“You could have called me.”
“I know. I didn’t. I heard Brian snoring. I felt better. I fell back to sleep pretty quick.”
Paul said, “Two nights ago you called for help. That’s what you’re supposed to do. There was nothing else you could have done.”
“I wish I could have jumped in. I’m never going to be able to do that. Never.”
Paul was sure this was the heart of the upset. Jeff was very used to his spina bifida, but there were times when he desperately wished to be like all the other kids. He seldom said anything to Paul, but the feelings did surface on occasion. Paul and his son looked at each other. Jeff said, “I know what I am and my limitations. Sometimes it’s a pain in the ass.”
Paul said, “Everybody has limitations. Everybody has gifts. You know yours better than most eleven-year-olds. That’s a tremendous accomplishment.”
“I know. It was just so weird. So, so weird.”
“Are you scared something might happen again?”
“More like, I want to be able to make it stop.”
“You know none of us can stop bad things from happening. I can’t make the criminals of Chicago do that, and I’m a very good detective.”
“Are you going to find out who did it?”
“If I can.”
“Good. I’ll feel better.”
Jeff ’s burbling eased for the next hour. They fished quietly. Talked father-and-son things. They motored around dock and shoreline. Jeff caught three perch.
After they returned to the dock, Turner collected Fenwick and Ian.
Turner said to Ian, “You were out late last night.”
“All night,” Ian said. “I was making friends.” Which could have been Ian’s euphemism for saying he was having sex or could mean he’d been investigating. Turner knew he could have been doing either one all night. Turner well knew how strong Ian’s libido was. Rookie cops at the same time, they’d also been lovers years before, and it had been exhausting. More fun than Turner had had in his life up to then, but exhausting.
“We’re investigating,” Turner said.
“Excellent. What brought this on?”
“I had a visit from Schreppel last night. He pissed me off.”
“Good.”
“I’d like to start with your reporter source.”
Ian accompanied Turner and Fenwick as they walked to downtown.
Steve Fournier was the reporter with whom Ian had spoken. He worked at the Cathura Post. The newspaper office was in a storefront on Main Street.
The receptionist told them they could find the reporter having breakfast at the Old Forest Café, three doors down.
In the restaurant Ian spotted his erstwhile friend, waved, strode over, and introduced Turner and Fenwick.
Fournier was in his late twenties. He was lanky, and, even sitting, his torso stretched quite far above the table. Turner saw black-framed glasses, thick black hair, knotted fists, and ropes of veins on his hirsute arms. Turner knew this was Ian’s favorite-looking kind of guy. Fournier also wore a large gold wedding band. Turner knew this would cause Ian to be discreet, but would not stop his interest. Ian, as did Turner for that matter, preferred more masculine men.
They sat. The waitress brought coffee. Fournier wore a short-sleeved white shirt, a dark blue tie, and faded blue jeans.
Ian said, “We’re off the record?”
“Absolutely.” Fournier’s voice was well into the baritone register.
“These guys got a visit from Chief of Police Schreppel last night.”
Fournier said, “Schreppel is a moron.”
“How so?” Turner asked.
“What I say goes no further?” Fournier asked.
Ian said, “Reciprocal silence.”
“But I get any story?” Fournier asked.
“Absolutely,” Ian said.
The two detectives nodded.
“Schreppel has been in charge for ten years. He’s been on the force for about twenty-five. On his way up he was an ass kisser and licker. How come he was after you guys?”
Turner said, “My son was in town the night of Scarth Krohn’s murder.”
“So were a lot of people,” Fournier said.
“What’s the deal with the family?” Turner asked.
“Scarth’s father, Joseph Thomas Krohn, was the town bully in his day. His son is the same. The man who started this, Great-Grandpa Krohn, supposedly killed several people, including a Mountie, in the Northwest Territories in 1904. He was never convicted. Scarth’s granddad, Blake Krohn, made a fortune in timber back when fortunes could be made in timber. Not like today. It’s been a long time since the family’s well-being was tied to timber. They diversified during World War II. Blake Krohn was also a stud. He fathered seven kids. Many of them and his grandkids are still around. Scarth had a passel of uncles, aunts, and cousins. A lot of the town is connected in some way to the Krohns, either working for them or related to them. Blake put other timber barons out of business. He was supposedly quite ruthless. Scarth’s dad, J.T., is equally so. This town does what he says. We don’t put anything in the paper that would reflect badly on them. Nobody stands up to that family.”
