Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder

by Marilyn Rausch

  Her voice had an edge to it. “That’s me. I live in Minneapolis and I’m an FBI agent. Listen, you’re not going to be one of those know-it-all experts who asks nosy personal questions, are you?”

  John was taken aback at her abruptness. They stared at each other a moment. He wasn’t quite sure what note he struck, but it obviously wasn’t a good one. John spoke first. “You know, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Just making small talk.” He looked around. They seemed to have left civilization behind. “Um, are we almost there?”

  “Damn it! Missed the turn.” She pulled into the next parking lot and did a U-turn. Once they were headed back into town, she spoke up. “Look, I’m the one who should apologize. You asked a perfectly innocent question and I overreacted. Please accept my apologies.”

  “No problem. I am a bit nosy sometimes.” He smiled at her and her lips curved upward in response. He found himself trying to think of ways to get a glimpse of that smile again.

  Chapter Five

  Turners Bend

  Thanksgiving Week

  During the next week Chip fell into a daily routine attuned to the rhythm and pace of life in Turners Bend. Sandwiched between breakfast at the Bun and an evening beer at the Bend, he worked on Brain Freeze. From his vantagepoint as a stranger in town, he keenly observed the events playing out before him, and these observations began to show up in his story in sometimes subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, ways.

  The Bun had last been furnished in the sixties with gray linoleum floors and a gray Formica-covered counter. The counter stools and booths were upholstered in dark-red Naugahyde, and the tables were covered with red-and-white-checked plastic tablecloths. Roosters and chickens were printed on the café curtains that covered the bottom half of the front windows. Customers could sit at the tables and still see over the top of the curtains, so as not to miss any action on Main Street.

  The café was a beehive of activity every weekday morning. Chip saw the same people, sitting in the same places and eating the same breakfasts morning after morning. This was a routine he had never observed in the Baltimore deli where he got a bagel and schmear to go every morning. No regulars lingered at the deli.

  By the end of the week, he had staked out his own place, where he sat alone. It was a small table with a good view of the whole café. He got a few nods and waves, but never an invitation to join another table. It made him feel somewhat like a high school geek, but it did allow him to soak up the local culture and gather color for Brain Freeze.

  He settled on his breakfast … two eggs over-easy, bacon, and wheat toast. On the menu it was called the Bender. He thought it might make him look like he belonged. The bacon was thick-sliced and dotted with pepper. The toast was slathered in butter to which he added homemade strawberry preserves. His cardiologist would have a heart attack if he knew.

  Not only the breakfast fare was of interest to him, but also the clientele. Each morning a group of farmers surrounded one of the large tables. The corn had been harvested, and these guys seemed to have time on their hands. They all wore grimy seed caps and plaid flannel shirts and a few actually wore bib overalls. He listened to the clinking of spoons, as sugar and cream were added to cups of steaming black coffee. He was fascinated by one of the oldest-looking farmers, who poured his coffee into his saucer to drink it, another sight he had never witnessed in Baltimore. Conversations started with comments on the weather and proceeded to commodity prices for the day and then on to the fine art of farming. Chip understood little of what was discussed, but he loved their terse sentences and the Scandinavian lilt that reached his ears.

  “Water froze up in the trough last night.”

  “Ja, goin’ ta be a cold one this winter. Predicted in the Almanac.”

  “See that new Chalmers over at Bud’s place? She’s a hellava machine.”

  “Hear it’s got that newfangled GPS system. Foolishness, if you ask me.”

  “Prices don’t get better, he’ll be riding that baby right back to the bank.”

  He wished he had brought along a notebook to record this Midwest language, but then again that might raise even more suspicion about him.

  One large booth near the front window was frequented by Turners Bend dignitaries … the mayor, the chief of police, the owner of the Feed and Seed and the president of Community Bank and Trust. All were men with too much around their waists and not enough on top of their heads. At times various merchants from along Main Street joined them. Chip picked up tidbits of local doings from this direction, tuning in especially when Chief Walter Fredrickson reported on recent crimes … lots of domestics and drunken assaults and an occasional drug bust.

