by Midge Bubany
Crow Wing Dead
Midge Bubany
North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.
St. Cloud, Minnesota
Copyright © 2016 Midge Bubany
Cover image © Shutterstock
Author photo © Stacy Dunlap
Print ISBN 978-1-68201-017-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68201-039-6
First Edition: March 2016
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by
North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc
PO Box 451
St. Cloud, MN 56302
www.northstarpress.com
To my husband, Tim, who has been my most invaluable supporter and promoter… yet calls himself my “driver.”
And to law-enforcement officers everywhere
who put their lives on the line daily.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
May 15
Three days missing.
When Barb Hawkinson called to tell me her son Mike was missing, my stomach threatened to crawl up my throat.
“When was the last time you heard from him?” I asked.
“Monday morning when he left to see you. I wondered if he talked about his plans.”
“Barb, he never showed. I thought he blew me off.”
“Oh, God.”
“What time did he leave Brainerd?”
“Around ten fifteen. You know how he lives for the fishing opener weekend? Well, he wasn’t his happy-go-lucky self. He seemed distracted. When he called you, did he give you any indication what was bothering him?”
“No, he just said he had something he wanted to discuss with me. I have no clue what it was—we haven’t spoken for a year.”
“A year?”
“Yes.” Since the funeral.
“Well, that absolutely shocks me. Did something happen between you two?”
“No, nothing like that. I guess life just gets in the way.”
Whack! A sippy cup hit me in the chest. Throwing objects was Lucy’s signal she’d had enough of the highchair. Clara, my sixty-something live-in housekeeper/nanny, lifted her out.
“I tried calling him when he didn’t show, but he didn’t answer,” I said.
“Okay, now I’m really worried.”
Clara hiked Henry from his highchair, and he toddled off toward his twin sister who’d found the remote control to the television. She turned it on and began flipping through channels. Unbelievable. She was fourteen months. Clara took it from her and turned on Mickey Mouse. I moved into the dining room in order to hear Barb over the din.
“What about his wife?”
“Oh, Cat’s in Mexico on some girls’ week—again—ten days this time.”
“Maybe he had some sort of crisis with work.”
“But he always calls when he gets home to let me know he’s made it. And he always returns my texts and calls,” she said. “No, in my heart, I know something’s wrong.”
Mike had been “Hawk” to me since junior high when we guys started creating nicknames for each other. He was his mama’s boy. In her eyes, he could do no wrong—even though as a kid he was constantly choosing behavior teetering on the brink of immoral, illegal, or dangerous. Sometimes his activities slid smack into one or more of those categories, and yes, I ended up participating in some risky shit without thought—until there was trouble. And on the rare occasions he was caught because something “went wrong,” he always managed to charm himself out of any serious consequences.
For example, when he was sixteen he stole a few of his dad’s Grain Belt beers and “borrowed” his grandma’s Olds, so he and Adam Sparks—Sparky—could go ice fishing on Gull Lake. Because I had to stay home for a family birthday party, I wasn’t able to tag along on that frigid mid-December night when his grandma’s car broke through thin ice and ended up in ten feet of water. He chose a spot on Gull Lake not far from where our house was located, so I could sneak out and join them after the birthday party.
It was my Grandma Dee who noticed Hawk and Sparky on all fours outside of our patio door. When she opened the door to let them in, they were close to hypothermia, right in the middle of my Grandpa’s birthday party. He shouted orders for Grandma to dial 911, and to the rest of us to get blankets and to strip off their clothing—which we ended up cutting off because it was frozen stiff. I remember being mesmerized by the odd purple color of their lips. Adam’s teeth were chattering so hard, he chipped his front tooth. They were whisked off to the hospital in an ambulance.
We didn’t know what had happened until we saw the car being pulled from the lake the next morning. As I stood on shore with my family, my Grandpa said to me, “If you ever pull a stunt like that, or are ever remotely involved in anything as idiotically stupid, your life as you know it, will be over.”
My mother and grandmother gave me dirty looks of agreement, and although it was never verbalized, I was punished for Hawk’s antics. I was not allowed to drive for a month, and I had to be home by ten. Not Hawk. His parents and grandparents were so relieved the boys escaped with their lives and limbs, they lied to the sheriff saying he had permission to use the car.
You’d think with that kind of liberal upbringing, Hawk would be a jerk, but he was one of my favorite people. We were college roommates at St. Cloud State and best men at each other’s weddings.
And now his mother’s voice was quavering as she told me he could be in a ditch somewhere, or because he had a headache the night before he left, he could have had a stroke or a brain tumor and was too sick to answer the phone.
