Lucky Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  “There are some irregularities,” Hurley says. “But our investigation is still ongoing. You knew about Jack’s win at the casino a few months back?”

  Smothers shrugs. “The whole neighborhood knew.”

  “I understand that you approached Jack about a loan of some sort.”

  “So you know about that,” Smothers says.

  Hurley nods. I sip my hot chocolate, which is surprisingly good.

  “Yeah, I asked him to loan me some money so I could pay up on my mortgage,” Smothers says. “My wife, Carol, she got that ovary cancer last year. She died a couple of months ago. I run a lawn care business, and being self-employed . . . well, money gets tight and the only insurance we could afford didn’t cover much.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hurley says.

  “Yeah, me too,” Smothers says. “She was a good woman.”

  I feel sorry for Smothers, too. Individual policies often cost an arm and a leg in premiums and cover less than your average hospital gown. Most people who don’t have a job that provides health benefits can’t afford to get sick. At times I wonder if the government is supporting the labor market by keeping health care costs high, but those thoughts make me sound too much like Arnie’s foil-hat conspiracy friends.

  Smothers stares into his coffee cup for a few seconds, lost in whatever memories he has. “Anyway,” he continues, “the medical bills added up, and before we knew it, the bank was trying to take away my house because we were behind on the payments. So I went to Jack to ask for help.”

  “And?” Hurley asks.

  “And he loaned me enough to keep the bank at bay . . . for now.”

  “You say he loaned it to you. Were you supposed to pay it back?”

  “We worked out an arrangement for me to earn it back by taking care of his yard for him, mowing and weeding in the spring and summer, snow and ice removal in the winter. Jack was keeping a record of each time I did something, and he attached a dollar amount to it, subtracting that from my balance.”

  “Do you have a copy of that?”

  Smothers shakes his head. “I trusted Jack to keep track of things. To be honest, I was so grateful to him for helping us out that I would have kept doing his yard for him for the rest of his life for free. Jack was a good man, fair-minded, kind, and generous. He understood the pressure Carol and I were under, and I think he knew how hard it was for me to come to him in the first place. He said he would love to help us out more by paying some of our medical bills and such, but that he needed to keep most of his money for his own care. I understood that better than some might. Health care ain’t cheap.”

  “How much did Jack give you initially?”

  “Five grand. It was more than I asked for, but he insisted, saying he needed someone to tend to his property anyway, and to consider it a form of prepayment.”

  “And do you know how much you still owed?”

  “Most of it,” Smothers admits, looking sheepish.

  “And your medical debts?” I ask.

  He looks at me with an expression of betrayal, making me wonder if he’s insulted by the subtle implication, or if he thought the hot chocolate was a bribe of some sort. “I still owe the hospital and the doctors a lot of money, if that’s what you mean,” he says testily. “But I’ve worked out payment plans, and I’m paying it off a bit at a time. I imagine I’ll be paying it off for the rest of my life,” he adds bitterly.

  Hurley says, “Where were you on the morning of the fire?”

  Smothers takes another sip of his coffee, staring at us over the top of his mug. “I was here, at home,” he says when he’s done. “And yes, before you ask, I was alone.”

  “Do you know if any of your other neighbors asked Jack for money?” Hurley asks.

  “You’d have to ask them,” Smothers says in classic, taciturn Midwestern style. “We’re all friendly on this street, but people tend to talk only about the superficial stuff. It’s a small town, you know. You got to mind your own business, or before you know it, everyone else is in it.”

  Don’t I know it.

  Hurley thanks Smothers for his time; and after I gulp down the rest of my hot chocolate, we leave. As we negotiate the crumbling stairs of Smothers’s front porch, Hurley nods toward a gray ranch across the street and says, “Gatling’s house is that one.”

  As we head across the street, Hurley says, “So what do you think about Smothers?”

  “I don’t know. He certainly has motive, but he seems broken and resigned to me rather than ruthless.”

  “You feel sorry for him.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I do. He’s had a rough time of it lately.”

