“I thought Warrington brought in some crisis counselors.”
“He did. Good people, but they were only here for a few days. Then I became the point man. I’ve been mostly doing individual sessions, but now I’m going to start doing some groups. Carolyn, my friend in California, walked me through how to do these sessions.”
“Ashleigh Allen, were you acquainted with her?” Ray probed.
“Not really; being a part-timer sort of keeps you an outsider. But I did get to know her a bit.”
“What did you think of her?” Ray asked.
“She was an impressive young woman. Real bright, you could just see it; you could hear it in her voice. And the way she carried herself, a kind of easy confidence. You just don’t find people her age who are so completely integrated. And she was real good with the kids, a role model. What a tragedy.”
“Any students ever complain about her?”
“Never. I observed that a few of the older faculty members didn’t seem to care for her, but I think they were just envious of her wonderful abilities.”
“The kids, the ones you work with,” Ray paused a long moment, searching for the right word, “any real… ”
“Wackos?” interrupted Tessler. “Sociopaths with homicidal tendencies, people pissed at Ashleigh for giving them a low grade?” Tessler chuckled. “No, we don’t have any kids like that. Nothing that interesting.”
“Tell me about problems you normally deal with at Leiston School.”
“It’s all pretty normal adolescent angst—difficulties with parents, or roommates, or love interests, or trying to figure out their sexuality. Occasionally there’s a complaint against a teacher.” Tessler paused and sipped his tea. “I’ve heard tell there was a time when Leiston had some unmanageable students. That was after Mrs. Howard died, when the enrollment fell off, and they were admitting anyone with tuition money. That all ended soon after Warrington took over. The question you want to ask is whether one of the students could have committed this crime?”
“I’m trying to look at every possibility,” Ray responded.
“You know, I spent a lot of years working with criminal types, males mostly. After a while you can spot them—the way they look, the way they carry themselves, the way they don’t quite make eye contact. Before they open their mouths, you know the story they’re going to give you.” He looked directly at Ray, “The killer isn’t at Leiston School, isn’t in the student body.”
“How about the faculty or staff?”
“You know, there are a few folks a couple of standard deviations out from the norm, but I’d be surprised if you had any killers. They’re just run-of-the-mill crackpots.”
“Helen Warrington, she preceded you as the school psychologist?”
“Yes, she’s a clinical psychologist.”
“Did she ever mention any especially disturbed students?”
“She gave me a briefing on the kids that she had seen in the past several years who were still enrolled and would probably need some continued therapy. We’re talking about just a handful of students, none of whom are anything more than runny-nose neurotics. For lots of these kids it’s sort of fashionable to be in therapy.”
“But,” said Ray, pursuing his question, “she never talked about working with any… ”
“No. She did what was necessary to fill me in on the students I would probably be seeing and shared her notes, nothing more.” He paused briefly, “I was surprised at her notes. They weren’t very professional for someone who reminds you of her credentials in every conversation. And she’s not, shall we say, excessively effusive.” He chuckled. “Cuddly as a cactus.”
“Tell me about the notes, what bothered you?”
“They were sparse and rather naïve, underwritten, like she wasn’t giving it enough time. For someone who seems to be so obsessed with having everything perfect; I was surprised by the shoddy nature of her notes and observations.”
“Did you ever encounter a student by the name of Denton Freeler?” Ray asked looking at a small notebook.
“No,” Tessler responded.
“How about Jay Hanson?”
“No. Might’ve been before my time, on Helen’s watch.”
“Alan Quertermous, the math teacher?”
“He’s kinda wild, isn’t he?”
“How do you mean?”
“I haven’t spent a lot of time in his company, but there’s one angry little man.”
“Angry enough to commit murder?” Ray probed.
“No, I don’t think so. Just someone who bitches about everything. It’s probably therapeutic; he doesn’t hold anything back. He just makes everyone around him crazy. But,” he added, changing the tone of his voice, a smile forming over his leathery face, “let me put in a disclaimer. Psychology is an inexact discipline; I’ve been scammed by bright psychopaths.”
