Blood Silence

by Roger Stelljes

  Mac pushed himself up out of the chair and turned to follow Rawlings out but then stopped and turned back. “Mr. Wheeler, you might think we’re done here, but we’re not. In fact, we’re far from done. You’ll be seeing me again, and again, and again.”

  Outside, Mac looked over to the sheriff as they approached his Tahoe. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Having my back in there. That was kind of fun.”

  “Not that it will do much good.”

  “Come on, Sheriff, you don’t believe all of these coincidences, do you? You think something is going on here, right? Wheeler’s story is as bad as the water at the Bullers’.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is—”

  “What you can prove. I agree with that. I can’t get Meredith off the hook without proof.” He looked at his watch and then back west to the sun working its way down in the sky. “You know when I do my best work, Sam?”

  “When?”

  “When I have a beer and a burger in me,” Mac replied. “And I’m buying.”

  “Give me two hours,” Rawlings answered. “Around here, us cops like to eat and drink at The County Line. You know where that is?”

  “I was there last night, talking to Leah Brock in fact.”

  “And?”

  “We talked about the Adam Murphy case.”

  “Interesting,” Rawlings answered. “I want a recap, in two hours. If I’m not at the bar when you get there, tell them you’re with me and you want my table.”

  “You have a table?” Mac replied, amused. “My family owns a bar, and I don’t have a table.”

  “What can I say?” Sam answered. “I guess I’m a pretty big deal around here.”

  • • •

  Detectives Gerdtz and Subject stood on the cement pier in their trench coats, holding coffees—Gerdtz, as always, smoking a cigarette. The two of them were patiently watching as the Suburban was slowly being pulled from the Mississippi by the winch on the back of the wrecker.

  The back of the submerged SUV became visible, and the two detectives moved to the right edge of the old pier as the winch dragged the truck out of the muck and toward the steep and muddy shoreline. The back window of the SUV was out, only shards of glass remaining around the edges. Then, on the tailgate were the bullet holes, three of them. Most importantly, though, was now they had a license plate, which Gerdtz jotted into his notepad.

  The two detectives hustled back to a patrol unit, and Subject slipped into the driver’s seat and punched the license plate number into the computer.

  “What do you have?” Gerdtz asked as he blew smoke from his cigarette.

  “Rental,” Subject answered. “I’d say we’re heading down to Economy Rental at the airport. Let’s see if they have identification on who rented this thing.”

  • • •

  Phelps pulled around the corner and parked nearly a block away from the bar’s entrance. He killed the engine as well as the lights and slumped down in his seat. He settled in as he watched McRyan approach the front entrance for the County Line.

  • • •

  Mac scanned the street as he walked along the wide sidewalk fronting the County Line. Cars and trucks sporadically parked along both sides of the street, including an Escalade he thought he was seeing for at least the third time in the last twenty-four hours. He made a quick visual note of the plate and thought it might be time to have Rawlings run it for him.

  Mac walked in the front door and was greeted by the waitress from the night before. “You’re back?”

  “I am,” Mac answered as he scanned the bar and didn’t see Rawlings. “I’m going to be joined by Sheriff Rawlings. Does he really have his own special table? Is that really true?”

  The waitress smiled broadly. “Sure is. It’s in the back, over in the left corner—the tall, four-top table with Property of Sheriff’s Department stenciled on the wall. Can I get you something while you wait?”

  “Do you have a Summit?”

  “Ahh, you’re a visitor.”

  “The locals don’t drink that, huh?” Mac asked, curious.

  “Nah, the domestics get the play around here.”

  “I see.”

  Ten minutes later, Rawlings strolled into the bar, now without his uniform, such that it was. He was in a dark-brown Carhartt jacket. It took him awhile to make it back to the table. Sheriff Sam Rawlings, unlike Police Chief Dave Borland, was a popular man and made small talk with at least six different people on the way back to the table—people Mac presumed were local cops or sheriff’s deputies. There were hugs, handshakes, pats on the back, and laughter.

