Another Dead Republican

by Mark Zubro

  “He was a minor reporter, little more than an intern. His position in the recall campaign was never mentioned. Even his death was hushed up. His editor is frightened. His editor has bosses. His editor has a publisher who takes a lot of advertising from Ducharmé-backed companies.”

  “How’d you get Zachary Ross the job in the first place?”

  “He’s a tech genius who decided not to get rich out in Silicon Valley. He was gay. He knew the good fight was going on right here. He wanted to be part of stopping them. Even six months ago we knew they’d try to pull something. If you don’t win an election by a landslide, the republipigs will find a way to steal it. Florida. Ohio. Need I say more?”

  “Who interviewed him for the job at the campaign?”

  “I don’t know a specific name. They were starting up the campaign, hiring all kinds of people. They started before we were done gathering signatures. Their budget was unlimited.”

  I asked, “Is the lesbian alive?”

  “Yes, but even more frightened than she was.”

  “Will she talk to us?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Maybe you could call her.”

  “I will.”

  Scott asked, “Why didn’t they come after you? You were giving lots of money to the opposition.”

  “Yes, but see, they always had more money. They knew they couldn’t be outspent. We had to outthink them, out plot them, out plan them, and I got somebody killed.” His crabbed left hand clutched at Bower’s sleeve, but he spoke to me. “You’ve got to do something. We’ve got to avenge his death.”

  I said, “If they killed once, what’s to stop them from killing again?”

  “You guys are famous. I just have money. They wouldn’t kill someone with fame and money. You people can fight back.”

  “We don’t have the resources of the Ducharmé brothers. If they have access to killers, we’re in trouble. Even if I could, I’m not sure I want to summon killers.”

  Smith said, “They can’t get away with this. You’ve got to investigate.”

  Bowers spoke up, “They broke into Frank’s house last night.”

  Smith said, “We don’t know who did it. I have many valuable things.”

  Bowers said, “We were planning to attend a protest in Madison about them stealing the election. We were going to stay overnight. We forgot one of Frank’s medicines. We had to come back. We’d been gone maybe an hour. We saw a black SUV rush out of here just as we were pulling up the driveway. When we got inside, we saw that they tore up the house.”

  I said, “You were lucky not to be here.” I looked around. “You cleaned up pretty fast.”

  “I stayed up late.”

  Frank said, “We don’t know it was them.”

  Bowers said, “It had to be. I’m scared. What if they come back? What if they send an army of people?”

  Frank said, “Does anybody have enough guns to defeat an army of the demented right wing? That’s why we have laws and civilization.”

  “If they’re enough,” Bowers said.

  Frank shook his head.

  Scott said, “They came when you weren’t here. They might or might not have had something to do with the campaign. Whatever they are looking for is the problem, not you.”

  They knew nothing more helpful. A few minutes later with Bowers’ assistance, Smith tottered to his feet. He wiped a last tear from his face. “You’ll be careful? I don’t want another death on my conscience.”

  I said, “I make my own choices. You are not responsible for them.”

  Before we left, I got names and addresses of all the major characters he had mentioned. He agreed to set up meetings with those he had mentioned. Bowers said he would text us with possible times and venues.

  Smith leaned heavily on Bowers arm as he tottered down the hall with us to the door. We watched him wave feebly as we walked down the driveway.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Friday 11:52 A.M.

  We sat in the car in the winding driveway.

  “That’s very sad,” Scott said.

  “This is all sad and miserable. I can believe the Grums would be behind adding more sadness and misery to the world.”

  “You know what’s frightening?” Scott asked.

  “What?”

  “That they don’t think they’re adding sadness and misery. They are completely oblivious. That brings it to the point of madness and tragedy.”

  My cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Bowers giving directions on where to meet the woman from the campaign. I put the car in gear and turned on the GPS in the car. We could have used either one of our phones for the same purpose. Gotta love modern technology.

  As we turned onto the street, Scott said, “Somebody is looking for something.”

  “It would be logical to assume this break-in would be connected with the Grums trying to hunt through Edgar’s stuff.”

  “What is it they’re looking for?” Scott asked.

  “It can’t be something that only Edgar had, or they wouldn’t have broken in here at Frank Smith’s. What I can’t figure out is what would Edgar Grum have and Frank Smith have that bad guys would want.”

  Scott said, “Depends on the bad guys and if it tells us who murdered Edgar or who stole the election electronically. If the election was for sure stolen.”

  “You don’t think it was?”

  “I think I want proof,” Scott replied.

  Kim Strobridge, the lesbian insider, wouldn’t even meet us within the confines of Harrison County. Even Milwaukee County was too hot to hold her. She insisted on meeting at the Highway 20 exit in Racine County. At least she picked a place that had Kringle, the single greatest pastry the world has ever created. I had pecan.

  I was into my second slice of Kringle when a woman fitting the description Smith had given us walked in. She looked the diners over and eased her way back toward us. Smith must have described us. I didn’t think she’d see thirty again and might be pushing forty. The wrinkles around her eyes gave her away. She was a whole lot of ordinary: petite, edging toward anorexic, pale complexion, blond hair in a page boy haircut.

