Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  “I know,” he said. “So, when are you going to tell your family about us?”

  Carlisle’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t thought about that. Her parents had met Jeff and liked him, but she didn’t really like talking to them about personal stuff. She found it was always best to just avoid talking until her mother found out about things from someone else. “Yeah. I need to get on that.”

  “I told my sister.” Pearson’s sister was his only living relative. “She wanted to know if you had gotten me a ring.”

  “What?”

  “It’s traditional that the person asking someone to marry them presents them with a ring. So?”

  Carlisle hadn’t thought about that either. She knew her sister and Hillary had received engagement rings but she was pretty sure that their husbands had asked them to marry them. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a man with an engagement ring.

  Pearson caught her confusion and smiled. “Relax, Danny. I’m pulling your leg.”

  Jeff stood, reached in his front pocket and removed a small box. He opened the lid. “Here, you better put this on,” he said as he held the box out to her.

  A platinum ring with two large diamonds. She looked at Pearson, mystified for only a moment before she figured it out.

  “You were going to ask me to marry you?”

  “Yeah, well, you kind of beat me to it,” he said. “You better try it on.”

  Carlisle lifted the ring from the box like she was afraid it would break and slipped it on her finger. “Is that the right finger?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  She looked at the sparkling diamonds through watering eyes and then threw her arms around Jeff. “Thank you. I love you.”

  Carlisle stopped at her apartment for a change of clothes. What would normally have taken ten minutes ended up taking twice as long as she stopped every minute to look at her finger. It just didn’t seem real. She’d twist the ring back and forth and then walk to her sliding balcony door, holding her hand high to see the stones sparkle in the sunlight.

  At her desk at the BCA, she opened her right drawer and popped some seeds in her mouth. The salty taste had a calming effect as she sucked and chewed, bringing her focus back to the case. She was going to try to contact the relatives of the tenants at Hillside but now remembered that she had assigned Lerner to get that information before they had ended up with Sandy Roberts Friday evening. About to contact Hillside to get the information, she backed off, putting a call in to Lerner. Carlisle had been disciplined in the past for running off on an investigation on her own.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Danny, Mike. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I wanted to let you know that I’m going to try to track down some relatives of the Hillside tenants this afternoon. Thought I may have a better chance of getting hold of them on a weekend.”

  “You want me to come in?”

  Carlisle thought about Hillside. Lots of people in there. “Let me see if I can get the contact information first.”

  “I got it Friday,” said Lerner.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Before I went home. It’s on my computer. I’ll be there in about fifteen.”

  They split the list in half. People were skeptical, but when they mentioned Mrs. Rahm had provided the contact information, most agreed to answer their questions. It didn’t help. Hillside handled the ordering and administration of the drugs for every resident. They reached nearly one-third of the contacts and learned nearly all the residents were on at least one kind of opioid. The relatives were happy to let Hillside take on that responsibility, pointing out that the nurses were all licensed. None of them noticed that the bills coming through seemed out of line. Lerner walked over to Carlisle’s desk, sitting in the chair next to it. Carlisle was leaning back in her chair.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “You get the doctors’ names?”

  “Yup.”

  Carlisle glanced at the time on her computer. 6:10. “OK. We’ll try the doctors in the morning. Thanks for coming in.”

  Lerner sat with his usual grin, making no move to get out of the chair.

  “So. Got engaged?”

  Carlisle looked at her ring. She had nearly forgotten. “Yeah.”

  “Nice rocks. When’s the party?”

  “Party?”

  “Engagement party.”

  “Um, boy, I don’t know. Is that a thing?”

  “An engagement party?” said Lerner. “It’s a must-do nowadays, Carlisle.”

  This engagement-getting married thing was getting a lot more complicated by the moment. “Really? Yeah, well, that hasn’t been set yet. I’ll let you know.”

  “Congrats, boss.”

  Lerner stood and walked away. Before he had shown up, Carlisle had had a thought. She looked at her ring again, her thoughts drifting to parties and talking to her mother. She stuffed her left hand in the front pocket of her jeans and then reached for more sunflower seeds with her right. Popped two seeds in and leaned back in her chair again before sitting up. She remembered.

  Chapter 26

  The Bishop Insurance Agency was on 7th Avenue. 7th is actually the same as Highway 61, but it was 7th when the town was built so the businesses and homes along the street in the Two Harbors city limits kept 7th as their address. The agency was on the corner of 6th Street and shared a wall with Marlene’s Café. The front of both businesses was covered in split-log siding stained a rusty red. Front doors to the businesses were side-by-side. Although Marlene’s Café had a hand-lettered sign with their special of the day in the window of their door, and the Bishop Agency had a large ‘Independent Insurance Agent’ sticker in their door window, people still came in the agency looking for coffee while others tried to get homeowners insurance in the café.

  It was Monday morning and Trask had parked on 6th, about a block from the agency. It was as close as he could get. As he rounded the corner on 7th, two people came out of Marlene’s, the aroma of fresh coffee and pastries drawing Trask in like bait for a hungry bear. He’d been in Marlene’s a few times. The cinnamon rolls were his favorite but the filled chocolate long johns were a close second. He told himself he didn’t need the calories and opened the door to Bishop Insurance.

