by Jan Sumner
Chapter 9
Winter in New Orleans is like winter in, oh say, Florida…nonexistent. So as the country slowly exorcised itself from freezing temperatures and white blankets, Jonathan sat unaware. Over four months had passed and he’d been so busy writing, the thought of Jack Zane had only occasionally crossed his mind. He went home for Christmas, had a great time with his dad and old friends. Now that he’d gotten re-involved with his family, there was only one part missing…Matt. He was hoping that while doing his research on Zane, he might do a little, on the side, looking for Matt. Obviously, Matt didn’t want to be found, but it would be nice to know where he was, and if he was all right.
May rolled around and Jonathan decided to begin his search. First on the agenda was to find out if Jeffery Zane was still alive in Minot. He called information and sure enough there was a J. Zane listed. He sat holding the number in his hand. Questions began building in his mind; should he pursue this, what might he find, could this put a strain on his relationship with his dad? All legitimate questions, most of which he didn’t have an answer for. He kept thinking about a bit of advice Fran had given him when he was in high school.
He loved baseball and was thinking about going out for his high school team. He’d never really played much organized ball, just the games around the neighborhood with his buddies. It was his junior year, he’d grown a little, practiced some and thought he might talk to the coach. Mr. Browning, the baseball coach, was a big man, intimidating, and ran a pretty tight ship. Jonathan was torn, so he asked Fran what she thought he should do. She asked him how serious he was and if he was willing to pay the price it would take to play. He told her he thought so. She sat him down on her couch and said, “Jonathan, you can think about it this way, and that way, but what does your gut tell you?”
“It tells me to play.”
“Then do it. You’ll find as you grow older, your gut instinct is rarely wrong. If that’s what you’re feeling, then go give it your best.”
As usual, Fran was right. He did give it his best, but some things just don’t work out. A week into practice, during sliding drills, he twisted his ankle so badly he couldn’t compete for a position. But that was okay, he’d tried, and who knew, barring that injury he might have made the team. He didn’t go out his senior year, what with all the problems at home with Matt, and trying to help his dad. He always held that against Matt a little, but he knew he’d done the right thing.
Well, here he was again facing a dilemma, should he, or shouldn’t he? He rocked back in his desk chair, staring at the phone number and thought to himself, what does your gut say? The answer came quick and clear - do it.
He’d decided that if he talked to Jeffery Zane, he wouldn’t let him know who he was. If Zane knew his family had fallen victim to his brother, that would be the end of it. If however, he told him he wanted to do a book on his brother and there might be some money in it for him…well hopefully the reaction would be favorable. He made the call. A coarse old voice said,
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Zane, Jeffery Zane?”
“Yeah, who is this?”
“Mr. Zane, my name is Jonathan Smyth. I’m a writer and was calling to see if you’d be interested in helping me out?” There was an uncomfortably long pause. Zane said nothing. “I was wondering if…I’d like to write a book about your brother, Jack.” He heard the click at the other end, then the dial tone. Zane had hung up. That positive gut feeling, had suddenly gotten a little disquieting. No, he thought, I can’t give up, not on the first attempt. But how in the world was he going to approach this guy? He didn’t know right then, but he’d sleep on it. There had to be a way.
The next morning while having a little breakfast, and checking the box score on the Cards; it hit him. Write the guy a letter. People always read letters, and that way you can explain the money thing. That had to appeal to him. Jonathan had checked and although there had been editorials and essays on Jack Zane, nobody had ever written a complete book about him. He figured Jack had caused his family lots of pain and now here was a chance for them to recoup a little.
He set about writing the letter, explaining how nobody had written a book about Jack, and with the public's never ending interest in criminals and their lives, the book had a very good chance of doing well. That could spell big bucks. He finished up, and sat back admiring his craftsmanship. He just hoped Jeff Zane did too. He dropped it in the mail, May 12th - Mothers Day. He put his phone number and a self addressed, stamped envelope inside. Now, he’d sit and wait.
Several weeks went by. He began to think he’d have to attack this from a different angle. Then, in early June, he picked up that self addressed envelope at his post office box. Frantically, he opened it. On a small piece of paper, scribbled in pencil, “Call me.” That was it, nothing about when, what time, how soon, but hey, it was far better than, “Don’t call me.”
