Spilled Blood

by Brian Freeman

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Chris told him. ‘Yes, I’m Christopher Hawk.’

  ‘Michael Altman. I’m the county attorney for Spirit County. I believe you wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Mr. Altman, yes, I do. It’s about Olivia.’

  ‘Of course. My office is upstairs. Shall we talk there?’

  Chris trailed behind Altman, who was a compact, efficient engine. The county attorney was easily sixty years old, but he marched up the courthouse steps like a soldier, without losing a breath. On the second floor, he guided Chris to an office on the south corner of the building and closed the door when they were both inside. The office looked out toward the river.

  Altman removed his trench coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. He wore a solid navy suit, not expensive but perfectly pressed, with a starched white dress shirt and paisley tie. His dress shoes weren’t new, but they had a shiny polish. The county attorney pointed to the chair in front of the desk, and Chris sat down. The older man slid a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to dry his wet glasses. He repositioned them on his face, then sat and checked his watch and folded his hands together. His desk was empty of clutter.

  ‘You haven’t asked for my advice, Mr. Hawk,’ Altman began, ‘but do you mind if I offer you some?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I did my homework on you. You’re smart. Smart enough to realize you don’t belong anywhere near this case. My advice is that you hire a good lawyer from the Twin Cities and let him or her do the heavy lifting.’

  ‘I appreciate your candor.’

  ‘I’m a father like you. Four girls. If it was one of my daughters, I know that I couldn’t separate my emotions from my legal judgment. Neither can you. You are not a defense attorney, and even if you were, you’d be making a mistake representing your own daughter. Frankly, if you persist in representation, I may ask the judge to have you removed as counsel.’

  ‘I understand your concerns, Mr. Altman,’ Chris replied. ‘I haven’t made any decisions about outside counsel yet. Right now, I’m just trying to figure out what happened on Friday night.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the chain of events is pretty clear,’ Altman said.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  Altman swiveled in his leather chair. He pinched his gray beard. ‘You’re a negotiator, Mr. Hawk. I’ve learned that much about you. Are you looking for some kind of deal here? Are you already thinking about a plea agreement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that you and the sheriff’s department already have your minds made up about Ashlynn’s death, but I think you’re wrong. My daughter says she’s innocent.’

  ‘Innocent?’

  ‘She didn’t pull the trigger. She didn’t shoot Ashlynn Steele.’

  Altman’s head snapped back and forth in a sharp dismissal. ‘Your client is lying to you. I don’t need to tell you that defendants lie all the time, do I? Clients lie to attorneys, and daughters most certainly lie to fathers.’

  ‘I believe her.’

  ‘Of course you do, which is another reason to bring in counsel with no emotional attachment to the accused. Look, Mr. Hawk, any attorney you hire will do a dance about your daughter’s age, and her consumption of alcohol, and her emotional state, and about whether a game of Russian roulette – if in fact there was any such game, rather than a cold-blooded execution – demonstrates a depraved mind. Fair enough. Those are questions for a judge and jury. But if you don’t believe we have overwhelming evidence that Olivia Hawk caused the death of Ashlynn Steele, then you are fooling yourself.’

  ‘No one saw her pull the trigger,’ Chris pointed out, ‘and you didn’t find the murder weapon at the scene.’

  ‘Your daughter tested positive for gunpowder residue.’

  ‘Tanya Swenson saw Olivia fire a gun, but she fired into a tree, not Ashlynn.’

  ‘Tanya saw your daughter take out a gun and threaten to kill Ashlynn Steele in a deserted location not two hours before her body was found in that same location. We have a self-professed motive for the crime based on her antipathy toward the victim and the victim’s father. We may not have the gun, but we have a bullet in the tree and a bullet in Ashlynn’s head. We’ll match the two, I assure you. There is no rush to judgment here, Mr. Hawk. If we’ve moved quickly, it’s because the evidence warrants it.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Chris said, ‘but the victim was also the daughter of one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the county.’

