by M. K. Coker
Karen quickened her pace. How had that gotten out? If she had to guess, Lori’s boss had browbeaten it out of his errant employee and then called Nails. “No, he didn’t.”
“Murder?”
Nails knew the song and dance, so why ask? Because he could, apparently. “The autopsy hasn’t been performed yet. We only just got the body out. Tish hasn’t—” The squeal of tires on asphalt interrupted her. “Has just arrived to transport the body to Sioux Falls.”
“Not to put your back up again, Sheriff, but if it is murder, aren’t you the prime suspect?”
Because Karen wanted to nip that speculation in the bud, she gave Nails a complete rundown of her whereabouts, that of her men, and even of her father the previous night. If the killer had been planning to pin the death on any of them, they were out of luck.
“Good thing you won the recount,” Nails finally said. “From what I hear, the parties nearly came to blows at the recount. In fact, I saw some pushy-shovey spill out on the courthouse steps.”
Turnabout was fair play for once. She might as well use Nails as a source. Too bad he wasn’t in the running for a suspect, as she wasn’t the only one Bunting had targeted. But from Nails’s vantage point kitty-corner from the courthouse, he might give them something. “You were following the recount?”
“Sure. It was news. Had some skin in the game, too. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to get any straight answers out of Sheriff Bunting. You might play the evasion game when it suits you, but it’s usually for the right reasons. Had to wait into the wee hours for the result. Finally broke up around one in the morning. Talked to Janet Dahl and got the morning broadcast ready to roll. Why?”
The register of deeds, standing in for the ailing county auditor, was high on her list of people to talk to once she’d wrapped up at the park. Karen turned her back on the sight of Marek and a wrinkle-nosed Tish wrestling the tarped body into the back of the extended-cab pickup that served as a hearse with its shell and crepe-curtained windows. “I need information, and I figure you owe me. Fill me in.”
He paused. “Not like I was in the room, Sheriff. Didn’t hear anything, just saw.”
“But you saw who came and went?” she pressed, getting a taste of being on the other end of the evasion game.
“Sure. By the time I wheeled myself over to the window, I saw Bunting burst out of the courthouse, slapping the doors back so hard, it’s a wonder they didn’t fall off their hinges. One of his supporters trailed after him, nipping at his heels and grabbing at his arm, and he shoved her aside.”
“What did she look like?”
“An older woman with long gray-streaked brown hair, bulky, wearing an oversized Packers sweatshirt. She followed him into the street. Bunting turned around, lifted a finger—and it wasn’t the ring finger—and said something that made her stop in her tracks. She stayed there until a car honked at her. Then she lifted her own finger before she stalked over to an old beater of a truck. Red. Ford, I think.”
It was Karen’s lucky day for observant witnesses. Maybe they’d have this solved before the day’s end, and she’d have some time to recover from the whiplash of the last twenty-four hours. “What about Bunting?”
“He stomped over to a big black SUV that he’d parked in a handicapped spot near the band shell. New sucker with chrome grills. He stopped when he saw somebody already sitting in the passenger side. I think he’s going to blow, but instead, he lights up like it’s Christmas. He rounds over to the driver’s side with a little spring in his step, then he walks right into the fist of some big bruiser who’d been sitting on the curb. Wide face, dark hair and brows. Maybe thirty. Czech, I’d guess. One of your detective’s relatives, maybe?”
Wouldn’t that be swell. But it couldn’t be a Marek. None were left in the county after Marek’s uncle died in a car wreck. Generally speaking, Dakotans didn’t lead with their fists. In a largely rural area, you needed to count on your neighbors—not take them down for the count. “Did Bunting go down?”
And why was she relishing the answer?
“That he did, Sheriff. And I can’t say that didn’t give me a tingle. The guy stood over him, said his piece, and then crooks his finger at the SUV. A young woman gets out of the passenger side. And before you ask, she’s wearing a red-and-black-checked flannel shirt and black stockings or leggings or whatever they call them. Maybe twenty, if that. Same coloring as the man, but far prettier. I’d say sister and big brother, most likely, but could be kissin’ cousins. They left in a vintage white Dodge Ram with purple and yellow stripes on the bed. Bruiser driving.”
