False Cast: a small town murder mystery (Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Series Book 5)

by S. W. Hubbard

  “Are you sure Earl would be interested? I know he’s been applying to the Saranac Lake department. He’d probably get a broader range of experience over there. And I’m not sure we can match what they pay, but we can try.”

  “I don’t want to speak for Earl, but you should definitely make him the offer. I’m pretty confident he’ll take it.”

  “Before I talk to Mayor Abernathy, I’ll need a plan that shows who will cover what and exactly how much of your time you’ll spend in each town.”

  “I’ll write up a plan.” Frank rose and shook the mayor’s hand. “You’ll have it by tomorrow.”

  As soon as Reid’s office door closed behind him, Frank picked up the phone. “Penny, I’ll be late for dinner. But wait’ll you hear why.”

  Chapter 11

  Two days had passed since the hostage crisis at Happy Camper Day Care. Ronnie Gatrell had undergone a twenty-four hour psych evaluation and had been moved to the Essex County Jail in Lewis. Today he would appear before the magistrate in Verona for his felony hearing. Earl would have to testify.

  At three in the afternoon, Frank and Earl sat in the magistrate’s office in the Verona municipal building waiting for the sheriff’s deputies to deliver Ronnie. The district attorney and Ronnie’s attorney were also there.

  “Are you nervous?” Frank asked.

  Earl sat staring straight ahead. He’d chosen to wear the tie with his uniform and fiddled with the tight knot. “No, I’m fine.”

  They had already discussed the likelihood of Ronnie’s making bail. Neither of them knew the Verona magistrate personally, but the fact that Ronnie had endangered children and that his own wife was seeking a restraining order seemed to call for very high bail or no bail at all. Frank was fairly certain that at the end of this hearing, Ronnie would be returned to the Essex County jail to await trial.

  The minutes ticked by and the judge checked his watch with a frown. Then the Verona town secretary stuck her head in the door. “They just pulled up.”

  Tension rippled through the small room. Everyone sat at attention.

  Suddenly, the secretary screamed from the foyer.

  “Shit!” a male voice shouted.

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Frank and Earl bolted out of the room, followed by the lawyers and the judge. Outside, in front of the municipal building, pandemonium reigned.

  The sheriff’s prisoner transport van was parked at the curb, the sliding door wide open. One deputy stood with his weapon drawn and aimed at the grocery store parking lot across the street. Another ran through the lot, dodging cars and shopping carts. A yellow school bus idled in front of the elementary school next to the market.

  A flash of black and white stripes appeared at the corner between the school and the market.

  “There he is!” Earl pointed. “He’s heading toward the woods.”

  The deputy shifted his aim, but Frank grabbed his arm. “Don’t shoot. There are too many people. School is letting out for the day.”

  “He’s getting away!’ Earl started to follow the other deputy, but Frank could see they’d never catch up on foot. He jumped into the Trout Run patrol car and sped around the corner, hoping to head off Ronnie behind the store before he reached the woods. But when Frank reached the loading dock that backed up to the thick woods behind the store, no one was in sight but the panting, heaving, overweight deputy.

  Ronnie Gatrell had escaped.

  Chapter 12

  The first sign appeared the day after Ronnie Gatrell’s escape.

  Run, Ronnie, Run painted in big red letters on the side of the old falling-down barn in the field on Gaston Road. Frank saw it on the morning patrol, and made a quick detour up the driveway of Jack Nesbitt, who owned the property.

  “Somebody’s been vandalizing your barn.” Frank pointed over his shoulder in the general direction of the barn when Jack answered his knock.

  “Ha, ha! I saw that. Wouldn’t call it vandalism, per se.” Jack grinned and took a swig of coffee from a mug that said This House is Protected by the Good Lord and a Gun.

  “Did you paint it?”

  “No.” Jack kept chuckling as he stepped out onto his front porch. “But I wouldn’t say there’s any call to investigate. I won’t be pressin’ charges.”

  “So you know who did it?”

  “Naw. Just some kids being funny. But it is funny. That Ronnie surely did pull one over on those deputies. Put a little scratch on his own arm. Demanded a lot of bandages so they couldn’t get the cuffs on him. Limped like a cripple. Then took off like a cheetah the moment he saw his chance. Gotta admire that ingenuity.”

