by Rachel Ford
Travis Becker, party number one, said he fell out of his stand earlier in the day. Tyler Sommer, party number two, said he’d walked into a door. No sir, they hadn’t been fighting. No sir, they hadn’t even exchanged words. Yes sir, they’d remember that it was a crime. Yes sir, they’d watch themselves.
Drunken driving was up, too. There were reports all over the county, but the incident at the Wynder place meant fewer cars out on patrol. Still, they’d arrested two offenders, and netted three more in the early hours of Saturday morning right after last call at the local taverns.
Nor did it help that the media was so far up his ass they could tell what he’d had for breakfast the morning before. They wanted to know if he had a suspect. They wanted to know when he’d be making an arrest.
They wanted to know yesterday.
The crank callers and true crime dumbasses were worse. The sheriff’s office had fielded dozens of calls since the news first broke with theories and suggestions.
A lot of them got back to hunters gone wild, but there were some crazy ones. One nutjob thought there was a serial killer on the loose. Someone else suggested the governor had something to do with it, as payback for cases where he’d sided against him.
Which didn’t surprise Halvorson, exactly. The judge was the closest thing Yellow River County had to a famous person. He’d been on the State Supreme Court, for pity’s sake. Of course there was interest; and of course, where there was interest, the nutjobs came out of the woodwork. Of course people wanted to know when his killer would be brought to justice.
There was just one problem. Sheriff Halverson didn’t have a clue who had killed him, or why. The evidence had been so badly handled that they’d picked up no clues from the scene. They hadn’t even retrieved the bullet.
It had passed through the judge’s head and flown off into the wild blue yonder. It didn’t hit any trees downrange, and they hadn’t found it in the dirt anywhere. Of course, they might have been able to find it eventually, with enough time.
But then the first snow of the season had fallen the next day. Now there were six inches of heavy white snow all over the crime scene. If they found it at all, it wouldn’t be until next spring. And he had no great hopes on that score.
It was the Wednesday morning after the shooting. Halvorson was taking his breakfast in the Family Diner on Fifth Street, mulling the case over. He was thinking about the damned reporters, and how it was only going to get worse from here.
If he thought they were up his ass now, well, things were really going to get uncomfortable over the next few days and weeks. When it became apparent that he didn’t know what the hell had happened. When the larger stations showed up. State stations, and maybe national.
The seemingly random murder of a supreme court justice, even a state one, could be big news. Especially if it was a slow news week. And it looked to be a slow news week. There had been no natural disasters or high-profile kidnappings. No planes had fallen out of the sky, no trains had come off the tracks. The stock market was doing just fine.
Which could make a recently retired judge’s death a little more appealing to the vultures.
He took a sip of coffee. Black, three packets of sugar. Coffee flavored syrup, not coffee. That’s what his ex-wife had called it. But that was the way he liked it.
He turned his thoughts to Ted Walters, and his ridiculous theory that it had been a hunter’s stray shot. Rubbish, almost certainly. But useful rubbish, maybe.
It would sound like he was making progress to the vultures. They might even lose interest. Hunting accidents happened, even to judges. Even to state supreme court justices.
And useful because it might lull the killer into a false sense of security. Not that it would be that false, considering his leads amounted to zip. But a comfortable killer would be more likely to make mistakes than a cautious one.
The waitress came out. Mackenzie Gutmann was her name. He’d gone to school with her dad. A good kid, with bad taste in boyfriends. He’d arrested the last one more times than he could count, and the current one was one of the guys in lockup from the bar fight Friday night.
She didn’t seem overly broken up about it. Probably because him cooling his heels in lockup meant he hadn’t come with that itch to throw hands.
She was carrying his plate: the three by three combo. Three eggs, three pieces of bacon, and three pancakes. Heart disease on a plate. The way he liked it.
He started with the pancakes and bacon. He glanced around the diner as he ate. He knew most of the faces here. Locals. Neighbors. Friends and enemies.
There were a few new faces, some he recognized and some he didn’t. There was the reporter from a county over. Pretty, but a real pain in the ass. Name of Krispen, worked for a regional station, and had been hounding him for answers since Sunday.
Then there was the old guy who had hit a deer, the guy with the SUV in the shop. An out-of-stater, Bill or Bob or Something Tanney. He’d seen the report in the logs, but he hadn’t responded to the call. He’d still been at the Wynder place at the time.
His eyes rested on a third newcomer, a guy he hadn’t seen before. A tall, thin guy in his mid-thirties somewhere, hunched over a keyboard.
Halverson picked away at his pancakes and watched the thin guy. A weird guy, he decided. He was working away at some type of laptop with a detachable keyboard. A tablet, maybe. He seemed preoccupied. He seemed to regard the keyboard like some kind of foe. He was hammering away at it like he meant to beat it into submission.
He paused every now and then to take a sip of coffee, or to stir his coffee. He did this in cycles. Three sips, then three stirs. Then he’d tap his spoon three times against the side of the mug, and set it aside. Over and over, until the coffee was gone.
Then Mackenzie came by and refilled the mug, and the cycle started all over again – with the addition of creamer this time.
