless blue of the heavens were somewhat hazy as skies are on late fall days. The bunchgrass and timothy of the lea were desiccated and yellowed. Gone were the pleasant greenery and vibrant wildflowers of spring and summer. The predominant color in the field was provided by the riotous red and orange of scrub oak and deerbrush leaves. The ponderosa pines and white fir skirting the opening were dark green against the sprinkling of yellow tamarack. A few golden aspen leaves still clung to branches, quaking in the breeze.

Despite her weakened condition, the girl continued to struggle against her attacker. He slammed the nude body up against the rough bark of a lodgepole, nearly knocking the wind out of her. She brought her good arm up and encircled the small blackjack pine to maintain her stability. His muscular chest next to her damaged back pinned her to the tree as he reached into his back pocket where a length of yellow nylon rope dangled. He wrenched the rope free and surrounded her with his mighty arms, almost in a mock embrace, and quickly tied a slip knot, which he then forced over her right hand and tightened about her wrist. He shifted left, putting pressure on her severely-injured shoulder, causing her to cry out again. Then, swiftly looping the rope several times around both her wrists, he forced her fisted hands to twist into a vertical position, again as in futile prayer.

Grunting from exertion, he wiped perspiration from his brow with the sleeve of his flannel shirt and returned to the tree branch he had dropped earlier. He picked it up, walked back to his tethered victim, examined her bruised and torn back for a moment until he brandished his weapon viciously, and connected again about waist level. She screamed wildly and then passed out, her head lolling to one side, her knees buckling. Goaded on by a rush of adrenaline, he swung again. He had hoped to completely shatter her already-broken shoulder, but as she slumped from the initial blow, he connected savagely with her neck instead.

Drained and sated from the effort, he threw the branch aside, then walked into the meadow to retrieve the girl’s shredded clothing.

He returned to his prey. Her breathing was ragged and shallow. Exhausted, he turned and sauntered away, gasping from exertion and throwing a hasty, So, runnin’ away didn’t pay, did it? over his shoulder as he exited the copse.

Chapter 1

Full Moons

Oh, Mr. Spencer, look at Mrs. Dahlton!

Graham Spencer, social studies teacher at La Grande High School in northeastern Oregon, paused as he leaned over the small group of seated students who were creating a colorful Civil War timeline on white butcher paper. His classroom was open-concept and so had no door. Apparently, some of his students had gazed out the gap in the wall while daydreaming and had seen Mrs. Dahlton pass by. Graham stepped to the open doorway and peered to the right just as his colleague almost reached her own classroom.

Oh my gosh, talk about Moon over Miami! Graham gawked in disbelief. He was suddenly reminded of his Aunt Sarah’s favorite breakfast sandwich at Denny’s, Moons over My Hammy. There, about to turn into the neighboring doorway, were two cellulite-marbled buttocks and thighs encased in pantyhose with a plaid skirt rucked up and stuck haphazardly into the tight, nylon waistband.

Uh, Mrs. Dahlton? he said softly, afraid he might burst into laughter.

She turned and smiled sweetly in Graham’s direction. Is there something I can help you with?

He finally couldn’t suppress his chuckle any longer, "No, but there’s something I can help you with. Humming Shine on Harvest Moon quietly, he walked quickly to her side and whispered. Are you feeling a little breezy in back? Maybe you’d better check it out."

By that time, many of Graham’s students were peeking around the door casing and snickering none too softly. Mrs. Dahlton reached behind her and felt the bulk of her skirt tucked into her pantyhose. Oh! she shrieked and immediately fled into her room to correct the problem.

Graham glared at his students down the hall and, with a menacing look on his face and a firm sweep of his arm, vigorously motioned them back into his classroom as he slowly ambled toward Mrs. Dahlton’s doorway, giving her plenty of time to rectify the wardrobe faux pas. Some of Graham’s female students, however, remained at the opening to his classroom. They not only wanted to see how Mr. Spencer handled the situation with the neighboring teacher, they also wanted to see Mr. Spencer. Tall, with dark curly hair, cobalt blue eyes, and deep dimples, Mr. Spencer was the McDreamy of LHS according to the junior girls in his class. And if his looks didn’t captivate them, his vocal renditions did. Blessed with a rich, baritone voice, Graham was often asked to sing guest solos with the A Cappella Choir. On infrequent occasions, he also brought his guitar to class and sang ballads that went along with the unit he was teaching. His favorite was Aura Lee, which he used as part of one of his Civil War lessons.