He rushed home and started making out a list of questions. It was four in the afternoon, which meant it was three in Minot. He’d wait until early evening, let him get through dinner, then make the call. At seven, Minot time, he called. The phone rang and rang, and just about the time he was going to hang up, “Yeah,” that same grizzled voice asked.
“Mr. Zane, this is Jonathan Smyth calling you back.” Again, the painful pause. “Oh yeah, I got your letter.”
“Does it sound like something you’d be interested in?” Jonathan had decided to play it very cool. Make Zane think he needed him more than he needed Zane.
“So, how much money we talkin' about here?”
“Well, it depends.”
“On what?”
Jonathan could sense the irritation in Zane’s voice.
“On how well the book is written, how factual it is, how well it’s received, that kind of stuff.” Another one of those interminable pauses.
“Listen Mr. Zane, there’s a lot that plays into a successful book. You don’t just write them and bingo, they’re a hit. It takes a lot of work, time and effort. I would need to come up there and spend some time, talking to you, and any other family members who’d be willing, then do more research, because this has to be accurate, then who knows how long it would take me to actually write it. Then it has to be edited, printed and distributed. Only after all that will we know how much money we’re taking about.
So if that doesn’t appeal to you, let me know right now, so I don’t waste yours or my time.” Whoa, he thought, That might have been a little heavy.
“I see,” Zane said quietly. This time Jonathan sat and waited.
“Go ahead and plan on comin' up. Just let me know when.”
Again the phone went dead. Boy, he thought, this is going to be one exciting interview.
He’d fly into Bismarck, rent a car and drive up to Minot. He’d get directions when he called back to let him know when he was coming. He gathered up all the information he could find on Jack Zane. He wanted to look as prepared as possible, and not miss a thing. There was a part of him that was going to have a difficult time with this. After all, this guy’s brother had killed his great grandparents and tried to kill his mom. For the time being, that part of him was going to have to remain hidden.
He made his arrangements and flew out in late June. He’d never been to North Dakota, and was looking forward to seeing it. Bismarck reminded him of Independence, only bigger. Maybe it was that Orleans thing again. Zane had told him to head into town, then go east on highway 2 until he got to county road 8, then turn north for eleven miles. Their place would be marked with a chain mailbox and crossed pitchforks on the gate. How appropriate, he thought, pitchforks, “I wonder if they were ever used…”
He stopped himself, how could he find anything amusing in this macabre affair?
The directions were right on the money. County road 8 was dirt, rough, and seemed-never ending, especially when you could only go fif
teen miles an hour for fear the car might dismantle. Eventually he saw it, old weathered pitchforks, crossed on a large, weathered wooden gate. The chain post holding up the mailbox was rusted and about to fall down. The house itself was old, worn and had seen better days. The gate was unlocked, so he got out of his car and eased it open. He pulled the car in and parked on the side of the house next to a fatigued old tractor. As he gathered up his materials, he got a sudden chill. What if Jack Zane was buried here, or they had his ashes? He shook it off and was about to get out of the car when around the side of the house came a bushy brown oversized dog. Not again, he thought, I don’t know if I can go through this again. It jumped up on the side of his car, licking the window. It looked friendly enough, so he got out. Overly friendly was more like it, jumping, licking, drooling, just generally mauling him. By the time he got to the front door he looked like he’d walked through a swamp. Strangely, when he knocked on the front door, the dog disappeared around the side of the house. He waited, knocked again, no answer. He’d told Zane he’d be here on the 24th. Maybe he was in town, or out in the fields. He walked around the side of the house, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through another drenching. Nothing, no dog, no cows, no Zane. He’d gotten a room in town, so he’d check in, and call later.
The motel was small, basic room, bed, TV and phone. There was a small diner down the street, so he went and had an early dinner. When he got back to his room he called, no one answered. He watched a little television and decided at ten to go to bed. The guy has to be there the first thing in the morning. He hadn’t been asleep twenty minutes, when there was a tapping at his door. Startled he sat up in bed, “Who is it?”
“Zane.”
He threw on some sweats and ran to the door. Not opening it, he said, “Jeff Zane?”
“Yeah, sorry to bother you…this late.”
Jonathan flipped on a light and opened the door. There stood the most frightening looking man he’d ever seen. Weathered face, wild hair and eyes like a doll's, cold, lifeless. For a second he wanted to gasp and slam the door, but this is why he had come, so he invited him in.
