Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder

by Marilyn Rausch

  Jo guessed the next part, “So, when Rick Wilson and his camera guy came into town, it seemed like the perfect solution, right?”

  Kaitlin’s nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Because a friend of mine met the camera man. He said that he and Rick talked to a whistleblower in the compliance department of a major oil company. That’s why we came to your office in the first place. Do you know where they met and what Trevor shared with them?”

  “Trevor told me they always met out of town.” She gave them a small smile. “Sometimes they met here, as a matter of fact. That’s why I thought of this place to meet you. Trevor smuggled out copies of the actual and falsified reports and passed them along to Rick Wilson.”

  “Did Trevor keep any copies of those reports at home?”

  “No, he said it made him nervous to keep the copies around our apartment, like they were live snakes or something.”

  Ron spoke up. “Do you have access to the data at the office?”

  She shook her head. “No. Only Karen and Trevor dealt with that detail. As an associate, my responsibility is data entry and sending the reports to the various state and federal agencies. I worked from the data they gave me. I never saw the original info.”

  They were silent for a moment, and then Jo gently asked, “Ms.Weber, where is Trevor now?”

  Kaitlin’s eyes filled, but her voice was flat. “He’s dead.”

  Not surprised by the young woman’s news, Jo nodded grimly. “I’m so sorry for your loss. What happened?”

  Kaitlin sniffled and Ron handed her his napkin, which she used to dab her nose. “They say it was an accident. He pulled in front of a tanker truck, out on eighty-five. He was killed instantly. Trevor’s truck caught fire before anyone could get him out.”

  Ron rubbed his chin. “I remember that case. I knew his name sounded familiar.” He tilted his headed, considering. “You don’t believe it was an accident.”

  The young woman’s jaw jutted out. “The investigators found a broken whiskey bottle in the wreckage and concluded Trevor was at fault. So many people had seen him drinking in the bars lately, so they said he must’ve been drunk at the time of the accident.”

  “But you don’t believe it.” Jo said this as a statement, not a question.

  Kaitlin looked Jo in the eyes. “No. I know he was drinking heavily for a while, but that was before he met up with Rick Wilson. Once he could tell someone else about what was happening, it was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was obviously nervous about being caught, but he believed the documentary would make a difference.”

  Kaitlin fidgeted with her mug for a bit, and Jo could tell there was more she had to say. After a moment, Jo prompted, “Any other reason you don’t believe it was an accident?”

  “Yeah. Something else weird happened the day of the accident.”

  Ron said, “What was that?

  ”When I got home from work, it looked like someone had carefully searched our apartment. Nothing too obvious, just a few things out of place, here and there, you know?” Kaitlin wiped her nose on the napkin again.

  Jo said, “Anything missing?”

  “No, not that I could see.”

  Kaitlin was silent for a moment and stared down at her glass. Finally, she raised her eyes to Jo and said, almost as an afterthought, “One more thing, though. A few days later, Karen and I got very big bonuses. Mr. Wellborne said it was because they decided not to replace Trevor and so we would be taking on additional duties.”

  She frowned. “It felt like hush money.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Turners Bend

  January

  CHIP HAD NOT BEEN ABLE to keep awake on his sentry post the night Baba was questioned by Homeland Security. He laid his head on the kitchen table to rest at about 4:00 a.m. and woke with a start almost two hours later. When his head came up, he was looking directly into the face of an animal sensing his predator...Baba.

  Chip stretched his stiff neck and wiped drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Baba, how long have you been sitting there?”

  “A long time, Sir. I did not want to wake you. I do not sleep.”

  Baba was a pitiful sight and Chip couldn’t help but share in the Ethiopian’s anxiety. “Listen, Agent Masterson is back in Chicago. I have her phone numbers,” he said, showing Baba the business card lying on the table. “We can trust her. She’s one of the good guys, Baba.”

  “If you say so, Sir. I will put my life in your hands.”

  The onus of that remark came down on Chip like a mantle of heavy metal. It was a responsibility unlike anything he had ever experienced…a man’s fate placed in his hands. He gulped. “Okay, I’ll put my phone on speaker so you can hear.”

  Chip punched in Agent Masterson’s cell number and she answered immediately. “Collingsworth, what’s up?”

  Caller ID always threw Chip. No greeting. No announcing who’s calling. He stumbled through the beginning of the call. “This is…well, I guess you know who this is. I, I mean, we were wondering if you could give us some help. I have Baba here; you met him here at Christmas.”

  Masterson interrupted, “Cut to the chase, Chip. I haven’t got all day. I assume Baba is in trouble. What’s his nationality again?”

  “I am Ethiopian,” said Baba in an overly-loud voice.

  “Okay, shoot,” she said.

  Between the two of them Chip and Baba told the agent the story of yesterday’s visit from Homeland Security, adding that Baba was totally innocent of any wrongdoing.

  “Homeland Security goes off half-cocked sometimes, but in this case I can understand why they are questioning Baba. I know some of the Homeland Security guys. Let me get as much intel as I can, then I’ll pull rank and take the lead in this investigation. I’ll be in Turners Bend at seventeen hundred hours. Keep a low profile until I arrive. If any of the Homeland guys come snooping around, Chip, tell them to contact me.”

