Pilate's Blood

by J Alexander Greenwood

  “Speaking of him, what’s his story?”

  “Rich?” Ryder sighed. “He’s the character you sensitive types would describe as having issues. His dad owned a farm a couple counties over. He was a John Bircher with a capital J and capital B, you know, one of those get-us-outta-the-U.N. bullshitters and all that new world order shit.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, the wife left him about ten years ago, and the old man died in a combine accident last year. Young Gary bought a house in Cross with the estate he inherited. What’s up though? Is he botherin’ ya?”

  “He’s been in here a couple times, telling me about all the evildoers.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s mostly harmless,” Ryder said. “See ya in a few.”

  “Mostly?” Simon said. “How reassuring.”

  Pilate dialed his home phone number.

  “Hello?” Taters said.

  “Hey, man, how you doing?”

  “Fair to midland.” He coughed. “And yourself?”

  “Same,” Pilate said. “Hey, look, sorry I got a little down last night.”

  “No explanation or apology necessary, man. We’ve seen too much shit together to start that,” he said, chuckling softly.

  “Thanks. You eat yet?”

  “Had some toast and some of your wife’s alleged bacon.”

  “Sorry about that too. Listen, I’m heading over to the hospital. That fella with the bad back is awake, and we’re gonna question him, so I don’t know when I’ll be done.”

  “Gonna axe him some questions, huh?”

  “Very punny.”

  “Can I come along?”

  “I guess, but it’s an official police thing, so you can’t come in the room,” Pilate said.

  “I just figured we could grab some lunch after, maybe someplace that sells burgers or other health food.”

  “Sounds good. The questioning shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll get dressed and be ready for ya,” Taters said.

  “Gimme about twenty, and I’ll pick you up.”

  Next, Pilate dialed Kate’s office and got her voicemail. “Hey, sweetness, it’s me. Just an update. Dropped Kara at school, then I had to deal with that nut from the neighborhood watch. Got a call from Ryder. Nemec’s awake. Going to go question him, then take Taters to lunch. Hope you’re having a great day. Kiss the little guy for me when you see him at lunchtime. Love you.”

  Pilate hung up, then groaned as he stretched and popped his neck and back. He looked around the dusty office, wondering what law enforcement officers in generations past would think of him.

  “That you’re an idiot,” Simon said.

  Pilate walked to the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys. A small key with a blue paint mark on it, the one for his desk, stopped him cold. Pilate loosed a heavy, defeated sigh and walked back to his desk.

  He unlocked the center drawer, removed the pistol Ryder had issued him, and loaded the chamber with eight bullets. Slipping it back in the clip-on holster, he tucked it under his arm and left.

  “I-I don’t remember,” Parker Nemec said, pale and miserable in his hospital bed, a pillow propping him up on his right side, so as not to stress his back injury.

  Detective Petersen from the state police stood closest to him, talking and occasionally checking a small recorder to make sure it captured the interview.

  Jeremy Ryder stood in the corner, ever the laconic cowboy, leaning with one boot against the wall, his arms folded.

  Pilate stood in the other corner of the tiny room, feeling distinctly extraneous.

  “You really have no idea what you’re doing,” Simon insultingly observed.

  Pilate didn’t disagree with his doppelganger.

  “You don’t remember who hit you?”

  Nemec’s eyelids fluttered. “Not just that. I-I don’t remember what happened.” He was clearly on some decent pain meds.

  “Let’s step back.” Petersen’s tone was calm and patient, as if he was really just trying to be helpful.

  Pilate had only met him once in person, but they had spoken often by phone. In fact, that one time they met, Petersen was interviewing Pilate about his role in the events the led to the murders at Cross College. Pilate observed that Petersen, a plain-clothes officer, looked as if he’d lost quite a bit of weight.

  “Do you remember where you were when this happened?”

  Nemec nodded slightly. “I was out by the Tin Roof, going to get some ribs.”

  That’s more like it, Pilate thought.

  “Okay. So you were out at the Tin Roof or near it?” Petersen asked.