Turner described the incident in the parking lot with the twenty-somethings.
Fournier said, “Problems with the First Nations people occur a lot. Scarth would feed on that kind of thing.”
“Did you know him as a kid?”
“I was ahead of him in school by about eight years. He had a reputation as an athlete and as a troublemaker. The athlete stuff triumphed over everything else. There wasn’t much the rest of the people in the town could do about his wild behavior.”
“What did he do?”
“By this time it’s hard to separate fact from legend. Among certain parts of the population every minor crime at this end of the province was eventually set down to Scarth Krohn. We’re talking property damage, broken windows, drug sales, fights. There were more than a few who felt it was just retribution when he got injured in a celebratory frenzy.”
“We heard about that.”
“I was at the game. Scarth was jumping up and down out of control. He slapped people, punched, shoved. He spent time taunting the other team. They just lost a championship game, and he had to rub it in. He could never do anything halfway. He could never just be happy in and of itself. Somebody else had to be miserable. He’s the kind who would taunt an opponent after he beat him. He’s an asshole, but so is his dad. I don’t feel a lot of sympathy for the kid, but coming from that family couldn’t have been easy.”
“Who would want to kill him?”
“It was murder?” Fournier asked.
“No one is sure,” Turner said.
Ian said, “Steve thinks the other drownings were.”
Fournier said, “More ‘might have been.’ The key is, none of them were investigated. Most of them were out-of-town kids who were going to the local college, St. Croix. Nobody asked questions. The parents who came were too grief-stricken to go beyond the obvious. I wasn’t going to pester them with my suspicions.”
“What were you suspicious of?”
“All of them, except Scarth’s, happened on Saturday nights. It was always the first Saturday of the month. The people with each of them all said that the friends who died left the bar on their own. Someone could have been watching for who was leaving alone and waiting for them. You watch for who is drunk enough, a push, a shove, especially if the water is a little rough, and they drown.”
“Nobody got pushed, shoved, and survived?” Turner asked.
“No. Or at least no one who came forward. Nowadays there are some of us, lots of us, who when we go drinking in the local pubs make sure we don’t walk out alone.”
“Could Scarth have been committing those murders?” Fenwick asked.
“As with all these things, it’s possible, just not provable. It’s the kind of thing Scarth and his buddies would do just for a kick. Just to be mean.”
“And they would get away with it?”
“If it was murder, so far whoever did it has gotten away with it.”
“But Scarth’s murder would imply Scarth’s buddies had turned on him,” Turner said.
“I’ve got no proof for any of this,” Fournier said. “We’re just discussing oddities and possibilities.”
Fenwick said, “Evon Gasple was with them the other night.”
“Good old Evon,” Fournier said. “There are almost as many rumors about her as about Scarth. Evon has a wild reputation. One rumor I got was that she was the actual drug connection in town and the guys she hung around with were distributors.”
Ian said, “That would account for her popularity.”
Fournier said, “I’ve never confirmed any of it. She may be the town slut, but she’s never offered me her services. Supposedly she and Scarth would have these big fights and then get back together. I’ve never been able to find out the truth.”
15
Fenwick, Turner, and Ian’s next stop was Howard Coates’s bar and restaurant. They found Coates in conference with a woman in her sixties with iron gray hair, and a man in his early twenties with short, spiked blond hair and a gold nose ring.
Ian introduced them. The woman was Christine Jenkins. The man was Bill Foster.
Coates said, “We were discussing the serial killings in town.”
