“I remember hearing something about the Buffalo Commons,” I said.
“That was a proposal presented by a couple of sociologists twenty years ago. They claimed that most of the Great Plains was unsustainable, and they wanted the federal government to depopulate the area and turn it into a vast nature preserve. Of course, the government ignored them, but damn if it isn’t coming true anyway. Look around and all you’ll see is empty churches, abandoned farms, closed schoolhouses, shuttered businesses—I heard that there were six thousand ghost towns in Kansas alone. God knows how many there are around here.
“I’m telling you, McKenzie, it’s all dying. Fifty years from now, I doubt that anyone will be living here at all. That’s why people are the way they are. We’re all desperate.”
“Why do you stay?”
“It’s home.”
Nancy returned the chair to its spot near the wall.
“Try to get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”
She wasn’t kidding. Nancy woke me every two hours until her shift ended at 2:00 a.m., and she was replaced by a second nurse practitioner that was just as punctual. I wasn’t happy about it, yet I kept it to myself—crankiness and irritability are symptoms of a concussion, and I didn’t want to confuse anyone. I figured I could always return to the Pioneer Hotel in the morning to get some shuteye. No such luck. The second NP discovered that I had a low-grade temperature. She fed me ibuprofen and insisted that I remain in bed. I spent most of the morning on my cell phone burning minutes, talking to Nina and to Bobby and Shelby. I wondered how Victoria had fared with her research assignment. She was at a soccer tournament for the weekend, though, and wouldn’t return until Sunday evening. I said I’d call later. My fever broke just before noon. I dressed in the clothes I’d worn the previous day and walked to the Pioneer Hotel.
CHAPTER TEN
It was about a half mile to the hotel—everything in Libbie was about a half mile away—and the fresh air and exercise did me good. I actually broke a sweat, which was more a result of the heat than of any exertion on my part. I walked west past the First Integrity State Bank. Its electronic sign announced that at eleven fifty-two the temperature had reached ninety-seven degrees. I would have thought that the heat would have slowed people down, yet there was an unexpected energy to the traffic around me. The citizens of Libbie all seemed to move with a deliberateness that I had not seen before. It was as if they all shared a secret that they couldn’t wait to reveal to each other.
I stepped through the large wooden doors into the lobby of the Pioneer Hotel, where I was assaulted by a wave of cool air. I automatically began rubbing my hands over my upper arms the way people do when they want to warm themselves. Sharren Nuffer was sitting behind the reception desk, a pair of cheaters balanced on her nose, reading something on her computer screen.
“Hi,” I said.
Her head jolted upward.
“Oh my God, McKenzie,” she said.
The glasses came off quickly as Sharren rounded the desk. She came toward me, her arms flung wide.
“McKenzie,” she said again. A moment later, her arms were around me and she was hugging me tight. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? What’s going on?”
“I was so worried about you. I heard what happened last night. I heard that they took you to the clinic. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Who told you about last night?”
Sharren paused a moment before answering.
“It’s a small town,” she said.
“Still, that’s a pretty enthusiastic welcome.”
“I thought, because of what happened, I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”
Sharren and I didn’t have that kind of relationship, I told myself. If she was anxious about me, it wasn’t because we were close. There was something else on her mind.
“What do you know that I don’t?” I said.
“You mean you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“It’s terrible. Oh, McKenzie, it’s so terrible. That’s why I’m upset. Because of what happened to you last night and then this morning and Rush, the way he disappeared—”
“Sharren, you’re not making any sense.”
“I’m trying to, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ll think less of me, and I wouldn’t like that.”
My cell phone, safely tucked in the pocket of my sports jacket, called to me. I held up a finger while I answered it.
“Hold that thought,” I told Sharren. “This is McKenzie,” I said into the phone.
“This is Chief Gustafson. Are you still in the hospital?”
“No. I was discharged a little while ago. What can I do for you, Chief?”
At the word “Chief,” Sharren took two steps backward and covered her mouth with her hand.
“How are you feeling?” he said. “Are you up for a little trip?”
“Chief—”
“I’m at Mike Randisi’s place. Do you remember how to get here?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to come out right away.”
“Why?”
“He’s dead. Somebody shot him.”
There were so many vehicles parked on Mike Randisi’s turnaround that I had to park well back on the gravel driveway and walk up the hill to his home. Most of the cars carried the emblem of the Perkins County Sheriff’s Department. One belonged to the Libbie Police Department. There was also a white van with quik-time foods painted across its doors. Dawn Neske, wearing her tailored light and dark blue uniform, stood in front of it, waving her arms emphatically at the two deputies that were interviewing her. Her arms froze in midgesture when she saw me. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth hung open. The deputies turned to see what had captured Dawn’s attention. I gave them all one of Victoria Dunston’s microwaves.
Chief Gustafson opened the door to the house as if he had been watching for me. He waved me over.
“It’s not my case,” he said. “We just don’t have the resources for a deal like this. I handed it off to Big Joe Balk. He’s the county sheriff. He might kick it up to the South Dakota Division of Criminal Investigation, I don’t know.”
