Hook, Line, and Homicide

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “At least you did something,” Turner said.

  She nodded. “I did what I could. Ralph was happiest working on his own. Doing things very carefully so he wouldn’t make a mistake. Sometimes it took him so long, but the key was to give him the time. He’d be so proud when he did something himself and got it right.” She pointed to the carving of the muskie in the center of the tea service. “Ralph did that when he was twelve. It took him the better part of a year. I cried when he gave it to me. He still does them.” Turner saw her eyes glisten. She sighed. “Then he’d get outside the classroom door and the torture would begin.”

  Turner said, “When did he start fighting back?”

  “I remember that day well. It was one of the greatest moments of my career. It was after school. They were twelve-years-old. Ralph still often came to talk to me, but he hadn’t been in that day. His teacher that year was fired later. He did nothing to help that boy. Although that wasn’t why he was fired.”

  “Why did he get fired?” Ian asked.

  “He was another incompetent fool,” Fleming snapped. She took a sip of tea and then continued more mildly. “He was a pro-Scarth jock fan. At twelve Scarth was playing with the fifteen-year-olds. Ralph didn’t get big until after he was fifteen. Then he blossomed and bloomed. But before all that, it was difficult for Ralph, very hard. That day I heard a noise after school on the playground. It was a group of kids in a circle jeering. That’s a sure sign something is wrong. I hurried out. Kids saw me and began to disperse. I saw Ralph, skinny, helpless little Ralph, sitting on top of Scarth, who was at least a head taller mind you. Ralph was hitting, kicking, gouging, biting, scratching, and Scarth was bleeding, crying, and hollering. Scarth was fighting back as hard as he could, and he was losing. As soon as I saw what was happening, I stopped hurrying. I walked as slowly as I could. By the time I got there, Scarth was curled in a small ball. He was whimpering. I called softly to Ralph to stop. He looked up at me. Stopped immediately. He began to sob. Scarth shoved him over hard into the dirt. Scarth got up, all scratched and bleeding, and began to taunt Ralph for being a crybaby. I did something quite unprofessional. I grabbed the little son of a bitch by the ear, gave it a sharp twist, held on, and marched him to the office.”

  Turner eyed her slight frame. She smiled at his look. “I’m still a teacher at that school. You’d be amazed how easy it is to cow the largest, most hulking football lineman, much less some twelve-year-old.”

  Turner said, “I don’t think I would be amazed.” She had a presence and command that didn’t need heft.

  “Didn’t Ralph’s parents complain?” Turner asked.

  “Getting in touch with Mr. or Mrs. Bowers could be difficult. He was never around much. Mrs. Bowers was a small slip of a woman who never said much of anything. She was ineffectual and sad. Mrs. Bowers would ask for advice about what to do. I’d give her a list of what to say and precisely what to do, and specific details on how to help. She’d smile and go away and nothing would change. More parents than I care to admit are like that.”

  “Toxic parents,” Turner said.

  “It happens,” Fleming said. “Oh my yes, it happens. In any event, Scarth got the beating he deserved. That boy was a danger to the world.”

  “After the incident, did Mr. Krohn try to make trouble?” Fenwick asked.

  She chuckled. “He came in all fuming. I reminded him about one day when he was in third grade, and I was his teacher. He pissed his pants in front of the class. J. T. Krohn has no terror for me.”

  “Does he for others?” Turner asked.

  “Money,” she said. “It’s all about money.”

  “So, did Scarth’s behavior stop?”

  She frowned. “He became less bold around school. That was about the age he became sneakier. He might not be the direct cause, but it always seemed like a friend of his was in trouble. Perhaps Scarth would urge the friend to give the teacher a hard time or urge his friend to steal something or deface something. For whatever reason, they listened to Scarth and did his bidding. And remember, after grade school, he went to the high school, where his athletic prowess had far more influence. I thought the favoritism Elijah Sterling showed to him was disgusting.”

  “What was that?” Fenwick asked.

  “Sterling would beg teachers to let him pass their classes, or forgo assignments, or turn the other way. The sports people were among the worst. The usual enshrinement of athleticism over morals or decency.” She sighed. “The fight with Ralph did have one other effect.”

