Another Dead Republican

by Mark Zubro

  “Okay. As long as you don’t need us here, we’ll be able to spend the day asking questions.”

  “Good. You haven’t found out anything yet?”

  I didn’t say, we found out that your husband was a shit, but then again I already knew that. I did say, “Nothing that says who did it.”

  She went back to the family.

  We stood in the front room. Scott asked, “Are you sure you can trust this detective?”

  “It’s what we’ve got so far. I can’t give him information about the murder because I don’t have any. He hasn’t asked me for information about Edgar because he knows him and his family far better than we do.”

  Scott said, “Would investigating this with you be on an equivalent level as me doing skateboard tricks yesterday afternoon, possibly dangerous, even career ending, kind of not too bright?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of, maybe. I hope not.”

  I watched his eyes get their mischievous twinkle and his mouth form a bit of a grin. He said, “Well, then count me in.”

  We stopped in our room. I used the laptop to connect to the Internet to Google the names that Adlow had given me. That done, we left to try to stop the Grums from destroying Veronica’s and our lives.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Friday 9:17 A.M.

  Two blocks past the gate to the subdivision, I was watching in the review mirror the black wrought-iron sides of the gate clang together when a black SUV came out of a side road. It hung back, but it made turns when I did and didn’t close the distance. I made an abrupt turn and pulled up to a fast-food drive through and ordered some coffee. It was there again as we pulled away.

  I said, “We are being followed.”

  Scott checked his mirrors. “I noticed him. Who would follow us and why?”

  I abruptly cut into another fast food parking lot and got in a long line. The SUV kept going. I cut across the low curb that was meant to keep cars in line. The car bumped and scraped over the curbs. I took a back exit, doubled back the opposite way and parked behind a bank.

  “What the hell is going on?” Scott asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know. Adlow didn’t mention any surveillance directed at us, but then I think he’s completely cut out of the loop by now.”

  “Or we shouldn’t trust him,” Scott said.

  “He gave us information. How much choice do we have?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Friday 10:38 A.M.

  I checked carefully as we drove away. For the moment at least, we had ditched the tail. Frank Smith, whose name Adlow had given us, had a home on Lake Michigan just south of Sheboygan. We drove up a circular, tree-lined drive to a rambling, red brick, ranch home. We’d called ahead and were expected.

  A handsome young man answered the doorbell ring. He led us into a sunken living room that looked out over the gray lake. He asked if we wanted refreshments. We declined. He said he’d be back in a moment.

  He came back leading Frank Smith - old and dumpy, sad jowls hanging, too much weight lost too quickly on a stooped frame, jeans too big, held up by a belt with holes cut in the strap by hand. A flannel shirt that had seen more washes than my underwear. He looked all of his ninety years as he leaned on a cane.

  The young man lingered next to him with a hand out to help. The older man smiled at us. He ran his eyes up and down Scott’s torso, stopped at the bulge at the front of his jeans then moved up to his eyes.

  He staggered to Scott and touched his face the way a blind person would, lingering carefully on chin, lips, eyebrows. His mottled hand trembled as he lowered it to his side. Smith said, “Will your arm be okay?”

  Scott said, “I hope so.”

  “I go to every game you pitch, no matter where it is in the country. When you’re old and a fool and you win over a hundred million dollars in the lottery, you can do stupid things. I never thought I’d meet you. You are someone every gay person should be proud of.”

  Scott said, “You’re very kind.”

  The old man half coughed, half cackled. “I’m a horny old fool.”

  The old man looked at me and swept his eyes over me from head to crotch, lingered at the bulge in the front of my jeans. He smiled and licked his lips. He switched his cane from right hand to left, then held out the right to me.

  We shook.

  With his cane, Smith nudged the younger man’s leg. “This is my assistant, Brendan Bowers.” The far younger man helped him to a seat. Bowers hovered as his meal ticket lowered himself into a chair. The young man wore faded, skinny-leg, blue jeans, black running shoes, a black T-shirt, covered by a black and gray letterman’s jacket that he may actually have worn in high school not that many years ago.

