by Glenn Ickler
“I can’t believe you gave her all that,” Al said.
“I was in deep shock at seeing her,” I said.
“You’ll be in deep doo-doo when Don O’Rourke sees that interview.”
“I’ll plead insanity.”
“I’ll confirm it,” Al said.
There was knocking and shouting at both doors now, along with faces peering in through every window. “Go away,” Al yelled. “No interviews.” He dashed from window to window, closing the blinds.
“You gave Channel Four an interview,” a man yelled. “You owe us one at Channel Eleven.”
“Channel Four broke in illegally and it wasn’t really an interview,” I yelled. “I’m having them arrested for B and E.”
“We’ll have you arrested for B and S,” said Barry Ziebart. “Just give us a sound bite of what you found.”
“Read my story out loud in front of the camera,” I said.
More voices mingled in an unintelligible cacophony and then the racket ceased as suddenly as if someone had shut a soundproof door. Al looked out the window and said the mob was retreating. “I wonder why they’re leaving,” he said. “Looks like they’re all headed for the lodge.”
“Let’s find out,” I said. I picked up the phone and dialed “0.” When the desk clerk answered I asked if something was happening at the lodge.
“The sheriff and the medical examiner just drove up,” he said.
I thanked him, dropped the phone and headed for the door. “Grab your camera and let’s go; the autopsy report is here,” I said.
Dr. Louis Bordeaux was a roly-poly little man in his late sixties with a hairless dome that gleamed like it was polished and ears that stuck out like the handles on a sugar bowl. He was about five-foot-six in both height and width, and he wore a black suit with a pale lavender shirt and a pink-and-purple paisley tie. He also wore a three-inch-long white bandage that would have stretched from his right eyebrow to his hairline if he’d had either an eyebrow or a hairline.
“Must have really cracked that egg,” Al said as Ann Rogers was introducing the doctor in the lodge’s main meeting room.
“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” I said.
“Don’t you guys ever quit talking nonsense?” asked Trish Valentine, who as usual was right in front of us.
“Never,” I said. “And that also goes for getting even with people who break into houses to steal intelligence.”
“Number one, the door wasn’t locked so I didn’t break in,” Trish said. “Number two, I didn’t find any intelligence to steal.”
I wanted to bop her on top of her little blonde head but the doctor was speaking so I didn’t want to risk breaking my tape recorder.
After greeting the gathering, Doctor Bordeaux apologized for the one-day delay, pointed to the bandage on his glistening forehead and said, “This old egg got seriously cracked.”
“What did I tell you?” Al said to Trish during the laughter.
“I give up,” Trish said.
“You should,” I said.
When the laughter ended, Doctor Bordeaux started reading from a written report. After the usual preamble giving name, age and date of death, the report began: “Although Mr. Gordon’s body was recovered from the bottom of Gull Lake more than five hours after his boat was discovered in an unmanned condition on the surface of said lake, no lake water was found in Mr. Gordon’s lungs.” A chorus of exclamations from his audience caused him to pause.
When the room was quiet, the doctor continued. “This would indicate that Mr. Gordon was not breathing while he was under the water. Upon further examination of the remains, a small contusion was found under his hair on the back of his head at the base of the skull. It is my opinion that the contusion was caused by contact with a solid object and that the force of this contact was strong enough to cause a lethal injury to Mr. Gordon’s brain. Therefore it is my official ruling that the cause of Mr. Gordon’s death was the effect of blunt trauma to the head.”
The reaction of the crowd was instantaneous and vociferous. People started shouting questions and Doctor Bordeaux started looking uncomfortable. As the doctor backed away from microphones being thrust closer to his face, Sheriff Val Holmberg stepped forward and loudly called for order.
“Back off and let the doctor finish his statement,” Holmberg said when the roar had diminished to a rumble.
Gradually the room grew quiet and Doctor Bordeaux’s eyes lost the deer-in-the-headlights look. “While it is possible that Mr. Gordon’s head struck the side of the boat with lethal force as he fell out of said boat, the location of the wound suggests that it may have been incurred prior to the fall,” he said. He added a couple of concluding sentences and backed away without calling for questions. Val Holmberg took the ME’s place in front of the lineup of TV and radio microphones.
In a show of courage, the sheriff asked if there were any questions. Of course there were many, some cogent and some nonsensical, some answered by Doctor Bordeaux and some answered by the sheriff. Finally someone yelled, “Is it possible that the blow on the head and the lifejacket the St. Paul paper says you found buried on the island add up to a clear case of murder?”
“Not necessarily. First of all, you just heard the doctor say that it is possible that the blow on the head was incurred during the victim’s fall from the boat,” Holmberg said. “Second, we haven’t yet confirmed the identity of the owner of the lifevest. The initials drawn on it are A.R.G., and while the ‘A’ and the ‘G’ could stand for Alex Gordon, we haven’t been able to confirm what Mr. Gordon’s middle name was. There was no middle initial or name listed on the identifying documents that we recovered from his wallet.”
“It’s Robert,” shouted a woman in the back of the room.
