“Well, I’m definitely not going to pick you for the jury. The people that handle his street action, how do I find out which one would cover that area of the Midcoast?”
“I’ll try to find that out for you. Give me your phone number.”
I do so. “Do you know Henry Stokan?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
“Is he one of Donnelly’s salesmen?”
“No, he’s hired muscle. Very dangerous and very stupid. Do not go anywhere near him.”
“He threatened me. Might that be on Donnelly’s behalf?”
Nichols nods. “Very possibly. Have you given him a different reason?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Most visitors to our state don’t make enemies quite this fast.”
I nod. “It’s part of my charm.”
There has never been a better-looking group to exit a car.
I’m not talking about recently, or in my experience. I’m talking about in the entire history of cars.
I’m in the parking lot when Laurie arrives with Tara, Sebastian, and Hunter. I’ve been waiting out here for a half hour because I wanted to see them at the first possible time.
I haven’t seen Laurie in almost two weeks and, boy, has she aged well. I can also confirm that she has also not lost any of her hugging ability; if the dogs weren’t barking, I would never let this one end.
I spend the next five minutes hugging and petting Tara, Sebastian, and Hunter. Hunter looks comfortable and at home with his temporary stepsiblings; his tail is wagging every bit as hard as theirs.
I bring the entire crew up to what will be our home for the duration of the case. Laurie seems to like the room; it’s more spacious than she expected. The dogs set about testing out the furniture and carpeting to decide where they will be most comfortable sleeping.
I go outside to get the bags and bring them in. Laurie wedged more stuff into this car than could fit in the average tractor trailer. I had made a stop at PetSmart yesterday for dog dishes and dog food, so all of this stuff is Laurie’s.
If Matt Jantzen gets convicted and is sentenced to forty years in prison, Laurie will be able to visit him every day for that time in a different outfit. The strange thing is that nine out of ten days she wears jeans; I think she just likes having the other options. The chance that I will have the guts to question her about it is somewhere in the area of absolute zero.
I’m bringing in food tonight, and Marcus is going to join us. He will update us on his day spent trailing Stokan, and I’ll describe the progress I’ve made so far. Neither of those things will take a long time.
After that we can plot our next moves. The trial is a ways off, but trials are like the images in passenger-side mirrors; they are always closer than they seem.
When Laurie and I are done with dinner, Marcus is, of course, still eating. Laurie and I take the dogs for a walk in a grassy area near the inn. It’s a short stroll, but if we walk to Connecticut, Marcus will still be eating when we get back.
I could do the walk with the three dogs by myself, but Laurie insists on coming along. I’m sure it is so she can provide protection should Stokan appear on the scene. Laurie is not Marcus, but she protects well.
When we get back, Marcus describes his day following Stokan. Weirdly, Stokan led him to Boston, to Fenway Park. They arrived just before the Red Sox game, and Stokan went in. Marcus didn’t follow; instead he watched Stokan’s car.
Stokan left and went back to the car fifteen minutes after he went in; the game was still in the first inning. When he got back to Maine, he tracked me down and started following me again. He obviously didn’t try anything, and therefore Marcus did not intervene.
Marcus is in favor of dealing with Stokan more directly, but Laurie agrees with me that it is better to wait, so Marcus reluctantly goes along with it.
Stokan is becoming increasingly interesting to me. His stalking me is way beyond casual; the time he is putting in definitely seems to indicate that he has some serious involvement here. I have no idea why that is the case, or whether he is self-motivated or working for someone else. But we had better find out.
I have not done anywhere near a full investigation into Tina Welker’s life, but I’ve learned nothing to make me believe that she was the intended target of the killings. It’s more likely that it was Charkin, because of the drug connection.
There also remains the definite possibility that it was random, and that would be a disaster for our defense. But I doubt it’s the case: random killers doing home invasion robberies do not generally bring along a vial of someone else’s blood to leave on the scene.
Laurie is going to pick up the investigation into Tina Welker. She will talk to more of Tina’s friends and work colleagues. Many of them will be reluctant to talk to people representing the person they believe is her killer, and Laurie is more likely to get them to open up.
I’ll focus on Charkin and the potential source of his illegal drugs, possibly including Jerry Donnelly. I’ll also see what I can find out about the neighbor that Tina Welker was concerned about, according to her friend Rachel Manning. She said that she thought his name was something like Bennett, and I had Sam Willis confirm that, in addition to getting me the address where he lives and works.
There is always the chance that some demented guy, possibly the neighbor, committed this awful act. But then again, we run up against the not-credible possibility that he brought along a little jar of Matt Jantzen’s blood with him.
So that is the plan, such as it is.
Marcus goes back to his room. Laurie and I have a glass of wine, surrounded by three sleeping, contented dogs. It would be even nicer if Ricky was here, but I know he’s having a hell of a lot more fun with his friends at camp.
