The Waters of Wrath: An Environmental Sabotage Mystery

By Mark Moline

Holt Anderson, a pensive cop turned Episcopal priest is yanked back into his old career by a cold case that refuses to chill. Just after his seminary graduation in the heart of California, sniper fire opens anew his need to right a wrong. It was on his watch that a young woman lost her life in the cold waters of the Yakima River and his instincts told him then, it was not a simple case. The Yakima ran cold snowmelt, but it was the hot center of environmental sabotage in an old war raging in the west. Follow Father Holt on his quest for inner peace and justice for a dead girl, justice for a small town, and peace for the Yakima's waters of wrath. If you enjoy reading cozy mysteries and stories about environmental espionage, you will love The Water of Wrath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Moline
• Release date: Apr 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463049372

Mark Moline

After serving as an M.P. in the Army during the Vietnam War, Mark Moline earned his degree in Justice Administration from American University in Washington, D.C. and also graduated from the F.B.I. National Academy. He then experienced most facets of law enforcement including motorcycle cop, K-9 unit supervisor, investigations, and twice Chief of Police. He retired from a twenty-six-year law enforcement career in 1994 and started his seminary studiesimmediately at Emory University in Atlanta.Upon his ordination to the Episcopal priesthood, Mark was assigned the position of Chaplain at the Atlanta City Detention Center, seamlessly merging his law enforcement experience with his strong belief in redemption. He went on to pastor the Episcopal Church of the Holy Comforter in Atlanta, a calling particularly close to Father Mark’s heart. Holy Comforter is a unique inner-city mission, which serves those living in poverty and many with mental illness diagnoses.Among other positions, Father Mark served as the Rector of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Prescott, Arizona before retiring to Moore, South Carolina. He is married to Judy and they have two children and two grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter 1

And I will show you something different from either your shadow at morning striding behind you, or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a hand full of dust.

That familiar citation from T. S. Eliot's poem The Waste Land was one of Father Holt's favorite lines of verse. He was no stranger to either dust or fear. Both were essential elements of his life’s experience and his fundamental nature: and he had been routinely citing that Eliot passage since the youthful days of his first career as a homicide detective. Now he wanted to use Eliot's words in Sunday's morning sermon. Holt wanted to preach courage as an elemental component of faith.

The Rev. Holt Anderson, newly assigned Rector of St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Valley City, Washington, was that city's former Police Chief who had worked his way up the police ranks primarily as a homicide investigator. He had then served several years as the Commander of the Investigations Bureau and from that crucial management position was selected to serve as Valley City's Chief of Police.

Following several successful years as Chief, Holt surprised many with his unexpected but optional early retirement. Folks were even more startled by his almost immediate entry into a California seminary. While Holt left the department in good shape with his personal reputation intact, many considered the priesthood a highly unlikely second career for a rough-talking, self-assured veteran cop. Only a few of his closest friends and associates knew it to be a logical sequence and a deeper extension of his life's call to chase after elusive justice. Holt had long camouflaged his more gentle nature with a public air of police gruffness and certitude.

Now he sat in the rectory office at his computer keyboard attempting to bang out some preliminary concepts for the Sunday sermon. However, the best words to convey his unique message were playing hard-to-get, and his mind was wandering. He felt self-distracted by his own past. Memory seemed an intriguing temptress.

Holt knew better than to force a sermon's preparation lest the finished product seem artificial and contrived. So he leaned back and relaxed his six-foot-one-inch frame in his comfortable office chair. His size-thirteen stocking feet hung over the far edge of the strategically placed ottoman.

For most of his life others had referred to him as wiry, but for some mysterious reason that descriptor had vanished about the time he turned forty. His good health was holding, and he still had a lot of upper body strength as he continued his workout regimen. Holt was personally committed to resisting the notoriously soft life style his second career afforded.

Father Holt unwound as he reflected upon his past and was not afraid of his memories even though they could be painful at times. He had often observed that good memories of a good life outmaneuver the spiritual notion of reincarnation every time.