  “Do you go anywhere without the cowboy hat?” Mac asked as Rawlings sat down.

  The sheriff smiled and tipped his hat back off his forehead a bit. “No, sir. One thing about Chicago was there weren’t many opportunities to wear this thing without receiving a heaping pile of ridicule. Up here, I keep it on wherever and whenever I want. I do appreciate that.”

  “So how did a native of Williston, North Dakota end up a homicide detective in Chicago, anyway?”

  “How does a St. Paul homicide detective end up in Washington, DC?”

  “I followed a girl,” Mac answered with a big smile.

  “Ditto.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know, typical boy-meets-girl story. I went to college at North Dakota State, played basketball, majored in beer and chasing tail, and minored in criminal justice,” Rawlings answered after the first beers were ordered. “Sandy was a pretty brainiac who took to an athletic meathead.”

  “Not a meathead,” Mac answered, shaking his head. “Give her credit.”

  Rawlings nodded with a smile. “I was lucky though. Lots more guys than gals at NDSU, so there was competition for her, of that I can assure you. In any event, she went to medical school down in Chicago, and I followed her and went to work for Chicago PD and worked my way up. I made homicide nine years ago.”

  “What happened to bring you back?”

  Rawlings looked down and then took a sip of his beer. “Sandy died of cancer, five years ago now.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sheriff.”

  “Me too,” he replied, looking briefly away, wistful. “I miss her.”

  “So did that bring you back?” Mac asked, turning his beer bottle in his hands.

  “Not right away,” Rawlings replied. “My boy and I stuck it out for a year. But for both of us, it seemed like everywhere we went and everything we did reminded us of her. I was thinking of moving us and actually looked into jobs in Minneapolis and St. Paul, since Sandy’s family was from the Twin Cities. Then the sheriff up here announced he was retiring. My dad called and said he’d managed to retire with our good name intact. He suggested I come back and run, so I did.”

  “Was it a good move?” Mac asked, taking a long sip of his beer.

  Rawlings took a sip of his own and gave the answer a moment of thought. “On the whole, I think so. It was good for my boy. His grandparents are here, he has some aunts, uncles, and cousins nearby, so he has family and support, which is good, because at times, this job is more than I might have bargained for.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “He’s thirteen now. He’s been here four years and has adjusted pretty well. He’s going to be tall, two to three inches taller than me, and likes hoops, so he plays lots and lots of basketball. Plus he likes horses, hunting, and fishing, so it’s been good for him.” The waitress reappeared, and they ordered burger baskets and another round of beers. “Tell me, do you like living in Washington? I mean, I assume you live there.”

  “I do, most of the time.”

  “And you like it?”

  Mac shrugged. “If you can take the politics out of it, it’s an amazing place to live. We have a brownstone in Georgetown, and I love the area and the history, and Sally is there. On the other hand, there’s the politics.” Mac shook his head. “The town is full of bloviating idiots, both elected
and appointed, Democrat and Republican. In my personal opinion, after having the opportunity to engage in some up-close analysis, we do not have the best and brightest running the country—we have a shit show. I talk to some of these people, and my head wants to explode.”

  “Don’t hold back—tell me what you really think.”

  Mac laughed.

  “You followed a girl. She works at the White House, right?”

  Mac nodded. “She does, and we’ve been there a year now, and her enthusiasm for working there has not waned even a little. She loves it. How, I don’t know. It would drive me bat shit crazy. But she’s very happy, so that makes living there good.”

  “Are you going to make an honest woman of her?”

  “May 15 next year, or at least that’s the tentative date. We kind of set it the other day. Heck, we haven’t even told our families yet, so keep that under your cowboy hat.”

  “Congratulations,” Rawlings cheered, raising his beer. “Of course, she’s not your first.”

  “No, she’s not,” Mac answered, in a sign it was time to talk business.

