Primary Justice

by Dave Conifer

  “I don’t get it,” Fargo said. “If he loved them so much, why kill ‘em?”

  “That’s what I was trying to say before,” Gail said. “I think it was supposed to happen the other way around. I think the girls were supposed to live and I was supposed to die. Then he takes the kids away and they all live happily ever after.”

  “Oh. Wow. So where’s Mankato now? Does he ever mess with you anymore?”

  “No. He lost his reason to mess with me that night. But the other reason he doesn’t mess with me is because he’s dead. Nobody could tell me what happened. Kind of like Sam. But he’s dead.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Fargo said. “It seems like half the people I knew died while I was in prison.”

  “It was weird. Nobody quite knew what happened and nobody tried real hard to find out.”

  “Too bad. I mighta’ liked to pay a visit to that guy. I always thought he was behind everything that happened to me. Now I hear you think the same thing. When I was sittin’ in jail all those years, I thought a lot about how I shoulda’ told him to fuck off a few hundred times.”

  She smiled. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Seems funny now, but I didn’t want to piss you off. I didn’t know you hated him as much as I did. And I was scared shitless of him.” There was silence as they both thought it all over. “Did you ever tell anybody about this?” he asked. “Because it sure sounds like old Rip did it. Like they say in the movies, he had a motive.”

  “Tell anybody about what?” she asked. “That I think he killed my daughters? I don’t have proof. I’m not even all that sure about it. And who would I tell?”

  “The police, for starters. You know, the ones who wanted to pin this on me. I took a lot of shit over this, Gail.”

  “Nobody ever asked. I was scared of that man, too. And what the hell did it matter anymore, anyway? My girls were gone. I had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. It was easier just to let it all go. I know you suffered but so did I. At least you’re still alive. So how about giving me a break?”

  -- Chapter 11 --

  It was pushing four o’clock when Fargo and Gail Mankato hung up on each other, just before the battle of self-pity got out of hand. Within seconds he was mad at himself for not saying goodbye. She’d been through a lot, just like he had. No need to be a jackass. There was a good chance that she’d hung up on him first. He hoped so.

  Route 195 cut east across the state and back over to Trenton. He merged on, even though he hoped he’d think of someplace better to go. The only people in the world who might welcome him into their homes were across the river, in a place he wasn’t allowed to go anymore. As he squinted into the winter sun, fast approaching the western horizon ahead, he wondered how much longer he could last without breaking parole. “It’s fucking hard out here, man,” he said to nobody.

  The flashing lights of a police cruiser appeared out of nowhere about a mile behind him. There were a few other cars heading west, but none was exceeding the speed limit. He knew because he wasn’t, and nobody was passing him. The cruiser closed the distance fast as other drivers vacated the left lane to clear the way. When there were no vehicles between the cruiser and Fargo, it veered back into the right lane and raced right up behind him. Fargo couldn’t tell if it was a state trooper or a local, although based on what had been happening he had a pretty good idea. He turned on his signal and pulled onto the shoulder, but instead of following, the officer turned off the roof lights and continued on his way without so much as a glance at Fargo. What the fuck was that? It happened so fast that he wasn’t even sure if it was a statie or not.

  The coming and going of the cop weighed on his mind, but not for long. The steady thump of the tires slapping the road breaks as he sped westward lulled him until he thought he could sleep if he hadn’t been driving. Time passed easily until he could see the squatting skyline of Trenton, a reminder that he still hadn’t come up with an alternative. He curved with the highway around a bend and came across a set of austere blue food and lodging signs as he approached the exits for Hamilton. What the fuck, he decided. When the money runs out I’ll go to a goddamned halfway house if I’m still free. That’s what they want, anyway. Why fight it?

  He eased down the concrete ramp into Hamilton and surveyed the restaurants and chain motels as he hopped from light to light. They all looked the same. He ended up pulling into a Red Roof Inn, only because there was an IHOP next door. Same old, same old, he told himself a half hour later when he was stretched out on a king-sized mattress in a room that could have been the one he stayed in the night before. At least I can’t see that fucking bridge.