  “Well, I was parked there, going in,” Nemec said dully.

  “And that was around lunchtime?”

  Nemec nodded again.

  “Were there other people there?”

  “Inside?” Nemec said. “I guess.”

  “But you were outside?”

  “Yeah, out back.”

  “Why?”

  Nemec blanched and looked behind Petersen, to the window on the east side of the room.

  “Mr. Nemec?” Petersen said.

  Ryder looked down at the one boot planted on the floor.

  “I may be mistaken,” Nemec said, barely a whisper.

  Petersen moved the recorder closer to Nemec on the portable hospital table. “Mistaken? How?”

  “I really don’t know if I should say anything. I’m really tired, and those pills made me—”

  “Mr. Nemec, we need to know what happened.”

  Nemec’s eyes tracked back to Petersen. “Did you see that pretty lady outside the room? She’s my wife, Wendy. I say anything to you, and something happens to her and me. I don’t care about me, but Wendy’s my whole world.”

  “We will protect both of you,” Petersen said assuredly.

  Nemec smiled weakly. “With what? Him?” He gestured at Pilate. “No offense, Constable, but you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t even want the job. Hell, even Opie’s dad wore a damn badge.”

  Pilate made an exasperated face as Petersen scanned his chest for the missing lawman’s identification.

  Ryder cleared his throat noisily. From beneath his cowboy hat, his gaze still pointed at the floor, Ryder intoned, “We can move you both out of town. Detective Petersen can put you in protective custody.”

  Petersen looked at Ryder, his face barely masking his irritation. “What Commissioner Ryder means is that we can take steps to—”

  “I want my lawyer and a guard, or I don’t say another word.”

  “Is there someplace you and your wife can go—”

  Pilate offered, “I know a place in Florida. Nobody’d know to look there.”

  Ryder looked up, eyeing Petersen and Pilate a second. He then looked back at Petersen and shrugged.

  Nemec scanned all three faces. “Protective custody out of state? In Florida, for Wendy and me?”

  Petersen took the ball and ran with it. “We could make that happen, but first, you have to tell us what happened and why.”

  “I wanna talk to Wendy and my lawyer first.”

  “No problem, Mr. Nemec,” Petersen said. “Let’s get Wendy in here, and she can call your attorney. We’ll be back tomorrow. Sound good?”

  Nemec nodded.

  “But Parker,” Ryder drawled, “make no mistake. We aren’t just gonna drop the ball on this. We know there are no crazed axe murderers on the loose. We need to know what happened and why somebody was that pissed at you. If you decide not to cooperate, you’ll spend some time in the hoosegow.”

  “Hoosegow? People really say that?” Simon said.

  Nemec nodded, looking out the window again, and his hands began to tremble.

  “I sure hope your office has the money to fly them on a Florida vacation, John,” Petersen said in the small hospital chapel.

  Ryder leaned on a pew, his arms folded. “It may be the only way we can get him to finger Thurman.”

  “Thurman?” Pilate said.
“I figured it was one of Robie’s guys.”

  “Robie and his guys don’t take an impromptu shit without permission from Hilmer Thurman,” Ryder said.

  “But wouldn’t an impromptu shit be one that would necessarily go without permission?” Simon inquired in Pilate’s skull.

  “Yes, John, we know Thurman’s the new crime lord around here. That comes as no surprise. We have some suspicions that he’s got designs on controlling the bank and perhaps acquiring a little more property.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mostek’s grocery, for one thing,” Ryder said.

  “Wait,” Pilate said. “You think he’d kill a guy over a crummy little general store?”

  Ryder nodded. “It’s not just the store. It’s the family that owns it. Ever since Perry Mostek disappeared after shooting Sheriff Welliver, we’ve had our suspicions that Hilmer Thurman was behind the whole mess. I think Parker Nemec is a wrinkle in Thurman’s plans. He musta gotten cute with Hilmer and got an axe in the back for his trouble.”

  “But why would Thurman risk his little empire for this one deal?”

