Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  I shadowed Brian on foot, keeping an eye out for the BCA. He ended up at the library again. That’s when I saw Cory, hood up and wearing a battered backpack, slouch up the steps after Brian. I was across the street and entered the library slightly behind them. Cory hadn’t seen me or the BCA would have sent someone to stop me.

  Brian found a cubicle under a window overlooking the south side of the campus. He opened a text book but kept scrolling through his phone. Cory hovered around, much as I had when Brian and his sister were talking behind the book stacks. I stayed behind a book cart parked close enough for me to keep them both in view.

  Within half an hour, Brian leaned forward and rested his head on the desk. Seeing Cory hurry to the bathroom at the back, I sprinted to Brian and shook his shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Drowsy and wary, he said, “Who are you?”

  I said, “We need to talk about your sister.”

  “Why?”

  “I overheard you in the library the other day. I know what Jenna’s planning.”

  His mouth dropped open. “What’s happened?”

  “Not here. Where can we go that’s private?”

  He stuttered and finally got it out. “My dad’s office.”

  I hauled him up, stuffed his book in his backpack and shoved it in his arms. “Let’s go.”

  He stumbled after me and we made it out of the building without Cory seeing us. Brian went to a side door into the Humanities building and up a flight of stairs to his dad’s office. Throwing panicked glances at me, he used a key to let us in. It always surprised me how easy it was to get people to do what you wanted.

  When we were seated inside with the door locked, I told him I was a journalist and I’d heard the BCA was interested in him. “They want to know if you had something to do with the college bombing. Did you?”

  He crossed his arms and a belligerent flush crept across his face. “I didn’t do it.”

  I tried a different tack. “Brian, connecting with a terrorist group because you hate your dad is overkill, isn’t it? Why not just vow not to be like him? Insist on going to a different college or leave home and go to California or New Zealand.”

  The belligerent frown and crossed arms told me he wasn’t buying my spiel. I pulled my laptop from my pack, brought up a recent news photo about mass graves in Iraq and set the full gory picture in front of him. “If you go over there, your job will be to shoot innocent farmers, tradespeople, even children and then toss them into mass graves like this. I’m not exaggerating. These graves are everywhere, filled with hundreds of missing people whose families are waiting for them to return one day.”

  He pushed the laptop away. I said, “You know you don’t have the stomach for this. Trust me, there are lots of options out there that won’t ruin your life and your sister’s.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  I did understand and was well aware I wasn’t a good role model on how to behave when you hate your father. I’d killed mine. A therapist would say atonement for that action, although unintentional, was a reason I put my own life on the line over and over again. But it was complicated, that’s why I don’t go to a therapist. Some people meditate. I’ve tried it and the closest I can come to being in the moment is to lift my camera to my eye. It doesn’t matter if I’m shooting a bufflehead duck on Spirit Lake or a battlefield in Afghanistan, I’m right there.

  He eventually answered. “My sister isn’t involved. Leave her alone.”

  “They know Jenna is interested in ISIS.”

  He rose from his chair. “Who told you that?”

  “They overheard her talking to a bearded guy.” That wasn’t true but he didn’t know it and his reaction told me it had likely happened.

  He leapt the rest of the way out of his seat. “That asshole, Abdul. I told him to leave her alone.” He bolted for the door. “I need to talk to her.”

  I grabbed his arm, forcing him back into his seat. “Brian, I’ve seen what ISIS does to women.” I showed him my recent research. “This is what they have in store for her. They’ll lie and tell her she’s going to be working for the good of the organization, only what they’ll do is sell her to the Islamic State as a sex slave. She’ll be sold and resold, raped over and over and it will likely kill her.”

  His face paled at the graphic images showing just what I’d described. He swallowed. “I won’t let her go.”

  “You won’t be able to stop them. They use these girls as recruiting tools. The only way you can save her now is to talk to the BCA.”