“Nah, I don’t wanta to come in…I jest wanted to tell ya, if ya wanta come out in the mornin, I’ll be there.” With that he turned around and walked off. Jonathan closed the door and sat down on the end of the bed. Bending over, he put his head in his hands and thought, have I gone back to another time, and place? Is this guy for real? Well, he’d sure enough find out the next morning. It had been a long and tiring day; he crawled back into bed and was out like a light.
The next morning after some breakfast and lots of coffee, he drove back out to Zane’s place. Pulling into the drive he wondered if he was going to have to go through another dog bath, or if he was lucky, get into the house before Drooler knew he was there. He got out of the car as quietly as he could and light footed it to the front door; so far, so good. He knocked ever so softly, curious that the giant canine hadn’t shown up. After a few more raps, a voice from inside said, “Yeah, who is it?” Was he kidding? How many other people would be out here this early in a new rental car?
“Mr. Zane, it’s me, Jonathan Smyth.”
“Hold on a minute.” Hopefully he was putting the dog away. Finally he came to the door, looking like he’d just gotten out of bed. He unlocked the door, swung it open and turning away said, “Come on in and have a seat,” then disappeared into the kitchen. The place was a mess, clothing laying everywhere, beer cans on the floor, stuff packed and stacked in corners, and dust covering everything. Jonathan picked out the least offensive looking chair and cautiously sat down. Pretty soon, Zane emerged from the kitchen with a hot cup of coffee in his hand. He sat down, in what was obviously his chair and said, “Okay, let’s get goin.” Jonathan laid out his papers and tape recorder as best he could and started to ask his first question.
“Hold on, what’s that gadget?”
“It’s a tape recorder, so I can record what’s said.”
“Well, I didn’t know nothin about recordin stuff.”
“See, Mr. Zane, I’m going to be gathering lots of information and there’s no way I could remember it all, or even write it all down, so I record it and then there’s never any question about what you, or anybody else, said. It saves from me misquoting you, or your saying I didn’t get it right.”
Zane sat slurping on his coffee and staring at Jonathan. Waiting through the pauses had become second nature to Jonathan, so he waited.
“Well, okay, go ahead.”
“First of all, where’s that dog?”
“That big mangy mutt, oh, he ain’t my dog. He belongs to a fella up the road. He won’t come around if I’m here.”
“Why?”
“Cause I’ll put an end to him. He’s killed some of my chickens and a cat I had.”
Jonathan paused for a minute and then went on.
“Alright, let’s start with your family. Tell me about your mom and dad and, you’re one of three children, correct?”
Still slurping and pondering, he began, “Yeah, that’s right, there was me, Jack and our sister, Barbara. We was raised in Storm Lake, Iowa. Fact is we was all born there. My dad did odd jobs, carpentry, ditch diggin, stuff like that. Our mom did waitresson at the local café. We never had much money and never really knew where the next buck was comin from, but some hows we made it.” He seemed to pause there, so Jonathan figured another question was needed.
“Tell me about your dad, what was he like?”
“Let’s see, he was a big man, hard ya know? Had big hands, tough.” He stopped again, Jonathan could see he was thinking back, he left him alone.
“He liked to drink, some nights he’d come home in a bad mood. We was all scared, so we’d hide under our beds. Sometimes he’d come get us, sometimes not…but he’d always find mom. He used to smack her around pretty good.” He stared at Jonathan with a look of, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.
“That must have been hard for all of you, especially your mom.”
“It was, it was real hard. Mom and me and Barb never said much, but Jack tried to stand up to him.” He drifted, seemed to be in another place for a few minutes. “I think it’s what made Jack so…crazy. Dad beaten him, lockin him in the shed…treatin him like a dog.”
“Did he ever do anything to you like that?”
“Oh yeah, he hit me a few times, but never like Jack, never locked me up.”
“What about your mom and sister?”
“He hit mom, but never saw him hit Barb.”
Jonathan continued to pursue the family questions. He wanted Zane to feel comfortable with the process before zeroing in on Jack. After several lengthy descriptions of the excessive brutality by a man who should have been arrested and put away, he zeroed in on Jack.
“You mentioned before that you thought that’s what made Jack so crazy. What did you mean by that?”
“Well, when we was little, Jack was okay, but after some beatins and being locked up he seemed to change, got like an animal, did some crazy things.”
“Like what?”