  The details of Ronnie’s escape had dominated the local news for the past twenty- four hours. Everyone now knew how Ronnie had gotten into a fight in jail. How he’d claimed his ankle was sprained and his hand was cut, so the nurse had to tape him up. How the deputies discovered the shackles and cuffs wouldn’t fit, but decided to transport the prisoner anyway since he was barely able to walk. How no one had known that Ronnie was a track star in high school who’d run the mile in 4:10.

  Frank was still stunned by their incompetence. Ronnie was over six feet tall. Strong as hell. Had they thought a deputy could just hold him by the elbow while they walked him to the hearing? It certainly seemed as if Ronnie had planned the escape although Frank didn’t see Ronnie as a planner. Taking the kids hostage—he’d pulled that stunt out of his ass. But Frank wasn’t about to agree with Jack that the deputies had been inept. How many times had he heard this man pontificating on the virtues of executing drug dealers and castrating rapists? Now Mr. Law-and-Order was soft on prison breaks? “Earl and I don’t admire Ronnie. He’s dangerous. He held six children hostage at gunpoint.”

  Jack tossed the dregs of his coffee into the grass. “Aw, Ronnie wouldn’ta hurt those kiddos. He was just pissed at the APA. And who can blame him? Stupid government bureaucrats in Albany tellin’ a man what to do with his own land. And then the bank threatening to take it all. Why that land’s been in the Gatrell family since Civil War times. It ain’t right.”

  Frank knew better than to wade into the quagmire that was the politics of Adirondack Park Authority regulations. Still, he couldn’t believe even the fiercest supporter of private property rights could endorse terrorizing little children and their parents. He took a step closer to Jack. “Ronnie Gatrell is dangerous and unstable. If you know where he’s hiding—”

  “Oh, calm down, Frank. I don’t know where he is. Someone just used my barn as a billboard, is all. But lotsa folks around here hope ol’ Ronnie makes it to freedom. I mean, first the banks take his land, then the government says he can’t do nuthin’ to save it, then they go and lock him up. A man like Ronnie can’t live in a jail cell. He loves the mountains.”

  “That’s just it. Where would he run to? He’s lived in Trout Run his whole life. His wife says he’s never traveled further than Plattsburgh. So he must be nearby.”

  “Maybe he is. But he sure is giving those state troopers and their damn dogs a run for their money. Why, they’ve got a hundred guys and twenty dogs combing the woods between Verona and Trout Run. They got so many roadblocks set up you can’t drive anywhere without having to stop and show there’s no Ronnie in your backseat. All that manpower, and still they can’t find him.”

  Jack’s assessment was true enough. The state police were in charge of hunting Ronnie down, but so far they hadn’t found a trace of the man. But how long could a guy in a striped prison uniform with no warm coat possibly stay in the woods? The temperature at night still dipped below freezing. “That’s why I think someone must be helping him.”

  Jack raised his hands in a show of innocence. “Not sure Ronnie needs much help. He knows how to live off the land, that’s for sure.”

  The next sign appeared overnight: Run, Ronnie, Run painted on an old white sheet and strung off the side of the bridge over Stony Brook. Earl cut it down.

  Unbelievably, there were people in town who compl
ained that the artist’s handiwork had been destroyed. Earl’s uncle reported that his coworkers at the county road department were vowing to look the other way if they spotted any traces of Ronnie’s presence.

  On the third day, the message was condensed, but distribution expanded. Someone photocopied R3 in fifty-point type on neon green paper. Hundreds of the signs popped up all over Trout Run and Verona: on light poles, the supermarket bulletin board, the gas station restroom door. Penny pulled one off the entrance to the library. When one went up in the window of Malone’s Diner during business hours, Frank had enough.

  He waited until the crowd had peaked at lunchtime, marched into the diner, and made a show of yanking the flyer off the window. Then he ripped it into bits and tossed it in the trash as the crowd watched.

  Marge emerged from the kitchen with her hands on her wide hips. “Just whattaya think you’re doing, Frank? That sign is my property, posted on my window.”