  “Leave me alone!” He tore away from my grasp, out the door and down the stairs.

  I yelled down the stairwell. “Don’t be a freaking idiot! Six different countries are dropping bombs on ISIS locations on a daily basis. Do you want you and your sister to be blown to bits in some godforsaken desert?”

  It took several minutes to get my anger and frustration under control, and then I walked four blocks to the StarTrib, hoping I’d done the right thing. He looked guilty as hell when I asked if he bombed the college. I knew what I’d done was enough to get me in serious trouble with the BCA, but they’d use Brian to get to the real terrorists without trying to help him. He was just a kid and could end up in prison for the rest of his life.

  The StarTrib bureau was closed. Remembering it was Sunday, I let myself in, settled at my computer and tried to empty my mind of any preconceptions. Sometimes it’s all about what’s not there.

  I went through the student list and photos from the communications building’s Tuesday-Thursday classes and cross-referenced Ben’s file with the Summer Fest attendees. Slow work, but one name leapt out. Hunter Anderson. His shock of blond hair, athletic frame and letter jacket made an impression at the Medicine Falls sheriff’s office. He was on the roster for a Tuesday-Thursday English class at eleven a.m.

  A little more digging revealed he was part of the Summer Fest staff. I checked my video but he wasn’t there either day I’d been shooting from my tree. That reminded me that Barry wanted my video footage. I made a copy and emailed it to her. Best to stay on her good side.

  Another scroll through the lists and I found a phone number for Hunter. He answered on the first ring, his voice tentative.

  “Hi Hunter, my name is Britt Johansson and I’m a photographer for the StarTrib working on the college bombing. Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  He spoke in a hushed tone. “I can’t talk right now. They don’t like it when we take personal calls during work hours.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “At the Mall of America Sports World.”

  “What time are you off? I’ll call back.”

  “I’m off in an hour but I’ve already talked to investigators.”

  “It will only take a minute. I’ll call back in an hour.”

  Lots of kids worked weekends during the school year, but Minneapolis was a long drive for a weekend shift. I figured the reason he wasn’t in the video was because he’d left the college.

  When I called back, Hunter said, “I’m not sure what I can tell you that I haven’t already said to the sheriff and BCA.”

  “I’m following up on a couple of things. Were you in class the day of the explosion?”

  “I was there. Luckily, I was on the other side from the explosion. Usually, I go to the food court after class but I saw a girl I know, crossed over to say hi and that’s when the bomb went off.”

  “And you were at the Summer Fest explosion as well?”

  “I was part of the stage crew. It mostly took out the back end of the stage and I was in front at the time. Why are you asking?”

  “Did you drop out of school because of the explosion at Branson?”

  “It was getting to me so my dad got me this job. I’ll probably go back next quarter.”

  The kid said he was lucky, but I wouldn’t call being in two explosions in a year good luck. “You have any enemies?”

  “No, I can’t think of anyone. The police wanted
to know that, too. Why are you asking me this stuff?”

  “The authorities are checking with everyone who was in the blast and the fact that you were in both is interesting, that’s all. Thanks for talking to me.”

  The conversation with Hunter left me without much of a lead to follow. His situation was no different from that of the other kids from the Tuesday-Thursday classes and also Summer Fest, except that he was on the staff.

  Hunter’s desire to leave school made sense to me. I broke out in a cold sweat at the idea of being anywhere near another explosion. But he was nearby when both bombs exploded.

  Someone else was on both lists. I tapped out her number. Chloe’s hello sounded despondent, not a good sign but understandable. I asked, “Anything new from Dr. Ansari?

  “They don’t let you wallow much in a hospital. We’re discussing prosthetics.”

  “That’s a good thing, Chloe. The sooner you can start walking—”

  She cut me off. “I know. How’s it going with finding who did this, Britt?”

  “Ben, Sheriff Wilcox and the BCA are working on it. The FBI, too. They aren’t sharing many details but I know they’ll find the person responsible.”