Are you decent? He tried to sound serious but wasn’t entirely successful as he paused before going into Mrs. Dahlton’s room.

Her face was still red with embarrassment as he entered. Oh, Graham, this is probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Since it’s almost the end of my prep, I thought I’d better use the facilities before 4th period started, so I went to the girls’ restroom on the other side of the Commons.

She shaded her eyes with her hand, closed them, and shook her head as she continued to blush furiously.

"And you walked clear through the Commons like this?" he asked.

Apparently so. She was completely mortified. And, as luck would have it, the Commons was full of kids—the choir was practicing for their concert at Alpenfest a couple of weekends from now. This is worse than the time I came out of the bathroom and walked down the hall with toilet paper clinging to the sole of my shoe.

Well, we’ve all had our moments, he commented, grinning. I’m notorious for leaving the barn door open. I once taught almost a whole period before a painfully, shy student in the front row left a tightly-folded note on my podium telling me my fly was open.

Dana Dahlton, in her mid-50s, was nearly six feet tall and probably weighed 230 pounds. She was a PE and health teacher who often wore shorts and white blouses to teach physical education and skirts with the same white shirts to teach health. She sported a platinum blonde, Prince Valiant haircut and wore large, round, tortoiseshell glasses that made her eyes look owlish. She had a booming voice that had only one volume setting—LOUD—which often carried through the accordion-style, portable walls separating adjacent rooms—and down the hall. She frequently showed videos, also full volume, in her health classes.

Graham finally went back to his own room and corralled his young charges. There wasn’t much time left in 3rd period, so he brought the activity to an abrupt close and helped his students clean up as they continued to snicker and whisper among themselves. He knew that, with the texting mill, word of Mrs. Dahlton’s exposure would be school-wide by 4th period.

The bell rang, and students quickly exited. With a couple of minutes to himself, the young social studies teacher tried to erase the image of Dana’s harvest moons from his mind. He had nearly succeeded by the time the tardy bell for 4th period rang.

Graham took roll and answered a few student inquiries about an upcoming assignment. He reminded his class to put their cell phones away and was just about to start his lecture on Western Civ when he heard the ear-piercing, female voice from next door through the temporary wall. Then the sperm goes into the . . . , the voice trailed off momentarily and quickly continued fortissimo, and then, the little tadpoles run up the canal hunting for that one little egg, competing against each other. Dana had obviously regained her composure and was warming to her favorite subject—sex ed. Mr. Spencer knew his students’ attention was now off his prepared lesson and on the explanation emanating from next door.

Graham looked up just in time to see bearded Joseph Stevenson, the social studies teacher on the other side of Dana’s classroom, walk by and exaggeratedly mouth the words, What the hell? while pointing in her direction.

***

After Graham’s students left at the end of 4th period, he sat down momentarily. It had been quite a morning at LHS! He grabbed his lunch sack and headed for his regular noontime haunt, the room next to family and consumer studies in the adjacent building. One of his favorite colleagues, Scouting cronies, and fishing buddies, science teacher Guy Ferdinandsen ate there.

Today, most of the usual crowd was in attendance, including Guy, Sean Sampson (math), Sylvan Ivers (shop), Alice Metcalf (Spanish), Pat Reynolds (science), and Tad Kennicott (math). Graham was pleased to see that two colleagues he hadn’t gotten to visit with yet this fall had also joined the group—Pete Davidson (science) and Don Wagner (English). He sat down beside Don and immediately asked what he had done during the summer.

Young, athletic, and balding, Don regaled the gathering with stories of his adventures on a fishing boat in Alaska. His entertaining narrative had the crowd guffawing as their focus was riveted on humorous episodes that occurred aboard ship and on land. Don warmed to the assembly’s attention, and his stories, laughter, and facial expressions became more and more animated.

When Wagner had finished a particularly comical account, he looked at Graham and said, Enough about my summer—what about yours?

"Mine was nothing like yours." Graham shook his head.

Come on. Let’s hear about it, Don pleaded with mock seriousness.

Well, I wrote my first novel—a murder mystery. Graham blushed.

No kidding! Don was captivated. And . . . ? Don’t leave us in suspense—pun intended.

Well, I went to my brother’s cabin up on Hood Canal—you know, on the Olympic Peninsula—to have some peace and quiet to write. I worked hard all summer and finished my rough draft by August, and now, I have to concentrate on a lot of revising. I plan to self-publish sometime after the first of the year.