A weird guy. Probably not a reporter. He didn’t have the approachable air of a reporter. Maybe a cameraman, but he looked a little too pale for that. Like he didn’t see the sun much.
Halverson moved on to his eggs and last piece of bacon. He’d been greedy. He should have rationed the bacon better, so he’d have some for his eggs. He flagged the waitress down and asked if he could get a side of extra bacon.
She smiled and nodded. “You got it, Sheriff.”
He went back to watching the weird guy. He was tall, like he’d seen first thing. Six two, maybe six three. So tall he was all hunched up in his seat, and his knees were hitting the underside of his table. He had dark hair and pale skin, and light eyes. He looked like he had stilt legs, like Ichabod Crane come to life.
Then the weird guy’s breakfast came, and he broke his attention from his computer screen. He said something to the waitress, and she nodded. He started to eat: a waffle with scrambled eggs on the side.
The waitress came back with more coffee and creamer. He said something else, and the waitress left. A moment later she came to the sheriff’s table with extra bacon. “Nice and hot,” she smiled. “Right off the griddle.”
Halvorson took it. “Thanks, Mackenzie.” Then he gestured toward the weird guy. “Hey, you know who that guy is?”
She shook her head. “Should I?”
He shook his head too. “No. I’m just curious.”
Mackenzie smiled. “Well, he’s curious about you too.”
“Oh?”
“Yup. Wanted to know if you came here every morning.”
Interesting. “Did he?”
She nodded. “Yup.”
“What did you tell him?”
She shrugged. “Couldn’t remember. I figured if he wanted to know that bad, he could come in and see for himself.”
Halverson grinned and nodded. “Clever girl.”
Chapter Three
Owen Day finished his waffle and eggs. He noticed the sheriff watching him. He noticed the waitress head over and chat with the sheriff. He noticed both of them glancing his way.
> He pretended he didn’t. He was hungry, and he wanted to finish his breakfast. Anyway, Sheriff Halverson seemed to be taking his time. Maybe he was watching him.
Which was a good sign. He figured it meant the sheriff hadn’t just been blowing off his calls. Maybe dispatch had got the messages to him like they’d promised, and maybe he’d listened after all. Maybe he was trying to form an opinion of him.
Day wasn’t a cop, but it didn’t take much imagination to know the thought processes involved when a random guy showed up with strong opinions about a murder.
Dollars to donuts, he figured, Halverson was thinking crackpot right about now. Maybe since he got the first call.
That was alright. He had the data. And unlike people, unlike gut feelings and first impressions and random hunches, data didn’t lie.
Neither did an empty stomach. So he kept eating. The waitress came by and asked if he would like anything more. He said, “Coffee. But that’ll be it.”
She returned with a carafe full of coffee and a bill. He finished his breakfast. Then he put money on the table, enough to cover the food and a good tip too.
He picked up the carafe and the mug and gathered his tablet and keyboard. Then he got up and started walking.
The sheriff glanced down at his eggs, like he wasn’t watching.
Owen Day stopped at his table, and shifted the carafe, mug and tech to one arm. He stuck out his hand and said, “Sheriff Halverson? Owen Day.”
The sheriff seemed surprised. He glanced up, stared at him and his outstretched hand, and asked, “What?”
“Owen Day. Pleased to meet you.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and then he grimaced. “Day? You’re the guy who keeps calling the department with theories?”
“About the murder of Judge Wynder? Yes.”
“The serial killer thing?” His tone didn’t sound promising. So, maybe the observation hadn’t been a good sign after all.
But Owen nodded as optimistically as he could manage. “That’s right. I didn’t hear back from you, so I thought it would be best if I just came up in person. That way I could show you the evidence. In person.”
The sheriff’s eye twitched. “Did you?”
“Yes sir.” He gestured to the seat. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Yup.”
Owen had been reaching for the seatback, but he froze at that. “Yup you mind? Or yup I can join you?”
“Yup I mind. Listen, Mr. Day, I appreciate your enthusiasm, and if you have any evidence, by all means, send it along to the department where it will be evaluated in due course. But right now, I’m eating my breakfast.”
Owen nodded. “I understand, Sheriff. I know you probably think I’m just some random kook.”
The sheriff shrugged. Not a yes, but not a no either.
“But I have an algorithm. A kind of murder algorithm.”
“For the love of God,” the other man muttered.
“It detects patterns. Patterns in killings. And I’m telling you: there’s a serial killer on the loose. Judge Wynder is the latest victim, but there’s been at least a dozen others. I can prove it.”
The sheriff scowled at him. “I’m sure you can.”
“I’ve got evidence.”
“I’m sure you do. Which is why you should send it along to the department, where it will be evaluated.”
“This is too important to sit around waiting for someone to maybe take a glance at it.”
“I’m sure it is. But you want someone to take a look at your algorithm? Well, that’s the best I can do for you. Take it or leave it, son.”
Owen didn’t like that answer, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. If he pressed his case too hard, he might wind up in cuffs.
And he wasn’t even particularly surprised by it. It did sound like a crackpot thing. Which is why he’d wanted to get the evidence in front of the sheriff. Because the evidence spoke far more eloquently than he ever could.
