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

by Marilyn Rausch

  He said, “Any idea how far along you are?”

  She blushed slightly, embarrassed that she didn’t know her own body better. “I’m not quite sure…two, three months, maybe? I’ve never been particularly, uh, regular.” Even though John was her fiancé and a doctor, it felt odd having this personal discussion with him. She continued, “I’m thinking the flu I had earlier in the fall wasn’t the flu after all.”

  His arms wrapped tightly around her. After they were silent for a few moments, she felt a slight tension in his body. He stepped back and reached out to hold both of her hands in his. His touch was warm and reassuring. “Jo, how do you feel about having a baby? This isn’t something we’ve discussed…or planned, for that matter.”

  As his blue eyes bored into hers, Jo took a minute to respond, knowing her answer to his question would be a turning point in their relationship. However, she felt he deserved an honest answer.

  Would she ever stop having just a bit of doubt? She still wasn't sure what a baby would mean for her career; it was something she would need to check into at work. She dreaded telling her boss.

  Having a baby would change so much about her relationship with John. Would it make it stronger or tug them in too many directions, something they already had problems with in their respective jobs?

  And what about the real dangers inherent in her job? The image of Ron Fisher sobbing over the prone bodies of his family came to mind and she shook her head, to rid herself of the memory.

  Jo wished for the twentieth time since she had first seen the plus sign on the home pregnancy test kit that her mother was still alive. Caroline Schwann had succumbed to cancer when Jo was in elementary school. Her father had done a great job acting as both mother and father to her before he had passed, but she had no idea how to be a parent.

  John squeezed her hand lightly. She could see the concern etched in his features. “Jo, say something.”

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. “I’ve never been more excited and scared in my life.”

  Jo felt tears coming, and glanced away. In a quiet voice, she continued, “I can’t wait to be the mother of your child. But I…I don’t have a clue how to do this.”

  John’s bark of laughter shocked her into looking up. “Do you think anyone does? We’ve got seven months or so to figure this out. Together.”

  He pulled her close once more. “You are going to be a wonderful mom. And I’m going to do my best to keep up.”

  ***

  On the first day of November, Jo made it a point to visit Rick Wilson before heading into work. She thought it was about time she met the young man who was at the center of their investigation.

  When she entered his hospital room, she saw an older woman sitting in the chair next to the bed. Rick Wilson’s eyes were closed and she saw the light rise and fall of his chest as he slumbered. Jo offered her hand to the woman and spoke in a quiet voice. “Hello. My name is Special Agent Jo Schwann. You must be Caroline Wilson. I’m involved in the investigation into the shooting of your son.”

  The woman’s brown eyes widened, probably surprised Jo knew who she was. Jo quickly explained, “I’m a…friend of Doctor Goodman. He’s told me a lot about you.”

  Jo pulled up a chair, wincing when it scraped the floor. “I’d like to talk with your son when he wakes up, if that’s okay with you. How is he doing?”

  Caroline replied, “He slept through the night. I find myself wanting to wake him up to make sure he’s alright.” Her smile was wry. “I haven’t done that since he was an infant.”

  At that moment, Rick Wilson’s eyes fluttered opened. He looked as his mother and offered a weary smile. He turned his head toward Jo and blinked a few times at her. She stood up. “Good to see you, Mr. Wilson. I’m with the FBI and I’ve been assigned to your case. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.”

  The young man glanced at his mother before he nodded.

  Jo said, “I understand you’ve been talking to Detective Mike Frisco, my colleague. I know he’s asked you some of these questions before, but I thought maybe some of the details might be coming back to you. Do you remember anything at all about the night of the shooting?”

  Rick Wilson slowly shook his head, his eyes showing his frustration. She continued, “Anything at all about the days leading up to the shooting?”

  Again, the young man shook his head, more vigorously this time. Jo went through a few more questions, disappointed he didn’t remember anything more that would help with the investigation.

