by Chuck Logan
She paused and then Mitch heard her icy voice echo along the stone.
“You better tell me the whole truth, you hear? If you don’t it’s going to be like that Edgar Allan Poe story we read in high school.”
Mitch hated it; sprawled in the dirt, looking up, seeing her draw herself erect and clamp her damn Kirby jaw and point down the passage to the narrow part where LaSalle stood watching in his pile of rubble.
“As God is my witness, Mitchell Lee, I will brick you up in here with my own hands and leave you to the dark.”
21
ON SUNDAY PAUL EDIN’S DEATH RECEIVED TWO minutes on CNN. A spokesman for the Alcorn County, Mississippi, Coroner’s Office appeared briefly and read from a prepared statement:
“A Minnesota reenactor has died in an unfortunate accident at the Kirby Creek tactical event. The results of an autopsy just completed in Jackson found that Paul Edin, of Stillwater, Minnesota, died as a result of an unidentified projectile passing through his throat. The wound ballistics are consistent with trauma caused by a low-velocity lead bullet, but no weapon or bullet has been found, and no one has determined who might have fired the shot. The Alcorn County Sheriff’s Department has made a preliminary finding that this regrettable incident was an accident until witnesses or new evidence indicate otherwise…”
Rane watched an establishing shot of a white one-story house with a wraparound veranda on a hill overlooking a wooded field. Then they showed some file footage of Civil War reenactors firing muskets, while a serious-faced reenactor in a gray uniform was interviewed and listed a catalogue of reenactors’ deaths and injuries during the mock battles. For instance, a man had survived a shot in the neck at Gettysburg several years ago. In that case, someone had accidentally left a live charge in a pistol. A few questions were devoted to safety precautions. Yes, there were risks associated with the hobby; you had all these guys with functioning weapons, and black powder was dangerous, especially with artillery. A live round could have been fired by accident. A piece of ramrod could have broken off, debris could have lodged in the barrel…
Accidents happen.
The Star Tribune, Pioneer Press, and local TV recapped the story and interviewed members of the First Minnesota in front of Fort Snelling. Both papers ran a portrait of Paul Edin, a smiling, conventionally handsome man “whose interest in Civil War history had taken a fatal turn.” The article went on to say that Edin was survived by his wife and daughter. His death ran its course in less than twelve hours; a one-day story crowded off TV and the printed page by a vicious string of Baghdad bombings.
Rane avoided the piano and went for a ten-mile run along River Road; he ate his cabbage soup and drank too much coffee. He smoked too many cigarettes, then went down to his basement, where he pushed himself on the free weights, then the heavy bag, and ended the workout with the jump rope. Lungs burning, dripping sweat; he trudged back up the stairs finally exhausted enough to get to sleep.
Late on Monday morning, Jenny called and said straight away, “Tom Dalton and Davey Manning, the two guys Paul went down there with, are coming by to drop off his…things. They’re on the road right now, driving back. They’ll be here around six…”
Rane waited.
“They have new information about what happened, like maybe Paul’s death wasn’t an accident. I’d like you to hear it, to advise me if I should go to the cops.” She sounded lost in a thicket, reaching for a handy machete.
Rane exhaled audibly, remembering the Mississippi cop’s voice on the phone. If it was an accident…
Jenny continued quickly, “That piece you played? Molly wants the sheet music. She asked if you’d help her learn it…”
Rane shut his eyes, thinking, She’s grabbing at straws.
When he didn’t respond, Jenny said, “She’s been asking questions about you…”
“Christ, Jenny,” Rane breathed.
“Slow down. I just told her what you did for a living and she’s looking through back issues of newspapers for your pictures. She’s found three so far.”
“Sure, okay, I’ll listen to what those guys have to say,” he said cautiously. “About the music, it’s a little beyond her. She probably hasn’t played pieces in C#-minor yet. Maybe I could help her memorize the right hand…”
“I’d appreciate it,” Jenny said tightly.
“Jenny, how you doing?” He immediately regretted the intimacy of his tone.