It had been the most straightforward play, but it had always faced steep odds. So now he had to figure out some kind of alternative.
He went back to his own table and finished his coffee. Not the whole carafe, but another cup. It wasn’t great coffee. It was barely drinkable. But he’d paid four bucks for it, so he meant to get his money’s worth.
After that, maybe he’d try the only coffee shop in the area, a little place he’d passed on the far side of town.
The sheriff ordered a piece of pie after he wrapped up his eggs. Some kind of pumpkin concoction with pecans on top. He ate it slowly. Almost ostentatiously slowly.
Owen left the carafe, and he left his mug. He nodded at the greeter on his way out. “Come back soon,” she told him optimistically. More optimistically than the food warranted.
Then again, it looked like the only diner in town. So maybe it hadn’t been optimism so much as pragmatism. Either he’d go hungry, or he’d eat there. And the food wasn’t that bad.
He headed outside. The parking lot had been plowed, but not well. The driver had left little streaks of snow between passes. The temperature had been in the mid-thirties the last few days, which was just warm enough to start melting everything. Which meant the snow turned to slush.
Then cars drove through it. Friction and hot engines melted it a little more and spread it all around. Now, the lot was a grotesque, soppy mix of dirt and snow and slush.
Owen had spent most of his life in the upper Midwest, so he had plenty of familiarity with it. Familiar and fond weren’t the same thing, of course.
Which he figured probably explained the grimace the woman following him wore as she picked her way through puddles and potholes.
He figured she was just as familiar with midwestern winters as he was. She looked about as generic midwestern as it got: pretty but not Hollywood pretty, tall but not runway tall, and thin but not supermodel thin. She had long dark hair and nice features under only a little makeup. She wore a long, heavy winter coat and tall boots lined with some kind of faux fur that peaked out at the top, dark trousers – and as soon as she realized he was watching her in the reflection from his SUV windows, a fake smile.
He turned. He’d noticed her following, and she’d noticed him noticing. It was the same thing as making eye contact. He couldn’t just hop into the vehicle and get away.
She stretched out a hand. He took it as she talked. “Mr. Day? My name is Nancy Krispen.” She identified herself as a reporter with a newspaper a county over.
“Really?” he asked. “They still have those?”
“Newspapers or reporters?” she asked.
“Either, really.”
She smiled. “Yes. On both counts.”
“Huh. Well, what can I do for you then, Miss Krispen?”
“Call me Nancy, please.”
He said nothing to that.
She went on. “You’re Owen Day, right? Who helped crack the Nursery Rhyme Killer case earlier this year?”
He grimaced but didn’t respond. He had no interest in giving interviews or answering questions or whatever else she had in mind.
“I’m so sorry about your brother, Owen. You don’t mind if I call you Owen, do you?”
He did mind. He minded that she brought up his brother’s murder like it was some kind of newsworthy curiosity. “What do you want, Miss Krispen?”
If that nonplussed her at all, she recovered quickly. She smiled and shrugged. “Nancy. And – I couldn’t help overhearing you in there, with the sheriff.”
He said nothing.
“When you said you had evidence that Judge Wynder’s death was the work of a serial killer?”
“What do you want?” he asked again.
“Our readers would be very interested to hear your thoughts on the case, Owen. Very interested.”
“I’m not interested,” he said, turning back toward the vehicle.
“Why not? The sheriff didn’t want to hear you out. Don’t you want to get your story out? He’ll have no choice bu
t to consider it when it’s in the news.”
He paused at that. Only for half a second, but enough to encourage her.
“For an Owen Day theory, about Judge Wynder? I can probably get the front page. Everyone will see your evidence. The big papers and stations, they might even pick up on it.”
“Not interested,” he said again. “Have a good day, Miss Krispen.”
She took a step toward him. “Think about it, Owen. Okay?”
He said nothing, and got inside. He drove slowly, so his tires didn’t kick up slush and melted snow at her. She was still in the parking lot, still gingerly picking her way toward her own vehicle, when he left.
He shook his head and focused on the road. He didn’t know Yellow River Falls well. He’d driven through it a few times, but it was about three hundred miles north of his own home in the county of Kennington. And there was nothing in Yellow River Falls to warrant a three-hundred-mile drive.
Which was no slight against the place. It was a nice enough small town, but it was like most small towns in the state. It had a mediocre diner, a few bars and as many churches, a lot of forest and a few streams and rivers. And not much else.
It would be an alright place to vacation if you had a cabin, or to put up a tent if you weren’t afraid of bears. But Owen didn’t have a cabin, and he had no desire to tangle with bears. Nor did he have folks in the area. So he’d had no reason to come there at all except in passing.
No reason until the judge’s murder, anyway.
He’d read about that on Saturday. He’d followed the news out of Yellow River Falls obsessively Sunday, looking for updates. He’d called and left messages for the sheriff Sunday evening, and then Monday – morning, afternoon and evening. When he got no return call and found no news, he’d arranged with his boss to use some of his stockpiled PTO.
And so here he was, in Yellow River Falls deliberately for the first time in his three and a half decades of life.