After hanging up I sat at the kitchen table sipping lukewarm coffee and reviewing the notes I’d just made.
James Collins had apologized for not coming up with more information on Charlie Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson but as I’d told him, he’d actually provided me with some pretty good stuff…enough to help me form some initial impressions at least, and that was a start.
Offhand, I couldn’t see anything helpful or particularly telling about Carlyle Wilson working at the Pella Windows factory in Macomb, except for the somewhat ironic coincidence that the company’s headquarters was located in Pella, Iowa, about 40 minutes from my home in Des Moines.
Small world.
But I did find it interesting that Charlie Flanagan was a prison guard. When James Collins relayed that piece of information I’d responded with a gut reaction and referred to Flanagan as a screw—an unflattering nickname, for sure. Still, my reaction notwithstanding, I generally try to avoid stereotyping people sight unseen. Tempting though it was to picture Flanagan as a swaggering, uniformed bully just looking for an excuse to bust some prisoner’s head, as yet I had no real reason to characterize him that way.
Or did I?
There was still the matter of him bearing false witness against Wilson…that is, assuming he’d fabricated the whole story about Wilson’s confession. So far I had no hard evidence on that matter, either. But my gut told me that Wilson hadn’t confessed as Flanagan claimed, and I did have evidence—OK, firsthand knowledge—that Wilson hadn’t killed Frank Reynolds.
I took another look at my notes.
The two men had apparently known each other all their lives. They’d both grown up in Rushville, were the same age and had been classmates throughout their school years. They’d both been on their high school football team, the Rushville Rockets.
According to James Collins, Charlie Flanagan had been a tackle, Carlyle Wilson a tailback. That suggested Charlie Flanagan was the bigger of the two, probably a large, powerful guy with a fondness for flattening opponents. Wilson, on the other hand, was probably smaller and quicker.
Significance?
Again, it was tempting to imagine Flanagan as some hulking bully, the kind of guy who might have terrorized his smaller classmates. I let my mind follow that train of thought for a moment.
In his classic work, Of Wolves and Men, naturalist Barry Lopez describes the “conversation of death” that occasionally takes place between wolves and caribou in the Arctic. When a pack of wolves encounters a herd of caribou, Lopez notes, the animals exchange looks or stares and these looks often determine the outcome of the encounter. Specifically, whether the wolf pack will attack and possibly kill one or more of the caribou or will simply choose to move on without attacking.
Lopez suggests, and other naturalists have subsequently supported this idea, that in some instances the caribou—or at least certain individuals within the herd—may signal a weakness or willingness to become prey, and this is what triggers an attack by the wolves. Should the caribou not signal this willingness, the wolves—especially if they’ve recently fed and aren’t hungry—may simply decide an attack isn’t worth the effort, and bypass the herd and move on.
I’ve long suspected similar “conversations” take place every day in the hallways and classrooms of our high schools.
The bullies—and yes, every school has them—quickly learn how to scan a herd of classmates and determine who’s willing—or at least the most susceptible—to becoming a victim. When they identify that person or persons, they move in for the attack.
I wondered if Charlie Flanagan had been that kind of bullying kid, scanning his classmates for potential victims, and if Carlyle Wilson had been one of those victims. And, more to the point, I wondered if Flanagan was still victimizing Wilson all these years later and the alleged confession was just the latest manifestation.
Of course I also realized all of my speculation along these lines could be wrong. For all I knew, Charlie Flanagan might treat prison inmates with respect and rescue newborn kittens from burning buildings. My gut told me otherwise, but it had been wrong before. I knew I wouldn’t be able to fill in any of the blanks until I got to Rushville and did some more digging.
I hoped I could find what I needed when I got there and do so without attracting too much attention in the process.
PART 2: HOMICIDE, JUSTIFIED
An investigation was not simply a matter of historical research…It was an act of faith both in one’s own capacities and in the possibility of justice in a world that had made justice subservient to the rule of law.
