I looked around and located Vince Weber in the back row to my left. He nodded at me. Donny Nickles was sitting in the second row, and assistant county attorney Stueman was standing against the back wall to my right. My friend Sara Speiss was next to him.
Sara caught my glance, smiled, and lifted her eyebrows in a way that said, “I wonder what this exercise will be like?”
I smiled back and caught Stueman staring at me in a near scowl. I’m so glad he’s on my team.
“Okay, team up and we’ll hand out your instructions. But do not open them until we say so.”
Mild pandemonium swept through the room as people rose from their seats, waved, and gathered their teams into one area or the next. The space around Weber cleared, so he stood and motioned the rest of us to join him in his corner.
Smoke and Kenner passed out sealed packets to each team as they assembled. When Smoke handed one to me he said, “No peeking.” I rolled my eyes then looked at the thick, sealed envelope. I held it up so the others could get a glimpse.
The chief deputy clapped his hands together again. “Listen up. We have ten teams, the largest group scheduled. Two of the teams had to switch to this time slot due to unforeseen conflicts, so we did a little last minute scrambling to add a couple of courses. If there are any glitches, I apologize ahead of time. If you run into any real snags, call me on my cell phone. But with your training, that shouldn’t be necessary. You’ve had to figure your way out of things a time or two.”
I felt Mandy’s eyes on me and chose not to return the look.
“All right, then. I’ll turn this over to Nathan Gillette from our human resources department to fill you in on the details of the exercise.”
“Thank you, Chief Deputy Kenner.” Gillette’s mustache covered his entire top lip and curled around at the sides, touching his bottom lip. “We researched a number of team-building activities and found one we hope you’ll think is worthwhile and fun at the same time. You have high-stress jobs dealing with crimes, criminals, victims, and legal proceedings. Your various departments interact on a regular basis, so we determined that it’s important to open the lines of communication, build bonds, increase trust. Our hope is this will lead to higher performance and an increase in morale.”
I heard a few quiet groans. Many, if not most of the deputies, were not touchy-feely types.
Gillette went on, “It can be easy to point fingers at others when things don’t go the way we think they should, either during an arrest, or in court proceedings, or with probation. We want to move away from that. Hopefully, by getting to know each other better and working together on this exercise, you’ll feel comfortable talking to a person in another department if you have an issue with something they have done professionally.”
More hushed groans.
“Every team has their assignment in the packets. I’ll give a rundown of what we’re doing. You will ride together in a squad car to an appointed spot. Then, using the set of directions and a compass, you’ll navigate on foot to your destination. Once there, you will each write a haiku.”
I have no idea how I contained my laughter when others couldn’t.
“A high what?” someone asked.
“A haiku.” Gillette was matter-of-fact, like it was something we all did on a regular basis.
“What is that?” another asked. Apparently he had missed high school English class that day.
“It’s a short poem about everyday things. The details are in your packets.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Weber’s voice was low and emphatic.
“There is no way,” I heard Carlson complain from a nearby group.
I shot Smoke an “I don’t want to do this” look, and he shot me a “who does?” one back.
“Any questions?” I guessed everyone was too shocked for words, because no one spoke. “Okay then. Each driver has been contacted ahead of time. Follow him or her to the cars. Open your packets when you are all in your vehicle.”
I looked at Weber and Zubinski.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Weber said. “Come on, team.”
We trampled off to the parking lot. “Sergeant, where do you want everyone to sit?” Weber asked.
Donny’s legs were the longest. “Weber, for this exercise we’re a team and each of us has equal status, but I’d say Donny should take the front passenger seat so he doesn’t have to sit completely sideways.” I handed Donny the instruction packet.
“The back seats of squad cars are not exactly roomy,” Zubinski said to Nickles and Stueman.
Weber unlocked the doors, and we piled in. I ended up sandwiched between Zubinski and Stueman. Weber pushed shut the driver’s side back door, and Donny closed the passenger side door, then the two of them jumped in the front.
“You sure have a lot of bells and whistles in your squad cars,” Donny admired.
“We all know each other, right?” I asked, and everyone nodded or said “yeah.”
“Your weapon’s poking into my ribs,” Stueman said.
“Sorry.” I wedged my knees up and shifted them to my right, turning my body toward Stueman to move my Glock and holster away. “Is that better?”
His hazel eyes met and held mine. He cleared his throat and nodded. “I’ve heard officers describe taking prisoners into custody as ’cuffed and stuffed.’ Now I know what they mean. Literally stuffed. Between the small space, no door handles, and the cage between the front seat and the back seat, a person might feel a little claustrophobic.”
I was amazed by what I interpreted as his attempt at humor and cracked a half-smile.
“Breathe in slowly through your nose and out through your mouth,” Weber said.
Stueman opened his mouth to answer, but didn’t.
“Forget about seat belts,” Zubinski complained.
“You know we can’t do that. We gotta use them,” I said.
“Yeah, our luck, we get involved in a crash and it’s all over the news my passengers weren’t wearing seat belts.”
“Because that would be more important than what happens to us.” Zubinski’s tone was sarcastic.
