Dark of the Moon

by John Sandford

  “Yes. Is Larry here?”

  “He’s down breaking up the basement,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  JENSEN WAS BREAKING UP the basement floor with a sledgehammer, working bare chested. The basement had been finished sometime long before, and now the walls had been stripped of the Sheetrock, showing the bare studs and long streaks of old PL200, with chunks of drywall still stuck to it.

  Virgil came down the steps just as Jensen came through a swing, the hammer cracking into the concrete, and then he turned and his eyes narrowed when he saw Virgil. He wiped his head and asked, “What’s up?”

  “Putting in a toilet, huh?”

  “Gonna have one more kid,” he said, propping the hammer against the basement wall. “That’ll be three girls and a boy, and we sure as shit won’t get along with one bathroom…So what’re you doing?”

  “Gotta ask you a question, Larry. If Stryker’s popularity takes a fall…are you running for sheriff?”

  Jensen looked at him for a moment, not answering, then, “Why would you want to know?”

  “Larry, believe me…Just answer the question, okay?”

  Jensen wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand, wiped his hand on his jeans, and said, “Naw. I’m happy like I am. I’ll get my twenty-five when I’m forty-five, and then maybe try something new. Double-dip.”

  “The power doesn’t appeal to you,” Virgil said.

  Jensen shook his head: “What’re you up to, Virgil? And no, it doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Come on. Get your jacket: we gotta make a call.”

  “It’s midnight, Virgil. Does Jim know about this?”

  “Get your jacket, Larry. We gotta make a call, and I’m not going alone. I need a witness. And Margo Carr—call her up, too. Jim doesn’t know about it, because it would embarrass him to know about it. Officially.”

  Jensen put his hands on his hips: “Well, shit.”

  “Larry…”

  THEY GOT a key from the evidence locker and rode out to the Schmidt house in silence. “This worries me; I really don’t like it,” Jensen said.

  “I don’t like it either,” Virgil said.

  The Schmidt house was dark and silent, an air of gloom gripping it like a glove. They parked under the yard light, and Jensen led the way across the yard, joked, “You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”

  “No. Not that I’d mess around with one, if I had the chance,” Virgil said.

  INSIDE, THEY BROUGHT the computer up. Virgil went to the inbox, checked Schmidt’s e-mail. The letters from the Curlys were gone, as Virgil thought they would be.

  “Doesn’t necessarily mean a lot,” Jensen said.

  “No, it doesn’t—it can’t be entirely innocent, but it might not be entirely guilty, either. Just trying to keep their asses out of the fire,” Virgil said.

  A set of headlights swept the yard, and a minute later, Margo Carr knocked, then stepped inside. “What’ve you got?”

  “I need you to take this computer to your place—not the office, to your place—and lock it up,” Virgil said. “Then, tomorrow, I want you to get in touch with the state crime lab about recovering files on the hard drive. Should be simple enough. Don’t have to do it yet, but make the arrangements.”

  She looked from Virgil to Jensen and back again: “What are we looking for?”

  “Roman Schmidt’s e-mails,” Virgil said. “All of them.”

  HE MET STRYKER and Jensen again at nine o’clock the next morning, at the sheriff’s office, Virgil carrying a cup of coffee. “Where’s Merrill?”

  “He’s on his way,” Stryker said. “Larry’s filled me in: I think you probably ought to do this somewhere else. You could use a courtroom.”

  Virgil nodded, then said, “What about the guys from the DEA? They holding on?”

  Stryker nodded: “All holding on; I talked to Pirelli this morning. What exactly are you doing, Virgil? You never told Larry exactly what…”

  “Talk to you in a bit,” Virgil said. “Send Merrill over when he shows up.” To Jensen: “Let’s go nail down that courtroom.”

  THE COURTROOM WAS EMPTY, and Virgil walked back and turned the latch between the courtroom and the judge’s chamber. He asked Jensen, “When are you gonna get that basement finished?” Virgil asked.

  “Virgil, I’m not up for any small talk, right now,” Jensen said. “These guys are friends of mine.”