  “Hey, Chief, heard Pastor Henderson’s boy tried to set up a meth lab in the basement and nearly blew himself to kingdom come.”

  “Ja, can’t wait for next Sunday’s sermon. Henderson should send that prodigal son packing. Boy’s a bad seed.”

  “That free-for-all at the Bend last night was a doozie. Some of those boys will never grow up.”

  His growing interest in all things criminal still surprised him at times. But crime was apparently going to be his genre, and he didn’t want to mess with success.

  Workers from AgriDynamics, the town’s biggest employer, occupied the other large booth. Men from the third shift overlapped with workers for the first shift. They spoke in hushed tones with heads huddled together. Chip could only catch snippets of the conversation.

  “… it’s got to stop …”

  “… Jesus, I can’t afford to lose my job …”

  “… the bastard’s making a fortune off our backs …”

  Facial expressions in the group of workers ranged from fear to frustration and from anger to wariness. A head would occasionally pop up with furtive eyes scanning the café’s crowd. Chip shifted his chair to catch more of the conversation. Something was going on at AgriDynamics, and it piqued his curiosity. Sinister dealings within a manufacturer could be fuel for his next chapter.

  Mabel and Iver sat together at the counter every morning, sometimes joking with each other or with Bernice the waitress and sometimes talking softly in serious, intimate tones.

  “You should cut down on the eggs and bacon, Iver. I’m worried about your cholesterol.” Mabel placed her hand on Iver’s ham-sized arm.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, Mabel. It’s you we should be fretting about. You work too hard.” He reached his arm around her and patted her shoulder.

  “If it weren’t for my job, I’d be too lonesome. Plus, Jane needs me.”

  The two would occasionally stop for a few minutes at Chip’s table, and they became his first friends in Turners Bend. They were unlike any friends he had ever had, but he was really feeling the need for friends in this town. And strange as it seemed to him, he really liked this “salt of the earth” couple.

  “Chip, your dog is a real sweetie,” said Mabel as she departed, leaving Iver sitting at the counter. “When Dr. Jane and I are in the office, we let her out, and she follows us around from room to room. I can see she’s a real people dog. You got to give her a name, you know. A dog should have a name.”

  “Well, Mabel, if she’s so sweet, why don’t you call her ‘Honey’?”

  “That’s perfect. I should have known a writer like you would come up with just the right name. You should be a daddy soon, maybe on Thanksgiving.”

  Without missing a beat, she continued, “Now about Thanksgiving, you’ll come, won’t you? Iver, bless his heart, is going to make a deep-fried turkey. Dr. Jane is coming cuz Hal is taking Ingrid and Sven to Disney World. She’s bringing the pies. So it’s all settled. You come on Thursday about noon. See you then.”

  Mabel bustled out the door, leaving Chip’s head spinning. What in the hell was he going to do with a dog and puppies? Would a deep-fried turkey be like a giant Chicken McNugget? Ingrid and Sven … sounded like a comedy team you would hear on the Prairie Home Companion
radio show. He took his coffee cup and moved to the counter stool next to Iver, hoping for elucidation.

  “So, Iver, you and Mabel an item?”

  “A what?”

  “Do I sense a romance?”

  Iver lifted his empty coffee cup, and Bernice gave him a refill.

  “Nah, I’m one of those confounded bachelors. She’s a widow lady. Her husband, Stan, was a hell of a nice guy. Blew a gasket in his head and died right there in their bed. What about you? You got a lady friend?”

  Chip removed his glasses and wiped a butter smear off his lenses with a paper napkin while he gave Iver’s questions some thought. Then he answered, “No, I’m currently a ‘confounded’ bachelor, too. Say, Mabel just mentioned Ingrid and Sven, are they Dr. Swanson’s kids?”

  “Yes … named after their great-grandparents who came over from the Old Country. They were on the same boat as my grandparents, Astrid and Olaf Ingebretson. Ingrid’s a pretty little thing like her mom. She’s going to follow in her mother’s footsteps and be a vet. Yup, she’s got a special way with animals. Don’t know what to say about Sven. That boy’s a handful, and it’s his old man’s fault. Jane and Hal been divorced for a long time.”