  “You can’t let your emotions get in the way of the truth, Winston.”

  “What truth? We don’t know anything for sure. Besides, he had little to gain by killing Jack—unless he knew the cash was stashed in the house, and there’s no evidence of that.”

  “There’s no evidence to say he didn’t know, either. And killing Jack eliminates his debt,” Hurley argues.

  “Five grand hardly seems like much of a motive when you consider that he probably owes tens of thousands to the hospital and doctors. If he was suspected of blowing up the hospital’s financial records, you might convince me. But otherwise, I don’t see him killing someone in cold blood.”

  Gatling’s house is in better shape than Smothers’s. The yard appears well kept, though the overall charm is hampered by the three cars up on blocks in the driveway. I remember someone saying that Gatling talked to Jack about investing in an auto repair business. I wonder if he might have an off-site garage somewhere.

  “Does this Gatling guy have a job?” I ask Hurley as we approach the front door.

  “He was working at Gullen’s auto repair shop until about a month ago, but they fired him for missing work and showing up drunk a couple of times.”

  We knock on the door and ring the doorbell, both of which produce no results. I head for a front window and peer inside. The house looks lived-in, but it’s dark inside, and no one appears to be home. Hurley and I circle the house in opposite directions, looking through the other windows until we meet up in the backyard.

  “Nothing?” Hurley asks me.

  “No signs of life.” Two trash cans are located at the back end of the driveway and I lift the lids on both to look inside. One contains nothing; the other is filled with empty beer and vodka bottles. “Interesting,” I say. “This looks like Jack’s garbage. A sign of the economic times, I suppose. I’ve heard that people drink more when there’s a recession.”

  “They do, and the current economic state means our list of suspects will just keep growing,” Hurley says, shaking his head and sighing. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever solve this case.”

  Chapter 16

  Hurley and I head back to the police station. Once inside, he checks in with Jonas Kriedeman, the station’s evidence tech and all-around guy Friday. Jonas is a twenty-something guy who at one time aspired to obtain a college degree in criminal justice, with an eye toward becoming a cop. However, because of his small build and a bad case of asthma, he couldn’t pass the physical for the police academy. Then his girlfriend turned up pregnant and left a month after giving birth, leaving her baby daughter behind. As a result, Jonas became a single dad three years ago, forcing him to drop out of school and take whatever job he could get. His mom helps him with day care and such, and the local police department took him on in his current capacity. I’ve heard he’s still pursuing a degree part-time; but for now, he’s a valuable addition to our crime investigation team, helping to process scenes and collect evidence, some of which Arnie analyzes in our office, and some of which gets sent to the crime lab in Madison.

  “Got anything for me?” Hurley asks him.

  “I do. I searched Brian Denver’s car and found a bunch of extra clothes, which I sent off to the Madison lab just in case any of them might have been the ones he was wearing when he set the fire.”

  “If he set th
e fire,” I say.

  “Well, I also found a gas can in the car,” Jonas says. “I sent it to the lab, too.” He shifts his attention back to Hurley. “I checked on Jack Allen’s mortgage, like you asked, and found that it was with a company down in Chicago. Jack owed just over a hundred and fifty grand on it when he won his big payday at the casino. He paid the whole thing off a month later.”

  “That accounts for some of the money,” Hurley says. “But there’s still a lot of it missing. Anything on the phone and e-mail records?”

  “Yep, here you go.” Jonas hands him a file. “I’ve identified some of the numbers for you. Not sure if it will help much, since they are all numbers we’d expect to find: the nursing agency, Brian Denver, the housekeeper, and some neighbors. There were no calls on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. And his e-mails are pretty tame stuff.”

  Hurley takes the file and hands Jonas the agreement between Jack and Serena. “Do me a favor and check with the notary on this to see if it’s legit. Then make a copy of it for our files and give me back the original.”

  “Will do.”

  As Jonas heads off, Hurley looks at me and says, “I’m going to look this stuff over to see if anything leaps out. You’re welcome to help, if you want.”

