Sawbones

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Patrick nodded curtly at the teacher, then the principal. “Good day.”

  Olsen stood. “Thanks for helping Marcy, Dr. Flint. And I’m glad that no one took your daughter. She played hooky. I wouldn’t worry too much. Kids do that sometimes. I’ll talk to her teachers tomorrow.”

  Patrick turned on his heel. Over his shoulder, he said, “She won’t be coming back to school tomorrow. Or until this Kemecke trial is over.”

  Chapter Twenty-one: Discover

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Monday, March 14, 1977, 5:00 p.m.

  Perry

  The Suburban hit a pothole and Perry’s math book fell to the floorboard. He was still embarrassed about his mom waiting on him while he worked with his math tutor, parked right out in front of the school where anybody could have seen her and guessed why she was there. Other kids thought only dummies had tutors. He wasn’t dumb. His mom had taken him in for an IQ test. When his parents had read him the results, they’d sounded relieved. He was smart. Really smart. Numbers just didn’t get along with his brain, that was all. Or letters either. Somehow, what he saw on a page was just different from what his teachers told him it was. Letters, numbers—they all swam around and switched places with each other. No one believed him when he tried to explain it, which is why he had to stay after school for help and to finish his work. Again. The tutor was nice, but Perry could tell she was getting frustrated with him. Why did his weird brain have to make everything so hard?

  His mom had taken him to A&W for an ice cream float and told him she was proud of him, but that didn’t make it all better. He wasn’t a little kid anymore.

  He bent over to pick up the book before it got soaked from the water that had dripped from his shoes onto the floorboard. Stupid snow. The dirt road to their house was like ice skating in the morning and water skiing in the afternoon. The snow melt was digging some pretty big trenches and potholes, too. The Suburban hit another one, and he banged his head on the dashboard. Then, as he sat up, rubbing it, he saw something yellow whizz past. It was on the side of the road, where the snow was still drifted deep. A police car passed going the other way and splashed mud up the side of the Suburban and onto the windows.

  “Hey! That’s the snowmobile I saw at Meadowlark!” He was so excited that he shouted, even though his mom was only two feet away from him.

  She braked. He caught himself on the dash, then leaned forward to get a look at the back of the snow machine as it zipped along a split rail fence. It was just like the one he’d seen on the mountain. Big. New. Yellow. Fancy. Black in the back. Was the same person riding it? He couldn’t see the driver. Not that he knew much about the person anyway. Not really. Other than size—medium—and clothing—a white camo snowsuit. This person wasn’t in white camo, but people could change clothes. It might be the killer, or it might not. There was no way to be sure. But that meant it could be. Here in his neighborhood. That wasn’t good. A stomachache jabbed him so sharply that he bent over at the waist.

  He waved his hand forward, over and over. “Go, Mom. We’ve got to get away. It could be the killer. Go, go.”

  She floored it, spinning the steering wheel as she did. The Suburban fishtailed and more mud splattered the windows, like soap suds in a drive-through car wash on opposites day.

  “Is it still there?” His mom sounded out of breath. “Is it following us?”

  The Suburban completed the sliding turn and straightened. Its wheels dug into the sloppy road and it jounced forward. He pressed his nose and forehead against the window to get a better look. His face bounced against the glass, but he didn’t care. The snowmobile slowed to a stop in front of their neighbor’s mailbox beside a cluster of the tallest pine trees on the road. At first, Perry thought it was turning around to come after them, but it didn’t. The person climbed off. He was a big guy in a Stetson and a bulky brown jacket. He opened the box and retrieved a stack of mail, mounted the snowmobile, and tucked the mail under his blue jeans-clad thigh.

  As they sped away, Perry said, “I don’t think it’s him.”

  His mom started chanting to herself. “Where’s Wes, where’s Wes, where’s Wes?”

  “What?”

  “We shouldn’t be alone. Your dad or someone else was supposed to be here.”

  His mom was kind of losing it. “It’s okay, Mom. Everything will be fine.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “I know.” She pressed her temple with the pads of her fingers.

