Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  Trask was quiet for a minute.

  “Sheriff?”

  “There’s another one,” said Trask. “Another sibling that is dead. Laura Maples.”

  “Laura Maples is the sister of Bishop and Johnson? I was called in on the Maples’ death. BCA is handling it now.”

  “Yeah, I know. I talked to Danny Carlisle about it. She thinks the Maples’ death is about drugs.”

  “You think these deaths are related?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I think we got to at least consider it, and that means the BCA should be looking at all of them.”

  “I agree. We should probably have a meeting on this to be clear on who’s doing what. You going to call Carlisle?”

  Berger said he would call Carlisle. Trask told him he could meet for lunch or any time in the afternoon. Berger said to plan on lunch at the Blue Water in French River unless he heard otherwise. Trask had planned to talk to Lisa Bishop’s coworkers this afternoon, but now was thinking he would hold off, at least until after the meeting. The whole thing struck him as odd. Three siblings dead within a week. None of them that old. All dying from different causes. Too much of a coincidence but the deaths still didn’t seem related. Odd.

  Carlisle tried to work it out Sunday night but couldn’t come to any definite conclusion. There were about eighty residents at Hillside, and she wanted to know how large a supply of drugs was being stolen. Would it be enough to supply one addict? Or a few? Or maybe a small-time dealer? Or a bigger operation? There were just too many variables to figure it out.

  Monday morning she and Lerner were on the phone talking to doctors, or trying to talk to doctors, about the size and volume of their patients’ prescriptions. It was frustrating work. The doctors were extremely difficult to reach, and the few they talked to said they would have to look at their records before getting back to them. A couple told them that the amount of medication prescribed and approved was not out of line, leaving Carlisle to wonder if they were just saying that to avoid any problems. She could feel her frustration increasing, sunflower seeds now littering her work area, when her phone buzzed.

  “Carlisle.”

  “Carlisle, it’s Berger.”

  “You have another body for me?”

  “Yup.”

  Carlisle sat up, seeds dropping from her blouse. “Are you serious?”

  “I just love it when I can shuffle my work off on you.”

  “You are serious.”

  “Maybe. I just talked to Sheriff Trask from Lake County. He said you two have been in touch about the Maples’ murder and the Bishop shooting in Two Harbors?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I got another one for you. Helen Johnson. Neighbor found her dead in her driveway up by French River last Thursday. Looks like she died the same day as the Bishops.”

  Carlisle was thinking she had recently seen the name.

  “Well anyway, she is the sister of Laura Maples and Dan Bishop.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “I never kid when there is a possibility I may get out of a lot of work.”

  “Got to be related.”

  “That’s what Trask and I think. So, anyway, we thought we should get together and decide on a plan of action. You available for lunch or this afternoon?”

  “Well –-"

  “Good. I thought you would be. See you at the Blue Water in French River at noon.”

  He was gone. Carlisle looked at the clock on her computer. Time for a few more calls.

  Chapter 28

  Ken Bishop was freezing by the time the burial service was completed. The wind had picked up off the lake, and he had left his suit coat in his car. The church had been packed; he had been so warm he felt the perspiration running down his back. The funeral party was going to head back to the church for a meal.

  “I can’t believe Fran didn’t show,” said Tom as they walked from the grave toward the parking lot.

  “Yeah. Maybe she’s sick or something?”

  “You think she would have called. And the whole family?” They reached Ken’s car. “You going back to the church?”

  “I guess,” said Ken.

  “I think I’m going to go check on Fran. This isn’t like her.”

  Ken had no idea what was or wasn’t like his sister, but he saw a way now to escape from having to spend any more time with people grieving the deaths of two people he had killed. “Let me go. I need to talk to her anyway.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK. Tell her to call me.”

  “I will.” Ken opened his car door and sat, reaching to close the door.

  Tom grabbed the door frame. “You will be at Helen’s funeral tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

  Tom shut the door for him and tapped the top of Ken’s car. Ken backed out and headed south.

  Trask arrived at the Blue Water first, sliding into a booth next to the window overlooking the parking lot. There were no blue waters to be seen from the restaurant, the building a good half mile inland from Superior and an equal distance from the French River. It was one of those family-style restaurants with Naugahyde booths along the walls and tables in the center. A salad bar was in the front near the register. The menu had changed little in the last fifty years and wasn’t likely to in the next fifty.

  Trask ordered water for everyone while he looked at the laminated menu. He spotted Carlisle getting out of her car, a man he didn’t know exiting with her. They stopped and chatted with a man just getting out of the tan sedan next to them. Berger. The trio stepped inside, and Trask waved them over, scooting against the wall when Berger slid in next to him. Carlisle stuffed her gloves in her jacket pocket, hanging her jacket on the end of the booth before sliding in. Lerner slid in next to her. Carlisle introduced Lerner to Trask and Berger, and they shook hands.

  The waitress stopped by, asked about drinks, and they all ordered coffee.

  “You been here before, Berger?” said Trask.

  “A few times. The meatloaf sandwich is good. The salad bar is OK.”

