Fishing for a Killer

by Glenn Ickler

  “Terrible loss to the state and to the citizens,” Hardcastle said. “A very bright young man with a great political future in the Minnesota Independent-Republican Party.”

  “You saw him as a rising star?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. He’d have been a great candidate for state office. I’d bet you that he could have knocked that left wing loony Harold Svendsen out of the secretary of state’s office next time around. Alex wrote some powerful campaign ads last time and he’d do even better delivering those ads in person.”

  “I’ve heard that Alex’s ads actually turned off a lot of independent voters and cost his man the election,” I said.

  “There’s no proof of that piece of leftwing poppycock. You probably heard that from that scumbag Joe Weber.”

  That caught my attention. “Scumbag?”

  “Yes, scumbag. You can quote me on that if the subject ever comes up, not that I expect it to in this story. But think about it. With all Weber’s leftwing populist blabber, why wasn’t he running for public office? Check him out.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “My pleasure,” Hardcastle said. “Now if you don’t require anything further of me, I’ll be on my way. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

  “It’ll be really good if we get to say goodbye to Gull Lake before the sun goes down,” I said in response.

  “You may be seeing another sunrise over Steamboat Bay,” Hardcastle said. “The sheriff is talking to a lot of people, and the way he’s doing it puts Mr. Jeffrey’s last name seventeenth in the reverse alphabet.”

  I counted backwards on my fingers from W to J as Hardcastle walked away. “He’s right,” I said. “I’ll be waiting around for you.”

  “If he’d gone the normal way I’d be waiting around for you, so what’s the difference?” Al said. “What we need to do is convince him to take us together as one big M for Mitchell, which would put me three letters closer.”

  “I’ll tell him we have to stay together because we’re joined at the funny bone,” I said.

  “He should get a laugh out of that.”

  While we waited for my turn with Sheriff Holmberg, we buttonholed three more opening day holdovers for comments on the proceedings. We now had six that could be put in the paper so we went back to our cottage where I could write about the comments and Al could send his mug shots of my subjects.

  Before I started to write what was turning out to be a less-than-absorbing story, I called a man with whom I’d worked on several St. Paul murders. “Homicidebrown,” he answered, all in one word as he always does.

  “Dailydispatchmitchell,” I replied, all in one word as I always do.

  “Mitch, old boy,” said Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown, chief of the St. Paul Police Department’s homicide division. “How are the walleyes biting?”

  “Haven’t had much time to look for walleyes,” I said. “We’ve been too busy looking for bodies, both dead and alive.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been reading your stuff in the paper. It sounds like you’re involved in some kind of TV reality show up there. Did the kidnapper really climb up a tree?”

  “You must have seen Al’s pictures of him sitting way up high and later falling on his stupid head.”

  “I did, but they could have been photo-shopped.”

  “Never happen to a Daily Dispatch news photo,” I said. “Feature photos might be tweaked, but not a news shot.”

  “That’s good to hear, but I’m sure you didn’t call to fill me in on the ethics of the Daily Dispatch photo department,” Brown said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I want to ask a teeny tiny little bitty favor of you. If you say yes you could be helping solve the murder of a public employee on Gull Lake.”

  “Gull Lake’s not in my jurisdiction.”

  “Doesn’t matter whose jurisdiction it is. Truth knows no boundaries.”

  “Who said that, George Washington? So tell me, what is this teeny tiny little bitty favor, and is it legal?”

  “I’m asking you to check if there are any rap sheets for a couple of people. I’ll let you decide on the legality.”

  “Oh, come on, Mitch, you know I can’t do that for you.”

  “My question is not can or can’t, it’s will or won’t,” I said.

  Brown was silent for a moment. “Who are the people?”

  “Their names are Dexter Rice and Joseph Weber.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?” Brown said. “Rice is a very prominent person and Weber is a government official, for god’s sake.”

  “They’re also high on the widow Gordon’s list of people who possibly hated her husband enough to kill him.”

  “I can’t believe you’re serious.”

  “Have I ever played games with you?”

  “About a dozen times that I can think of,” Brown said. “Do you want to hear the list?”

  “All I want to hear, or see, are the results of a rap sheet check. I will dispose of all evidence immediately after reading.”

  “Sorry, no can do. Have a nice day, Mitch.” The phone went dead.

  “Will he do it?” Al asked as I put down my phone.

  “I think so,” I said. “All his phone calls are recorded so he had to say no, but knowing Brownie, I’m betting that he’ll find a way to come through. He is, first and foremost, a homicide detective.”

  Twenty-Four

  Q and A with the Sheriff

  It was 3:04 p.m. when I finally was summoned to the office by Ann Rogers to take my turn with Sheriff Val Holmberg. Al tagged along and when we suggested to Ann that we give our statements as a team she said she would ask the sheriff if that was acceptable.

  When she emerged from the office she shook her head in the negative and I went in alone. I decided to try again with the sheriff, saying that we’d both be telling the same story.

