Fishing for a Killer

by Glenn Ickler

  “You’re lucky that deputy didn’t try to take away your camera,” I said when Al caught up to me.

  “I can’t picture him doing that,” Al said.

  “I shutter to think of it.”

  “At least with digital cameras, they can’t open it up and grab the film and expose it like some of the smartass cops used to do.”

  “Exposing the film always had negative results,” I said. “With your digital they could pull out the memory card and stomp on it.”

  “Forget about stomping the memory card,” he said.

  Ann Rogers was shouting in an effort to get the attention of the buzzing crowd, but her commanding voice had grown raspy and she was having no success. She was rescued by a booming bass voice that rose above the rumble. “Everybody shut the fuck up,” Anders Anderson yelled. Unaccustomed to hearing an f-bomb blast forth from the mouth of our church-going Lutheran governor, everybody did shut the fuck up.

  Anderson gestured toward Rogers, and she cupped her hands around her mouth to form a megaphone and said as loud as she could, “The governor will hold a press conference in the main meeting room at one o’clock. Thank you all for your cooperation.”

  “Hope the governor is more on time than his press secretary,” said Channel Five’s Barry Ziebart.

  “He probably will be if he doesn’t decide to go fishing in the meantime,” Al said.

  * * *

  Al e-mailed a half-dozen of his best shots and I e-mailed a fresh story during the half-hour we had free before the governor walked into the meeting room and picked up the portable microphone. The lieutenant governor trailed along behind him and stood slightly off to the right. His mouth held the customary cigar, but this time it wasn’t lit. Still, I inhaled a dose of second-hand stogy smoke from his clothing when he walked past me on the way to his position. A couple more breaths like that and I’d be in serious danger of lung cancer.

  Traffic at Brainerd’s little airport must have been swarming like bees that morning because TV crews from ABC News, CBS News and NBC News had been added to the throng, along with a representative of Rupert Murdoch’s publications. Never had a Governor’s Fishing Opener been so thoroughly covered by the media. The air in the room was heavy with the odor of bodies that hadn’t been bathed recently as dozens of us were crammed into close quarters with our fellow stinkers.

  Governor Anderson flipped on the microphone and blew into it three times to make sure it was live. Technicians hate this method of testing because it sprays saliva into the instrument, but the trio of amplified whooshing sounds served also to quiet the audience. “Let me begin by saying that I’m deeply saddened by the tragic loss of my good friend and colleague, Alex Gordon,” he began. “I have also phoned his lovely wife, Mari, and offered my condolences to her and the rest of Alex’s splendid family. This is a sad, sad day for us all.

  “Alex will be greatly missed by everyone who worked with him in the governor’s office, and I dare say he will be missed by you folks—the press corps—as well. He always kept himself fully informed and up to the minute so that he’d have the answer to any question you folks might ask. He was a true professional in every sense of the word.”

  “Actually, he was a self-important little prick,” Barry Ziebart whispered behind me. I nodded in agreement. Alex had always made it seem as if he were doing an inferior being a great favor by answering a question, and a reporter always had to drag the details of any complex situation out of him by asking question after question. I for one would not miss his attitude and his frequent references to his superior education at ‘Hahv’d.’

  “I have just appointed Alex’s wonderful assistant, Ms. Ann Rogers, as acting press secretary,” the governor said. “I will turn this meeting over to her now and let her answer any questions you might have.”

  With her hair whipped into a compliant shape by comb and brush, and armor plated with a fresh coat of lacquer, and her lipstick and eye makeup restored to radiant perfection, Ann stepped forward and took the microphone. As usual, the first question came from Trish Valentine. “Why would Alex go out fishing at five o’clock when he was scheduled to meet with us at six?”

  “Alex was an avid fisherman,” Ann said. “Those of you who covered the fishing opener in recent years might recall that Alex went out by himself before dawn every morning and returned in time to meet with the press.”

  “What was the purpose of the morning meeting?” I asked.

  “I don’t know all the details but I assume it was to brief you on the day’s activities,” Ann said. “That’s pretty much what he did every year.”

  “So he didn’t have any special message—just a general briefing?” asked a woman standing behind me.

  “I don’t know of anything special,” Ann said. “But as I said before, he hadn’t discussed the details with me.”

  “How’d they find the body so quick?” asked a man at my right. “Usually it takes forever to find a drowning victim.”

  “The divers said the water was so crystal clear that they could see for a long way under the surface,” Ann said. “It wasn’t like diving in murky or muddy water.”

  “Will there be an autopsy conducted?” asked the man from NBC News. Ah, at last we were getting down to the nitty-gritty.

  “I believe an autopsy is standard for an accidental death or an unattended death,” Ann said. “So, yes, I assume there will be an autopsy.”

  “How long before the medical examiner will issue a report?” asked the woman from CBS News. I’d been wondering about that. Would the cause of death be announced soon enough to warrant our staying in Brainerd beyond Sunday to wait for the report?

  “I suppose the family will want Alex’s body for the funeral as soon as possible,” Ann said. “So I assume the ME will finish his work as soon as it’s physically possible.”

