by Mark Zubro
“Edgar was this organized?” my Dad asked.
“Apparently.”
The wall on the left had shelves filled with gun paraphernalia. There were plastic containers labeled and filled with barrels, chokes, stocks, sights, pads, muzzle breaks, trays and trays of different kinds of bullets in boxes. On the floor next to the workbench was an Armorer’s Tool and Gun Parts organizer bag. It was nylon with about a million zippers, compartments, a sunglass case, side pockets, expandable mesh outer pockets.
Another wall had tools: a barrel nut wrench, a hay teeth wrench, armorer’s wrenches in different sizes with different size holes, a torque wrench, several different sized rubber mallets, a metal punch. Camping and outdoor gear sat on the cement floor to the right of the door.
On the workbench there was what looked like a very large toothpaste tube labeled ‘white lithium grease’.
One wall had a few guns displayed. One was a Barret 50 Caliber Sniper Rifle, which I knew could pierce an engine block from a mile away. If it hit a human, all that would be left would be a pink mist.
A small display case had several 45 caliber US Marine service pistols from 1911.
On the work bench a small card said Holographic Weapon Sight Eotech 3X Magnifier flip to side mount. Next to the card was what certainly could have been the described item. I knew people used such a thing instead of a regular sight. This kind magnified the target and crosshairs to, in theory, make your shot easier.
Dad summed it all up. “Why the hell did he have all this crap?”
I said, “What’s weird is maybe he made the gun that killed him.”
My Dad shuddered.
We heard steps on the stairs and turned to look.
A voice demanded, “What the hell are you doing down here?”
It was Barry Grum.
My dad and I turned to face him. I blurted the first thought I had. “What the hell are you doing here?”
His voice was filled with disdain. “We live in the same subdivision. We don’t have to go through gate security. Veronica hasn’t banned us from the house. You’re not in charge.”
I said, “From this moment on, you will treat us with civility and keep your tone and your language within the accepted realms of decency and politeness.”
He said, “Fine.” With the tone and sneer I would expect from his nephew David.
I said, “I accept your acquiescence, and will ignore your inability to do so with anything approaching civility.” See, I could compromise with these assholes.
Barry stormed out.
“Something is hidden here?” I asked.
My dad said, “There has to be some reason these people keep cramming their noses into every crevice they can find.”
We hunted through the place upstairs and down, lifted every tool, opened every box, examined every manual. For a half hour’s work, we got nothing.
I summed up, “He built his own guns?”
“Appears so.”
“But none of them are labeled as home made. I don’t see a completed gun or a being-worked-on gun. Could all of this have been for show? He just ordered a bunch of gun making stuff, owned a lot of gun making stuff, but never got around to making a gun, and was lucky not to accidentally shoot himself or blow himself up?”
“People do strange shit. You know that.”
I said, “I’ve just never seen it so blatantly displayed.”
“People collect guns, which is not all that strange.”
THIRTY-TWO
Thursday 2:30 P.M.
Back in the house, someone had delivered liquor. People were drinking liquids and scarfing down food.
I found Veronica in the middle of a gaggle of women I didn’t know.
I managed to get her aside for a minute.
“You okay?” I asked.
“It’s so good to have all my friends around me. They are too kind. I’m grateful they’ve come to help. The kids are with their friends in the play room.”
So much for worrying about her over-stressing because of the crowd.
I said, “We found a sort of secret gun making room down some steps out in the shed.”
Veronica took a sip of wine, smiled at some women, and said, “I know nothing about it. That shed was built about the time he had the skateboard park put in. If he built guns, he didn’t tell me about it.”
Scott and I got back to sorting for an hour. I was exhausted. I saw his eyes drooping over a glossy covered pro-gun manifesto. We stuck it out. I wanted to be at least half through by dinner time.
THIRTY-THREE
Thursday 5:00 P.M.
Just after five Todd Bristol called.
He asked how I was holding up and how the family was. I told him we were managing okay.
I asked, “Did you find out anything?”
“What I have so far is this. You’ve got the Grums and the Grums’ lawyers. Frankly, and I know this is prejudiced, but I’d be more afraid of the Grums’ lawyers than I would be of the Grums. The lawyers are professionals. They’d do vicious legal things to Veronica, you, Scott, your family, and probably their own grandmothers if any of you got in their way. Their firm is one of the biggest in the state. But even more, I’d be more afraid of the Grums’ minions doing hatchet jobs. Doing what they think are the Grums’ bidding.”
“I see the Grums as pretty much in the minion category as well.”
“And they may be. I guess most people must be a minion to somebody. Just remember minions tend to do stupid things to please their bosses.”
“Murder their own son?”
“Never underestimate the stupidity of those who think they are in the 1% or of those who want to claw their way into being among the 1%.”
“Any background on Edgar Grum?”
Todd said, “All I’ve got on him is that he was the family screw-up, but you already knew that.”