  ***

  Jane went to the clinic. She had year-end reports to finish for the Iowa Agriculture Department and also wanted to file a glowing evaluation of Baba performance with the Iowa State Veterinary School. “I’m hoping my report will strengthen his case,” she said. “I can’t think of anything else to do while we wait for Agent Masterson.”

  At Jane’s insistence Ingrid went to school. “You can skip your afterschool cello lesson, but you have to go to classes today, Ingrid. Semester mid-terms are next week.” Ingrid put up an argument, but lost out in the end. Both Jane and Ingrid agreed to act as normally as possible and to keep mum about Baba.

  It was a long day for Baba and Chip. They kept their ears attuned to sounds of vehicles, anxious to talk with Agent Masterson and fearful the Homeland Security guys might seek Baba out for more questioning. Chip worked a little, but couldn’t keep his mind on Jo and John. He finally joined Baba in the living room, and they watched daytime TV for hours…game shows, soaps, judge shows, talk shows. They took a break for a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches.

  In the afternoon, Chip challenged Baba to a game of Mancala, the African stone game. “In my country, we call it Bao la Kiswahili. As a child we just dug pits in the earth and used stones or seeds. We did not have a fine wooden set like this one,” he told Chip.

  Over the past two months various family members and friends had played the game with Baba. It was a relatively simple game, but somehow no one had beaten the young Ethiopian.

  After losing three games, Chip asked, “Why is it that none of us can beat you at this game? What’s your secret?”

  “You must plan your moves ahead. That is my strategy.”

  “How far ahead do you plan them?”

  A shy smile crept onto Baba’s serious face. “From the first move to the last.”

  Ingrid returned from school and replaced Chip at the game. Of all his opponents, she had become his most competitive challenger.

  Chip returned to his computer and to Jo and John. He was attempting to escap
e to another time and place…a place of his own making, where he could control the outcomes. Writing was becoming a refuge for him; it was no longer a chore. It was what he wanted to do with his life. Lately he entertained thoughts of writing a piece of literary fiction, his great American novel. For now, however, he was a crime writer with half a book done.

  Chip was deep into his writing when he heard Ingrid’s voice. “Hey look, Dad. It’s snowing again.”

  It wasn’t the snow that got Chip’s attention; it was being called “Dad” for the first time in his life. He didn’t know what to make of it. Was it an unconscious slip of the tongue or did it have a more significant meaning for his relationship with his step-daughter? Whichever, it caused a lump to form in his throat and left him momentarily speechless. He joined Ingrid at the living room window and put his arm causally around her shoulders as they gazed at the fat clumps of flakes floating down like fairies. Within seconds the downfall increased and the wind picked up; a layer of snow covered the grass and the roof of the pole barn.

  “This reminds me of the day Runt’s mother came to my door,” Chip said. “It started out with a few flakes and turned into a blizzard.”

  “I miss Honey, don’t you?” asked Ingrid. “She was a special dog.”

  “Yes, champ, I miss her very much. If it wasn’t for her, maybe I would never have met your mother and you and Sven.”

  The phone chimed, breaking their reverie. It was Jane telling them she was on her way home and that Iver had reported the roads were already slippery and a heavy snow was on the way.

  “Drive carefully, love. The three of us will make an attempt at fixing dinner and have it waiting for you.”

  Chip had no sooner disconnected from Jane, when his phone rang again. This time it was Agent Masterson reporting that she was delayed by weather and would not be in Turners Bend until the next morning.

  Chip turned to Ingrid. “Tell Baba he has a reprieve until the morning and then the two of you can join me in the kitchen. We’ll make something hearty for dinner and have a cozy evening by the fire.”

  Chip phone chirped, indicating he had a text message. It was from Detective Franco in Minneapolis. It read: Planning to visit TB next week.

  Chip was curious about Franco’s reason for coming to Turners Bend again. If it was something about his drive-by shooting or Finnegan’s murder, Franco surely wouldn’t have to make a trip to Turners Bend. He texted back to the detective: What’s up?

  The reply was simply: More later.

  ***

  By the time Jane got home, Chip had a pot of chili simmering and Ingrid was taking corn bread muffins out of the oven. Baba had produced a roaring fire in the fireplace, and Runt and Callie were hogging the warmth emanating from the blaze.

  “Boy, am I glad to be home. The roads are treacherous. We may be snowed in tomorrow morning. I can’t believe how much snow has fallen in the past hour,” reported Jane. “What smells so good?”

  “Chili and corn bread with honey. And I found all the ingredients for making S’Mores for dessert,” said Ingrid. “Can you believe Baba has never had S’Mores?”

  Despite having Baba’s predicament hanging over their heads, the household had a quiet, relaxing evening, snug in their home, while the first winter storm of the season howled outside and the snow piled up. Baba and Ingrid went to bed, and Jane and Chip snuggled on the couch with snifters of hot brandy in their hands.

  “Jane, something happened today and I don’t know what to think about it. Ingrid called me Dad.”

  Jane put her head on his shoulder, but said nothing.

