Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  Before the other guy responded, an official in a jacket advertising the event rushed over. “Take your competition somewhere else. This is racing only.”

  They laughed and promised to stop.

  I moved closer and asked, “Is purposely crashing your drones into each other a thing?”

  One of them said, “Sure. We build them tough, but we go through a lot of them. Knocking them down is mostly for our own enjoyment.”

  I mentally added that to the list of what I didn’t know about drone activities.

  A clump of elderly guys stood across the field. One in a Honeywell ball cap pointed to a section of a drone held by a stooped man. I edged closer. The stooped fellow was holding forth on the finer points of his homemade drone. My gaze wandered, mentally setting up another good crowd shot. Someone said, “Hey.”

  Weldon stood directly in front of me. His chin jutted out. “You’re that nosy FBI woman. What’re you doing here?”

  I said, “That was the BCA.” I lifted my StarTrib lanyard. “I’m here to take photos of this event for the paper. Do you have a drone in the race?”

  “Not this time.”

  “How did you get interested in building drones?”

  His eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I build ‘em?”

  That was a slip. He didn’t know I saw his drones. I waved in the direction of the drones around us and the people gathered in groups. “Lots of drone enthusiasts build them.”

  The deep frown grooves around his mouth relaxed slightly. “If you want to go fast, you need to build your own. As a kid, I used to build remote control cars and then airplanes.” A shadow crossed his face and anger rose up. “Now I have lots of time on my hands since my backstabbing wife left me.”

  I’d nearly blown it with the question about him building his drones, but had to hand it to myself for the good save. I said, “Didn’t I see you on the Branson campus with the Students for Peace?”

  My comment had the intended effect. His index finger connected with my breast bone.

  He said, “Those fools oughtn’t to be allowed to have those rallies. What do they know about protecting our country while they’re sitting in their safe classrooms or shouting slogans and waving their insipid signs?” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “Liberal arts colleges attract kids who would never fight for their country. They ought to be shut down. My boy died over there in Iraq!”

  People stopped their conversations to check out the ruckus. I backed up and got a couple of good shots mid-rant.

  A white-haired man came over from the group of senior droners and put a hand on Weldon’s arm. “The race is about to start.” Throwing a scowl at me, Weldon trudged off with his friend.

  I rubbed the place where he’d jabbed me. Understandable that his anger needed an outlet, but not acceptable for him to channel it into blackmailing his neighbors and maybe something much worse.

  The bleachers filled. Participants with controllers in hand and virtual headsets lined up their drones on the ground. The race of the larger ones, about three feet in diameter, was starting. Still twitchy, I glanced behind me, sensing someone watching me, then concentrated on filming the race. Weldon was probably giving me the stink eye.

  Participants were all ages, mostly young men, a teenager or two and three women. I shot individuals and their drones from several angles and then switched to video as the machines lifted off like futuristic sci-fi movie creatures.

  Toggling between still photos and video was second nature to me. Lots of what we did now as photographers went straight to the papers’ websites. Everyone in the newsroom had to master several skills these days. One of my other skills was writing captions. The right caption in tandem with the right image can tell a story that makes people think.

  Some specialized drones outfitted with facial recognition software are used by border patrol, but people and organizations have real issues with privacy concerns. My captions raise issues, but I don’t preach.

  My sense of unease lessened as I lost myself in photographing and enjoying the scene in front of me. The race featured drones the size of my hand, like the one Weldon had used with his GoPro attached, shooting through hoops and zipping around the course sounding like mosquitos on steroids, sometimes crashing into each other or just crashing into the ground. My respect for those handling the drones rose. It required a great deal of skill to bring one to victory. I wanted to learn how to do it.

  Competitors grinned behind their goggles, thumbs and swaying arms controlling the aircrafts as they bobbed and weaved around the track. In the end, the competitors were either disappointed or jubilant, much like any race—horse, car or human—only in this case, the racing objects were airborne. The overall vibe was fun. Everyone was having a good time.