  Something inside Chip stirred as he heard this new piece of information. Divorced. Possibly available. He didn’t want to sound too eager, but he sure wanted to know more. Or did he? He had vowed to stay away from women. Either they messed up his life or he messed up their lives.

  “Does their father live around here?”

  “Oh, ja, you can find him over at the Bend most nights, mean son of a bitch when he’s drinking and an asshole when he’s sober. Thinks he’s a big shot because he owns AgriDynamics. Name’s Harold H. Swanson III. Uppity name, isn’t it?” Chip made a mental note never to use his full name in Turners Bend. Charles Edgar Collingsworth III, impressed people in Baltimore, but in Turners Bend his name would set him apart in a very different way.

  Changing topics, Chip asked, “What’s going on over there with the workers from AgriDynamics?”

  “Rumor has it one of them is going to blow the whistle on old Hal and his shady doings. Hope they do. Guy would sell his own mother down the river. Wouldn’t want to put my life on the line to rat on him, though.”

  Chip and Iver sat together, each quietly sipping their coffee, listening to Bernice softly sing “Cracklin’ Rosie,” as she polished the stainless steel milk dispenser. Behind the counter Chip spied a copy of The Cranium Killer, the back cover facing up. There was the dreadful photograph that Lucinda had insisted on using, one of him holding his eyeglasses and wearing a black turtleneck. He hated that picture, didn’t own a black turtleneck and hadn’t worn one since high school. Even worse was the front cover, a bloody hand holding a brain. Again, that was Lucinda’s idea, and she most definitely called the shots when it came to the jacket graphics. Nevertheless, he was surprised to see the book in Turners Bend and even more surprised to see it behind the café’s counter. He wondered if Bernice was reading it. If so, that might account for the strange looks she sometimes gave him.

  Back at his computer for a day of writing, Chip started the next chapter of Brain Freeze. He needed to concentrate on the “blown gasket” and microchip in his victim’s head, but his mind kept veering off to the beautiful redheaded veterinarian. He had sworn off women, but hearing that she was divorced made him think about her. She was a lot like Mary in many ways, a caring woman with solid values who would most likely know better than to get involved with a guy like him. Anyway, two teenage kids were some serious baggage to avoid. That was like sticking your knife into the toaster, right?

  Finally he forced himself to stop his spinning and reeling about Dr. Jane and to channel his energy into Dr. Goodman and Jo. Living in their lives was a hell of a lot easier than living in this own. He wished he had not tossed out all his first-year medical schoolbooks. He did not lack for medical resources right within his own family. But, calling his father was out of the question. He avoided talking with him as much as possible. Conversations with Dr. Collingsworth Jr., always spiraled into lectures about Chip’s failures, delivered in his father’s unmistakable tone of condescension, tinged with disappointment. Chip had spent lots of hours on his analyst’s couch talking about his “unresolved father issues.” After thousands of dollars, they were still “unresolved.”

  He called Parker, his father’s favored child.

  “How’s my little bro?”

  “Up to my neck in lesions and tumors, as usual.”

  Yup, he had made the right choice not to be a doctor. “I need some info. If you were to plant a microchip into a brain to control inhibitions, where would you plant it?”

  Parker gave a brief laugh. “Well, I’m not in the mind control business, I leave that up to the CIA and KGB. I assume this is for your next novel. Is our hero Dr. Goodman going to loosen the inhibitions of some sexy blonde?”

  “No, something more sinister than that, I think, although I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chip took notes as Parker described various areas of the brain and brain stem and regaled him with his knowledge of recent research in the treatment of various seizure disorders and neurological diseases.

  “And aneurysms, where do they most often occur?”

  “The Circle of Willis, an arterial circle at the base of the brain.”

  “Thanks, Parker. I’ll give you credit in my acknowledgements.”

  “Ah, that’s sure to impress my colleagues in the American Society of Neurosurgeons. Got to go, Chip, my beeper’s going off.”