“Did you miss me?” I ask.
Laurie looks confused. “Did you go somewhere?”
“I came here, to Maine, and you couldn’t handle it, so you followed me, displaying a pathetic lack of independence.”
She smiles. “Okay. I missed you.” Then, “Did you miss me?”
I stand up and hold out my hand. “Let’s put it this way. I would give up lobster rolls for you.”
“Roy Bennett?”
A large man in overalls and boots is coming out of his house. It’s two doors down from Tina Welker’s Nobleboro home, where the murders took place. Bennett is the man that Rachel Manning said Tina Welker had some concerns about.
I’ve just pulled up in front of this house as he’s coming out. He looks at me suspiciously, so I give him my winning Andy Carpenter smile.
He continues to look at me suspiciously. “Who are you?” he asks, without identifying himself.
“My name is Andy Carpenter. Can I speak with you for a couple of minutes?”
“What about?”
This is a guy who answers questions with questions, something that gets on my nerves when I’m not the one doing it. “I’m investigating the murders that took place in that house two years ago.” I point to Tina’s house, just in case murders are commonplace on this street.
“I got nothing to say about it.”
“It won’t take long.”
“It won’t happen at all because I got nothing to say. I just told you that.”
I walk toward him, maintaining my smile. “See, here’s the thing, Roy. I’m a lawyer, so I went to law school, which means I know the law. Just like you work in a lumberyard, so you know lumber. So the law says that if you don’t talk to me willingly, I can go down to Masters Lumber Yard this afternoon, walk right in, and serve you a subpoena. That means you will have to leave work and talk to me under oath in front of a judge. You understand?”
What I am saying is total bullshit. Bennett should know that; they probably even taught it in lumber school. But I can see a flash of worry on his face, which means he is probably buying the garbage I’m selling.
“How long will this take? I’ve got to get to work.”
“Just a few minutes.”
I have no desire to get into a closed, indoor space with this guy. “No, we can talk right here. I can lean against my car, and you can lean against yours.”
He grudgingly nods and walks toward me. Up close he’s even larger than I thought, and I thought he was large. “I don’t know nothing about that murder. Just what I read in the paper.”
“I understand.” The truth is that I’m not here to accuse him; I just want to get a sense of the guy to determine if he deserves a place on our skimpy suspect list. “Were you home the night that it happened?”
“Yeah, I was home.”
“Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”
“No.”
“What about visitors that she had in the days before she died? Did you notice anyone that seemed concerning?”
He snorts a laugh. “She had plenty of visitors.”
“Men?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So she went out with a lot of different men?”
“That’s for damn sure. She wasn’t too damn particular.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, did you ever go out with her?” I know from Rachel Manning that Tina shot him down.
“A working guy like me? No way.”
“So she wasn’t particular about men, but she still wouldn’t go out with you?” I’m trying to piss him off, just a little, to see how he reacts. If we were inside, I probably wouldn’t have the guts to do it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, throwing in a bit of a snarl.
“Which part didn’t you understand, Roy?” I don’t wait for an answer; it was just more of an effort to goad him. “Did Tina even talk to you, or did she ignore you?”
“You know something? I didn’t like her; she had a hot-shit attitude. And I don’t like you either.”
“What do you do when you don’t like someone?”
“In your case, you don’t want to find out.”
“Have you ever spent any time in prison, Roy?”
He doesn’t answer; just looks like he is about to hit me. I bring out that look in a lot of people, and I’m not fond of the look. I’m scared he is going to do something I might regret.
I open my car door, and as I’m getting in, I say, “Nice talking with you.”
As I’m driving away, I wait for my heart to stop pounding and then reflect on the conversation. There are people that I would say could never commit a murder. Laurie, for example. Mother Teresa would be another.
Roy Bennett is no Mother Teresa.
“Does the name Danny McCaskill mean anything to you?”
Charlie Tilton thinks for a while and shrugs. “Outfielder for the Cardinals?”
“Member of the militia here in Maine,” I say.
He snaps his fingers. “Damn … that was my next guess.” Then, “Just kidding; I read the discovery. But, no, I never heard of him before that. I did represent a militia guy once, but it had nothing to do with his membership in any group. He had allegedly robbed a liquor store; the jury deliberated for an hour and a half before removing the word allegedly. So I know a bit about them, but I’m not familiar with McCaskill, other than what was in the discovery.”
According to that discovery, the police had at least a minor interest in McCaskill during the initial murder investigation, because of some connection to Charkin. But they apparently lost that interest pretty quickly. I suppose that was a result of the DNA not matching up. “Are militias big here in Maine?”
Another shrug. “I don’t think more so than any other rural kind of state, but we have them. But a lot of people here like their guns, and they like their freedom, and they’re always sure that one or both of them are going to be taken away. But when you ask about Maine … I’m not sure that’s the right question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, one of the growing problems, as I understand it, is that the militant militia groups are not interested in borders. They are grouping together across states to become bigger and more powerful.”
