The Portland Rescue Mission ran a soup kitchen and shelter on Burnside, among other charitable activities. The soup kitchen fed so many that sometimes the line of homeless people out front would stretch for blocks along the sidewalk of the Burnside Bridge directly above them.

“I need to get back,” Riley said. Her brown hair was tucked up into a fleece cap and she was wearing a Columbia Sportswear jacket with a corduroy skirt and tights.

“She identified him for us,” Flannigan continued. “His name’s Dan Schmidt, but he goes by”—he lifted his fingers and made air quotes—“Otter. He’s schizophrenic. Off his meds. From what we can interpret, he found the phone on the path of the Japanese American Plaza. Picked it up. Didn’t see anything. He keeps mentioning this person Nick. Also, something about a spaceship and Ronald Reagan. We ran his prints. He’s in the system, but nothing violent.”

Archie could see how Dan Schmidt got his nickname. With his wet brown hair and bushy beard, wide flat nose and overbite, he did look like an otter.

“He’s harmless,” Riley said matter-of-factly. “Now can I get him out of the cold?”

Otter didn’t even look at them, eyes glued to a spot on the ground. Who knew what was in his rattled brain? With the right pills he might have a whole different story, might be able to describe exactly what had happened to Henry. But they couldn’t force meds on him, not without getting a court order, and they couldn’t prove he’d done anything wrong. There wasn’t a law against picking up a dropped cell phone. If he hadn’t picked it up, they never would have found Henry in time. He’d be dead.

“Who’s Nick?” Archie asked Otter.

Otter shuffled his feet. “River people,” he muttered. His eyes flicked up and looked out across the Willamette to the Eastbank Esplanade. It was a popular camping spot for the down-and-out.

“You know this guy Nick?” Archie asked Mary Riley.

“He’s kind of their leader,” Riley said. “Lives under the Hawthorne, I think. But I haven’t seen him all week.”

The street people who lived around the river were their own tribe. The city had long ago stopped fighting their presence. As long as they didn’t sell heroin to stroller moms or drink in public, they were left alone. Most of them stuck to the east side, where much of the esplanade was inaccessible to cars and there were plenty of places to hide.

If Otter couldn’t tell them anything about what had happened to Henry, maybe Nick could. It was a place to start.

“You’ve got room for him?” Archie asked Riley, with a nod at Otter. “If I need to find him later?”

“I’ll make room,” Riley said.