  Carlisle craned her neck to get a look at the salad bar thinking she should maybe try to lose a few pounds before the wedding, whenever that would be. As she turned, her hand stretched in front of her on the table.

  “What have you got there, Carlisle?” asked Trask. “You get engaged?”

  Carlisle looked at her ring and then happened to glance at Berger, thinking she maybe caught a look of disappointment in his eyes. “I guess so.”

  “You guess so? That doesn’t sound too good,” said Trask.

  “No, no. It’s all good. I’m just not quite used to it yet.”

  “So, your parents pretty excited?” said Trask.

  “Um, well, I haven’t actually told them yet.”

  “What? Are you ashamed of this guy or something? What is he, some crackhead you arrested?” said Berger.

  “No. He’s great. I just haven’t got around to it.”

  “You better do it before they hear it from someone else,” chipped in Lerner.

  “OK, enough about this,” said Carlisle as she slid her hand into her lap. “What do we know about Helen Johnson?”

  Berger went over what he knew about the death of Helen Johnson. “So, it’s possible someone poisoned her. We should have the report on it today.”

  The waitress dropped off the coffee and took their orders.

  “Someone shot the Bishops in the head at close range with a small caliber pistol. Both looked right at the killer when they were shot,” said Trask.

  “So, the killer surprised them, and, or, they knew the killer?” said Berger.

  “Yeah. The wife was shot after the husband, but she was still looking right at the shooter. She froze for some reason.”

  “A sister and a brother killed on the same day,” said Berger. “What’s the timing?”

  “Bishops were shot sometime between seven and midnight
. Most likely earlier in the evening,” said Trask.

  “The ME figures Johnson died sometime Wednesday afternoon or evening,” added Berger. “So, our killer, or killers, could easily have done both.”

  Trask shook his head. “It just doesn’t fit. You poison someone and then you go and shoot someone. Why not shoot them all?” Trask looked at Carlisle. “You’re awfully quiet, Agent Carlisle.”

  Carlisle had been looking at the coffee cup between her hands, listening and thinking. “None of this makes any sense. Laura Maples was smothered. That seems like a spur-of-the-moment thing. You got to plan to poison someone. And, I guess, the shooting could be either or.”

  “The shooting wasn’t spur-of-the-moment,” said Trask. “Someone had been watching their house for at least a couple of days. Someone planned it.”

  Carlisle thought about that for a moment before she added, “And then there’s Sandy Roberts.”

  “Sandy Roberts?” said Trask.

  “Sorry,” said Carlisle. She filled him in on what she knew about the murder of the woman.

  “Could there be a drug angle to all of this?” said Lerner.

  “Johnson was this little old lady who went to church every Sunday,” said Berger.

  “Nothing about the Bishop shooting says it was drug-related,” said Trask.

  “Getting rid of all the visitors to Laura Maples in case they heard anything about stolen drugs?” said Lerner. The other three all looked at him like he had said there would be no snow in the winter. “What? Anybody else have a better idea?”

  Trask shook his head. “Sadly, probably not. I thought there might be a minute chance there was someone out to kill off the Bishop siblings, but with the Roberts’ killing, that just doesn’t seem like it makes any sense now either.”

  “So, does this mean you and I can’t dump our investigations off on the BCA?” said Berger.

  “I’d have to say that at this point you and I are still on the hook,” said Trask. “Danny, you agree?”

  “I’ll talk to the other Bishop siblings to see if they have any idea of someone that may want them all dead, but I think we continue with our own investigations for now,” said Carlisle. “But we should keep each other updated.”

  They all nodded in agreement. The food arrived, cop-talk dominating the conversation as they ate until Trask said, “So, when’s the wedding?”

  “No date yet. Too early.”

  “Not sure you really want to marry the guy?” said Berger.

  “No. I’m sure. We just haven’t talked about that yet.”

  “How about the engagement party?” said Trask.

  “That’s what I said,” said Lerner.

  Carlisle looked around the table, the men all grinning. She shook her head. “How’s the pie here?”

  They all had pie; the men getting apple, Carlisle opting for banana cream. She was licking her fork, thinking she’s like another piece, when she noticed she was the first one finished. Then a picture of a wedding dress popped in her head. There was a short discussion about the check, Carlisle reluctantly agreeing to pay, hoping her boss would OK the expense. They said goodbye in the parking lot, promising to keep in touch.

  Carlisle and Lerner were silent as they drove south until Lerner said, “Sorry”.

  “About what?”

  “About the teasing at lunch.”

  “Not a big deal,” said Carlisle, staring ahead.

  Lerner watched her. “You sure you’re OK? I mean, I really am sorry.”

  Carlisle glanced over and then back to the road. “I just can’t figure this one out. I’m convinced the Maples’ murder and the Roberts’ killing are about drugs. It’s possible a nurse heard Maples talking about her missing meds and told Rahm and Rahm killed her. That fits. But I just can’t see that any of it ties to the other two killings.” She was talking to herself now more than Lerner. “There’s something though. It’s just too coincidental. Three siblings in a week.” She was quiet for a moment more. “You have that contact info for the Bishop siblings?”

  “Yeah. I can get it on my phone.”

  “Is there one up this way?”