-John Connolly, The Wolf in Winter
Chapter 20
The five-hour drive from Des Moines to Rushville gave me the opportunity to spend some quality time with several of my favorite ladies—Belinda Carlisle, Natalie Cole, Diana Krall, Loreena McKennitt, Cher and k.d. lang. And oh yeah, the late Lesley Gore. I have her greatest hits CD and it brings back a lot of fond childhood memories, even if many of the lyrics are awfully corny by contemporary standards.
The drive also gave me plenty of time to contemplate what lay ahead. Beyond checking in and hunting at Hidden Hollow with Preacher, I still didn’t have much of a game plan. After talking with James Collins I’d logged onto Facebook—I have a page set up under a fictitious name—and pulled up Carlyle Wilson’s page but it hadn’t told me much. He had 46 friends, several of whom I assumed were relatives because they shared his last name. The rest were probably buddies, coworkers and former classmates. Charlie Flanagan wasn’t among them, which wasn’t surprising because he didn’t have a Facebook page, according to James Collins.
Wilson’s page hadn’t been updated for a while; the most recent post had been made five months earlier and showed a photo—an obvious selfie—of Wilson wearing an old Chicago Cubs baseball cap and holding up a good-sized largemouth bass. He’d posted, “Caught this morning at Schuy-Rush,” which I assumed was the name of a nearby lake. There were a couple of congratulatory replies from friends, but nothing more.
The most interesting thing about Wilson’s page was his profile photo, a close-up of him cheek to cheek with a good looking dark-haired young woman, presumably his girlfriend. They were both smiling at the camera. Wilson had sandy hair cut fairly short and looked like a pleasant sort of guy. He certainly didn’t look like a killer.
I did a quick scroll through his friends and found a photo of a woman who looked like the one in his profile photo. Her name was Allie Marshall. I clicked on her page and scrolled through her friends and one name and photo jumped out at me—Amy Halvorsen, who operated Hidden Hollow with her husband Mitch.
I wasn’t sure how significant this was, though. Rushville was a small town, so it was likely that many of its residents were friends or at least acquaintances. If Amy Halvorsen and Allie Marshall had been classmates, it wasn’t surprising that they were friends on Facebook. I briefly considered calling James Collins back and asking him to do some digging on Allie Marshall but decided against it, figuring I could bird-dog this myself when I got over there.
As I’d told James Collins, I figured I’d spend some time looking around Rushville and trying to get a line on Charlie Flanagan; maybe pay a visit to the Rushville Tap one evening and hope to catch some gossip about Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson. It might be interesting to hear what the locals had to say about the whole matter, especially whether they thought Wilson was guilty.
But I would have to be careful not to tip my hand and betray too much interest. If things played out the way I was expecting, I didn’t want anyone associating my visit with Charlie Flanagan’s subsequent demise.
Bottom line, I was just going to have to play things by ear and see what developed.
I left Des Moines at a few minutes after ten on that Friday morning. I’d packed most of my gear, including the 20-gauge Remington Premier and the cold .357, the night before. At the last minute on Friday morning, I decided to take along the Ruger Red Label as a backup gun, as well.
Preacher, of course,
needed no special prompting to jump into the cargo space of the SUV and settle on her dog pillow. She’d supervised the stowing of the gear and knew a hunting trip was at hand. I wondered if, once the Halvorsens had met her and succumbed to her charm, they’d allow me to let her sleep in my room at the lodge rather than relegating her to a kennel. This had happened before at other facilities.
Earlier in the week I’d called Mike Stevenson to touch base and see how he and his family were getting along after Beaver’s death. Not surprisingly, they were still grieving. I asked Mike if he had plans to get another Lab anytime soon.
“Janice and I have talked about it, and of course the kids are saying they want a puppy for Christmas, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he said. “They’re all in school right now and with Janice and me both working full-time, there’s no one home during the day and that would make starting a young pup kind of a tough proposition, especially with housebreaking and all. Leaving a puppy alone that long during the day wouldn’t be fair to the pup.”
“What about a young started dog…say around a year old?”