  Finally, Jo took a deep breath and stole a quick look at Rick’s mother. Jo knew her final order of business was going to be hard on them both, but especially Rick.

  Turning her attention back to Rick, she said, “I have some news for you that will be hard to hear. I’m afraid your friend Billy MacGregor is dead. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Rick’s mouth formed an “o” of horror. His eyes filled with tears and his hand folded into a fist, and he hit the side rail of his bed. Caroline Wilson hopped out of her seat and grabbed at her son’s arm, trying to keep him from ripping out his intravenous lines.

  Jo felt sick to her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to break the news of Billy’s death to his friend, but felt that he had a right to know. Once Caroline had calmed her son down, he rasped, “Murdered?”

  Jo simply nodded.

  Rick closed his eyes and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  ***

  A few hours later, Jo sat at her desk at the FBI headquarters building in Brooklyn Center, Minnesota. She caught up on all the mail and emails that had piled up in the short time she had been in North Dakota.

  Just as she was about to step out to grab a Greek yogurt out of the refrigerator down the hall, her phone buzzed on her desk.

  “Special Agent Schwann.”

  She immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the phone. “It’s Detective Fischer. Did you make it back to the Cities in one piece?”

  Jo sat back in her chair. “No problem at all. How’s your family?”

  His gravelly response sounded in her ear. “Fine. My mother-in-law is spoiling the boys and my wife is ready to strangle her, but other than that, they’re safe. Thank God.”

  Jo let out a puff of air. “Glad to hear it. Did Micki remember anything about their attacker?”

  “She said a short guy came to the door, wearing a Batman costume. He rang the doorbell and yelled ‘Trick or Treat’, so she opened the door, thinking it was a teen-ager getting an early start on the candy run. The last thing she remembered was opening the door.”

  Jo whistled. “Gutsy move. Any luck tracing the plates of the SUV?”

  “Yes. I tracked it to a mom-and-pop hotel about forty miles out of town. Found a guy inside one of the rooms, dead from an apparent drug overdose.”

  “Damn. Are you sure it was the same guy who went after your family?

  The detective’s voice was flat. “Yeah, I found the Batman costume shoved under the bed. His name was James Carson, a low-level thug with a mile-long rap sheet for domestic assault, petty theft, you name it.”

  Jo thought about seeing the SUV in the parking lot when they went to interview Jonathon Wellborne. “Any connection between him and Wellborne Industries?”

  “Funny you should mention that. I checked into the accident report of our dead compliance officer, Trevor Wallace. Guess who was driving the tanker truck that hit him?”

  “James Carson.”

  “Oh, yeah. In the report Carson said Trevor Wallace pulled out in front of him, but he couldn’t slam on the brakes in time, so it was recorded as an accident.”

  Jo’s mind jumped ahead. “Let me guess, he was driving a Wellborne Industries tanker.”

  Ron’s voice rumbled through the phone. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner. However, there is no proof that Trevor Wallace’s death wasn’t accidental. People saw him drinking in a bar an hour before the crash.”

  Jo sighed. “Pretty convenient Ca
rson died just as we were getting close to him. Damn, what is it with this case? Every time we get close to someone who knows something, they end up dead. We need to make sure Trevor’s girlfriend Kaitlin is safe. If we were watched, she could be in serious danger.”

  “Way ahead of you. I had my cousin Tommy pick her up. She’s staying with his family until this blows over. He’s ex-Navy Seal. He’ll keep her safe.”

  She was surprised. “Is there a reason you don’t have someone from your department watching her?”

  The silence on the line lasted so long Jo wondered if they had lost the connection. Finally Ron said, “I’m, uh, not sure she’d be safe. I looked at the call history on Carson’s phone. There was a call received from my chief the night you arrived, and several between the two of them the whole time you were here.”

  Jo felt her shoulders slump. “Oh, Ron. What are you going to do?”

  The detective’s voice sounded ancient when he replied. “I haven’t figured that out yet. Jesus, the Chief has been to my house more times than I can count.”

