“That’s cop stuff. I thought we already discussed normal investigative approaches are seldom successful. I think you are giving me busy work.”
I huffed at Agent Marshall. “Alright, Agent Marshall, you involved me in a strange little trust exercise last night. It’s my turn to reciprocate.” Marshall mocked me by throwing her hands in front of her face. I laughed at her gesture. “Tempting, but I’m prepared to tell you everything Jessica and I know. You can fill in what we don’t know.”
“That sounds great,” she responded eagerly.
Jessica said, “After we eat, though. In the meantime, I know you know about us; why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“You decide what’s pertinent.”
Marshall limited her information to professional accomplishments and milestones. We discovered she had been an FBI Special Agent for two years. Memphis was her first assignment after leaving the academy. Before the FBI, she had worked with the District Attorney’s office in Des Moines, Iowa after graduating from the University of Michigan School of Law. Her undergraduate degree was in psychology, meaning she had stretched the truth about being a psychologist for the FBI.
Once the food arrived, the conversation became more pedestrian, with a focus on the local weather and other mundane topics. I finished eating first, pushed my plate away and began telling Agent Marshall my story concerning Boyd’s disappearance. I told her about first suspecting Marino before switching our focus onto George Mansfield.
She perked up when I told her about my first visit with Mansfield and the two men he sent after me. “You lifted an ID off someone you suspected to be a dirty cop?”
“I did. Do you want it?”
“No, you hang on to it. I’m surprised you put down two cops.”
“It wasn’t hard. I never even broke a sweat.”
“I didn’t mean I’m surprised you could put them down. I’m surprised you did since you suspected they were cops.”
“Dirty cops.”
“Still cops. They could have made things hard on you.”
Marshall studied me intently as I finished my story. I knew the look. She was looking for a tell. Anything leading her to believe I was lying or leaving anything out.
“Well, what do you think, Special Agent Marshall?” I asked.
“Before I tell you what I think, I want to say thank you. I didn’t think you’d tell me everything, but you did. I admit I’m more intrigued by this case now, and I was pretty intrigued before.”
“But what do you think, Marshall?”
“I think you have a lot of unanswered questions.”
“I know that, but tell me what you think. Should I be here preparing to talk to the brother, or should I have leaned on Mansfield some more? Do you think Mansfield’s idea that his wife conned him is plausible? Do you think it’s feasible the FBI misidentified the body?”
“What’s your primary goal, L.T.?”
“Finding my friend.”
“Then, meeting with the brother is the best next step, especially if we believe Mr. Dallas met with Evan Baxter.”
“I hear a but in there.”
“But I’m surprised by your lack of clarity on what you think happened to Shelley Baxter. You sound conflicted.”
“This might sound harsh, but I’m not conflicted, I’m unconcerned about anything other than finding Boyd. I don’t care who killed who, or who conned who.”
“There’s that famous compartmentalization you talked about when we first met. You are good at it. But, to get to my point, I think the key to finding Boyd has a lot to do with whether we believe Shelley Baxter is alive as your friend suggested on the phone.”
Jessica said, “We had this discussion yesterday when you made your pitch, Marshall. Why revisit it?”
“Because you both have missed the most obvious point.”
“And what point would that be? Please, enlighten us.”
Marshall looked unaffected by Jessica’s snide remark. “McCain, do you believe Shelley Baxter is dead? Yes or no.”
“It’s possible.”
“That’s not yes or no, but it will do. Why do you think it’s possible?”
“You know why.”
“But I want to hear you say it. Out loud.”
“This is unnecessary, but I’ll humor you. The body was missing key identifying parts, Mansfield felt strong enough about the potential that Baxter was still alive that he hired a private investigator, and Boyd says he found her.”
“Let’s say she is alive. What does that tell us about her?” she asked rhetorically. “It says she’s a class A manipulative bitch, especially if it was all a long con like Mansfield suggests.”
I started to say something, but Marshall cut me off.
“Hold that thought; we’ll come back to it. Now, let’s consider the other possibility. That Mansfield is behind all this. I can tell you have your doubts about him. Why?”
“To answer your question, Mansfield felt off to me.”
“Off? Like he was lying?”
“More complicated, more subtle than simply lying. I’m pretty good at telling when someone is lying. Or, at least, I feel like I used to be good at it.”
“Do you mean his behavior and emotions seemed disingenuous?”
“No, it was more subtle than that.”
“Manufactured?”
“Sort of, but still more subtle.”
Marshall stopped to think for several seconds. “Are you saying his emotions seemed real but perfectly timed and nuanced to serve a purpose? To be manipulative?”
“That’s it.” I explained how he seemed to be on a directionless, emotional roller coaster during my interrogation, and how he seemed irritated by no one believing he was smart enough to pull off the intricate ransom drop. “Plus, the narcissistic asshole sent men to scare me away. If he’s got nothing to hide, then why did he do that?”
Special Agent Marshall took in a deep breath and sighed. She reminded me of a doctor getting ready to deliver bad news, contemplating what to say or how to say it. I glanced over at Jessica, who shrugged and said nothing.