  Lerner pushed a few keys. “Um, yeah. Tom Bishop.”

  Chapter 29

  Ken Bishop was hungry by the time he reached Duluth. He pulled off of 61 on 26th Avenue, turning into the lot of the Backwoods Bar two blocks later. The bar served what Bishop thought was a good Rueben and had a local IPA on tap that he liked. Bishop stopped inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light, and then filling a basket with popcorn from the machine just to his right. The air smelled of burgers and fries and beer as he maneuvered between circular tables with red-and-white checked plastic table cloths until he found an empty table in the corner. A waiter he guessed to be a college kid came over and he ordered a Rueben and a Superior IPA.

  The kid was quick with his beer, and Bishop took a long pull. He wasn’t sure he wanted the beer when he had driven in; he was still cold from standing outside, but the bar was warm and now he was glad he did. He took another drink, the beer now half gone, and set it on the table. Bishop could feel himself relax. The funeral had been stressful. Seeing his brother who he had almost killed. Seeing the caskets of his other brother and his wife, who he had killed, and then their kid. It was weird. Almost felt like he was disconnected from his body as he talked to people telling him how sorry they were. It was good to get out of there.

  The sandwich came, Bishop slugging down the rest of his beer, handing his glass to the kid and ordering another. His beer was back after only a single bite of his Rueben, and Bishop immediately took a sip. He finished his sandwich and a second beer watching the people in the bar come and go, thinking about driving to Superior to see Fran. He was there last summer for a barbeque, and he remembered how easy it had been to find the place, just a couple of turns off the bridge. Not that far from his place really, but he just didn’t feel like going now. An afternoon nap sounded much more appealing. But then again, this was a good excuse to do a little recognizance. Check out the area, the house, plan how Fran would die.

  Bishop had a smile on his face when the waiter returned asking if he’d like another beer or dessert. Bishop never was much for desserts but another beer sounded awfully good. He looked at his empty glass and handed it to the boy, telling him to bring his check.

  Twenty minutes later, Bishop was on the bridge to Wisconsin. He exited on Belknap and he turned left on New York Street as Canton had done the day before. Bishop slowed as he turned, remembering the house was close, on his right, he thought. Only thirty yards ahead, he pulled to a stop in front of the first driveway. There was yellow tape strung across the driveway between the mailbox and an oak on the other side. Could this be the right place? The NAULTY name on the mailbox answered that question. Maybe they were getting their driveway sealed? No, it was too late in the year for that.

  Bishop was looking down at his phone, looking up the Naulty’s address because he just wasn’t convinced it was the right place when there was a knock on his window. He pulled his head away from the window, alarmed at the sight of the policeman bending down outside. Bishop thought about taking off for a brief moment before rolling down his window.

  “Sorry to startle you, sir. Can I ask what you are doing parked here?”

  “Uh, yeah. I was coming to see my sister.”

  “And your sister is?”

  “Fran Naulty.” Bishop caught the brief look of surprise on the officer’s face.

  “And your name is?”

  “Ken Bishop.”

  “OK, Mr. Bishop. If I could just have you pull up so you are not blocking the driveway.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Please, sir. Just pull up a bit and park, and I will get right back to you. Thanks.”

  Bishop did as he was told but was nervous again. Had the cops somehow figured out it was him who killed Dan or Laura? The cop walked behind his car. He was looking at Bishop’s license plate and talking i
nto the microphone clipped on his shoulder. This was not good. Bishop watched the man in his mirror, looking for any signs he may be going for his weapon. He turned and looked out the rear window for signs of any other cops. The cool air coming in through Bishop’s open window was quickly cooling the interior of the car, but he didn’t notice. Sweat was dripping down his sides.

  Bishop had decided he was going to yell to the cop that he’d come back another time when he spotted the officer approaching in his side mirror.

  “Would you mind coming with me, sir?”

  Bishop didn’t move. Should he run?

  “Sir. Please turn off your car and come with me.”

  Bishop stared at the officer just a moment more before turning off the ignition and pulling his keys. The officer stepped back as Bishop pushed open his door and stepped out.

  “This way, Mr. Bishop,” said the cop, gesturing towards the driveway. The officer waited for Bishop to get a step ahead and then followed, Bishop stealing a quick glance back at him. They walked to the end of the driveway, and the officer asked Bishop again to wait.

  Bishop noticed now it was police tape draped across the driveway. He tried to peer down the driveway towards the house, noticing the back of a squad car he hadn’t seen, when a man approached wearing a Superior Police jacket, a badge on his belt visible. Bishop looked toward his vehicle thinking about his gun under the seat and then at the gun on the cop’s belt. There was no way he was getting away. The man stopped just on the other side of the tape.

  “Mr. Bishop? I’m Detective Chuck Hartman, with the Superior Police.” Hartman showed his credentials. “I understand you’ve come to see your sister. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Fran. What’s going on?”

  “Fran Naulty?”

  “That’s what I said. What the hell is this?”

  “Um, Mr. Bishop. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your sister is dead.”

  Bishop’s head went forward, staring at Hartman, his mouth hanging open. “What? Fran is dead?”