  At the end of the afternoon, I’d filmed several races. After shooting the winner in each category and the ending ceremony, I took names and basic info and chatted with the winners.

  One kid talked about how tense he was. He said his thumbs trembled so much it was hard to control his craft. A twentyish woman sat on a bench fiddling with her drone, shoulders sagging.

  Unaccountably tired, I dropped down next to her. “Your drone almost took a prize. That’s something.”

  She kicked at the dirt. “Better if I’d won. He usually beats everyone.” She pointed to a kid with long wavy hair at the edge of the crowd. “He didn’t compete today and I still didn’t win.”

  The kid moved behind a bleacher and all I saw was his back. “Is his drone better or is it something else?”

  Her mouth turned down.

  “Sorry if that was an offensive question. I know nothing about drones. I’m here to cover the race for the StarTrib.” I lifted the ID hanging from my neck.

  “He’s a jerk but he has mad skills.” She held her drone at eye level, checking it for I knew not what.

  “I noticed there aren’t many women out here.”

  “It’s about the same ratio as anything in the tech field.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d show me how to fly it?”

  Her name was Tara and she spent the next fifteen minutes showing me how to take it up into the air, zoom around and bring it back. I laughed like a kid flying a kite for the first time, only this was better—with the goggles, I was the kite. Anything to do with a camera and I was hooked. With the quadcopters, an attached camera relays a signal to the virtual reality headset and it’s like you’re inside the drone.

  When she said she had to leave, I reluctantly gave back the drone and thanked her. “I’ll check the statistics on the ratio of women to men drone enthusiasts. Maybe the paper will add a sidebar on you.”

  Tara pumped her fist. “That would be awesome.” I took a photo of her proudly holding her drone. She gave me her full name, email and phone number.

  I plodded to the parking lot, my camera bag weighing me down. There were still pods of people chatting, no one in a hurry to leave.

  Now that the thrill of flying my first drone was starting to wear off, my exhaustion puzzled me. I was no longer having the nightmares so why the fatigue? This assignment was as simple as they came. I’d climbed a mountain with more weight than this on my back.

  A whizzing sound above my head startled me. A six-inch diameter drone swooped and wavered in midair then dove full speed at my head. I ducked and swiveled away but it hit my shoulder. I stumbled forward, it bounced off me and crashed to the ground, propellers still whirring. The impact stung.

  Shaken, I was staring at the shattered drone when a kid ran up, his face pale. “I’m so sorry. Someone must have hacked my drone.”

  Several others hurried over. A few onlookers stopped to see what happened, but most ignored us, no doubt anxious not to get stuck in the line exiting the lot.

  Unsteady, I asked, “Hacked your drone?”

  He held out his disabled controller. “They take over control so you can’t make it do anything.”

  A man introduced himself as the kid’s father. “A
re you hurt? That hit your back pretty hard. We’ll take you to the hospital if you want to get checked out.”

  “I’m okay.”

  The mother stalked up. “I told you something like this would happen, Nicky.” She offered a helpless grimace, in case I judged her a bad mom. “I hate those nasty things.”

  He whined, “It wasn’t my fault, Mom.”

  I assured them I was fine and we went our separate ways. Luckily, my camera pack and leather jacket had saved me from the drone’s sharp edges so I wasn’t hurt, except for a stinging shoulder where the pack hadn’t protected it. I pulled out few plastic shards stuck in my hair.

  A quick check through my camera pack before starting for home relieved my mind. Nothing was harmed. I’d rather get hurt than have my equipment damaged. A synapse fired in my brain. The drone that hit me resembled a giant mosquito, explaining Edgar’s flying insect dream. Mystery solved. It hadn’t been a big deal after all.

  *

  Ben’s truck was in my driveway. He stood at the end of the dock talking on his phone, saw me and waved. Coming toward me, he said, “That was Little. He said you were on your way home from a drone race in Fargo.”

