Before Another Dies

by Alton L. Gansky

  I left the office, walked to the cafeteria at the north end of the building, and grabbed an orange juice. The cafeteria served not only city hall but the police station and courthouse, half a block down. It’s about the size of what you’d find in a medium-size hospital and could seat about 125 indoors and an additional thirty or so in the outdoor courtyard. For privacy and to lessen noise from the street, a wood fence enclosed the courtyard. Several patio tables and benches sat like mushrooms on the stamped concrete patio. I was alone. Lunch wouldn’t begin for another half hour or so. From about eleven thirty to one thirty it would be buzzing. For now it was empty inside and out.

  I took a seat and let the late morning sun bathe my back. I could feel my dark hair absorbing the sunlight and clinging miserly to the heat. January could be cool in Santa Rita, but it was seldom cold this close to the ocean. A gentle breeze massaged my face. I had brought no notepaper, no tape recorder, not even my handheld computer. I was carrying enough luggage in my mind.

  Tess had dressed me up one side and down another, and I found myself agreeing with her. That galled me. For years we had battled, for years I had tolerated her nonsense, but today she had been right. I had rushed to judgment rather than gather facts. In the process, I offended her, nipped Titus’s plan in the bud, and made myself a guilt cocktail, all in one meeting. Man, I was good. I frowned at my orange juice, glad that I couldn’t make it feel bad.

  Tess had even been helpful, in her own awkward, prickly way. When she said she was smelling “some serious stink” I knew what she meant. Something was happening, and we didn’t know what it was. The question before me—one of a dozen—was, had someone on the council crawled into bed with H. Dean Wentworth? If so, then who? How much trouble could he cause?

  I stuck my straw in the orange juice. It was partially frozen. I began to work the straw up and down, mixing the ice with the rest of the drink.

  “Churn that all you want, you’re not going to get butter out of orange juice.” Doug Turner crossed the patio and took a seat opposite me. He had a folder in his hand. I looked down at what I had been mindlessly doing and thought of Nat and her cracker abuse at the Fish Kettle.

  “Hey, Doug.” I forced a polite smile and extended my hand. He shook it and set the folder on the table. “Sorry, I was daydreaming. Can I get you anything?”

  “Nah.” He looked me over. “Cat eat your canary?”

  “Never had a canary. Never had a cat.” I took a sip of sweet fruit juice. “Just have a few things on my mind.”

  “I imagine.” He folded his hands over the file. “I may be the blemish on your day.”

  I had to laugh at that. I didn’t bother explaining. “You made this sound urgent.” I was prompting.

  “Important, if not urgent. First, let me say that everything is off the record. I’m not here; we’re not having this discussion.” I agreed but did nothing to conceal my puzzlement. “You remember that Harper character? The guy who was supposed to be filling in for me?”

  “Barry Harper. I remember. I doubt I’ll forget anytime soon.”

  “He was annoying, all right. I went back to the paper and dropped the boom on my editor for sending someone like him out. I vented, then he told me that he hadn’t sent Harper out. That Harper had come to him wanting work as a stringer. My editor said, ‘Well, bring me something, and we’ll talk.’”

  “You didn’t get fired?”

  “No way. I’ve been there long enough that I can bruise a few egos and still show up the next day. Anyway, Harper strolls in this morning, with this.” He pushed the file my direction. I set my orange juice aside and opened the folder. It was what I feared: A picture of me with Wentworth’s arm around me. I had been surprised by the photo and my eyes were partly closed, giving me that lovely, I’m-too-drunk-to-stand-up-by-myself look. Nat was in the picture too, looking aghast at me, not the camera.

  “It’s from last night,” I admitted. “This guy came up and started a conversation. Next thing I know I’m getting my picture taken. I didn’t approve. What does Harper want done with this?”

  “He said he wanted it printed, and he wanted us to pay for it.”

  There were a few sheets of paper held together with a paper clip on the upper left corner. I read the double-space type. “This is awful.”

