Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  “Rawlings, Montana,” I said.

  “From Montana to interview?”

  Barner said, “Yeah, I got it,” waving for Ryan and me to come down to her. She looked down at a slip of paper. “Seagate and Miner, right?” I nodded. “Let me call Detective Knox. You want to take a seat over there on that bench? He’ll be right down.”

  We sat down. “They look like they’re thrilled to see us, huh?” I said.

  “I guess their eight-hour shift is a lot longer than ours,” Ryan said.

  “Apparently.”

  “Well, if they have Sanders and we can figure out he’s our man, it’ll be worth it.”

  “You’re always looking for the bright side, aren’t you, Ryan?”

  “You bet. I’ve got a good feeling we’re about a half hour away from solving this case.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see.” I was tired of sitting around, waiting. I saw a man come down the stairs. He was forty, a shaved head, goatee, half-closed lids over tired eyes. This would be Knox. He walked over to us.

  “Johnny Knox,” the detective said. He looked at a scrap of paper in his hand. “Karen Seagate,” he said, shaking my hand. “And Ryan Miner. Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I said. “We want to thank you for picking up Sanders for us.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Hope that didn’t mess things up too bad with the church.”

  “No. It was okay,” Knox said, leading us up the stairs. “The lieutenant put in a call to Father Hrbek. They work together on a bunch of things. Hrbek’s had some experience counseling prisoners and parolees. I think you just caught him off guard when you called him. The lieutenant talked him through why he didn’t want to protect this guy. He told the Father you wanted to talk to him, that’s all. Worked out okay.”

  “Great. So you’ve got him?”

  “Yeah, we put him in one of the interviews,” he said, pointing down the hall we were walking. “We bought him dinner. He’s okay.” We stopped outside the interview room, which had a deadbolt that locked on the outside. “Okay, Detectives, have a good time talking to him,” Knox said with a sad smile.

  “Yeah, thanks, Johnny. We talked in Montana.”

  We walked into the room. It looked like our own interview rooms, but a couple hundred years older. The walls were yellow tiles, many of them cracked and broken. The grout had turned a grey-brown. Sitting in the middle of the room was an old black steel table, its scratches, gouges, and dents testifying to some lively interviews. Four blue plastic stacking chairs ringed the table.

  A cafeteria tray sat on the table. On it was the triangular plastic wrapper from a sandwich from a machine and a can of Coke. That was Sanders’ dinner. He was sitting on one of the plastic chairs, looking twenty years older than he had a few days ago. Puffy grey bags underscored his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. His skin looked a sickly yellow, thin as paper. His blond beard, which was carefully groomed when we last saw him, looked like it hadn’t been trimmed since then. Grey whiskers were visible in the inch of skin separating the beard from his neck. He wore a t-shirt with an old black V-neck sweater over it. He looked up at us but didn’t seem to realize who we were.

  “Mr. Sanders, you remember me? I’m Detective Seagate. This is Detective Miner.” His eyes shifted back and forth from me to Ryan. “Do you know why we asked the police to bring you in?” He was silent. I didn’t know how far gone he was, but he looked like he’d have a lot of trouble finding his way back.

  Ryan and I sat down. I was thinking about how to carry out the interview. Suddenly, he spoke. “I ima-ma-magine you are here to arrest m-m-me for murdering Arlen.” His fingers tapped out the rhythm on the steel table.

  “Did you kill Arlen Hagerty?”

  “N-N-N-No, Detective, I d-d-did not. I w-w-w-wanted to, but I d-did not.”

  “Let me tell you why we’re here, Mr. Sanders. When you came to our office in Rawlings last week, you told us you had just flown in that morning from Waco.”

  “That was tr-tr-true.”

  “Yes, it was. But you didn’t tell us you were in Rawlings a few days before, when Arlen Hagerty was killed. Why didn’t you tell us that?”

  “Y-Y-You didn’t ask.”

  “Now, you see, Mr. Sanders, what you just said, that’s the kind of thing makes us think maybe you did kill him. Then, when we wanna talk with you about it and nobody knows where you are, not even your partner, Mr. Friedl, that’s when we start thinking it even more.”

  “I have co-co-committed no cr-cr-crime, Detective.”

