Lucky for him, I didn’t really give any shits about appropriate. “Embarrassing. Humiliating. Does that put the meat in your sentence sandwich?”
Xander frowned at me, but nodded. “Yes. Many people find it hard to come to Mather due to the unlikely nature of the crimes we investigate. It’s difficult to overcome the stigma associated with the supernatural—to accept that it might exist, that it might be playing a role in your life, and that you might have to fork out money or put your credibility on the line to figure it out.”
“HA! He said fork.”
Doing his best to ignore my input, Xander trucked forward. “There are social, mental, spiritual implications that go along with our company name. You might feel a little hesitant, even crazy coming here. You might feel reluctant or embarrassed to tell your friends and family about this visit, fearing ridicule. That’s normal. But know that your privacy is extremely important to me and this agency. And let me tell you something, Gladas.”
I snickered, continuing to lube up Bambico. She loved a good rubdown, so I didn’t conserve my affections.
“Supernatural or not, we clear over 90 percent of our cases. You know what the average clearance rate is for local law enforcement?” Without giving Gladas the chance to answer, like a flaming jerk-wad, Xander said, “Less than 50 percent.”
A moment of silence passed between the two titans. Finally, Gladas broke it. “Why did you contact me?” It was a solid question, as Xander had rambled on about nothing for God knows how long, leaving his visitor in the dark about the meeting with a supernatural enforcement agency.
“You’re a fisherman, correct?” Xander asked, narrowing his gaze.
“I am,” Gladas responded, still interested in his shoes.
“Well, for the past decade, people have gone missing along the banks of the American River, the South Fork American River, and the North Fork American River. Are you familiar with the disappearances, Gladas?”
After a moment of silence, Gladas said, “I am. Though the river is quite long, and as you mentioned, it splits into multiple tributaries. People drown, sir, and they go missing along rivers. Unfortunately, that’s the way it is.”
“Over the past ten years, have you been made aware of any specific dangers along the river? Of missing people?”
Gladas scratched the side of his nose. “I’m aware of the missing people.”
“Other fisherman?” Xander asked.
“Them, yes. Along with kids who get drunk and float down the river. Families or church groups water-skiing. Houseboats. Hikers. Drug deals gone bad. Those who go missing aren’t exclusive to fishermen. I don’t fish on the American too often—”
“Bawk, bawk,” I said.
“Not out of fear, as your friend implies. As a commercial fisher, the American River offers little reward for my time. However,” Gladas paused, cracking his knuckles, “about a month ago, my nephew wanted me to take him fishing. I assume that’s how you found my contact information? You read the report I gave.”
Xander nodded and said, “Please continue with your story.”
“I figured we could sit on the bank, cast a line, and skip some rocks. He’s only six.” Gladas inhaled deeply. “I’ve been around fish and water my entire life. I’ve seen everything there is to see. But I’ve never seen anything like what I saw that day. It moved like the shadow of a giant squid—ten feet long, if not fifteen—beneath the surface of the water. Jake, my nephew, he noticed it, too. Started going on about how he didn’t want to fish anymore, just wanted to go back home. I didn’t blame him. So, we packed our stuff and left.” Gladas clutched the fingers of his left hand with his right, turning them as if he might wring out all the water he had sponged up over the years.
“And your six-old-year nephew can corroborate this story about the giant, murderous squid lurking around the Sacramento River?” I asked, maybe a little too sarcastically—neither Xander nor Gladas paid me any mind.
Xander reached behind him and grabbed his cell phone off his desk. He scrolled through the screen and said, “My notes state that you reported this incident to the sheriff’s department.”
“That’s correct,” Gladas confirmed. “I’ve heard stories from some of my acquaintances about a river monster that eats human flesh. Never having been one for stories, I chalked their tales up to the sun and exhaustion and maybe a buzz.”
“Did you know about Mather Investigative Services before you went to the police?”
“I did,” he said.
“And after seeing the shadow swim by, did you still not believe the stories?”
“I was uncertain.”
“Why not come here and tell us? What did you believe the sheriff’s department could do?”
Gladas hesitated, swallowed, and said, “Later that night, on the news, I heard about a man that had gone missing on the American River about a mile downstream from where my nephew and I had seen the shadow.” Gladas adjusted his tie once again. “Like you said, not only is it embarrassing, but it’s hard to come to a place like this when lives are on the line. Why wouldn’t any sane person go to an established law enforcement agency first?”
“Did they listen to you? The sheriff’s department?”
“They made a note of my report and dismissed—” his cell phone chirped in his pocket, and he removed the device to check the caller. Holding up a finger, he said, “Excuse me,” and left the room.
“He seems nice,” I said to Xander. “How the hell did you find him so soon?”
“Much like you, I have trouble sleeping. I just utilize my extra time a little more productively than drinking tequila.”
“Hey,” I said, pointing at him, “don’t you dare speak down on tequila. Yeah, she’s a bitch who hits harder than a fifty-pound sack of nuts, but she also takes care of me.”
“I’ll share what I discovered with you later. But through some legwork, I found Gladas’s name and number in police records.