  “What was that?” Turner asked.

  “If Ralph saw Scarth picking on somebody, Ralph would step in. He was quite the little protector. He may still be in his own quiet way. I think he has as little to do with the town as he can.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Krohn?” Turner asked.

  Fleming sighed. “You’d see Mrs. Krohn in a local restaurant trying to discipline her ten-year-old son. The kid would choose not to behave. She’d be dragging him out by the arm and wrestling with him.”

  Fenwick asked, “How is that different from you grabbing his ear and dragging him to the office?”

  “Mine worked. He behaved for me. I scared the hell out of him. Still do. Last week we were in the grocery store at the same time. He and his cronies hung their heads and said, ‘Hello, Mrs. Fleming.’ I said hello back. A most satisfactory exchange. Mrs. Krohn would try talking to him, and he’d laugh at her. Mrs. Krohn would claim her little dear was bored because he was so intelligent. Bored my ass. So being bored translates into being the town bully? I’m bored so I get to hit, pick on, call names, hurt anyone or anything I can get my hands on? Oh no, Scarth Krohn was a shit.” The word from those calm, precise lips seemed to echo in the wilderness. She paused a moment, then resumed. “But it was his parents who were incompetent morons. They tried excuses: ‘He was bored.’ ‘Evil television and movies corrupted him.’ ‘Violent video games made him do it.’ Bull hooey.”

  “We heard the girls were especially afraid of him,” Turner said.

  “If you were Evon Gasple, you weren’t. They were boyfriend and girlfriend off and on for years. I think it was sick. They were the male and female sluts of their year in school. She got the pejorative label. He was named a stud. They were made for each other. Most of the other girls, unless they were very stupid, stayed away from Scarth Krohn and Evon. Evon could be as mean and cruel as her erstwhile boyfriend.”

  “Does Scarth have brothers and sisters?” Turner asked.

  “A brother, Trent. Three years younger. Quietest, most mild-mannered child. Smart. Did extremely well at college this year. He’s back this summer. He works for one of the tourists’ lodges. I’ve heard said that he’s mostly cut himself off from his family. He lives by himself on a little spit of land on the lake. He’s got a small tent. Does some fishing. I hear he gets lots of tip money from the tourists. That’s one way you can tell a successful guide in these parts. He goes out of his way to be kind and helpful. I never saw the two brothers together unless it was some occasion where they were both dressed up. Scarth would always be sitting on his father’s left and Trent would be sitting on his mother’s right, as far away as they could get from each other. I never heard about actual physical fights between them. I imagine there must have been although Scarth was three years older. That little incident with Ralph, now there was a beginning. Ralph stood up to Scarth from that day on. Nobody in this town will forget the day Ralph was chasing Scarth down Main Street. Ralph had picked up a hockey stick and was twirling it round and round his head. If he’d have caught Scarth then, he’d have killed him.”

  “Would he have killed him now in the same kind of rage?” Turner asked.

  “No. No. No. Ralph has it under control. Whatever puberty did, it made him bigger than Scarth and made Ralph a quiet and reflective boy. Getting bigger was the key. Ralph went from being a head smaller to being a head taller than Scarth. Scarth wasn’t the brightest bulb in the socket, but he wasn’t totally stupid. When conf
ronted successfully, he would stop, at least to your face.”

  “Where is Ralph nowadays?” Turner asked.

  “He works at Scarianno’s Bait and Hardware Store on the end of Main Street that’s nearest the lake. The owner felt sorry for him.”

  Turner and Fenwick drove back to town. Turner said, “I wish we had a million more teachers like her.”

  Fenwick said, “I think we do. They don’t get their names in headlines, but my guess is most of them are closer to Beverly Fleming than not.”

  “I hope so. I feel sorry for Ralph.”

  “Where the hell were his parents?” Fenwick demanded.

  But they both knew the truth of the matter from their detective work. Parents abused each other, their kids, drugs, alcohol. No matter what a horror they were as a human being, society had decided because they could procreate, they were worthy of having and keeping kids. So, with rare exceptions, they perpetrated the agony of the world all by themselves in their own little corner.