Coates was a man in his early forties. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a wiry frame. He wore a leather vest over a bare chest. Turner noted the torso was hairy and the abdominal muscles rippled. His jeans hung low on his hips. Turner knew Ian would be attracted to this type as well. After introductions, Coates asked, “Is there anything you can do? We’re sure there is a serial killer on the loose.”
“How are you sure?” Turner asked.
“There can’t be this many accidents.”
“How many people drown on this lake every year?” Fenwick asked.
“These have been the only ones reported with no witnesses.”
“But there’s been no sign of violence on any of them,” Turner said.
Christie Jenkins said, “It’s a cover-up. The chief of police here is an incompetent moron. He thinks that he’s the only one with the expertise to do anything. He never listens to anyone, especially us. We’re the liberal lefties in town. Actually, nobody listens to us. This is rural right-wing Canada. We hold meetings and three people besides ourselves show up. What do people think is going to happen when they don’t care? If they even do think. And if they don’t pay attention, they get idiots for police chief.”
Her I-told-you-so rant lasted five minutes. Turner wasn’t interested in their political fights unless it led to a murderer.
When she stopped, Coates said, “Schreppel is a goddamn know-it-all. He thinks every decision he makes is best for everyone. He doesn’t have a clue how people really work. He’s tried to get this town under his thumb.”
Bill Foster said, “And he’s pretty much succeeded. People are afraid of him.” When he spoke, Foster tended to touch his nose ring with his right hand. When others were speaking his hands were in motion, gripping his forearms, rubbing his legs, clutching his sides.
“Was Scarth Krohn afraid of him?” Turner asked.
Jenkins said, “Scarth Krohn was the local bully. Everybody hated him and his dad. The police ignored everything he did because J. T. Krohn, father of the bully, owns this town.”
Fenwick said, “He committed crimes and got away with it?”
“I think so,” Jenkins said.
Turner asked, “Why not call on the Provincial Police? Or if they’re under contract with the city, why not elect a new slate of representatives who were willing to stop with the contract? If those things didn’t happen, somebody must like him.”
“A lot of people in this town owe J. T. Krohn,” Coates said. “That’s not the same as liking him.”
Jenkins added, “Or are related to him. They won’t go against him. They won’t go against Schreppel either. This town is so indifferent. You can’t get them to take any kind of stand. Remember the vigil we tried to set up last March to protest the war in Iraq? Six people showed up. One of whom was not you, Howard.”
“Let’s not get into that now,” Coates said. “The point is you can get away with anything in this town as long as your name is Krohn.”
Jenkins added, “And the antipoverty petition. Seventeen signatures after working on it for six months. You’d think people would be against poverty.”
Coates sighed. “Christine, these gentlemen are working with us on the murder. Let’s focus.” She glared at him a moment and then nodded. Coates said, “The cops are backed up by J. T. Krohn’s money.”
“He bribes them?” Turner asked.
“Probably,” Jenkins said.
Coates said, “It might not be as blatant as that, but he is rich. He gets away with anything.”
“But it’s J. T. Krohn’s son who is dead this time,” Fenwick said.
Jenkins said, “That’s what makes everybody so unsure. We feel unsafe. Schreppel has been like a crazed man. First, he does nothing for six drownings. Now he scrambles like mad. He’s the one who insisted all the first killings were not the work of a serial killer. He’s the one who said they were all accidents.”
“Yeah,” Coates added. “Now he’s stuck with his initial analysis. Either he was wrong about all of them or he’s wrong about this one.”
Fenwick asked, “What if he was right about them and this one was the only murder?”
Foster said, “It’s hard to imagine Schreppel being right about anything. It’s like watching somebody get things wrong time after time. It’s as if there was a brick wall in front of him, and he just kept running at it full tilt, leading with his head.”
Turner said, “Okay, Schreppel wins prizes for stupidity and did a lousy job on the first six, or he’s a saint for how he handled the first six and for doing too good a job for the person everybody hated.”
“Saint cop,” Fenwick said.
“Huh?” Coates said.
“Skip it,” Turner said. “What did people know about the first six who died?”
“College kids, young people from out of town,” Coates said. “It was an easy group to dismiss. Only one of them had relatives who lived in the area. That was the first one.”
