***
As he headed down the hospital corridor, Dr. John Goodman glanced at his watch to see if he had time before his next surgery to check on Rick Wilson. Satisfied that he had about an hour, he detoured towards the intensive care ward and entered Rick Wilson’s room. The young man’s mother was sitting at his bedside holding his hand and talking quietly to her son. At John’s soft knock on the doorframe, she turned weary eyes to face him.
She stood up. “Doctor. Is there any news?”
John smiled. “That’s what we’re going to find out.” Glancing at the patient chart, he noted Rick’s intracranial pressure was down. John was pleased to see his patient had come a long way in a short time.
He turned to Caroline Wilson. “He’s making great progress. I think it’s time we see what happens when we wake him up.”
Rick Wilson’s mother bit her lower lip, but said nothing.
John called one of the nurses into the room and she reduced the dosage of the sedative. They waited without comment for Rick to respond. After a few minutes, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked a few times.
Caroline Wilson uttered a small cry when her son turned to her and offered a ghost of a smile. She grabbed at his hand. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you.” John could hear the catch in her voice.
John cleared his throat and was further encouraged when Rick followed him with his eyes as John moved to his bedside. “Hi there, Mr. Wilson. We’ve been waiting for you. I’m Doctor Goodman. I would like to ask you to a few questions. I know it’s a little early to expect you to be able to speak, so I just want you to indicate that you understand me by raising one finger for ‘no’ and two fingers for ‘yes.’ Do you understand?”
He was rewarded with the slow, but definite movement of two fingers on Rick’s right hand. John wanted to give Caroline a big fist bump in triumph. Rick was not paralyzed, and the part of his brain responsible for processing instructions was still intact. John ran through a few other simple tests.
Caroline’s eyes were wide, and John could tell she was waiting for him to say something. “This is excellent news.” He explained what the tests indicated.
After he finished, she dashed around to John’s side of the bed and gave him a big hug, tears streaming down her face. “So, what happens next?”
“Initially, the brain swelling was Rick’s most serious threat. Now, that we’ve got that mostly under control, our next step will be to replace his respirator with a tube that goes directly into his windpipe. This will involve another surgery, I’m afraid, but a minor one.”
“Will he be able to talk soon?”
John shook his head. “The breathing tube will make speech difficult, but it won’t be forever.”
Aware that his patient was able to hear what was being said, he motioned for Caroline to follow him to the far side of the room. He frowned, and then continued. “Mrs. Wilson, as I’ve said, I’m very pleased with Rick’s progress. It’s nothing short of a miracle he even survived the trauma, let alone that he is awake so soon. However, I want you to be aware that Rick has a long road ahead of him.
“The biggest risk factor now is seizures. So far, we’ve been lucky in that regard, but I wanted to let you know that it is a distinct possibility.”
Caroline Wilson nodded her head slowly. “But it’s a good sign he’s not had any yet, right?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’m going to celebrate the miracles where we find them and you worry about the what-ifs.” She held out her hand.
John accepted her handshake. “It’s a deal.”
Just as John turned to leave the room, Rick’s mother reached out for his arm to pull him back and whispered, “How should I tell him what happened to him? I don’t…know how to begin.”
He hesitated a moment, and then tilted his head in Rick’s direction. “If it were me, I’d want to know. He’s going to find out soon enough when the police come to question him. Now that he’s awake, I have to notify them. It would be better coming from you, I think.”
Caroline’s face was pale, but she squared her shoulders.
“That’s what I think, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Turners Bend
Christmas
AS JANE DRESSED FOR THE Christmas Eve service at First Lutheran, Chip looked at her lists. There were checkmarks by every item. When she appeared in her simple purple velveteen dress with a single strand of pearls around her neck, he whistled.
Behind her brief smile, he saw weariness in her eyes. She was putting up a good front, but Chip was learning to sense all the various nuances of his wife’s body language. God, I love this woman. How did I get so damn lucky?
As they entered the church, Chip spied Chief Fredrickson and Deputy Anderson in separate corners, each surveying the crowd that filled the pews. Jane did the same. Chip replayed in his mind the many instances where gunmen entered churches, mosques and temples. Would Hal be so brazen, so crazy?
Sven and Baba had volunteered to usher. They sat Jane and Chip up front so they would have a good view of Ingrid. Her cello performance of “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” was technically flawless and her dynamics stirring. Jane fumbled in her purse for a tissue. Chip wished he had a handkerchief to offer her but the days of men carrying them seemed to have passed. His father probably still used them, he thought.
Christmas Eve was family only, including Baba, who was now family in everyone’s eyes and hearts. Jane introduced Chip and Baba to the traditional Swanson Christmas Eve supper: chicken wild rice soup, fresh-baked bread, orange Jello with pineapple and shredded carrots and rice pudding.
When the pudding was served Ingrid explained the tradition. “It called julegrὃt. There is one whole almond in the pudding. Whoever gets it will have a lucky year ahead of them, and they receive the almond present.”
They all inspected their dishes of pudding, searching for the almond. Baba’s voice rang out. “I found the nut. I found the nut.” Jane presented him with the almond present, a marzipan pig, which he accepted with grace and total bewilderment.
