Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  Cobb grinned. “That could be it. Or maybe he’s starting to see that whoever set up his client did a pretty good job.” He pushed back his chair. “Okay, let’s go to work. Set everything else aside and see if you can find out anything more about Wyoming.”

  “Got it,” I said and downed the last of my coffee.

  “How’s Kyla?”

  “Pretty good, I think. Jill says she’s okay to go to a sleepover tonight. Which means it’s date night for me and my lady fair. Caesar’s no less.”

  “Nice.” Cobb nodded approvingly. “Have a lovely time. Just make sure you solve the case before morning.”

  “I somehow think that won’t happen.”

  “I thought as much.” Cobb grinned again. “Have a nice evening, anyway. Let’s go get your car.”

  EIGHTEEN

  That’s exactly what Jill and I were doing a few hours later in the pleasantly plush downtown location of Caesar’s Steakhouse. We’d already shared an order of escargots and a gladiator salad and were halfway through a bottle of Amarone while waiting for our New York strips to arrive.

  We’d talked about Kyla and I’d brought Jill up to speed on the Larmer case, including the fact that Cobb and I were going to concentrate our efforts on the Right to Be Proud, Proud to Be Right conference, at least for now.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” she said.

  “About what?”

  “The name. You’re making that up.”

  “Truth is stranger than fiction, baby. That was the name.”

  “I don’t think I can eat.”

  I laughed. “Hey, that stuff resonates with the Larmers of the world. Get used to it. And anyway, I can eat both steaks.”

  “What are you going to do to learn more about what went on there?”

  “I’ve got a couple of ideas. I’ll call Martin Gathers in the morning and see if he’s got anything else for me. Now that we’ve ID’d Morrissey as the guy with Larmer in those pictures, maybe that’ll shake something loose in his memory.”

  The steaks arrived, and for the next half-hour we didn’t discuss murders. Our conversation focused on the food and how much we were enjoying it; and then, as the Amarone disappeared, the topic became what might happen once we got back to Jill’s childless-for-a-night home.

  I was enjoying that part of the discussion when suddenly Jill turned serious.

  “Adam, I don’t like it.”

  “Damn, I don’t even have my shoes off yet and —”

  “No, I mean it.” She shook her head. “This whole thing is starting to scare me. Think about it. What we have here is a serial killer who doesn’t mind a little collateral damage if that’s what it takes to eliminate a target. What makes you think this person will just stand idly by if you and Mike get even remotely close?”

  I wanted to do what tough private eyes have been doing in books and movies since Dashiell Hammett was a tyke. Reassure the lady that everything was under control and there was nothing to worry about. But I couldn’t, because the simple truth was that nothing was under control. Both Cobb and I were struggling to make sense of a series of crimes that we simply didn’t have enough information about. And Jill was right. There was a very good chance that someone ruthless enough to have killed several people was out there and just might know more about us than we knew about him. Or her.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, babe, except that I plan to be as careful as I can.”

  “And we both know that might not be enough.”

  “Yes, we do. But I can’t walk away now and leave Cobb to do this on his own.”

  “I know. And I’d never ask you to. I just want you to know that this is scaring me and I don’t like the feeling that something could happen to the man I love.”

  “How about we just focus on the last four words of that statement?”

  She nodded and smiled and for the rest of the even­ing gave it her best brave face. But our lovemaking later that night, in addition to being a little more uninhibited than usual, was also more urgent.

  I reached Gathers at his office. It was just after nine in the morning Omaha time and I could hear him alternately chewing and drinking something as we spoke.

  “Sorry to bother you again, Martin, but there have been a few more developments in the case and I wondered if you’d thought any more about the conference that Larmer attended near Buffalo.”

  “Yes, I’ve thought about it, but no, I haven’t remembered anything else about that whole thing since I talked to you last. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” I told him. “I just thought I’d check in one more time.”

  “I understand and I wish I could help more than I have.”

  “Actually you’ve been a tremendous help. We identified the man in the pictures you sent. Name is Michael Morrissey. He was one of the conference organizers and used the name Mr. Black for the conference. The organizers all used colours as sort of noms de plumes for that event.”

  “Colours.” Gathers repeated. “Like in Reservoir Dogs?”

  “Exactly. Either of those names mean anything to you? Morrissey or Black?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “No, I got nothin’. You try talking to the guy?”

  “Yeah, not possible. He’s dead.”

  A long pause.

  “How did he die?”

  “He was the victim of an explosion at a conservative- format radio station in Fresno, California, back in 2010. The other employees all survived. When we talked before I told you that we think there is or was a conspiracy to kill a number of right-wing media types. It looks very much like Morrissey was one of the targets.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I mean, I thought maybe we’d finally found out who John Bones was.”

  “John Bones?”

  “Yeah. That’s what everybody called it. A body they found four or five miles out of town, out near where the Wagon Box Fight took place — that’s a battle that happened back in 1867. Anyway, a partially buried skeleton or at least part of a skeleton was found by some hunters out near there. At first people thought it must be one of the people who fought in the Wagon Box Fight. But the skeleton was much more recent — been there maybe a few years at the most.