For a few moments his mind drifted lazily. Then it suddenly bolted to one very recent and disturbing incident. It was fresh in the forefront of his thoughts from less than two months earlier. It had occurred in Central California the day following his graduation from seminary. Holt knew the episode was not very priestly, but the experience did serve to remind him that the priesthood was to offer him no sanctuary from the perils wrought by his enduring passion for the sometimes dicey pursuit of justice. He liked the chase and even found it addictive. More than three years away from law enforcement hadn't dulled his detective's instinct.

Holt's best friend and former detective partner, Charlie Bailey, had ventured down from Valley City in Washington to the Bay Area in California just for Holt’s seminary graduation. It had been Charlie who insisted upon returning to the nearby Central County, California Courthouse. There was possibly a lead to be found in a court document that just might break one particular cold homicide case wide open after years of dormancy. It was a cold case that dated back to Holt's tenure as the Police Chief.

Charlie was mildly perturbed when he heard that his former partner and subsequent boss had failed in a routine effort to obtain a simple court record. Holt knew that Charlie had long considered himself something of a master in the art of cutting through pointless government bureaucracy.

Holt parked curbside on the street next to the Court Annex building. He offered, Do you want me to go in with you?

Charlie grumbled, No, they will remember you from a couple of weeks ago. They told you ‘no’ then; they will tell us ‘no’ today. Let me do this my way. Wait for me here; this shouldn’t take long.

Charlie disappeared into the court's annex building and Holt sat patiently in the car. He waited and waited. And then he waited some more. Holt knew Charlie was okay and that his own participation at that point would be counterproductive. He waited another thirty minutes.

Earlier the multi-story parking facility across the street had blocked the heat of the bright morning sun. However, after more than an hour’s wait, the midday sun was creeping over the roof of the structure. Holt rolled down his side window for a little fresh air.

He was considering rolling down the passenger side window in an attempt to catch a cross-breeze when he spotted Charlie walking around the corner of the building headed in his direction. Holt breathed a sigh of relief and thought, Finally! He started his old car.

Charlie was walking slowly, appeared visibly crestfallen and was empty-handed. He slid into the front passenger seat, closed the door and said, Well, that was a waste of time. If and when we ever turn this case over to the feds, their prosecutor will make quick work of obtaining those sealed records in discovery. One call from a U.S. Attorney and that county clerk will cave like a …

Suddenly a red-hot slug of lead fired from a distant sniper’s rifle invisibly spiraled before their eyes. It sped so fast that neither could see it, but they did feel its brush of acrid hot air moving across their faces and witnessed Charlie’s side window exploding outward. The blast was deafening and left them stunned with their ears ringing.

When he recovered a bit of his mental composure Holt realized Charlie was shouting, Drive, damn it, Drive! More out of instinct and trust than reason, he threw the shift into drive and with tires spinning against asphalt and tire rubber smoking, Holt's old car peeled out its final peel.

Holt accelerated around the courthouse and took a wide left turn onto eastbound Main Street. He asked Charlie, Are you okay? You weren’t hit, were you?

I’m fine. You OK?

Missed me too. I’m okay. The Police Department is just a few more blocks on the left.

Forget the police. Get off the main drag. Keep an eye out. Don’t take us down any dead ends or cul-de-sacs. I’ll watch our rear. So far, no sign we're being chased.

Holt complied and had made a couple of turns as Charlie continued his rapid-fire commands, Slow down. Stay under the speed limit and make a few more turns. We need to work our way out of town unnoticed. Can you do that and stay off the main thoroughfares?

Sure, I’ll have to cross Main Street again. You don’t want to go to the police?

Hell no! Holt, we were just shot at in front of the county courthouse. That’s where the High Sheriff and the judges have their offices. Do you really think the town cops will save our asses? Can you just get us out of this damn town?

They did get out of that damn town and didn't rest easy until they were back home in the Yakima Valley. Holt smiled as he remembered their disjointed journey home.

Chapter 2

Memories telescope. There are memories within memories, and those rich secondary recollections can be quarried from within the primary musings. One memory expands the view to a more distant memory.