Probably a Minnesota Vikings football fan with those colors. Only surprising thing was that the Packers and Vikings fans hadn’t been going at each other during the recount. “And Bunting?”
“He didn’t get up until after they left. He limped into the SUV and took off in a cloud of exhaust. Probably left rubber on the road.” He waited for several long seconds. “Am I forgiven yet?”
Karen pursed her lips at his wheedling tone. “We’ll see how it pans out. I’d appreciate it if you kept the details to yourself until I can check them out. I don’t want to tip anybody’s hand.”
“You know, I’m not an idiot.” When she remained silent, he backtracked. “Well, okay, so I got snookered by Bunting, just like the bigwigs. But I learned my lesson. Keep it clean, keep it straight, and keep it going. That’s my new motto. Just like an Okerlund.”
Good thing he couldn’t see her smile, because she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Yet. “I’ll let you know if we need a formal statement,” Karen told him and rang off, just in time to see another vehicle barrel up the drive to the overlook. Some idiot had run the barricade, right into the arms of the law, who were all too ready and eager to arrest him for obstruction of justice. Then she saw the side of the Jeep Cherokee as it stopped. A big magnetized sign read PARK MANAGER.
Karen pocketed her phone and started toward the stocky man who got out, but he’d already headed for the closest man available.
“Sheriff Mehaffey?” The man wrinkled his nose at Marek. “I want a word with you.”
Typical. Man’s work. Women were a poor second.
CHAPTER 5
Marek wondered if the stench, seeped deep into his pores, would linger forever. He’d dealt with waterlogged bloaters before, the worst of the worst, but never anything like the rank sliminess of a body in an outhouse.
But Marek knew that the park manager had just stepped in worse. Something must have alerted the man to that fact, because he faltered on the blacktop then stopped on the sidewalk, confusion plain on his square, sun-spotted face.
“I’m Detective Okerlund,” Marek informed the doomed man as Karen closed in. “You’ll want to—”
“Speak to me.” Karen planted herself in front of the shorter man, edging into his space, guarding the scene like the basketball hoops she’d once defended. “I am Sheriff Mehaffey.” She flashed her badge, dribbling a bit of New Mexico sand into the ever-present Dakota wind. “How did you get through the barricade?”
Obviously taken aback by both the biting question and the woman who’d issued it—granted that Karen looked like she’d just come off a soup-kitchen line—the man fumbled. “Uh... Jack. That is, Jack Biester. I’m sorry. I got the okay to come up from a deputy.” He tried a smile, lightening his intent predator-on-the-hunt look. “Bald guy, big mustache? He said you’d want to talk to me.” His brow furrowed as he looked past her at the cordoned-off toilets. “Uh... that’s where the body was?”
Marek never quite got that, asking for the obvious, but his old partner had done it all the time. That need to verbalize wasn’t a trait native to Dakotans, except maybe Karen.
“Where were you last night? This morning?” Karen demanded.
Biester continued off-kilter. “The info was posted on my door.”
Marek recalled that the park had a house for the park manager, hidden away from the road past the entrance. He’d always thought it was a good
gig.
“I haven’t been to your door,” Karen told him. “I drove straight from the airport to the scene.”
“Oh. Well, I just got here myself. I got a call from Harold Dahl, saying I’d better wrap things up in Sioux Falls and get back ASAP.”
Marek could see the steam start to pour out of Karen’s ears, and to save them all the aggravation, he spoke up. “Mr. Biester, what did you need to wrap up?”
“Oh, Sorry. I seem to be slow today. It’s just the shock. Nothing like this has ever happened to me, and before I took this retirement gig, I was a park ranger all across the US in some of the biggest parks. I saw a lot of bad behavior, mostly from two-legged animals, and more than a few deaths—mostly amateur hikers who thought they could beat Mother Nature at her own game.”
