by Allen Eskens
As I waited for Jeb to pick me up for our trip to Mankato, I sent a text to Lila—a text because I wasn’t ready for the conversation that awaited us. I told her that I was on my way to see Angel, thus fulfilling the reason for my trip to Buckley. I ended the text by wishing her good luck on her studying, my way of letting her know that there was no need to respond. Cowardly, I know.
Jeb pulled into the lot just after eight a.m., driving a black Ford Explorer, his personal vehicle. We would have a little over an hour of driving, and I had made it my goal to use that time to impress Jeb. For one thing, other than Vicky Pyke, Jeb was the only other person in Buckley who seemed to want to talk to me. For another, I had an idea on how to draw Moody Lynch out of the woods, and I needed Jeb’s help.
“Got you some coffee,” he said as I climbed in.
I’d already downed a cup of coffee, but as far as I was concerned there was always room for more. I waited for the Explorer to bounce out of the rough motel parking lot before venturing my first sip.
“I made some calls yesterday,” he said. “I thought you should know that I don’t think you had any part in what happened to Toke.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I honestly didn’t know the man was alive until I saw your press release—at which point he was dead.”
“That’s what your editor said.”
“You called Allison?”
“I called a few people. I can’t speak for the sheriff, but I crossed you off my list.”
“Is Charlie Talbert still on your list?”
Jeb paused as if considering what to say before he answered. “This is Sheriff Kimball’s show, not mine.”
“But you think Charlie’s a possible suspect?”
“Not as far as the sheriff is concerned.”
“You’re dancing,” I said.
“Investigations are confidential, Joe. I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“It’s the fire, isn’t it? The one that killed Charlie’s business partner.”
“How’d you know…” Jeb caught himself and pulled back. “Joe, there’s stuff I can talk about and stuff I can’t. You get my drift? People say that you’re a guy to be trusted, but I can’t go where you want me to go.”
“People say I can be trusted?”
“Like I said, I checked you out.” He looked at me sideways as if waiting for me to guess. Finally, he said, “I called the Minneapolis PD. They told me about what happened when you were in college.”
“I thought those records were confidential.”
“They’re non-public―that’s not the same. Besides, I’m a cop. I can get my hands on all kinds of secret stuff. That’s quite the adventure you had. Hell, you’re a hero.”
“It sounds cooler than it was,” I said.
“You brought down a serial killer.”
“I almost got myself killed—my girlfriend too.”
“But you solved a crime that was three decades old. That’s impressive.”
“I was an idiot. I was impulsive and lucky, that’s all. My girlfriend, Lila, she should get the credit. She was the brains. My only contribution was to stumble through it without getting killed.”
“And I hear that you got some reward money for…not getting killed?”
“Yeah. A hundred grand. I thought I was rich, but you’d be amazed how fast money drains away when you have college and law school tuitions to deal with. After all was said and done, we had to take out a loan to pay for Lila’s third year.”
“Well, the folks up in the Cities speak highly of you. I also hear that you’re a pretty fair reporter.”
“Fair? I’d say I’m better than fair.”
“No, I mean fair in that you don’t have an agenda. You keep confidences.”
I thought about the lawsuit and my source, Penny. I was on the verge of losing my job because I was being “fair.” I was keeping my word, and it had landed me in the middle of a defamation suit that made my stomach churn every time I thought about it. All I had to do was give her up and I’d be out of that jam. But I don’t give up sources, and because of that, people—even cops—thought that I was a fair reporter.
“Yeah, I can keep a secret,” I said. “So is the sheriff still looking at Moody to be Toke’s killer?”
“Again—confidential.”
“What if someone were able to get Moody to come out of hiding? Maybe get his statement? Would that help?”
“Someone like…you?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“Hear me out. I could help.”
“You’re a reporter.”
“A fair-minded reporter. Don’t forget that part.”
“You’re Toke’s son.”
“That’s not for sure until that DNA test comes back.”
“Doesn’t matter; it’s a bad idea all around.”
“Maybe, but I really think I can help.”
“How?”
“Like you said, I’m a reporter—for the Associated Press. That carries some weight.”
Jeb gave me a questioning glance. “What do you mean?”
“You want to find Moody Lynch, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And from what I’ve heard, if Moody doesn’t want to be found, you won’t find him. Would you agree?”
“He knows how to hide, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s hiding because he doesn’t trust cops. He probably thinks Nathan Calder will set him up. I heard those two have issues.”
“Issues?”
I could see that Jeb was testing me to see what I knew about Nathan’s entanglement. So I obliged. “Moody caught Nathan Calder having sex with some woman from the Court Administrator’s Office. Moody videotaped their tryst and sent a copy to Nathan’s wife. How am I doing so far?”
“Not bad.”
“And you expect Moody to just come waltzing into the Sheriff’s Office and turn himself in to Calder? That’ll never happen.”
“We’ll find him, one way or another—”
“Jeb, people sometimes call reporters because they want their stories in print as protection against bad cops. It’s the old saying: sunlight is the best disinfectant. They understand that if their story is out there for the public to read, there’s less chance they’ll be railroaded.”