  “Actually, I think I’ll head back to my office and check in with Izzy. He was expecting a confirmation on Donald Strommen’s ID. Then I’m going to copy and look over Jack’s chart. I don’t expect I’ll find much—but if I do, I’ll let you know.”

  I walk the short distance to the ME’s office. After finding Izzy in his office, I fill him in on the day’s findings and interviews.

  “Sounds like you have your work cut out for you,” he says when I’m done. “Arnie just told me that the hair combings and nail scrapings we took from Brian Denver didn’t reveal anything significant. But given what Jonas found, it sounds like he’s still on the suspect list anyway.”

  “Yeah, him and half the town, it seems. Looks like Hurley and I will be spending a lot of time together on this one.”

  “How is that going?”

  Izzy is well aware of my feelings for Hurley. We have discussed the ramifications any romantic relationship might have on my position. It was a very serious discussion, as I gave Izzy reason to suspect my commitment to my job over Hurley on another, recent case. Because of this, I opt not to tell him about the whole kissing thing at the motel earlier today, since I don’t want to mention anything that might make him question his decision to trust me again. Hopefully, he won’t hear about it from someone else. Secrets are hard to keep in a small town, unless it’s got something to do with health care.

  “It’s going fine,” I assure him. He eyes me closely, and I know his bullshit detector, which is frighteningly well honed, is searching for manure. “We’ve had some frank and honest discussions about where the lines are, and the repercussions that might ensue if we cross them. We have an understanding, and we’ve settled into a nice, comfortable working relationship.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Izzy says. While his tone supports his words, the narrowing of his eyes tells me he’s still suspicious. “Want to come over for dinner tonight?” he asks. “Dom is cooking beef tenderloin, with baby potatoes and asparagus.”

  I wonder if Izzy’s invitation is merely an excuse to spend more time with me so he can better gauge my sincerity. Fortunately, I have plans, because Izzy is frighteningly good at reading me. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to give in and confess all, just so I could enjoy a meal prepared by Dom. Resisting food in general is not something I’m good at, and resisting Dom’s cooking is tantamount to torture.

  “Thanks, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Hurley and I are heading back up to the casino tonight to look over some of the employee files there.”

  “I see,” he says; and for one frightening moment, I think he does.

  “Where are we on the ID stuff for Donald Strommen?”

  “I expect to hear something shortly.”

  I leave Izzy and head for the library, which doubles as my office. I copy Jack’s chart and then start reading through the various visit notes, doctor’s orders, and summaries it contains. Lisa Warden’s notes make up the bulk of the chart. It becomes apparent early on that her role was a dual one. In addition to the routine nursing stuff, such as baths, catheter care, wound care, and skin care, she also helped him with his meals and with the occasional errand. Her notes go back more than a year, with Paul Fletcher providing regular weekly supervisory visits. Everything is consistent time-wise with what we’ve already been told by Warden and Fletcher: Fletcher last saw Jack on December 23, and Lisa saw him early on Christmas Day.

  Most of the notes in Jack’s chart involve routine care you’d expect to find with any paraplegic, but there were a few bumps in the road: a hospitalization for the debridement of his bedsore, with a resultant infection that required IV antibiotics for several weeks; a bout of the flu, which led to a month of home respiratory treatments; and a recent problem with severe constipation, which required frequent enemas.

  Izzy comes in, just as I’m finishing up with the chart.

  “Strommen’s dentist just called and confirmed, so we’re good to go out there anytime,” he tells me. “Given that I’m unsure of the cause or manner of his death at this point, we should probably invite Hurley along.”

  I call Hurley and put him on speakerphone. First I update him on Arnie’s findings and my review of Jack’s chart. Then he, in turn, informs us that the notary on Serena’s note with Jack is legitimate, that the phone and e-mail records haven’t turned up anything of interest, and that the two patients Lisa Warden supposedly saw on Christmas morning after leaving Jack’s place have verified her alibi.

