“But if we are going to get anywhere at all we need to get some information from them fast.”
“Will Keith go with you?”
I glanced at my husband. Because he is a reserve deputy I can call on him whenever I need to. Today he could go in an official capacity. Last night he had been there out of friendship. “Yes. I want him along. Someone who knows the family might help.”
“Help, as in comfort? Or help, as in with the investigation?”
“Both, I guess.”
***
A collie started barking at us the minute we pulled into the Suters’ driveway. A short white picket fence surrounded the large yard enclosing the neat white two-storied house. Chicken wire was stapled to the pickets to keep out any rabbits that threatened their vegetable garden. An enclosed porch had been built at some time and the whole house was faced with white vinyl. The Suters had thrown in the towel and protected the place against the pervasive blowing dust and wind by the most practical methods possible. We’re big on vinyl in Western Kansas.
In short, everything had been streamlined with function trumping style. This was a working farm, geared toward production. An award-winning family used to managing time and resources. A neat but not showy place.
Patricia was already at the screen door before we even went up the steps. The screened-in porch served as a mud room with wire hooks for hanging coats and outerwear. A rubber tray held work boots and a couple of pairs of old-fashioned galoshes with clamping buckles. There was a large chest freezer. Next to it was a cardboard box with a calico cat and five newborn kittens. A straggly geranium plant atop a shelf beneath inexpensive all-weather windows reached up to the weak filtered sun.
“Patricia, I’m so sorry.” The words sounded mechanical. I gave her a gentle hug. Keith removed his hat and nodded to them both. “Ernie, Patricia. Again, my deepest sympathy.”
We went into the combined kitchen/dining room/living room. At one time the house had been a bungalow style, then obviously additions were made when need or inspiration hit. A sectional dominated the living room and faced a medium-sized flat-screen TV. Next to it was a large recliner. Comfort furniture to ease the bones after a long day of physical labor. A patch of duct tape mended one of the vinyl arms. Ernest rose and walked over to join his wife.
“Keith. Lottie. Have a seat.” A wiry man with thinning brown hair, Ernest Suter wore jeans and a faded-red plaid flannel shirt. He had on fleece-lined sheepskin slippers that I guessed had been a Christmas gift. I doubted he would have bought them on his own.
Beyond was a teenaged girl with long dark hair huddled in one corner of the sectional. She stayed there, her hands clasped between her knees as though she would take flight if she didn’t take steps to prevent it. Her eyes were swollen with weeping. “Our daughter, Merilee.” Ernie waved his hand in her direction.
She mumbled a weak hello, but stayed curled up in her little protective ball.
A loud cuckoo clock ticked on the wall. I soldiered on, but I wished I had brought a food offering. Something to break this dreadful silence. As agreed, I let Keith take the lead so I could observe.
“We need to ask you some questions, Ernie. I wish we were simply visiting as friends, but we need to get right on the investigation.”
Ernie nodded and waved toward the kitchen table. “Okay to sit over there? It will give you a place to set your stuff.”
Patricia offered coffee. I never turn it down.
“I’ll lead right off. First, do either of you have any questions we can answer before we start asking ours?”
“Just one. Who in the hell would want to murder our son? Our boy?” Ernie’s face was stark white. More disbelieving than angry. Anger would come later, but for now there was only grief.
Tears streamed down Patricia’s face. She rose and fetched a box of tissues. “He was a wonderful person. You know him. Knew him, Keith.”
“Yes, he was,” my husband said gently. “As good as they come. We need to know what was going on in his life. Anything out of the ordinary?”
Patricia shook her head and reached for another tissue. “No. Everything was as usual. Brent had decided to major in Agriculture Economics at Kansas State. In the meantime, he was taking Agriculture Equipment Technology at Beloit so there would be something to fall back on during hard times. In the beginning he wanted to be an extension agent, but I don’t know. The chances of getting a job in that field weren’t good.”
“And wouldn’t pay worth a damn if he did,” Ernie added. “But that’s all right, I guess if that’s what he wanted to do.” He stared out the window.
“Would his credits at Beloit transfer? And why there?”
“It was cheaper, for one thing. And Beloit has a good program. No problem transferring when he switched to K-State.”
“Nothing that kid couldn’t fix, even without some instructor telling him how. Nothing. He was a natural around a farm. Born to it.” Ernie’s jaw tensed and he worked his hands like they needed warming.
“He was so smart,” Patricia chimed in. “He could have been an engineer. Anything. But he wanted to farm and help people. That’s all he ever wanted.”
Keith and I looked at one another. It was time to move on with some touchier questions. I took over.
“Did he like school?”
“He did. But he was just naturally one of those kids that seems to like everything and everybody,” Ernie said firmly.
“No one he didn’t get along with? No one he had quarreled with?”
“None.”
“No one at all? That’s pretty unusual.”
“If there was, he wouldn’t mention it. It’s not his way. He keeps…kept his focus on higher things.”
“Okay,” I said carefully, “maybe quarreled is too strong a word. Anyone at all he disagreed with?”