  “I know it’s probably not some big breakthrough, but it did make me feel good. I never wanted to have kids and now, well, I sort of do. And someday, I want to be a grandfather. What do you say, Granny?”

  Jane laughed, but then become very pensive. “I’m missing Sven, probably much more than he’s missing us.” She sighed.

  “Let’s call him and see what he’s up to. I want to hear more about his trip to Williston.”

  They placed the call, but got Sven’s voice mail box. “He’s been sending me some text messages with observations for my story,” said Chip. “He told me the oil fields are not a good place to meet girls. Well, those weren’t exactly his words, but I got the picture,” Chip said with a chuckle.

  Jane’s mood seemed to darken. “This conversation is making me think about Hal and thinking about him is still so frightening and painful. He is Ingrid and Sven’s father. He must miss them and want to be part of their lives, and yet he has messed up big time and in doing so has caused his children so much heartache. Imagine not knowing where your father is and wondering if he is safe or in danger or possibly even dead. Or worse, that he is trying to harm you.”

  As rocky as his relationship had been at times with his own father, Chip could not imagine a life without him. Now that his Old Man was an old man, he loved him more than ever.

  “Do you still love him, Jane?” This thought had suddenly occurred to Chip and the question popped out without forethought.

  “Heavens, no. I stopped loving him a decade ago. Right now I’m just glad my children have you in their lives.” Jane took Chip’s face into her hands and smiling sweetly, kissed him. “I know I have kept you out of their parenting, but I now see how much my children need you. And as for me, my dear one, I feel pretty darn lucky to be married

  to a guy who can make a mean pot of chili.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Head Shot

  Williston, ND & Minneapolis, MN

  Late October

  AS JO SCHWANN AND Detective Ron Fischer drove back to Williston, the earlier drizzle shifted to light snow. Jo was mesmerized by eddies of snow that waltzed across the highway in front of them. She was deep in thought about their conversation with Kaitlin Weber, the compliance associate at Wellborne industries.

  She was startled out of her musings when the detective sighed. “Damn. Guess I’ll be opening the Trevor Wallace accidental death file again.”

  Jo nodded. “After what Kaitlin Weber told us about Trevor passing the compliance documents from Wellborne Industries over to Rick Wilson, it sounds a little too coincidental he died in a traffic accident.”

  “Think she’s in danger?”

  Jo looked at the detective for a moment. He had just given voice to her thoughts. “Maybe. She said they tried to keep their relationship a secret at work, but they were living together. Kaitlin thought someone had searched their apartment, so obviously someone knew about their relationship.”

  The detective nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Think you can investigate Trevor Wallace’s death without a lot of people knowing? If it wasn’t an accident, then it would look suspicious if the case is re-opened just after I came to town, asking questions. Which in turn….”

  Ron finished her statement, “Would draw attention to who might have told us to look in that direction, meaning someone in the compliance department.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll figure something out.” He was silent for a moment. “So, where do you go from here?”

  “I think I’ve done about all I can do here, for now.” She glanced at the dashboard clock. “Maybe I can still grab a flight back to the Cities tonight. I hate to take advantage of your hospitality any more than I already have, but would you mind taking me to the airport after we pick up my things from your house?”

  Ron smirked. “Not a problem. I’m not itching to get back to the stack of files on my desk.”

  They were both quiet for the remainder of the drive back to the detective’s ranch. As they neared the driveway, Jo noticed a black SUV parked near the mailbox. Jo couldn’t tell if it was the same vehicle she had seen previously, but her gut told her it was. The SUV drove off, tires spitting gravel behind it. She squinted, getting a look at the license plate.

  “Ron, I’ve seen that vehicle before.” She quickly told him about having seen the same SUV at the airport
and at Wellborne Industries.

  The detective’s eyes narrowed. “The airport, huh? There were only a few people in my office who even knew you were coming. The captain, me and a few others….Shit, my family!”

  Without saying another word, he put the truck in gear and sped down the driveway. The vehicle had barely jerked to a stop in front of the garage when he jumped out and ran through the open front door.

  Yanking her gun out of her holster, Jo followed him into the living room. Before reaching him, she heard the big man roar, “No!” He fell to his knees in front of the prone bodies of his wife and sons. They were laid out neatly, side-by-side on the cheerful rug in front of the fireplace hearth. A plastic witch’s caldron full of candy sat undisturbed next to Micki.

  Jo rushed over and knelt alongside the detective. Ron had both hands wrapped around his bald head, as if trying to keep it from coming apart. His cries of despair yanked at Jo’s heart.

  Glancing around to make sure there was no threat, she set her gun on the floor by her knees and frantically searched Micki’s neck for a pulse. Relief crashed through her body as she felt the faint, but rhythmic heartbeat of the detective’s wife. Grabbing his arm, she said, “She’s alive, Ron. She’s alive. Here, check for yourself.” Jo guided his hand to Micki’s neck.

  He released a choking sob and pulled his wife into his arms. Jo rushed over to check on the boys. A part of her brain registered that all three wore their super hero costumes and there was a smear of chocolate on the cheek of the youngest boy, Jacob. When she was satisfied they were all breathing, she looked at Ron. “They’re alive, too. Thank God.”