by Dave Conifer
“But you didn’t rape her,” Bismarck said.
“It wasn’t rape. They didn’t care. They never asked. Even my lawyer went along with it. Never checked with me. Never asked me shit. He just agreed to it.”
Bismarck shook his head. “I’ve heard stories like that over and over but I never get used to it,” he said.
“It was all over with pretty quick. They just want to finish up so they can move on to the fun cases. They were like ‘White trash killed white trash? Big deal. Send him up for twenty years or whatever we can get.’ They couldn’t care less about shit guys like me.”
Neither spoke for a few minutes. It was nearly nine o’clock. Fargo was beginning to realize that his host was an early to bed, late to rise kind of man, and it looked like he was running out of steam. “I know you don’t like it,” Fargo said, breaking the silence. “But I’m gonna clear my name if it’s the last thing I do. I ain’t going to my grave with anybody thinkin’ I killed those kids.”
“I heard you before, Billy.”
“But I don’t know crap about what happened to them. I wasn’t there, and then I was in jail. How can I do it? I need the case files. How do I get that?”
“The same way, maybe?” Bismarck suggested.
“I tried today,” Fargo told him. “My parole officer called the state police and asked for it. They told her I got no right to it because I was never charged.”
“That’s that,” Bismarck said. “It don’t help that your friend Mankato’s probably in tight with everybody over there. He doesn’t want anybody helping you out, not after what you did. I mean, after what he thinks you did.”
“You mean what he says I did. He knows better. Where’s he at, anyway?”
“Haven’t heard a peep about him in years. I’m sure he’s around somewhere.” He pulled himself up from his chair. “I’m beat. You need anything?”
“No, I’m good,” Fargo answered. “Hey Russ, thanks for everything. I’ll try to get myself set up so I can get out of your space, and give you back your wheels, too.”
“No hurry,” Bismarck said as he shuffled away. “But let me ask you something,” he said as he paused in the doorway and looked back. “The parole officer. You said he called the state police to ask for that stuff?”
“She,” Fargo corrected. “Yeah. They were the ones on the scene. They came to get me the next morning, only somebody else was already there taking me away. Why?”
“I’m just worrying about how close Rip Mankato is still wired in. Did you get pulled over before the parole officer made that call? Or after?”
“After. Not by much though.”
“But it was definitely after?”
“Definitely,” Fargo replied.
“Hmm,” Bismarck said before turning and leaving the room.
~~~
Getting up with the sun after eleven years of trying to make the day shorter didn’t come naturally anymore, but Fargo was up at dawn the next morning because he had plans. After a long morning piss he splashed cold water on his face and rubbed the grains from the corners of his eyes. I better get me a razor today, he decided after examining his pale face in the mirror. On the way out the front door he remembered to grab the borrowed cell phone and slide it into his pocket. He probably could have walked, because it was going to be a short trip, but he wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. Instead, he found the Monte Carlo on the street where he’d left it and pulled away from the curb to prowl the streets of Tacony.
Just as Bismarck had told him, there was a Burger King a few blocks away and it appeared that they were just opening for business. He pulled into a parking space, grunted at the kid in the fast food clown suit who was squeegeeing the windows, and went inside. Sure enough, there was a counter full of computers against the wall. He ordered a large coffee and a breakfast something or other biscuit and carried his food over to one of the machines. Two minutes later, his lips speckled with bits of egg and bacon, he was staring at a Google screen that was waiting for his queries. And he had plenty of them, because he hadn’t used much of his precious internet time in prison to learn about what happened that night in Ewing.
It turned out that even after all these years there was no shortage of articles online about the fire. It was interesting reading because although he was still the prime suspect, he knew surprisingly little about what had happened. That changed as he munched his biscuit and sipped coffee. An unidentified gunman had strafed the house with a semi-automatic weapon, somehow causing it to explode. Two kids in the back of the house were incinerated beyond recognition. Their mother was badly burned, but somehow survived. The mother’s boyfriend had been a dozen yards away, out on the front lawn investigating some noises he’d heard outside, and had been uninjured.