  “The forensics people weren’t able to identify the guy, but they did determine that he was a murder victim — he’d been stabbed more than thirty times, a real vicious attack. But without knowing who the victim was, the investigation petered out fairly quickly and it became a cold case. After a while everybody pretty much forgot about it.”

  “And this body was found after the conference — after 2003?”

  “Oh, yeah. In fact, I remember it wasn’t long before I came out here to Nebraska, and that was December 2008. So it was a few months before that. Late summer maybe.”

  “Who investigated the murder?”

  “Well, let’s see. The local sheriff was a guy named Crombeen, Jud Crombeen. He’s retired now. State cops were involved, I remember that. And an FBI agent from Cheyenne came by, took a look around, but didn’t stay long. After a few weeks everybody left. Crombeen stayed with it but was never able to find out anything. So John Bones remains a mystery.”

  “Crombeen still live in the area?”

  “I seem to recall he retired to Sheridan, about a half-hour north of Buffalo.”

  “Okay, thanks for this, Martin.”

  “Remember our deal — you find something, I’m in on it.”

  It was like a mantra with media, an eye for an eye and a scoop for a scoop.

  “Like I told you, Martin, I’ll do my best.”

  Tracking Jud Crombeen was easier than I thought it would be. Call information. Call Jud. A male voice answered on the third ring. This detective work was a piece of cake. I decided I wouldn’t share that sentiment with Cobb.<
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  Crombeen’s voice was deep and resonant. He could have made it big in FM radio. I explained who I was and gave him the Coles Notes recounting of Larmer, the possibly related killings of conservative media people, and told him I’d like to ask him about John Bones.

  “What could he have to do with your case?”

  It was a good question and I was honest with him. “Likely nothing. But there was a gathering of right-wing political types in that area in 2003. Very secretive. I think it’s a long shot, but I wondered if Bones might somehow have been connected to that event. Did that conference take place while you were sheriff?”

  “Hell, yes, I was sheriff for thirty-two years.”

  “What do you know about that gathering, Mr. Crombeen?”

  A pause. “Not much. They were in and out before I really even knew they were there. In fact, I never actually knew just where the thing took place. Or how long it lasted.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just wondered how it was possible that a hundred or more people could come into the area that you have jurisdiction over and you didn’t know anything about it.”

  Crombeen’s voice got deeper and louder. “What exactly are you saying?”

  I realized I had nothing to gain by alienating the guy. “I apologize. That didn’t come out right. What I meant was that this group must have been very secretive indeed to escape the notice of an experienced and capable lawman.”

  “That wouldn’t have been possible.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If I’d been there I’d have found about them … checked the whole thing out. But I wasn’t there. I was on vacation at the time. Left a young deputy in charge, a kid named Williston. He didn’t know a damn thing about it until he read something in the Bulletin about it after it was over and everybody had cleared out. When I got back, I checked around, but the trail was cold by then. And other than breaking a couple of camping and large-group regulations, I couldn’t see that whoever it was had caused any real trouble. There wasn’t much point in pursuing it. And I remember there were some big-time drug problems at the high school that kept me busy after I got back from vacation. That was my priority.”

  I thought for a minute about what Crombeen was telling me. And I thought about the way he was telling it. Like a prepared statement. But maybe I was being overly suspicious for no good reason.

  “Okay, about John Bones. Anything at all you can tell me about him?”

  “Not a lot. We couldn’t identify the remains. The skull was gone — some of the other bones, too. Probably carried off by animals, or possibly the killer or killers. Without an ID, it made investigating further damn near impossible.”

  “What were you able to find out?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. But I notice he’s called John not Joan Bones. So the forensics people were able to determine the skeleton was male.”

  “Right. Okay, let me think. Male, between the ages of thirty and forty. White, fairly big guy — at least tall. They did a DNA check, found no matches in any databases. We did the Missing Persons checks. Nothing. And that’s about it.”

  “I’d like to go back to the 2003 gathering. You said you didn’t know where it took place at the time. How about afterward? Were you able to determine where it took place after the fact?”

  Pause. “Yeah, roughly.”

  “How roughly? I’m just wondering — John Bones’s remains were located near the site of the Wagon Box Fight. I guess I’m curious as to how close that was to the site of the 2003 conference.”

  Another pause, longer this time. I guessed he was deciding whether to speak further with me. In maybe thirty seconds he’d made his decision.

  “I don’t think you and I have anything more to talk about.”

  “Listen, Sheriff, I don’t want —”

  The click and buzz on the line told me I was talking to myself.

  Cobb stirred his drink for the third or fourth time, then looked up.

  “So what do you think?’