  17

  Turner and Fenwick found Ralph at Scarianno’s Bait and Hardware store. It was a ramshackle affair of storefronts and corrugated tin stretching for half a block in from the lake. A large table saw whirred near the entrance. Ralph was working in a side yard. He wore a rubber suit that covered him up to his nipples. He was standing in a vat of smelly bait. He saw them and said, “Arthur is up front.”

  Turner said, “We wanted to talk to you. We talked to Mrs. Fleming.”

  “She called me a few minutes ago. She said you were okay.” He eyed them carefully. He slowly got out of the vat and walked to a toolshed, which had open double doors. He had a slight limp and a squint in his left eye. Turner saw that the walls of the shed had rows and rows of tools with their outlines painted behind them. Ralph placed each piece of equipment he was working with back in its correct spot.

  When he was done, he led them into the store. He said, “Scarth was bad, and I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Turner said, “We heard you protected people from him.”

  Ralph sat on a high stool. He swung one foot in a precise arc that did not vary. He looked slightly to the left of Turner’s ear.

  “Scarth was bad.”

  “Who did you protect?” Turner asked.

  “Whoever needed it. Whenever I saw it.”

  “You helped people at school,” Turner said.

  “The teachers were afraid of him. Scarth was bad. Except Miss Fleming. She was good. She was tough. Scarth was bad.”

  “Did you see him the other night when he was drunk?”

  “I don’t go out at night.”

  “We were told you usually take a walk at night along the waterfront. That you’ve done it for years.”

  For the first time his eyes met Turner’s. They did not waver. “I’m not lying. I work. I go home. That’s my waterfront. I live down by the water. I walk a little ways beyond my house. I don’t bother anybody. I don’t talk to anybody. Nobody wants to talk to me. Most of the kids run from me.” He looked away again.

  Turner said, “Did you see anything the night Scarth died?”

  “No.”

  “Has Scarth bothered you lately.”

  “No.”

  “What about his buddies?”

  “All kinds of people come in here to buy fishing gear and tools and stuff. Or to talk. I stay in the back. I work hard.” He began rubbing his fingers together.

  Fenwick said, “People in town have said some bad things about you.”

  “They always do. Anybody who is different. I’m always different. I can’t be like them. I’m just me.”

  Turner said, “I don’t think you did it either, Ralph, but I’d like to ask you a few things.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know Evon Gasple?”

  “Yeah. She offered to let me have sex with her one time. I know she was making fun of me. I could hear her crowd laughing while she asked.”

  “When was this?” Turner asked.

  “Ninth grade.”

  “Did she bother you?”

  “No. I’m not going to have sex until I find someone I’m going to marry. I haven’t had a lot of dates.”

  Turner found himself wishing he was in a Lifetime television movie so he could find someone Ralph could love and who would love him back. He didn’t hold out much hope for the reality.

  “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Scarth?” Turner asked.

  “Yeah, me.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “I don’t worry about anybody else. I worry about me.”

  A burly man in a red beard came through the door into the store. “Hey, Ralph, we got work here. You can’t be gabbing with people.”

  “I gotta work,” Ralph said.

  He went back to his shed and began taking down the same tools.

  Turner introduced himself to the new man, who turned out to be Jerry Scarianno, the owner.

  Scarianno said, “Word’s already round town you guys are asking questions. You can’t count much on the chief of police or the OPP on this. J. T. Krohn’s got too much clout. I figured somebody would try to blame Ralph. He gets blamed for every unexplained crime perpetrated in this town. These people don’t have a clue. He’s worked for me since he was thirteen. Has to be taught, but what kid doesn’t? He’s always on time. He’s always respectful of me and all the customers. He’s a treasure as an employee. I wish I had more like him. A few very good teachers and dedicated social workers got him to the point he’s at now. He was a hellion in the lower grades. Couldn’t be controlled. He learned. He works hard. Once he learns, he’s very good at what he does. Always does precisely the same thing. Can’t think on his own much. Makes him nervous. He’s a good man. Lives by himself. Takes care of himself. He didn’t kill anybody. Scarth Krohn deserved to die. Wasn’t worth the pine needed to build him a coffin. Don’t care if he’s dead. I couldn’t think of a good thing to say about him and his friends when he was alive. Can’t think of a good thing now.”