“That might be a possibility, I guess, but I gotta tell you, right now my heart’s just not in it. Beaver’s death really knocked the wind out of my sails and I can’t quite get my mind around the idea of replacing him. I mean, I know I’ll never be able to replace him, but…aw, hell, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said. “Beaver’s gonna be a tough act to follow, and I think you’re smart not to rush it.”
“That’s how I feel right now.”
“Well, then you’re doing the right thing by waiting.”
“Yeah. I know we’ll have another Lab eventually, just not right away. But I like your idea of a started dog…that would probably work out best for all of us. And I know the kids will love whatever we end up with, regardless, even if it’s not a little pup.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“Yeah. Well, who knows; maybe something will turn up and I’ll feel more like taking the plunge. If you hear of anything, let me know.”
“Will do.”
We hung up and I knew this Christmas was going to be bittersweet for Mike and his family. But I couldn’t fault Mike’s reasoning. Much as his kids might be clamoring for a puppy, the timing just didn’t sound right. Young pups require a lot of attention, and as Mike had noted, he and his family weren’t in a position just then to provide that attention. It was to his credit that he’d recognized this.
Still, I also knew that any dog that eventually wound up as a member of the Stevenson household was going to be in for a very good life. Mike was the kind of owner all dogs should have—firm but loving, responsible and conscientious. In all the years I’d known Mike and we’d hunted together I’d never known him to do anything abusive to Beaver or any other dog.
I hoped people might say the same about me.
We rolled into Rushville at a little before 3:30 that Friday afternoon. Except for a quick stop at the Casey’s in New London, Iowa to fill up and let Preacher pee in the grassy area next to the parking lot, we’d driven straight through. While at the Casey’s I’d also taken a few minutes to skarf down a quick pork tenderloin sandwich and use the restroom. Then we hit the road again.
We crossed the Mississippi River at Burlington and picked up Highway 67 at Monmouth, Illinois. We took 67 south through Macomb (where both Frank Reynolds and I had stayed a few weeks earlier), passed through the small town of Industry, and kept heading south to Rushville.
I wanted to get a look at the town before heading out to Hidden Hollow and checking in. We weren’t scheduled to hunt until the following day anyway so there was no big rush about getting to Hidden Hollow; I remembered that Amy Halvorsen had invited me to have dinner at the lodge that evening but that wasn’t until 6:30. If we got to the lodge an hour or so prior to dinner, that would give me plenty of time to unload the SUV and get Preacher settled in the kennel.
Coming into the town on Highway 67, we passed the Rushville-Industry High School, home of the Rockets. We made a left turn at the intersection of Highway 24—also known as Clinton Street—and headed toward the downtown area. I followed the signs toward the business district, passing the red-brick Sarah D. Culbertson Memorial Hospital, and in another few blocks we came to the town square.
I remembered that Rushville was the county seat of Schuyler County, and it looked like hundreds of other small towns throughout the Midwest. The streets surrounding the square were paved with red brick, and most of the buildings, including the courthouse, were also red brick, with the exception of a tan brick post office. The courthouse was topped with a clock tower that was inscribed 1881. A couple of workmen were stringing Christmas lights on a white gazebo-style pavilion in the park area of the square.
We circled the square, the brick pavement causing the SUV’s tires to rumble faintly. Preacher shifted around on her pillow in the cargo area while I checked out the storefronts. There was an Ace Hardware, a Subway sandwich shop, a corner drugstore, a barber shop—a typical assortment of businesses, in other words. There were also several bars, including the Rushville Tap, where Charlie Flanagan claimed to have heard Carlyle Wilson confess to killing Frank Reynolds.
Completing the circuit of the square, I saw the police station and jail located just behind the courthouse and I guessed that was where Carlyle Wilson was being held, unless he had made bail. I wondered if there was any way to find this out.
I glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that it was now ten minutes to four. I still had plenty of time before we needed to check in at Hidden Hollow and I considered stopping in at the Rushville Tap for a quick beer. Maybe, I thought, I could catch some of the gossip I was hoping to hear about Charlie Flanagan and Carlyle Wilson.