  The snowmobile grew smaller behind them. He could still see it well enough to tell that it went to their neighbor’s house, though. “Whoever it was just pulled into the driveway next door to us. I think we can go home now.”

  His mom pressed the accelerator harder, still driving away from their house.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t want to get cornered. A deputy drove by a minute ago. We could catch up and ask for help.”

  Perry looked behind them again. “I don’t think the snowmobile’s coming. We’re okay, Mom.”

  She didn’t look like she believed him. “Could you see the person?”

  “Yeah. He was big and tall and wearing a cowboy hat and blue jeans.”

  “It wasn’t the person you saw on the mountain?”

  “No.”

  His mom pulled the Suburban over to the side of the road just past Clear Creek. “Was it Judge Renkin?” Her voice was shaky.

  “No. It was the guy who lives next door.”

  She sighed. “Perry, Judge Renkin lives next door to us”

  Perry’s voice squeaked. “The one whose wife was shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh.” He hated it that maybe the shooter had double the reason to visit their neighborhood—Judge Renkin and Perry.

  His mom bit her lip. “You’re sure it wasn’t the killer?”

  “Yes, Mom. I already said so. That person wasn’t big like this neighbor guy. Like Judge Renkin, I mean.”

  “Well, that’s good.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slow and quivery. Then she reversed the Suburban. The vehicle yawned and whined as it backed up. When they were past their driveway, she put it in drive, turned in, and pulled it into the garage. On one side of them, bicycles hung from hooks along the wall. On the other hung long-handled tools and sleds. His dad’s workbench was in front of the Suburban’s bumper, everything in its place like he always kept it.

  Perry got out and was just about to shut the garage door, when his dad and Trish drove in beside them in the truck. His mom stood at the door to the house, keys jangling in her hand, waiting.

  Trish got out and walked slowly from the truck to the door. She kept her face down, but Perry could see her eyes were red and swollen and her cheeks were wet with tears.

  When his dad was close to him, Perry whispered, “What’s the matter with her?”

  His mom threw her arms around his dad before he could answer.

  “I have so much to tell you.” Her voice sounded shaky again.

  His dad put his chin on his mom’s head and closed his eyes. “That makes two of us.”

  Perry hoped like crazy that she told his dad one thing in particular, the thing that had been bothering him ever since Laramie and especially bad last night at the sheriff’s office with Ronnie. His mom had told people that Perry had seen the killer at Meadowlark. His dad needed to know, because he had let Ronnie believe no one knew about it except their family, and that wasn’t true.

  But it wasn’t his secret to tell, and Perry couldn’t rat his mom out. He just had to hope she did the right thing and fessed up.

  Chapter Twenty-two: Bombard

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Monday, March 14, 1977, 6:00 p.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne whisked the gravy simmering on the stove. She wasn’t sure how much more stress she could take. As it was, she’d been like the little teapot, all steamed up. She’d poured some of it out talking to Patrick while she’d hurriedly prepared a dinner of chicken fried veni
son cubes, canned corn, and mashed potatoes. The trial. Jeannie Renkin’s murder. Donna’s threats and harassment. Perry’s predicament. Trish and the complications her love life were causing for all of them. Their neighbor, the judge. His suspicious behavior. The blackmailer. Kim’s revelations about the Renkins’ marriage and the judge’s infidelity. His ties to Donna. Add to all of that Perry seeing Judge Renkin driving the killer’s snowmobile, and she was about to blow her lid.

  The potatoes were still boiling, the corn was ready, and the venison was in the oven, warming. She turned the heat to low under the gravy, then poured herself another cup of coffee. She definitely didn’t need it. She was jumpy and jittery already. But she couldn’t stop herself.

  She rejoined Patrick at the table, which was already set for dinner. His lips were moving, his foot was bouncing, and he was twisting his wedding ring. It appeared her stress level was contagious.

  “I think we need to call Ronnie again,” she said. “Someone in the sheriff’s office needs to know about all of this.”

  Ferdinand put his head on the table and sniffed her cup, then sat and placed his chin on her leg. She scratched his neck.