  “How is it that last week Earl was a hero for rescuing six kids from that maniac, but this week everyone in law enforcement is a stooge and all of you are cheering for a dangerous nut to stay on the loose?”

  Every eye was on the showdown. No one even stirred a cup of coffee.

  “Ronnie isn’t a nut. He had a legitimate grievance. He was just pushed too far.” Marge extended a plump arm toward her customers. “How many of us might do the same thing if we were faced with losing everything we hold most dear? I might take some hostages if someone came along and tried to steal this diner away from me.”

  “That’s right.” Someone behind Frank shouted out. “Ronnie just wants to hang onto his home. How can anyone blame him for that? He wouldn’t have hurt those kids. He just got pushed to the limit.”

  There was a low murmur of approval. Frank spun around. Several people refused to meet his eye, taking a sudden interest in their BLTs and meatloaf platters.

  “We appreciate all you and Earl do, Frank. Really we do.” Iris Keefer spoke in the plaintive tones of a peacemaker. “It’s just…well, Ronnie is a hometown boy. No one wants to see him locked up. Going to prison would kill him. We just want him to know that we’re with him. We care what happens to him.”

  Frank looked around at the faces turned toward him. They were all people he knew, people he liked. This was Trout Run, not the Bronx or South Central LA. They didn’t despise him. He knew that. Still, their support for Ronnie was infuriating. How could he not see it as a slap in the face for the work he did every day? What good was community policing if your community wanted you to fail?

  “Ronnie is not harmless.” Frank made a superhuman effort to keep his voice calm and steady. “The episode at his wife’s daycare center was not a little temper tantrum. If you had been there to see how terrified those kids were, how desperate their parents were, you wouldn’t be rooting for Ronnie. Ronnie could be a danger to himself and others. What he did at his home, he could do again.”

  Marge turned on her heel and headed back to the kitchen. She spoke without looking at Frank. “Ronnie doesn’t deserve to be in jail. His wife and son don’t want that either. Just let him be.”

  The lunchtime chatter resumed. Frank had been dismissed.

  He left the diner, silently vowing to pack his lunch every day until Ronnie was captured. In fact, he might never eat at Malone’s again.

  After he crossed the town square, he looked back at the diner.

  Through the steady drizzle he could just make out a spot of vivid green in the window.

  “Why aren’t you angry about this?” Frank sat at his desk eating Mrs. Davis’s leftover bear chili that Earl had generously shared with him. “You risked your life negotiating with Ronnie. You went out there unarmed and talked him down. And this is how the town thanks you?”

  Earl jerked his head. For years, he’d worn his hair long and flipped his bangs out of his eyes when he was nervous. Now his hair was cropped short, but the tic reappeared at times of anxiety. “I don’t agree with them. But I understand where they’re coming from. You know how some people feel about the APA. I don’t take what they’re doing personal.”

  “Okay, so I get that people think Ronnie got a raw deal and don’t think he deserves a long jail sentence. But this cheering for him to stay on the run—that, I don’t get. What about Pam and the kids? Doesn’t anyone care about their safety?”

  Earl crunched a Saltine. It was impossible to eat his mother’s chili without something to cut the heat. “It’s the slogan. Whoever painted it on the barn started a movement that’s kinda gone viral. Pam and the kids don’t have that. The louder voice gets all the supporters. People pile on the bandwagon without even thinking.”

  “Viral…Hey, you’re friends with everyone on Facebook. Has it shown up there?”

  “Yep, there’s a meme. A roadrunner with Ronnie’s face Photoshopped in.”

  “Can you tell who started it? Someone’s gotta be helping Ronnie. The state police are getting nowhere because they don’t know Ronnie’s friends and neighbors like we do. If we figure out who, maybe….”

  Earl grinned as he tapped the keys on his computer. “Why Frank—you’re not suggesting we get involved in investigating something outside our jurisdiction, are you?”

  “The Internet is the Wild West. Let’s see who supporting Ronnie there.” Frank rolled his chair next to Earl’s and looked at the Ronnie-as-roadrunner meme his assistant had called up.

  “One hundred twenty seven likes and comments,” Earl said. “Marge Malone, Rollie Fister, Charlie who runs the dump, Ken, the track coach—it’s not like these people are low-lifes. They might be sympathetic to Ronnie, but it’s hard to believe they risk getting in trouble themselves to help him.”