Ray walked Tessler out of the office and toward the parking lot, chatting about the latest flap in local politics. Tessler stopped near the rear of a vintage Volvo, deep blue, the top and hood faded from years of sun, tattered stickers for political and environmental causes covering the tailgate.
“Your car?” Ray asked.
“Yes, had it since new. Women come and go, but this Volvo seems to hang on.”
“If you’re becoming a permanent resident,” offered Ray with a grin, “you might consider getting Michigan plates, perhaps even for the current year.”
Tessler looked mildly abashed. “You know, I’ve been meaning to do that. I just really hate to give up my California tags.”
Ray walked alone to the far end of the parking lot and peered into the low valley below and the hillside beyond. Patches of scarlet still remained in protected stands of maple. Fall’s special musky perfume hung in the air. He was lost in the beauty of the moment, a brief respite from pressures of the murder investigation.
33
As Ray walked back across the parking lot, he was thinking about his recent encounter with Ian Warrington. Ray had been surprised by Ian Warrington’s loss of control and wondered if Warrington was capable of murder. Although he needed to verify it, Ray didn’t doubt Warrington’s story about the dinner party the night of the murders, but he was uncertain about the veracity of Warrington’s account of what happened after the dinner. Yet, if Warrington had stayed at the dinner party close to the time he reported, it would have been impossible for him to commit the murders. The chirping of his cell phone interrupted Ray’s musings on the headmaster’s alibi. “Central, sheriff,” came a familiar voice. “We’ve had two 911s from the Last Chance Tavern. The first one was at 5:14, help needed to break up a fight, the second at 5:21, a shooting in the parking lot.”
“Anyone on scene?”
“Jamison has just arrived, and Sergeant Reilly is en route. I’ve got backup coming from the state police. The Lake Township EMT unit is en route.”
“I’m on my way,” Ray said as he headed toward his car.
Sergeant Reilly had the scene under control when Ray arrived. EMTs were working on the victim and several officers had set up flares on the open field behind the Last Chance to aid the pilot of the incoming helicopter.
Ray looked across the parking lot, a worn perimeter of blacktop with weeds growing in cracks, the sagging tavern at its center. A group of EMTs encircled the victim. Sue Lawrence, peering over the top of the EMTs, noticed Ray standing with Reilly and came across the lot to meet him.
“It’s Jason Zelke, Ray. He’s been hit at least three times.”
“The wounds, serious?”
“Shoulder and leg don’t look bad, but the one in the gut probably is. He’s conscious and in a lot of pain.”
“And the shooter?” Ray asked.
“He had left the scene by the time Jamison arrived,” Sergeant Reilly responded.
Jack Grochoski, the bartender, joined the group.
“What happened, Jack?” Ray asked.
“Jason came in a little after five like he does most days. He u
sually has a shell or two and takes a six-pack with him. I was at the other end of the bar talking to a customer when I heard it getting started.”
“What started?”
“There was this guy yelling at Jason, must of come in while I wasn’t looking. From what I could hear it was something about his wife. As I walked down there, the guy took a swing at him. Well, you know how big Jason is, he just took the guy’s arm and twisted it behind him. I told them to take it outside, and Jason pushed him out the door. Just to be on the safe side I called 911. I looked out of the window and they were just standing by Jason’s truck talking, so I thought they were working it out. I went back to the bar, and a couple of minutes later I heard lots of shooting.”
“This person who Jason was with, do you know him?” Sue asked.
“Last name’s Reesma or something like that. Dutchman I guess. He and his wife moved here from Grand Rapids, built a big house in that new sub above the village last winter.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much, hardly ever seen him. Heard tell he was a ship’s engineer; he’s gone most of the season. Comes home for a few days every now and then.”