“Mr. Biester,” Karen said through clenched teeth, “please answer the question.”
Biester blew out a breath, nodded, and tried again. “I was at the Game, Fish, and Parks headquarters in Sioux Falls for a stakeholder meeting on converting Grove Park to a state park. I’ve been trying to make that happen ever since I took the job here three years ago. The meeting started yesterday afternoon and ended at noon today. Well, there were more sessions planned, but I left that in the hands of the head of the Friends of Grove Park.”
“But you were here last night?” Marek asked. He couldn’t see Dahl paying for a night in a hotel when it was less than an hour’s drive away.
“No, I stayed at the Hilton Garden Inn. Paid out of my own pocket.” The wry tone told Marek that their minds were tracking the line of thought. “There were evening sessions for the public to attend and lots of informal discussions after that. Very productive and positive. I think we’ve just about locked it in once we take care of the homeless issue. We’ve already made upgrades in the campground, and with state funding, we can make it even better.” He glanced at the toilets then back at Karen. “Replacing those atrocities is first on my list. They’re what knock down our ratings online, big time.”
“I can get behind that.” Karen finally relaxed. “What homeless issue? Do we have some survivalist types staying here?”
His jaw tightened. “Ask your Deputy Van Eck. I’ve had him out here often enough. Not that he ever did anything.”
A good lob over Karen’s head. “I haven’t seen any reports on my desk from my reserve overnight deputy,” she replied stiffly. “And if you had an issue with his performance, you should have contacted me.”
“I did. Twice. Talked to someone called Josephine. Once you were working that media mogul case, and I was told to try again later when things calmed down. Seems we weren’t high on the priority list. Then this past week, I contacted your office again and was told you were out all week. On vacation. So I talked to the sheriff-elect instead. We’ve agreed to work together to make sure that the riffraff don’t take over the park and destroy our chance at state sponsorship.”
Marek shared a sidelong glance with Karen. Biester didn’t appear to be up on the latest.
“Just what do you know about what happened here?” she finally asked the park manager.
“Almost nothing other than that someone was killed at the park. Dahl said even that much had to be kept in the strictest confidence. That won’t do our reputation any good, but we’ll recover, so long as you catch the killer. I’ll bet your man’s from the trailer park. I wish to God that the county had condemned or bought that adjoining land years ago when they had the chance.”
So much for the tranquil effect of Mother Nature.
“That would be Ted Jorgenson’s trailer park?” Karen asked, picking up the thread.
“‘Park’ is a misnomer.” Biester crossed his arms. “And it’s no longer Ted’s. He was pretty good about kicking out the really disruptive residents. And he almost single-handedly kept this place going before I got here. Established the Friends of Grove Park. Good man. He’ll be missed.”
Marek had been to the trailer park on a few calls in the handful of years he’d been back in Eda County. While he’d never use the term “trailer trash,” not given his own roots, when people who had little money—for a myriad of reasons—were put together like that, it was a recipe for crime. But most people there worked hard and kept their noses clean. He’d guess that Lori was one of them.
“What happened to Ted?” Karen asked, her defensiveness gone. “I heard a while back he was in the hospital, but nothing since then. I assumed he was recovering.”
“Had a massive stroke three months ago and never came out of it. No funeral. You knew him?”
“Most everyone did,” she told him, stuffing hands in the frayed back pockets of her jeans. “He donated to charities, supported the local businesses and sports teams, and always had a smile for a kid, along with some Tootsie rolls. Too bad he never married.”
“Doubly so,” Biester said, finally on the same team as Karen. “His heir isn’t any of those things.” He frowned at her. “You haven’t told me who died.”
From Nails’s mouth to the media’s ear. Not much point in keeping it under wraps.
Obviously coming to the same conclusion, Karen told Biester, “Our body in the john was Bob Bunting.”
“Damn. Really?”
When Marek confirmed, the park manager looked abruptly drained, as if Bunting’s death had tripped a circuit breaker. “So much for getting state park status.”