  ‘You think your daughter is in prison because of pressure from Florian Steele?’

  ‘Let’s say it crossed my mind.’

  Altman sighed and opened the center drawer of his desk. He removed a business card and slid it toward Chris with the tip of his index finger. ‘I haven’t had to get new business cards in twenty-six years, Mr. Hawk. That’s how long I’ve sat behind this desk. I’ve seen it all. Meth factories. Mayors selling city contracts for bribes. Environmental fringe groups blowing up power lines. Illegal immigrants locked in semi trailers. Right now, I’ve got the U.S. attorney in Minneapolis telling me he’s got hard evidence of child pornography distribution operating out of my county. Frankly, I’ve got too much on my plate to worry about political pressure.’

  ‘That’s refreshing, Mr. Altman, but men like Florian Steele know how to get their way. If Florian is convinced that Olivia murdered his daughter, he wouldn’t be shy about demanding action.’

  ‘As would you if it were your daughter.’

  ‘I’m not the CEO of Mondamin Research,’ Chris said.

  Altman stared at Chris in silence for a long time. ‘I appreciate your situation, Mr. Hawk,’ he replied finally. ‘I would find it hard to imagine one of my children taking someone else’s life. It’s easier to believe she’s being railroaded to satisfy a powerful man like Florian. Unfortunately, I live here, and you don’t. I’ve seen too many sweet young people – people just like your daughter – who have been radicalized by this insane feud. There’s a lot of misguided hatred in this county surrounding Mondamin.’

  ‘Misguided?’ Chris asked. ‘Five teenagers in St. Croix died of leukemia.’

  ‘I realize that, but it’s a tragic coincidence.’

  ‘In a town of four hundred people? That’s a hell of a coincidence.’

  ‘Honestly, no, it’s not. People shudder when they hear about cancer clusters, but nearly all of them are mathematical anomalies. If you flip a coin a few million times, you’ll land on heads a hundred times in a row at some point. It happens. The loss of those children in St. Croix is devastating, but the families blamed Mondamin because of emotion and speculation, not facts. I’m a lawyer, not an epidemiologist, so I can’t tell you anything about the science involved. All I can tell you is that an independent special master found no evidence of any link between Mondamin Research and the deaths of those young people in St. Croix.’

  ‘You’re a lawyer. You know a lack of evidence doesn’t mean there’s no link.’

  Altman stared at the ceiling. ‘Yes, I get it, Mr. Hawk, I do. People are naturally suspicious. I don’t know exactly what goes on behind the walls at that company. However, one of the largest agri-businesses in the world acquired Mondamin last year, so they must be doing something right. I gather they snip at DNA strands and create new strains of seeds and pesticides. Genetically modified organisms. Nanoparticles. If you believe the hype, they’re part of a revolution that will wipe out world hunger. If you believe the environmentalists, they’re monsters fiddling with things they don’t understand, creating mutants that will kill all of us. Take your pick. Whatever you believe, the hard truth is that the families of St. Croix lost in court. They chose not to let it end there. Ever since the judge threw out the litigation, I’ve had to deal with terroristic violence from teenagers in both towns. Shootings, fire bombings, animals tortured.’

  ‘Olivia wasn’t involved in any of that.’

  ‘Not as far as I know, that’s t
rue. On the other hand, your daughter has been a vocal critic of Mondamin at the local high school.’

  ‘Free speech isn’t a crime,’ Chris said.

  ‘No, but carrying a gun without a permit is a crime. Murder is a crime. I knew Ashlynn Steele, Mr. Hawk. I used to see her at church every Sunday. Regardless of what you may think about Florian, she was a beautiful, intelligent young woman. I will see she gets justice. I would do that for any man’s daughter.’

  ‘Sometimes children pay for the sins of the father,’ Chris said.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Destruction will rain down on all that you have created. No one will be spared.’

  The county attorney carefully adjusted his black glasses, then steepled his fingers in front of his chin. ‘I see you’ve been reading the newspaper.’

  Chris nodded.