  When the cell phone rang, just as he was thinking about turning on the TV, he wondered which of the two or three people who cared that he was alive it could be. It turned out to be none of them. “This is Nell Bloomington from The Trenton Star. Am I speaking with William Fargo?”

  “Yeah, this is Billy,” he answered. Right then he had an odd craving for an ice cold beer. Should have made one last stop before checking in. “Who the hell are you, again?”

  “Nell,” she said. “Nell Bloomington. From The Star. I’m doing some background work on a story about Ryne Colfax and I was hoping you could confirm a few facts for me. Do you have a minute?”

  He sat up on the bed and looked at the exposed ankle bracelet. That couldn’t explain this. Not at all. Could it? She’d called the cell, not the room phone. “How’d you get this number?” he demanded.

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Fargo,” Bloomington said.

  “Say what?”

  “I can’t betray my source,” she explained. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yeah, sure I understand,” he told her. “You won’t tell me how you found me, but you expect me to talk about this cop. The guy who put me in jail once, and can probably do it again. Yeah, I understand, all right. Fuck off.”

  “He’s a bad cop,” Bloomington said. “You know why bad cop stories sell? Because there’s nothing worse than a bad cop who abuses his power, and readers know it. It’s good for everybody to expose somebody like him.”

  “It’s good for your career, too, ain’t it, honey?”

  “I’m just doing my job,” she said smoothly.

  “Well do me a favor and leave me out of your job,” he snarled. “I got enough problems without you stirrin’ up trouble. Every time people start askin’ questions I get a punch in the mouth or a shot of lightning up my ass. The other night — fuck it, what am I telling you about it for? Just leave me alone, will ya’?”

  “What happened the other night?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I’m hanging up now.”

  “I’ve checked out your history,” she said quickly. “Did you know Colfax and Walter Mankato go way back?”

  Fargo was shocked to hear that, but he recovered quickly. “No. Did you know Rip’s dead now?” She probably knew the nickname, but she didn’t know that anybody who called him ‘Walter’ ended up with a mouthful of knuckles. He had no idea what her sources were, or how she’d found out who Mankato was. That wasn’t the kind of thing that would turn up on a quickie internet search.

  “I checked that out, and it didn’t look like it was from natural causes, let me tell you,” Bloomington said.

  “Yeah, and the same thing’s gonna happen to me if you don’t leave me alone. You don’t care if I get sent back up. Or end up at the bottom of the river. You just want a damn story out of it.” He pushed a button and ended the call. What the hell was that? How’d she know how to find him? It had to be coming from Bismarck or Joanie’s boss, and he was going to find out for sure which one it was. Judging by the display, the phone was about to run out of power, but he only needed to make one more call.

  “Where are you?” Bismarck asked right away. With most of his telephone experience being with land lines, Fargo still wasn’t used to that question over the phone.

  “Hamilton,” he said. “I went out to see Gail this morning.
I stopped off here on the way back.”

  “We tried to get you on the phone last night,” Bismarck said. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I was out.” He realized that he hadn’t told anybody about what had happened the night before, after everybody had left. Or maybe he’d told Gail.

  “Didn’t I show you how to check your messages on that thing?”

  “I had a little trouble last night,” he began, before explaining about the men who’d jumped him and dragged him into the van. “I think they were trying to shut me up. Thing is, I was already shut up. It’s Joanie’s damn boss that’s poking into things. He just might end up getting me killed.”

  He heard Bismarck whistle as he took it all in. “That’s some bad stuff, Billy. Sounds like somebody’s getting sensitive. Best to lay low.”

  “I’m tryin’ to. It ain’t me,” he said again. “Hey, did you give out my phone number to anybody?”

  “Hell no,” Bismarck said. “Why?”

  “Well it must be Joanie’s boss that did. What the hell’s his name?”

  “Willmar. Willmar and Karlstad.”