Holt's memory reached even further back into the recesses of his mind to the far removed roots of that recent sniper shooting. He remembered how that pivotal case had all begun for him. He was standing on the shore of the Yakima River in the early morning hours four years prior, and was watching his investigators process a homicide scene. He had watched closely from the river's bank as its waters rushed through the back of Valley City's Riverbend Park.

It was nearing three o'clock on that dark morning, and a hurried January wind swept down from the slopes of the nearby high Cascades, harvesting the icy air from off the river. The cold wind drove its incessant bite toward the shoreline where, aside from those shadowy Cascade mountain peaks, the Chief stood as the lone spectator. He shivered and cradled his Styrofoam cup of steaming hot coffee in both hands. The coffee's steam rose like fragrant incense burnt to a cold God, soothing his numbed face as it passed on its way toward the frozen heavens.

Holt noted that he was casting a long shadow created by the Fire Department's temporarily rigged work lights, bright flood lights manufactured to synthetically turn the night into day.

Holt stood at a little distance, alone and apart from all the action. For a time, his mind wandered aimlessly as his eyes fixated upon his own shadow against the backdrop of the river current's angry dance with the rocks. Like an angry God, the waters of wrath played havoc with his shadow. But Holt understood that the only way one could see his or her own reflection in troubled water was to cast a dark shadow. Then in his mind's eye, his shadow was transformed into a praying figure. His hands holding the cup of coffee mystically became praying palms.

Holt stood motionless in fear and awe as that shadow mystically rose to meet him face-to-face. Then just as quickly as the vision had risen, it abruptly slid back into the cold depths and was swallowed up by that rhythmic watery grave. It was, after all, just his shadow: his shadow and his imagination.

He shook himself and returned to the reality of those tragic circumstances. The good folks of Valley City expected their Police Department to solve crimes and provide facts rather than visions. They always expected a timely answer to their incessant question, Why?

Chief Anderson knew it was best not to become overly involved in the vital work of his subordinates. As Commander of the Investigations Bureau, he had handpicked most of those investigators. They knew he was there and they knew he was the boss. They would keep him informed, and they appreciated his trust and his presence. Perhaps the misfortune of being called out onto the riverbank from a warm bed on that dark Washington winter night became slightly more tolerable by just knowing the boss shared in that discomfort. At least he considered their work significant enough for him to be physically present with them.

The detectives also appreciated the brass not getting in their way. Holt's own rule was Anyone on the scene of a felony will subsequently be subpoenaed to the trial. Veteran police officers could be the nosiest busybodies and the greatest offenders when it came to disturbing the crime scene. Prior to his tenure as its Chief, the VCPD had experienced a nasty history of any one with significant rank visiting the scene of any seemingly interesting case. It gave them something to talk about later over coffee at the Blue Fox Café.

Holt explicitly remembered standing there, sipping his hot coffee and watching his detectives hard at work. Then, almost in defiance of the cold, the detectives started to remove their jackets. That familiar but curious behavior triggered his understanding of what had initially seemed so familiar and yet so disjointed. As he stood observing his investigators, Holt's memories of another river and better days from his childhood captured Holt’s personal musings.

His memory telescoped. Holt recalled standing there on the banks of the Yakima, and he very vividly remembered experiencing a momentary flash back even further to one of the highlights of his own childhood and adolescence.

He had grown up an Okie preacher’s kid in north central California in the early 60s. Those were always bright and warm sun-drenched Sunday afternoons; the weather had to be good because on those particular days the whole church went to the banks of the Tuolumne River. That California river flowed down from Yosemite and snaked its way across the central San Joaquin Valley floor following the lay of the land only to disappear into the larger San Joaquin River. Water was plentiful back then and trees, grass and glorious orange-gold wild California Poppies flourished there along those richly green and golden riverbanks.

