by Tom Swyers
“No, this has nothing to do with him. I told you before: your having to withdraw had no impact. Moss was going to do hard time because he was guilty, and the facts lined up that way, too.”
“What the hell is going on, then?”
“I take it you haven’t read the will?”
“No, I came straight over here after I learned that you’d won the race to the courthouse.”
“You’re still the executor, David.”
David’s brow furrowed. “Well, why did he have you redo the will, then?”
“It looks like he wanted to change the beneficiaries.”
“I don’t get it. Why didn’t he come to me to change them?”
“I guess it’s because you’re a beneficiary.”
“What?” David looked at him as if he were crazy.
“In fact, you’re the sole beneficiary.”
David sat there, looking outside. He couldn’t believe his ears. “How were you able to file the petition for probate?”
“I filed as a person of interest, a creditor. He didn’t pay me yet for the will preparation. I’ll send you a bill.”
David sat there, stunned and speechless. He had known Harold Salar for a few years, but did he really know him? Harold didn’t have a kid on the baseball team, but he rarely missed a game. He always was well dressed and carefully groomed, and his scorebook entries were neatly written in pencil without one erasure mark. Yet, he lived in a dump. David recalled spending hours with Harold talking about his will, going over the possible beneficiaries, all the deserving charities, only to discover now that Harold had undone all that within a few months to name David as the sole beneficiary.
Jim got out of his chair, pulled his gray-pinstripe slacks up, and tucked in his white-oxford shirttail. He moved his tall frame toward his safe near the picture window overlooking the city. It had begun to rain. “David, I couldn’t mention any of this to you because of the attorney-client privilege. Besides, if the will was challenged and I had to testify in court, it wouldn’t look good that I had conferred with you.”
David rubbed his chin. “I don’t know what to say . . . I’m sorry I barked at you. I should have known better after all we’ve been through together.”
Jim started to spin the safe tumbler. “Forget it. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here today. How many times did you rescue me from the bars while I was going through my divorce?”
David nodded. He’d received Jim’s designated-driver telephone calls, either from Jim or the bartender. All he could think about after getting a call was Jim’s kids. When Jim called, he’d say, “I’ve only had a couple of drinks.” But that’s what all drunks say. David had seen too many fatherless children on his baseball teams over the years. Some of the dads were dead, some were divorced, and some were just out of the picture. He didn’t want one more, not if he could stop it.
Jim pulled the safe handle down, opened the door, and reached for an envelope. He turned to David and put the envelope on the desk, facedown. There was a red-wax seal on the back. Jim picked up his cell and took a picture of the envelope and David in the background.
“Jim, what are you doing?”
“I’m afraid Harold has another surprise for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The envelope. It’s for you. Harold said he wanted to give you this letter in the event of his death. He didn’t want to share it with me. He said he was in a rush and couldn’t explain it all, anyway. So, I said to write the letter and have it notarized and give it to me to store in the safe. He came up with the wax-seal idea.” Jim took a close-up shot of the wax seal and then handed the envelope to David. “Go ahead and open it if you want.”
David took the envelope. The neat handwriting on the front said: For David Thompson—in the event of my death. He turned it over and felt that the flap was sealed shut all the way to the upper corners. “Do you have a letter opener?”
Jim sat down and opened his top desk drawer, removed his shiny gold letter opener from its sheath, and gave it to David. It shimmered in the office light, much like the spare key had shimmered before he’d opened the door to Harold’s tomb. David’s head was spinning from this image and from the morning’s events. His hands trembled as he ran the letter opener under the upper-corner flap and through the wax seal and all the way to the other corner. He opened the envelope and removed the letter while wondering if a cockroach was going to fall out. He read the letter to himself before reading it out loud to Jim.
Dear David,
I’m writing this letter because some strange things have happened during the past month. I fear for my life, but I don’t know who’s after me. I feel I need to do something, just in case. So, I had Jim draft a new will, and I left him this letter, under seal, to be opened only in the case of my death.
If you’re reading this letter, then I had good reason to be concerned because I don’t expect that I’ve died from natural causes.
There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And that’s for your own good. It’s in everyone’s best interests not to know too much. You’ll just have to trust me when I say this. I’d like to tell you everything in this letter, but if it’s made public, everyone would know about me, and that might put some people in harm’s way.
I’m leaving everything to you, David. I saw what you did for the kids in this town by saving the baseball program. You seem to be driven by a desire to do the right thing, and I trust you to do the right thing with my estate. Please understand this is a gift to you. That should keep the IRS off your back if they try and construe this as some sort of business arrangement and count it as taxable income. I ask that you use the proceeds to track down my killers and to seek justice. I also ask that you proceed with your case against Helmsley Oil. People need to learn about the dangers of Bakken crude before it’s too late.
I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. I trust you to figure it out and do what’s right. You’ll find a laptop computer if you pull the bottom left-hand drawer entirely out of my desk and reach in the back. It’s in a secret compartment in the floor. Start there, and remember to always follow the killdeer.