I decided against it. I didn’t want to show up at Hidden Hollow with beer on my breath and get off on the wrong foot with Amy Halvorsen. As the old saying goes, you only get one chance to make a first impression, and I wanted that impression to be as positive as possible—I needed to appear professionally interested in their operation as if I were evaluating it for coverage in the magazine (which I was) and not just some casual hunter who’d driven over to have a good time and shoot a bunch of birds.
Something also told me it would be a good idea to not let my face be seen around town too much. I was definitely planning to visit the Rushville Tap and maybe a few of the other local businesses as well, but I didn’t want to make myself overly recognizable or memorable. If Charlie Flanagan came to a bad end—and I had a strong feeling that’s where we were headed—I didn’t want townspeople recalling “that magazine guy” who’d been hanging around town for a few days when it happened.
“Low-key,” I reminded myself. “You have to keep this visit low-key.”
Preacher whined and I glanced in the rearview mirror to see her big bristly head looking over the backseat toward me. “OK,” I said to her. “Let’s go get checked in and see what the place looks like.”
Chapter 21
Hidden Hollow was indeed located in a hollow that was hidden from the road.
A large sign with the silhouettes of a flying pheasant and a whitetail buck and the printed legend, “Hidden Hollow Hunt Club, Mitch & Amy Halvorsen, Proprietors,” was posted at the entrance to the lane leading back to the lodge. When I turned off the highway a rooster pheasant dashed across the lane in front of our vehicle, causing me to tap the brakes, and for a second I couldn’t help wondering if this had been arranged by the Halvorsens as a welcome and a harbinger of good things to come.
It hadn’t, of course; an occasional lone rooster skulking next to a road near a shooting preserve—usually a bird left over from a previous hunt or an escapee from the bird pens—is nothing unusual, and seeing this one was, I knew, simply a coincidence. Still, I couldn’t deny it lifted my spirits and apparently Preacher’s as well. I heard her whine and glanced in the rearview mirror to see her standing and looking out the side window, focused on the spot where
the rooster had disappeared in the tall grass alongside the lane.
“Take it easy,” I said. “We’ll be going after some birds tomorrow. Just be patient.” Preacher whined again and I smiled at her eagerness.
The lane wound down through a stand of hardwood timber for a little over a quarter mile before coming out into an open area of a couple acres, dominated by the handsome two-story log lodge I’d seen in the photos on the website. A large red barn sat off to the right, along with a clean, modern-looking kennel building and two equipment sheds. A Yamaha ATV sat parked in front of one of the sheds and I noticed a couple of slatted bird crates, held in place with bungee cords, behind the driver’s seat.
Beyond the barn the lane continued off into the woods and I guessed it probably led to the preserve’s bird pens, which typically would be located some distance away from the lodge and main area of operation. Keeping the birds at a remote location is standard practice at hunting preserves, as it minimizes human contact so when hunting guests go afield, the birds perform more like their wild counterparts.
A circular driveway branched off the lane and ran up to the lodge’s covered front porch, with a graveled parking area just beyond. Three other vehicles, all SUVs, were already parked there. I pulled the Equinox into a space next to a dark blue Ford Expedition, got out and walked up the short flight of steps to the wide porch, upon which sat five or six all-weather lounging chairs. I pushed open the heavy front door and entered the lodge.
A reception desk sat to the left of the entrance and a lounge area, complete with dark brown leather sofas and recliners, a pool table and self-serve bar, was located to the right. The entire room was paneled in knotty pine and several impressive whitetail head mounts adorned the walls. In one corner, close to a fieldstone fireplace, a full-body mount of a coyote leaped at a flushing pheasant.
A huge flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall above the fireplace. On the far side of the room a hallway ran back through the center of the lodge where, presumably, guest rooms and the kitchen and dining area were located. Next to this hallway, a staircase with a polished pole railing led up to additional guest rooms on the second floor.
The Killer in the Woods Page 11