Back then, the men in his dad’s congregation all wore dark suits, white shirts and very thin ties. It was almost like a church uniform to match their uniform fundamentalist beliefs. Holt was fond of describing them to far younger generations as the Blues Brothers without the shades. Most of that little Okie Pentecostal congregation would stand on the bank and sing gospel music while the elders took their jackets off and formed a human chain, bracing each other, out into the current to waist deep water. Should one slip and begin to fall in the current, that falling elder or even a stumbling baptismal candidate would need to grab the strong arm of a brother rather than the loose fabric of a slightly threadbare Sears and Roebuck mail-order suit. Hence, the jackets were removed and shirtsleeves rolled up.

The pastor, who was Holt’s own gentle loving giant of a dad, with his starched white shirt glistening in the California sunshine, would stand at the far end of the line. The others would steady the candidates for baptism and pass them along the line out to his dad who would then hold them in his big strong arms, gently lower them beneath the surface of the refreshingly cool, clean water, and then immediately lift them up into spiritually new life. It was young Holt’s favorite element of church, which at that age, he otherwise silently and secretly loathed.

For the longest time, Holt had stood alone on the bank of the Yakima that early morning and contemplated how different his life was from his dad’s. That reflection presented for Holt one of those very personal, life-changing and self-defining junctures in time: one that would ultimately lead to what many would consider a radical mid-life career change.

Of course, many years had passed since those old-fashioned Okie baptisms, and maybe the detective’s ties were a bit wider than his dad’s ties. Nevertheless, Holt’s investigators generally wore dark suits and white shirts even on unplanned cold midnight call outs. One never knew where such a call would eventually lead. So why did the detectives remove their jackets? Primarily for the very same reason those church elders did decades earlier.

It was cold, but they were processing a crime scene and while not drudgery, it was tedious and emotionally stressful work. Most had removed their jackets in anticipation of what was to come. By the time the tech had finished her first phase of photography, they were mentally and emotionally prepared. Then, just as the elders did during those old time baptismal services, the detectives rolled up their sleeves, braced each other, and formed a human chain out into the water. The assigned lead investigator, a veteran detective by the name of Thomas Harver, took his place at the head of that human chain and gazed down through the clear water illumined by the artificial lights.

There at his feet, less than twenty inches below the surface, but fully submerged and entangled in the branches of a fallen partially submerged cottonwood tree, was the lifeless body of a young woman, her open eyes staring upward toward her belated rescuer.

Tom Harver half shouted over his shoulder, Let’s get her out of the river before we lose her to the current.

He reached down, extricated her from the submerged limbs of the downed cottonwood and lifted the young woman up out of the water into death. Chief Anderson watched from the shore and bitterly murmured aloud to himself, That’s my kind of sacrament, a sacrament of death. It surprised him how emotionally involved he was in this case before its investigation had even begun. The investigators then gently and reverently passed her young lifeless body back along the human chain to the shoreline and the waiting body bag spread conveniently at the water’s edge. It all seemed a surreal ritual.

Holt wondered if Tom really needed that human chain to brace him. He guessed anyone could slip and fall on those slippery rocks, even Tom Harver. To the casual observer Tom looked a bit overweight in his suit and had a round face to enhance that deceptive image. In fact, Tom competed in amateur weight lifting contests and could bench press 400 pounds.

The Coroner had responded, pronounced the young woman deceased and estimated that the time of death was only a few hours earlier. That premature estimate was mostly an educated guess based on years of experience. Conclusive answers would come later. Of course, the need for an autopsy was unquestioned and would be scheduled as soon as feasible. Once the body was on shore and could no longer be lost to the mighty current, a closer examination of it was conducted by Investigator Harver and the Coroner with no obvious sign of trauma noted.

The body was removed to the morgue while most of the other detectives painstakingly searched the shoreline in the glare of the largely counter-productive lights. Holt silently questioned, Why can’t they just wait until daylight? The crime scene techs visited the adjacent dirt parking area only to find a myriad of tire prints left by police and rescue vehicles.

Prior to departing to organize his team for post-scene investigation, Detective Harver briefed Holt as to what all they had, which wasn’t much. Chief, you know about the midnight anonymous call reporting a body in the river; 911 is working on that. Holt nodded.

"No ID on her, but one of the firefighters with the Light Truck says our victim is local. Claims he went to high school with her and that her name is Faye Wesley. He thinks she lived over on Prescott Avenue with her folks. I’ll go check that out first thing.

