Funeral Hotdish

by Jana Bommersbach

  “That’s where Crabapple went when he ran,” her dad mused.

  “Really? He went to Minneapolis?”

  “Yeah, to a cousin’s or something. Huntsie told us.”

  Joya had a toe in the door. “Make sure your attorney knows that,” she offered, “and I can give him anything he needs about Sammy’s operation in Phoenix. I can put him in touch with the detectives who worked that case—I have their private numbers. And I brought copies of my story home, so you could give that to him—it might be helpful.”

  “We don’t have an attorney,” Maggie said.

  “What? You don’t have an attorney? Isn’t that sheriff snooping around like he suspects you of something?”

  Ralph shot a nasty look to his wife, but she glared at him in defiance. “This is no time to stick your head in the sand,” she declared, knowing Ralph’s was already halfway there. To her daughter in the backseat she announced, “I’ve been telling him he needs an attorney.”

  “Dad, even though you’re innocent, you need an attorney. I’ve watched innocent people go to prison because they didn’t have anyone to protect them. You know, the police aren’t always after the truth. They’re really after a conviction—closing a case and sending someone away. Sometimes they don’t care who that someone is. And if this sheriff has his sights on you, well, that’s bad.”

  Ralph didn’t say anything, although he was glad to hear she thought he was innocent. And his daughter was making sense. That pissed him off, because of all his children, this was the one he usually disagreed with the most.

  Maggie would say that was because father and daughter were frick and frack. Both were stubborn to the point of pigheadedness. Both were mouthy. Both naturally thought they should lead. Both were chauvinists, with Ralph believing males were superior to females and Joya believing it was the other way around. She even had a quote on the wall of her study at home from folk singer Louden Wainwright III: “…and the world is a place of horror because every man thinks he’s right.”

  For his part, Ralph actually relished the verbal sparring that came home with Joya every year—once telling a visiting son he couldn’t get into issues with him because “I’ve got to rest up for Joya.” But in the end, he thought his daughter was almost always wrong and always, always, too liberal. He couldn’t figure out where he’d gone wrong with her.

  “What do the boys say?” Joya knew her father put more stock in his son’s opinions.

  “Oh, they agree with me.” Maggie turned in the seat to look her daughter in the eye, signaling that the boys might agree, but they weren’t pushing. The look pleaded, “PLEASE PUSH.”

  “I know lots of lawyers in Phoenix, Dad, and I could ask one for a recommendation here in North Dakota.”

  “We don’t have money for attorneys.” As though that really was a factor.

  “I’ll help you find one that isn’t expensive,” she replied. “Somebody from this area would be good. It doesn’t hurt to just talk to an attorney.” She’d have to find a male attorney because her father would never trust a female.

  “Maybe you and Earl and Bernard could all go in together,” Maggie suggested now.

  Joya opened her mouth to object, but her mother threw a look that said “back off.” Still, if her mother’s bawling recitation on the phone had been accurate, each of those three men needed their own attorney.

  She gambled and took one more step she prayed would work. “Dad, I’ve investigated a lot of crimes and one of the things that’s important is what the sheriff knows and what he doesn’t know. There’s ways of finding that out. The police report is a public record and anyone can read it. The autopsy report is a public record, too. I could get those for you, without any problem, and you’d see what kind of evidence they think they have. Or maybe the sheriff is just bluffing, trying to make you guys nervous enough to fess up to something. It’s important to know what the sheriff knows.”

  Ralph had to admit this was one of the most practical sentences his daughter had ever uttered. As he pulled into the driveway of his home and hit the automatic garage door opener, he could see the wisdom. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if she did this one thing and got those reports.

  It took him most of the afternoon to revisit their conversation.

  “Is it hard to get those reports?”

  “Oh no, it’s easy-peasy. I can go next week and get them.”

  Ralph Bonner’s silence let the words hang there. He gave a little shudder, amazed he was talking with his daughter about records in a murder case. How the hell did I get here?

