by Jeff Siebold
“Then you vomited,” said Zeke, “What did you do next?”
“Well, I could see it was dead. I mean, you can’t live without skin, right? And nothing moved, there was no movement, no sound. Everything was…well, it just felt so empty.”
“Then?” asked Zeke.
“Well, as soon as I could talk, I dialed 911.”
“As soon as you could talk?” asked Doekiller.
“As soon as I stopped upchucking. When I got my stomach under control.”
“How long was that?” asked Zeke.
“I don’t know, maybe thirty seconds,” said Cunningham.
“Why were you there, Randy?” asked Zeke.
“What?” asked Cunningham.
“Why were you on Second Street by the railroad tracks?”
The man looked confused. “I was heading home from work.”
“You live out east of town off Highway 23, don’t you? If you were heading home, you would have stayed on Main Street, right? No reason for a detour into the industrial section of town…” said Zeke.
“No, well, I just…”
“Unless you were looking for something. Maybe trying to score some drugs?” asked Zeke.
Randy said, “No, no, it’s not like that. OK, look, I had a couple of drinks before I left the casino. I saw lights flashing on Main Street, and I decided to avoid trouble.”
“Trouble with the police?” Zeke asked.
Randy Cunningham nodded.
“Because you’ve got one DUI already?” asked Zeke.
Cunningham nodded again, glancing down at the table sheepishly.
* * *
“I don’t think he knows anything more,” said Zeke.
They had finished the interview with Randy Cunningham and were riding in Doekiller’s Crown Vic on the Memorial Bridge, headed toward New Town.
“Yeah, he’s like a lot of the guys up here,” said the Tribal Officer. “Blue collar. High school education. They don’t always make the wisest decisions.”
Zeke nodded. “Well, I’m in favor of tracing the girl’s movements the night she was killed. There seem to be some gaps in that time line.”
“OK,” said Doekiller. “Where do we start?”
“First, let’s see if we can find the guy Jenny Lakota was talking with that night. The big guy in the Salty Dog.”
“OK with me,” said Doekiller. “The lieutenant said I should stay with you this afternoon.”
“OK,” said Zeke. “Then let’s go talk with the bartender.”
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when Zeke and Doekiller stepped through the wooden door into the Salty Dog bar. There was a small crowd of men sitting at a round table in the restaurant area, laughing and talking over each other. Three more men sat silently on bar stools, elbows on the pitted, wooden bar. The same bartender, Sandy, the thin brunette woman with the long face, was serving a draught beer to one of the men.
Zeke and Doekiller found an empty four-top table, off by themselves.
In a moment Sandy nodded to Doekiller and a minute later she walked over to their table.
“What can I get you boys?” she asked.
Doekiller said, “We’ve got a few more questions, Sandy. About the guy Jenny was talking to the night she was killed.”
Sandy looked at Zeke, then back at Doekiller, and said, “Like I said, he wasn’t a regular. Looked to me like an oil guy or a truck driver.”
“Everybody looks like an oil guy to you, Sandy,” said Doekiller. He said it lightly.
Sandy snorted. “I’ll get you some coffee, then, and we can talk when I come back. Cream?”
The men nodded and Sandy quickly disappeared into the kitchen area.
* * *
“So, since the oil, everything’s changed,” said Sandy.
Doekiller nodded. Sandy stood facing Zeke, addressing him.
Zeke said nothing.
“This place used to be a local hangout, with guys from the Res and railroad guys and casino workers. It was a ‘shot and a beer’ kind of place. Guys’d come in for lunch and then come back for another shot or two after quitting time. You know, on their way home.”
Zeke said, “You have a more diverse crowd, now.”
“Yeah, you could say that. After they started drilling more, around 2006 or 2007, things started changing. And quickly.” Sandy looked around, then sat in one of the empty chairs. “I’ve worked here since then.”
“The guy you saw with Jenny that night,” said Zeke. “Was he Native American?”