“What does Tom say?” Tom was her husband, the family’s voice of reason.
“That I worry too much, but this time I think I have a good reason.”
“Wish I could help put your mind at ease.”
“Well, I was thinking that you being a detective, you could do something on your end. Check his cell phone records or credit cards or something?”
“Not without a warrant I can’t—and Mike and Cat live in Eden Prairie—that’s a bit out of Birch County Sheriff Department’s jurisdiction.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m tempted to drive down to the Cities and check for myself, but I shouldn’t go inside their place with the cat there.”
“The cat? Hawk has
a cat?”
“It’s Cat’s cat, and she bought it knowing full well how allergic I am.”
It wasn’t the sound of Cat’s cat that made me grin, but her clever method of keeping her mother-in-law away—with cat dander.
“And Hawk doesn’t even like cats,” she added.
“Yes, I remember.”
He hated them. Hawk and his brother Paul used the neighbor’s cat, among other creatures, for slingshot practice.
I said, “Look, I’ll make a few calls. See what I can find out. Do you have his work number?”
After disconnecting, I punched in Hawk’s cell phone number, but the call immediately rolled over into his message center. I waited for the beep then said: “Hey, Hawk, I was a little concerned when you didn’t make lunch on Monday, but I just talked to your mom, and she’s freaking out because she can’t get hold of you. You need to call her, buddy.”
Next, I’d tried the work number Barb had given me. Hawk was a salesman for one of his father-in-law’s businesses that manufactured pumps. He hated the job but was afraid to quit because it would displease his wife, which in my opinion, wasn’t all that difficult to do. Yeah, Hawk handed his balls over to Cat once they were engaged, and she’d slowly molded him into “Michael.” She insisted no one refer to him as Hawk, or even Mike—although she wanted to be called Cat, not Catherine. But hey—he let it all happen, didn’t he?
A female voice answered, “Ames Lyman Pumps. Our business hours are Monday through Friday between eight and five o’clock. Thank you for calling.”
I glanced at my watch—7:16. What was I thinking phoning so early? I’d have to try again later at work.
Clara looked up at me as she ran her hand through her copper red hair. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, probably. I better get moving. You have blueberries on your T-shirt.”
“No matter, it’s old.”
Clara wore either T-shirts or sweatshirts, jeans, and tennis shoes. When we interviewed her, she asked if it was okay. She said when you were chasing toddlers you had to be quick on your feet. I didn’t care what she wore. She not only took care of the twins, she shopped for groceries, cooked, and cleaned—and did it all well.
I kissed the Twinks goodbye—Twinkies come in packages of two like our twins. Just as I made my way to the garage, a blue bi-plane buzzed my rooftop, then rose and did a loop-de-loop. I tried to catch the registration number. My next-door neighbor, Doug Nelson, shouted from his deck, “What the heck? That can’t be legal.”
“No, he shouldn’t be flying so low over residential areas.”
“That’s the third time this week.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. One time he even flew over upside down. I snapped a picture of it on my phone.”
“Good. Send it to me. I’ll do some checking.” I gave him my email address.
“Some people don’t use the brains God gave ’em.”
“Nope.”
I climbed into my red Ford F-150 extended cab and made my way to the Birch County Sheriff’s Department. Once at my desk, I phoned Rex Balcer, the manager of the Birch County Airport located a mile north of town, and asked if he knew anything about the blue bi-plane.
“Nope, we haven’t had a bird like that come in, but I’ve had a few calls on it this morning. I’ll check around. Maybe Brainerd knows something.”
“That’d be great. I’m told this was the third time this week. Let me know if you find out anything.”
“Will do. In residential areas they have to be 1,000 feet above the largest obstacle. If we can get enough information on him, we can file a report with the FAA.”
Rex got right back to me. He said Brainerd didn’t know about the plane either, but he would keep checking.
When I called Hawk’s work number, a female voice answered, “Ames, Lyman Pumps. How may I direct your call?”
“Michael Hawkinson, please.”
She transferred my call, and I got a pre-recorded message that he was either out of the office or on another call. I left a message after the beep.
I called again and asked for his secretary. After I explained the situation to Val and how worried Michael’s family was, she said, “I did expect him back at work on Tuesday morning, but I haven’t heard from him.”
“Is it typical for him to miss two days of work without letting you know he’s going to be gone?”
“Definitely not. He arranges his calendar through me, and if he goes out on the road, I make his reservations.”