  “On more than one count.”

  “You’re not going to publish this, are you?” I pushed the photo and article back to Doug like it smelled of rotten fruit. “He didn’t even spell my name right.”

  “Of course not. This is some of the worst writing I’ve ever seen. I volunteer as a consultant for the journalism class at the high school, and those kids write a dozen times better.” He closed the folder and held it up. “This isn’t anything more than what my neighbor’s dog leaves on my front lawn.”

  “There’s an unpleasant image.”

  “Trust me, I’m being polite. You should have heard what my editor called it.”

  “No thanks. So is Harper just a nitwit who has delusion of journalistic fame?”

  “I thought so at first, but that conclusion doesn’t feel right. There’s something going on backstage, and I want to know what it is.”

  He leaned forward. I did the same. “Mayor, my instincts tell me someone is up to something. We reporters live for such things, but when someone tries to make me a player in a game I didn’t know was going on, it gets my hackles up.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Hang on. There’s more. You know that when I first met him in your office I was less than kind.”

  “He had it coming.”

  “That and more, but here’s my point. He brought a copy of the picture and the article to give to my editor, but he also made sure I got a copy by giving it to our receptionist. I found it on my desk. Why would Harper, whom I gave a tongue-lashing to, want me to see his work?”

  “Because he’s arrogant or stupid or both.”

  “He’s not stupid. He knows how the journalistic mind works. The picture and the story aren’t what’s up. In the article he says you were seen in deep discussions with H. Dean Wentworth, associate of Rut-ger Howard. I looked at the photo, I read the article, and dismissed both out of hand, but I can’t dismiss Wentworth. Why is he at your fund-raiser? So I do a little research—and so did my editor—and we learn that he lives in Atlanta. It’s a long way from Atlanta to Santa Rita. He might be vacationing, but why would he be giving you a here’s-my-best-buddy hug?”

  “So you think there’s a story behind the story, is that it?”

  “That’s it. Harper—probably Wentworth through Harper—wants us to raise our radar. The question is why.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Wentworth approached me and . . . You said this was off the record, right?”

  “I did but if you reveal anything too juicy, I might go mad and throw myself into the sea.”

  He was doing me a favor, and I knew it. “Wentworth wants to build a restaurant in Santa Rita. It’s a Bennie’s. They’re everywhere. Family dining and all that. He wants help in getting some property, I told him no.” I left the juicy details out. There’s nothing worse than a wet reporter. “There are many people in the city opposed to franchise or corporate-owned restaurants in the city limits. They feel it takes away the small-town charm.”

  “We haven’t been a small town for quite a while.”

  “But the charm remains. What confuses me is why someone who wants my help would try to degrade me in the papers. Do you think he took it to other newspapers and media?”

  “No. I’ve made a few calls, and no major paper from Santa Barbara south has seen anything yet.” He paused. “I think Wentworth is firing a shot across your bow. You said you told him no.”

  “Yes. Pretty clearly, too.” I thought about revealing Wentworth’s offer of big money to the campaign but decided against it. I would be pushing the off-the-record agreement too far.

  “You’re holding back some things, aren’t you?”

&nb
sp; “It’s my job.” I picked up my orange juice and took another sip. “Do you think Harper gave you a copy because he assumed you’d bring it to me?”

  “And because he wants us to investigate deeper. Which, by the way, is happening. That editorial meeting I told you about was about this article and the story behind it. Terri Slater is on it. Do you know Terri?”

  “Can’t say that I do. Who is he?”

  “She. As you know, we’re not a big-city paper so we double up on our duties. I handle crime and politics—redundant as that is.”

  “Cute.”

  “Terri does features and business. Since Wentworth is associated with the wealthy Rutger Howard, she got the assignment. I’m supposed to follow the political element. Be careful, Terri is young and out to prove something. She may come knocking.”

  “Swell. I still can’t figure Wentworth’s angle. It looks like he’s biting the hand he wants to feed him. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Do you like magic?”