I flicked a thumb toward Dawn. She had resumed gesturing, and the deputies had resumed watching her.
“What is she doing here?” I asked.
“She discovered the bodies,” the chief said. “When she came to deliver Randisi’s groceries this morning.”
“Bodies?”
“Step inside. Don’t touch anything.”
I wasn’t prepared for what I found there.
Mike Randisi, dressed only in blue boxers, was lying on the kitchen floor. The bullet hole was on the left side, just below his ribs. It was a small hole, surrounded by seared, blackened skin and a patch of powder soot. Soot also stained both of his hands. There was very little blood around the entrance wound. The exit wound in his back was a different matter. Instead of a neat hole, there was a deep, irregular gash, with tissue and bone protruding from it. There was an enormous amount of blood on his back, on the floor, and splattered all over the kitchen appliances, cabinets, cupboards, and floor. It had not yet dried. Next to him on the floor was the long-barreled .38 Colt.
I turned away, fighting the impulse to steady myself against the kitchen counter (I didn’t want to corrupt the crime scene with my fingerprints) while fighting an even great impulse to vomit in the sink (I didn’t want to look like a wuss). I forced myself to concentrate. The blackened skin suggested a near-contact wound, I told myself. That and the powder burns on his hands left open the possibility that Randisi and his killer had wrestled over the gun and Randisi lost. The murder weapon—it was Mike’s, his name was Mike—he seemed like a nice guy. Dammit! Concentrate. If he was killed by his own gun, that likely ruled out premeditation. If it had been premeditated, the killer would have brought his own weapon; of course he would, wouldn’t you? The killer came to Mike’s place because, well, becaus
e there was no way Mike would have gone to see the killer. He had agoraphobia. He was taking sertraline. The orange prescription bottle was right there on the counter next to the sink.
I heard voices behind me.
“Goldarn air-conditioning,” one voice said.
“Can you give me a time of death?” said another.
“Goldarn air-conditioning,” the first voice repeated. “Until I get her back to the morgue, I can only guess.”
Her? my inner voice said.
“I’ll take a guess.”
“I’m going to say she was killed between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m. Don’t hold me to it, though.”
She?
I spun to face the kitchen again. A knot of men, all wearing khaki and Sam Browne pistol belts and holsters, blocked my view from the kitchen into the living room. I kept staring until the group parted. Then I saw her. On the floor and facing the kitchen. Her arms and legs were spread apart as if she were making snow angels. She was dressed only in white lace panties and a man’s white dress shirt that was unbuttoned and hanging open, the sleeves rolled up. In the center of her chest, just above her breasts, was a small, nearly bloodless bullet hole.
Tracie Blake.
“Oh no,” I said.
The two men who had been speaking turned to look at me.
“Oh no,” I repeated.
“Who are you?” said the one with the badge.
“This is McKenzie,” Chief Gustafson said. “I told you about him.”
“Sonuvabitch,” I said.
“Get him out of here,” the badge said.
The chief grabbed my arm with both hands and pulled me toward the door.
“Goddamn sonuvabitch.”
For the first time since I’d arrived in Libbie, I didn’t mind the heat. I pulled my arm out of the chief’s grasp as soon as we exited the kitchen. He called my name, but I ignored him, walking around to the front of the house and sitting on the lush green grass. I turned my face to the sun and closed my eyes, willing the sun to burn the image of Tracie Blake’s dead body from my brain. And Mike Randisi’s. And all the dead bodies that came before them. Most people didn’t have to deal with such things. Most people were luckier than I was. It was not something I often admitted. Most days I fought against conformity, resisted the ordinary—my greatest fear growing up was that I would one day discover that I was boring. That was most days. On this day I found myself wishing I were an accountant, or a plumber, or a poor, overworked bookstore owner, anything other than what I was so drearily—a cop. Even without a badge I was a cop.
Goddamn sonuvabitch!
I heard their footfalls on the grass before I heard their voices.
“McKenzie, this is Sheriff Balk,” the chief said.
I opened my eyes. Big Joe was standing in front of me, making a large hole in the sunlight. He looked like the guy that Jack met at the top of the beanstalk.
The sheriff smiled and extended his hand. His face was wide and full of smile wrinkles, and he had a loud, penetrating voice that made me think he was good with a joke. I reached to shake his hand without leaving my spot on the grass.
“How you doin’?” he said.
“I’ve been better.”
I released his hand and gazed across the highway, looking northeast toward Miller’s properties off in the distance.
“I’m sorry about your friends,” the sheriff said.
“I barely knew them,” I said.
“I understand.”
I glanced up at him again, this time squinting against the sun. He was younger than the chief, closer to my age, yet there was something in his face to suggest that he was wiser, that he had seen things and had learned from them.
“Chief Gustafson explained why you’re here,” the sheriff said. “He said you and Ms. Blake visited Mr. Randisi yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me?”
I knew the kind of information the sheriff wanted, and I gave it to him, explaining that Mike had been weary of threats, that he had met Tracie and me with a gun in his hand.
“That was his Colt on the floor?” the sheriff said.