“Zubinski,” Weber shot back. “Come to think of it, it might be easier to explain that to the news media than how the taxpayers are footing the bill for all of us to get together to write a dumb poem.”
“Probably less painful for us, too,” Mandy said. She snapped her buckles together.
“Donny, why don’t you read our assignment while we buckle up.” I reached down to locate my belt, but couldn’t find it. “Mine is stuck between the seats, I think.”
“Slide forward a little. I’ll dig for it,” Stueman suggested, and I moved a little closer to him. He was pulling his right shoulder strap down. As I settled back to locate my belt, I felt Stueman’s left hand on my bottom.
“S-sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.”
“H-here’s your belt.” Stueman wrenched it free and handed it over.
“Thanks.” Let me wake up from this bad dream, and soon, I silently pleaded as I buckled in.
Donny ripped open the packet. “Okay, here are the instructions. ‘Drive to Lynden Township to the farm access road located between fire numbers ninety-two forty-three and ninety-two forty-five Pequot Avenue Northwest—”
“That’s a ways out there,” Weber interrupted.
“On the way, each of you is to share something about yourselves with the others. When you get to your first destination, park the car and hike to the second appointed destination, closely following the directions. When you get to said location, you are each to write a haiku about your experience.”
“Do they say, exactly, what a high, a high—”
“Koo!” Mandy’s impatience was evident.
“Gesundheit!” Donny said.
We all laughed, all except Stueman.
“That was really bad, Donny,” I said.
“I know. Couldn’t help it. All right. It says a haiku is a seventee
n-syllable poem in three lines. Five syllables in the first, seven in the second, and five in the third.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Weber said for the second time that morning about the exercise.
“There is no way,” Mandy said. They agreed on one thing.
“People actually get paid to come up with this stuff?” Weber again.
“And they get smart people to believe this is good team-building,” Donny added.
I cut in before any more negatives flew around. “Redirect, everyone. Our first order of business is saying something about ourselves. Then we have a long hike. Then we worry about the poem. Weber, you want to start?”
“Sure. Hello, everyone. My name is Vincent Weber, and I am not an alcoholic.”
“Hello, Vincent,” Donny and Mandy mocked together.
“Weber.” My tone was like my mother’s when she was warning me to shape up.
He bounced his head, first to the right then to the left. “Okay. I grew up in Ely, a little town up north. Got my associates’ from Saint Cloud State, did my skills at Alexandria, been with Winnebago County for eight years. I married my high school sweetheart. We went to Saint Cloud together. She died in a car crash a year later.” He paused a second, then quietly added, “A big part of me went with her.”
Zubinski and I exchanged shocked expressions. I had worked with Weber for years and didn’t know that significant piece of his past. Apparently, Mandy didn’t either. She reached her hand up and splayed her fingers against the cage behind Weber’s back.
Our uttered sympathies mixed with Donny’s. “Sorry to hear that, Vince.”
“Yeah. Next.” Weber’s voice cracked.
It took a moment.
“My legal name is Donny, not Donald. People have a hard time believing that. I do not carry my birth certificate around to prove it, however. I thought about being a cop through my teen years, but when I got to college I changed to probation. I like doing the presentence investigations, going to court, giving my recommendations to the judge, following the lives of my clients. I feel good when my guys and gals decide to follow the straight and narrow, and bad when they don’t. I’m from Wisconsin—yeah, don’t say it—married, two daughters. Been here three years.”
Mandy shifted and took the next turn. “I’m from Saint Paul originally. I went to college at Metro, did my skills there too. Started my career with Ottertail County and was there a few years. I wanted to get closer to the Twin Cities and family, so I was happy when Winnebago hired me, going on three years ago. Not married. I have an older sister I hang out with when I can, but she is busy with her three kids. All of whom I adore, by the way.”
Mandy listed her sister as her friend. Her only real friend?
I went next, sensing Stueman didn’t want to go at all. “I was born here in Oak Lea. I have one brother, ten months older than me. My father died before I was born, so my mother was very protective of John Carl and me, to say the least. I was always interested in law enforcement and thankfully have a grandmother—my father’s mother—who supported that and helped convince my mother to let me pursue my dream. I’ve been with Winnebago for seven years and made sergeant last year. Oh, and not married, or anything close.”
I had left out a few key things. First, my job had cost me a developing relationship with Nicholas Bradshaw, the Oak Lea Hospital Administrator who had made me choose between him and my career. He had asked me to leave the thing that mingled with the blood flowing through my veins. But I wondered how it might have been, as Nick’s wife and his daughter Faith’s mother.
Second, my job had brought me to death’s door a few times. Twice in the past year. That’s what Nick couldn’t handle. He was shocked I loved a job that involved personal peril, and I had no logical way of explaining and defending it.
Third, my brother’s marriage was crumbling. He lived too far away for my mother’s eagle eye to keep a close watch. We had to be content with the brief snippets of information he gave us from time to time.
Fourth, my mother, who had not dated in thirty years, was seeing Winnebago County Sheriff Dennis Twardy, a fact that continually astounded me.