  That caught me off guard. “What? You going to do a card trick?”

  “I was never very good at those. When I was a kid I wanted to do stage magic. I didn’t have what it takes, but I did learn a few tricks and, more importantly, a few lessons. When a stage magician is doing his bit he will do his best to misdirect your attention. If he holds something up in his right hand, you can bet he’s doing something with his left. This article and picture is what Wentworth wants you to see. I wonder what he’s doing with the other hand. Make sense?”

  I said it did and thanked him. He rose, excused himself, and started for the door that led back into the cafeteria. Through the windows I could see the first shift of lunch-hungry workers. “Doug?” He stopped and turned. “Are we still off the record?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s been a third murder . . . a security guard at the marina. I’m not revealing any secrets here, but I just as soon you didn’t tell people you heard it from me.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me, but I already knew. I have a police scanner. I appreciate the gesture.”

  He left me with my orange juice and the puzzle of H. Dean Wentworth.

  chapter 25

  I fielded calls. I wrote memos. I had “hallway” meetings and did my best to put my universe in order. It wasn’t working. I felt as if someone had taken half a dozen jigsaw puzzles and emptied them on my desk, then said, “There ya go. Have fun.” I wasn’t having fun.

  The city manager had sent me a memo notifying me that the contract for trash service on all the city’s property was going to double. We had just finished our budget and allowed for a 10 percent hike, but not doubling of fees. That contract would have to be renegotiated. The problem was, we couldn’t just switch contractors. There was only one such service in the city, and bringing in a firm from Santa Barbara or other nearby city would be just as expensive.

  County Disposal, a privately owned firm despite the name, had been servicing the city and its citizens for twenty years. Why the sudden change? The memo cited increased cost of doing business, cost of gasoline, and hikes in minimum wage. All valid but not valid enough to justify doubling their fees. They were taking advantage of my run for congress. My guess was they thought I’d roll over on this because I didn’t want negative publicity.

  I was becoming paranoid.

  Fred Markham had sent a note informing me of a lawsuit being leveled against the city for a fall taken by an elderly woman in one of our parks. That was no surprise. Suits are filed against cities like clockwork. We’re easy targets and have the appearance of deep pockets. I put that aside. It would be a subject for our next closed-door session. Not the two o’clock one I had called for today. That one was full enough. Lawsuits moved slowly.

  I pushed more paper, fiddled with a speech I was to give next week to a local veterans’ organization, and jotted down a few remarks for a dinner I was giving for my campaign volunteers. Work that needed to be done washed over me like a rogue wave. Normally, I thrive on pressure and a long to-do list, but today it threatened to overwhelm me. My mind was elsewhere.

  Added to all this was the overwhelming task of education—my education. I had been in local politics for over a decade. I knew that field inside and out. The working of state government was familiar terrain also, but congress, well, congress is national policy. Some of the issues were like a foreign language. I understood the basic principles, the parts of government, the difference between a bill and a resolution. But I was now dealing with questions about the Homeland Security Act, terrorism, government-funded health care, military spending, Iraq, Iran, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, Supreme Court decisions, taxes, and a thousand other issues. A candidate could botch a question and sink a campaign with a single misspoken comment. Campaigns were hard enough to manage when things went right, but damage control was costly in time and effort and campaign contributions.

  The real problem was my focus—I didn’t have any. I tried to arrange my thoughts, whipping them into an orderly, manageable line, but my mind had different ideas. My thoughts were as obedient as cats in a sack.

  What I really wanted to do was go to the marina. A third death. Going was out of the question. I had no business there, it would be of no help, it might look like grandstanding to my opponents, and I had work to do here.

  Three murders. Three in four days. Three people died in the same fashion, and all related to the city. The gears of my brain seized. That thought had come from my subconscious. The first death was in one of the parking lots of city hall. The second, Fritzy’s husband, had occurred at a small private airport—but the airport wasn’t truly private. Its operation was, but the owners leased the property from the city. The same was true of the marina. Privately operated on property leased from the city. Coincidence?