  “You know Evon Gasple?”

  “Evon is sad. She only knows how to make friends by giving away sexual favors. What an awful way to live. How rotten she must feel about herself.”

  Turner wondered if they’d run into the philosopher of the local bait and hardware clique.

  Scarianno was still talking. “Kids in this town, they got nothing, and they’re going nowhere. I tell them to get out while they can. This town will deaden the best of them.”

  “You’re still here,” Fenwick pointed out.

  “Yeah, but I’m a tough old son of a bitch. I keep my mouth shut. Work my business. I’d defend Ralph anytime.”

  “Where are his mom and dad?”

  “Ralph’s parents couldn’t stand the strain of raising a kid who was different. He was a tough kid to handle, and they were ill-equipped to handle a normal kid. He has a brother ten years older. He left town ages ago. He’s in the merchant marine. Just after Ralph graduated from school, mom and dad moved to Windsor, Ontario. He didn’t kill anybody. Get that out of your head.”

  Turner and Fenwick thanked him.

  In the street Turner said, “My money is not on Ralph as a killer.”

  Fenwick said, “We’re gathering more and more evidence of what a total shit Scarth was. A live, breathing hunk of shit is a notion that I don’t find appealing. A dead one doesn’t have that much more charm either.”

  Turner said, “Somebody must have liked him.”

  “Presumably his mom and dad, but we don’t have an ‘in’ to talk to them.”

  Turner said, “We should try to talk to those First Nations guys. Coates or someone in his crowd must know where to find them.” He used his cell phone to call the restaurant. After he hung up, Turner said, “I described the kids to him. He knew the tall, skinny one right off. Billy Morningsky. He works at the local diner in the summers.”

  Turner and Fenwick took the SUV to the North Woods Dairie Delight Diner on the road to Kenora. In the middle of the day it
wasn’t crowded. They found Morningsky cleaning in the back.

  18

  Billy Morningsky was washing out trash cans with a hose. His loose-fitting jeans hung low enough on his lanky frame to reveal three inches of maroon boxer shorts. His gray T-shirt had moons of sweat around the armpits. Turner asked if they could talk.

  The kid gave him a neutral nod. They moved farther toward the woods and stood next to green, industrial Dumpsters that were on their sides, dripping water.

  Morningsky rested a foot on one of the wheels of the overgrown trash cans and leaned toward them. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “We’re trying to find out more about Scarth Krohn,” Turner said.

  “You saw him in action the other night.”

  Fenwick said, “They were assholes.”

  Morningsky said, “You stuck up for us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some people wouldn’t. Is it because you’re gay?”

  “Is that a problem?” Turner asked.

  Morningsky shrugged. “I always look for a motive when somebody’s nice to me, especially a white guy.”

  “I did what I did. You can assign whatever motive you like. I can’t stop you.”

  Morningsky caught Turner’s eye and held it. Then lowered his head for a few seconds, nodded. “What can I do for you?”

  “What can you tell us about Scarth?”

  “He led the prejudice against us among the kids our age. It wasn’t just me and my people. If he thought you were different, he’d pick at you. If he was in a bad mood that day, you could be a target. I was tall and skinny. That was enough to draw his attention. Added to that, I’m from the First Nations. He was a racist pig. When we were younger, in the lower grades, it wasn’t so bad. Back then you never really knew which Scarth Krohn was walking into the classroom. Sometimes he’d be completely indifferent to you. I used to pray for indifference. I guess it was around when we were thirteen, he turned completely into an asshole all the time. That’s also when people began talking about him as being the next great Canadian hockey god. Some of us weren’t willing to worship at Scarth Krohn’s altar. Eventually, I got pissed and I got some pride. There’s only so much dignity you can lose. Not to the Scarth Krohns of the world. He never accosted me without a group.”