  “That’s what I want to check,” Holmberg said. “That’s exactly why I want to question you separately.” I knew that, but I needed to find out if he did. Apparently he’d gone to the same school as the big city cops, who always separate their witnesses.

  “Do you think you’ll get to Al by the end of the day?” I asked. “We’re both getting tired of washing out our underwear every night.”

  Holmberg smiled. “From all the bitching I’ve been hearing, you’re not the only ones doing that. I’ll get to your buddy when his turn comes up and I can’t promise it will be today. Now then, first I’m going to ask you about finding the lifejacket on the island, and then I’m going to ask you about your relations with those two little hookers.”

  “I haven’t had relations with either of those two little hookers.” Jeez, I was sounding like President Clinton.

  “Poor choice of words on my part. What I want is a complete rundown on how you met them and how you happened to be in Ms. Olafson’s cabin when Ms. Robideaux appeared. So let’s get started with the lifejacket story, and remember to include how Ms. Robideaux came to be in the boat with you and your buddy that day.”

  I told the story of meeting Roxie and Angie as fast as I could, and moved on to telling about the fishing trip that ended up on the island. Holmberg kept interrupting me with questions and backtracks until I thought I’d never get to the accidental discovery of the lifejacket’s burial site. When my story finally reached the point where Holmberg and his deputies joined us on the island, he turned the questioning to the disappearance of Roxie Robideaux.

  Holmberg seemed intrigued by our reason for following Ronald Jones to his cabin. “You say you followed him just because you had a bad feeling about him?” the sheriff asked.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “No other reason? Purely on a gut feeling?”

  “He fit Angie’s description and I just had
a bad feeling about the guy in general.”

  “Man, I should hire you on as a deputy. With instincts like that you could really cut down the time needed to apprehend a suspect. Care to try solving the Gordon murder case, then?”

  “I’m already working on it.”

  “You’re working on it? How?”

  “By being a reporter. I don’t have enough to back up my suspicions yet but I’ll let you know when—better make that if—I do. How about you? Any suspects?”

  “No. At this point I don’t even have a person of interest,” Holmberg said. “The governor was no help and the lieutenant governor exercised what he called ‘executive privilege’ and left for Bemidji and points west to start his campaign for governor. I’ll have to track him down when he gets back to St. Paul if I want a statement from him.”

  “Wear your gas mask when you question him or the second-hand cigar smoke will give you virulent lung cancer,” I said.

  “Yeah, the air around him does seem kinda thick. But let’s get back to your story. I believe we left off with Mr. Jeffrey following Mr. Jones to his cabin.”

  I picked up the story with me knocking on Ronald Jones’s front door and continued from there, again with stops for questions and requests for repetition. It was almost 4:30 when we finally reached the point of the sheriff’s arrival on this scene. Holmberg thanked me for my cooperation and ushered me to the door. As I went out he instructed Ann Rogers to send in the next person on the list. I heard him say, “That’ll be the last one for today. I’m talked out.” I emitted an agonized groan but I don’t think he heard me.

  When I entered our cabin I was greeted by the sight of Al lying facedown on his bed with Angie Olafson straddling his buttocks and leaning forward with her hands on his shoulders and her boobs dragging on his back.

  To my relief, both were fully clothed. Still, I thought the situation warranted an explanation, so I requested one as calmly as I could.

  “Massage,” Angie said as she continued to knead his shoulders. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  “M’ back was killing me,” Al mumbled with his face in the pillow. “’M I up yet?”

  “We’re washing out another day’s worth of underwear,” I said. “The guy who followed me in will be the last one for the day.”

  Al pushed himself up onto his elbows, freeing his mouth and nearly toppling Angie backwards. “I’m sick of washing out underwear,” he said. “The shorts I’ve got on didn’t even get all the way dry.”

  Angie giggled. “You can borrow some of mine.”

  “My body parts won’t fit in a thong,” Al said.

  “Just thinking of you in a thong is wrong,” I said.

  “I’d sing a song in a higher key wearing a thong too tight for me,” Al said.

  “Oh, stop it,” Angie said. “I was only kidding.” She sat back, resting her butt on Al’s calf muscles.

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “To offer a thong is to do no wrong.”

  “Please,” Angie said. “You sound like Doctor Seuss.” She swung one leg across Al’s legs and got off the bed. I was working up a suitably Seussian reply when the phone beside the bed rang. Al skootched forward on his belly, answered the phone and listened to the caller. “Oh, goddamn it, no!” he yelled. “Why in hell would he do that?” He rolled to the edge of the bed and stood up, still listening. “Thanks anyway for the head’s up,” he said. He put the phone down and looked at me with wide eyes and an open mouth.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The sheriff just called Ann Rogers and she’s alerting the press. Ronald Jones has disappeared from the hospital.”

  “Oh, my god, we’ll never get home,” I said. I flopped into a chair ready to sink into deep depression and despair.

  “Do you think he’ll come after Roxie for revenge?” Angie said.