“He’d catch strays, dogs and cats, and skin em. Once he put one of em in dad’s truck. We thought it was funny, you know smelled real bad, till dad figured out who did it. That was one of the worst beatins Jack ever got, he could hardly walk.
“He’d pick fights with older, bigger guys, and usually win. Hell, he was used to gettin' beat up, so wasn’t nothin for him to get hit. We’d have to pull him off, he’s like a mad dog.”
This was certainly explaining part of Jack’s psychotic behavior, but why the cold-blooded killings?
“What happened to your mom and dad…and Barb?”
“When we was in high school, dad got in a bar fight and was killed. Guy stabbed him in an alley. It was right after that Jack took off. Mom lived on a while, then died about ten years ago. Barb finished high school, got married, had some kids and
still lives in Storm Lake.”
“And you?”
“Barb was there for mom, so after Jack left, so did I. Got odd jobs with the railroad, traveled around, finally settled here, after I met Molly.”
This was the first mention of someone else in his life, but there was no evidence of a woman, or anyone else living in the house.
“Molly, she’s your wife?”
“Yeah…was, she died last year. Smoked too much I guess.”
“So, you’re all alone here now?”
“Yep, just me and Jim.”
“Jim?”
Holding up his coffee cup and letting out a boisterous laugh, “Yeah, Jim Beam!”
What else could he do, but laugh, “Of course.” He’d found out all he needed to know about mom and dad, as well as Jeff and Barb, it was time to find out what, if anything, he knew about Jack’s criminal career.
“So, you said Jack left right after your dad was killed, what happened to him, where did he go?”
“I gotta take a leak, you want somethin to drink?” And he got up and started out of the room.
“Water…water if you’ve got it.” He could hear from down the hall, “Oh we got plenty of that.”
He returned in a few minutes with an old, fogged, dirty glass full of what Jonathan hoped was water.
“Thanks,” setting the glass down with no intention of drinking it. “Now, what about Jack?”
“Oh yeah, well I didn’t see or talk to him for a while. Didn’t really know where he went. Then one night, right for I left, he called and told me he thought he’d killed somebody.”
“Thought he’d killed somebody, he didn’t know?”
“He was pretty sure. Said he’d got in this fight at a bar and he and the guy went out back. Before the guy got off a punch, Jack hit em with a piece of pipe. He said he was pretty sure the guy was dead, so he took off.”
“How old was he when this happened?”
“Oh, probably seventeen or eighteen. He’d been gone, I don’t know, maybe six months. After that call I decided to hit the road. Mom and Barb were gonna be better off without us around.”
Jonathan remembered reading, that the authorities thought Jack Zane killed his first victim when he was about seventeen.
“When’s the next time you saw him or heard from him?”
“I didn’t. Next thing I knew, I was readin’ about him in the papers. Looked to me like he’d gone over.”
“Gone over?” “Yeah, you know, gone over the edge, killlin’ and stealin.’ I didn’t know where he was and he didn’t know where I was, that was just fine with me. I’d call mom once in a while, see how she was doin, but we never talked about Jack. I think it hurt her too much.”
“So, you never saw Jack again…till he was dead?”
“That’s right.”
“Now the coroner told me you claimed the body.”
“Well, they contacted Barb, but she didn’t want to go get him, so I did.”
“What did you do with him?”
“Took him back to Storm Lake. Buried him near mom. There was lots of people who didn’t like that, but there was lots of people who loved our mom, so they let us do it. He’s in an unmarked grave.”
Jonathan flipped off the recorder and sat back in the chair. So, that’s where he is, he thought.
“Mr. Zane, you’ve been a big help, but I have one more request. Could you call your sister and tell her I’ll be coming out there, and ask her if she would mind talking to me, like you have.”
“Well, I’ll call her, but she’s pretty sensitive about this stuff.”
“I understand, but tell her she only has to answer if she wants to. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”
Zane agreed to try, so Jonathan packed up his gear and left, but not before answering one more question about the money. It had been both enlightening and depressing, but finding out about a man like Jack Zane was bound to be dismal.
The flight home was tiring. He knew this wasn’t going to be fun, but…well, it was a more disturbing than he’d anticipated. This was as close to a serial killers life as he’d ever been, and although he was a murder mystery writer, that was all made up…this was real. His apartment never looked so good, so warm. He’d appreciate it while he could, because he was heading to Storm Lake, Iowa as soon as possible, with or without the cooperation of Barbara (Zane) Wilkes.