“Not so hot. I spent the morning talking to a funeral director, signing forms to have Paul’s body embalmed so they can ship it back. Did you know they fly bodies back in these containers they call air trays?”
Rane remained silent.
“Sorry,” Jenny said. Her attempt at laughter came out in a sputter of nerves. “One of my neighbors brought over a lasagna and a bottle of Valium. I’m asking you, John…” The request dangled in awkward silence.
“Six,” Rane said finally.
“You remember how to get here?”
“I’ll be there at six.”
At five that evening, after a shower and a shave, Rane rifled through his closet and came up with a pair of gray cords and a black turtleneck. Then he applied polish to a pair of dark loafers and buffed them to a low gloss. Heading for the door, he thumbed through the sheet music in his piano bench and found the Beethoven piece; a yellowed relic bearing a coffee stain, left over from college.
Rane took the long way, down Lexington then east on Sheppard Road, under a late March sky that threatened to spit freezing rain. To his right, plates of gray ice wallowed in the river, and on the left, dirty snow scabbed the brown grass.
He arrived a few minutes before six, parked on the street, walked up the drive, and knocked. A tallish woman in an apron opened the door. Rane noted a resemblance to Jenny in her rangy build and her older, lively, wide blue eyes.
“You must be John,” she said. “I’m Vicky, Jenny’s sister. I came down from Bemidji to help out.” She extended her hand. “Relax honey,” she said with a weary frown, “I know all about you. C’mon in. Give me your coat.”
Rane slipped off his leather jacket, which Vicky hung in the hall closet while he removed his loafers by the door. Paul Edin’s running shoes had been taken away.
“Okay,” Vicky said, “just warning you, it could get crazy if Paul’s parents call again. They’re in Kyoto, Japan, visiting their…” she hooked two fingers of each hand and struck quote marks in the air “…successful son, Paul’s brother, Toby. Toby suggested that Jenny find a funeral service that has real-time Internet capacity so they can attend online. That way the parents don’t have to interrupt their trip and fly back…”
“You’re putting me on,” Rane said.
“Nope. And they got a place like that right in town. It’s a busy world, huh?” Vicky said.
Rane walked down the hall into a house that now had the feel of circled wagons. The heat was turned up, he supposed, because it could be; a comfort factor they could control. Delivered flower arrangements lined the fireplace mantel, giving off the damp scent of thoughtful tears. A hot dish warmed in the oven. Vicky pointed him to the den off the living room. Jenny, her face a drawn practical mask, looked up from a desk covered with notes and official-looking forms. Molly sat cross-legged in shorts and an oversized T-shirt on a couch opposite the TV. Seeing Rane, she unplugged her earphones, clicked off the TV remote, and pushed off the couch.
Rane held out the sheet of music as she approached, relieved he had a piece of paper to interpose between them. Molly took it and quietly left the room. His eyes followed her out of the den, then he turned to Jenny. “How’s it going?” he asked quietly.
She pursed her lips and nodded at the scatter of paper on the desk. “People in and out. Paul’s partner is helping a lot, with the insurance, dealing with the funeral, planning the service. Mom’s picking up some paperwork at the funeral home so I could be here when they show up.”
“How’s Molly handling it?” Rane asked.
Jenny’s h
ead jerked mechanically, and Rane thought of an old-fashioned typewriter carriage being slapped to a new line. “The school psychologist, Patti Halvorsen, is a friend. She’s getting Molly into a grief group they have at Lakeview, for kids…”
They maintained a strict physical distance and did not make direct eye contact. Rane had occasion to be caught in several minefields in his life, and that’s how he felt now. Jenny’s defenses were down and the naked grief made her, frankly, beautiful.
So he excused himself and joined Molly in the piano room. Stiff and formal, he sat down beside her on the bench. Christ, he thought, I’m acting like my old Russian piano instructor, when I was twelve; using his stories and metaphors. As they settled in, he noticed Molly’s long fingers resting on the keyboard next to his own long fingers, and her dark, unruly hair, so like his mother’s. Patiently, he led her into the music and held her hand to help her span the wide first chord. Then he played along with his left hand. Experimentally, Molly, forehead furrowed with concentration, began to pick at the keys.