  Petersen put a hand on Pilate’s shoulder. “John, we’re just spit-ballin’ here, but we know Hilmer Thurman hates loose ends, and there’s a rival bidding on that property. Maybe he was trying to convince the banker to sway the deal his way to freeze out the other buyer.”

  “Who’s the other buyer?”

  “You know that Scottish innkeeper, over at the B&B?” Petersen said.

  “Yeah, but he’s Irish actually.” Pilate looked at Ryder, who again shrugged. “He wants the store?”

  “Apparently,” Petersen said. “According to records, he put a bid in, one that puts the property in play and will raise Thurman’s price a bit.”

  “By how much?” Pilate said, exasperated. “A few thousand is hardly a reason to put an axe in a man’s back. I mean, c’mon. I know Hilmer Thurman. He’s a lot of things, but irrational isn’t one of them.”

  “Well, aside from that, we have no other motive for a fella under Thurman’s thumb to light out after Parker Nemec,” Ryder said.

  “There’s gotta be more to this than meets the eye,” Pilate said.

  “Usually is,” Petersen said, “but I’ll be damned if I’ve got any reasonable ideas.”

  Pilate looked at Ryder, who kept his head dipped low, eyes obscured by his hat, even in the ersatz holiness of the hospital chapel. “Commissioner?”

  Ryder looked up at the men, shrugging again. “Yeah, it doesn’t make any sense. Looks like we’ve got a legit mystery here, fellas. Better call Scooby Doo.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “John, this is hardly what I’d call a decent lunch,” Taters complained. “Hospital food?” All the same, Taters immediately dug in to the hamburger and side salad as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

  Pilate nodded. “At least it’s meat. Sorry. Just got a lot going on today.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Taters said, piling a few pieces of spinach and lettuce on his burger, then biting into it.

  “Why would anybody go to such lengths over a damn real estate deal?”

  Taters chewed a moment, then pointed at Pilate with his index finger. “Wasn’t that the very reason your old pals Jack Lindstrom and Ollie Olafson went to war?”

  Pilate looked at Taters. “Well, ultimately, yeah. I mean, there were some other issues at play, but Jack got involved because he wanted the land from the old Bartley place for his Cross College expansion plans. He also wanted to give Ollie the big eff-you.”

  Taters nodded. “So what you’re saying is that it was really two guys trying to establish who was running things in this one-horse, no-beach town.”

  “He’s smarter than he looks,” Simon said.

  Pilate nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t… I mean, the Bartley deal was worth millions. The Mostek store is barely worth a couple hundred grand at best.”

  “Again,” Taters said, around a mouthful of burger, “it may be about toeing the line, about this Thurman guy establishing who’s in charge now.”

  Pilate snatched a piece of hard-boiled egg from his salad. “Okay, but let’s think on this for a minute. If Thurman was mad about the deal getting pricier, why would he hurt the banker? Why not try to intimidate Cusack? He’s the competing bidder.”

  Taters made an I’ve-got-no-idea face.

  “Exactly.”

  Taters wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, then looked over Pilate’s head, apparently lost in thought.

  “What?”

  Taters’s eye took on a gleam Pilate had not seen since he’d last hung out with Taters in Key West. “Bigfoot.”

  “Huh?” Pilate said, putting his fork down.

  “Remember the mystery submarine we found? The bigfoot?”

  Pilate nodded. The pair had found, in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, a small submarine commonly used for smuggling drugs, known as a Bigfoot because of the rarity of a sighting. They never knew what was in it, and the Department of Homeland Security forbade them from discussing it, under threats of bankruptcy and imprisonment.

  “How can I forget, even though I’m supposed to?”

  “Well, what if there’s something in the Mostek place we don’t know about? Somethin’ this Thurman desperately wants access to?”

  Pilate looked at Taters a moment. “A submarine?”

  “Ha! Not necessarily, but something of value may be submerged under that storefront. You probably oughtta take a good, long look at it.”

  “Hmm. Not a bad idea, Taters,” Pilate said. “Finish up your food, and we’ll head over to the library.”