  “Which, after all, is why you’re here,” Rawlings stated and took a long pull from his Coors Light. “Do you really think Deep Core is behind all of this?”

  “Maybe,” Mac answered. “I hear skepticism in your voice, yet here you are tonight to talk about it.”

  “I got nothing else to do,” Rawlings replied lightly.

  “Bullshit,” Mac replied.

  Rawlings smiled, took a quick drink, and pointed the bottle at Mac. “Once a homicide detective, always a homicide detective. Sure, I got a hit off our talk with Wheeler—the expression, the body language—he was uncomfortable. There is something there, no question.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Does Wheeler strike you as a killer?”

  “No,” Mac answered, shaking his head dismissively. “He’s not a guy who would get his hands dirty that way. You have to be pretty cold to kill nine people. He doesn’t have it in him to pull the trigger.”

  “You never know. People will do things you never thought they would—for money.”

  “This I know,” Mac answered darkly, gesturing with his beer glass. “I know it all too well. Someone had nine people killed, Sheriff. It’s about money somehow.” He looked Rawlings in the eye. “Whoever did this, they need to go down for it.”

  “Agreed.” Rawlings sat back in his chair and took a long drink from his beer. “However, while I’m intrigued, I’m also troubled. Tell me, is your theory on this case that Deep Core killed the Buller family, Adam Murphy, the lawyer and his client in the Twin Cities, and these two guys in Washington, DC because the tap water at the Buller house smells?”

  Mac smiled yet dropped his head a little. The sheriff cut right to the hole in his theory, the same hole Mac had been thinking about for the past two hours. He was thinking he was on to something, but when he put it all down on a notepad, it didn’t look like as much. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “It’s not just me who would put it that way, Mac. For example, a prosecutor or judge I might ask for a search warrant would put it that way. The Industrial Commission would look at it that way if I came to them about the smell in the water. A judge and jury down in the Twin Cities might look at it that way if that’s your defense theory for your ex-wife.”

  Mac nodded and sat back in his chair. “So there has to be more, right? Or there has to be something else.”

  “Has to be. That’s just not enough to kill for. The water is a problem, a big one, but also a fixable one I think. Only way this theory makes sense is that this is about more than the tap water at a farmhouse.”

  Mac leaned forward and smiled. “Unless …”

  “Unless what?” Rawlings asked.

  “What if what was happening out at the Buller house is indicative of what is happening at other Deep Core sites?”

  Rawlings leaned back in his chair and nodded slowly.

  “Think on that a little bit.”

  The burgers arrived, and they dug in and watched a little of the Timberwolves game on the big screen. Mac was a hockey player; he watched basketball but he didn’t really understand it, didn’t understand what was and wasn’t a foul, what a two-three zone or triangle offense was. Rawlings did and provided a tutorial while they ate.

  “The goal of the offense is to fill those five specific spots on the floor, Mac,” Rawlings explained with a diagram on napkin. “This creates good spacing between all of the players and allows each one to pass to any of the four others on the floor. Every pass and cut has a purpose, and everything is dictated by the defense. Do you understand a little better now?”

  “Certainly more than I did before,” Mac replied, “It’s a little like running a power play in hockey.”

  “I love it. The triangle is great old-school basketball offense, not simply bombing three pointers.”

  Once the burgers were finished, the baskets were cleared away and another round of beers arrived, and they got back to business.

  “Sheriff, let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that whatever was happening at the Buller house is not the only place it’s happening. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “They were the tip of the iceberg?”

  Mac shook his head. “Maybe, although it seems to me that if that were the case, others would have come forward by now.”

  “Maybe they were bought off.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose.” Mac nodded. “But then why not buy off the Bullers?”

  “Maybe they said no. Maybe they thought there was a better deal to be had?”

  “No, that’s not it,” Mac answered. “It doesn’t explain the other players in this. We’ve got nine bodies. They’re all connected.”