  Virgil said, “Don’t worry about it. If they did do something wrong, we can always cover it up.”

  That made Jensen laugh, once. Then he shook his head and said, “I’ll remember that. You know, when they have me on the witness stand, and they’re puttin’ the screws on my thumbs.”

  “Listen,” Virgil said, “does anybody in town teach CPR? You know, where you practice on one of those dummies?”

  Jensen was confused: “Yeah. The fire guys do that. They go around to the schools…Why?”

  “Small talk, just keeping you occupied,” Virgil said. They heard footfalls outside the courtroom, and Virgil lowered his voice. “Here comes one, now.”

  MERRILL CAME IN, looked at Virgil, and said to Jensen, “You called?”

  Virgil said, “When you talked to me in the men’s room, about Jesse Laymon, and her car not being there, at the Judd fire…Where were you? I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was up the hill, trying to keep people from doing an end run to the fire. I saw you go by.”

  “So, you said you didn’t see Jesse’s truck. Did you look at all the trucks?”

  “No…”

  “Then why pick on Jesse?” Virgil asked.

  Merrill hooked his thumbs over his gun belt, which, in a cop, is defensive: “I heard talk that nobody had seen her. And since I hadn’t either, I thought you should know.”

  “Who’d you hear that talk from?” Virgil asked.

  Merrill’s eye went to Jensen. “What’s going on, Larry?”

  “Not a big deal,” Jensen said. “We’re just trying to track down where you might have heard that.”

  “It’s sort of confidential…”

  “It’s not confidential from us,” Virgil said. His voice was mild, and quiet, so Merrill had to concentrate on him. “If I need to immunize you, and put you in front of a grand jury to get it, I’ll do that. Of course, you’ll lose your job. If there are any subsidiary entanglements, you could be going to Stillwater for a few years.”

  “What are you talking about?” Merrill barked. “I was giving you a tip.”

  Virgil looked at Jensen. “Better read him his rights. Do we have to do that with police officers? I think maybe we should.”

  Merrill said, “What the hell?”

  Virgil said, “We really need to know where you heard that. That’s all. No crime at this point. Could get to be a crime. Depending. So where did you hear it?”

  Merrill looked at Jensen, then back at Virgil. “Jesus…I mean, it’s no big deal, I guess. I heard it from Little Curly.”

  Virgil smiled. “See? That was easy enough. We thought you probably had. So, take off. Keep this to yourself. And I mean, Deputy, keep it to yourself. We’re right in the middle of a complicated thing here, and you best keep your head down.”

  THE CURLYS CAME in together. Jensen had called Little Curly, told him to find his father, bring him in. Little Curly was wearing his uniform, Big Curly was off duty, wearing red shorts and a T-shirt that showed off his gut.

  “Sit down,” Virgil said.

  They sat, and Big Curly asked Jensen, “What’s going on, Larry?”

  Virgil said, “You’re talking to me. Not to Larry. He’s more of a witness.”

  Big Curly looked at his son, then asked Virgil, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I need to set some quick ground rules,” Virgil said. “You don’t have to talk to me. If you don’t, then the chips fall where they may. One or both of you have done things that helped out the killer of the Gleasons and the Schmidts and the Judds…”

 
; “What? That’s bullshit,” Big Curly said. He looked at his son, shook his head, then said to Jensen, “Larry, are you putting up with this shit?”

  Jensen said, “You should listen to him.”

  Virgil continued: “Whether you knew it or not—but if you bail on me now, like I said, a prosecutor could take a fairly harsh view of it. Or we can handle it privately, and maybe, if I think it was all innocent, we let it go. Though I’ll have to talk to Jim about it.”

  Little Curly: “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  VIRGIL ASKED, “Who went into the Schmidts’ house and erased e-mails from Roman Schmidt’s computer?”

  The Curlys looked at each other, then Big Curly, his face gone grim, said, “I did. But it had nothing to do with the killings. It was a personal matter.”