“He mentioned some kid he had pissed off because he wouldn’t loan him his car. But he was just looking out for us. The car is no real prize and we carry minimal insurance and the drivers have to be listed on our policy. If something happened, someone could sue the socks off of us. No, make that when something happened. When, not if. The car was a pile of junk. But Brent knew how to baby it.”
I cleared my throat. “Did either one of you have any kind of conflict with your son? Over girlfriends, for instance? Or friends in general?”
“Never.”
“There was a girlfriend,” Merilee said suddenly. “One girl. A very special girl.”
“No conflict.” Patricia spoke quickly before Merilee could say another word. “They were getting awful serious. We just pointed out to Brent that if he wasn’t careful he would end up being a father before his time and marry someone he wasn’t all that crazy about or not marrying but paying child support all of his life.”
“But he was crazy about her. He wanted to marry her,” Merilee added.
Annoyed, Ernie gave Merilee a warning look. “Now don’t you go making a mountain out of a molehill, Sis. We just told him to wait, that’s all.”
“We would just as soon not talk about her. Bad memories there and it has nothing to do with what happened to Brent. Put it out of your mind.”
Merilee’s lips clamped shut again. I made a mental note to get her by herself.
Keith took over again. “Folks, I hate to ask you this, but it’s something I have to do. Did Brent use drugs or was he involved in any of that sort of thing? Anything at all.”
“No.” Both the parents spoke as one.
“Gambling, or helping people gamble.”
“No. What the hell, Keith? You know better than that.”
“Yes, I do, but these are questions I have to ask.”
While Keith was asking these questions I kept my eyes on Merilee. Her blank expression did not change. Not so much as a flicker. No outrage either at our probing questions.
“My boy was going to take over the farm someday. After he got his degree.” Ernie blurted. Then he lost it and left the room.
Keith glanced at his watch. “Thank you so much for your time, Patricia. This is enough for today. We’ll keep you posted. And I’m sure you know that there’s going to be a lot more questions for you to answer. Depending on what comes up. Right now you’ve answered everything we need to start with.”
“Merilee.” She turned toward me when I said her name. “Please keep your eyes open at school. Especially pay attention to people who want to talk about Brent a lot. I can’t imagine what anyone might know or have seen, but you never can tell. Tell us about anything that you think might help.”
Patricia saw us to the door. Ernie was not in sight.
“Nothing we couldn’t have learned through back issues of the paper,” I said as we got into the car.
“Nothing unique volunteered and enough tension to start a war. Not visible. Just there.” Keith turned the key and automatically checked for livestock before he backed.
“Yes. Merilee knows more than she told us. Her parents want to shut her up. Did you see them tense up when I was asking about girlfriends?”
***
Dorothy came to the back door to meet us.
“How did it go?”
“As to be expected. It was miserable. There’s nothing I hate to do more than ask questions about someone who has just died. Unless it’s delivering the news in the first place.” I wanted to think. Not answer questions. But she was officially part of the team. Right now I couldn’t remember why.
“I can just imagine. Did you learn anything new?”
“It’s not what we learned this time so much as what we didn’t learn. We both picked up on one thing. The daughter is hiding something. Not just something. A lot. We need to talk with her when her parents aren’t around.”
“While you were gone, I found a house in the newspaper I want to look at, and a car, too. If Keith has time to take me into town, I’ll look them both over and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“You’re not in our hair! I hope we haven’t given you that impression.”
“You’ve both been just wonderful. I’m not leaving over any lack of hospitality, believe me. In fact, I’m gaining a whole new understanding of why you two live out here. But for my part, I can’t believe how little I know about small-town forensics. This is adding to my research. I should be paying you.”
I laughed. “Stick with me, Babe, and you’ll even get to learn how a regional center works.”
“Plus, having me in town will give us a whole new vantage point. I plan to eat breakfast out every morning. There’s a little café just down the street from the house I’m interested in. People talk over morning cups of coffee. You can’t tell, I might run into someone who knows something.”
“Let’s go now,” Keith said. “I’m ready wherever you are. You want to go too, Lottie? I’m going to drop by the office and talk to Sam. To see if he knows anything new. Or something old, for that matter. First of all, I want to know about passing down Suter’s farm. That’s a big deal out here. Who gets it now that the son is dead?”
“Sure. Knowing Sam, he probably started reading old files to see if they contained any information about someone who might have killed a baby. Maybe he’s found something.”
***
Dorothy sat in the back and we didn’t talk much during the drive.
“Where do you want to start?” Keith asked. “The car or the house?”
“The car. I can pick out the house on my own. If the one in the paper is impossible, it might take more time than you want to spend looking today. But I know nothing about cars. I need your advice on it.”
Keith swung into the Chevrolet dealership. Dorothy carried the ad into the shop. She was a formidable woman in her own right, but with Keith standing in back of his aunt, I doubted that anyone would try a bait and switch. She zeroed in on the used Taurus that had been featured in the paper and bought it right on the spot.
“I’ll stay here and take care of the paperwork. You two go on.” Dorothy turned toward the dealer. “You’ll take a check, I presume.”
He blinked hard. “You bet.”