  “Nobody’s accused you of any crimes, Mr. Sanders. But Detective Miner and myself want to talk with you now, to understand what’s going on. You hear what I’m saying, Mr. Sanders?”

  He looked at me as if I was insulting him. “T-T-T-talk.”

  “We need to understand what you were doing in Rawlings that first time, before you flew back to Waco.”

  “I c-c-c-came to t-t-talk to Arlen.”

  “What about?”

  “Ab-b-b-bout Henley Pharmaceu-ceu-ceuticals.”

  “What about Henley Pharmaceuticals, Mr. Sanders? Don’t make me pull every sentence out of you. I can see you’re pretty tired, but we can sit here with you all night, if that’s the way you want to do it.”

  “W-W-We had found out Ar-Arlen was supp-porting Dolores We-We-Weston, and that she was w-w-w-working to bring Hen-Henley to Rawlings.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I d-did the re-research. I s-saw an ad from S-S-Senator Weston that m-mentioned that S-Soul Savers was supp-p-porting her cam-campaign, and I d-d-d-discovered that she was working to get the Repu-pu-publican caucus to support the t-t-tax breaks for the c-c-company. I p-p-put it together. I w-w-wanted to ask Ar-Ar-Arlen if he k-k-knew she was doing this.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Y-Y-Yes,” he said, his face contorting. “I c-called S-S-Soul Savers and found where he was st-st-staying. I c-c-called him and met him that af-af-afternoon, at a c-c-coffee shop.”

  “What day was that?” I could see the strain this was putting on him. His face was flushed with exertion, and he was breathing heavily. But I had to keep going.

  “Tu-Tu-Tuesday, the d-day he was ki-ki-killed. We met at a c-c-coffee shop downt-t-t-town.”

  “You didn’t meet him at his hotel?”

  “N-N-No, I didn’t want to r-r-r-run into anyone else from that g-g-group. I wanted to sp-peak with Arlen alone.”

  “Do you remember the name of the coffee house?”

  “No, I-I don’t. It wasn’t a ch-chain, like S-S-Starbuck’s. It had a woman’s n-n-name in it.”

  It could be Elsie’s. “Okay, tell us about the conversation.”

  “I n-n-need a b-b-break,” he said.

  “Take a minute or two to collect yourself,” I said. The three of us sat in the interview room. An awkward silence hung over the room.

  After a couple of minutes, Timothy Sanders began. “It was like the c-c-conversations we u-u-used to have when I was p-p-president of S-S-Soul Savers but he was pulling the or-or-organization away f-f-from me. I p-p-p-presented the view that it was po-po-potentially very d-d-d-dangerous to get too closely involved with a p-p-politician, about how D-D-Dolores Weston’s ag-genda might overlap w-w-with ours to s-s-some extent, b-b-but her ultimate p-p-priority was to gain and m-maintain power. I felt her all-l-liance with Henley might necess-s-sarily draw her into c-c-conflict with our g-g-goals.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “He s-s-said what you w-w-would expect a m-m-man like that to s-s-say. That he underst-t-tood my concerns, but that he didn’t ag-g-gree there was a p-problem. He said that D-Dolores Weston had ass-s-sured him she b-b-believed strongly in our c-c-causes, in the r-r-rights of the unb-born and so forth, and he t-t-trusted her. He s-s-said she was a w-w-woman of her word. However, I had d-d-done considerable research on Henley Pharmaceuticals, and I d-d-did not see how it would be p-possible for them—g-g-given their research age
nda—to b-be of like m-m-mind with us. All y-you have to d-do is read their annual reports. They say it as c-clearly as it c-c-can be said.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The ar-rgument became more he-he-heated. He t-told me he had m-met with me, he had listened to my p-point of view, and th-that was that. When I r-reminded him I had f-founded Soul Savers and w-was a life m-member of the B-Board, and that the c-chair was Archbishop McManus, he s-simply laughed in my f-face. He t-t-t-told me McManus—that’s what he called him: McManus—was not a p-problem. He would g-get the Board to do w-w-whatever he w-w-wanted, and th-there was n-n-nothing I c-c-could do about it.”

  “And that was the end of the conversation?”

  “N-N-No, he f-felt it ap-p-propriate to c-call me a ‘p-p-pathetic freak.’”

  “He was talking about your stutter?”