As basic as that information was, it was more than he’d ever known about the case. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he needed to take notes, so he borrowed a pencil from the cashier. Soon after, he helped himself to a stack of napkins to go along with the greasy biscuit wrapper that was covered corner to corner with near-illegible scrawls. Four cups of coffee and three trips to the bathroom later he felt pretty good about the information he’d collected.
But the rush faded, and after several hours of searching he was no longer coming across anything new. By ten-thirty the place was bustling, mostly with senior citizens who had no use for the computers, or, apparently, rough-looking, unshaven men who did. It was time to go. He folded his notes as best he could and stuffed them into a pocket, creating a bulge that looked exactly like what it actually was – a wad of napkins. On the way out he stopped at the counter to return the pencil, now worn down to a woody stub, and pick up one last cup of coffee to go.
The cell phone rang out from another pocket just after he’d stepped outside. My parole officer. Got to be. What the hell is she calling me for, he wondered. He transferred the keys to the other hand before going for the phone. “Shit!” he barked when the coffee tumbled to the sidewalk with a wet thud. After wiping the remnants of java from his fingers while kicking the now-empty cup out of his path, he yanked the phone out. There was a phone number on the screen that he didn’t recognize, but he answered it anyway and knew the voice immediately.
“Billy. This is Russ. Where are you?”
“I’m at Burger King. I needed to get on the computer.”
“Listen,” Bismarck said, “You had some visitors. Philly cops came by looking for you. Somehow they heard you’re breaking your parole and living over here. Your friends over in Jersey asked them to come by.”
“Shit. This is bad,” Fargo said. “What’d you tell ‘em?”
“Come on. What do I look like? I didn’t tell them nothing except that you borrowed my car. I figure they already know that.”
“What do I do?”
“Right now, you should lay low. Can they see the car from the street?”
Fargo looked around. “Yeah, it’s right out in view.”
“Okay. I think they believed me, but they might look around before they leave. Don’t go anywhere, but move the car where they can’t see it so easy. Then keep your head down for an hour or so.”
“Jeez, I hope nobody’s tapping your phone or anything.”
“I doubt it, but I thought of that,” Bismarck said. “I’m down the street on a pay phone at the Exxon. Listen, Billy, I don’t think it’s gonna work, you staying with me. They’ll be back. Where can you go?”
“I don’t know. I’m not exactly loaded. I thought I’d start looking for a job soon, and—“
“You gotta’ go move that car, Billy. After that, wait a few hours and then go stay with Joanie for a couple days. She’ll be okay with it. I already talked to her.”
“The barracuda? No way, man. She hates my guts.”
“She hates everybody. She’s had a crappy life. Give her a break.”
“I’ve had a crappy life, too. Why don’t she give me a break?”
“Because you’re the one who needs a
favor, not her. I convinced her you didn’t do any of this shit. She trusts me.”
“I don’t know,” Fargo said. “It just don’t sound right. You already asked her?”
“You got a better idea? You need a place to go. She’s got room. She’ll be okay.” He rattled out the address, just outside the city in Bristol. He thought he could remember most of it. “Now go move that car. We’ll talk later.”
He did just as Bismarck told him to do, moving the car and staying out of sight. For the next two hours he watched from inside the Burger King but never saw a single squad car. In the middle of the afternoon he called up some maps on the computer and plotted a course to his next home in Bristol.
An hour later he found the place, a run-down rancher with a rusty chain link fence around a small, weedy front yard. He surveyed the lot, noting that everything needed painting, all the landscaping was either dead or overgrown, and the roof had outlived its warranty a long time ago. When he saw her the night before she looked like she was doing all right, but this place was a dump. Then he remembered her recent history and regretted how he’d treated her. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was down on his luck.