  Patrick nodded. “Are we in agreement about holding Trish out of school until after she testifies?”

  Even though the brunt of dealing with her daughter’s anger would fall on her, Susanne knew they couldn’t trust Trish’s judgment. To keep her safe, they had to keep her home. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  The phone rang. Both of them startled. Susanne’s coffee sloshed onto the table. Ferdinand jumped back, then slunk to his bed with his head down and his tail tucked. Now the dog was anxious, too.

  “I’ll get the phone,” Patrick said.

  Susanne poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and grabbed a rag from a hook beside the sink.

  “Hello,” Patrick said. He held the curly cord in one hand and started pacing the kitchen and eating area. It was a big kitchen, but his long strides ate it up. Soon he was on his tenth lap.

  Susanne sopped up the spilled coffee and listened in, but Patrick didn’t say anything for several long seconds. In the state she was in, it felt like hours. She threw away a ruined paper napkin, re-hung the rag, and went to stand at the picture window. The creek volume had increased with the melt underway at the lower elevations. The water was churning, like her insides. Every day, it built toward its spring crescendo. The creek didn’t give her the peace she was hoping for, so she turned around and put her hands on the smooth, cool table. Her eyes fell on a family portrait hanging on the wall on the far end of the dining area. The kids had been little—five and two, if she remembered correctly. Her mother had taken it in south Texas during the wildflower bloom. The four Flints were sitting in a field of bluebonnets and vivid red Indian paintbrush. At the time, she’d thought their lives were hectic. Kindergarten for Trish. Potty training for Perry. Patrick about to graduate from medical school. If only she’d known how much crazier things would get, she would have relished the simplicity. She certainly longed for it now.

  Patrick picked up the volunteer schedule from the hutch and traced down it with his finger. “I appreciate it. We’ll take all the help we can get. How about Tuesday from four to nine p.m.?” He paused, then scribbled something. Knowing his doctor’s scrawl as she did, Susanne would be willing to wager it was illegible. He hung up the phone.

  Trish ducked into the kitchen and retrieved a glass from the cabinet.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Susanne told her.

  As Trish filled her glass with tap water, she said, “Not that anybody cares, but Coach Lamkin told me she’s thinking of moving me up to varsity next year.”

  Susanne and Patrick shared a look. His wide eyes mirrored the surprise she felt.

  “That’s great, sweetie. We do care, very much.” Susanne walked over to Trish, who’d turned to face them, and tucked a blonde wisp behind her daughter’s ear. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “Not proud enough to trust me.”

  “You’ve been making bad choices.” Patrick laid the schedule back on the hutch.

  Trish’s voice rose. “I just went to lunch. I can’t help it that we got a flat tire.”

  Patrick crossed his arms. “Lunch was three hours before school was out. Or more. You’d cut class, with the boy you’d promised not to see outside of school, when we’d asked you not to leave school except with your mom and me. Don’t make this worse by twisting things and lying.”

  She kept going like he hadn’t said a word. “And now you won’t even let me go see my best friend in the hospital.” Trish scowled. “It’s like you hate me.”

  It wasn’t technically true that they wouldn’t let her go to the hospital. They’d offered to take her to see Marcy, but Trish had balked when they wouldn’t let her drive herself there alone. Yes, the girl was definitely twisting the story to suit her own purposes.

  Susanne joined Patrick and put her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t hate you. We love you. But we’re not here to be your friends. We’re your parents, and we have to do what we think is best for you. Right now, that means we’ll do whatever is necessary to keep you safe.”

  Trish looked away from Susanne. “So, locking me up in this house with Mom will protect me?” Her voice was scoffing. “If someone was trying to get me, Mom couldn’t scare off a fly.”

  Patrick stood. His eyes flashed. “I won’t tolerate disrespect in this house, especially not toward your mother. Don’t forget she’s the one who saved you and me both when she came after us and shot Billy Kemecke.”