Sandy nodded. “He comes in every once in a while, spends a few hours drinking beer. Miller Lite,” she added. “I guess that’s why I thought he was a truck driver or something. He wasn’t a regular.”
Zeke nodded. “We’d like to talk with the truck driver. Any way to find him?”
Sandy shook her head slowly, thinking.
“What about a credit card slip? Did he use a card?”
“No, he pays cash. Three bucks a beer, plus a half dollar tip for each one.”
“Who was he sitting with?” Zeke asked.
“Well, he was talking with Henry Wellers before Jenny came over. Nickname’s Chip. Chip Wellers. They talked for a while.”
“Is Wellers a regular?” Zeke asked.
“Yes,” said Sandy. “Well, sort of. He comes in here after work most days. I think he does something with heavy equipment.”
Zeke nodded.
“It sounded like they were planning something, talking about money and business and such. But they got quiet whenever anyone would get close to them.”
“What time did the truck driver get here that evening?” asked Zeke, indicating the bar.
“Not until about eight thirty, I think. I remember Sam and Jenny started fighting before he arrived. He came in and got seated by Chip, and they talked for quite a while. But later on, she and Sam had another fight. Well, it was the same fight, just continued. After that, she went straight to the guy and started talking loud about him buying her a drink.”
“Did he?” asked Zeke.
“Sure. Bought her a couple. All the while I was watching Sam Bearcat, who was just fuming.”
“What time was that?” asked Zeke.
“Oh, I think it was a little after ten,” said Sandy.
She looked at Zeke. “Do you need to write this down?”
“No,” said Zeke. “Photographic memory.”
Sandy nodded as if that were a normal occurrence.
“Did they leave together?” asked Zeke.
“Well, I’m not sure. See, Sam got madder and madder, and Jenny kept taunting him. And eventually he called out the truck driver guy.”
“Called him out?” asked Doekiller.
“Yeah, he stumbled over to the bar and started threatening the guy. Said he was going to gut him with one of the axes that they throw, that sort of thing. They were yelling and screaming at each other. You know, ‘I’ll kill you!’ threats.”
“So you called the cops,” said Zeke.
“Sure. I’ve been doing this a long time. Guys start with that stuff and I’ve got the Tribal Officers on speed dial.”
Zeke looked at Doekiller, who said, “Not really. She called 911.”
“And you guys arrived at, what, 10:37 PM?”
“Yep. Jenny was gone, and Sam was asleep. He ran out of gas after she left. There weren’t many people here by the time we got here.”
“Jenny left with the guy when you called the cops?” asked Zeke.
“No, she left first. Then the guy left,” said Sandy. “They both left pretty quickly, but not together, and Sam was having trouble walking. After they’d gone, he sat down at a table and fell asleep.”
“Let’s circle back. Where can we find Chip Wellers?” asked Zeke.
“Well, he’s not here yet, so he must be working. Shift change is at four o’clock, and then this place starts to fill up.”
* * *
Sandy left to help a customer, and Zeke and Doekiller drank their coffee in
silence.
“You want to hang around for this Wellers guy?”
“Yep,” said Zeke. “It’s 3:45 now. If shift change is at 4:00, he should be here by, what, 4:15?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s get some more coffee.”
Doekiller waved at Sandy and pointed to his cup. She nodded and a few moments later she appeared with a fresh pot of coffee.
“Thanks so much, Sandy,” said Zeke. “We’re thinking that Chip Wellers should be here before 4:30…?”
Sandy nodded. “That’s about right, if he comes in tonight.” She turned back and walked to the bar and set the coffee pot down.
* * *
At 4:23, the front door to the Salty Dog opened and four men walked in. They all could have been equipment operators or mechanics. They wore overalls and work boots and crowded around the wooden bar.
Zeke saw Sandy talking to them, and one of the men looked over at Zeke and Doekiller and said something to her. She handed him a bottle of beer and he took a swig, then meandered over toward their table.
“Heard you want to talk with me,” said the man.
