ESP.LITERATURE

A DoubleNickel Detective Story

Portland Case #27

THREE

Believers, let not a group of men scoff at another group, it may well be that the latter (at whom they scoff) are better than they.—Quran 49:11

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Do a lot of that. Mouth always three steps ahead of my brain. Causes a lot of grief. The case was a hand-out from an attorney I knew. The disappearance of Judge Fogarty was big news. This attorney I knew had done some head-butting with the judge over the years. Suggested there just might be some mud to sling. Kinda sorta wanted me to dig it up and sling it. 

KT had been laying—lying? whatever—strips of bacon in a pan. When she reached up to open a port light, she snorted then turned to me with a look.

“Get your pants on, mister,” she had said. “You have a visitor.”

The woman was just through the gate, turned to scan the marina, and started down the ramp.

“You think she’s coming here?”

“Oh, she’s coming here.”

Gertrude.

The wife of Judge Robert Dean Fogarty was a mid-fifties, trim and neat, tall woman, taller than I cared for, but attractive in a phony baloney made up sort of way. The general take on the judge was a bit iffy. If anyone liked him much, they weren’t saying. His wife, Gertrude, put up a good front, tears and sniffles and head shakes. Little pats with her hankie. Sipping at a glass of water KT brought her. She wanted him found. Said she had no faith in the Portland Police Bureau. Enmity—her word—existed between her husband and the police, different concepts of justice, different ideas on the application of either the letter of the law or the spirit of the law. Wanted to hire me to find him. Said her husband didn’t have an enemy in the world. An upright man, an honest man. So she said.

Bonacorso had the case for the Police Bureau. Was thrilled to hear from me.

“This one’s right up your dead-ended alley, chump,” he said. “Got more suspects and motives than flies on dog-do.”

“But nary a suspect,” I said.

“Nary my ass.”

He filled in some blanks. Started as a missing person, but snafued in short order. Bonacorso’s word. Probably didn’t know the military anagram, too young. Said the man had an apartment and definite signs of female companions. Well stocked liquor cabinet. Leaned towards single malt Scotch. Had a cut glass decanter sitting on an oak side table half-full with a pair of tumblers to match.

Or half empty, I had said. Which he ignored.

Had a boat on Hayden Island. Didn’t get used much, said the wife. You met the wife? he asked me.

I met the wife, I told him.

She your client?

Client? You know I always just poke my nose into whatever looks like making me a dollar.

Yeah. Right. Fellow parked next to him … “

Moored? You still at the marina?

Moored. Whatever. You gonna let me finish?

I let him finish. He told me Fogarty liked to motor up the river for an afternoon outing. Handled the boat like he knew what he was doing. Nice fellow, so the neighbor claimed.  Kind of kept to himself, but can’t fault a man for that. Didn’t know he was a judge. Took him for a professor or doctor or some such. So said the man parked next to him. Claimed he never saw a woman on the boat. Fogarty was a loner. He was the type that compartmentalized his head. A place for everything and everything in its place.

So you see where we’re at, he said.

Yeah, just east of nowhere.

Piss up a rope, he said, and slammed the phone down.

Can’t do that with a cell phone.

So I found the Judge. Got ghosted by the wife. Then Buddy happened.

I had run into the boy a couple days after I’d located the remains of Judge Robert Fogarty.  Lost him quicker than stink. So I’d find the little monkey. And his mother. Least I could do. Punched Lucy up on the smart-ass phone.

Chipper as ever. “Good morning, Mr Nick.”

“Morning Lucy.” I sipped some coffee. Considering Lucy, AI wasn’t all bad. “Got a hairball for you.”

She took a half-second to process the word, then said, “And the nature of the problem?”

“Kid disappeared on me. Mom taken maybe by Shiite extremists. She’s Sunni. I think. Couldn’t get much out of the boy before he ran off. Fences made him queasy.”

One of Lucy’s most endearing qualities is how well she listened. Her timing was impeccable.

“Might help,” I said, “If I knew the difference between the two.”

She gave her little smile. “Easy enough. First of all, some terminology. The two primary sects of Islam are Sunni and Shia. Shia is the name for the sect, the group. A member of that group is labeled  a shiite. If he was Arabic, he is probably of Iranian, Iraqi or Jordanian descent. Iran is 90% Sunni. Iraq is 63%.”

“And the difference between the two?”

“The primary difference between Sunni and Shia Muslims stems from a 7th-century dispute over succession to Prophet Muhammad. Approximately 85% of Sunnis  believe in electing leaders, their Caliphs. Approximately 15% of  Shias believe leadership should remain within the Prophet’s family, starting with his cousin and son-in-law, Ali ibn Abi Talib who became the fourth Caliph in 656 CE.”

“My my. Simple as all that, was it.”

“Sectarianism seems to be the way of all religions.”

“And how likely is it that bad guys would be here in Portland, Oregon, hassling a young woman and her son?”

“Unlikely. The number of militants has dwindled. Specific numbers are difficult to ascertain, but if one includes Sunni militant groups—often identified as Jihadi-Salafist, Wahhabi, or Qutbi—and include groups such as ISIS, Al-Qaeda, and Hamas, and also the Shia militant groups and the Lebanese Hezbollah, the Zainebiyoun Brigade, and various militias operating in Iraq and Syria, then the total might reach 20,000 individuals.

“A salient point, Mr Nick, is this: the population of Iraq is 47.5 million. The population of Iran is 92.5 million. The militants comprise but a handful of individuals. Most of the Arabic population have the same hopes and dreams as do most Americans. Their life is just a good deal more difficult.”

“And the bad guys get all the ink.”

A slight pause from Lucy, considering; then a nod of her head.

“So how many Islamic folks we got living in Portland?”

“There are approximately 25,000 members of the Islamic community in the greater Portland area.”

“Well, that narrows the field.”

“One boy among so many.”

Just how Lucy came up with that notion gave me a bit of pause. Deduction, it was. Imagine that. I thanked her and  went looking for some scones.

TO BE CONTINUED