Marshall said, “L.T., Jessica, this will be a difficult case, regardless of whether Shelley Baxter is dead or alive. Because in either scenario, I strongly opine we are dealing with an extremely intelligent, remorseless, manipulative sociopath.”
***
A sociopath. It made sense if we believed Shelley Baxter conned her husband. Meaning she had to find a body double to murder and then mutilate it to pass it off as herself. Agent Marshall further argued Baxter had to be highly intelligent to fool the FBI into believing she was dead and to evade detection for seven years. One minute, Marshall was talking to us in a dispassionate, lecturing tone that rubbed me the wrong way. The next minute, she was animated and excited, which did little to allay my irritation with her. Jessica seemed to sense my irritation and reached over to pat my thigh under the table.
“Then, there’s the idea of Baxter being the victim,” Marshall continued. “That complicates things even more.”
“If Baxter is the victim, wouldn’t that make her dead?” Jessica asked.
“Not if we are to believe your friend. Should we believe your friend?”
“Yes. If Boyd says Shelley Baxter is alive; then she’s alive.”
“Except, Boyd never said Shelley Baxter is alive. He told your friend he found the woman he was hired to find and that the client sent me after them. It was Mansfield who admitted he hired Boyd to find Shelley Baxter. And your husband has already admitted he couldn’t get a good read on Mansfield.”
Marshall was telling the truth about my inability to read Mansfield, and she was right about what Boyd told LeClair; however, I couldn’t see the point she was trying to make. Or what difference it made in finding Boyd.
“Aw come on, you two. L.T., you already hinted at the possibility that maybe the woman Boyd found is someone claiming to be Shelley Baxter.”
&
nbsp; “We are back to the blackmailer theory?” Jessica didn’t sound amused by Marshall’s suppositions. “What in the hell would a blackmailer have on a guy who lost his wife to kidnappers?”
“Maybe Mansfield killed his wife in a fit of rage. His one moment of weakness after finding out his wife was screwing other guys. A rich, powerful man like him wouldn’t like to find out he’s nothing more than a common cuckold.”
“Sure, but why cut the head and fingers off?” Jessica asked.
“Maybe because Mansfield killed his wife in such an extreme and violent manner, or with enough forensic evidence present, that everyone would suspect the husband, which meant he had to come up with another plan to divert attention away from himself.”
“Does anyone else feel like we’ve had this same conversation before?” Jessica huffed while throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Is she alive? Is she dead? Is so and so a sociopath? I’ll tell you what I want to know — where’s Boyd, plain and simple?” Jessica leaned forward to stare directly into Special Agent Marshall’s eyes. “As much as I like playing devil’s advocate, this is getting old. Marshall, you call Larry. See if two trained federal agents can come up with anything. Work the traditional, accepted legal route while Legend and I brainstorm another way to work off the books on Baxter. Make the call, Marshall. Now let’s exchange contact information and agree to get together later this afternoon.”
My wife was done speculating. Marshall and I looked at each other and shrugged before I gave Marshall a business card with my pager number on it. She did the same, shook her head, and smiled at Jessica in respectful astonishment before leaving us sitting at the table alone.
Jessica waited for her to be out of earshot before speaking. “I’m sorry if that seemed blunt, but I’m sick of hearing everyone’s crazy ideas. We were beating a dead horse. One thing, Legend, you asked Larry to meet with Mansfield. Why didn’t you have Marshall do the same thing with Baxter on this end?”
“What do you know about wrestling?”
“The guys wear funny tights, and I bet you looked great in yours.”
I smiled before leaning across the table to kiss her hard on the mouth. “Thanks for the levity. I’ll see if I can find a singlet for you when this is all over. Jessica, there are seven basic skills in wrestling: stance, motion, level change, penetration, lift, back step, and back arch. Mastering the basics will make you a good wrestler, but to be great, you have to understand the importance of making your opponent uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable? You mean wrestling around on the floor with another sweaty man isn’t uncomfortable enough?”
“Haha. If you make your opponent uncomfortable, he’ll move in the direction you want.”
“Are you saying Marshall wouldn’t be able to make Baxter uncomfortable? There’s a lot of power in the badge she carries.”
“She’s a pain in the butt; I’ll give you that. But let’s say Evan Baxter has been helping his sister hold a secret for seven years. He won’t slip up and accidentally reveal something to an FBI agent because she is annoying.”
“Or open up to me at the bar because I’m pretty or curious. We were stupid.”
“We were.”
“That means you have to do it, Legend.”
“Sure, but I can’t exactly take him downtown and interrogate him. I have no authority. Which brings me back to wrestling. How do you make your opponent uncomfortable?”
Jessica shrugged.
“Leverage,” I said. “Crank on your opponent’s shoulders, grab his chin. Use leverage to create pain. And once you’ve started to make him hurt, be mean. The meaner the better. When I stepped out on the mat, I didn’t want to beat my opponent. I wanted to beat him so bad he questioned why he ever took up wrestling. I wanted him questioning his life choices. I wanted him to give up and quit.”
“That sounds harsh.”
“I know, isn’t it great. That’s wrestling. Best sport ever.”