“We do if you’re Chip Wellers,” said Zeke. “Have a seat.”
Wellers narrowed his eyes, then he set the bottle on the table and pulled out a chair and sat. “You’re cops. This is about that girl, isn’t it? Jenny something.”
“Jenny Lakota,” said Zeke.
“Right. Yeah, I was in here the night before they found her body. But I didn’t talk with her. Didn’t even know her.”
Zeke said, “You’re not from around here.”
“No. I moved here from Alaska a couple of years ago. Homer. Going back soon, too.”
“Why’s that?” asked Zeke.
“Best place I ever lived. There’s an attitude of independence up there. Everyone’s got it. It’s empowering.” He sipped his beer again.
“You came down here for the work?” Zeke asked.
“Yeah. Heard they were paying crazy salaries for mechanics. Guys to keep the heavy equipment running. So, yeah, I came down here for the work.”
“Chip, can we ask you about the night before Jenny Lakota died?” asked Zeke.
Chip nodded slowly.
“I understand that you were talking with a guy in here for part of that evening,” Zeke continued.
“Yeah, a big guy. An Indian. He’s a truck driver. We were drinking and somehow we got onto us starting our own business. Like he would drive and recruit drivers, and I could keep the trucks in running condition. Short haul trucking. There’s a need for that here right now. A shortage,” said Wellers.
“There’s a shortage of truck drivers nationally, isn’t there?” asked Zeke.
“There is.”
“Do you remember the truck driver’s name?” asked Zeke. “Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve seen him in here a few times. Said his name was, uh, Will. Yeah, Will.”
“Last name?”
“No idea.”
“What happened when Jenny Lakota asked Will for a drink?” asked Zeke.
“Bad news,” said Wellers. “She was with another guy, her boyfriend, I think. They’re always in here together. He was standing right over there, throwing axes, when she asked Will for the drink.”
“Had she been drinking before that?” asked Zeke.
“Sure. Drinking and arguing. I thought she was trying to make her boyfriend mad.”
“How do you know it was her boyfriend, not her husband?” Zeke asked.
“Well, when she came over and started flirting with Will, I looked to see if she was wearing any rings. You know, fourth finger, left hand. She wasn’t.”
“She was flirting?” asked Zeke.
“Sure, you know, rubbing his back and getting real close to him. I told him he may want to be careful,” said Wellers.
“Do you know where he lives? Or where he works?” asked Zeke.
“Not where he lives. He said he stays in a motel when he’s here in New Town. Company pays for it. But he works for Dean Stiller over at Stiller Trucking. They’re pretty big, got operations all over this part of the state.”
“Thanks for that,” said Zeke. “We’ll talk with Dean Stiller.” Then, “Did he leave with the girl?”
“No, after that. He was working on his third or fourth beer when she came over. Had a couple of shots, too.”
“How long after she left did Will leave?” asked Zeke.
“Not long. And he seemed distracted after that girl started flirting. Didn’t say anything more about going into business. When he saw her leave he finished his beer and then took off.”
Chapter 9
“I’m glad you were able to join me, Tillman,” said Zeke.
“How could I resist?” asked Cord. “After what you found out at the bar, I figure I’d better come along, keep you outta trouble.”
Zeke had called Tillman Cord and shared his conversation with Chip Wellers. It had piqued the FBI agent’s interest.
“Besides, this is my day off,” said Cord. “I’m on my own dime here.”
Tillman turned onto a gravel driveway off the highway and slotted his car into a parking space.
The Stiller Trucking building was a red block structure that looked as if it had been built for some farm use, or maybe as a feed store. It was isolated in a flat field, surrounded with tanker trucks and dirt moving equipment.
Zeke and Cord crowded into a small lobby through the glass front door.
“Help you?” asked a gray-haired woman who looked like somebody’s grandmother. She was sitting at a small desk. Her eyes twinkled.
“We’re looking for Dean Stiller,” said Zeke.
The woman looked confused.