  Trish set her glass down too hard on the counter. “Fine. Whatever you say.” She stomped out, turning for one last salvo from the foot of the stairs. “I can’t even practice basketball, and I’m out of library books.” Then she stomped up the treads like an angry toddler. Ferdinand ran after her, shooting a sheepish glance back at them.

  When her bedroom door slammed, Patrick shook his head. “That went well.”

  “She’s impossible.”

  “Maybe you could take her to the library tomorrow.”

  “I will. After she does her schoolwork and spends some time with her horse. Goldie has gotten the worst of Trish being in love.”

  “Good idea. Maybe she could give all three horses some attention.”

  Susanne felt a pang at his words. Her own horse, Cindy, was a crime that Kemecke wouldn’t answer for, but the mare had been one of the victims of his gang nonetheless. They’d slit her throat, for no reason. A lump rose in Susanne’s own throat, and she swiped at tears. How could she still be so sad about a horse she’d been afraid of and didn’t like to ride? Patrick had offered to find her another horse, but she didn’t want one. She hadn’t been a horse person in the first place. And a new one wouldn’t fix her guilt and sadness about Cindy anyway.

  She checked the potatoes. They were ready. She turned off the burner and went to the phone and lifted the receiver. “Ronnie next?”

  Patrick nodded. She’d whip the potatoes and serve dinner when the call was done. She dialed Ronnie’s home number by heart. When there was no answer, she looked up the number for the sheriff’s office in the phone book and tried again.

  “Johnson County Sheriff. May I help you?” The woman’s voice sounded harried. It also sounded like it wasn’t from around there. Boston, maybe?

  “Deputy Harcourt, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Susanne Flint.”

  The line went silent for a few seconds.

  When Ronnie’s voice came on, she sounded even more harried than the receptionist. “Susanne?”

  “Hi, Ronnie. Do you have a moment?”

  “Just. I was about to run home for a shower, food, and a nap before my next shift, which is going to be in your neighborhood. I’ve got judge-sitting duty.”

  Susanne quickly told Ronnie about Donna’s harassment, the threatening man in the grocery store parking lot, and their suspicions about the judge. When she’d finished laying out eve
rything she and Patrick had learned or suspected, Ronnie’s silence was ominous.

  “Hello? Ronnie?”

  “I’m here. Just digesting.” She made a hmm sound. “So, you guys think Judge Renkin killed Jeannie?”

  “We hope not, but we’re worried he might have.”

  “But wasn’t he standing right next to her when she was shot?”

  Patrick sidled up to Susanne. She tilted the receiver toward him, and he leaned his head in so he could hear, too.

  Susanne said, “We’re not saying he was the shooter, obviously. But he had motive to want Jeannie dead, and I’m sure he has the money to hire a gunman. And he should know enough bad guys from his years as a judge and lawyer to be able to find someone willing.”

  “His motive being the supposed girlfriend?”

  “What do you mean by supposed?”

  “Well, at this point, we don’t have Jeannie, or the judge, or the girlfriend confirming the relationship. It’s only gossip until we do.”

  “Kim was best friends with Jeannie. She said Renkin was having an affair with Donna. Donna could confirm it.”

  “Maybe. But her cooperation is highly unlikely.”

  Susanne’s frustration was climbing fast. She tried another tack. “Isn’t it a conflict of interest for the judge to hear the Kemecke case if he’s involved with Kemecke’s sister?”

  “That’s a question for the courts, not law enforcement. And it still doesn’t help much with motive. Why do you think his girlfriend was a motive?”

  Patrick whispered, “We need to talk to the county attorney.”

  Susanne nodded at him. “Fine. We’ll talk to Max.” When they talked to Max about the conflict of interest, they could raise the issue of testimony by affidavit one more time. If Judge Renkin was dirty—and she knew he was—then what he’d told Patrick couldn’t be taken as gospel. Then she answered Ronnie’s question. “Renkin’s motive could be to clear the way to be with the girlfriend. Or maybe it wasn’t the girlfriend. He could have had it done to keep Jeannie from divorcing him and ever talking about the things she knew that could hurt his senatorial campaign.”