  A chime sounded as he stepped inside. There was a counter immediately to Trask’s right. A woman of fifty with short black hair and black glasses got up from her desk behind a partition and walked up to the counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  Trask showed his identification and asked to speak to whoever was in charge.

  “Oh my. Is this about Mr. Bishop?”

  “And you are?”

  “Glenda Peterson. I’ve worked for Mr. Bishop for over fifteen years. This is just terrible.” The woman was immediately fighting back tears.

  “Yes, it is mam.”

  “I just can’t believe it.” The woman was dressed in a black skirt and matching jacket. Already in mourning. She pulled a tissue from the box on the counter, lifted her glasses and dabbed her eyes, and put the tissue in her jacket pocket. “He was such a nice man. Mrs. Bishop too.”

  “Yes, mam.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “We’re working on that, mam,” said Trask.

  She took another tissue, wiped her nose, and put that tissue in her pocket too. “OK. I’ll get Ronnie.”

  “Ronnie?”

  “Ronnie Porter. He’s in charge now. I thought we should close the agency with the funeral today, out of respect you know, but Ronnie said we needed to be open. He finally agreed to at least close from ten to one for the funeral,” she said. “Anyway, I’ll get Ronnie for you.” The woman went back to her desk and pushed a button on her phone. “Ronnie, there’s a Sheriff Trask here to see you.” She listened for a moment, hung up, and told Trask that Ronnie would be right out.

  A short man with crewcut blonde hair in a gray suit exited an office down a short hall in front of Trask, int
roduced himself, and led Trask back to his office. He closed the door after they entered. Sitting behind his L-shaped fabricated wood desk with the large monitor, he motioned for Trask to sit in the red fabric office chair in front of his desk.

  “How can I help you, Sheriff?”

  “We’re looking for anyone who may have had a motive for wanting to kill Mr. Bishop. Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How about customers who weren’t happy with how a claim was settled?”

  “Hmm. Well, there’s always a few of those every year. Especially if we get a big storm or something. People get surprised by what is not covered.”

  “Any upset enough to want to kill?”

  Porter leaned back. “Well, no, I don’t think so. I mean, we just sell the policies. The insurance companies are the ones who handle the claims. If someone is not happy we will talk to the company for them, but sometimes we’ll just refer them to the company. It’s really out of our hands.”

  “I see,” said Trask. “So, have you had to refer anyone to the company for a dispute on a claim recently?”

  “Hmm. Well, Glenda would probably have that information. I can have her send it to you.”

  Trask gave the man his card and stood. “So, what happens to the agency now?”

  “I’ve made an offer to purchase it. Until then, I guess we’ll just continue as is.”

  Trask stepped out of the building and stood on the sidewalk. His father had worked for an insurance company before being murdered, but he had no idea how much the owner of an agency would make. Enough to kill for? A man stepped up to the café door and held it open, asking Trask if he was going in. Trask thanked the man and stepped inside.

  Amy Jackson had tried to reach Helen Johnson’s doctor on Friday before leaving work. The doctor was not available. She explained to the nurse who she was, and that she was looking for next-of-kin contact information for Helen Johnson. The nurse said she would talk to the doctor and then email the information to Jackson. The email from Alina Health was in Jackson’s inbox on Saturday afternoon.

  There were two contacts listed, Fran Naulty and Dan Bishop. Phone numbers and emails were provided. Jackson tried Dan Bishop, getting no answer, and left a message. Her next call was to Fran Naulty.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice.

  “This is Officer Amy Jackson from the Duluth Police Department. I’m trying to reach Fran Naulty.”

  “This is Fran Naulty.”

  “Are you the sister of Helen Johnson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Naulty, I am sorry to tell you that your sister was found dead on Thursday.”

  She had barely finished her statement when Jackson heard a shrill scream, and then a bang. “Mrs. Naulty?” she said. “Mrs. Naulty?” She could hear another voice now and then a man came on the line.

  “Who is this?”

  Jackson identified herself again and asked who she was speaking to.

  “Bill Naulty. I’m Fran’s husband. What did you say to her?”

  “I’m sorry if I upset her, Mr. Naulty. I needed to let her know that her sister Helen Johnson has passed away.” There was no response from Bill Naulty but Jackson could hear wailing in the background. “Mr. Naulty?”

  “Oh my God. Oh no. Not more.”

  “More?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  Jackson stared at her phone before slowly hanging it up. Bill Naulty’s words stuck with her the remainder of Saturday and Sunday. She considered calling him back to ask what he meant by “more” but decided against it. And there was something else. The name Dan Bishop seemed familiar.

  Jackson got out of her cube and walked to Les Berger’s office Monday morning, knocking on the open door.

  Berger had arrived minutes before, and was sitting behind his desk. He looked up from his phone. “Jackson. What do you know?”

  She walked to his desk and placed a sheet of paper in front of him. “This is interesting,” she said, finger on the sheet. “Helen Johnson listed Fran Naulty and Dan Bishop as contacts with her doctor.”

  Berger picked up the sheet. “Yeah?”