The doorbell rang. “They’re here,” Vicky called from the kitchen.
From the corner of his eye, Rane watched Jenny go toward the door, told Molly to keep playing, and got up from the bench. The bell rang again. Rane walked swiftly to the door and opened it.
The two men he let in had their arms full. The taller one held a cardboard box under one arm, a heavy duffel in the other. The second carried a bundled thick blue wool coat and a long canvas case that obviously contained a rifle. Their faces were a determined fix of road fatigue and duty.
Rane stepped back as Jenny hugged them both. Heads close in a rush of tears, they tried to comfort each other. “He was having such a good time, Jenny. You should have seen him,” one of the men said in a husky voice.
“It’s okay,” Jenny said, squeezing their arms. Then she wiped her eyes and turned to Rane. “This is a friend, John Rane. He used to be a St. Paul cop and I wanted him to hear what you told me on the phone.”
As Jenny introduced them and they shook hands, Dalton, the tall one, said, “I’ve talked to more cops in the last couple days than in my whole life.” He exhaled, then indicated the box in his arms. “Sorry Jenny. We didn’t have time to clean…”
“Let’s put that in the basement,” Jenny said quickly.
Rane offered to help but the men briskly moved past him, knowing the way to the basement stairs. When they came back up, Jenny led them to the kitchen table, where Vicky had set out four coffee cups and a carafe. Jenny asked Dalton and Manning to sit down.
Rane hesitated, balancing on eggshells of taboo and trespass. Jenny pointed to an empty chair. Rane sat. Vicky, wiping her hands on a towel, walked toward the alcove.
Jenny poured coffee, then sat at the fourth chair in front of an empty notepad and pen. Rane quickly studied the two reenactors. Dalton sported a spiked beard and Manning had a twirled mustache, goatee, and longish hair pulled tight back in a pigtail. He’d covered a Memorial Day parade once, to shoot the First Minnesota placing flags on Civil War graves, then they’d put on a drill exhibition. The seriousness of the hobbyists had surprised him. Despite the hobnailed cadence of their step, Rane recalled a flicker of ritual: pilgrims drawn to tending a flame. Although dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, an iron touch of those blue uniforms clung to Manning and Dalton.
As Molly picked awkwardly at the slow, sad notes muffled behind the closed French doors, Dalton produced a business card and placed it in front of Jenny. “This is the county cop who was standing right next to Paul. He was blended in the ranks, dressed in blue, on a security detail. He went all out to…help.”
Jenny stared at the card. “Beeman. We’ve talked twice. He said he and Paul got to know each other on the long hike before the battle.” She smiled briefly and her eyes softened. “He said he liked Paul.”
Like a good NCO reporting, Dalton cleared his throat and ticked off: “He helped waive next-of-kin identification of Paul’s body to allow us to do it. He helped smooth things with the coroner during the autopsy, expedited the death certificate and release of the…remains.”
“He was pretty decent, actually. For a Southerner,” Manning said. “Not like the rednecks at Raymond a couple years back…”
“Raymond?” Jenny asked with a twitch of an attentive smile.
“Another sniper situation,” Manning said in a clipped voice.
Rane sat up straighter. Jenny bit her lower lip and turned to him. “See?” she asked.
“Tell me about Raymond?” Rane asked.
Manning shrugged. “Six, seven years ago at Champion Hill, near Raymond, Mississippi. A guy wearing blue was shot in the groin and nearly bled to death before we got him to the medics. No thanks to the locals. They didn’t find a bullet that time either. But figured it was .36-caliber, from a pistol,” he said, shaking his head. “You go down there you never know what to expect; some of those guys will look you in the eye and tell you Gettysburg was just the Army of the Potomac narrowly avoiding another defeat…”
Rane held up his hand, putting an edge of the old cop control in his tone. “Tell me about Saturday in Mississippi, minus the editorializing.”
“A lot of people down there think it was a sniper,” Manning said directly. He pointed to the card on the table. “Including him.”
“The newspapers and TV said it was an accident. The death certificate the coroner faxed me listed ‘accident’ under cause of death,” Jenny stated, looking at Rane.