  “Well I’m sittin’ around mindin’ my own business just a little bit ago when the phone rings. It’s Nell somebody, from The Trenton something or other.”

  “A newspaper reporter?”

  “Yup. Wants to ask me a few questions about that cop. Willmar’s gonna get my ass killed, or back inside. You gotta’ call him off, Russ. One of those guys last night wanted to cut me up, I could feel it. This is serious.”

  “This is bad,” Bismarck agreed. “I’ll take care of it. You know, at first I thought Rip was behind all this. Now I’m not so sure. This isn’t his style.”

  “Rip’s dead,” Fargo told him. “Gail says nobody really knew what happened. All of a sudden he was just dead. Kind of like his son.”

  “Really? How long?”

  “Like six or seven years ago, maybe. I think that’s what she said. And you know what? The reporter knew all about him. Says Rip and the cop knew each other.” He snorted. “But she called him Walter.”

  “Hmm. Well, if he’s dead, then I guess he’s off the hook.” Fargo heard him snickering into the phone.

  “Russ, man, I’m scared. This is scarier than prison. At least in there I could see ‘em coming and get somewhere safe.”

  “You’ll be okay,” Bismarck assured him. “Just don’t talk to the reporter. Don’t talk to anybody. I’ll take care of it.”

  “But Russ, what if it’s too late?” Fargo persisted. “If somebody can take out Rip Mankato, they can get to anybody. Especially some screw-up like me.”

  “Who says anybody took him out?”

  “The reporter says. I’m gettin’ real nervous here.”

  “I hear you, Billy. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Colfax has to know the reporters are onto him by now, don’t you think? I’m screwed, man. I’m really scared. He knows they’ll come to me for more dirt. Unless I’m dead.”

  “It’s only one reporter. Settle down, will you? What happened to you?” Bismarck asked. “You were on fire when you came out. You were gonna prove this, show everybody that. Now listen to you. Are you the same guy?”

  “Things are different now. I’m in trouble.”

  “I’ll call you back after I talk to Willmar, okay? Get it together, Billy. Maybe you should go have a drink someplace. Forget all that advice I gave you about staying sober. It ain’t working.”

  ~~~

  Bismarck figured he’d give his niece a call later on, but before he had a chance she was there, stopping by on the way home from work. “Have you heard from him?” she asked, even before pecking him on the cheek and lighting up a cigarette.

  “Yeah, sure did. He just called. He’s got a room in Hamilton this time. Just got off the phone with him ten minutes ago.”

  “He’s all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” Bismarck asked.

  “Uncle Russ, what’s he going to do? He’s got nothing going on.” The tip of her cigarette blazed orange as she took a long drag on it between sentences. “What’s going to happen? I feel like he’s bound to do something wrong, because he’s just so alone, you know? And he’s got nobody except us, and we don’t do much for him. He won’t let us.”

  Bismarck smiled. “You sound almost as bad as he did. He’ll be fine. You staying for dinner?”

  “Yeah, sure. What are we having?”

  “I was about to ask you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll go see what you got,” she said, heading into the kitchen.

  “Hey, wait a second,” he said, grabbing her arm gently. “Your boss is still ruffling a lot of feathers with all his questions. Billy was pissed. A reporter called him this afternoon. Think you can get him to simmer down some?”

  “A reporter? Jesus,” she said. “From the papers? What about?”

  “A lot of questions about that cop. That’s not what Billy needs right now. Tell him to back off, can you?” She walked into the kitchen without answering. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” he called after her.

