As an Oregon State Police officer in 1979, he found himself pulling
escort duty for Representative Clifford Brigg. Brigg would ride in the
back of Dad's highway patrol car, using the time to read the paper,
confer with other bigwigs, or occasionally sneak in a round of footsie
with his large-breasted, short-skirted so-called legislative aide. He
paid little attention to my father, but my father paid plenty of
attention to Brigg. It was his job.
On a sunny afternoon in July 1980, my father drove Brigg to Salem from
a press event in downtown Portland to announce the groundbreaking of a
new office building. As usual, Brigg was multitasking, this time
meeting with major campaign supporter Herbert Kerr during the ride.
Watching the two discreetly in his rearview mirror, Dad saw Kerr slip
an envelope to Brigg. From the way Brigg stuffed it into his coat
pocket, my father concluded that the deal was rotten.
Others would have let it drop, convincing themselves that it was either
none of their business or nothing to worry about. Or perhaps they'd
seek cover before talking, reporting the observation to a supervisor or
perhaps anonymously to the press, happy to let someone else steer the
course. But not my father.
The next time he had Brigg in the car to himself, he made the mistake
of confronting him. I don't know how my father expected Brigg to
react. Maybe he was naive enough back then to believe he'd come clean
and return the money. But, instead, Brigg denied any wrongdoing. He
gave Dad a choice. He could let the matter slide, in which case Brigg
and his cronies would make sure he worked his way straight up the OSP
ladder. Or he could repeat the story, in which case Brigg's
legislative aide was prepared to file a complaint that my father had
groped her.
My father's face tightened at the memory, his palms working the edge of
the kitchen table where we sat. "You should have seen his girlfriend
when she told me later the things she was willing to say if it came
down to it. These were truly ugly people, Sam." Herbert Kerr would
back up Brigg's denial, and my father's career would be ruined.
The arguments he had with my mother were not, as I had inferred, about
his hours or the physical dangers of police work. The truth was that
they didn't see eye to eye about Clifford Brigg and his threats.
To my father, the choice he'd been given was no choice at all. He
wanted to blow the whistle, career be damned. He'd work as a janitor
if he had to.
"And Mom?" I asked.
One look at his face, and it all became clear to me. Mom was a good
woman, about as good as they're made. But she and Dad didn't always
approach the world from the same perspective. She loved my father, but
part of her probably wished he'd earned more money or recognition. She
was ecstatic when I announced my engagement to Roger, while my father
feigned acceptance. And, although she never said as much, she no doubt
wondered how different her life would have been if she could have quit
teaching and pursued her passion for painting.
Dad didn't need to fill in the blanks. My mother must have wanted him
to play the game and accept Brigg s deal.
But instead, my father hung up the state system and found a quiet,
humble job with the federal forest service. He told my mother about
his decision only after he had given notice at OSP. He hoped Brigg and
Kerr were smart enough to see the move as a sign that he planned on
going silently, and he had been right. He never heard another word
about it.
"Not from him, at least," I had said.
He did his best to explain that my mother's concerns were for me. She
didn't believe Dad could run away from the problem. And since he
wouldn't be able to convince anyone that he'd seen something
suspicious, he might as well get what he could out of Brigg and Kerr.
But for my father, the decision wasn't about pragmatism. Brigg was
forcing a choice between the two most important components of his
character dedication to his family, and an unwavering commitment to
good over evil.
My father had found a third way. He should have been proud. He had
avoided accepting the favors of corrupt men like Brigg and Kerr, and he
had refused to let martyrdom destroy his reputation and family. But to
him, his departure from OSP felt cowardly an easy way to tell himself
that he'd rejected a deal with the devil, without actually confronting
Brigg. It was the kind of moral equivocation he despised.
When he saw Susan Kerr on television that Monday morning, the
unfairness of the choice Brigg had given him and the shame of his
response came flooding back. His instinct was to save me. If someone
was going to stumble onto the secrets of someone like Clarissa and her
friends, Dad reasoned, let it be someone other than his daughter. His
family had paid their dues.
I felt a wave of anger. I had suspected all along that someone was
blackmailing Clarissa; if he'd shared his story about Brigg and Kerr
earlier, I might have made the connection to Susan instead of spinning
my wheels all week. Maybe I hadn't been particularly forthcoming with
details of my own about the case, but it would have been easy enough
for him to bring me into the loop.
I understood why he'd been struggling, though. From his perspective,
the pit in his stomach had seemed irrational, a sour remnant of his own
mistakes. Why, after all, should he have assumed that a woman who
married Herbert Kerr years after his own encounter with the man was
herself corrupt? Nevertheless, his instincts were what they were and
he'd been right.
My plan was to call information to find the closest Pasta Company, but
then I had a better idea. I pulled the garbage can from beneath the
kitchen sink. On top of the heap lay a take-out bag with the receipt
still inside. Tuna nicoise salad, just as she'd said.
I used Susan's phone to call a sergeant I knew at central precinct. He
agreed to send a patrol officer to meet me at the restaurant with the
pictures I needed.
Pulling out of the driveway, I waved to Dad in my rearview mirror. He
followed me to the bottom of the west hills, letting loose a final honk
before going his own way.
At the light at Fourteenth and Salmon, I paged the medical examiner,
Dr. Jeffrey Sandier. We'd never worked together before, so I had to
explain who I was and what I was calling about before we got down to
business. But then the business was quick.
"Just how sure are you on the time of death?" I asked.
"Time of death's never as certain as they make it sound on TV shows.
You draw inferences from the forensic evidence, but in the end, it's
exactly that an inference. I often tell people that in my thirty-eight
years of experience I've only seen one case where I could pinpoint the