  I gave him a quick hug. “An assignment from Cynthia.” I’d called my brother on my way back. Keeping anything a secret was impossible in Spirit Lake. Rock bounded out of the woods for a few minutes of play with Ben.

  When they finished their lovefest, Ben said, “I brought dinner from Little’s.” He grabbed a bag from his truck and we went inside. He loaded wood into the stove and I set the table with a big grin on my face—two visits from Ben in two days. This time I’d keep my insecurities to myself.

  He came into the kitchen and put his arms around me, pulled back and said, “Ow. What’s in your hair? It stuck me.” He lifted the hair hanging down my back and picked out a piece of drone propeller.

  I said, “Some kid lost control of his drone and it crashed into me.”

  “Lost control?”

  “The kid said someone hacked it, maybe to save face with his parents rather than admit he didn’t know how to operate it.”

  Ben didn’t seem convinced so I switched topics. “Weldon was there.”

  “Weren’t you supposed to back off Weldon?”

  It occurred to me that if Weldon didn’t have a problem blackmailing people, he wouldn’t hesitate to hack into someone’s drone to scare me off.

  “I didn’t know he’d be there. I was surprised to see him. What are you doing here? I didn’t realize Barry could handle the BCA investigation without you.” My effort at maturity hadn’t lasted long but Ben didn’t even blink.

  “I wanted to see the woman I love and make sure you understand something. If I take this job in Minneapolis, it has nothing to do with Robyn Barry other than that I admire her as a professional. This is an opportunity to get better at my work. You got that?” The low rumble in his voice and invitation in his amber eyes were pretty convincing. He touched my cheek.

  Dinner could wait.

  *

  The nightmare woke me at two a.m. I’d forgotten to take Emmaline’s sleep tea. Ben had fallen dead asleep after our lovemaking. My heart still pulsing double-time, I slipped from the bed and into the kitchen, shook the herbs into a cup and tapped my feet until the kettle whistled. I nearly scalded myself in my hurry to drink it. Soon a warm languor moved through my body. I turned off the kitchen light, tiptoed to the bedroom and curled back into Ben’s arms.

  Sunlight coming through the sliding door facing the lake woke me. Ben was gone, but he left a message on the pillow that he had to get to work. The tea worked almost too well, I hadn’t even heard him leave. I pulled the pillow he’d been sleeping on into my arms and started to drift back to sleep instead of popping out of bed with my usual morning energy. Now that I was sleeping better, my energy should be returning. I checked my phone for the time and saw a text message from Barry saying to meet her at the Lakefront Café in Branson at ten a.m. This time it was worded as a direct order.

  She was already sipping from a mug when I walked in. The sour expression told me it wasn’t about an assignment. I ordered coffee at the counter and joined her in a back booth. Her black eyes boring into mine made the trek seem like a long distance marathon.

  She spoke through gritted teeth. “What the hell have you been doing messing around with Weldon?”

  Was Ben talking to her about me? “I was covering the Fargo drone races for the paper. It was a fluke I ran into him.” What other information did the hatchet-faced hard case across from me have? Jealousy that she’d co-opted Ben might have colored my opinion of her.

  She sniffed, as much as calling me a liar.

  The waitress brought my coffee. “Did you want cream?” Grateful for the interruption, I broke eye contact with Barry. “No thanks, this is good.”

  Barry’s fingers tapped the tabletop. “That’s not all. You’ve been sneaking around the college and it has to stop.”

  My mouth opened to protest, but she shut me up with another hard stare. “We know you’ve been filming the quad from that tree. I debated sending in a SWAT team to scare some sense into you but I didn’t want to waste their time. We believe the drone was launched from that tree and we’ll want that footage you took. And no more following that kid Brian. You’re getting in the way of our investigation.”

  I tried to read her face. “You found something on him.”

  She hesitated as if an internal argument was working itself out, then said, “I’m going to tell you because you led us to him, but it’s not protocol and, frankly, it’s why we’re meeting here and not at the office.”