  “Un-freakin’-believable,” Frank muttered as he reviewed the list of Trout Run citizens supporting Ronnie. “Who’s Boris Letmov?” he asked, spotting an unfamiliar name.

  “Beats me.” Earl clicked on the name and a profile popped up. “Whoa! Looks like he’s one of those nut-case survivalist types. Look at this picture of the bunker he’s got built on his property.”

  Boris, a beefy guy in camo gear, stood in front of a ten-foot high wall of canned goods. Ten semiautomatic weapons were lined up beside him. Another picture showed snow-capped mountain peaks much higher than any in the Adirondacks.

  “Where is that?” Frank asked. “He’s not local.”

  “Nope. Idaho,” Earl said. “I’ve heard that whole ‘be prepared to fight the government invaders’ mindset is big out there. Ronnie probably connected with him on some survivalist website or something.”

  Frank shook his head. Clearly there existed a whole world of insanity he was totally unfamiliar with. “I wonder if Ronnie has any survivalist buddies a little closer to home. You know anyone like that around here?”

  Earl leaned back to think. “I dunno. Most people in the Adirondacks have a lot of food on hand in case of a storm. And most people own a few guns. Hard to know when being prepared crosses the line to being crazy.” Earl clicked out of Facebook. “This has been fun, but I’ve got the afternoon patrol to take care of.”

  After Earl left, Doris buzzed Frank with an outside call. “Some guy with a vacation home over on Mallard Pond is on the line. He said someone broke into his house and ate all his food. I asked him was he sure it wasn’t a bear, but he said, no the food was cooked. So I guess—”

  Frank cut her off and snatched up the call. He listened as an outraged man described a Goldilocks scene: his bed slept in, his canned soup heated on the stove, his vodka consumed, even his spare toothbrush used.

  Mallard Pond lay wholly within the boundaries of Trout Run. “Don’t touch a thing. I’ll be right there.”

  The pondside cottage was a charming little bungalow with cedar shake siding and a wrap-around screened porch. Surrounded by balsam trees on three sides, the house offered total privacy. Only the side that faced the pond was visible, and that only to canoeists or kayakers out on the water. At this time of year, they were few and far bet
ween.

  “I can’t believe it,” the agitated homeowner said. “I’ve owned this place for fifteen years and never once had a problem. Why, once I accidentally left the door unlocked for a month, and when I came back not a thing was missing.”

  He trailed Frank into the house, still talking. “He didn’t take my TV or my DVD player or my laptop, but my brand new backpack is gone. I hadn’t even cut the tags off it yet!”

  Clearly not a thief looking for items he could sell. But a backpack would be useful for staying on the lam in the backwoods. Frank scanned the living area. The sight of a tall cabinet triggered an alarming thought. “You keep any guns here?”

  “Nah. I’m a hiker, not a hunter.”

  So if this had been Ronnie’s only refuge, he wasn’t armed.

  “How about warm clothes? Any missing?” Frank asked. The homeowner was short and wiry. Ronnie Gatrell was six-two and over two hundred pounds. Ronnie might be out of luck if he’d tried to switch out of his jail garb here.

  “Underwear, hiking clothes, fleeces are all I keep here,” the man said. “It’s mostly old stuff I know I won’t need at home. I checked the drawers in my bedroom. It doesn’t seem like anything’s missing.” He opened a closet in the hall. “Looks like he dug through the hats and gloves in here.”

  Frank wasn’t surprised. This man’s clothes would be useless to him, but Ronnie must’ve found a hat to fit him.

  "Oh, hey—I forgot about something. My son left some clothes up here in this closet. Looks like that's gone too."

  “Let me guess—you son’s taller and heavier than you.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What’s going on? You know who did this?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to the news? We have an escaped prisoner on the loose here.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “I drove up from New Jersey, listened to music the whole way.”

  In the small kitchen, Frank surveyed the evidence of the intruder’s presence. Three empty cans of hearty minestrone and two cans of pineapple were stacked on the counter beside a dirty spoon and bowl. A greasy frying pan and a saucepan sat on the stove.