“And you haven’t been concerned he hasn’t checked in with you?”
“Well, not until now. I just assumed we had a miscommunication about when he was returning from vacation.”
“Has he had any problems at work lately?”
“No, he gets along with everybody and always makes our platinum circle of sales.”
“Does he talk to you about his personal life?”
There was a slight hesitation before she answered, “Not really.”
“How well do you know him, Val?”
“He’s my boss.”
“That’s it? Not friends? You don’t socialize after work?”
She let out a scoffing sound. “I’m married if you’re thinking we had something going.”
“I meant maybe you confided in one another over the water cooler or drinks after work… with other employees.”
“Once in a while a bunch of us go out for drinks but always in a group. He’s a fun, charming guy.”
“Yes. Look, if he checks in, tell him to call his parents or me. I’ll give you my number in case you think of something.”
I then asked if she could transfer me to Cat’s father, Irving Ames.
“His office isn’t located in this building, but I can give you his secretary’s number,” Val said.
When I asked to speak to Irving Ames, I was put on hold and subjected to loud, annoying, instrumental music repeating the same few stanzas. I had to hold the phone a couple inches from my ear as I waited.
The first time I met Irving Ames was at Hawk and Cat’s wedding rehearsal. He was an imposing figure with his barrel-chest, broad-shoulders and a glare that would stop a bullet. He didn’t say much at the rehearsal, but later at the dinner held at Hotel Sofital, he approached me as I was in the bar line. He grabbed onto my hand with a vice-grip and leaned in so close I could smell the hair product he’d used to slick back his full head of black hair. He whispered, “There will be no funny business either tonight or tomorrow at the wedding and reception—no bride-stealing or any such shenanigans.”
What popped into my brain was, “Who’d want to steal Cat?” But I had the good sense to mutter, “Absolutely not, sir.”
“Good then,” he said, and released my hand, which was white from the pressure.
After dessert and when everyone was well into the cups, he came up and smacked me on the back and said, “So far, so good.”
“The dinner was delicious, sir.”
He didn’t respond and walked off.
After a couple excruciating minutes of listening to the tinny sound masquerading as music, I was grateful when it ended and someone answered: “Elaine Custer.”
“Ms. Custer, this is Detective Cal Sheehan with the Birch County Sheriff’s department, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Ames.” I used my most polite manner of speaking.
“Mr. Ames is unavailable. May I take a message?”
“Yes, please tell him the Birch County Sheriff has questions regarding his son-in-law’s whereabouts.”
“Please hold, sir.”
“Wait! Have you ever listened to your hold music?” I asked.
Click. The music came back on, but it was only a few seconds before a deep voice barked, “Who is this?”
I exp
lained to Irving Ames why Michael’s family was concerned and asked if he knew where he was.
“How the hell am I supposed to know where he is? Ask his secretary.”
“As I just explained, sir, his secretary, Val, thought he was going to be back on Tuesday and also expressed concern he hadn’t been in touch. I understand Cat is out of the country, so I thought I’d check to see if you knew something before we get the Eden Prairie Police Department involved.”
“Well, Jesus H. Christ. Maybe he grew a pair and didn’t consult his mama when he went on a vacation.”
Consult his mama?
“You know for a fact he went on a vacation?”
“No. I don’t know anything of the kind. I’m saying he shouldn’t have to report in to his mother.”
“Well, here’s the thing: If he did extend his vacation, Michael certainly would let his secretary know about it—and his family. He’s that kind of guy. Considerate.”
Big audible sigh. “You were the best man, weren’t you? The big cop?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a detective with Birch County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Yeah… and you cop types always think there’s something sinister going on somewhere.”
“There generally is, sir. And in this case, I’m certain Michael wouldn’t take off without letting someone know.”
Another sigh. “Well, do what you do.”
“Okay, then.”
Such concern. Such caring. Such a jerk. Shit. Maybe Ames was behind the disappearance. Then again, maybe I’ve been watching too many shows like Justified and Breaking Bad where every other character is a stupid person making stupid decisions. Hawk wasn’t stupid, but he was easily bored and had the thrill-seeker gene. Maybe life hadn’t been thrilling enough for him lately, so he went on a wild ride.
I called Eden Prairie Police and told the story twice before I got Sergeant Scott Halberg to agree to send a unit over to the Hawkinsons. When he called me back thirty minutes later, he said, “My officer reported no one answered the door, and he could see no evidence of anyone inside. He walked around the entire perimeter, and all the doors and windows were secure. He also mentioned they had a security system.”