After dinner they sat in the darkened living room with the warm glow from the fireplace and the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree. “Just one, Mom?” said Sven.
Jane laughed. “We open gifts on Christmas morning, but ever since Sven and Ingrid were beyond the Santa Claus stage, they have begged to open one gift on Christmas Eve. So, I don’t see why not.”
***
The next few days of the holiday season flew by and Chip did not find time to write. The house was full of young people and plans for New Year’s celebrations kept everyone busy.
After the holidays he hit a slump, and Jane noticed. “Chip, you’re not writing. Is it this thing with Hal? We all can’t help but be edgy until he is caught, but if anyone can track him down it will be Angela. And, having that new agent, Sam Harden, hanging around is our safety net. I can’t ignore my practice, and I think you’d feel better if you got back into your story.”
“You’re right, of course, Jane, but I’m out of my depth at this point in my story. Jo is pregnant.”
Jane’s face lit up. “How wonderful! Why is that a problem for you?”
“I obviously don’t know a thing about pregnant women. What was it like for you Jane?”
Jane left the room and returned with a photo album. She turned to a picture of herself, nineteen years prior, very pregnant with Sven. “Here I am, eight months pregnant. One day I was thrilled and excited; the next day I was worried about being a good mother, and then the next day I lamented the interruption in my career. Hormones gone haywire. That’s the way you should write it.”
And he did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Head Shot
Williston, ND
Late October
DETECTIVE RON FISCHER drove along rough roads, flanked by ditches filled with rusty-tinted snow from the scoria clay. Special Agent Jo Schwann regretted her big breakfast. Each bump caused h
er stomach to churn. She rolled down the window a few inches and breathed in the cool air, waiting for her nausea to subside.
To distract herself, Jo brought up the earlier conversation from the Fischer’s breakfast table. “You know more about water contamination from the fracking process than you said, don’t you?”
Ron looked away from the road for a moment. “Yeah. I do. I have a friend who hauls what the oil companies call ‘produced water’. Only the haulers call it ‘dirty water.’”
He turned his attention back to the road. “Old Griff said the first time he opened the hatch atop one of the tanks, he just about passed out from the fumes. Now he wears a hydrogen sulfide detector and carries a gas mask in the cab of his rig. You can’t tell me some of that crap doesn’t find its way into our water supply.”
Ron slowed the truck to a crawl to let an oil tanker pull onto the highway. “I hate to talk about it too much in front of Micki, ‘cause there’s not a lot of independent research on the water around here. I know it’s hard on her, seeing all her friends driving new cars and taking fancy vacations all the time. But, something about the whole thing makes me nervous. Like who’s really in charge?”
Jo studied the detective’s profile. “I take it you’re against fracking?”
“Nah, I didn’t say that. But I’d feel better if someone was watching the henhouse a little more closely.”
He rubbed the scar on his chin. “The safety regulations – for the water and everything else - always seem to be about twenty steps behind the progress. So, I have to ask myself, who’s keeping a lid on the regulations? Gotta be big oil, right? Everybody in the whole damned country is so thrilled we’re becoming less dependent on foreign oil that they don’t stop to think about the consequences of moving too fast.”
“Plenty of people out there are trying to change that, like the fractivists.”
“Yeah, I know.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Maybe I’m crazy. We should probably rent out some of our land on the back forty acres and wait for the checks to roll in like everyone else. Micki’s right. It would be great to put some money aside for the boys.”
They drove along in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, the detective pointed through the windshield to a gray, prefabricated metal building on the right-hand side of the road. “There’s Wellborne Industries.”
Jo recognized the large “W” on the sign in front. Ron pulled the vehicle into the parking lot, passing a huge crane and a truck-wash bay. Several men working near the crane stopped what they were doing and watched them get out of Ron’s truck. One of the men nudged the guy next to him and pointed in Jo’s direction. He made a crude rocking gesture with his hips and the others laughed.
The detective followed her gaze. “Ignore those idiots. We’ve got a lot more men than women around here these days and it makes some of the guys forget their manners. You wouldn’t believe some of the crap Micki has dealt with, just shopping in the grocery store.” Jo thought about the driver in the SUV at the airport the previous night and felt a small tremor of apprehension.
Ron opened the door and followed Jo into the building’s office space. A stern looking woman with rimless eyeglasses glanced up from her desk. “Morning, Ron. What brings you to our neck of the woods this morning? Finally decide to rent out some of your land?”
“Nah. Here on official business this morning, Marge.” Marge turned to Jo and raised her eyebrow, as if noticing her for the first time. Jo pulled out her credentials. “I’m Special Agent Jo Schwann of the FBI. I’m here to see Jonathon Wellborne.”
The woman tilted her head. “Must be pretty important to get an FBI agent all the way out here.”
Ron said, “Is he in or not?”
“Yeah, he’s in. Hang on a sec.” The woman picked up the phone and placed a call. “Mr. Wellborne, Detective Ron Fischer and an FBI agent are here to see you. Should I send them in?”
After a moment, she spoke into the receiver, “They didn’t say.” Finally, she hung up the phone. “You can go in now. He’s in the last office on the right.”