  “I know—about the election,” Virgil said. “We’ve got the computer sequestered, and we can recover the e-mails if we need to. Keep that in mind. Now, did you walk anybody through the house after the killings?”

  Little Curly shook his head. “Not me. Why would I?”

  Big Curly said, “Me neither.”

  “How about the Gleasons’ house? After the murder?”

  Little Curly shook his head, but Big Curly hung his, groaned, and said, “That fuckin’ Williamson.”

  “Why?” Virgil asked.

  “Because of the election,” Big Curly said, looking up at Virgil. His eyes were wet, as though he were about to start crying. “I was getting on Todd’s good side—the newspaper’s about the only way to campaign here, that anybody can afford. His articles can set the whole tone of the election, and you don’t even have to pay for them. Jim is getting in trouble with these murders, somebody was going to take the job away from him…”

  Virgil turned to Little Curly: “You had Merrill suggest to me that Jesse Laymon might have had something to do with the killings—that her truck wasn’t at the park the night of the Judd fire. It was there, so why’d you suggest that it wasn’t?”

  Little Curly shook his head: “I didn’t see it. I saw her, but not the truck. I was talking with Todd, and he brought it up.”

  “Did you ever see Todd up there?”

  The Curlys looked at each other, then Little Curly said, “Well, not actually. I assumed…”

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me yourself?” Virgil asked. “About Jesse?”

  “Because…Ah shit, because I didn’t want to get involved with you. I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Because of the election? Because Jim was seeing Jesse, and if you tarred Jesse, you’d get Jim, too?”

  Little Curly shook his head: “Look. Todd said she wasn’t there. I didn’t see her. We thought you should know.”

  “And smearing Jim was just a side benefit?”

  “Fuck you,” Little Curly said.

  “All right,” Virgil said. To Big Curly: “When you walked Williamson through, was he ever alone? For even a minute?”

  “Well…maybe for a few seconds, here and there—he’d be looking at one thing, taking some notes, I might be looking at another.”

  VIRGIL TURNED to Jensen: “Did Jim give you a hard time about not spotting that book of Revelation?”

  Jensen shrugged. “Not a hard time. He got me and Margo in his office, said we should have seen it. Said it was embarrassing that you picked it up first. Wasn’t the most pleasant five minutes of my life.”

  “You didn’t pick it up, because it wasn’t there,” Virgil said. “Williamson planted it when Big Curly walked him through. He was trying to point us at Feur. He did the same thing with that Salem cigarette by the Schmidts’ stoop. He knew we’d pick it up. I knew that Feur smoked, and I thought they were Salems. I’m sure it would have come up at some point, if there was ever a question. A trial.”

  “Why? Why would he do all this?” Little Curly asked. “Judd’s money?”

  Virgil shook his head. “Nope. Basically, he did it because he’s nuts. Nuts, but careful, and he thought he was smart enough that he could get away with it. I don’t think he could really help himself on the killings—not on the first five, anyway, the Gleasons and the Schmidts, and Judd Senior, Judd Junior might have been a cleaning up.

  “But after he killed the Gleasons, I think he decided to try to pin it on Feur. Just in case. And maybe, because his office was right there with the Judds’, he knew that Judd Junior and Feur were involved with each other, and he could throw enough suspicion on Feur to create doubt, even if we did tumble to him. So he started by planting the Revelation. Then the Salem. And to tell you the truth, those documents we found in Judd’s computer: there wasn’t a thing in Judd’s own machine, but they were right there in his secretary’s.”

  “Like they were planted?” Jensen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Virgil said. “But when Jim saw them, he drew a line from anhydrous ammonia to ethanol to meth pretty goddamn quick. It like jumped up and bit you on the ass.”

  “Williamson’s office has an internal connection with the Judds’,” Big Curly said. “There’re equipment and storage spaces behind all three offices, with connecting doors. He could have sat in there as long as he wanted, at night, working on the locks. Maybe they weren’t even locked—it was all behind the same security system. He used to work all night, sometimes. Nobody would have thought anything of it, seeing him come out of there in the middle of the night.”