I’ll write something up for Grace to give to the press this morning. It won’t be much because we don’t know much. Thomas paused and then added, You know, sir, I halfway expected a broken neck or a gunshot wound. This just could be an accidental drowning. We may not have a murder here. Then, too, it could be a suicide. Not likely but possible.

Chief Anderson responded, Good job, Tom. Let’s treat it as a homicide until we find otherwise. Of course for now the news release should label it a suspicious death.

Detective Harver quickly replied, It is a suspicious death, I will grant you that much. It appears as though we both have a busy day ahead of us. As he turned and started for his car he declared, I’ll keep you apprised as this thing unfolds.

The Chief called out after him, You unfold it for me, Tom. I have a gut feeling this one is not going to unfold on its own.

Chapter 3

Detective Harver departed leaving the Chief alone at the vacated scene. Some of the on-scene work would have to wait for daylight. Then for just a moment the Chief considered the possibility of returning home for a quick shower and a couple of hours sleep in preparation for what would certainly be a demanding day. However, he recognized the futility of trying to sleep. There was no one at home to miss him anyway. Jan and the kids had left him almost three years earlier.

He had agreed to an uncontested divorce. It hadn’t been an abusive relationship, there was no other woman or other man, nor was there any type of scandalous behavior on the part of either party. The marital problem was Holt’s job. Slowly but surely over the years he had allowed his ambition and work to become his first priority. He realized too late that he was taking Jan and the kids for granted, assuming they would always be there for him. By the time he realized what he had done, they were gone. Jan was bitter and the kids were angry and kept their distance.

Who wants to go home to an empty house? Besides, the morning sun was already inching up behind the Rattlesnake Hills to the east and Mayor Scott Simms would be up having breakfast with his wife Karen.

Holt knew the Mayor would appreciate a heads-up call. The local reporters were fond of gauging the Mayor’s interest in and attention to the whole city by asking one-liners that would never be aired or printed. Holt could just hear them asking, Big discovery at Riverbend Park, eh, Mayor? Mayor Simms simply wanted to avoid being caught off-guard and thus seeming uninformed or worse yet, uncaring.

Holt sat behind the wheel of his black staff car and grabbed his new cell phone. Holt could remember the big fuss Councilman Harley Davidson had made over the Mayor’s motion to purchase city-issued cell phones for the Police Chief and the Fire Chief. Harley’s given name was Harlan Davidson with Harlan being an old family name. Naturally, folks called him Harley.

Holt couldn’t recall a single growth or change-oriented issue that Harley had supported enthusiastically.

He remembered his tirade against Mayor Simms's modest proposal to purchase him and the Fire Chief cellular telephones: If we buy those two these new-fangled portable telephones, before we know it all of the City Department heads will be clamoring for their very own mobile telephone to carry around God knows where. We give them offices equipped with perfectly good telephones. They ought to be in their offices doing their jobs.

Having said all of that and more, Harley did what Harley often did and that was to vote in favor of the proposal he had just argued against. Did he cherish the role of devil’s advocate? Did he simply want to keep his political opponents off balance or did he just enjoy being the token curmudgeon on the council?

In the late eighties Holt really appreciated his new-fangled mobile telephone on that cold morning, there at the backside of Riverbend Park, where there were no pay phones. He called the Mayor, interrupted his breakfast and gave him a brief synopsis of the suspicious death. Mayor Simms offered one brief personal observation that revealed an opinion many in the community would eventually come to embrace. He said, I’ve been afraid this would happen. The kids go down there and party and drink, and I knew it was just a matter of time until one fell in and couldn’t make it out.

Holt didn’t verbally disagree. It was too early in the case and perhaps the Mayor was right, but this just didn’t feel like an accident. Kids didn’t just accidentally fall in the river in January. On occasion one might break through thin ice on one of the small lakes or a nearby farm pond, but not the river. Holt couldn’t remember a wintertime accidental drowning on the river during all of his years on the Department.