  When I tell him we finally have an official ID for Strommen, the three of us discuss what to do next. We decide to have Hurley call Strommen’s wife—both to make sure she is home, and to make the visit, at least initially, appear to be nothing more than another police inquiry into her husband’s disappearance. Hurley puts us on hold to make the call and comes back a couple of minutes later to confirm that the wife is home and expecting him.

  Izzy and I arrange to meet Hurley there. I decide to ride with Izzy in his car, figuring the arrival of a hearse at the Strommen house might be a bit impolite, considering our task. But riding with Izzy is a challenge, since his car is an old, restored Impala, with a bench front seat. Izzy can barely reach the pedals with the seat in its most forward position, which leaves me curled up in the passenger seat like a giant Baby Huey in utero. Unfortunately, the Strommens live on a farm at the edge of town, and the house is located at the end of a long, bumpy drive. By the time we arrive, I have a cramp in both legs, a bite on my lip, and the beginnings of a bruise on top of my head.

  As I unfold myself from the car, I use a tissue Izzy gives me to wipe the blood off my lips and teeth. I look at the surrounding fields, which are now barren and plowed up, and the barn, which has huge holes in its sides and a missing door. Through the opening, I see a tractor and a combine parked inside, surrounded by a variety of farm attachments and an ATV that looks like it’s seen better days.

  The house looks to be at least a hundred years old. The clapboard siding is faded and peeling, and the window boxes on the front are filled with dead plants. A brick chimney on the roof, which is missing a large number of shingles, is crumbling. As we climb the front steps, I notice that the handrail is leaning precariously and the porch is missing a few boards in the floor. There is an older model Ford pickup with a dual cab parked beside the house, and given the towing unit I see on the back of it, I figure it was what Donald Strommen used to get his boat to the launch site. I wonder how long it was before the truck was returned to the family once it was determined that Donald was missing. Living out in the country like this, having some sort of vehicle is a necessity.

  Charlotte Strommen—a tall, thin woman, with stick legs, almost no waist, and a face that is gaunt and wan—looks as tired and worn-out as her surroundin
gs. She is wearing a tattered white housedress, a once-white cardigan sweater with holes in it, dingy white knee socks, and white tennis shoes. With her pasty complexion and bleached blond hair, the all-white combination makes her look like a ghost.

  Hurley steps up and shows her his badge. “I’m Detective Hurley, with the Sorenson Police Department. I’m the one who spoke with you on the phone a short while ago.” He then points to Izzy and me. “This is Mattie Winston and Dr. Rybarceski, with the medical examiner’s office. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

  Charlotte starts wringing the thin cotton dish towel she is holding in her hands. “You found him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hurley says. “I’m sorry. His body washed up along the shore of the river, near a farm on the other side of town.”

  “Are you sure it’s Donald?” she asks, looking from Hurley to us, and back again.

  “It’s definitely Donald,” Izzy says. “We verified the remains using his dental records.”

  Charlotte squeezes her eyes closed, and two fat tears roll down her cheeks. “I guess I knew it all along,” she says. “The empty boat, the fact that he didn’t come home . . .” She sighs and her body sags, making Hurley step up and take her arm.

  “Let’s go inside and sit down,” Hurley says. “Are Peter and Hannah here?” he asks, referring to Charlotte’s two kids.

  Charlotte shakes her head as Hurley steers her inside and to a nearby couch. “They’re at a neighbor’s house,” she says. And then she starts to sob. “Oh, God. How am I going to tell them?”

  As Izzy and I follow Hurley and Charlotte inside, I scope out the surroundings. Despite the warm temp outside, it’s cold inside the house. And if the furnace is working at all, I’d wager the thermostat is set at around 50 degrees. There is a fireplace, but it’s dark and empty. Based on the condition of the chimney outside, I’m guessing it’s unusable. The walls are covered with faded, peeling paper; the furniture all looks like frayed and shabby rummage sale stuff; the wood floors are dulled, scuffed, and scarred from hundreds of feet wearing them down; the light fixture in the living room is hanging down from the ceiling by a cord that I suspect is old knob-and-tube wiring.