“Yes. Last time I saw it, it was on the kitchen counter near the door.”
“There was no forced entry.”
“Mike knew who was knocking on his door or he wouldn’t have opened it. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“It was a pretty girl come to call.” I gestured with my head more or less up the hill toward the Quik-Time Foods van. “Mike liked pretty girls.”
“Do you believe Ms. Neske might have had something to do with this?” the sheriff said.
“I have no idea, but if she had knocked on my door, I probably would have opened it, too. Wouldn’t you?”
“Not if I had Ms. Blake in the bedroom. Certainly something to consider, though.”
“Tell me that you haven’t already considered it.”
The sheriff’s smile was faint, and it didn’t last long.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. Big Joe Balk was a crime dog, Icould tell.
“How well did Ms. Blake and Mr. Randisi know each other, can you tell me?” the sheriff said.
“As far as I know, they spoke for the first time yesterday afternoon.”
“Didn’t take long for them to hook up.”
“They were both lonely people.”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around. Do you believe that Mr. Randisi was involved with your Imposter?”
“He said he wasn’t, and I believed him. Of course, I’ve been lied to before.”
“Haven’t we all.”
I was surprised when the sheriff sat on the grass next to me.
“Let me run this by you,” he said. “Mr. Randisi is in on the scam. His accomplice discovers that you went to see him. The accomplice becomes nervous. He goes to Mr. Randisi’s house to discuss it. They quarrel. One or the other grabs the gun. It goes off, killing Mr. Randisi. Ms. Blake hears the commotion, goes to the kitchen to see what it’s about. She’s shot simply because she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I never liked that phrase—in the wrong place at the wrong time. It implies that the vic put herself in danger, that she was at least partially responsible for her own murder.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“As for the rest, it’s all speculation until your people go over the crime scene.”
“Very true, but I’d like to get a head start if I could. Any suggestions?”
I had to take a good hard look at the sheriff’s face. It’s not often that cops, even my friends, seek advice from civilians.
“Are you asking me?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I do have one suggestion. Your ME said the murders took place between 2:00 and 6:00 a.m.?”
“That’s his preliminary estimate.”
I pointed across the highway. Sheriff Balk followed my finger to Grandma Miller’s bar and grill.
“When is closing time in South Dakota?” I asked.
“Two.”
“I’d start there. Look for someone who was drinking alone.”
“Good idea.”
“Something else. Chief?”
Chief Gustafson was standing behind us. He now moved to where we both could see him.
“Chief,” I said, “how did you know that Tracie and I came out here to see Mike?”
The chief answered in a flat, nearly monotone voice as if he were expecting the question and had already prepared an answer.
“She told me last night around dinnertime. I called to ask about your progress looking for the Imposter—”
“Why not call me?”
“She reported on everything you did.”
“Chief?”
The chief said, “I know your next question, McKenzie.” He was looking at the sheriff when he answered it. “Yes, Tracie and I had been seeing each other. Our affair ended a couple of weeks ago. I
am the one who ended it. I ended it when my wife, Nancy, learned about the affair. We spoke about it again at some length last night or, I should say, early this morning, after she came home from work. She came home at about two fifteen, and we talked until sunrise. Nancy said she expected better from me, and I promised that she would get it. I suspect you might have had something to do with that, McKenzie, encouraging her to speak up.”
God, I hope so, I thought but didn’t say.
The sheriff grabbed a couple of tufts of grass, tossed them into the air, and watched the wind take them like a golfer contemplating his next shot. I had no idea what he was thinking, which was probably the way he wanted it. He stood, brushing his uniform pants with both hands.
“Well, I have work to do,” he said. “In the meantime—”
“You’re not really going to tell me not to leave town, are you, Sheriff?” I said.
“Nah. Being an ex-cop and all, you know I have no legal right to say that. On the other hand…”
“Yes?”
“You don’t want to go anywhere it’ll trouble me to find you.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“One more thing. You can prove you were in the Libbie Medical Clinic all last night, right?”
“From about nine thirty until well after eleven this morning.”
“How convenient.”
“Wasn’t it, though?”
Sheriff Balk turned and started walking back toward the house. He called over his shoulder, “Chief, a word?” Chief Gustafson scurried after him, leaving me alone on the grass with thoughts of Tracie Blake and Mike Randisi swirling in my head.
Sonuvabitch.
I was surprised to see the white van in my rearview mirror. Even more surprised to see that it was gaining on me. I had pushed the Audi up to ninety miles an hour, cruising the long, flat highway, my windows down, trying to blow the heat and all bad thoughts out of the car. I recognized the van almost immediately. It belonged to Quik-Time Foods. I slowed to seventy. The van soon reached my back bumper. I could see Dawn Neske behind the steering wheel. She leaned on her horn, and I pulled to the shoulder of the highway and stopped. Dawn halted behind me. She sat in the van, probably waiting for me to join her. When I didn’t, she came to me. I made sure both of her hands were empty as she approached. I left the Audi in gear, my left foot depressing the clutch, just the same.
The Taking of Libbie, SD Page 15