“Keith, Lottie, you can catch me up later if there’s anything I need to know. If I don’t find a house right away I’ll rent a room. At least I’ll have a car to drive around. It would be a waste of your time. Both of you.”
The Queen of Brisk. Everything taken care of in short order.
Chapter Five
Two days later I insisted on manning the office so Sam could go home. He desperately needed sleep, although I was aware from past experiences that he wouldn’t really rest until we found Brent Suter’s killer. But since I was still officially the undersheriff of Carlton County, I wanted to pull my weight. Sam was supposed to appoint someone to take my place when I became the regional director but obviously it wasn’t a priority for either of us right now.
Until our new building was erected, I was forced to use the old antiquated sheriff’s office for the regional headquarters. Down the street and around the corner was the office of the Carlton County Historical Society, which had every current electronic device a body could wish for. I knew that because I had bought and paid for all of them. Previous to accidentally becoming an underpaid and underappreciated officer of the law, I had been the underpaid and underappreciated editor of the Carlton County history books.
I was still the official supervisor of the third volume of the Carlton County history books and not one word was to be published without my approval. But after a harrowing summer I had turned the day-to-day operations over to a staff of three: Margaret Atkinson, Jane Jordan, and Angie, Keith’s youngest daughter. Margaret saw to it that there was a rigid pecking order with her at the top, of course.
I could go there at any time and use my very own state-of-the-art equipment but I tried to stay out of the courthouse because somehow they became a trio of blithering incompetents the moment I walked in the door. They seemed unable to trust their own judgments for decisions they usually handled just fine.
The agreement was that the staff would call me if anyone wanted to give an oral history, or if I was needed to give my approval before pages were finalized and sent to the printer. Sometimes they were simply stumped and needed advice.
Today, I was jittery tired and couldn’t think of a single sensible action to take on solving the two bizarre murders. We had to wait until Topeka finished processing the forensic work before we could do a darned thing. Questions rotated through my mind. A dull circle of unanswered puzzles. Who would want to kill a baby? Why was it in Reaching Woman’s arms? And Sam’s question: how in the hell did it get there in the first place? The next questions all concerned the Suter kid.
I jumped when Jane Jordan came through the door carrying a book in her arms. Apologetic, nervous, she thrust it toward me. “Margaret thought we should throw this away. I think we should keep it. She agreed to let you decide.”
“Good!”
“We hated to interrupt you.”
“Nonsense. How are things going?”
“Fine. Just fine.”
They probably were, and I suddenly missed the smell of glue pots and musty books.
“I have to get back now. Angie is laying out some pages and I’m looking up some information on early railroading for some caller from Texas. And Margaret is planning next week’s projects.” She moved toward the door. “Bye, bye.”
“Goodbye. Say hello to everyone. Tell Margaret I said you all did the right thing. Let me decide this kind of stuff.”
She left. She looked happy. Hell, they all looked happy every time I saw them. Why not? They all knew what they were doing and what the outcome was supposed to be. None of them had risen to their highest level of incompetence like me.
I was over my head in the worst ki
nd of way with this double murder. A dead 4-H’er. A dead baby. A setting that breeds nightmares.
I carried the heavy three-ring binder to my desk. It would give me something to do while I waited to hear from Topeka.
The first page was illustrated by hand with a border of vines and diamond motifs.
My Commonplace Book
By
Franklin Slocum
A commonplace book! They were a nineteenth-century pastime. Commonplace books were not journals or diaries, although some contained such entries. They held a hodgepodge—poems and programs and words of wisdom, observations. Whatever. But a three-ring binder was obviously not nineteenth century. Who would keep such a thing, and why would they call it a commonplace book? It was such an odd thing to do.
The next page began with a sort of free verse written with a hand as beautiful as calligraphy. Fascinated, I was finally able to turn my attention to something other than murder.
I quickly realized this was not an ordinary commonplace book, either. It was filled with diary and journal entries.
There was a picture of a very young boy about six or seven, I guessed. Was this the book’s owner? There was no way to tell, but whoever was writing was a quite a bit older. The same boy? Perhaps.
The third page introduced an entry that made the book different from a classic commonplace book. The name again.
Franklin Slocum
My Life Story
Once again the page was elaborately decorated in calligraphy.
The next page began:
I was born but I shouldn’t have been. My mother told me so. I have been all wrong since the very beginning. My feet do not work right. They are the first thing people notice about me. My feet turn toward each other so I can’t run. Not really. I would look like a bear trying to run on two legs except I’m not as big as the other boys. So bear is the wrong word.
The other boys have a father. Biddy won’t talk to me about him at all. Her face gets red and she gets that look on her face that I know means she hates him all over again.
She comes into my room at night and stands by my bed staring at me. On the worst nights she sits in a chair by my bed and I can feel her looking at me. When I peek, her hands are clasped so hard her knuckles are white. I know she is trying hard not to kill me. I know she won’t because she is my mother and she knows it is wrong. I pretend to be asleep, but when her head is lowered I look and her hands work the corner of her apron over and over.
Fractured Families Page 4