  They were both silent for a moment. There was very little she could say that would help Ron deal with his situation. Any reassurance would sound hollow, given the circumstances.

  Jo felt a tension headache coming. She rubbed her forehead. “I still need a solid connection between my case and Wellborne. Any chance Carson was in St. Paul when my first victims were shot or the other one was drugged?”

  “Maybe I can trace it on the SUV’s GPS system. Give me some dates, times and addresses and I’ll see what I can figure out.”

  After she gave him the information, she said, “Ron, be careful.”

  His tone was dry. “Will do. Micki will never forgive me if I get myself killed.”

  After they wrapped up the phone call a few minutes later, Jo leaned back into her chair, her fingers forming a steeple. Why does it feel like every time we take a step forward in this case,

  we take four steps backward?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Turners Bend

  Late January

  THE FBI’S TEMPORARY OFFICE was located above Harriet’s House of Hair. Access to the upper level was by a wooden staircase at the back of the building. As Chip climbed the stairs, he was thinking that meetings with law enforcement were becoming all too frequent. His simple rural life in a small Iowa farm community was as complicated as his former life. However, his past was full of divorce courts, where the only ones gunning for him were his ex-wives.

  The treads were icy and the handrail, when he grabbed it, was wobbly. When he reached the door, it was locked. There was no doorbell or knocker, but he noticed a new door lock, one with push buttons requiring a code. He rapped on the door and yelled, “Agent Masterson, it’s Chip.”

  “I can see you, Chip. Look up.”

  He did and saw the security camera mounted under the eaves. He heard a series of mechanical clicks, followed by Masterson’s permission to enter.

  The office was one big room. It was sparsely furnished with a scarred wooden desk and mismatched wooden chairs. Detective Franco and Chief Frederickson were seated with to-go cups of coffee in their hands, and Agent Masterson was behind the desk working on a laptop. A bakery box from the Bun was on the corner of the desk.

  The men greeted him as he took the only remaining chair. “Help yourself to Bernice’s latest treat. She calls them Banana Bonanzas,” said the chief.

  Chip selected one of the puff pastries and took a bite. A glob of banana cream filling oozed out on his hand, causing both Franco and Fredrickson to burst into laughter. “Both of us did exactly the same thing,” said Franco. “We were just saying that Bernice should put a warning label on those babies.”

  Agent Masterson looked up from her monitor, frowned and shook her head. “Enough of this pastry party, let’s get down to business. Franco you start.”

  Franco straightened up in his chair and began. “Chip, do you remember me mentioning Margaret Murphy?”

  “Sure, the true crime writer who committed suicide, right?”

  Franco raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well, maybe not suicide. I had the case re-classified as a possible homicide and had the ME and the Bureau of Criminal Apprechension revisit the autopsy and evidence. There was enough doubt to look into it further.”

  “What led you to be suspicious?” asked Chip.

  Franco smiled. “Good question, Mr. Crime Writer. I got a call from the director of the Minnesota Indian Women’s Resource Center, Rita Running Bear. Seems she was interviewed last summer by Patrick Finnegan and Margaret Murphy. The two were apparently working together or researching the same topic. Rita knew about Finnegan’s murder, but she hadn’t heard about Murphy’s death until recently.”

  “So you think they were both murdered for the same reason? What did they want to know about Indian women?”

  “I’m keeping that under wraps for now until I can confirm a story I got from a lead Rita gave me. That lead was Winona Little Feather, a woman well known by the MPD. I traced her to the Hennepin County Detox Center, where she is drying out for the umpteenth time. If I can believe her, this case is going to blow mile-high. The problem is Winona is not a very reliable informant.”

  Chip was fascinated by Franco’s story, but bewildered. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I’ll let Agent Masterson take if from here. Your turn,” said Franco nodding to the agent.