Holmberg’s head jerked back and he stared at the woman. “Are you sure of that, ma’am?”
“Absolutely,” the woman said.
With a hint of indulgence in his voice, Holmberg asked, “And how do you know that for certain, ma’am?”
“I’m his wife. My name is Mari Gordon.”
Thirteen
More Trouble
Well, didn’t that start a stampede to the rear? All heads—and feet—turned toward Mari Gordon, leaving Val Holmberg abandoned and looking confused. Damn, I thought as I turned slowly away from the sheriff, there goes my shot at an exclusive interview.
Trish Valentine spun and went around me like a human cannonball and weaved her way toward Mari Gordon like a Vikings runningback heading for the Green Bay goal line. However, I put a full body block on Tony, leaving Trish waiting silently for her cameraman while two other TV teams were jamming microphones under Mari Gordon’s nose. This gave me some satisfaction, but not quite enough to compensate for Trish’s invasion of our cabin.
As for Mari Gordon, it was obvious that she regretted sounding off. She fluttered her hands in front of her face as she kept repeating the words “please, no comment” and “I can’t answer that” to the reporters bombarding her with questions. First came the standard TV reporter’s query: “How do you feel about your husband being murdered?” This classic was followed with a barrage of questions about her husband’s possible enemies and who she thought might have killed him.
After a couple of minutes of chaos, Mari covered her face with both hands and broke into tears. At that point Ann Rogers, bless her heart, elbowed her way through the crowd, took Mari by the arm and steered her to the door and out of the room. With Mari gone, everyone in the crowd turned back to the sheriff. Everyone but Al, that is. “I’m going to follow the women and see where the widow is staying,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the lounge when this mess is over.”
It wasn’t long before Sheriff Val Holmberg raised his arms full length above his head and declared that the mess—he called it a press conference—was over. Dr. Louis Bordeaux had alr
eady vanished during the hubbub around Mari Gordon, and the sheriff, looking as stunned as a bombing raid survivor, started to follow in his tracks. I intercepted the sheriff halfway to the door and said, “Remember me? When do you want to take my statement?”
“Oh, god, give me a few minutes to cool down,” he said. “You big city people are like wild animals. Tell you what. I’ll meet you and your photographer buddy in the manager’s office in half an hour. And bring your little playmate with you. I want to get her statement, too.”
“Sure you just don’t want to look at her boobs?”
“Right now all I want to look at is a hot cup of coffee. Like I said, you big city people are like wild animals.” Having twice critiqued the big city media, Holmberg stepped around me and hustled away.
So now I had a half-hour to inform Al of the scheduled meeting and to find our young friend Roxie. The first was accomplished five minutes later in the lounge when he returned from his reconnaissance mission and reported on Mari Gordon’s cabin number. The second proved to be more difficult. We didn’t know Roxie’s cabin number and we didn’t see Angie anywhere in the lounge or the dining room.
“Do you think the desk would give us Roxie’s cabin number?” Al asked.
“Do you know what last name to ask for?” I said. “All we know them by is Roxie and Angie.”
“The sheriff can probably find out. All he has to do is ask where the cute young whores are staying and I’ll bet the desk clerk can tell him.”
“Good point” I said. “Should we try that approach?”
“Not me,” Al said. “You never know who the clerk will tell about us looking for the hookers, and once the word got out it could spread all the way to St. Paul.”
“Another good point. Let’s leave it to the sheriff.”
We settled into chairs in the lounge and I pecked out my story on my laptop while Al was sending some photos, including one of a row of microphones in front of the weeping widow with her hands covering her face, to the city desk. I had just pressed the send button when Angie walked in the door.
“We’re saved,” I said. I jumped up and waved to Angie and she came to us at a gallop.
“Where’s Roxie?” The question was asked simultaneously by Al and me. And by Angie.
“You don’t know where she is?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen her all morning so I went to her cabin,” Angie said. “The door was unlocked and cabin is a mess inside. Even more than usual.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean the whole place is torn up, not just the bed and the bedroom. Like they were going at it all over the kitchen and everything. I don’t know where she could be.”
“Did it look like there might have been a fight?” Al asked.
“Could have been,” Angie said. “I’m scared for her.”
This looked like another chore for Sheriff Val Holmberg. “Come with us,” I said. “We’re meeting the sheriff in two minutes.”
Angie’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. When she recovered, she said, “I ain’t going to the sheriff. He’ll bust me for soliciting.”
“If the sheriff was going to arrest you for prostitution he’d have done it a long time ago,” I said. “He’s been looking the other way, either because he doesn’t want the hassle or he’s been told by someone higher up the food chain to lay off. Some of your clients are prominent people and the politics could get messy.”
Resort manager Martin Johansen ushered us into his office and bowed out, saying he was leaving us to talk in private with the sheriff. Two minutes later Sheriff Holmberg came through the door, looked us over and said, “That’s not the same chippy that was with you on the island.”
“This is her, uh . . . friend,” I said. “The lady who was with us on the island is missing under rather unusual circumstances and Angie is here to lead us to Roxie’s cabin.”