“We don’t railroad people.”
“But suppose there was a reporter in town, someone who could write Moody’s story, someone with the clout of a major news organization behind him. Moody might be willing to talk to that reporter.”
“You think Moody will talk to you?”
“Why not? What’s he got to lose?”
“And if he contacts you? What then?”
“I get his version…and maybe I can convince him to turn himself in—to you, not Nathan.”
“Just like that?”
“I said maybe. But if nothing else, I get him to talk, tell me what happened that night.”
“You’ll let us record it?”
“No. I won’t set a trap. He has to know that I’m independent of you guys, or else he won’t trust me—and I won’t lie to him.”
“You’ll share what he tells you?”
“I’ll make sure he knows it’s on the record.”
“So why are you telling me all this? If you’re so independent, you don’t need my permission.”
“I need information. I need to get some of the detail of what happened that night, so that I can challenge him. I don’t want Moody bullshitting me.”
“You want me to share investigation details with you?”
“It’s a simple bargain. I’ll share if you share.”
“Or I could just throw you in jail for interfering with an investigation.”
“I know the law, Jeb. I have no obligation to say a word to you, and my silence won’t be a crime. You have no grounds to arrest me as long as I’m not physically getting in your way. All I’m asking for are a few details so that if I have contact with Moody
Lynch, I can ask the right questions—just a few basic facts to get the ball rolling.”
“If he contacts you, you’ll let me know?”
“If you share—I’ll share. Just give me a thumbnail sketch of what went down.”
Jeb paused to consider what I was leading him toward. Lines would need to be crossed, but they were insignificant compared to the possibility of bringing in a man wanted for murder—at least that’s how I saw it.
After a minute or two of silent contemplation, Jeb looked me in the eye and said, “This goes no further than this car, okay?”
“I promise.”
He fixed his gaze back on the highway and said, “We got a nine-one-one call that night. It came from the Hix place, but there was no one on the line. It was a cell phone, but we have the technology to track down cell phones now, especially the newer GPS kind. I was off duty when I heard the call on my scanner. I don’t live all that far from the Hix place, so I was the first to arrive at the scene.”
“You were driving this car?”
“Yeah.”
“No dash camera?”
“Nathan was in his squad car, so he has footage.”
“Can I see it?”
“I thought you just wanted some background?”
“Fine. What happened next?”
“There was a light on in the barn and also in the house. Because there was no voice on the other end of the nine-one-one call, I assumed a medical emergency of some kind, and I went to the house. I knocked, and when I got no answer, I went inside and searched until I found Angel in her bedroom. I tried to wake her, but she was unconscious.”
“No one else around when you got there? Did you hear anything?”
“Not a thing. But I wasn’t expecting to find a murder scene. I thought…I don’t know what I thought, but I didn’t think that.”
“Did you go to the barn?”
“No. Angel’s pulse was so light. She stopped breathing once, and I gave her mouth-to-mouth. It was like she was becoming too weak to live. Nathan arrived a few minutes after me. He went to the barn. He’s the one who found Toke.”
“How was Toke killed?”
Jeb agonized over that one a bit before answering. “I can’t tell you everything, but if you get a chance to talk to Moody, it might be helpful to know that Toke was hit in the head. That’s as much as I can say right now. If Moody killed Toke, he’ll know that already.”
I wanted to tell Jeb that his secret was out. Vicky had already told me most of what Jeb was now taking great pains to reveal. I guess she was right when she said that nothing stays a secret in Buckley. But I needed more from Jeb.
“Why is Moody on the top of your list?” I asked. “I know that he and Toke didn’t get along, but if that’s the only thing you got, then Moody’s just one of many. As I hear it, just about everyone in the county hated Toke.”
“Don’t sell Toke short—it’s not just Caspen County that hated him.”
“That’s my point, there has to be more than just bad blood.”
“We have Angel’s phone. She and Moody were texting that night. Angel told Moody that she was freaking out. She said that she needed him to come out to the farm. Moody agreed. They were going to meet in what Angel called ‘their usual spot’ at midnight. We think the usual spot was the horse barn, and the autopsy suggests that Toke was killed around midnight.”
I thought about that scenario, but something didn’t fit. “If Angel and Moody are meeting in the barn at midnight…why was she in bed with pills in her stomach?”
“We’re not sure. Our working theory is that Toke saw the text messages and forbade Angel from going out to the barn. If Toke went out there to confront Moody, that might be how it all started. We won’t know exactly what happened until we hear from Moody.”
“Or until Angel wakes up.”
“Maybe, but clonazepam tends to cause amnesia. When she wakes up, it’s likely she won’t remember much of anything. So you see why it’s important that we talk to Moody. Maybe there’s an explanation as to why this all happened.”
“And that’s where I come in.”
“Joe, if Moody calls you, let us know. This isn’t a joke.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I said.