  “How do they all end up linked together?”

  Mac sat back and pulled his beer to his lips while a thought formed in his mind—a good thought. He took another hit from his beer, and then he smiled. “Maybe the Bullers talked to Callie Gentry, the land owner, and instead … she calls Sterling … who is a litigator.”

  “A lawsuit? Against an oil company?” Rawlings asked, skeptical, shaking his head, dismissive.

  “They’re not really an oil company,” Mac answered, holding up his phone. “They’re an exploration and drilling company.”

  “Up here that’s a distinction without a difference?” Rawlings replied derisively. “Oil, drilling, gas, trucking, railroads—you litigate against them, you even threaten to litigate against them, and they will bury you in legal fees and paper. They have armies of lawyers and bottomless amounts of money. They’ll make the case so expensive you can’t possibly fight them. Plus, they have most of the politicians in their pocket. The oil and gas industry owns the Industrial Commission; it comprises the governor and two of his lackeys, who get thousands in contributions from all of the companies.” The sheriff laughed. “A lawsuit would get steamrolled.”

  “Everyone goes along to get along?”

  “For sure around here. I mean, I’m guilty of it, Mac. My family, we have a thousand acres five miles northwest of town, and on the far end, far away from our houses, there are two wells. My dad, and his dad, never sold the mineral rights under our family land. So we’re leasing to a drilling company and getting nice monthly royalty checks, even with the drop in oil prices.” The sheriff sat back, tipped up his cowboy hat, and drank from his beer. “Let me tell you, we have more money now than we’ve ever had in our lives, Mac. My dad shares it with my boy and me, with my brother and sister, and we’re all very secure financially. I mean, I can pretty much retire whenever I want—we’re that set. But that’s the tradeoff. A lot of people are making it, and in many ways the community is benefiting from it, and in many ways it’s not.”

  “Heck, just the trucks,” Mac blurted.

  Rawlings nodded in agreement. “There you go. Just driving around here has become infinitely more dangerous because it’s tanker-truck central. It takes millions of gallo
ns of water to frack just one well, and the only way that water gets there is with trucks. I’ve done the research, Mac. You need in the neighborhood of four hundred trucks to haul water and supplies to an oil well—just one well—and there are hundreds—heck, thousands—of wells around here. That means traffic at all hours of the day, and it’s a dicey proposition on the roads around here, especially at night. There have been so many more bad accidents and fatalities than you would have ever imagined possible up here ten years ago. All of that is part of the oil and gas boom, not to mention the crime, drugs, and prostitution. So yeah, some of us have it good, but that’s the bad, and we’re losing that battle, Mac.”

  “I’ve met Chief Borland. He’s not up to the task, in my opinion.”

  “Before the boom, he’d have been fine. But now, you need someone with a lot more management and people skills, and Dave Borland just doesn’t possess those. I mean, Williston has a population of twenty thousand, and the legal problems of a town ten times that size. Borland and I just don’t have the manpower or resources we need, and I’m not sure we ever will.”

  “So you’re screwed?”

  “Yup,” Rawlings replied with resignation. “But there is good too. We’ve been able to build this beautiful new community center that has indoor and outdoor pools, basketball courts, workout facilities, community meeting rooms, and more. It’s great. A town of this size in this part of the world could never have something like that without all of the tax and corporate revenue generated by the boom. It’s a trade-off.”

  “Does the trade-off include murder?”

  “No,” Rawlings answered, shaking his head. “We look the other way on a lot of things. A lot of things. We have to. The land and the environment will never be the same up here, but a lot of people are getting …”

  “Paid.”

  “Yup.”

  “Like you said, people will do a lot of things, or not do things, or not object to things, if they get paid a lot of money.”

  “Yeah, but Mac, there are still lines that can’t be crossed. The Bullers and all the others? That can’t be allowed to stand. We gotta draw a line somewhere.”