Don grinned boyishly. You’re doing just what I tell my students to do every class period—revise—and they never take my advice. Imagine that. His voice took on an ironic tone; then, he continued, "Hey, how’d you like to come to my classes someday and tell them how you wrote your novel? You could hit the revising, revising, revising part pretty hard. They might believe you where they don’t me."

Graham chuckled then continued, Even more exciting than finishing my book—I was involved in helping solve a real murder case right in Brinnon.

What??!! Don was incredulous. Is that what your plot’s about?

"No, I read on Facebook that that famous mystery writer, AJ Arthur, is beating me to it in a book entitled Homicide on the Half Shell. I can hardly wait to read it. My own novel’s about a cold case murder that took place up on Orcas Island—in the San Juans. I met a bosomy librarian there who aided me with some research that helped solve the crime."

Oooh, ‘bosomy,’ huh? queried Guy. Did you score? Everyone laughed at the shy social studies teacher’s obvious discomfort.

No, Graham laughed softly. She’s old enough to be my mother—or probably, my grandmother.

Well, murder aside, it must have been a pretty quiet and lonely summer up there if all you did was write, stated Alice, smiling sympathetically.

Graham colored, and his voice cracked like an adolescent’s, Not really.

Oh, methinks you have a secret you need to let us in on, quipped Don.

Just then the bell rang. Guy jabbed Graham in the ribs and said, Sounds like we have some things to talk about.

Graham threw an apple core and a used sandwich bag into the nearby garbage receptacle and thought, Saved by the bell.

Chapter 2

You Got Dithcoun’?

Thee you thoon, Gwaham.

OK, Marian. Graham rolled his eyes, even though no one else was present. See you Thursday around 3:45 at Starbucks. If I get held up at school, I may be a little late, but I’ll be there eventually. I won’t forget.

Marian Wiley, proprietor of Duckabush Mercantile in Brinnon, Washington, had become an acquaintance the previous summer when Graham stayed at his brother, Geoff’s, cabin just up the road. Marian was the voice of Brinnon if not the voice of America. She knew everything about everybody. Although prune-faced, squinty-eyed, and nosy, she had a generally good heart. Marian’s speech was a community-wide joke as she substituted w’s for r’s and lisped badly—all in an annoying, falsetto whine. She also used a cane to steady herself as she walked because her right leg was permanently stiff from a near-fatal infection.

After ending the call with Marian, Graham sat for a moment at his desk. It was his 6th period prep, but he didn’t have any inclination to grade papers. Instead, he contemplated his wall calendar momentarily and then reached again for his cell phone.

He punched in a few numbers, and a grin spread over his face at the thought of talking to the person he had on speed dial. Did you give Mawian Wiley my thell phone numbew? he intoned, in Marian’s peculiar dialect and high timbre, as the caller answered.

You’re terrible—but yeth, answered Kandis. What are you doing calling me this time of day?

Well, it’s my prep, and coincidentally, Marian just called to say she was coming through town Thursday on her way to Boise to visit her daughter. Granddaughter’s piano recital, I think. She said she was bringing the boots I left in Brinnon in August. Graham leaned back in his chair, stretching his left arm over his head and resting his hand on the nape of his neck. I figured you must have told her I left my old Justin boots—or maybe, she asked. Where’d you find them, by the way?

He could almost hear Kandis’s smirk as she replied, Under my bed. When Marian told me she was headed your way, I thought she could bring ’em to you.

Oh. Shy Graham felt the warmth from beneath his collar creep up into his cheeks. There was nothing else to say.

Graham had met Kandis McFerrin, owner of Brinnon’s coffee house/DVD rental store Perk Up on his second full day at Geoff’s cabin. He and Fern Larsen, one of his neighbors, had walked to tiny downtown for a treat at Kandis’s establishment. Immediately taken with her willowy athletic frame, naturally-wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and full wine-colored lips, Graham, in his bashful way, had pursued the attractive barista. They traveled the area on entertaining day trips and research junkets to the San Juan Islands, and he eventually ended up sharing more than Kandis’s accommodations when part of Geoff’s place burned late in the summer.

You have to promise me you’ll call the minute Marian leaves to tell me what happened, Kandis chattered excitedly, anticipating Graham’s explanation of Marian’s take on their relationship and the location of the boots.

I will. Hey, when am I going to see you? Graham’s grin showed white, even teeth.

