Sinclair was a fit, five-foot, ten-inch woman, with straight black hair cut to her shoulders. When McCain saw her walk into the meeting room, he thought she looked a little like the actress who played the medical examiner in the first Men in Black movie. He couldn’t come up with the actress’s name at the moment, but he’d think of it.
McCain and Hargraves had been invited to the meeting because they’d been involved in the bear investigation that ultimately led to Pinkham’s body. Also in attendance were Yakima County Sheriff’s deputies Williams, Garcia and Stratford, as well as a couple of State Patrol officers, and three Yakama Nation police officers.
After a quick around-the-room introduction of all the attendees, Sinclair said, “Here’s what we know: Miss Pinkham went missing on or about November 15th, and she was found on April 1. In that time no other Native women have gone missing, nor have any been murdered. That is the good news. But there are still at least seventeen cases that are open and unsolved from as far back as 2004.”
Sinclair went on to discuss several of the other cases and mentioned that the woman McCain had found was the only one discovered in the Cascades, off the reservation. There were a few other anomalies as well, but still, because Pinkham had been Native American, Sinclair was including her in the group of missing women.
When the meeting was over, McCain and Hargraves went up to where Sinclair was putting papers in her briefcase and introduced themselves.
“Thanks for coming today, gentlemen,” she said to them. “I appreciate your time and I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’d especially like to spend a few minutes discussing how you found the body, Mr. McCain.”
“Sure,” McCain said. “But there’s probably not much more I can give you that wasn’t in my report. We’re not really part of this investigation, but we’re happy to assist. That is, if we’re not out running down lawless trout fishermen and such.”
McCain and every other fish and wildlife officer knew that they were looked down upon somewhat by some members of the other police agencies. In their daily duties, rarely did they run across the really violent criminals like other officers did. Still, there was that whole deal about how most of the people they contacted were armed in some manner.
“Who’s going to stop the perp who is catching a couple bass over their limit, if not you?” she asked, smiling at McCain. “We can definitely sleep better knowing you are out there protecting the perch.”
McCain and Hargraves both chuckled.
Good looking and a sense of humor, McCain thought to himself. He didn’t dare say that, what with everything going on in today’s “Me Too” world. But he also thought if he had, she wouldn’t have been bothered in the least.
“I can fill you in on the day we found the body now if you’d like, Agent Sinclair,” McCain said. “Or we can meet at some other time to go over it.”
“First of all, please call me Sara,” she said. “When we’re in formal settings we can do the whole agent thing, but in these private meetings let’s keep it to first names. Okay with you guys?”
Hargraves and McCain agreed.
“I have to run to a phone conference with my boss and some big wigs at the Bureau of Indian Affairs,” she said. “Give me your number and we’ll catch up later.”
The two WDFW officers gave Sinclair their cards with their cell numbers, and she gave them hers. And like that she was running out the door.
“Where has she been all my life?” Hargraves said to McCain.
“Well, she was probably in kindergarten about the time you and Linda were getting married,” McCain said. “What would she want with an old, fat, married guy like you anyway?”
“Yeah, well, there is that,” Hargraves said. “Now you on the other hand, you’re not married, and got no one in your life except that yellow dog. I smell opportunity.”
“We just met the woman. You think we can just cool it for a bit? Speaking of Jack, I gotta get home before he thinks he’s been left for good and is going to starve to death.”
It took McCain about twenty minutes to reach his little three-bedroom rambler that sat between Highway 12 and the Naches River near the town of Gleed. When he arrived, Jack was definitely ready to eat. He jumped up and down and barked with excitement in the backyard where he spent the days when he wasn’t on patrol with McCain.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” McCain said to the yellow dog. “I’m only a half hour late. I think you’re going to live.”
McCain liked living out in the country. He had grown up in the country, and after living in a neighborhood in Mill Creek on his last assignments with the WDFW where the houses were so close you could run and jump from one roof to the next, he made a promise to himself that wherever he landed next, he was going to get out of the city.
Frankly, the house wasn’t much. About 1600 square feet, built in the 1960s, it wasn’t fancy by any means. But as a single man, with only a spoiled dog to care for, the house was just perfect. There was a lawn that needed mowing weekly during half the year, and there was a patch of dirt in the back of the yard where McCain had had ambitious plans for growing some vegetables.
The garden hadn’t worked out, as McCain kept falling further behind on the weeding. Pretty soon, you couldn’t see the cucumber plants from all the thistles and other weeds. Williams and his wife had come over for a little backyard barbecue not long after he had planted the garden, and the deputy just looked at it and laughed.
“What are you growing in there?” he asked.
“I planted some tomatoes, cucumbers, and some sweet corn,” McCain told him proudly.
“Why would you do that