  Sanders was silent for a moment, his breathing labored. He looked down at his hands, folded on the table. “M-Many years ago, when I th-th-thought he was a m-m-man of s-s-substance, I had confided in him … I had c-c-confided in him that I was a v-v-victim of ab-b-buse.” He stopped talking.

  I said, “He called you a pathetic freak because you were an abuse victim?” He didn’t reply. He just looked in my eyes. “Mr. Sanders, was that the end of your conversation with Mr. Hagerty?”

  “Y-Y-Yes.”

  “And then you flew back to Waco?”

  “F-First I t-talked with D-D-Dolores Weston.”

  “She knew who you were?”

  “N-N-No, she didn’t. I explained to her on the ph-phone who I was and what I s-suspected was the r-relationship b-between her, S-S-Soul Savers, and Henley Pharmaceu-ceuticals. She ag-greed to meet with me.”

  “What happened at that meeting?”

  “S-S-She explained to me, as Ar-Arlen had, that she would n-never b-b-betray the r-r-rights of the unborn. She was quite poised, supplying a p-plausible answer to every q-q-question I had. F-Finally, I asked her if she w-w-was aw-ware Arlen was a man w-with, shall we s-say, unsa-avory s-s-s-sexual habits.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She smiled her b-b-beautiful smile and told me she had no interest in s-such things. She didn’t believe in the politics of c-character assassination. That was her phrase.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I th-thanked her f-for her time and r-returned to the airport.”

  “You went home?” I wanted to see if his story lined up with his partner’s.

  “I d-didn’t g-go home. I w-was t-too angry. I d-didn’t want to d-d-disturb S-Stephen m-more than n-necessary. He g-gets so upset. I w-went s-somewhere else. I k-know other p-people in W-Waco.”

  “Okay, why did you return to Rawlings?”

  “When I l-learned of the m-murder, I d-didn’t know what to d-do. I w-wanted to p-p-present myself to you in hopes that you w-would not suspect me of the c-crime.”

  Ryan touched my arm, asking for permission to speak. I nodded. “Mr. Sanders, tell us about the church.”

  “W-What would you like to know, D-Detective M-M-Miner?”

  “When you came to Rawlings two days after the murder, you stopped off here in Milwaukee, is that correct?”

  “Y-Y-Yes.”

  “The abuse occurred at Our Lady, didn’t it?”

  Sanders held his gaze. “How d-do you know that?”

  Ryan said, “I’m a Catholic, too.”

  Sanders said to him, “W-Where did it h-happen to you?”

  “In my church … in my church in Portland, Oregon. I was nine years old.” Ryan’s eyes began to tear. He put his thumb and index finger to his eyes.

  “The p-priest?”

  Ryan said, “Yes.”

  “D-Did you t-tell anyone?”

  “The only one I’ve ever told, before right now, is my wife.”

  Sanders nodded his head in fellowship with Ryan. “H-Have you ever g-gone back to the c-church?”

  Ryan said, “When I can, I go back there.”

  Sanders said, “W-Why d-do you go b-b-back?”

  “I don’t really know,” Ryan said. “I think it’s to see if I can see myself there. See who I was, see what happened there, how it changed me.”

  “W-When I c-come here to Our L-Lady,” Sanders said, “I s-see how small the ch-church is. It’s j-just a few b-bricks, some c-colored w-windows, a few trinkets. It’s n-not where J-Jesus lives. It’s just a b-b-b-building.”

  “And the priest, he was just a man,” Ryan said.

  “He w-was the p-pathetic one. I w-was just a little boy,” Sanders said. “I s-still have J-Jesus. I still have Mary.”

  Ryan got up from his chair and walked over to Sanders. He put his arms around Sanders’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. Sanders clung to Ryan’s arms and began to sob. Through his tears, Sanders said, “I c-couldn’t kill F-Father Heaton. I c-couldn’t kill Ar-Ar-Arlen H-Hagerty. I could n-n-n-never k-kill anyone.”

  “I know that,” Ryan said, hugging him tightly, kissing the top of his head, stroking his shoulder. “I know.”

  I didn’t know what was happening between Ryan and Timothy Sanders. I knew only that Sanders was telling the truth.