“What do you mean ‘unusual circumstances’?” Holmberg said. I tilted my head toward Angie. Shaking and talking in nervous spurts, she told Holmberg the same story she’d given us about what she’d found in Roxie’s cabin.
“Take us there,” Holmberg said. “We’ll check this out and get your statements later.”
Al and I looked at each other and groaned. We’d been counting on a quick session with the sheriff so we could get on the road to St. Paul.
Angie led Holmberg, a deputy who’d accompanied him, Al and me up the path to Roxie’s cabin. The deputy stood beside the door while Holmberg knocked, announced himself and yanked the door open. He ordered us to stay put and stepped inside cautiously, followed by the deputy. They did a quick walkthrough and Holmberg called for us to enter.
Angie hadn’t been exaggerating. The kitchen, sitting room and bedroom all looked like battle scenes, with articles of clothing, towels and small items strewn around, chairs out of place, a reading lamp lying on the floor and the small kitchen table tipped onto its side. Holmberg told us to stand still while he made a slower inspection tour.
He stopped by the overturned table and looked closely at the edge “Appears to be blood,” he said, pointing to a brownish-red mark. Angie gasped and started to cry. “The son of a bitch hurt Roxie,” she said.
“Do you know who she was with?” Holmberg asked.
“I don’t know his name,” Angie said. “She said he was one of those guys who came with the governor.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. Roxie said he was kind of fat but not too bad looking.”
“Did she mention an age?”
“No. Actually, all those guys look about the same age to us . . . to her.”
Holmberg snorted a short laugh. “Their money all looks about the same, too, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Angie said.
“Don’t kid me, little girl, I know what you and your so-called friend are doing here this weekend, and I don’t like it. I’d have both of you and all of your customers in court today if I hadn’t been told to look the other way. When we find your friend you’d both better get your butts out of my county or by god I’ll find a reason to put them in jail the minute the governor leaves Crow Wing County.”
I steered the conversation back on course. “We need to go see Ann Rogers. She can tell us if anyone from the governor’s party is also missing.”
“And if nobody’s missing, maybe she can tell you which guy is kind of fat but not too bad looking,” Al said.
“We might need Angie to give us the working girl’s perspective on which fat guy is not too bad looking,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Holmberg said. Al and I followed him out the door but Angie hung back. “You, too, little girl,” the sheriff said. “You’re in this up to your tushy.”
We found Ann back in the lounge talking to reporters. From the chatter, I gathered that most of the people were planning to stay a second additional night so they could talk to the sheriff individually, take a trip out to the island to see where we’d dug up the lifejacket and maybe get a shot at interviewing Mari Gordon. This meant we’d have to call Don O’Rourke to get our marching orders and pass along the additional revelation that our story was about to become further complicated by a search for a missing hooker.
Much as I dreaded being told to stay another night, I slipped outside and made the call to Don while the sheriff was talking to Ann.
Fourteen
Hunting for a Hooker
Don’t tell me you’ve got a serial killer running loose up there,” Don O’Rourke said when I gave him the news about Roxie’s disappearance.
“No, I won’t do that,” I said. “One, we don’t know that Roxie’s dead. Two, even if she is, there’s not enough similarity between a hooker and a press secretary to suggest a serial killer at work.”
“You don’t think there�
��s any similarity between a political press secretary and a whore?”
“I won’t deny a certain commonality between the two jobs but I doubt the average serial killer thinks that way.”
“So what have you got?”
“We’ve got a dead man, possibly murdered by someone in the governor’s office, and a missing woman, possibly murdered or imprisoned by someone else in the governor’s office. I’m asking if Al and I should stay here on the scene or come home and cover the story, or stories, by phone.” I knew darn well what the answer would be.
“The others are staying?” Don said.
“Sounds like most of them are.”
“Well, it really doesn’t matter what the rest of them are doing. You two might as well stick around for at least one more day,” Don said. “You can’t get pictures of the search by phone in St. Paul, and it looks like we’ll be getting two stories for the price of one.”
I sighed inwardly and told Don I’d send a story about Roxie as soon as we found out what the sheriff planned to do. I also said we’d try to get to Mari Gordon even though I thought we had about as much chance for an interview as a porcupine had for a hug.
I went back into the lounge and joined the sheriff, Al and Angie in a circle around Ann. Al’s first question was, “Are we staying?” I nodded and he sighed.
Val Holmberg had asked Ann to round up all the men with any surplus poundage in the group from the governor’s office, bring them to the lobby and line them up in front of the manager’s office where Angie could look them over from behind the registration counter. The sheriff didn’t expect to get a quick confession, but he planned to question the men one by one in the office. After the interviews he would ask Angie for an assessment of the men’s relative good looks and call back any that she found to be “not too bad looking.”
Ann said it was her duty to inform all the members of the media about the missing woman and the sheriff’s plan to question a group of state officials and employees. Holmberg told her that she must keep all of the media, Al and me included, away from the lineup outside the office.