“Where do they get their financing?”
“Financing?”
“Yeah. They buy guns, they serve lunch at militia meetings … where are they getting the money for all that?”
“That’s another problem; they’re often extraordinarily well funded. People with big money who share their beliefs, but don’t want to get gunpowder on their hands, manage to get money to them.”
“Rich idealogues?”
Charlie nods. “Yes, but sometimes economics rears its ugly head. Chaos means big money if you’re on the right side.”
“What does that mean?”
“Every negative event, especially the violent ones, provokes a reaction. When 9/11 happened, you think that hurt the defense contractors, or the metal-scanner manufacturers? When the pandemic happened and people were stuck inside, you think Amazon and Netflix suffered?”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
“Right. Some of these groups, not all of them by any means, want to overthrow the world. There are rich people ready to take advantage of that, and profit from it. And then there are rich people who just think it’s a good idea.”
“Depressing.”
“You have any reason to suspect McCaskill, beyond the fact that the police considered him?”
“None whatsoever.”
“That’s as good a reason as any. You going to try and interview him?”
“As soon as I leave here.”
“He expecting you?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m going to try his house first, and if he’s not there, I’ll find him at work.”
“Where does he work?”
“I have no idea. He’s a landscaper, so I’ll just search for lawns and plants and stuff. I’ll deal with that if he’s not home. It’s raining, so maybe he’ll take the day off.”
“Being alone with a militia guy in his house and implying that he might be guilty of murder might not be the smartest thing to do.”
“You want to come along?”
Charlie thinks for a few moments. “I guess so. I’ve got to protect you; you’re my meal ticket.”
“It’s nice to be appreciated. Let’s go.”
I have to admit that I’m pleased Charlie is going with me. I had even considered bringing Marcus along, but I’d rather he keep an eye on Stokan. “Hold on a few minutes; I need to make a phone call.”
I call Sam Willis, who as always answers on the first ring. “Sam, there’s a guy named Danny, or Daniel, McCaskill. He lives in Jefferson, Maine.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“I’m going to see him; I should be there in about twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five.” I look over at Charlie questioningly to see if I have the timing right, and he nods that I do. “When I leave there, I want to know if he calls anyone. Monitor his calls for the next couple of days.”
“You got it.”
“There’s a chance he won’t be there and I won’t get to speak to him. I’ll call you back if that happens.”
“I’m on it. You in any danger up there? I could come up and work backup.”
Sam wants to be much more than an accountant and a computer guy; he wants to be able to shoot people. “That’s okay, Sam. Marcus is here.”
“Oh. He should be able to handle it, but if he needs help, I’m a phone call away.”
“I’ll mention that to him.” I hang up.
Charlie asks, “What the hell was that about? How will this guy Sam know who McCaskill calls?”
“He breaks into the phone company computers. You want him to mark your phone bill as paid?”
“I don’t think what he’s doing is legal.”
“Really? I cut class the day they went over legalities in law school.”
Charlie looks a bit troubled by this, so I add, “Here’s the deal. I never have Sam get anything I can’t eventually get myself through a legal subpoena, and if I want to present anything in court, that�
��s what I do. This way I have it in real, actionable time.”
“You hotshot New York lawyers are really something.”
“New Jersey.”
“Whatever.”
The cold, driving rain has gotten heavier during the drive to McCaskill’s house.
Along the way I ask Charlie to work on challenging the DNA evidence, to try to find some flaw in the collection, chain of custody, or maintenance. If we are ultimately going to get anywhere, we are going to have to deal with the prosecution’s evidentiary contention that Matt’s blood was at the scene.
“Can I hire an expert if it gets to that?” Charlie asks. “Someone, unlike me, who knows what he or she is talking about?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t shy away from spending money; I’ll give you that. Can I have a raise?”
“No.”
“What are you running, a sweatshop?”
McCaskill lives in Jefferson near Damariscotta Lake. Everybody in Maine lives near a lake; lakes are as ubiquitous as lobster rolls.
We run from the car to McCaskill’s front porch, which fortunately has an overhang that protects us from the rain. I ring the bell, but no one answers. I ring it again, and after a brief wait someone opens the door.
It’s a big guy, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that simply says UNITY. He’s wearing socks, but no shoes. “Yeah?”
“Daniel McCaskill?”
“Yeah?” He’s quite a conversationalist.
“We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?”
“A police matter,” I say, deceiving but not lying. “Can we come in?”
“You cops?”
“We’re officers of the court.” Again, technically true, though I can feel Charlie staring at me. It’s possible I hired a lawyer with integrity; I might need to adjust my screening criteria. “Now can we come in? We’d rather ask the questions here than at the precinct.” Once again, I speak the technical truth, though I don’t mention that I don’t have the authority to bring him anywhere near the precinct.
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