  “Change of topic, Chip. This has to do with you and Hal Swanson. We now have confirmation that Hal is in this country. The DEA heard from their counterpart in Colombia. Hal arrived in California as we suspected, but not on the day or at the place expected by the DEA. When the DEA finally found the narco-sub, they discovered the badly beaten undercover agent. He confirmed Hal had eluded them.”

  Chip’s head was swimming with so much new information. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So you think Hal is here? That he’s the one who shot at me in Minneapolis and ran me off the road?”

  “In a word yes, Chip, but not that he’s here in Turners Bend,” said Masterson. “If he were here, someone would have seen him. He can’t hide here. Most of the residents know him and everyone seems to know we’re looking for him and that you and your family are receiving police protection. But, I have to assume he is not far away and he will make another attempt on your life.”

  Chip put his elbows on his knees and his head between his hands. “Holy shit, I’ve got to get myself and Jane and the kids out of here. We’ve got to hide, maybe go to my parents’ house in Baltimore, maybe leave the country for a while. This is just too damn freakin’ scary.”

  “Settle down, Chip. Franco and I have a plan to flush out Hal and Finnegan’s murderer, possibly both or at least one or the other of them. It involves some risk-taking on your part, but I can assure you we will keep you safe.”

  Chip could no longer stay in his chair. He paced the room, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t think I want to hear this, but go on. What is the plan?”

  Franco took over. “Just listen, Chip. We’ve worked out the details. We’ve weighed all the risks, planned for every possible outcome.”

  “I’m no James Bond, Franco. The only risks I’ve ever taken were at the roulette table. I’m your basic chicken, a 98-pound weakling. Whatever it is, I don’t think I’m your man.”

  Franco ignored Chip’s excuse-making and continued. “Next month there is going to be a benefit dinner for the Finnegan family. It will be held at the Saint Paul Hotel. You’ll attend as the special guest. That’s it.”

  “That’s it? I attend a dinner in St. Paul, and I’m the sitting duck, out in public and somehow Hal is going to know where I am and come and try to kill me?”

  “We’ll do a media blitz so it’s well known you will be attending. Hal will hopefully see this as the ideal time to get to you, and we’ll nab him before he does,” said Masterson.

  “Hopefully, hopefully!” said Chip, his voice rising higher and louder. “Ar
e you nuts, are you all nuts? And what in the hell does this have to do with Finnegan’s murder? You guys have me totally confused. Chief, don’t just sit there. Help me out.”

  “Chip, I know this is a lot to take in, but hear them out,” said Fredrickson. “Lots of federal agents and St. Paul police officers will be involved in protecting you and nabbing these bad guys.”

  “Let me finish,” said Franco. “There’s one more crucial part we haven’t told you yet. Prior to the event Maureen Finnegan is going to announce she is giving you Patrick’s research and asking you to finish the novel he has outlined.”

  “Okay, now I get it. If Hal doesn’t get me, Finnegan’s killer will, and either way I’m dead. IS THAT IT? IS THAT YOUR PLAN?”

  With an exasperated sigh Chip ceased his pacing and sat down. “Okay, lay it on me. How does the plan work so I come out of this mess alive?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Head Shot

  Minneapolis, MN

  Early November

  JO WORKED THROUGH THE MORNING, happy to be distracted by the files on her desk. After booking an appointment with the OB/GYN John had found, she got up to adjust the window blinds to cut the glare from the sun bouncing off the surface of her desk. When she sat back down, she saw she had received a text message from Ron Fisher, the detective in Williston, ND. The text read: Can’t talk now, but GPS showed no trips to Minnesota, only local. BTW, no tox panel run on compliance guy for alcohol…quashed by my chief.

  “Damnit.” Jo tried calling Frisco. She received his voice mail, so she left a message and grabbed lunch from the deli in the lobby of her building.

  She had just returned to her desk, and taken the first spoonful of soup, when the phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Frisco returning her call.

  “Hey, world traveler. What’s the good word?”