“You think someone shot Paul Edin deliberately?” Rane asked.
It became very quiet in the house. The furnace fan in the basement whirred on. A muted click; Vicky opened and closed the refrigerator door. The silence elongated as she poured a glass of milk, placed some cookies on a plate, and put the glass and plate on a tray.
Rane noticed the piano had stopped. He scanned the living room and spied Molly, who had crept in unobserved and was crouched, listening, big-eyed, behind the couch. He touched Jenny on the arm and pointed.
Immediately, Jenny stood up. “Excuse me a moment,” she said, then collected Molly and aimed her down the hall off the kitchen, telling Vicky to put her in the shower and make sure she washed her hair. Vicky and Molly went down the hall. Jenny returned to the table and sat down. The shower started to run, the bathroom door closed.
Jenny turned to Dalton. “Tell him.”
Dalton exchanged glances with Manning. “Now this is hearsay, not official…” he said.
Rane kept his face expressionless, but he was leaning forward as if exerting sheer gravitational pull would tug the words from Dalton’s lips.
“Tell him,” Jenny insisted.
Dalton shrugged and said, “There’s a specific rumor we heard. This Confederate contacted me by cell phone and made a point of meeting me at the hospital. He’s a Virginian with the Stonewall Brigade. A reliable guy. We met at Antietam years back and have kept in touch. He was incensed about the incident and thought I should know what the local reenactors were saying…”
“Which was?” Rane asked quietly.
Dalton held up his palm and pursed his lips. “According to the locals, the shooting wasn’t an accident. Beeman, the cop, has a running feud with a family around Corinth. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Paul in line. The locals think somebody was trying to settle scores with Beeman and hit Paul.”
22
RANE REACHED FOR THE NOTEPAD AND PEN IN front of Jenny, then pushed them to Dalton. “What did Beeman actually say?” he asked.
Dalton stared at the blank paper, then tongued the inside of his cheek. “We asked him about the rumor. He showed us a text message on his phone, daring him to show his face at Shiloh next weekend.”
Manning screwed up his lips. “He did say that could just be harassment piggybacking on the shooting…”
Dalton shook his head. “Nah, he said that strictly CYA, ain’t what his eyes said. Gut read—he thinks somebody tried to kill him. He said, and I quote, ‘a reenactment’s
the perfect place to shoot somebody, with all the noise and smoke.’”
Manning nodded and leaned forward. “Beeman sat us down when we identified the body, and he was pissed. First thing he said was they, meaning the local politicos, weren’t real interested in looking too hard at this.”
Dalton said, “Corinth’s a big tourist destination, see? They can damage-control an accident. But if word gets out you have a sniper? There’s half a dozen reenactments in Mississippi and Tennessee over the next three, four months.”
“Show me how it happened,” Rane said, nodding at the notepad.
“Okay,” Dalton said. He picked up the pen and talked quickly as he sketched. “See, like Jenny said, Beeman and Paul got to know each other before the battle. When they got in line Paul was standing on Beeman’s left…” Dalton drew a double line of circles representing men in formation. He X-ed one of the circles in the front rank near the left end of the line. “Beeman’s here.” Then he drew a little counterclockwise arc coming off the circle to the immediate left of the X. “Beeman said Paul stepped to avoid tripping, like this, to his left front when it happened.”
“Like maybe the sudden movement threw off the shot,” Manning speculated.
“What’s the ground like? Where’s the other guys, the Rebels?” Rane asked.
“Open field in front, woods to the left and rear. A Reb formation was about a hundred yards out here.” He scribbled wavy lines to represent tree lines, and some more circles to show the relative position of the Rebel reenactors. He raised his fingers to the left side of his neck, looked at Jenny.
“Go on, I want to know everything,” she said.
Dalton nodded. “Paul was hit here. Beeman figures if there was a deliberate shot it had to come from these trees on the left. He doesn’t think it came from the Reb formation.”
“Too chaotic in the ranks for an aimed shot,” Manning added.
“How far to the trees?” Rane asked.