  The frightened, closeted lesbian sat down, ordered coffee, and said, “They’ll kill you next, both of you. I know you’re famous. You’ll still die. I think people have been following me. We should all be very frightened.”

  Not the conversation one normally has over a piece of Kringle.

  I said, “Who is going to kill us?”

  “Take your pick. You get your nose into it, the goons from the Grums, or the goons from the Ducharmés, doesn’t matter which, we’ll all still be dead. You stick your nose in. You will die.”

  “You’re breathing.”

  The waitress brought coffee. Kim took hers black. When the waitress was out of ear shot she said, “I’ve managed to keep my nose clean.”

  “The Grums and Ducharmés have that much power they can kill with impunity?”

  “Did you take extra naïve classes in college or does your doctor give you extra strength stupid pills?”

  I chose not to respond to the insult. “If meeting with you and asking questions means we’re going to die, why are you meeting with us?”

  “I know Frank. I’ve known him for years. He’s one of the few people who didn’t berate me for my political leanings. He’s a nice, sweet man.”

  “Why aren’t you going to be killed?”

  “I haven’t been found out. I can just walk away.”

  “Why’d you get involved at all? Why work for them?”

  “I hate unions. They sap the life out of this country. They make people lazy.”

  Scott said, “Someone in your family got hurt by a union once.”

  “Union thugs beat up my brother when he wouldn’t become a teamster.”

  “All Union members are thugs?” I asked.

  “Enough. My brother was crippled for life in the attack. They never caught who did it.”

  “But you’re willing to help Fran
k.”

  “Yes, I also knew Zachary Ross. He was a good man.”

  “You knew who he was and didn’t turn him in to your campaign?”

  “That’s right. The world of politics in Harrison County is a small world. He and I even talked. Early on I knew something was odd about the campaign. The whole thing just didn’t make sense. Plus, I’ve got a conscience. Union thugs are one thing. Stealing this election electronically is another.”

  “You have proof?”

  “No.”

  “Did Zachary Ross have proof?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Scott had limited himself to one piece of Kringle. I’d had several. He watches his diet religiously. I do huge amounts of extra exercise so I can have the extra sweets. He doesn’t generally get into debates with people, but he asked, “Isn’t Mallon virulently anti-gay? Why were you working with the anti-recall people?”

  “I believe in limited government. I believe in working within the system to bring about the change.”

  He asked, “Why doesn’t it work both ways?”

  “Both ways what?” The sneer in her tone ripped past the offensive. Why was he debating this venom-drenched lesbian?

  He said, “Why not work in the Democratic Party to change them from within? When they’ve been in power in the last three decades they’ve done more to cut taxes and limit government than the Republicans have.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  I did not go nuts. The right-wing delusion disconnect from reality was more than I’d be able to cure with logic, reason, or common sense.

  Scott asked, “Then why don’t you work within the Democratic Party to change them?”

  The sneer turned to a snarl. “I don’t have to debate with you. I came here because a gay guy is dead. And I like Frank.”

  Scott leaned back and was silent. I said, “This whole thing is a mess. Maybe all of this is tied together, Edgar Grum’s death, Zachary Ross’s death, and the stealing of the election electronically.”

  She glared at me for an uncomfortable minute and then began without preliminary. “Frank Smith is a sweet, old, sad man. I’d like to help him but saving the world, or at least this election, I think is beyond any of us.”

  “Why were you so frightened to talk to us?”

  “I’m not scared.” She glanced furtively around the room. “I’m cautious. I don’t know you. I don’t know who to trust. Frank says you’re good guys. I know about you, but I’ve never heard of you doing anything to help lesbian athletes.”

  Scott put his hand on my arm. I did not ask my next question, “What does that have to do with anything?” I took a breath, sipped coffee. I said, “What do you think happened with the election.”

  “I’m a computer expert. I should be able to get into the electronics for the election, at least to check them.” She sipped her coffee. “I can’t even get past the first level of passwords. The Ducharmé people have some of the best computer people in the world working on their side. If you were arrested for hacking any time in the past ten years, and you aren’t in jail, you’re probably working for them. I found those kinds of names, but I sure couldn’t get into their system.”

  Without Scott having to place a calming hand on my arm, I did not say, maybe you’re not as good a computer expert as you think you are.

  I said, “Frank Smith said the campaign had electronic experts hacking into their stuff.”

  She laughed. “Our hackers are better than your hackers? Yeah. It was a joke. Their people were crap. We could shut down or counter any crap they put on the Net. They were good. We were better.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Fifty or so.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  “It was enough for us.”

  “All paid?”

  “I was. Nobody talked about salary.”

  “Anyone among them you think I could talk to, who might tell me the truth?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Would you at least think about it?”

  “I guess.”

  “What else can you tell me about the campaign?”

  For the first time she took a bite of Kringle. She made a face. Not a fan of Kringle? Something must be really wrong with her.

  Strobridge said, “The Grums infested the place. One of them was always there. Mr. and Mrs. Grum were like a plague. Constantly asking people what they were doing. Were they working hard enough? Couldn’t they stay longer? Asking people at the last minute to stay late or come in on their day off.”