  Scott and I sat. I said, “We’re here because my brother-in-law Edgar Grum was murdered. We’re staying with my sister to help her. We think there might be something odd with the investigation. We were told you had an intimate knowledge of the campaign and might be able to give us some information about him and about Zachary Ross.”

  His eyes got teary. He coughed and hacked then leaned back in his chair. “Zachary was a dear, sweet boy, an angel.”

  I said, “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Smith coughed again, then sat up. “I can tell you everything about Zachary, about Edgar Grum, and that goddamn election. They stole it. I know they did. They stole it electronically. Absolutely, for sure, they did. I want you to get proof, and I want you to stop them. I can pay you. I won the lottery.”

  He pointed at his outfit. “I’m used to the clothes I’ve always worn, but I’ve got more millions than I can spend in my lifetime. It’s hard to even find an escort who is willing to touch a saggy and fragile old man in his nineties. And I’ve got plenty to pay. Plenty. I’ve bankrolled the Jacob Nerz campaign. I gave a million to him in the primary. I gave a million to the general election. I gave a million to the party. I gave a million to the Unions.”

  We sat and listened. I had no idea of what, if anything, we’d find out from him about Edgar’s death, but he was old and sad, and he might say something important to the subsequent investigation. Bowers kept his eyes on his boss.

  What Smith said now mostly confirmed information I’d seen on the web before we left, but he was rambling and I was waiting.

  He smirked. “I’m so glad I won the lottery. A hundred million, fifty after taxes. I got no family. I got no friends. I’m not very nice. But I’ve got causes. Lots of them. Liberal. Do-good. Gay causes. And I’m going to do what I can before I die. I gave a million to the Trevor Project. I gave a million to Lambda Legal. I’m going to make those straight people pay. If I can. I might not be as rich as those assholes trying to steal the election, but I can target my money specifically.”

  I wondered how many more times he’d mention winning all that money. No doubt his identity was caught up in it. He’d been a set designer for years at theaters throughout the Midwest and according to the Internet never earned enough to have more than a marginal existence. I wonder if the good fortune coming late in life ever caused him to be bitter.

  Smith finally ran down. He let his eyes rove over the walls which were filled with paintings that looked to be Michael Breyette originals. Then his eyes rested on my crotch for a few moments. I spread my legs slightly. If it was giving the old guy a thrill to look between my legs, who was I to deny whatever thrill he got from it? I wasn’t planning to ask him out on a date, and his looking cost me nothing. And he was in his nineties. What could it hurt?

  He broke the silence. “Someone has to investigate the theft of the election. Someone has to prove it.”

  I said, “Aren’t people filing law suits and going to court? We don’t have that kind of expertise.”

  “But they don’t know what I know. That Mary Mallon has got to be stopped at all cost. Do you know how rotten she is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll tell you how rotten she is. You remember those incidents of cops pepper spraying peaceful protesters in California?”


  I nodded.

  Smith asked, “You know what she did?”

  I shook my head.

  “She made it her business to call them and offer them jobs as security guards on the state of Wisconsin payroll.”

  “Nobody’s heard about this?” I asked. “Nobody’s made a stink about it?”

  “I tried. It was during this recall. The Grums have control of the media.”

  “Not the Internet.”

  “They’ve got their people hacking into every anti-Mallon site on the Internet. They go after every anti-Mallon posting, blog, Facebook page, and Tweet.”

  “I heard about that. Didn’t they stop?”

  “They got sneakier about it. Hired expert hackers instead of attacking directly. They learned from that idiot governor of Kansas when that eighteen-year-old attempted to express an opinion to sixty-five friends. That attack on an innocent kid backfired, but these guys here in Wisconsin,” he shook his head, “this is money, real money. Hackers have been hired from all around the globe to fight anybody who opposes them.”