As the Mayor hung up following that quick telephone briefing, Holt felt the rumble of a large truck growing more intense as it approached his location. Next he heard the unmistakable roar of a huge diesel engine. He looked up to see the ungainly sight of a highly polished massive red fire truck rather comically towing a small outboard utility boat. That would be the Fire Department’s Dive Team.

The truck’s driver leaned out the open window and shouted down as he came to a stop near Holt’s vantage point. Morning, Chief, we’re supposed to meet Detective Bailey here.

Holt walked over to the driver and craned his neck upwards and shouted over the idling rumble of the engine, He should be here shortly. Thanks for coming out. The driver then pulled off to one side, parked the big rig and cut the engine. Like clockwork, Investigator Charles Bailey immediately pulled his plain wrapper in beside Chief Anderson’s sedan.

The Investigations Bureau Commander, Captain Joyce Spellers, had assigned Charlie Bailey to assist Tom Harver with the case. It was commonly said that Charlie had been a Detective since Christ was a Corporal. He was the detective who served as Holt’s own training officer way back when Holt first made Investigator and was assigned to the Bureau. Now Charlie was the Department’s senior detective. He bore all the marks of a veteran officer who was comfortable in his own skin. He loved his job, was a damned good detective and had never bothered to take promotional exams.

Charlie spent his every free moment bar hopping. He frequented only the roughest places. The bartenders kept a fresh pot of coffee brewing just for Detective Bailey. He would walk into a bar, greet the bartender who would pour him a cup of coffee, turn around and find the meanest looking male in the place seated by himself, go over and sit down and open a conversation. It was utterly unbelievable how many dirt-bags were prepared to talk so openly when someone, anyone, was willing to listen respectfully. Charlie was a good listener, a bit of a good actor, and had an insatiable sense of curiosity.

Despite his slight physical stature, genteel manner and somewhat dated hairstyle, intelligent members of the local criminal element knew Charlie was a force with which to be reckoned and gave him wide berth. One biker described him as a rattlesnake with all the poison and none of the rattle.

Charlie, I’ve been out here most of the night and I do need to head in for Tom’s initial briefing. Can you take charge of the scene while you are directing the Dive Team? No one comes into the Park unless you or Tom say so!

Gotcha covered, Chief, Charlie replied.

Also, could you please notify Parks and Rec to let them know I’ve closed Riverbend for the day. Not a lot of picnickers out here in January anyway. Ask them to bring out a Park Closed sign for the front gate. I’ll have the Day Shift Watch Commander send out a Patrol Division officer to help you.

Piece of cake, Chief. Tell Tom I don’t expect this water search thing to take long. To which the Chief countered, Take your time, Charlie, do a thorough job. Holt pondered, Why would Charlie want to rush this one? It’s so unlike him.

Chapter 4

As Chief Anderson was driving out of the park, he observed a late model metallic blue pickup turn off the street and stop in front of the main entrance gate. There was a bright orange kayak strapped into the bed of the pickup. The driver exited and began to open the vehicle gate. Holt pulled his sedan across the entranceway blocking access.

Holt was not in uniform so he removed his badge case from his winter coat, opened it and suspended the badge from his breast pocket in plain sight. When he exited his unmarked staff car, the pickup operator turned to approach him. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, muscular, and dressed in a water resistant outfit.

Good morning. I'm Holt Anderson with the Valley City Police. Can I help you?

Yeah Officer, you can move your car so I can get through the gate. I want to launch my kayak.

I'm sorry, the park is closed. It will probably be closed most of the day. We're processing a crime scene. You will have to launch your boat elsewhere today.

It's a kayak, not a boat. I won't go near your crime scene. So I'll ask you one more time: move your car.

Holt was somewhat taken aback by the young man's brash attitude. He firmly reiterated, The park is closed. I can't let you enter.

The pickup driver answered, This is a city-owned park. I am a city taxpayer. The sign says the park opens at sunrise. The sun is up. So get out of my way.

Holt thought to himself, 'This is the last thing I need after being awake all night.' The kayaker had moved to stand face-to-face within inches of Holt.

What’s your badge number, officer?

"I don't