“I think a lot of the Grums are prejudiced against us.”
Todd said, “My guess is that it’s not because you’re gay they don’t like you. It’s because you’re in the way.”
“Or both, but what are we in the way of?”
“That my dear, I have no idea.”
I told him everything that had gone on, especially the madness of the Grums in seeming to want to get into the den and perhaps the gun shed.
Todd said, “It has to be connected with the murder or the election.”
I added, “Or both.”
“They could be connected. You have any proof of that?”
“Well, no.”
“I didn’t think so.”
I asked, “We’ve heard about a private investigator, Mike King, from Chicago. Supposedly some gay guy hired him to investigate election fraud. He found the body. You ever heard of him?”
“Mike King? The Mike King?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “how many Mike King detectives are there in Chicago?”
“He is very hot. Very successful. His operatives are mysterious and deadly.”
“Is there anyone in Chicago you don’t know?”
“When they are hot gay men connected with legal stuff in this town, I make it my business to know.”
“What did you learn about the crime scene itself?”
“That it doesn’t tell us much. He was probably shot around an hour before he was found. There were tons of fingerprints around, but people were in and out of his office all the time. Edgar loved to talk. It was one gunshot wound to the front of the head, just above right between the eyes. He was found leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed. The gun was there, wiped clean of prints. It is likely it is his own gun; at least others who worked there claim to have seen him waving it around. The police have been all over it. As far as I can find out they have found no clues to who did it from the scene.”
“Don’t they have surveillance footage?”
“Not for the campaign office. Anybody could have gotten in.”
“Where were all the Grums during the time the murder was
committed?”
“If there is surveillance of the Grums, and that’s a big if, it has been destroyed, lost, stolen, gone into the ether. These people are very powerful.”
I asked, “Can we stop the cops from getting in here to investigate?”
“You told me what Enid Achtenberg did. I’d have complete confidence in her. She sounds like she’s worth her weight in gold and silver.”
Dinner that night was a buffet made up of foods neighbors and friends had brought in. A few of the friends and neighbors stayed to help eat it.
I was almost too tired to chew.
All of them left by seven. Scott, Mom, and Dad, and I cleaned the mess.
We tried going back to work sorting, but I saw Scott’s eyes nodding over another glossy-red covered pro-gun manifesto. I was trying to make sense of an insurance document. The words kept going in and out of focus.
We gave it up and went up to our room.
While we got undressed, we compared notes and comments on the day. Still wearing my gray boxer-briefs, I fired up the computer and put in Edgar’s flash drive. I figured we could look for a few minutes before dropping off to sleep while gazing at the monitor screen. Scott and I looked at the various folders and saved porn icons. They gave us little insight into what might have happened to Edgar. If there was a clue to his death, I had no idea where to even start among all this gibberish.
We discussed our various encounters of the day.
Scott asked, “Barry Grum was nuts when he confronted you in the gun shed?”
“Pretty much.”
We were too tired to make much of it. We crawled under the covers and went to sleep.
THIRTY-FOUR
Friday 6:00 A.M.
I was up early again Friday morning. Scott was exercising. I decided to take a morning run around the neighborhood. Normally Scott and I exercised together every day. Partly it was to stay in shape and try to look hot for each other, but mostly we worked extra hard so we could indulge in our chocolate habits with less guilt.
I set out through the subdivision. Widely spaced streetlights let me follow the serpentine, gate-guarded road. A few homes had front porch lights on. Some had powerful spotlights above the garage doors. Most were completely dark except for dim flashes of orange and red lights indicating security systems in place.
The moon was half full and the breeze was up. I should have worn a heavier sweatshirt, but I warmed up after about five minutes. One car passed me in the first twenty minutes, none after that.
It was nearly seven by the time I returned. Early dawn light illumined the trees, bushes, and homes. I showered, dressed, and headed downstairs while Scott finished his meticulous routine. I stopped in the kitchen to begin breakfast preparations. No one else was up. Out the kitchen window I saw a man in a dumpy suit crossing the lawn.
I was sure it was the older detective Adlow. In his right hand he carried a roll of Crime Scene tape. I wondered what was up, a new crime? I walked out the door off the kitchen and crossed the yard toward him. I caught up to him at the door to the gun shed.
I didn’t want to come upon him and surprise him so from fifty feet away I called, “Hello.”
He spun in my direction. I kept my hands where he could see them. His eyes were tired with the detritus of humanity he’d seen all his cop years. I held out my hand for him to shake.
He said, “You shouldn’t be here.” He didn’t hold out his hand or move toward me.
I said, “Has there been another crime?”
He didn’t look me in the eyes. He stared out at the lightly wooded countryside, trees mostly barren, grass mostly gray and brown.
Now Adlow walked up to me. He asked, “Has anyone been in there?” He nodded toward the shed.
I said, “We were all in there. It wasn’t off limits before. Detective Adlow, something odd is going on here. I know you don’t have to talk to me or trust me.”