Chapter 17
Jeb led me down the corridors of Immanuel-St. Joseph’s Hospital, straight to the Intensive Care Unit, and when we arrived at the nurse’s station, Jeb said, “Hi, Jen,” to a nurse who wasn’t wearing a name tag, which made me wonder how many times he’d been there to visit Angel. Jeb told the nurse that I was Angel’s brother. She gave me a polite smile, and I nodded my hello, and that was all it took to get me into Angel’s room. I probably could have managed that on my own.
The room smelled of bodily fluids and alcohol swabs, thinly masked by disinfectant. Angel had a tube in her mouth, another in her nostrils, and an IV in her arm. She had wires clipped to her fingers and more disappearing under the collar of her gown. A thin strip of tape held her eyelids closed, and her hair was splayed out on the pillow in oily ribbons. She seemed too small to be fourteen.
“Joe, meet Angel,” Jeb said in a hushed tone.
I moved to the side of the bed. “Can she hear us?” I asked.
“Her ears work, so what we say is making it inside her head. Whether her mind understands those sounds, they can’t say.”
I wanted to whisper something to Angel, but she was a stranger to me, as much my flesh and blood as Jeremy was—if my mother had it right—but a stranger nonetheless. She looked helpless and alone, her tiny figure tangled in the wires and tubes that kept her alive. I wanted to tell her that she had a brother, let her know that I was there for her. But I held my tongue and pondered how it was that blood carried such weight?
I turned and whispered to Jeb, “Is she…you know…brain dead?”
“No. She has activity in her brain. She can even open her eyes and move her arms sometimes. The doctors are hopeful that she’ll pull out of it. But, Joe…if she does wake up, there’s a good chance that she’ll have problems.”
“Problems?”
“Neurological and maybe physical. She’ll need therapy. They can’t say for sure right now, but that’s usually the case.”
A picture in a silver frame stood on a small table beside her bed. I recognized Jeannie in the photo, remembering her picture from the obituary. She stood between a child and an older man. The child was a girl of maybe four or five, whom I assumed was Angel—which meant that the older man was probably Jeannie’s father, Arvin Hix. Curious as to when the picture was taken, I opened the back of the frame and looked. I didn’t find a date, but someone had written an inscription on the back of the picture. I read it out loud, “My Bapu, my baby, and me.”
“What?” Jeb asked.
“This picture.” I showed it to Jeb. “My Bapu, my baby, and me. Is this Jeannie?” I pointed to the woman in the photo.
“Yes, that’s her.”
“She called her dad Bapu?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure where that came from.”
“Gandhi,” I said.
“Gandhi?”
“Well, that’s where I first heard it. You ever see the movie—the one with Ben Kingsley? Gandhi’s followers sometimes referred to him as Bapu. I think it’s a sign of fatherly respect.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“But I thought Jeannie didn’t get along with her father?”
“Relationships can be complicated, Joe. Jeannie loved her dad, but he was a strict man. Maybe strict isn’t the right word. He had a temper, and when it came to Jeannie, he seemed almost…well, I guess greedy, like he needed to control every aspect of her life. Back when Jeannie and I were dating, I—”
“Wait. You and Jeannie dated?”
“Yeah. I guess you could say that she was my high-school sweetheart. It ended when I left for basic training. Back then, her old man was quite the ballbuster. Did his best to keep her in line, but all it did was make her more reb
ellious. I suppose that’s about the time things started falling apart for them.”
“But she still called him Bapu.”
“He was her father, always would be. She wrote about it when…” Jeb looked at Angel and held back what he was about to say. He nodded toward the door. “Let’s go grab some coffee.”
Once we were in the corridor and walking, he said, “Jeannie wrote about her father in her suicide note. Hix died of a heart attack last year. In the end, he and Jeannie weren’t talking to each other. They hadn’t spoken in quite a while. That was mostly on Hix though. He hated Toke Talbert with a passion like nothing I’d ever seen before. He did everything he could to get Jeannie out of that marriage. When she stood her ground, they just stopped talking.”
“You think she stood her ground because she really loved Toke?”
“Honestly? I think if Hix had stayed out of it, Jeannie would have eventually found the courage to leave Toke. Jeannie had traded one controlling man for another. Toke was as big of an ass as they come, Joe, but he had that bad-boy quality about him. I think Jeannie thought that if she could scrub hard enough, she’d find what she was looking for somewhere deep down.”
We came to a sitting area with no coffee, where we took seats across from each other, separated by a small table with children’s coloring books and magazines spread across it.
“So what did she write in her suicide note?” I asked.
“She said she couldn’t live with the guilt of how things ended with her father. Hix always said that she was cut out of his will, but when he died, it turned out that he never made a will. It was all a bluff. Her note said that when she realized that Hix loved her that whole time, she lost it.”
“She killed herself out of guilt?”
“Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Where’d you find the note?”
“It was on her computer.”
“On her computer?” I didn’t even try to hide my incredulity.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I thought the same thing. No handwritten note. No signature. She kills herself just a few months after inheriting millions, which, by the way, also made Toke a millionaire. It all sounds fishy.”
“You investigated?”
“We did. Toke had an alibi.”