I ask that you and Jim keep this letter to yourselves. I’m sorry to leave you with this messy affair. I’ll miss you, dear friend.
Harold
David looked up at Jim, who was leaning back in his chair, swiveling side to side, hands clasped behind his head. He moved in perfect sync with the pendulum on the grandfather clock against the wall over his left shoulder. Every time Jim swiveled to his right, his chair squeaked. David slid the letter back in the envelope, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the raindrops tapping against the window.
Tick-tock, squeak, and pitter-patter filled the office as the two men sat in silence.
David was filled with mixed emotions. His friend was dead. His case against Helmsley Oil was on life support. But now the estate could at least help him out of debt. On top of it all, it seemed he had a new case now, if he wanted to find the killer of Harold Salar. But he really wasn’t interested in that. He didn’t believe he had the skill set or the time to pursue this. He wasn’t really a criminal lawyer; he had told Harold that a number of times. Harold had made a request of him to find the killer in the will, but he wasn’t bound to honor it under the law. He could do what he wanted with the money and assets and let the police find the killer. He could help them, but he didn’t have to lead the pursuit. He could focus his energy on winning his case against Helmsley Oil, something that Harold wanted as well—something that only he could accomplish, as Ben Prior’s lawyer.
“Just when I think I’ve seen it all, I learn that I haven’t,” Jim said.
“Tell me about it.”
Jim stroked his chin. “Harold was in such a rush, I never talked numbers with him. How large is the estate?”
“I don’t know. When we talked, I just established that it wouldn’t be over one million, the New York State estate-tax exemption at the time.”
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“Who do you think did this to him?”
“Keep this to yourself, but I think Big Oil is behind it. It all has to do with Ben Prior’s case.” David then proceeded to tell him about Ben Prior’s accident, the lawsuit against Helmsley Oil, and Harold’s role as an expert witness.
“Since when did you become a personal-injury lawyer?”
“Ben was insistent that I take the case. I coached his son, Mark, last season. Great, upbeat, positive kid, even in the face of what happened to his father. The burns from the oil melted the flesh on his hands like it was wax. All he does is sit around their apartment with black-rubber gloves on, staring out the window, wondering if he’s ever going to work, afraid that he’ll never be able to play catch with his boy again. He can’t sleep from the pain in his hands and the nightmares. It’s just the two of them. The mom died in a car crash years ago. I couldn’t say no to them.”
“How are they getting by?”
“He gets a biweekly check from workers’ compensation for now, just enough to make ends meet.”
“So, was Salar the key to your case?”
“Yes, he’s testified before Congress and has been an expert witness in lawsuits for the oil industry in their defense of Bakken crude, the fracked oil they’re shipping via rail from the North Dakota killing fields to Albany. The stuff is so flammable, it’s like liquid fire, as poor Ben Prior discovered.”
“I don’t understand. Salar sounds like he was on the side of Big Oil.”
“He was, but he changed sides after discovering how volatile Bakken oil really was. They gave him unrepresentative samples of the stuff to test, so his analysis was faulty as a result. He was all set to testify on Prior’s behalf and against Helmsley Oil Company at the upcoming trial. His testimony was going to make national headlines and force Big Oil to stabilize its Bakken before shipping, so it wouldn’t be as explosive. That would cost them money. By knocking off Salar, they can keep the oil flowing, keep the cash register ringing, and avoid investing in plants and equipment to stabilize the oil.”
“You got any proof at this point?”
“No, just motive and opportunity.”
“I don’t get it. Why didn’t Salar just publish a new report on Bakken oil and send it out to the media?”
“A lot of people forgot about Harold Salar after he stopped being a guest on TV. The media isn’t particularly interested in this topic, not without mass casualties. It’s the way of the world. The media is reactive now, not investigative. You remember what happened with our high-school principal, Jerry Conway. Did they do any type of investigation?”
“I recall the media tried to pit you against him . . .”
“Right, after I asked how he could be both a high-school principal and one of the leading sports agents in the country. Did they do a Freedom of Information Act request for the nineteen files the school district had on his activities? Did they do any type of investigation at all?”
“I see your point. They didn’t do anything. They just lapped up the school-district report, like the district was really capable of investigating itself after supporting the principal’s business for years. The report was so full of holes, it was laughable.”
“Right, it was just too much work for the media to do any type of investigation on their own. Reading Twitter feeds is what passes for journalism these days—pitting people against one another. The real story gets lost. So, the best way to change things is to headline a big verdict against Big Oil. You’ll get full media coverage of Ben’s horrific injuries and a bonus in the form of an advertised legal precedent that will stick going forward for future victims. It will make a bigger story with all the elements combined. Big Oil is not going to change the way it does business without first suffering financially from a huge verdict. Harold and I talked about this strategy quite a bit.”