He interrupted, “You’re the one with the lawyer who says you can’t answer questions.”
I kept my patience intact. I said, “I guess we’re all kind of wary when we see the Grums with an attack posse, makes people nervous.”
Adlow glared for a minute then did another gaze off into the trees. Would he be angry because of my “attack posse” crack, lose his temper, arrest me. I sometimes wished I was better at keeping my mouth shut before I said things to piss people off. Scott says I’ve gotten better at it over the years. I wished I’d gotten even better about two minutes ago.
Adlow said, “I’m an honest cop and an honest Republican, but these people are fucking with my pension, and the investigation sucks. My wife has taught school for forty-two years. They want to fuck with her pension too.”
I’d died and gone to amateur sleuth heaven.
He continued, “I got sent here to do crap duty because they don’t trust me. Any moron can put up crime scene tape.”
I said, “I know you don’t have to tell me, but what the hell is going on?”
He said, “We are expecting a warrant, and we will have one. I know you don’t have to let me in the gun shed, but it might help me feel a little more like talking.”
I thought for a minute. Here was a chance to get inside information. Could it be a trap? For whom? I hadn’t killed anybody.
I said, “I can get keys.”
He nodded.
I hurried back up to our bedroom. Scott was just out of the shower. “What’s going on?” he asked.
I said, “Adlow, the detective, is here. He might give me some information if I let him into the gun shed.”
“You think that’s wise?”
“It might get us information.”
“You want me to come with?”
“Two of us there might make him reluctant to talk.”
“Keep your cell phone handy. Call instantly if you need help.”
I hurried back out. Adlow was examining the shed door. “Someone tried to break in.”
“They didn’t succeed. We heard them the other night and came out. We didn’t see anyone. Maybe they made too much noise and scared themselves off, or they could have heard us and run.”
He grunted and moved aside so I could unlock the door. We walked in. I didn’t volunteer that there was a secret gun assembling room. I was only ready to trust him a little bit.
He walked around the room examining the guns. He found the switches for the basement room. He flipped them. The walls parted. I pressed the button for the storm cellar door. It did its coffin-creaking noise and opened. We proceeded down. Again he examined everything in the room. He touched nothing, inspected everything.
Finished, he took a three-legged stool and placed it so, as he sat on it, he could lean his back against the wall by the door. I took another stool and sat facing him. He said, “I’m glad your partner came to the rallies to try to save our pensions.”
“You were there?”
“I went to as many as I could. My bosses aren’t any bigger assholes than any other bosses. They aren’t any more or less politically involved than any other cops, but these idiots in the legislature are insane. And that Mallon…” He shook his head.
He was talking freely. I was prepared to be silent until all the cows in Wisconsin stopped giving milk.
He continued, “The investigation is fucked. I don’t know if I can trust you. I know I can’t trust anybody in the department. I want this shit Mallon to lose. It’s not my fault the economy went to shit.”
I said, “No, it’s not.”
He looked at me briefly. He said, “I knew that.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation of Edgar Grum?”
“It is not me.”
“Not the other detective?”
His dark brown eyes held mine.
I said, “Who has the power to derail an investigation?”
“The Grums.”
“The county clerk?”
“And her whole family. And the sheriff who owes his office to the Grums, as does every politic
ian in this county. You do know the Grums hate you and your partner?”
“I didn’t think we were even a blip on their radar.”
“You are very much mistaken. Before we showed up in that room where you guys were on Wednesday, the Grums were adamant about you two guys. They wanted you arrested. For all I know they might have been planning to put you in the deepest dungeon and torture you and leave you for dead.”
“Harrison County has dungeons?”
“I’ve never seen one, but that doesn’t mean the Grums don’t have them.” He grumbled and shifted his weight. “I guess I’m exaggerating but not by much. They also tried to throw suspicion on Veronica.”
“How?”
“Mr. Grum, his son, Barry Grum, but especially Mrs. Grum kept repeating the line about the wife being the prime suspect in any murder such as this. They don’t like your sister, not one little bit. They talked about trying to get the kids away from her. The other day, I almost had to laugh when your lawyer stepped in. That Grum lawyer is a big shot around county government. The sheriff, the Grums, the lawyer, all of them are hip deep in some strange shit.”
“But you keep working for the department.”
“It’s not a bad job if you can avoid the politics.” He sighed, shifted his butt as if he had a hemorrhoid acting up. “But none of that has much to do with the murder as far as I can see. It’s more relatives and in-law shit and that goddamn recall vote. There was something fishy about that whole campaign. You know a reporter who went undercover to work in the anti-recall campaign was murdered?”
“Yeah.”
“I was in charge of that investigation for a short while. I got no cooperation from the campaign in the investigation. Zero. Zip. None. The poor guy might not have existed. Turns out, people liked the guy. It didn’t come out until later that he was a spy.”