Jessica stared at me for several seconds, examining me, eventually shaking her head in exasperation. “Men are so weird. Before you walked down memory lane, you were making a point.”
“Yeah, right. Leverage. We don’t have any on Baxter, except for the threat of physical violence, and I can’t go around threatening someone every time I need answers. Especially if he’s innocent, which is not only possible but highly probable.”
“Then you have to do it the direct and honest way. What’s the worst that can happen; he tells you nothing? We already know nothing, so no loss.” She had a point. “And if he’s not a sociopath like everyone else Marshall suspects, you should be able to tell if he’s lying.”
Jessica had made another great point. It was decided. I would talk to Baxter myself. Appeal to his conscience. Leverage or no leverage. And I would do it immediately.
Evan Baxter wasn’t home when we drove by shortly after noon, and Riverside didn’t open on Sundays until six, meaning we either had to stake out his home or come back later. We knew where he lived and where he worked; he would show up sooner or later. Good or bad, we had a plan, and having a plan was better than not having one. And waiting with someone as wonderful as Jessica made waiting less painful. In my heart, I felt we would be leaving Dubuque soon with answers.
***
We waited outside of Baxter’s house for nearly six hours. No Baxter. We drove by the bar. No Land Rover. My optimism was waning quickly. My patience was waning even quicker. If Jessica had not been with me, I’m sure I would have gone mad.
“We’re not doing that again, Jessica.” I was lying on our hotel bed, staring at the ceiling after giving up on Baxter to show up. It seemed like I had been lying around for a small eternity. It had been less than 20 minutes.
“We’re not doing what again?”
“Wasting another day. I will wake him up at midnight if I have to.”
“You seem unusually frustrated, sweetie. Come on; this is not your first time investigating something.”
She was right; it wasn’t my first time. The first time had been in the Navy in the early eighties. I was working undercover in an attempt to identify military personnel who were smuggling drugs out of the Philippines. I came up with the brilliantly simple idea of pretending to be a dirty Navy Master-at-Arms with a fool-proof method of smuggling merchandise out of the Philippines. We didn’t want the real smugglers to see me as competition, so we pretended I didn’t have enough merchandise to smuggle. The world abhors a vacuum, so the drug smugglers eventually found me hoping to capitalize on the opportunity to use my services. It worked.
Two years ago, I used the same basic idea to flush out members of the Dixie Mafia in Emmettsville, a small town in Tennessee where my friend’s son was murdered. I hypothesized an organized crime angle but needed an angle to flush them out. So, I set up a competing bootlegging operation and let them find me. Actually, they found Boyd. Boyd forgot the military adage of “never volunteer for anything” and did the opposite by volunteering to help me with my investigation. With his help, I found the killers.
Last year, I helped Jessica with her situation. The whole thing was more dangerous — we had people shooting at us, including private security consultants, aka mercenaries. But having the bad guys come directly at us made the investigative portion very straight forward. Boyd was there last year as well. I don’t think I would have succeeded without him.
Now, Boyd needed my help, and I didn’t even know where he was, why he was missing, or who was behind it. It was the source of my frustration.
“I know you feel like everyone you love is your responsibility, and that is admirable. I don’t even want you to stop. That would be asking you to go against your nature. You are a protector. But what is really going on? Your level of frustration is abnormal for you.”
“You know the little voice in my head I’ve told you about?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t hear it.”
Jessica studied me for several seconds before responding. “Yo
u’ve got yourself into a positive feedback loop, Legend. You were initially frustrated because you lack answers. Now, you’re frustrated because you’re frustrated.”
“A positive feedback loop. That’s a nerdy thing to say.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Get up and stop staring at the ceiling. You have to break the cycle. You’re driving yourself crazy.”
“Alright, my little enginerd. How do you propose I do that?”
“I don’t know. Do a couple of hundred pushups or something.”
“That’s not that many. I’ll be done in a couple of minutes and be right back where I started.”
“I’ve forgotten who I was dealing with. Do 400 pushups then. Or is that your way of asking for sex?”
“It would take my mind off things.”
Jessica smiled. “You’d be done in a couple of minutes and be right back where you started.”
I threw a pillow at her head, hitting her before she had a chance to dodge it. “Alright, I’ll get up and take my mind off things.”
I pushed myself up from the bed, walked to the center of the room, and started doing a stretching and balance routine my mother taught me as a child. For some odd reason, it always had a calming effect on me. Maybe it was the extreme concentration the routine required. Maybe it reminded me of Mom. Maybe it reminded me of Dad since Mom had taught him a similar routine when he was a professional football player. The routine was working. I could feel anxiety falling off me like a snake shedding its skin. Halfway through the routine, someone knocked at the hotel door.
“Get that,” I said.
Jessica walked across the room, peered through the peephole, and opened the door for Special Agent Marshall.
She entered the room, shaking her head. “That’s not something you see every day.” I was in a particularly advanced part of the routine, one that tested the limits of my flexibility. “What are you doing?”
“Something my mother taught me. She was a prima ballerina with the New York Ballet. It helps me relax and focus.”
Marshall shook her head at me. “Well, it looks painful. And very, very odd to see a man your size doing that.”
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