  ~~~

  The rest of the night was uneventful. Fargo considered getting into the car and searching for a place to buy some beer, but instead he walked over to the IHOP for a stack of pancakes and a heap of bacon, along with some hot coffee and a hefty wedge of banana cream pie. He still wasn’t used to the eats yet and every meal since getting out was better than the last. This time nobody intercepted him on the way back to the motel. It wasn’t even dark out yet, but he stripped off his clothes anyway and dove under the covers. He fell asleep quickly after settling on a rerun of some show about a smartass doctor who rarely shaved and thought he knew everything, and usually did.

  ~~~

  The cell phone was going off in his dream as he dozed in and out the next morning. It was only after the ringing stopped that he realized that it hadn’t been a dream at all. Before he could move, the motel room landline began to ring. Here we go again, he thought, counting on one finger the number of people he’d told where he was. If it was that goddamned reporter, he’d let her have it with both barrels. Maybe he could call the police on her, he thought with a laugh.

  “Hello,” he said, trying to sound as unfriendly as possible.

  “Mr. Fargo? This is Liz Faribault. You’re really getting around, aren’t you?”

  Fucking ankle bracelet. “I’m still in New Jersey. That’s all that matters, right? What’s up?”

  “Oh, something minor with some of your paperwork,” she answered. “I’m not sure exactly what it is yet. Somebody called me about it just a few minutes ago. We’re going to need you to come in again. I’m sorry about the inconvenience, but at least you’re close by. Can you be here by two o’clock this afternoon?”

  “Again? Today? Why do you keep doin’ this to me?” he protested.

  “I know it’s frustrating,” Faribault said. “Sometimes it’s a little bumpy for the first few weeks, so please bear with me. Will it be a problem?”

  “No, there’s no problem. Two o’clock, you said?”

  “If you could, Mr. Fargo. And again, I apologize for disrupting your schedule. Hopefully it won’t happen again after this.”

  ~~~

  “I’m sorry, but he insisted that we’re not to disturb him for any reason,” a sweet but steadfast voice said.

  Ryne Colfax was pissed. This call was important. Important enough to bypass the “Do Not Disturb” edict. But he knew he couldn’t win this one. He’d been there before. “Okay,” he said. “Just give him a message, if you would. Tell him, um, tell him we’re might be dealing with lots of new eyes. Plan B is in effect. You’ll want to give him the message right away. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  ~~~

  He supposed it didn’t matter that they kept calling him in. Driving to Trenton was a pain in the ass, but what the fuck else was he going to do with his afternoon? He glanced at a map in the phone book long enough to remember the best route into tow
n. Kuser to Klockner to Hamilton Avenue to get downtown. If he were still in prison he’d have checked online instead of leafing through pages of maps. Funny how things work out, he thought as he dropped by the front desk at the motel to leave his key and tell them he wasn’t coming back.

  This time there weren’t any places on the street to park, so he had to drive into a nearby garage and spiral upward until there was some open space near the roof level. Working his way back down to street disoriented him, but he knew exactly where he was once he stepped out of the garage. He was still three blocks away from the Parole Board offices, but there was plenty of time and no reason to hurry. That was something he found himself saying more and more. Somehow it didn’t feel good to admit to himself that he didn’t have very much to do.

  As he moved along the sidewalk he cracked a smile. Somebody in the Judicial Building, most likely that weird lab dude whose name he couldn’t remember, just might be tracking his approach. Maybe they’ll all be waiting in the fucking lobby for me. But they weren’t, of course. When he pulled the glass door open there were a few other grubby visitors waiting in a lounge area, and a uniformed guard sitting in a kiosk and already watching him closely. It was early, probably too early to go up for his meeting, but he may as well check in. At least the goon behind the desk would stop staring.

  The phone rang out in his pocket before he could move. Even with his limited experience he could tell that there wasn’t much juice left in the battery, judging by the whiny sound. He slid it out of his back pocket and answered without checking the tiny screen to see who it was.

  “Billy? This is Russ. You okay?”

  “Sure, I’m swell,” he answered, turning away from the guard, and then from the gawkers over in the waiting area. “Every day gets better and better. You better talk fast because this thing’s about to conk out.”

  “I will,” Bismarck said. “I just called Ricky Willmar to tell him to tone it down some. He had some bad news, Billy. Some really bad news. He just heard from somebody he knows in the prosecutor’s office. They’re reopening the murder case and you’re a person of interest, as they say.”