  Joya had his tacit approval—since she was a rebellious teenager, when her dad meant no, he said no, but silence meant it was okay.

  They’d just sat down for supper—Mom’s famous pot roast—when a loud pounding on the front door startled everyone.

  Joya jumped up to answer it and was swept aside as this overweight, huffing man pushed his way in and announced he was there to see Ralph Bonner. She didn’t have to ask to recognize Sheriff Potter.

  “I need your shotgun and I need your shells,” he bellowed at Ralph, standing with his legs spread shoulder-width as though he were on the shooting range.

  “Why?” Ralph’s voice didn’t sound as strong and sure as he usually did.

  “You know why,” Sheriff Potter answered. Joya was sure she saw a smirk.

  “No, Sheriff, I have no idea why you’d want my gun.”

  “The game’s over, Bonner. We found the silo.”

  Ralph paused, and then punted. “What silo?” He’d later be incredibly grateful he’d remained calm.

  Silo? Joya thought. What’s a silo got to do with any of this?

  “The silo where you three Rambos chained up Darryl Harding before you killed him. We’ve already arrested your co-conspirator. Earl Krump.”

  Joya stopped breathing.

  “Sheriff, we did not kill that kid!” Ralph now was on his feet, and he stood toe to toe with the sheriff. “Don’t you come in my home and make wild accusations. I am not a killer. Neither are my friends. But if you want my gun, you can have it because I have nothing to hide.”

  Joya’s mind was racing with the ridiculous image of her father and his friends chaining up a kid in a silo. They really did that? What were they thinking? What in the world were they doing?

  Ralph started to take a step toward the gun cabinet. If she were ever to help her dad, Joya needed to help him right now.

  “Wait, Dad!” She was screaming.

  She turned and threw back her shoulders to make herself taller. “Sheriff, do you have a warrant?”

  She said the words with clarity and force, looking him right in the eye. Sheriff Potter stared and stayed quiet.

  As though she were teaching a tutorial in basic police work, Joya lectured, “You know, you can’t just waltz into somebody’s home and demand they hand over anything without a warrant saying you’ve got probable cause. You’ve got to convince a judge that you have cause to believe this man committed a crime. You can’t just run around like you’re the Gestapo. So I ask again. Do. You. Have. A. Warrant?”

  Nobody had ever spoken to Sheriff Potter that way. Ralph and Maggie were mortified that their daughter would be so obstinate. After all, he was the sheriff. But they quickly realized she was standing up to a man who had already made up his mind that Ralph was a murderer.

  “And who do you think you are, young lady?” the sheriff asked with disgust.

  “I’m Joya Bonner, an investigative reporter from Phoenix who just worked hand-in-hand with the Phoenix Police Department to break up a major drug ring. So I know how these things work. And they don’t work with a sheriff who doesn’t know the constitutional rights of American citizens, waltzing into my parents’ home and making wild accusations against my father. If you can get a warrant, we’ll be glad to give you the shotgun and you can see it has nothing to
do with anything. If you can’t get a warrant, then we’re done here. I’ll show you the door, Sheriff.”

  Joya threw out her arm in the direction of the door. Sheriff Potter looked at her like he was seeing a unicorn. “Now listen here…” but he got no farther as she flicked her hands to shoo him away.

  “Sheriff, our attorney can be here in fifteen minutes if you don’t leave us alone. Now, either do this legally, or you’re not going to do this at all. You realize, of course, that if you illegally confiscate this gun and then find something, it wouldn’t be permissible in a court of law. You do know that, right?”

  Now she was showing off. Some would applaud her “gotcha moment.” Others would despise it. But Joya didn’t care. This felt good. She was racking up points with her father.

  Sheriff Potter threw a dangerous look at Ralph and pointed his finger. “You’re not going to get away with this,” but his legs were doing the real talking as he headed out the door.

  Joya slammed it behind him. He never saw that she had to brace herself against the jam so she wouldn’t collapse from her false bravado.