"With school on, I don’t anticipate you coming this way anytime soon, so why don’t I make arrangements to visit your neck of the woods? Graham could tell Kandis was working because he heard the unmistakable burble of steaming milk from the latté machine in the background. Things are slowing down a bit here since the tourist season is virtually finished. I could get Tammy to take over for a few days."

Mmmmm, good. Graham closed his eyes and smiled. Then, he sat up straight in his chair. Um, I have an idea. I heard the choir rehearsing today in the Commons. They’re getting ready to go to Alpenfest at Wallowa Lake about 85 miles from here. It’s a little Oktoberfest-type event the last weekend of this month. My Aunt Sarah’s been wanting me to come up to her cabin at the lake for quite some time now.

"Whoa, Cowboy, you said Aunt Sarah’s been wanting you to come. What would she think about me tagging along?" Kandis’s contralto chuckle filled his ear.

Aunt Sarah will like anyone who likes me. He returned the quiet laugh. Think about it, huh?

***

Graham could hear Marian coming even though his back was to the door. Ka-thump plop ka-thump plop ka-thump plop sounded her cane and shoe heel of her stiff leg as she made her way to his table. He braced for the onslaught, grinning and shaking his head as he did so.

Hi, Gwaham, came the boisterous greeting as Marian limped toward him. Her loud and animated hello caused workers and patrons alike to look in their direction.

I see you found Starbucks all right. Graham got up and his good manners caused him to pull a chair out for her to sit.

Oh yeah, it wath weal eathy. I juth followed youw diwectionth to a T. Do you come hewe often? I theem to wemembew you liked latteth. She laughed in her rowdy falsetto and then continued, Do they have youw favowite—Almond Woca Mocha? She chortled at her remembrance of Graham’s preferred drink in Kandis’s shop, and then, she winked. I’m thuwe you know the ingwedienth by heawt if they don’t.

Could I order you a drink, Marian? Graham politely questioned, trying to steer the conversation away from the owner of Perk Up. And would you like something to eat?

I don’t need anything to eat. I thtopped in Pendleton at Wang and Wuth’th for Chinethe food, and I’m full up to hewe . . . she pulled her index finger across her neck to indicate her fullness, . . . but thewe’th alwayth woom fow a latté. Theemth like you alwayth had woom. She winked again.

Graham seguéd to a safer topic. Wang and Ruth’s? They have the best food.

Yeah, I love theiw powk fwied wice and thweet and thouw chicken. I love theiw pot thickewth too. But that Wang’th a weal wheelew–dealew. I wath thitting clothe to the kitchen when a vendow came in to delivew, and I heawd Wang twy to badgew him into weduthing the pwithe of the bill. ‘You got dithcoun’? You got dithcoun’?’ He juth kept thaying that. You know—the Athianth alwayth thay that to me at the Mewcantile. ‘You got dithcoun’?’ It muth be an Athian thing connected with bawtewing. Dwiveth me nuth.

Then, she changed tacks. Thay, whewe did Kandith find thothe old bootth of youwth? Marian was nothing if not devious—and she wasn’t even subtle in her deviousness.

Graham gulped, Oh, someplace in her house. I can’t remember exactly where she said she found them.

"Pwobably the bedwoom." Marian accented the last word and sat back in her seat with abject satisfaction, her arms crossed over her chest.

Graham looked over in the direction of the cash register and saw two of his female students from last year giggling. Marian’s voice carried through the coffee shop like it was the interior of a cave. He knew they had heard everything.

***

As they sipped their made-to-order Almond Roca Mochas, Marian continued her curious questioning. Thay, what bwought you to La Gwande?

Graham explained that his father, George, had been born and reared in Yakima, Washington. Pam, his mother, hailed from Cle Elum, nearby. Yet, they didn’t meet till college at Central Washington State in Ellensburg where they both took the same writing class. George later majored in business management and Pam in journalism.

After his dad finished college, Graham described, the couple moved back to Yakima where George found a job with Boise Cascade. His brother, Geoff, had been born there, at which time Pam chose to be a stay-at-home mom. The family moved to La Grande when George became manager of the Boise Cascade particleboard plant. Graham stated that he came along seven years later, and, despite the difference in age between his brother and him, they had always been the best of friends, sharing many common interests, such as hiking, hunting, and fishing in the timbered hills of the locale.

The family loved La Grande. It wasn’t an accident that French settler, Charles Dause,