“Who was that?” Turner asked.
“Scott Cromelin,” Coates said. “He was a quiet kid. Tended to get drunk like a lot of kids. There’s not much to do here in town. Kids get bored. After they graduate, lots of them leave. He died three years ago this month. He’d been drinking at Michael Zoll’s bar. No one saw him leave. He turned up dead.”
“He have any enemies?” Turner asked.
“Not that anyone knew. Like most of the kids he had jobs helping out the tourists. He was a part-time guide. He did fishing and hunting trips.”
Jenkins said, “We’re suspicious now because of all the others. There is no reason for these people to be dead.”
From his detective work Turner knew there were more times than anyone cared to admit that there was no reason for someone to be dead. And sometimes there were reasons and sometimes those reasons made sense and sometimes they didn’t.
Fenwick said, “But this latest one, Scarth, you’re saying there are reasons for him to be dead?”
Foster said, “You bet. Anyone my age or younger hated him and his crowd. They were the town bullies. They were the ones who could make your life hell.”
Fenwick said, “Why didn’t anyone speak up?”
“You can’t tell on your peers.”
Fenwick said, “That rule was made up by the bullies of the world. Who does silence serve? Only them. Silence does not serve the victim. It’s bullshit.”
“We didn’t tell, okay? We just didn’t. You don’t know what bullying can be like in a small town.”
“I’ve found that bullying is pretty much the same all over,” Fenwick said.
“What exactl
y did he do?” Turner asked.
Foster said, “Sometimes he did things just to be mean. People were desperate not to be noticed. Scarth was the star of the local teams. He’d lead the pep rallies. If he spotted you not cheering, they’d visit you sometime when you were alone.”
“How would he know you weren’t cheering?” Fenwick asked.
Foster said, “Maybe he caught your eye in the crowd. He watched everyone. He was very possessive. If he thought you were talking to a girl he was interested in, he’d arrange another meeting.” Not only was he touching his nose ring now, but actually twirling it in its socket.
“Did he have a steady girlfriend?” Turner asked.
Jenkins said, “He had a continuing set of conquests and then an off-and-on steady.”
“Kind of a big woman,” Fenwick said. “Pink glasses?”
“Evon Gasple,” Jenkins said. “He put her in the hospital once. Beat her up. Since sixth grade she’s been the town slut.”
“Beat her up?” Turner asked. “Nobody pressed charges?”
“Scarth can get away with anything,” Foster said.
“Sixth grade?” Fenwick asked.
Foster said, “I was in the same grade as Scarth and Evon. She’s worn skirts too short, jeans slung down to her pubic hair, clothes too tight, and too much eye makeup since she was twelve.”
“When was the beating?” Fenwick asked.
Jenkins said, “Just after they got out of high school. Nobody pressed charges. I assumed money passed hands. They were back together the next week.”
Fenwick said, “You mentioned meetings. What would happen at them?”
“Depended on his mood,” Foster said. “On a really bad day, you’d get the crap beat out of you. It didn’t start when he was an athletic star. When he was eight or nine, he’d take your lunch money. If you had something prettier or shinier, it had to be his.”
Turner said, “And parents wouldn’t notice this?”
“Nobody ever did. Or kids didn’t tell. Or he’d wreck your car. Or the paddles on your boat would be missing or all the contents of your locker would be gone. They’d be dumped in the lake. Or you’d slip on the ice, and he’d be behind you, and somehow no one ever saw him do it. No one except his buddies. Or in the hallway of the school, you’d be smashed into. Or shoved or pushed. Or dumped upside down in a trash can. Or given a swirly in the boys’ locker room when the coach wasn’t watching. Or maybe the coach was and told you to be a man about it. That was Mr. Sterling. He loved Scarth and excused everything he or his buddies did. Or maybe you’d get the hell beat out of you in back of the gym after school.” His right fist clenched the left sleeve of his shirt, his left fist the right. The material was twisted tightly. The memories were grim.
Hook, Line, and Homicide Page 9