Bunting’s death was sensational, but in Marek’s experience, that acted more as a lure, unless there was a random serial killer on the loose. “You might be surprised.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Biester ran a hand through his gnarled thicket of chestnut hair. “I hope you’re going to let the campers go soon. When I was talking to your deputy, several of them came over, demanding to be let go. I said I’d do what I could.”
Marek scratched at the beard he hadn’t had time to reduce back to a goatee. “Do you keep a list of the campers?”
“No, it’s a self-pay dropbox at the entrance. Honor system.”
Marek had seen the dropbox next to a bulletin board but hadn’t realized it included the campsites. He wasn’t sure how many day visitors honored the system, and he guessed a killer probably wouldn’t, though it depended on whether it was a crime of passion. He knew that teenagers often drove up to the overlook to... well, not look at anything but their chosen significant other.
Karen looked more resigned than anything. She must’ve known or suspected as much. “We’ll need you to open the dropbox with one of my deputies present to get names and addresses.”
Biester’s eyes narrowed. “Are you implying that I would hold some names back?”
“It’s chain of custody,” she said evenly. “I’m sure, even here, you know how bureaucracies work.”
That got a commiserating nod. “Sure. I had my fill of it with the feds. I thought this place, just a county park without all the hassle, would be different.”
Army-trained, Karen stood a bit taller. “You put people together, you get rules.”
“And rule breakers. Different in the wild. The only rule is to survive. Poor Bunting.” The park manager ran his hands down his face and then walked back to his truck.
Biester drove back down the hill as Karen and Marek followed, close on his bumper. And all the while, Marek felt an itch between his shoulder blades that, on some primal level, told him he was being watched by something out there in the wild. But was it animal or human?
Perhaps both.
CHAPTER 6
All Karen had wanted to do as a kid was travel far, to mountains, to deserts, to seas... anything but the flat, boring plains in a small town hemmed in by people who seemed far too content with their lot. But one thing she’d never imagined was traveling the country on wheels. Not when the jets that crisscrossed the huge Dakota skies with trails of promise could take her so much farther.
Grove Park campground was full, just as Donahue had said, and every slot held a different home on wheels. Car campers had set up tents: a pup tent
that must require the college-student-aged owners to spoon like cloves of garlic and a family rambler that billowed in the wind. The homes on wheels ranged from a DIY truck camper all the way to a top-of-the-line luxury coach.
Predictably, the owners of the last one confronted Karen and Marek, walking right past Kurt Bechtold’s raised hand. Her senior deputy’s tan-and-brown uniform looked less than spick-and-span, his usually pressed-to-a-killing-edge trousers rumpled and dirty. His hatchet face tightened as he moved forward to intercept the couple.
Karen opened her mouth to tell him she would deal with them herself, when a flick of movement had her yelling, “Duck, Kurt!”
Though in his sixties, Kurt was spry, and he didn’t question; he just dropped.
Jumping as high as she could, Karen snagged the offending flier in restricted air space. She studied her catch. No cheap plastic doohickey made in a sweatshop overseas, the seriously rad Frisbee was one heck of a toy.
A red-haired boy of about ten, accompanied by an even-redder-faced man, hurried toward them. Kurt rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers, but the knees looked to have sustained permanent damage. Better wrecked trousers than a decapitated head. The Frisbee looked lethal.
“What a catch, lady!” the boy hooted as he reached her. “You play? I’d give you game.”
The red-faced man huffed his way in front of her. “I’m so sorry about this, Miss... Ms.... um... Officer?” The way he pronounced “about” as “a-boot” gave him away as Canadian. “It got away from me.”
The boy blew a raspberry. “Dad can’t throw worth shi—”
“Hugh Macklin McGurdy, don’t you dare say that word,” said the woman trailing behind, her voice carrying. Maybe that was an ability that came with mother’s milk. As always, the thought of what she’d missed in giving up her daughter, by reluctant choice but precipitated by none other than Bob Bunting, tugged at Karen’s heart.