When they entered the office, Jonathon Wellborne stood up to greet them. Although Jo had seen pictures of the founder of Wellborne Industries on the Internet, the photos hadn’t done him justice.
Jonathon was a very attractive man. His casual dress shirt looked hand-tailored and he wore it with an ease that belied his humble beginnings in the Iron Range of Minnesota. He was fit and tall, almost the same height as the detective. There was only a hint of grey hair at his temples to suggest his fifty-five years.
He reached out a tanned hand to Jo. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Jonathon Wellborne.”
Jo shook his hand. “Special Agent Jo Schwann. I believe you know Detective Ron Fischer?”
Wellborne turned his dazzling smile towards Ron. “Good to see you again, Detective.” He shook his head, and chuckled a bit, as if a bit bewildered at their appearance in his office. “I have to say, this is a bit of a surprise. How may I be of service to you both?”
Jo spoke up. “I am looking into a couple of homicides and an attempted murder in St. Paul. We have reason to believe that one of your employees has some information that could help us in our investigation.”
Jonathon raised an eyebrow. “What would a murder investigation in Minnesota have to do with our company?”
“The victim was filming a documentary about fracking. Do you recall meeting a young man by the name of Rick Wilson?”
The surprise on Jonathon Wellborne’s face looked genuine, but he quickly straightened his features. Clearing his throat, he said, “Why, yes. I believe he was working on some project for a college class. I spoke with him briefly while his friend videotaped the interview. He asked several questions about the ethics of fracking and possible threats to the environment.”
The detective said, “What did you tell him?”
“I told him the same thing I tell all our skeptics. We follow all state and federal regulations to the letter.”
Jo said, “I understand your company filed an injunction against Mr. Wilson in an attempt to halt the documentary.” She waited to see his reaction, hoping to shake him.
She was disappointed. Wellborne merely shrugged. “Our legal department sends those things out on a regular basis. I’m not usually involved unless the parties we’re dealing with become more than just a nuisance. Most back off as soon as they hear from our legal team.”
Jo tried again. “Speaking of federal and state regulations, we have a witness who indicated Mr. Wilson may have spoken with someone in your compliance department. May I assume we have your full cooperation in speaking to any of your employees?”
Jonathon Wellborne’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Be my guest. We have nothing to hide. Marge will be happy to introduce you around.”
He walked them to the door of his office. Just as they were about to leave, he said, “You know, fractivists never stop to wonder where the oil comes from that allows them to drive to protest rallies. The fact of the matter is, we live in a world that runs on oil, and until that changes, the world needs companies like ours. Just keep that in mind.”
Jo noticed a muscle jumped in his jaw. She was satisfied to finally see a brief nick in the charming façade of the founder of Wellborne Industries.
***
The two woman working in the compliance department looked up as Marge entered the room with Jo and the detective. One of the women looked to be near retirement age, while the other couldn’t have been older than her early twenties. Both of the women had been interrupted mid-stroke on their computer keyboards, and the younger one looked down at her hands, as if she had been caught doing something wrong.
Jo was disappointed there were only women in the department. Billy MacGregor had been clear he met with a man in the compliance area. However, she noticed a third, empty desk in the room and wondered about the previous occupant.
Marge indicated the older woman first. “This is Kar
en Rogers, our senior compliance officer.” She then turned to the other woman. “And this is Kaitlin Weber, our compliance associate. Ladies, this is Detective Fischer and Special Agent Schwann. They have a few questions for you. Mr. Wellborne would like you to give them your full cooperation.”
Jo almost missed the exchange of a brief, but meaningful, glance between Marge and Karen Rogers before the receptionist left the room. Kaitlin wiped her palms on her pants and Jo wondered what was making the young woman nervous.
Crossing her arms, Jo said, “We’re here because we’re investigating a couple of murders and an attempted murder. We have reason to believe one of the victims may have spoken with someone in your department recently.”
Jo pulled out a picture of Rick Wilson. “Have you seen this person?”
Karen Rogers studied it carefully. “Yes, Mr. Wellborne asked me to share our reports with him. He glanced through our most recent state and federal reports.”
She shrugged. “He asked me to explain some of the data to him, and seemed to be satisfied. I didn’t meet with him after that first day, although I know he interviewed Mr. Wellborne a few more times.” Karen looked at the photo of Rick Wilson again, and frowned. “He didn’t have anything to do with the murders, did he?”
Jo said, “Rick Wilson is one of the victims.”
Ms. Rogers said, “He seemed like such a nice kid. Is he…is he dead?"
Jo shook her head. “He’s in critical condition, but he’s holding his own so far.”
The older woman said, “I’ll add him to my prayers.” Jo detected a note of insincerity in the woman’s tone.
Detective Fisher turned to Kaitlin. “How about you, Miss? Did you meet with Rick Wilson?”
The young woman quickly looked away from the photo, but Jo thought she saw Kaitlin’s eyes widen slightly. She shook her head and mumbled, “No. Karen said…um, she mentioned he was here; I think I had a doctor’s appointment that day. Sorry.”
Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Page 13