  “I called Fran Naulty Saturday to notify her of Helen Johnson’s death and the woman freaked. Dropped the phone. Her husband picked the phone up, and when I told him what I told his wife, he said, “Not more,” and hung up.”

  “Not more?”

  “Yeah. It kind of bothered me, and then I thought the name of the other contact sounded familiar. I did some searching and found Dan Bishop and his wife were shot dead last week in Two Harbors.”

  Berger finished reading the news story Jackson had printed. “You sure about this?”

  “Yup. It’s her brother. Checked the address.”

  “Wow.” Berger looked at the report again and then up at Jackson. “Two Harbors. That’s Lake County. You call the sheriff’s office there yet?”

  “Just going to do that.”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll call. Good work. You after my job?”

  “Maybe.”

  Berger smiled. “You know, if I don’t get shot or anything I hope to be around for a while, but Larson isn’t going to be here more than a year. Maybe you should think about it? Seriously.”

  “Maybe.” Jackson turned and left.

  Chapter 27

  Trinity Lutheran was two blocks off of 7th, a white clapboard building with a steeple, built in the 1930s. The congregation was small, about two hundred members, most of whom seemed to be trending towards retirement and beyond. The sun was shining on the filling parking lot as Ken Bishop pulled in. It was only a little after ten, but a steady stream of people in mostly dark clothes was making its way into the church. It would be full.

  A cool breeze off Superior followed Bishop inside. He stood for a moment inside the door, unsure of what to do. Sensing a person behind him, he moved off to his left, back against the wall, searching the faces inside for someone he knew. Across the room he noticed a woman signing a book on a lectern, a basket immediately to the right with a few cards inside. Someone had set up a folding table on the other side of the lectern. Bishop moved to the table.

  There was a large picture of Dan and Lisa and the kids at the center of the table. It looked recent, taken with a shoreline in the background. Maybe a vacation last summer? Bishop recalled his brother had a cabin on a small lake northwest of Two Harbors. Maybe it was taken there? Pictures of Dan on fishing trips and Lisa drinking wine with women he didn’t know. And then the old photos in albums. He opened the first to see pictures of Dan as a boy, playing baseball, running track in high school. His brother had been a decent athlete.

  Turning a page brought him further back in time. Family photos, some black and white, of his brothers and sisters and parents and grandparents and other family members. He stopped at a picture of the six siblings at the bus stop, all smiling, books and lunch boxes in hand. Three dead now. He had no memory of posing for the picture or who had taken it. His mother he supposed. She was the one who tried to get the pictures. His father never saw the sense in it. Bishop was running a finger over the image when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Ken,” said his brother.

  “Tom.”

  “Have you seen Fran?”

  “No. I just got here.”

  Tom looked past Ken at the table. “OK. Well, we’re supposed to meet with the pastor for a private family service down the hall. Sam just got here so we better get down there.”

  The pastor greeted them as they filed into a small windowless room with scuffed tan and white linoleum tiles on the floor. Pictures of various Bible scenes hung on the walls. They sat in metal folding chairs in mostly uncomfortable silence facing the two closed caskets, waiting for Fran and her family. After a few minutes, Tom stepped out and tried to call. He came back into the room, told them he could not get hold of his sister. The pastor looked at his watch and said they needed to start.

  The pastor began by reading a Bible ver
se and then talked about Dan and Lisa. How they had been faithful members of the church and a valuable part of the community. Sam Bishop was crying silently, head bowed. Bishop listened but then found himself drifting off, his attention focused on the shiny silver caskets. He wondered why they were closed. Maybe the bullets had done more damage than the mortician could repair? He kind of wanted to see, to open the caskets and take a peek at what he had done. Three down now. He needed to take care of at least one more. Fran or Tom? Bishop turned his head to look at his brother.

  Trask walked into his office, stopping at Marcy Green’s desk, depositing a small white bag in front of her.

  Marcy reached for the bag. “What’s this?” She opened the bag and looked inside.

  “Cinnamon roll.”

  “From Marlene’s?”

  “Yeah,” said Trask.

  “These are very bad for you, you know?”

  “I could give it to someone else,” said Trask as he reached for the bag.

  Marcy pulled the bag away. “How could I possibly live with myself if I let you give this to someone else knowing it could ultimately give them a heart attack? I better eat it.”

  Trask smiled and turned toward his office.

  “Wait! You are supposed to call Detective Les Berger from the Duluth PD. Here’s his number.” She handed Trask a note.

  “Thanks.” Trask went to his office and sat at his desk. He had met Berger on a couple of occasions but didn’t know him well. He dialed the number on the note.

  “Berger.”

  “Detective? This is Sheriff Trask from Lake County.”

  “Hey, Sheriff. Uh, this is just a heads-up for you. You had a couple murdered up there last week, a Dan and Lisa Bishop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, we had a woman pass away last week in French River. Her name was Helen Johnson. She’s the sister of Dan Bishop, the guy who got shot.”

  Trask sat up. He hadn’t seen the contact list the BCA had sent over for the Bishop siblings. “You sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Don’t know yet, but it might have been a heart attack. Found her just lying in her driveway. Autopsy should be done if you want to call the coroner.”