  “So maybe by Sunday afternoon or evening?” asked a voice from the back.

  “I really can’t say for sure,” Ann said. “Why don’t I talk to the ME and get back to you people later on that?”

  “Some of us have flights to schedule,” said another voice.

  “I understand that,” Ann said. “But as I say, the timing is up to the ME.”

  Ann fielded a couple more questions before calling a halt. She concluded the session by telling us that the governor wished to salvage at least part of the day’s schedule, which is what Alex would want him to do. This included a picnic on the lawn at 4:30 p.m. and an introduction to the guides who would accompany the governor and the lieutenant governor on their Saturday fishing expeditions. “You’ll have a chance to meet the guides at seven thirty and ask them questions,” she said. “They both have interesting stories to tell.”

  We left the meeting room and went to the circular, glassed-in dining room for a lunch of fish and chips. After a ten-minute wait, we were crammed into a table in the middle, surrounded by tables occupied by other reporters and photographers. “Do you suppose this is walleye that was caught out of season?” Al asked after swallowing the first crunchy, batter-fried mouthful. “Wouldn’t that be a great story for you?”

  “I can see the headline,” I said. “Diners find something fishy about walleye.”

  “Subhead: Chef agrees to scale back ’til season opens.”

  “Hate to ruin your story, guys; but it’s from Canada,” said a man at the nearest table to my right.

  “Of course. I should have recognized the accent,” I replied.

  After lunch we walked back to our cabin. As we passed the thermometer beside our door, Al pointed and said, “Oh, do you see that? Won’t it be fun to have a picnic on the lawn in this lovely spring weather?” The arrow was pointing at forty-eight.

  “Be of good cheer; the temperature has nowhere to go but down,” I said. “Hope you packed your long johns.”

  “I’ll be pac
king them with a little something extra to keep my package warm.”

  “More information than I need,” I said, covering my ears with my hands. “Go back to asking questions every time you speak.”

  Five

  Chilling Out

  I called Martha at her office and brought her up to date. Devil that she is, she said she’d already heard all the details from Trish Valentine reporting live.

  “They even showed the poor guy being dragged out of the boat in a body bag,” Martha said. “And I thought I saw Al shooting pictures out on the dock. How’d he get away with that?”

  “It’s called chutzpah,” I said. “Al just keeps zooming in with his camera until someone zooms him out, which someone eventually did, by the way.”

  “So what’s going to happen with the rest of the big opening day hoopty-do? Are they calling off everything?”

  “No, the governor is trying to salvage as much of the program as he can. Says Alex would want it that way. Personally, I don’t think Alex would give a damn. Anyhow, we’re having a picnic in forty-degree weather late this afternoon and then we get to meet the guides who will accompany our great leaders on the lake tomorrow.”

  “What time do you have to get up?”

  “The fishing officially starts at 6:00 a.m. Should be some real bleary-eyed walleye chasers out there if people booze it up like they did last night,” I said.

  “Six o’clock on a Saturday?” Martha said. “I’ll say a prayer for you when I roll over and go back to sleep at nine.”

  “You are insensitive and unkind, and you have no redeeming social value,” I said.

  “Is that why you love me?”

  “That’s as good a reason as any.”

  “Well, take care of yourself tomorrow and don’t fall out of the boat. I don’t have anyone else lined up to take your place at the wedding.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “The only danger I’m in is possibly being trampled by the herd the next time the governor calls a press conference.”

  We made kissy sounds at each other and hung up.

  Ah, yes, the wedding. It was not going to be a major production because we’d both already gone through that kind of show. This was the second time around for both of us, and we both wanted to play it low-key. My first wife had been killed, along with our baby, when a jack-knifing semi-trailer crushed her little Toyota. Martha’s first husband had disappeared to avoid prosecution after beating her up for the second time. In his absence, she had divorced him, claiming both physical and mental cruelty in addition to desertion.

  But big or not, the ceremony would be a moment of triumph for both of us after years of frustration and struggling with our fears of another commitment. Al and Carol were scheduled to be our attendants, and the brief guest list included a few friends from the newsroom, a handful of Martha’s friends, Martha’s parents and grandmother, and my mom and Grandma Goodie, whose persistent nagging had persuaded us to abandon our original plan to hold the ceremony in a municipal judge’s chambers.

  A young Unitarian-Universalist minister had agreed to do the honors after subjecting Martha and me to a lengthy interview about our backgrounds and beliefs. Apparently she decided that our characters were diverse and unorthodox enough to be comfortable getting married in a U-U church.

  * * *

  I’ve rarely bundled up as warmly for a day of downhill skiing as I did for the governor’s picnic that afternoon. Clouds had moved in, the wind velocity had increased and the temperature had dropped to forty-three by the time the picnic began. I wore a T-shirt, a cotton turtleneck, a wool sweater, my regular undershorts, long johns, sweatpants, regular socks, wool socks and lined boots, topped off by a winter jacket and a knitted wool ski cap. When it comes to layering I can laminate clothing with the best of them. I also carried gloves in my jacket pockets in case my fingers got cold holding the plate.