  “What? No fishing?”

  “We’ll be fishing all right.”

  As they started to leave the hospital parking lot, Pilate’s cell phone rang.

  “John? No dice on Nemec hitting the beach,” Petersen said. “Just not in the budget, and frankly, I think if we sweat him a bit by reminding him that he’s vulnerable, he’ll talk anyway.”

  “Fine,” Pilate said. “It was a dumb idea anyway, I guess.”

  “No, it had merit. Just wasn’t…optimal,” Petersen said.

  “Hey, why do you think Thurman is so eager to get his hot little hands on that property?”

  “Like I told you, John, I think he’s swinging his dick around. Nemec got outta line and let Cusack get involved.”

  “Pretty thin, don’t you think?”

  Petersen sighed. “John, I don’t know. Honestly, I’m working two homicides right now, and there’s not a lot I can do about Parker Nemec until things change.”

  “Change how? Like him getting killed?”

  “No, like him telling us what he knows.”

  “Okay. I hear ya. One last thing. Do you think there could be something to the actual Mostek store location?”

  “What do you mean? Because it’s the only grocery store in Cross? Yeah, that makes it valuable, especially considering that Piggly Wiggly and Safeway aren’t exactly in a hurry to move one of their franchises in. It’s a monopoly for the taking.”

  “I just mean the store location. Maybe there’s…something else,” Pilate said.

  “Like what, the answer to the mystery of Oak Island? Al Capone’s vault?” Petersen laughed.

  “I don’t know,” Pilate said. “Maybe there’s something in there we missed, something that lies beneath.”

  “Spooky stuff there, John. Well,” Petersen said, sighing, “I gotta go, but you’re the constable. Get a warrant and go take a look around if you think you’ll find anything.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “I actually don’t know. There aren’t many constables in Nebraska, so I’m not real up on the limits of your authority. Ask Ryder. I gotta go though. Be careful, Geraldo.”

  Click.

  “He thinks I’m an idiot,” Pilate said, putting his cell away.

  “Screw ‘im,” Taters said.

  Pilate took his cell phone out again and dialed the Cross College library. He spoke a few moments, then hu
ng up. “Just like I thought.”

  “What?”

  “The records on the Mostek place aren’t housed there. The new librarian there said there used to be a substantial file, but it’s gone missing,” Pilate said, tucking his cell phone away. “Probably right around the time Parker Nemec started his so-called research.“

  “Well,” Taters said, “I say we should go have a look at county.”

  “Good idea.”

  At the county records office, they found the plans for what became Mostek’s store. It was originally a private residence. After an hour or so of digging around, with the help of a matronly, colorless records clerk named Patricia, they discovered that the town’s first general store was built two doors down the same year, in 1897, on a plot of land that was a blacksmith’s shop during the time when Cross was a mere camp on the river. That general store burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances a few years later.

  “That’s interesting,” Taters mused. “Pretty damn big for a private residence.”

  “Yeah, that explains the architecture. It has a turret room above the main floor, and if it was built in the area plotted to be Main Street, I imagine there was some money involved.”

  Taters whistled low through his teeth. “Says here,” he said, pointing, “that the house was built by one Thor Hilmer. “

  “What? Wait a second,” Pilate said, drawing the plans closer and peering at the small print. “Hilmer. Thor Hilmer. I wonder if he’s any relation to Hilmer Thurman?”

  Patricia coughed and cleared her throat. “Sheriff…”

  “Constable,” Pilate said, not looking up.

  “Constable, those plans were pulled recently. You didn’t hear it from me, but they were pulled right about the time Ollie Olafson, um…well, you know.”

  Pilate looked at her. “About the time he died?”

  She nodded.

  “Who pulled the plans?”

  Patricia adjusted her glasses and looked around the small, dusty records room conspiratorially. “A big guy named Tom. He was polite, but he looked like a truck driver. I’d never seen him before, and it just seemed odd that he would pull those plans, especially right after the mayor died and all.”