“We’re the FBI,” said Cord. “Need to talk with him about one of his drivers.”
“Oh, well sure, just a moment,” she said.
She stood and walked through a door, and Zeke could hear voices in the next room. A moment later, she returned and said, “Go on back. He’s in his office.”
The office was a square, paneled room with an oversized desk, a large deer head mounted on an interior wall, and a credenza covered with photos of hunters in camouflage, holding their rifles and standing over dead animals. There was also a Rotary Club plaque hanging on his wall near the deer head.
Dean Stiller stood up and stepped around his desk. He shook hands with Cord and then with Zeke, saying, “Well, I’m not sure what the FBI wants with me, but I’m glad to help. Other than that Indian girl getting killed, we don’t have much trouble around here.”
Stiller was about sixty, a round man who wore his thinning hair in a combover. He’s big on personality, thought Zeke.
“No, sir,” said Cord. “Actually, we’re here about the girl.”
“Thought you might be. Sit, please,” said Stiller, pointing at two chairs.
“The girl, Jenny Lakota,” started Zeke, “was last seen with a driver named Will. We heard he works for you.”
Stiller thought for a moment, then said, “Well sure. Will Carter. He’s been on our payroll for about four years, I think. Mostly drives the circuit between here and Bismarck. He lives there. Sometimes he makes the run over to Minneapolis, too.”
Cord nodded. “Have you heard from him lately?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Stiller. “He’s kind of independent. He checks in when he wants, mostly with Molly, the receptionist out there.” He pointed toward the office door. “He’s somewhere between here and Bismarck right now.”
“How many rigs do you run?” asked Cord.
“We have sixty-one trucks. And it’s a challenge to keep them all moving, let me tell you.”
“When will Will be back in New Town?” Zeke asked.
Stiller frowned and stood up. “Just a second.” He walked to the door, opened it, stuck his head out and asked Molly something unintelligible. He was back in half a minute.
“He’ll be back here again tomorrow around noon.”
“Is he s
taying in Bismarck overnight?” asked Zeke.
“Yep. He gets an overnight at home whenever we can arrange it. He’s got an attitude problem, but he’s a good worker. Don’t want to lose him.”
“Attitude problem?” asked Zeke.
“Yeah. He doesn’t ‘play well with others,’ if you know what I mean. He’s a big guy, and he grew up pushing people around. A bit of a bully. He’s what you’d call ‘surly’.”
“So truck driving is a good fit for Will,” said Cord.
“It sort of is,” said Stiller, nodding.
Cord said, “Can we get his home address and his phone number, please?”
Stiller pulled a pad over and copied some information from his computer. He tore off the sheet and handed it to the FBI agent.
“We’ll drive down and visit with Will Carter today,” said Zeke.
Cord nodded. “It’s a two and a half hour drive. We can catch up with him late this afternoon.”
Stiller said, “This might help.” He turned his computer screen and showed them a DMV picture of Carter. The photo was the headshot of a man with long black hair, large features and a ruddy, reddish complexion.
Cord dialed his phone, trying to catch Carter driving.
“Not answering,” said Cord after a half minute. “It went to voice mail. We’ll just meet him at his house.”
“Before we go, we need to talk with Sam Bearcat,” said Zeke.
* * *
“That’s right,” said Lieutenant Mankato. “We’ve got Sam Bearcat in detention here.” Zeke and Cord were back in the Tribal Court building in New Town, working through the bureaucracy necessary to interview an accused killer.
“It’s probably the safest place for him, anyway,” said the Lieutenant in his deep, slow-paced voice.
“What do you mean?” asked Cord.
“Look, Agent Cord, I know Sam Bearcat just looks like a killer to you. But I grew up with him. I went to school with him. I knew him before he became a drunk. And his family lived on the same street as my folks.”
“But you arrested him?” asked Cord.
“Had to. We got a warrant on Sam, and if we didn’t arrest him, someone else would have. With all this publicity, it could have been some of your boys.”