  Al was similarly weighted down with protective garments as we approached the array of eight-person picnic tables lined up across the lawn between the lodge and the beach. This time we had no problem finding a seat. Apparently many of our media cohorts had not brought appropriate clothing for springtime on Gull Lake.

  We went through the food line, which contained the usual run of outdoor comestibles, including the traditional Minnesota salad made of canned fruit cocktail embedded in orange Jell-O topped with miniature marshmallows. I skipped this universal favorite in favor of a less colorful potato salad, to which I added some coleslaw and a chunk of smoked whitefish. I finished filling my plate with a cheeseburger that was almost shivering sitting on the grill.

  We chose not to join a group of TV types talking shop at the closest table and took an unoccupied one nearer the beach where we could sit side by side facing the lake. A thin man with a red nose and a blue Madrigal’s jacket approached and asked if we’d like something to drink. We both asked for coffee, thinking it would warm our hands and innards. This proved to be overly optimistic, as the dark liquid had cooled to lukewarm by the time the man set the cups on the table.

  We gobbled our hamburgers as fast as we could in an effort to swallow them before the fat congealed in the cold. I was just stuffing in the last bite when Ann Rogers approached. “How are the happy picnickers doing?” she asked.

  “Just like the Fourth of July, only there’s no mosquitoes,” Al said. “When do the fireworks start?”

  “I think we had enough fireworks this morning,” Ann said. She is what’s known as a full-figured woman and is sexy in her own carefully put together way, but the wide-brimmed hat, puffy ski jacket and baggy jeans she was wearing as cold weather attire made her look like an overstuffed snowperson. All she needed was a carrot for a nose.

  “Sit down and take a load off,” I said. “You must be dead on your feet.”

  She plopped onto the bench across from us with a sigh. “Not as dead as poor Alex,” she said.

  “Were you two good friends as well as co-conspiring spinners of the news?” Al asked.

  Ann frowned. “We never put a spin on the news about the governor. Well, almost never. But to answer your question, no, we weren’t particularly good friends. Alex was too standoffish for anyone to really get close to him.”

  “The Hahv’d snob?” I said.

  “The East Coast rich kid,” Ann said. “He came from a big bucks, high society Boston family and never let you forget it.”

  “How’d he wind up in Minnesota, of all places?” Al asked.

  “He followed a woman, a Harvard classmate who was from Minnetonka and came back to work for a Minneapolis law firm headed by none other than Anders A. Anderson.”

  “Gee, I wonder how he happened to get a job as the governor’s press secretary,” I said.

  “It was a perfect fit,” Ann said. “Nepotism aside, Alex was quick on his feet and had a Harvard political science degree. What else does a guy need for dealing with the press?”

  “A personality would be nice,” I said.

  “How about you?” Al asked. “Will you be taking over the job permanently?”

  “There’s not much ‘permanently’ left,” she said. “The election is in November and Governor Anderson isn’t running for a third term. So, yeah, I’ll probably finish it out.”

  “Who’s running?” I asked. “On the Republican side, that is.”

  “Lieutenant Governor Ross,” Ann said. I groaned and she smiled. “Actually, I think Alex would have liked to have run but he never could have beaten Aaron Ross, the good old native son, in a primary.”

  “Ross would have eaten him alive,” I said. “Bluster and cigar smoke against an elite carpetbagger. Smog and bullshit win every time.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Ann said. “Anyway, I should go schmooze some of the network reporters. Have a great picnic, guys; it’s been fun talking to you.” She rose
and walked to a table where two fresh-faced young network reporters, one male and one female, were sitting close enough together to keep them both extremely warm.

  “I’m sure she’ll be appreciated over there,” I said.

  “Maybe her visit will encourage them to adjourn to one of their cabins,” Al said.

  “Speaking of, I’m about ready to adjourn to ours. There is a phenomenon known as heat in there.”

  “An excellent idea. We could grab a couple of desserts off the table and go make some hot coffee with the pot in the cabin.”

  I had stacked my cup on my plate and was wadding up my napkin so I could stuff it into the cup when we were joined by two more visitors.

  “You guys look like you could use a little warming up,” said one. “I’m Roxie.” She was in her early twenties, with curly dark hair, a cute round face, a snub nose that was pink from the cold and sparkly brown eyes.

  “And I’m Angie,” said the other.

  “Hi. I’m Alsie and he’s Mitchie,” Al said.

  “Mind if we sit down?” Angie said. She was also in her early twenties, with straight blonde hair, an angular face, a straight Nordic nose and bright blue eyes. Both wore heavier eye makeup, darker rouge and brighter lipstick than was either appropriate for the occasion or necessary for the enhancement of their features.

  “Sit ahead,” I said.

  “Sit on your head?” said Roxie. She giggled.

  “Ooh, kinky,” said Angie. Another giggle.

  “Maybe later,” said Roxie. She sat between me and the end of the bench, pressing her body and leg tight against me in order to get all of her butt on the seat. Said butt was nicely rounded and encased in jeans so tight they could have been painted on. Above the waist she wore a thin red jacket that flowed around the substantial curves of her upper body.