-- Chapter 5 --
Joanie Hibbing pushed the front door open and stepped aside for him to come in without saying a word. She wore black jeans and a long, bulky sweater that hid a lot of her figure. Fargo couldn’t help wondering if that wasn’t an accident as he watched her close and latch the door behind him. He hadn’t noticed the tanning salon skin and the wear and tear that came with it the other night, probably because it was too dark. She took a long drag on the cigarette that hung from her mouth, leaving him wondering if he was about to get an angry cloud of smoke in the face, but it didn’t come.
“Thanks for lettin’ me come, Joanie. I know it’s got to burn you some. I won’t stay long, I promise.”
“Uncle Russ asked. That’s all it took,” she said before disappearing, leaving him standing there alone. After a few seconds had passed he followed her into the living room, where she’d settled onto a threadbare couch and was reaching for a remote. A half-full laundry basket butted up against a chair. As he approached her, an orange cat sprang from behind the basket and darted out of the room.
“Joanie, I’m real sorry for everything I said that night. I was out of line.” When she put the remote back down he walked over to the couch and took a seat. “I just want to thank you for lettin’ me stay. I know we don’t get along so good. I’ll try not to be an asshole,” he said, forcing a grin.
She shrugged. “Whatever. It isn’t a palace. Uncle Russ says I can trust you. I hope so, because I’ll be gone at work a lot.” She glanced at the window. “Sometimes I get scared at night, being alone and all. Maybe I’ll sleep better knowing there’s a man in the house.”
“Even a jailbird like me?” he asked. He thought he saw her wince.
“Russ said you’re innocent. That’ll have to be good enough for me.” She smashed a spent cigarette in an ash tray and paused to light another one. “I wouldn’t let a murderer or rapist in my house.”
“And I ain’t one. Anyway, thanks again. I’m still getting used to being out. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” Without bothering to unzip it he pulled off his ripe sweatshirt, under which he wore a plain white tee.
“Nice tats,” she said, surveying the art that ran up and down his arms. “I don’t remember those from Wicker Street.”
“Long story. Sorry, I’ll keep ‘em covered up,” he said, reaching for the sweatshirt.
“Oh, please. I’ve seen worse,” she said. “You should see the guys I work for. Leave it off.”
“At least until I cool down,” he told her. “Hey, as long as I’m here, feel free to put me to work.”
A loud knock came at the door before she could answer. “Uncle Russ said he’d come by,” she told Fargo as she stood up. “He must have been right behind you.” He stayed where he was and waited until she ushered Bismarck in.
“I see you made it,” he said.
“Yeah. Thanks for lookin’ out for me, Russ. I don’t know what happened. How the hell did they know I was over here in PA?” he asked, leaving out the part about the cruiser he’d seen on the bridge, because that was part of the mystery.
“Beats the hell out of me. I thought I’d take the Monte Carlo away, seeing as they know you’re driving it,” Bismarck said. “No use taking chances. They might put out an APB on it. I can park it inside my buddy’s garage until it all settles down. I’ll leave you another one.”
“Thanks. I didn’t think of that.” He fell back onto the couch. “I never thought there’d be somebody after me the first day after I got out. I thought I was supposed to get a new start and all that shit. Even my parole officer said that.”
“Life ain’t always fair,” Joanie said as she moved around the room arranging cushions and sorting the living room detritus into piles, now that Uncle Russ had arrived. Fargo looked her over while he had the chance. She wasn’t attractive in a supermodel way but she looked pretty good in those jeans, and he already knew what was in her sweater from the last time he’d seen her.
“Tell me about it,” Fargo agreed. “I spent the day reading about myself in newspaper articles. Biggest load of crap I ever saw. Somebody’s making a lot of shit up about me. Crazy shit.” He pulled out the wad of notes and began smoothing them out on the table.
Bismarck smirked. “Is that what you were doing all day? Reading the paper?”
“Damn right. And you wouldn’t believe it. They wrote it up like I’m some damn terrorist. They said I put a bomb in her house. I don’t even know how to make a damn bomb. I don’t have a clue. Well, I do now, I guess.”