  ‘Yes, we’re investigating this man who calls himself Aquarius,’ Altman said, ‘but we don’t know if he represents any actual threat.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he obviously has a bitter grudge against Florian.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting? Aquarius followed Florian’s daughter and killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he did. Can you rule it out?’

  Altman shook his head. ‘Mr. Hawk, I know you want to help your daughter, but you can best do that by focusing on your legal strategy, not by putting on rose-colored glasses about her innocence. Right now, a good lawyer would be thinking about ways to make a jury sympathize with what she did, not dreaming up farfetched conspiracy theories.’

  ‘Olivia didn’t do it,’ Chris said.

  Altman spread his hands in resignation. ‘Fine. It’s your call.’

  ‘I’d like to review everything the police have gathered so far in this case. Is that going to be a problem?’

  ‘No, I’ll make sure we get copies in your hands promptly.’ Altman added, ‘Perhaps that will open your eyes.’

  Chris ignored the jab. ‘There’s a detention hearing tomorrow morning. Where do you stand on that?’

  ‘I have to oppose, even though I’m not likely to win. Olivia doesn’t have a criminal history, but there’s a real threat of more violence if she’s released.’

  ‘She’s not going to harm anyone, Mr. Altman,’ Chris said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Actually, I’m thinking of her own safety. You should be, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Michael Altman frowned. ‘I mean, if she’s free, she’s in danger. That’s the reality in this county right now, Mr. Hawk. The safest place for your daughter may be in jail.’

  4

  Chris had last visited the town of St. Croix four years earlier, when Hannah’s mother passed away at the age of seventy-two. He thought of it as a place where kids were born, grew up, moved away, and never came back. The old-timers were the only people who stayed, living out long lives among the harsh Minnesota seasons and eventually emptying the town one by one. As the years passed, the population of the church cemetery outpaced the houses and farms.

  They were dying faster in St. Croix now. Faster and younger.

  He drove south on the highway out of Barron, tracking the banks of the Spirit River. Five miles later, the road turned east and followed a narrow stream for several more miles before heading south again toward Iowa. It was easy to miss St. Croix along the highway. Several miles from the split at the river, the speed limit dropped to thirty miles an hour, and he turned left into the tic-tac-toe grid of town streets. He could see the white bell tower of the Lutheran church jutting above the roofs of the houses. The wide blocks were empty. It was dusk, and the four hundred residents of St. Croix were saying grace and eating dinner.

  His ex-wife’s maiden name was Grohman. Hannah Grohman, daughter of Josephine and Cornelius Grohman. She’d kept the name Hawk after the divorce, because she said it fit her personality better. That was true. Hannah had keen eyes for trouble, and she dove into situations without fear and with wicked strength. To her neighbors, though, she was Hannah Grohman, living in the house where she’d been born. She was a hero in St. Croix, because she had returned home after years away. She’d rejected the city and gone back to the country. She’d brought her daughter with her. No one did that.

  Chris parked outside the Grohman home at an intersection immediately across the street from the church. He saw lights inside the two-story house and caught a glimpse of someone moving behind the curtains. He recognized her silhouette, and his heart seized. It was too early to go inside. Too early to see her.

  He got out of the car and took big strides into the middle of the lawn, which was muddy from rain. Lots were large here; there was plenty of space. Trees were spread far apart, casting large pools of shade and leaving other patches for sunshine. The house itself had white wooden siding and a sprawling front porch, furnished with four Adirondack chairs. The black roof had a sharp angle above the second-floor windows. The house had stood in this place for nearly a century.

  The winding branch of the Spirit River flowed immediately behind the house, so close that Olivia probably could have jumped to the water from the window in her upstairs bedroom. It felt like a river out of Huckleberry Finn, with evergreen trees leaning over the sides of the bank and dipping their branches in the lazy current. With no leaves on the trees yet, he could see the brown water shouldering toward a gray metal railway bridge two hundred yards away. On the other side of the stream, dormant tracts of corn fields awaited the spring thaw.