  “Isn’t she in the same hospital?” Al said.

  “She got out at noon. I picked her up and she’s sleeping in my cabin,” Angie said.

  I jumped up out of the chair. “Go wake her up. She needs to move to a protected place.”

  “Like where?” Angie said.

  I searched a moment for an answer. “Like, damn it, here.”

  Angie dashed out the door.

  My cell phone rang. It was Martha Todd.

  Twenty-Five

  Guarding Roxie

  Are you guys on the way home yet?” Martha Todd asked. “Trish Valentine just reported live that the sheriff has been taking statements from people all day.”

  “He got mine but he quit before he got to Al,” I said. “We’re stuck here for at least another day.”

  “What do mean by ‘at least’? Surely he’ll get to Al tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bet on it. The creep who kidnapped the woman here has disappeared from the hospital. The woman hunt is over but the manhunt is on.”

  “Oh, no! I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, do believe it. Trish Valentine will be reporting it live any minute now. I just hope they catch him soon.”

  “Are they checking the tree tops?” Martha asked.

  “I’d be going out on a limb to answer that,” I said. “Actually, I don’t know where they’re looking. The news was relayed through the governor’s press secretary and she didn’t branch out with any details.”

  The front door swung open and Roxie and Angie dashed in, greeting us loudly as they did. I motioned for them to shut up but it was too late.

  “Do I hear women’s voices?” Martha said.

  I was tempted to say it was the TV, but I decided that telling the immediate truth might save me from later embarrass­ment. “Yes, you do,” I said.

  “So who’s there? Some other reporters?”

  Ooh, there was a good way out. I could tell her that Trish Valentine was in our cabin reporting live. Instead, I confessed that Roxie and Angie had just come in.

  “The hookers?” she said. “Are you telling me that you and Al have those two hookers in your cabin?”

  “I am. Angie was afraid that the creep might come after Roxie for revenge so we offered to hide her momentarily until the sheriff can move her to someplace safe.”

  “Oh, aren’t you the gallant big brothers, protecting your little sisters? And how long do you expect ‘momentarily’ to last?”

  “Probably, oh, say, less than thirty minutes,” I said. “The sheriff or one of his deputies should be here by then.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know where the sheriff and his deputies were looking,” Martha said.

  “Well, yeah, but he’s got to send somebody to the resort to take care of Roxie.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “As sure as I am about anything that’s happening here.”

  “In other words, you don’t have the faintest idea how long you will be playing house with two young prostitutes.”

  “I would hardly call it playing house, Martha. We’re just keeping our little sisters safe.”

  “My question is whether you’re safe,” she said. “And I don’t mean from the revenge-seeking kidnapper.”

  “What? You think we’re going to be seduced by two young girls half our age?”

  “They might be that desperate.”

  “Thanks so much for the compliment.”

  “You’re so welcome. Tell you what: give your phone to Roxie.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Never you mind what I’m going to do. Just give your phone to Roxie.”

  I called Roxie over, told her my fiancée wished to speak with her and handed her my phone. After “hello,” Roxie said nothing. She just listened, and as she did her eyes grew wider and her jaw dropped.

  When Roxie handed back the phone I asked Martha what she had
said. “Girl talk,” she said. “No need for you to know.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, mostly about Martha’s efforts to straighten out her grandmother’s problems with the immigration office. She also reminded me that we had a wedding scheduled for Saturday and said it would be appreciated if I were in attendance. When we were finished I asked Roxie what Martha had said to her.

  “Girl talk,” Roxie said. “I can’t tell you what all she said. All I know is you’d better be awful damn careful when you marry that woman.” I was already aware of that.

  Now, because of Martha’s questions, I had begun to wonder whether the sheriff really would send a man to Madrigal’s. I decided to find Ann Rogers and ask her what she knew. “I hope you’re safe here alone with these two women,” I said to Al as I opened the door to leave.

  “I have a feeling my phone will ring as soon as Martha passes the word about our guests to Carol,” Al said. “That should keep me busy while you’re gone.” I heard his cell phone sound off as I pulled the door shut behind me.

  I found Ann Rogers in the lodge, pinned against one of the fireplaces by a dozen people carrying notebooks and cameras. She was telling them that she had no details other than that the sheriff and his deputies were organizing a search to find Ronald Jones.

  “How’d he get away?” Barry Ziebart asked. “Wasn’t there a guard on his room?”

  “The guard went to the men’s room,” Ann said.

  “How long was he gone?” Trish Valentine asked.

  “I’m not sure. However long it takes for a man to do what he had to do.”

  Knowing that this would depend on several variables, such as the nature of the mission, the quantity of the mission and the guard’s efficiency in accomplishing the mission, I decided to take a different track and asked where Jones might have found transportation to get away from the hospital.

  “Probably caught a taxi,” Ann said. “The Brainerd police are checking with cab drivers and also with bus drivers to see if anybody remembers picking up a man of Jones’s description.”