  This wasn’t just a reprimand coffee date. I leaned in.

  Her voice lowered. “Brian’s in contact with a person who we believe has terrorist ties. We’re concerned Brian’s been radicalized. He’s been on ISIS Internet sites and might be planning to leave the country. That guy he met is most likely helping him get an ID and a plane ticket out of the country.”

  “The bearded guy I photographed by the parking lot?”

  “Right. We still can’t tie Brian to the explosion but we don’t want you bumbling in there and scaring him away before we can put it all together. And if he’s not partially responsible, we still need to catch him in the act of trying to leave the country.”

  “Did you just say bumbling?” I draped what I liked to call my impressive wingspan across the back of the booth. “Who brought Weldon and Brian to light?”

  Clearly not impressed, she said, “We appreciated the tip, but if you go near either of them again, I’ll lock you up for impeding an investigation.”

  I slid out of the booth. “Coffee on the BCA?”

  She held up a hand. “I’m sorry for the bumbler comment. Please, finish your coffee.”

  Curiosity always trumped righteous indignation. I sat. “What else did Ben tell you I’ve been doing?”

  “You don’t like it that I’ve been monopolizing your boyfriend. Is this a long-term thing?”

  I didn’t like the term boyfriend or the shift to personal territory. And why was she interested? “Ben and I’ve known each other since we were kids. I guess you’d call that long-term. What about you, any long-term boyfriends?”

  She waved away my sarcasm as if swatting at a pesky fly. “I’ve cut out all emotional attachments and it works for me. My parents are dead, no siblings, no big romance. A woman can’t have a family in a job like mine and rise to the top.”

  Skepticism must have shown on my face.

  She said, “If I did, every decision would be based on how it would affect my family, whether I should take certain assignments. I’d put my safety first and possibly hesitate in situations where I’d need to use split-second timing. It could be fatal for me and my team.”

  “I admire your dedication.” Her single-mindedness reminded me that my personal life was much messier than hers and it was true, my job was easier when I was far away and not confronted with personal choices. Even though she sa
id she wasn’t interested in emotional attachments, I didn’t appreciate her wanting to take Ben two hundred miles from Spirit Lake and me.

  Barry switched back to work mode on our way out the door. “We’ve learned more about the Summer Fest explosion. Same type of incident, but we can’t be sure it was a drone. Poor evidence trail.”

  “Where was Weldon when the Summer Fest explosion happened?”

  “He says he was home with the doors and windows closed to block out the noise. We showed his photo to as many people as we could locate. No one saw him on the Summer Fest grounds. Right now, we’re concentrating on Brian.”

  “Does Weldon have an alibi for the college bombing?”

  “His wife says he was in Duluth trying to convince her to come home.”

  “You believed her?”

  “We’re keeping an eye on him.”

  I thanked her for the coffee and information and we went in different directions. The BCA thought Brian was their bomber. I had no remorse for keeping Weldon’s use of drones in his blackmailing scheme from Barry. She had the resources to figure it out and I’d promised not to expose the Lundbergs’ and Millers’ personal lives. Maybe Weldon’s spying had nothing to do with the college bombing and maybe it did. Would his wife have lied for him?

  After my conversation with Barry, I wanted to talk to Brian about his sister. Her direct order for me to stay away gave me a few moments of hesitation, but didn’t stop me. I drove past his house a few times but didn’t see Cory Tremont or Carpenter, if they were the ones watching him. But then I probably wouldn’t see them if they were any good. I parked and slid down in my seat, binocs pointed at Brian’s front door.

  Chapter 14

  At two o’clock I was ready to give up observing Brian’s house and find a place to pee, when the door flew open and he tore out down the steps yelling over his shoulder. The professor came to the door, red-faced, his lips curled in a snarl. Brian hefted his backpack over his shoulder and stalked toward the college, head down scanning his phone.