  Chris stood alone on the bank, motionless, watching the quiet town of St. Croix as night fell. Above the moldy dankness of the water, he smelled the aromas from town kitchens. Roast chicken. Cookies. Two dozen types of hot dish. A few people had left up their holiday lights to blink in white rows on the roof lines. Eventually, he heard chimes in the bell tower of the church. It was eight o’clock. When the bells tolled for the eighth time and went quiet, silence fell over the town like a shroud. He didn’t see a soul.

  This was what Hannah had left him for. This lonely scene stripped from a Christmas card.

  He knew he was being unfair. A fifteen-year marriage didn’t end in a heartbeat, and it didn’t end without both of them forgetting to care for it. Back then, he’d felt blindsided when his amazing, beautiful wife had turned her back on him and taken away his daughter. He’d worked for years to make a life for the three of them, to keep them safe in a world that offered little security. He’d assumed that was what she wanted, and instead she’d said: I can’t be that woman anymore.

  That woman. His wife.

  It began with the death of Hannah’s mother. Josephine Grohman, iron-willed like her daughter, had founded the Grohman Women’s Resource Center in Barron to address what she called an appalling inattention to the health and social service needs of rural women. She’d spent decades as a lightning rod for controversy, and her death had left a gaping void in the politics of southwestern Minnesota. During her slow decline, she’d made it clear that she wanted Hannah to fill that void. To come home and continue her legacy.

  Chris had never believed his wife would go; she would never leave him. He was wrong. She’d been silent for a year as she wrestled with her destiny, but then she came out of the shower, crying, took his hands, and told him she was going home. Just like that. It took him a long time to give up his bitterness. It took him two years to realize that the end of their marriage hadn’t begun with Josephine’s death. It had begun much earlier, as they led a slow march away from each other and watched it happen like spectators, doing nothing to stop it.

  Not her fault. Not his fault. Their fault.

  He thought about what Olivia had told him at the jail. Mom’s got it. Cancer. The same disease that had claimed Josephine’s life. He was devastated at the news and hurt that she had insisted on going through this alone, as if she assumed he couldn’t bear it. She was probably right. He stood there, invisible among the trees, trying to gather the courage to see her. Trying to find a way not to melt at the sight of her face. />
  Chris headed for the house, but he stopped when a rumbling truck engine interrupted the solitude of St. Croix. Not even a quarter-mile away, rubber squealed as a vehicle braked sharply and turned off the highway. He saw the twin beams of headlights, but as he watched, the headlights vanished. The pick-up truck was dark. It cruised through the criss-cross grid of streets, coming closer. It passed the church and came straight toward the intersection. He couldn’t see faces through the dark glass.

  The truck slowed in front of Hannah’s house.

  Then the shots began.

  Chris threw himself to the wet ground as bursts of smoke and light flashed like bombs. Six loud bangs erupted in rapid succession. Glass shattered as at least one bullet smashed through a first-floor window, and he heard someone scream. He recognized the pitch of the voice. It was Hannah.

  He pushed himself up and ran, shouting her name. Cheers and laughter floated from the pick-up. They were young voices – teenagers – but the voices cut off in startled silence as they heard him. The truck headlights flashed on, blinding and pinning him. He ducked, conscious that he was an easy target. The pick-up bolted in reverse, weaving as it retreated up the street. The headlights vanished, and the car screeched into a U-turn, speeding across one of the house lawns as it veered toward the highway. He heard the engine roar. The car accelerated, racing north.

  Back toward Barron.

  He ran for the steps of Hannah’s house and pounded on the door. He called her name again, but there was no answer. The house was quiet, and the silence fed his fear. Just as he was about to climb inside through the broken window, he saw the door slide open six inches. The pretty face of his ex-wife peered out at him.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘They’re gone,’ he said.

  Hannah switched on the porch light and opened the door wider. He wanted to embrace her, but she walked past him onto the front steps. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a dozen people had already assembled near the house; they had run from their own homes to help. She waved at the street.