  “Weren’t these mostly volunteers?”

  “There were tons of paid staff.”

  “They treated paid staff like this?”

  “We didn’t have a union.” She didn’t seem to recognize the irony in this statement. She took another sip of her coffee. She continued, “I never want to see another Grum. I had to work with their youngest son, Edgar. He was a piece of work. Sexist. Racist. Homophobic. Just a pig. Used the n-word in casual conversation. I finally said something to him about it. He stopped in a snarly teenage way.”

  “Was the rest of the family the same way?”

  “Not overtly bigoted, at least not in front of me, but I don’t know.” She twisted her upper body as if she were warming up in an exercise class. Which also gave her a chance to scan the room without being obvious about it, or at least she thought she wasn’t. “Mrs. Grum was the worst of the rest of them. I thought she’d maybe be nicer, her being a woman. Hah! She’d insult the workers, belittle them, demand they come in on short notice, work overtime. Didn’t matter if you had plans.”

  “That can be rough.”

  “Both the volunteers and the paid staff got treated like dirt. A lot of the paid staff had been working with or associated with the Grums in Harrison County for a long time. The stuff they told was unbelievable. I heard and saw some of it up close a few times.”

  “Like what?”

  “That Edgar, the n-word guy. He went hunting with a bunch of his buddies and got shot in the butt by his dog.”

  There’d been a rash of those dog-shooting-person reports on the Internet. I remembered vaguely hearing about Edgar and a hunting accident, but I never cared enough about hunting or Edgar to find out details.

  “When was this?”

  “Years ago, but they still laughed about it. Not to his face and that’s simple stuff, small potatoes. That family did not get along. I’ve seen the Grum family members arguing and fighting with each other.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “I was never sure, but they could go at it. They all always knew better than the others. Mr. and Mrs. Grum would go after each other viciously, right in front of people. They’d argue about campaign tactics, priorities, spending.”

  “I thought they had tons of money.”

  “That didn’t mean they couldn’t fight about it. They all thought they were in charge, but somehow they always seemed to dump on Edgar. Nobody supported him in any argument, yet, when dealing with us, he was always this cheerful buffoon. It never made a lot of sense. He’d brag that they were going to win no matter what.”

  “He was shot with a Colt Mustang Pocketlight .380 gun. Do you know anything about that?”

  “That fool brought guns to work all the time. He loved the new concealed weapons law in this state. If he could have brought in a concealed tank, he would have. They say these gun people are over-compensating for a lack in the sexual department, well, Edgar needed to compensate a tank’s worth.”

  “Can I talk to any of the other paid staff or volunteers?”

  “It was a miracle you got me. Be glad you got that much.”

  “And you don’t know what Zachary Ross knew?”

  “No. Try his boyfriend and his mother. Sometimes he left stuff at both places. Zach was really organized and paranoid.”

  “Could anybody else have known he was a spy?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what scares me. Someone could know I’m talki
ng to you.”

  “How?”

  “Who knows? If the Grums aren’t all powerful, and they probably aren’t, the Ducharmés probably are.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Friday 2:00 P.M.

  Next on our list was the boyfriend of the reporter Zachary Ross. I contacted Frank Smith. Bowers answered and said we could meet the reporter’s lover, Jordan Labrinski, at a Starbucks on the north side of Milwaukee near the University of Wisconsin campus.

  The day had become overcast, cool, and humid. If it was winter, you’d know a snowstorm was coming. If it was summer, you’d know that strong storms would be in the forecast. For spring, it could be either, or just a placid calm atmosphere of waiting for the sun to warm the Earth into summer.

  Labrinski sat at a table in a corner far from others who had their laptops open and coffee ready. I wondered sometimes what the ratio was between coffee spills and laptops destroyed in these shops. Labrinski’s long legs encased in skinny jeans were spread wide. He had dark black hair cut short and wore black horn-rimmed glasses. He recognized Scott more than me. He stood and we shook hands. I said, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

  His eyes teared up. Scott offered to buy coffee for all of us. He got in line. I reached for some napkins from the condiments cart and handed them to Labrinski.

  He muttered, “Thanks.”

  When we’d all been served, Labrinski said, “Frank Smith called. I know who you guys are. I never thought I’d meet Scott Carpenter. You’re a hero.”

  Scott blushed, sipped coffee, and said, “Thanks.”

  I waited a beat then said, “We were hoping to find out about Zachary. Maybe it would help us figure this whole thing out.”

  “Frank said you wanted to find out who killed Edgar Grum and Zachary, and expose the whole stealing the election electronically criminal stuff.”

  “It all seems to be tied together, but we thought you might know something about what Zachary knew.”

  He sighed, sipped some coffee, dabbed at his eyes. “Zachary was a saint.” He didn’t seem to mean this as a joke.

  “How so?” Scott asked.

  Labrinski leaned forward and said, “He always had to be political, always rushed off to the latest good cause. If a whale got stranded in Alaska, he was off to rescue it. If a dolphin got a cold in the Pacific, if an elephant had a hangnail in the middle of the jungle, whatever the cause, he had to be there. If a tree needed to be hugged, they called Zachary. You know what it’s like being married to a saint?”