  “Hackers can stop the Internet?”

  “They can do a lot of damage to our side. We’ve tried to fight back, but they’ve got money. Way more than my piddly millions. No, I’m just giving you examples of how they fought and are still fighting. Dirty, mean, and desperate.”

  Was he complaining that their side hadn’t had the money to be as dirty and mean? Or that they wanted to but couldn’t because of moral principles? Or that they had been beaten at the dirty-mean game?

  “Are these hackers the ones who stole the election for them?”

  “Maybe. I think the hacking has been very hush-hush, very low key. Few people really knew what was going on.”

  The best kind of conspiracy. Nobody really knows what’s going on. The less people know, the more you can make up.

  “You didn’t hire hackers of your own?”

  “We’ve hired counter-hackers. We couldn’t afford both them and attack hackers. And we didn’t want to win by out-hacking them. We wanted to win honestly.”

  “Why didn’t you hire someone to investigate before the election?”

  “I was foolish. I didn’t think of it. I won money. I didn’t win brains.”

  “You have proof they stole the election?”

  “What election machines are being used in Wisconsin?” he asked.

  I said, “I heard of a company, Flisterbiddle something.”

  “The machines are Firbutton 20’s made by Flisterbiddle Von Struthers, Incorporated.”

  Adlow had told us a bit, but it turned out Smith knew more or claimed he did. Smith said, “Firbutton 20’s were purchased with a no bid contract. They were built, designed, and programmed by minions of the republipigs. All of it was arranged and stage managed by the governor and the republipig party. That Mary Mallon is a threat to the existence of all that is decent. She’s an idiot, an incompetent fool. She couldn’t steal her own asshole.”

  What an odd concept, but the derogatory meaning kind of worked. I tried to picture the theft of this intimate part of your own anatomy, couldn’t. I avoided looking at Scott and kept the smile off my face as Smith continued, “The actual people in charge of the republipig operation in Harrison County are a Mr. and Mrs. Grum. Your sister married into them, but how much do you know about them?”

  “I know they’re awful people, but I don’t how they’d go about stealing an election.”

  Bowers looked bored. He’d yet to say a word. He was careful to act alert when his meal-ticket looked at him. I felt guilt about my disparaging of his caring for the old man. I’d been sneering at the Grums and now this simple thought about this poor kid who was probably trying his best to live his life made me feel guilty. I had to get a grip.

  Smith said, “There’s all kinds of history here, all kinds. Mrs. Grum has been in the news for election violations a number of times. A gay candidate for U.S. Congress ran in a district that included a slice of Harrison County. He lost because of the stunningly high turnout and lopsided vote in the Harrison County portion of the district.” He thumped his cane on the ground next to his chair, waved a finger at me. “Accusations of fraud flew at the time. Investigations were held, lawyers fought, and six months later a squib at the bottom of page thirty-nine in the local paper said violations probably occurred, but no criminal charges were going to be filed. The item made the gay news websites, but the world doesn’t often dance to the tune the gay media plays. Hell, I tried to buy space to advertise for the recall in the few nationwide gay magazines left. I never got my calls answered. No wonder so many of them folded.”

  I asked, “Do you know what the Grums did specifically this time?”

  Smith continued, “Flisterbiddle Von Struthers is a fake company. The real owners are the Ducharmé brothers. You know them?”

  I nodded.

  “They are among the billionaire oligarchs determined to make sure laws are passed and tax breaks are given in local, state, and federal legislatures to make themselves and their cronies even more wealthy billionaire oligarchs. To win the election they are manipulating gasoline prices by using their money to drive up the cost of oil through mad speculation. There are those who doubt they would do such a thing. I don’t. They want the economy to fail. That’s treason. To the Ducharmés we are like toys in the hands of children. We are playthings for their amusement.” He puffed hard, coughed and hacked. Bowers put a hand on his back and caressed him gently. Smith’s spell subsided slowly.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you want to stop?”