  “THE THING about framing Feur is…it might still work,” Jensen said.

  “It might,” Virgil agreed. “A decent defense attorney will put Judd and Feur on trial, tie them to the Gleasons and the Schmidts. The Gleasons and the Schmidts did help cover up a murder…”

  Jensen: “What?”

  “I’m keeping some of it confidential,” Virgil said. “But I’ll fill you in later.”

  The three deputies looked at each other. “What are you going to do?” Big Curly asked.

  “Nothing, right now. Just keep your eyes open and your heads down.”

  Little Curly stood up and said, “That’s it?”

  Virgil nodded: “Yeah. I’m willing to hold this talk privately—I’m not required to file a public report. But I really do think you should drop any election plans. It might even be a good idea to show some public support for Jim Stryker for reelection.”

  Big Curly said, “Shit.”

  “Six people dead so far,” Virgil said. “Your relationship with Williamson would be a tough thing to come up, during an election year.”

  Big Curly looked around the courtroom and said, “There are things that ain’t right about this place.”

  Little Curly interrupted: “Shut up, Dad.” He said to Virgil, “It’s a deal. We’re backing Jim.” To his father: “Let’s go, Dad. C’mon. Let’s go.”

  They trooped out, but a couple of seconds later, Big Curly stuck his head back inside the courtroom. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he was gone.

  Jensen said, “Now what? I’m not sure that any of this will get a conviction…”

  “I gotta run an errand,” Virgil said. “I’ll be back in the early afternoon.”

  JESSE LAYMON was sitting at the bar, eating a cheeseburger, talking to a guy with a flattop and a red face, whose arm was very close to hers. They both had beer glasses in front of them. Her ass looked terrific on a bar stool, Virgil thought, as he pulled up next to her and said, “Hello, darlin’. Am I late?”

  The flattop guy gave him a drop-dead stare, and Jesse said, “Hey, Virgil.” She pointed to the beefy guy and said, “This is Chuck, uh…”

  “Marker,” the beefy guy said.

  “Marker, who is a deputy sheriff with Kandiyohi County,” she said. “We have some friends in common, in Willmar. And Chuck, this is Virgil Flowers, of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, who is trying to keep me from being murdered.”

  Marker straightened a little: “What?”

  “She’s the center of a pretty big…Say, you guys known each other long?” Virgil asked, looking from one to the other. />
  Marker picked up his glass: “About ten minutes. I better get back to my meeting.”

  When he was gone, Jesse smiled and patted Virgil on the arm and said, “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “Well, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m here to bullshit you into doing something that you won’t want to do,” Virgil said.

  “Do I get to wear a wire?”

  “Well, they’re not actually wires anymore, but they’re sort of like that,” Virgil said. “Smaller. But I do want you to have a chat with Todd Williamson.”

  “He’s called me on my cell a couple of times, but I haven’t answered,” she said.

  “Eat your lunch: I’ll get a cheeseburger. Then we’ll give him a call back. I’ve got a script for you.”

  “You think he’s the one?”

  “Maybe,” Virgil said. “Evidence seems to be piling up.”

  “You think he’ll admit it to me?”

  “Hard to tell,” Virgil said. “Could be putty in the hands of a pretty woman…”

  “Yeah, right.” She held up a finger to the bartender. “Bill, please. Give it to this guy.”

  23

  VIRGIL GOT ON the extension, listened through four rings, and then Williamson picked up.

  Jesse said, “Todd—I’m sorry I’m late, but I conked out last night. You called me?”

  “Just to tell you that I talked to Judge Solms last night and he said that we both ought to get started on DNA testing. We can get kits from the same lab that the sheriff’s office uses, and have them witnessed by a court clerk or a sheriff’s deputy, and send them off for testing. That’ll clear up our rights to the estate of the Judds. I’m still kind of uncertain—I know that you’ve pretty much got it nailed down.”

  “Ah, you’re a Judd,” Jesse said. “You can see it in you, if you look. You can see it in me, too. So what do they do? Suck some blood or something?”