  “I hope they do it soon or I’ll never be able to go back to school.”

  “Some of your classmates are taking off the rest of the quarter. Like Hunter Anderson. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, but I’m surprised he left school. He wasn’t even hurt.”

  I said, “It was close enough to scare him and remind him of the Summer Fest blast.”

  “I forgot about that. I was at that event too, only at the back of the crowd.”

  “Just out of curiosity, do you know most of the students in your English class?”

  “There are more than a hundred. Jeremy and Hunter and I went to high school together in Medicine Falls. That’s how we know each other.”

  “You were friends?”

  “I was kind of dating Hunter back then.”

  I should have made that connection. Of course she’d know Hunter and Jeremy. Medicine Falls was a small town so Chloe dating Hunter wasn’t much of a coincidence. “Is there anyone in your English class who might have done this?”

  “The BCA people asked me that and so did the sheriff, but no one I know would do that.” Her voice caught. “Especially not to Jeremy.”

  Chloe wanted to know how things were going at Little’s.

  “Everyone misses you, of course, but you need to be concentrating on healing and keeping up with your classwork. The guys will survive.” I was glad this was a phone conversation so Chloe couldn’t see the doubt on my face over my last comment.

  I locked up the bureau, grabbed my camera pack and hurried down the stairs to the parking lot.

  Before getting on the highway to Spirit Lake, I figured I’d call to see if Ben was free for dinner. We’d exchange information. They’d identified the bearded guy who recruited Brian, and should be close to solving the bombing. Passing the BCA’s temporary headquarters, I squinted at the storefront windows to see who was working so late. The place buzzed with activity. Ben stood behind Barry’s chair leaning over her shoulder and pointing at something on the computer screen. I peeled away. I had my own resources for getting information.

  *

  At home, I went straight to the cramped five by eight space between the laundry room and garage. Sliding the rack of clothes away from the door, I unlocked it and let myself into the stuffy windowless room. Desk, chair, computer, printer, wall shelves and a cushion for Rock were all it held. I closed the door and locked it after me. Possibly a silly precaution but if the wrong person discovered who I communicated with on this computer, I could be arrested.

  Ben didn’t know about his aunt’s hidden office. I hated to keep secrets from him, but as a forest ranger, he was law enforcement. Gert had used this space to illegally gather information about someone who was stealing from the Dreamcatcher casino where she worked. Gert also befriended a hacker through an unusual circumstance. I booted up the computer. There were connections I preferred not to make on my own laptop and her young hacker friend was one of those connections.

  I’d only seen Sebastian one time, at Gert’s funeral. A lanky teenager wearing a black full-length overcoat, he slouched to the podium to say a few halting words about how she’d rescued him from freezing to death in a fish house on Spirit Lake. Sixteen, depressed and guilty, he’d run away from his home in Minneapolis and hitchhiked north after getting in trouble for a hacking prank that cost his parents a lot of money to fix. While staying with Gert, Sebastian helped her figure out who embezzled from the Dreamcatcher.

  A wave of sadness that my old friend was gone rolled over me, followed by a hot flush of anger that she’d been killed. My key to finding her murderer was discovering Sebastian’s contact information, scrawled on a sticky note next to her computer. Since then, he’d helped me a couple of times, frequently changing our mode of communication based on the latest encryption technology.

  I typed.

  –Hey Sebastian, you busy?

  He responded within a few minutes.

  –Never too busy for you. That last assignment you were on must have been rough.

  He’d no doubt trailed me through some nefarious web connections that the common person had never heard of and never would. I asked,

  –You still in banking?

  The last we’d talked he was working for a bank in Minneapolis to beef up their security against hackers.

  –Doing a little of this, little of that.

  That was as forthcoming as Sebastian ever got. Gert’s computer was my only way to contact him. He’d set up an encrypted and untraceable email address. People and organizations were always looking for him—not because he was a bad guy, he was one of the good ones—but because he didn’t get his information on any legitimate platform.