“So, do you think it was Big Oil or Helmsley Oil that took him out?”
“One or the other, or both. Nobody wanted him to testify. If we won the case, all of them would have to pay a price eventually. You’ll never guess who’s defending Helmsley Oil.”
“I give up.”
“Amber Remington.”
“Really? I hear she’s hot . . . I’m trying to remember her nickname.”
“The Black Widow.”
“Right, now I remember. Isn’t she the one who seduces opposing male attorneys and bites their heads off during trial?”
“That’s her.”
“Do you think she’s behind all of this?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her, but I don’t have any proof at this point.”
“Does Annie know about her?”
“Hell, no. If there’s anyone who will take on the Black Widow, it’s my wife. I don’t want to get Annie involved. I don’t want her monitoring me or Amber. I’ve got enough problems with this being my first personal-injury case and all.”
“Did you ever think about getting trial counsel to help you?”
David stood up and went to the window. The rain had stopped. He saw Martha taking a break outside the courthouse, puffing away on a cigarette.
“Ben Prior was pretty insistent that I should handle the case personally all the way through. I dropped the idea of trial counsel once Remington made it clear that Helmsley Oil wanted to settle the case out of court. But now that my ace expert witness is dead, all bets are off on settlement.”
Streaks of sunlight cut through the city grime on the picture window, revealing dust particles floating in the office air.
“What do you make of this killdeer talk in the letter?”
“I’m not sure,” David said while turning to face him. A ray of sun hit Jim in the face, but it didn’t bother him. His eyes were closed, and he was basking in the warmth like a cat.
“Harold used to talk about a killdeer bottom when he talked about stock charts,” David said. “But then again, he talked about killdeer in different ways. Now that I think about it, I have to believe it was one of his favorite metaphors. I remember his saying once, ‘Appearances are often deceiving; things aren’t always as they first seem. The killdeer seem to have this all figured out, even if we don’t. Watch it and learn.’”
Jim pushed his chair out of the sunlight and stood up. “Wasn’t he on CNBC a lot at one time?”
“Yeah, they used to call him King Crude.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I remember now.” Both men watched the dust particles start to land on the desk until Jim waved his hand in the air, sending them off into orbit. “So now it seems you’re dealing with two kings.”
“How do you figure?”
“King Crude is also King Killdeer.”
FOUR
Harold’s will called for his body to be cremated. David charged the cost to his own credit card because he didn’t have access to Harold’s assets at that point. A few people attended the memorial service that David organized the next day at the baseball field. Harold had lived in Indigo Valley for only a couple of years, and his circle of friends wasn’t large outside of the baseball community. Annie, Christy, all of the boys on the baseball team, and some parents came to the service. Ben Prior and his son, Mark, were there. Everyone sat in the bleachers while David stood in front of them. He talked about how Harold was always willing to help him and how he was such a meticulous scorekeeper. He didn’t talk much about how Harold was a world-renowned oil-industry expert. There wasn’t anyone in attendance from that phase of Harold’s life except for Ben Prior. Ben’s black-neoprene gloves stood out against his white polo shirt. They glistened like freshly laid road tar; sweat dripped onto his slacks where the gloves ended at his elbows. Mark dabbed the sweat from his father’s olive-toned forehead because Ben couldn’t hold the tissue with his stiff gloves.
Chief Pete McNeal was at the service as well. He sat at the top of the bleachers, so he could see everyone come and go. It was no secret that he didn’t have any leads on the killer’s identity. At first, the official position was that he couldn’t commen
t on an ongoing investigation. But after a while, people figured out that he couldn’t comment because he didn’t know anything. With a search warrant in hand, a homicide team waded into the piles of filth in Harold’s apartment, but they couldn’t locate much of anything, at least not anything itemized in the warrant. As far as the police were concerned, the contents of the apartment amounted to a pile of hoarder’s crap.
After the service, Annie and Christy went home. David was going to follow them in the Mustang, but Pete asked him to stay behind to talk for a few minutes.
“What’s on your mind, Pete? Any leads?”
“We’re following some, but nothing solid so far. We believe Salar was abducted from the ball field and there was more than one person involved. We found a little blood on one of the galvanized entrance gates to the ball field. It matches Salar’s, most likely from a small cut on his right hand. Someone had to drive his car back to the apartment. Assuming they had a separate vehicle, someone else had to drive it and someone else most likely had to keep an eye on Salar. But we think he was killed in the apartment.”
“What did the autopsy say as to the cause of death?”
“Blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull, causing a fracture and severe internal bleeding.”
David looked to the sky and sighed. “I don’t understand why his hair looked so neat if someone was pounding his head against the wall.”
“Hair spray. He had a significant amount on his hair, on his face, and in his eyes.”
David’s jaw dropped. “In his eyes?”
“Yes, they were practically glued open.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He was tortured.”
“What! Why?”
“Someone wanted something from him, I guess.”
“Money or what?”