Fifth, I had hoped for years that my mother would get together with Detective Smoke Dawes. Instead, I found myself suddenly, strangely, and strongly attracted to him. He had nipped the near romance in the bud for several reasons he believed were valid, and maybe they were.
All those thoughts raced through my brain in the seconds before Stueman began. “I started here January second. City kid. Edina—”
Rich city kid.
“Edina,” Mandy muttered.
“My father is a corporate attorney. Putnam, Stueman, and Rose—”
One of the top law firms in Minneapolis. I hadn’t made the name connection. What was he doing as an assistant county attorney in Winnebago County?
“Whoa,” Donny admired and turned to glance at Stueman with new eyes.
“The decision for me to become an attorney was made when I was still in the womb. My mother’s father is Gerald Putnam, the founder of the firm. To condense a long story: I worked for the firm for two years and was miserable. My interest is in criminal law. My grandfather was the first to cave and gave me his blessings to leave. My father and mother are both in denial that I did. But my older sister is doing her best to fill any void I may have created. Very high achiever. Always has been.”
“Sounds like you took a huge pay cut,” Vince said.
Stueman shrugged.
“Married, engaged?” Mandy asked.
“Not anymore. The engaged part. I was, to another attorney in the firm. It’s over.”
Stueman sent out a silent message that it was all he had to say on the matter. Any unasked questions remained that way.
“We’re here,” Weber said with fake cheerfulness. He pulled off the gravel road onto a raised, flat embankment, designed to give farm equipment access to the fields, and parked.
Stueman unsnapped his buckle and mine, and reached for the door handle that wasn’t there.
“Forgot,” he admitted.
Weber and Nickles opened the car doors, allowing us to flee our cramped quarters. I slid out Mandy’s side, the lesser of two evils.
“We are out in the middle of nowhere,” Donny said, looking at acres of pastures and fields. There wasn’t a house or building visible from where we stood.
“So where do we go from here?” I asked.
Donny fumbled with the packet then withdrew the instructions. He read, “Hike west to the first gravel road, then south for three quarters of a mile to the sign on the tree. Turn west and hike another half mile to the next sign. Go south a quarter mile to your destination. There will be a sign on the building. Go inside and write your haiku on the provided tablets. When you are all finished, read your poem to the others. And be supportive of one another.”
I stifled a giggle. Weber and Zubinski guffawed out loud. Nickles rolled his eyes, and Stueman frowned. What a team.
Attitude adjustment, Corky.
“It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, cool. Onward and upward, guys. Who wants to carry the compass?” I said.
Stueman stepped forward. “I will, Sergeant.” Donny handed it to him.
“Call me Corky, today at least.”
“I can’t.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I had a dog named Corky. A Welsh Corgi.”
Vince Weber belly laughed, and the other two smiled and waited for my rebuttal. I didn’t know what to say except, “A Welsh Corgi named Corky.”
Weber roared even louder. Zubinski and Nickles were close. I was ready to wring all three of their necks.
Stueman acted like he didn’t hear them. “I’ll call you Corinne.” His stare turned into a mild frown. “How did Corinne turn into Corky anyway?”
A direct, personal question from Stueman to me. I shrugged and said, “My brother, you know, the one who is ten months older than me,” as an explanation. I had never thought much about my nicknam
e, nor had to defend it to anyone before. I felt slightly insulted.
“Maybe you can turn that into a haiku,” Weber suggested. He held up one hand, fingers spread. With each word he spoke, he put a finger down. “My Cor-gi’s name was Cor-ky. Oops, seven syllables. That would have to be the second line.”
Zubinski gave Weber a backhanded swat on his bicep. “Why don’t you just shut up, Weber?”
I cut him off before he could answer. “The sooner we get to our destination, the sooner we’re done.”
“Yay,” Mandy said enthusiastically. Not.
We walked west to the gravel road a short distance away, headed south on the gravel road, and turned right at the first checkpoint. The next leg of the trek was rougher on the uneven ground of pastures and fields. After what seemed like more than a half mile, we came to a rutted field road.
I stopped and assessed the area. “This has got to be wrong. We’re not far from the Raven River, and we’re supposed to be close to a building about now. I don’t know of any farms close to here.”
“This is a private road. It’s not even on the county map,” Weber said.
Mandy pointed. “There’s something over there.”
We walked another twenty yards to a picnic area, surrounded on three sides by a small woods. The grass was mowed, and a long wooden table, six or seven feet long and about four feet wide, sat in the middle. It was unusual looking, with supports that curved from under the thick surface to the base on all four sides. The base was almost as long and as wide as the top. There were three wooden chairs on either side of the table. Six kerosene lamps hung from shepherd’s hooks around the outside edge of the clearing, and a bonfire pit was near the western edge.
“That is one weird-looking table,” Donny said
Mandy stepped closer. “Donny, you wouldn’t have enough leg room, for sure.”
Nickles pulled out a chair and sat down. His knees hit the base, and his body was still a couple of feet from the table. “Well, I got long enough arms to reach, but not to be comfortable,” he said, then stood up again.
“The river is on the other side of the trees there. Not too far. Read the directions again, Donny,” I said.
An Altar by the River Page 19