  When she turned, her parents stared at her as if they saw a person they didn’t recognize. This is who I am, she thought, as she sat down at the table and demanded, “What in the world is going on here?”

  “Oh God, thank you, Joya,” her mother finally said as she began to cry.

  Joya got up and put her arms around the woman she adored. “Don’t worry, Mom, it’s going to be alright.”

  Ralph had to give it up, too. “Yes, thank you. You know, I could have given him my gun because it has nothing to do with this.” He had to underscore the point that he wasn’t a total idiot.

  “That wouldn’t have mattered, Dad. He could have done anything with that gun—he could have shot it to make it look like it was the murder weapon. Did you see how gleeful he was when he rushed in here? He was ready to arrest you for murder. Do you understand that? He could have hauled you off in handcuffs and thrown you in jail. That’s just what he wanted to do. A guy like that could easily fudge the evidence to get what he wants. He didn’t have a warrant because he has nothing to get a warrant with. You’ve got to convince a judge that you’ve got real evidence that points to someone in particular. You can’t just go on a Walmart shopping spree.”

  Ralph Bonner saw his daughter through new eyes that night. He never thought he’d say this, but the girl was right. And she’d probably just saved his neck.

  “So tell me about this silo.”

  Ralph had to come clean. He told the story in shorthand, with Maggie jumping in now and then to add a detail. He said the words with his head lowered, like he now realized how foolish it had been.

  “We kidnapped him, but we didn’t kill him.” Ralph sounded very certain, hoping it wouldn’t allow any more questions. But Joya needed more.

  “Dad, I’m sure you didn’t do it. But are you completely convinced one of the others didn’t? Nobody knew where he was. How would anyone find him? Nobody even knew he was kidnapped, right? Being missing isn’t the same as being kidnapped. For all anyone knew, he’d left town with a buddy or something. I know they’re your best friends, but the three of you were the only ones who knew where he was. And now the sheriff knows it was Earl’s silo and he thinks he’s got you guys.”

  “I don’t know what the sheriff knows,” Ralph admitted in defeat.

  Joya took over. “I’ll go get those reports so we know what’s going on. And let’s find you an attorney.”

  Ralph got up to go to the phone and Joya stopped him in his tracks. “Dad, who are you calling? You can’t be calling Bernard or Earl. That’s exactly what they’d want you to do. Oh God, they might have a wiretap on your line! Dad, don’t say anything on that phone that you don’t want the police to know. And if anyone calls you, play dumb. You have no idea what that son of a bitch is up to. That’s how they caught Sammy. It was the wiretaps.”

  Later in bed, she’d fantasize that Sheriff Potter had stormed in on a bluff, betting Ralph didn’t know anything about the necessary warrant, unaware he had a daughter who knew the law, certain he’d call his buddies and spill the beans—everything caught in a wiretap. But then she thought, Naw, the guy’s a two-bit backwoods hack. He’s not smart enough.

  How she wished she was right.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tuesday, January 18, 2000

  Government offices were closed on Monday for Martin Luther King Day, so Joya had to wait until Tuesday to get the records. She drove to the beautiful historic courthouse in Wahpeton, where the sheriff’s office and jail occupied the lower level.

  “I’m here for a copy of the sheriff’s report on the murder of Darryl Harding and the suicide of Johnny Roth,” she announced to a skinny woman with thin hair and a cardigan sweater.

  “Oh, I don’t think you can have them?” The woman intended it to be a statement, but her voice made it a question.

  “Yes, ma’am, they’re public records,” Joya said. “And you should know that, since they did the North Dakota Public Records Test last year. Remember, the one that you guys failed? And a district judge told you to comply with the law in handing out public records. Remember?”

  The clerk well remembered that embarrassing “test,” in which North Dakota reporters posed as ordinary citizens to test the availability of public records. And just like in other states—Iowa, Indiana, South Carolina, South Dakota—they found that while most public departments were good about sharing records the public had every right to see, law enforcement departments weren’t. In every state, they found police and sheriff offices made it tough, if not impossible, to get public records. In North Dakota, one reporter had been followed by a sheriff when he left the office in Jamestown. From this very office in Wahpeton, a reporter was interrogated and detained when he tried to get records on a shooting. And that brought national news organizations to North Dakota to help clean things up—including an appearance in front of a district judge who demanded compliance.