“Who’s house?” Joanie asked.
“My ex-girlfriend’s. I hadn’t even seen her for months. She was already seeing that ni—black dude. He was there when it happened, but you don’t see nobody chargin’ him with murder. Racism my ass.”
“So what happened?” she asked.
“Turns out the four of them were there that night. Gail, that’s my girl. My ex, I mean. Gail, her two daughters. Erin and Emily. Erin was six and Emily was two. And Kevin Morrison. So Kevin says somebody cruises past the house, shoots like ten thousand bullets at it, and it explodes. They said it blew up like that because there was a bomb in there, and somebody had doused the place with gas.”
“And how do they tie you into it?”
“Well, every article said I was the ‘alleged’ killer so I guess that means they ain’t sure. But most everybody that got asked said I was the guy shooting,” Fargo explained. “Then they said they found the same stuff in my apartment that the bomb was made of. But the funny thing is, they came to arrest me before they ever saw my place. So how the hell did they know that?”
“Bomb stuff like what?” Bismarck asked.
“That’s what I said!” Fargo exclaimed. “It was an ammonium nitrate bomb. Homemade. Ever heard of that? Not me. So I looked it up today on the net. You take some powdery shit from ice packs, get a piece from a paintball cartridge or something, spray it with diesel fuel, string it up with a fuse and run like hell. I never heard of any of that until today. But the cops said they found all that in my apartment. Yeah, sure they did. But it’s not like I wasn’t already sayin’ somebody framed me,” he said bitterly. “I guess everybody I know’s been readin’ this shit for eleven years. No wonder I got no friends left.”
“So they’re saying you planted this thing in the girl’s house, lit the fuse, and then drove away shooting an automatic at the place?” Bismarck asked.
“Something like that,” said Fargo.
“Can’t you just prove you were somewhere else when this happened?” Joanie asked as she violently snuffed out another butt.
“I don’t know exactly what time it happened, but I tell you one thing, I was nowhere near that house. I’m no killer. I’m a lot of things, most of ‘em bad, but I don’t blow up little girls.”
“Did all three o
f them die?”
“Gail didn’t. Don’t ask me how,” Fargo said. “She got burned real bad, though. I saw Kevin Morris the day I got out and he said she was completely messed up with scars and shit.”
“That sucks,” Joanie said. “She lost her little girls.”
“Tell her what you were doing that night,” Bismarck said. By then he was in the rocking chair and Joanie was on the floor, her arms clutching her knees as she listened. “He’s got an alibi. Sort of.”
“I was doing the same thing I did every night back then. I was sittin’ in a bar drunk off my ass,” he told her. “I hadn’t been sober for years. That’s why she left me, I guess. I ain’t proud, but I was someplace else that night.”
“Tell her the rest,” Bismarck insisted.
“I think I already know. Is this the rape?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, looking at Bismarck. When he said nothing, Fargo continued, after blowing out a long breath. “Yeah. I hooked up with this chick in a bar. Never saw her before but we got friendly, I guess you could say.” He glanced at Joanie. “A few hours later, I don’t even know when, they found her body under the Trenton Makes Bridge. They said I raped her and then threw her over the side of the bridge. Her name was Eileen.”
“You’re saying you got framed for two different things?” Joanie asked. “All on the same night?”
“Not just two things,” Bismarck said. “Two felonies.”
“No offense,” Joanie said, “but what the hell makes you so special? Who’d go to all the trouble?”
Angry that after serving eleven years as an innocent man and yet still needing to defend his suspicions, Fargo fought to keep from lashing out at her. He still needed a place to stay. “I don’t know,” was all he said. “I can’t explain it. But that don’t mean it didn’t happen that way.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time the cops made facts up so they could close a case,” Bismarck said.
“Why were they at my place early the next morning when there was no evidence at all that I did this? Kevin Morris told me they tried to get him to say it was me, but he wouldn’t. So where’d they come up with that? And I never made a bomb in my life. Saying they found bomb parts at my place is bullshit.”