  Maybe he was being too sensitive, but he heard it in Parker’s parting remark, that bit of sarcasm and their father’s tone, the cutting edge that always sliced into Chip’s ego. He got the information he needed for his novel, but it grazed his self-image. Dr. Cooper would probably advise him to ignore it … “Let it go, Chip,” he said to himself.

  Chapter Six

  Brain Freeze

  Duluth, Minnesota

  The St. Louis County Medical Examiner’s office was located within the University of Minnesota at Duluth’s School of Medicine. Jo pulled onto the campus and drove down roads narrowed by tall snow banks. Bundled up students trudged along freshly plowed sidewalks, heads bent down to protect their faces from the wind coming off Lake Superior. John wondered if the students recognized each other when they finally saw their faces again in the spring.

  The School of Medicine was a no-nonsense, modern building of tan and red brick, running along University Drive. Jo showed her badge to the guard in the station house before entering the parking lot.

  As she circled the lot looking for a parking spot, John said, “I forgot to ask. Who manufactured the chip?”

  “The serial number on the chip traces back to a corporation called NeuroDynamics, Inc. Ever heard of them?”

  John nodded. “I certainly have. The founder of the company, Charles Candleworth, was an old classmate of mine at Johns Hopkins. I ran into him at a neurology conference a couple of years back, and he tried to get me to join his company, working in research. Turned him down flat—I never liked the guy. Always cutting corners in med school. He got caught dealing research papers to other students. Daddy’s money hushed it up.”

  “Well, it looks like Candleworth may be into something considerably more sinister these days.” She pulled the SUV into the last spot available in the lot.

  “So, tell me about the ME. Is he any good?”

  She put the car in park and shut off the engine. “His name’s Sid Jurgenson. He’s been around forever. A bit of a legend in this part of Minnesota. He’s like Brett Favre—says he’s going to retire, then changes his mind. Truth is, people here will be sorry at that retirement party. If you’ll pardon the expression, he knows where all the bodies are buried.”

  “Agent Tinsdale says he’s quite a character.”

  Jo chuckled. It was a deep, throaty sound. A wonderful laugh. “That he is. No doubt about it. He’s a bit rough around the edges, wit
h a dark sense of humor. Once you get used to that, though, you realize that nothing gets past him.”

  They entered the doorway and received visitor passes. Their snow covered shoes squeaked on the highly polished floors. Jo led the way to the ME’s office.

  Behind the reception desk sat a harried looking woman with springy gray hair. Jo and John stood for a moment, waiting for her to notice them. Jo finally cleared her throat. “Excuse, me. We’re here to see Sid Jurgenson.” The woman peered over her leopard-print reading glasses. She looked them up and down before responding, “And you are … ?”

  Jo sighed and straightened her shoulders. “I’m Special Agent Jo Schwann of the FBI.” She gestured toward John. “And this is Dr. John Goodman. Dr. Jurgenson is expecting us.”

  The woman reached for the telephone without responding. She punched a button and then spoke into the receiver. “Sid. Some FBI agent and a doc here to see you. Should I send ’em in or tell them to take a seat?”

  She nodded and hung up the phone. She tilted her head toward a hallway on the left. “Sid’s waiting for you. Go through those double doors over there. He’s in the first room on the right.” She went back to her paperwork without comment.

  When they were out of earshot, John muttered, “She’s got the personality of one of those snow banks outside. I’ll bet she gets along great with the clientele in here.” John looked over at Jo and was rewarded with a smile.

  “Wait ’til you meet Sid.”

  John raised an eyebrow.

  Just then, the man in question came through the door. He was the same height as Jo, and bent slightly forward, looking as if he might topple over at any minute. What little hair he had left was pure white and circled a pale, liver-spotted pate. Behind him trotted a golden retriever, nails clicking on the tiled floor. The ME thrust out his hand. “Sid Jurgenson. Glad to meet you! You must be Dr. Goodman.” He turned to Jo. “Little Josie Schwann. Good to see you again, girl.” He wrapped Jo in a bear hug and looked back at John. “I’ve known Josie here since she was just a little snippet. Her dad and I were in med school together, way back.”