  Joya had watched this test in her home state with interest, since Arizona wasn’t the easiest place to wrest public records from some law enforcement units, either. She’d thought of suggesting they do a test in Phoenix, but she’d never gotten around to it. That information about North Dakota’s test sure came in handy now.

  “Remember,” she repeated, and the clerk looked at her with disdain.

  “It will be one dollar a page.” The clerk thought that would stop this nonsense.

  “Isn’t that a little pricey for a five-cent Xerox?” Joya asked. “You know, you can’t make copy costs prohibitive.”

  “We don’t think a dollar a page is prohibitive,” she answered back, determined to get the upper hand.

  “Fine. I’ll pay it. And I’ll wait right here for my copy.”

  Joya sat down in a wooden chair against the wall and pulled a book out of her big bag, making it clear she was ready to settle in until she got what she wanted. She’d had the book on her pile for a while. She brought it along from Phoenix, because now seemed like a good time to read about investigating a murder case.

  “October 16, 1931, was a bloody Friday night in Phoenix, Arizona,” she read, as she began The Trunk Murderess: Winnie Ruth Judd.

  It took more than an hour for the clerk to come back with a ten-page report. Joya flipped through it, screwing up her nose as she came to the end. “How about the report on the silo?” She looked the woman straight in the eye.

  “That report isn’t ready yet,” the woman lied, and Joya called her bluff.

  “Sure it is. Your sheriff is running around arresting people because of the silo, so there’s got to be a report. I’ll wait.”

  She sat down and reopened the book, picking up at the end of Chapter Three: “The very first thing you notice is that she was cut apart so precisely the coroner was able to stitch her back together.”

 
When the silo report was finally added—all three pages of it—Joya paid her thirteen-dollar fee and left the office.

  “What a bitch,” she heard the clerk say as she walked out the door. Joya beamed.

  The sheriff’s report showed that everything they had so far pointed to Johnny Roth as the killer. It was his bootprint on the carpet in Crabapple’s home, his print on the smashed vase. And of course, it was in Crabapple’s barn where they’d found his hanging body.

  From the silo, they’d found specks of Crabapple’s blood—and plenty of evidence that someone had tried to clean it up—but no other blood. Okay, that was good, Joya thought.

  They knew the silo was owned by Earl Krump. “Krump is a known associate of Ralph Bonner and Bernard Stine, all of whom have approached the sheriff’s office over the last two years to arrest Darryl Harding. Sheriff Potter has heard these three men threaten the life of Darryl Harding and vow revenge against him, claiming he was responsible for the death of Amber Schlener.”

  Joya read those words in the police report with her mouth open. The sheriff was a witness to a death threat? That’s why he was ignoring the evidence that Johnny did it? It was absurd. Who goes around telling a sheriff they’re going to kill somebody? But Joya knew that the word of a law enforcement official held great sway, not only with a judge and jury, but with the general public. After all, in Arizona a woman was sitting on death row solely on the word of a police detective that she’d “confessed” to having her son killed—a confession neither recorded, witnessed, nor attested. His word against hers. If a cop’s word alone is enough to get you a death sentence, imagine what happens if an officer says you personally told him you intended to kill somebody! Everyone would accept it as gospel. This wasn’t good.

  Another bit of bad news was that the silo had yielded one possibly fabulous clue: a spent twelve-gauge shotgun shell. It had rolled into a crack in the cement floor, and whoever had cleaned up the place had overlooked it. Joya instantly saw the problem. If they could tie this shell to one of the shotguns owned by her father or his friends, they’d be in real trouble. That’s why the sheriff had tried to bluff her dad into giving up his shotgun on the spot. She bet that he’d tried a similar tactic with the other two, and hoped they were smart enough not to comply.