  “I don’t know. We’ve got a body, well, a skeleton, that was found a few years after a right-wing conference that had two, maybe three of our victims in attendance. And we’ve got a sheriff who investigated and doesn’t want to talk about it. So let’s think about the possibilities. John Bones could be another victim of the person killing off conservative media types

  I nodded, sipped my rye and diet. “Or maybe he’s an unrelated death altogether.”

  “Except that he didn’t just die out there. He was the victim of a savage murder. Seems a bit of a coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “And neither of us are big believers in coincidence.”

  “I wish that sheriff had been a little more forthcoming.”

  “Me too,” I agreed. “When I first talked to Gathers he hinted that he thought there might have been a few people who got paid off to forget about the Right to Be Proud, Proud to Be Right get-together. I wonder if the good sheriff was one of those who received a little stipend in return for keeping his lips sealed.”

  Cobb thought about that. “It’s possible. But why the reluctance to talk about the remains — John Bones? Unless there’s a connection that he knows about and doesn’t care to discuss.”

  “Yeah, that thought crossed my mind,” I said. “Maybe you should take a run at him.”

  Cobb shook his head. “I doubt that would improve our chances. People like Crombeen often come with a predisposition to hate private investigators.” He rubbed his forehead for a while. “Go through it again with me.”

  I recounted the conversation I’d had with former sheriff Jud Crombeen. Neither of us spoke for a couple of minutes.

  I downed the last of my drink. “Why is it when I close my eyes I see Jackie Gleason?”

  Cobb grinned. “Smoky and the Bandit. Good movie.”

  His phone rang. He picked up and after “hello” said nothing for long minutes. He nodded a couple of times, glanced at me once, then took out his notebook. Cradling his iPhone between his ear and shoulder, he jotted down a couple of notes that I was unable to decipher upside down. “Thanks,” he said and set the phone down.

  He looked at the notes he’d made for a moment, then at me.

  “Okay, that was Shulsky. The abridged version is this: the cops have confirmed that the blood that was found in Larmer’s car was Hugg’s.”

  “Which doesn’t really change things all that much. We already knew that there were really only two possibilities — either Larmer killed Hugg or someone else did and went to a lot of trouble to make it look like it was Larmer.”

  “You’re right. I think Shulsky’s worried that even if the right answer is option B, it’s getting much harder to prove. Looks like I’m going to be a little busy for a while. Shulsky’s called a meeting with the whole legal team in his office tomorrow morning. Then we adjourn to the remand centre for part two with Larmer.”

  “So what’s my next move?”

  “I say we stay all-in on the Wyoming angle. You keep working that.”

  “Without wishing to sound unduly negative, I’m running out of ideas on exactly how to do that.”

  But, of course, I did have an idea, a pretty clear one, on how to proceed. I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. “Jill told me last night that she’s scared, worried that the killer is quite possibly out there and that if we get too close, something nasty could happen.”

  “I can’t argue with her logic.” Cobb’s voice was quiet, almost subdued.

  “She’s probably not going to be happy with my heading down to Buffalo to see what I can find.”

  “You think that’s our next step?”

  “I think it makes sense. I can get some things done on the ground that I can’t with phone calls and emails.”

&n
bsp; Cobb didn’t say anything, at least not at first. Finally he nodded and said, “I doubt that whoever offed John Bones has been hanging around for a decade or so waiting for his next victim to come around.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “But the fact is, there’s somebody out there who hasn’t been shy about killing people.”

  “Can’t argue that either.”

  Cobb and I both knew that I’d be going to Buffalo. And we both knew that my objections were window dressing. The truth was, I wanted to go if it would get us closer to a solution to the puzzle. And the third thing we both knew was that despite expressing her concerns the night before, Jill would be onside with my going — for the same reason.

  I was on a milk run from Calgary to Denver, then Denver to Cheyenne where I would rent a car and drive to Buffalo for, among other things, a face-to-face with Jud Crombeen, recently retired county sheriff.

  I’d packed light — passport, a couple of changes of clothes, shaving kit, laptop, an Ian Rankin paperback (an early Rebus), and the file I’d put together on the Larmer case.

  I figured an uninterrupted read-through couldn’t do any harm. And besides, there was still something picking away at the back of my mind. I didn’t know if was something someone had said or something I’d read, just that there was something that hadn’t seemed right. And whether it was significant or not, I knew it would bug me until I figured out what it was.

  We were about an hour out of Denver when I had it. One piece of paper, seemingly insignificant, and maybe it was, but it meant I’d be making one more stop during my trip to Wyoming.

  The Mint Bar in Sheridan, New York, was instantly one of my three or four favourite places in the U.S. Long and narrow, it ran from the street through to the back alley with dozens, maybe hundreds of rodeo photographs covering the walls. Bar at the front, pool table at the back, booths lining the sides around the pool table. It was in one of those booths where Jud Crombeen and I sat across from each other, our eyes sparring like boxers in the early rounds of a fifteen-rounder.

  “You’re a persistent SOB, I’ll give you that.” Crombeen waved a mug of beer roughly in my direction.