  I attached a.jpeg of Brian, his full name and address.

  –This kid could be tied to the Branson bombing. I want to know how deep his connections are to ISIS, if they’re even real. He has a sister, Jenna. Please check to see if she’s involved as well.

  Ever wordy, Sebastian replied.

  –On it.

  *

  Monday morning I opened the salon door to raised voices. Bella rocked back and forth, arms crossed, shooting daggers at Violet. “You did this when I was on my deathbed.”

  “It was not your deathbed.” Violet scrubbed brushes at the sink, her doll-like features bunched together in a frown. “What’s the harm, Mom? We’re helping a person in need and people like her products.”

  “Who would end up paying if there was a lawsuit? All we need is one severe allergic reaction and we’d be bankrupt. She can sell her wares someplace else and that’s the end of it. I want that stuff out of here right now.”

  Violet’s rosebud lips clamped shut. She tossed the brushes into the sink, stomped to the table of Emmaline’s Organics and swept them into a basket. With a scowl at her mother, she swished out the back door with the basket over her arm.

  Still planted in the doorway, I stepped back to make a hasty retreat.

  Bella waved me in. “Don’t worry, she’ll calm down and realize I was right. Sometimes that good heart of hers gets in the way of good sense.”

  I slouched against the wall. “I didn’t know you were back home. How’s the hip?”

  “Good enough to get me out of that room with the soap opera junkie.”

  The bell tinkled and one of the local ladies walked in. “Hi, Bella. Good to see you’re back.”

  “I got home last night.”

  The woman shrugged out of her jacket and plunked into the chair. Bella said, “Britt, would you mind letting Violet know Lizzie is here.”

  Bella pumped Lizzie for the latest news as I headed to the other side of the duplex. I knocked. “Violet, your appointment is here.”

  The door opened. “Thanks, I was just coming back. Would you give me a ride out to Emmaline’s after I finish? I do
n’t know where it is. I should take her things back before Mom has another hissy fit.”

  “Want me to run out there now? It’s no trouble.”

  “I’m so embarrassed about Mom, but I should explain in person.”

  “I’ll be at Little’s. Call me when you want to go.” Violet straightened her shoulders and opened the door to the salon.

  Chapter 15

  Little was chopping onions like he wanted them to die. I assumed his damp cheeks were related to anger rather than the onions. I leaned against the refrigerator. “You heard from Lars?”

  “He’s a coward. He’s been talking to the U of Minnesota about going back next semester. He wants me to come too, but I’m not.” Little hacked the life out of a pile of red peppers.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t just testing whether you’d be willing to go?”

  “He should have talked to me face to face. He caused a fight so he wouldn’t have to deal with me.” Little cringed at the massacred vegetables—he loved vegetables. “If that’s the kind of person he is, I don’t even want him back.”

  I was far from the ideal person to advise others on relationships, but Little usually made me tea when I was upset. “Would tea help?”

  He waggled the knife at me. “I’m not going to let him ruin the one thing I love to do. Cooking is my best therapy. These are going into a fabulous ratatouille for the dinner crowd.” He laid into the mushrooms.

  A swell of pride puffed out my chest. Once again, my brother showed he was stronger than he appeared. My phone rang. Violet was ready. Wary of getting too close to the knife, I put an arm around his shoulder for a squeeze and headed back to the salon.

  Half an hour later we were on the road to the old Pearson place, the basket of products propped on Violet’s lap. She fidgeted with straightening the bottles and sachets.

  “Don’t worry about it so much, Violet. Emmaline will understand.”

  Without a contact number Emmaline couldn’t make much of a living selling her products, and if selling the products wasn’t that important to her, why was she so insistent about doing so with Violet?

  Emmaline was standing on her porch wearing a suspicious frown as we pulled in. When she saw Violet get out of the car with the full basket, her frown deepened to a scowl.