“So, what’s this all about?” asked Ray
Jack looked pained, like he was betraying a professional trust. “Reesma, his wife comes in here quite often. Real pretty woman, name’s Sherry. She’s a nurse, works in town. I think she and Jason sorta struck up a friendship.”
“What sort of a friendship, Jack?”
“Well, Ray, that I wouldn’t know.” Jack lowered his voice and moved closer to Ray. “But I’ve noticed that they seemed to be leaving together lately.”
“This leaving together, how long has this been going on?”
Jack took a moment to answer, “Most of the summer.”
“Interesting,” Ray responded, wondering if Sherry Reesma might be able to provide Jason Zelke with an alibi. “Jack, you didn’t see the shooting?”
“No, like I said, I was at the bar. But I ran out here as soon as I heard the shots.”
“Was Reesma still here?” Ray asked.
“He was driving away. Damn near ran me over as I came across the parking lot. Took off that way,” Jack pointed up the road to the left.
“What kind of car?”
“A black SUV of some sort,” he paused. “Maybe one of those foreign jobs.”
“And the wife?”
“Didn’t see her. How’s Jason?” asked Jack looking off at the crowd of paramedics surrounding him.
“He’s conscious. We’ll have him out of here in a few minutes,” said Sue. “Jack, we’ll want to talk to the people who were here at the time of the argument and shooting. And we want a statement from you. So, ask your customers to sit tight for a bit. We’ll get them on their way as quickly as possible.”
The percussive thumping of the blades pulled all their attention as the helicopter cleared the ridgeline. Ray watched as the craft briefly hovered and then gently settled on the thistle-covered field. The paramedics moved as a group toward the craft, and lifted the stretcher onto it. In a few minutes the helicopter lifted off again, its strobes pulsating in misty twilight. The pilot turned the craft 180 degrees, and it quickly disappeared from sight.
“Reesma,” said Sergeant Reilly, coming up to Ray’s side. “The state police got him.”
“What happened?” Ray asked.
“A trooper spotted his vehicle on Indian Hill Road and started to pursue. Another trooper was coming from the other direction. He blocked the road at an intersection. Reesma gave himself up without a struggle. They’re transporting him.”
“How about the wife?” asked Jamison, the department’s youngest officer, who had been standing on the edge of the circle.
“We can only hope she’s okay. Where’s their house?” Ray asked looking at Sergeant Reilly.
Reilly pointed, “That sub on the ridge, you can almost see the place from here. It’s supposed to be the only occupied house at the top of the sub.”
“Go up there and look around,” Ray said. “We’ll pull our notes together at the end of the shift.”
34
The large figure of John Tyrrell, the Cedar County prosecutor, filled the frame of Ray’s open office door. Responding to the scent of Brute tinged with cigar smoke, Ray looked up. “You working Saturdays now?” he asked, gesturing toward two light-tan steel chairs with gray-and-purple fabric-covered cushions. The furniture was purchased a few years before, when all the county offices moved to the new administrative center. At the time Ray had been impressed that the interior decorator—a tall, handsome, Nordic-looking woman who radiated an artsy style— found colors and materials that were in perfect harmony with the banal architecture of the complex. Tyrrell settled into one of the chairs, his bulk filling it from armrest to armrest. “Yeah, it’s a bitch, isn’t it? Should be able to sleep in on the weekend. But, the way you keep finding casualties, it makes lots of work for us.” He chuckled at his joke and then took a long sip from a clunky glazed mug. “So, tell me what you got.”
Ray reviewed the events of the previous evening and the subsequent developments, stressing the actions his department and state police had taken to insure Reesma’s rights had been protected.
“Got the weapon?” Tyrrell asked
“The arresting officers found a 9-mm Glock under the
passenger’s seat. I’m confident that ballistics will establish it was the weapon used in the shooting.”
“So, was Ree… ”
“Reesma.”