  Ryan kissed Sanders on the head one more time and released him. Sanders’ arms trailed out, as if he didn’t want to let go of him. Ryan returned to his plastic chair. Sanders removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his eyes.

  Ryan said, “Mr. Sanders, I think we’re ready to conclude our interview. We’re going to ask the police to release you and recommend to our chief you be dropped as a suspect. But there’s one more thing we need to ask of you.”

  “W-What is that, D-Detective?”

  “Before we came here tonight, our chief told us he wanted us to check you for defensive wounds.”

  Sanders looked puzzled. “I d-don’t know w-what you’re ref-ferring to.”

  “You don’t know this because you had nothing to do with the murder. You don’t know Arlen tried to fight off the murderer. The murderer will have scratches on his arms, maybe on his chest. We need to be able to tell our chief we looked at your arms and your chest.”

  Sanders stood up. He removed his sweater, then his t-shirt. His arms and chest were smooth and unblemished.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” Ryan said. To me, “Do you have anything else for Mr. Sanders?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said.

  Ryan walked over to Timothy Sanders and hugged him again. “May God bless you and heal you, Timothy.”

  “G-God b-bless you, R-Ryan,” he said, kissing the detective on the cheek.

  I watched them separate, their hands entwined. “Mr. Sanders, we’ll send the detective in, and he’ll arrange to have you put up tonight, then be on your way tomorrow, okay?”

  “Y-Yes, Detective. Th-Th-Thank you.”

  “I want you do a couple of things,” Ryan said.

  “W-what’s that, D-Detective?” he said.

  “I want you to call Stephen in Waco. He’s really worried about you.”

  “Y-Yes, I will. W-What’s the other thing?”

  “I think you should visit your mother, in West Chester. You need to talk to her. She’ll understand. She’ll understand everything. She loves you.”

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  Ryan and I left the room and walked down the hall to ask Detective Knox to take care of Sanders. Downstairs, we asked Sergeant Barner if she thought we would find it hard to get a cab to the airport. She told us it might be but offered to call an officer to run us out. We walked over to the wooden bench to wait.

  “Ryan, if I asked you a question, would you tell me the truth?”

  “There’s a pretty good chance I would, yes.”

  I looked at him. “Are you a Catholic?”

  “No, Karen, I thought I mentioned I’m LDS.” He shook his head, mocking my gullibility.

  “So there was no priest?”

  “No.”

  “No abuse?”

  “No.”

&n
bsp; “So why that whole story?”

  “I just wanted him to take his shirt off.”

  “And you figured since we couldn’t force him to do it, you’d talk him into doing it.”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “I see.”

  Ryan said, “Just so I’ll know, am I going to have to explain everything to you, Karen?”

  “There’s a pretty good chance,” I said.

  * * *

  Ryan and I made it back to Rawlings a little after noon. We each went home to change clothes and came back to headquarters to report to the chief and see if Robin had the DNA results.

  The chief’s lunch was running a little long, so we sat in the armchairs in his outer office. Every time I looked up, I saw Helen Glenning giving me a nasty look for using up her oxygen. After fifteen minutes, the chief walked in, taking off his coat, nodded to the two of us, and entered his office. A moment later, he used the intercom to tell Helen we could enter.

  “Did Sanders give it up?”

  “No,” I said. “We don’t think he did it. His story is kind of complicated, but we buy it.”

  The chief said, “He’s got an alibi for when Hagerty was killed?”

  “Not exactly, but we believe his story about coming to Rawlings to talk to Hagerty and Dolores Weston about the Henley deal.”

  “Why exactly is that, Detective?”

  “Like I say, it’s kind of complicated, involving his beliefs in the Catholic Church, some past abuse by a priest, his relationship to Soul Savers, a whole lot of things.”

  “So you’re saying you can’t put him somewhere else when Hagerty was being killed, but something about the church and abuse makes you sure he didn’t do it.”

  Ryan said, “Chief, we could tell you the whole story, but it would take a while, and we need to get with Robin to talk about the DNA. Karen and I agree we need to keep looking.”

  He shook his head, as if Ryan was getting dumber every day by hanging around me. “Great work, Seagate. Don’t forget to put in for your expenses in flying to Milwaukee to figure out that Sanders didn’t do it.” He looked back down at the papers on his desk, signaling that the interview was over.