  The gears loosened up again. The connection to the city was there, but it was a bit of a stretch. How many people knew that the marina and airport leased our property? It was a stupid question. It was public information, and it didn’t matter if thousands knew. What mattered was that one knew.

  I had an itchy thought, one that stayed just out of scratching range. The city connection was interesting, but was there more? My intuition said yes, but what? I spun my chair around to face the credenza behind my desk. It was one of those that had an area for a computer and keyboard. The computer was on. It was part of Floyd’s job to make sure my office was ready for me when I arrived: neat, files stacked, messages listed in order of importance, and the computer turned on. The screen was dark. I find screensavers distracting. I tapped a key and the monitor came to life. A second later I had the word processing program up and a blank page in front of me.

  All my life, I’ve been a maker of lists. I find comfort in order, and I’m one of those weird people who feels momentary joy in crossing something off my to-do list as completed. Even if I didn’t have a list on paper, I always had one in my mind. I followed my instincts.

  WHENWHEREWHOHOW?

  Monday, early a.m. City hall, front parking lot-old car Jose Lopez Broken neck

  Tuesday, early a.m. SR airport, mechanic’s bay-airplane Jim Fritz,mechanic Broken neck

  Thursday, early a.m.? The marina, guard shack ??, security guard Broken neck

  There were things I didn’t know, and I filled those in with question marks. The chart could be more detailed, but I find it best to start small. It’s the way my brain works. Start basic, then move to the complex.

  I studied the list, looking for the Aha! but didn’t see one. One thing I hadn’t considered was the time of the killings. I knew that the first two had occurred in the wee hours of the morning but was guessing about the third. I felt safe in my speculation. After all, West was in my office early this morning when he got the call. It was fair to assume that the guard was found around shift change, meaning he was working graveyard, probably something like midnight to eight in the morning. West could confirm that for me. I added another column.

  WHENWHEREWH
OHOWAGE?

  Monday, early a.m. City hall, front parking lot-old car Jose Lopez Broken neck Late 20s

  Tuesday, early a.m. SR airport, mechanic’s bay-airplane Jim Fritz, mechanic Broken neck Early 60s

  Thursday, early a.m.? The marina, guard shack ??, security guard Broken neck ?

  Wednesday was an enigma. No murder. At least I had that to be thankful for. Still it begged the question, Why? Why no murder following the Tuesday/Wednesday show? Was the killer out of town? Busy? Maybe a murder attempt failed. Perhaps it was an effort to throw the police off. I couldn’t imagine that it paid to be too predictable if you were in the killing business. Of course . . . there may have been another murder and the body is yet to be found. That thought made me sick.

  I thought about what Jerry had said. He was making connections in ways I hadn’t considered. There had only been two murders at that point. I chastised myself—only two murders . One was too many. I conjured up the discussion. He said that when I described what I knew about the crimes, he heard that both had been in vehicles, one in a car, the other in a plane; both had been “parked”; and both had wives, albeit Mr. Lopez was estranged. I couldn’t speak to the security guard’s marital status, but I was pretty sure the guard shack was not a mode of transportation. I didn’t know the most recent victim’s age, but guards were usually very young or retirement age. I’d have to leave that blank for now.

  Another thing percolated to the top. I had been pushing it to the back of my mind because it made so little sense. Killing people on city property might make sense to a crazy person with a vendetta against the city, but . . . a radio station? The great thing about computers is that you can delete anything you don’t like. I threw logic to the wind and filled in the chart a little more.

  WHENWHEREWHOHOWAGE?

  Monday, early a.m. City hall, front parking lot-old car Jose Lopez Broken neck Late 20s Radio on-Robby Hood

  Tuesday, early a.m. SR airport, mechanic’s bay-airplane Jim Fritz, mechanic Broken neck Early 60s Radio on-Robby Hood