  “I’m fine. I’m going to die.” He waved a hand to stop my expressions of sympathy. “We’re all going to die. I’m just nearer the head of the line than most.” He drew several deep breaths. Bowers handed him what looked like a throat lozenge. Smith took it and sucked contentedly.

  When he seemed better, I asked, “How did you find out about the company and the machines and their connection to them?”

  He shifted in his seat. He glanced at Bowers.

  “Some time ago one of their campaign workers came to me.”

  “They have a traitor in their midst?”

  He said, “You can have a thousand campaign workers. One of them has to have a conscience, even if he’s a republipig. One of them has got to be honest. However, this was the first I heard of it in my long life.”

  I didn’t contradict him. There had to be at least one good Republican. I was fairly certain about that, maybe more than one, although I was less sure about that.

  “What did the campaign worker say?”

  “That she was suspicious. She’s a lesbian. A closeted lesbian. A frightened, closeted lesbian. After I talked with her, I knew I needed a plan.” He sighed. He clutched his cane with his right hand. His left began to twitch slightly. His left knee trembled. He continued, “Then I got too smart for my own good. I found a reporter for the Milwaukee Gazette who was hungry for a story. He had a suspicious editor as well. He got himself hired as one of the tech people on the campaign.” He ran hands crinkled with arthritis over his eyes. He passed them over his sagging jowls. I saw tears in his eyes. He whispered, “And they killed him.” Tears fell.

  Bowers held out a tissue box for him.

  Smith blotted his eyes and his nose, folded the tissue into a small wad, then continued while clutching the dampened wad of paper. “It’s my fault he’s dead. All my money, and I killed him. I wish I’d never won that money. All that money wasn’t worth it. Not worth a beautiful, sweet young man’s life.” He drew deep breaths for several minutes.

  Bowers put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.” His voice was gentle and soft. “You were doing what you hoped was best. You didn’t know they were like that. You didn’t know they’d kill to get what they wanted.”

  The old man nodded and sniffled. “I should have known. It was my own hubris, my own hubris that got someone killed. I thought that much money solved everything.” He gulped, sniffled some more, wipe
d his nose. “Zachary Ross. He was a beautiful young man. Yes, physically, but most important, a kind, gentle soul, trying to do right, and he got in with those vipers, and they killed him. I will never forgive myself. But I’m old. I’ll die soon anyway. He had wonderful years ahead of him.” Bowers held out to him the trash can from the side of the desk. Smith threw in the tissue. He sat up straighter. “But I can avenge him. I can get even with these people. I can find out who killed him.”

  “We’re not official investigators.”

  “You’re here asking questions. Each time I create a new enemy for them, I’m taking a step in the right direction, and you’re an in to the Grum family. We haven’t had that before.”

  “I’m a brother-in-law.”

  “Who is staying at Edgar’s house. It’s a start and it’s more than we had before you walked in the door.”

  True as far as it went, and I was there to help my sister. I didn’t care much that Edgar was gone or who did it, but if finding that out would help Veronica, fine. If it would keep her from being arrested, perfect. As a bonus, if we discovered who and how either the Grums or the Ducharmés cheated on the election, even better.

  Scott asked, “What exactly happened to the reporter?”

  “The killers made it look like an accident. A week ago the police found his body floating in the lake.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t an accident?”

  Bowers said, “How do you accidentally jump off a bridge?”

  “It wasn’t suicide?” Scott asked.

  Bowers responded, “He would never kill himself, never.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  Bowers got a stubborn look. “I just know. I knew him. He was a friend.”

  Smith added, “And the police didn’t say suicide. They said accident. It wasn’t raining so it wasn’t slippery. It was the Racine Avenue Bridge over the Milwaukee River. It’s an old bridge that you have to climb several railings to be able to jump in. You can’t just trip and fall off.”

  “It didn’t make the news?” Scott asked.