“Yeah, Reesma. Was he hurt in the fight with Zelke?
“No. The witnesses said there was some pushing and shoving, but it wasn’t much of a fight. And then Reesma went to his car, reached in, got the gun, and shot Zelke.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“I attempted to, but he made it clear that he wasn’t going to say anything without his lawyer present. And he’s made his call.”
“Who did he ask for, someone from downstate?”
“No, Noah Johnson.”
“Johnson, Noah Johnson. He’s never tried a criminal case in his life. When he’s not defending loons and wetlands, he does real estate and contracts. Why the hell did… ?”
“Reesma,” offered Ray.
“Why the hell did Reesma want him?”
“From what Reesma said, Johnson had handled the legal work connected with buying his house. He is probably the only lawyer Reesma knows.”
“That’s pretty damn silly,” said Tyrrell. “On the other hand, if Noah chooses to defend this turkey, well, it will be interesting to see how it plays out. He’s damn smart, too smart, and very resourceful. But I don’t imagine he’ll stay on the case very long. This Reesma, do you have any history?”
“No, they seem to be new to the area. This department has never had any contact with him or his wife. And I haven’t found any priors.”
“And Zelke, how’s he doing?”
“His injuries are serious. But his surgeon, I talked to him early this morning, said Jason was lucky as hell. The bullet went through his intestine with some damage, but an inch or two one way or the other, and it could have been fatal. It’s going to take some time, but he should make a full recovery.”
“And this was all over a woman?” asked Tyrrell in a dismissive tone.
“Yes, that’s the way it appears.”
“What a dumb shit. Jason should have known better.” Tyrrell paused again and sipped some coffee.
“How about the wife? She okay?”
“Yes. We were worried about her, afraid that her husband might have harmed her before he come looking for Jason And it took us awhile to locate her.”
“Where did you find her?”
“At Munson Hospital. Sue interviewed her last night. Turns out she’s a surgical nurse there. And one of her close friends, aware of the situation, tipped her off when Jason was rushed in for surgery.”
“What did Sue learn?”
“The
relationship started in early summer and had quickly become serious. Sherry told Sue that she wanted a divorce and was struggling with how to tell her husband. She thinks that he was either tipped off about Jason, or she did something that made him suspicious; for the last few days she thought she was being watched. Sherry said she moved in with a girlfriend last weekend and was going to stay there until he was served with divorce papers, and the whole thing was out in the open.”
“So, there was something that made her cautious?” Tyrrell said.
“Yes, her husband had told her that if he ever caught her cheating he would kill her and her lover. She believed him and wanted to protect both herself and Jason.”
“Ain’t love grand,” Tyrrell observed in a cynical tone. “And the other murder investigation?”
Ray’s face suggested his frustration, “Nothing solid. We have one less suspect. Jason Zelke was once a love interest of Ashleigh Allen, and he had a rather weak alibi for the night of the murders. Sherry has provided him with a solid one that has been collaborated by several other witnesses.”
“He gave you false alibi to cover his illicit relationship?” chuckled Tyrrell.
“Yes.”
“And just when we thought chivalry was dead.” He raised his coffee mug. “Here’s to Jason, the loyal friend of comely damsels.”
Ray did not respond.
“Any other possible suspects?” Tyrrell asked.
“We’ve got an interesting cast of characters, but no firm leads, not yet.”
“How about the Vedder kid, anything more there?”
“He’s still in the ICU. He’s semi-conscious part of the time and can take some basic instructions, things like squeezing a hand when directed. But there’s still no one home; he’s not anyone we can question.”
“Are you sure, Ray, you didn’t discount the possibility that he was your killer too early?”
“No.”
“The man who was killed?”
“David Dowd,” responded Ray.
“Have you checked on him? Might he have been the target?”
“We’ve been making inquiries. He was a graduate student at Michigan, and we haven’t found anything in his background that might lead to something like this.”
Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour Page 18