A Far Gone Night (6 page)

Of course he had those things. He also had a lie to explain.

I began shoveling in the chunks of sausage with ketchup glaze, interrupting my solid food fueling with long swallows of rich, supplemented coffee. Gotcha had finished her breakfast and come to my side and sat longingly at my feet, her big brown eyes looking up at me in sorrow induced by underfeeding. From my fingertips, I fed her a few chunks of sausage that she took gently. An occasional
fembelch
followed.

Dr.
Jarlsson
had lied about the dead girl. Why?
To what purpose?
Or was he incompetent, simply assuming that the girl had stripped off her clothes in some kind of ritual, eschewing all things
worldy
,
and plunged into the icy Whitetail River to end it all?
But two bullet wounds in the back of the head?
Did he even check? Of course he did, and now I was so awake I decided to
give up
sleeping. I could kiss it goodbye until I had some answers.

My pendulum of pondering about Dr.
Jarlsson
swung slowly from ascribing to him incompetence to being engaged in something nefarious. But if the latter, what was behind it? I was itchy to take a little stroll down to the coroner’s office, so I forced myself to slowly consume my breakfast, carefully dress for cold weather, and then calmly leave the house and lock the door behind me after giving Gotcha a small “going-away” Milk Bone to ease her chronic separation anxiety.

Then I trotted to the truck, climbed in, and drove more rapidly than usual into town.

Although I wasn’t positive where Dr.
Jarlsson’s
office was located, somewhere in the back of my occasionally-logical mind I had the impression it was in, or very near, the
Rockbluff
County Courthouse. I crossed the bridge without looking over the side for another body,
then
circled the block upon which the courthouse was situated. And found the county coroner’s location.

It was behind the courthouse in an unassuming, architecturally-ugly single story, red brick building painted yellow a long time ago with patches of original brick showing through. It looked bleak, sterile, and functional.
And deserted.
There were no cars or trucks in the four-car parking spaces, one of which had a little sign that read “County Coroner.”

Four parking places and he needed his own? Are there that many people who need to see the coroner on a regular basis? I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and then I understood. It was only 8:30.
Too early.
My desire to learn more about Dr.
Jarlsson’s
findings, and why he came to such bogus conclusions, had urged me too fast forward.

So I pulled into the slot next to Dr.
Jarlsson’s
appointed space. I could make out the sign on the door, which gave his hours as MWF 10 – 2. Not bad. Happy it was Friday, not Tuesday or Thursday.

Since I had an hour and a half to wait, I decided to grab some breakfast at Holy Grounds. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but some strong coffee and three or four assorted doughnuts would help me pass the time.
Balancing my breakfast protein with mid-morning carbs.

And, oh yes, I could swing by
Bednarik’s
Books and pick up a copy of Suzanne
Highsmith’s
book. I had forgotten to ask her the book’s title, but I’m sure “Boots”
Bednarik
would know. I backed out of the parking space and drove away, impatient to talk to Dr.
Jarlsson
, but not without some trepidation. It’s not easy to call someone respectable a liar.

M
y experience at Holy Grounds bordered on the spiritual. Dark coffee with plenty of cream and sugar along with four doughnuts (
two sour cream
and two lemon-filled) helped me pass the time until I could go talk to Dr.
Jarlsson
.

Of course, while I was at the doughnut shop, I ran into two officers of the law. The man was Marty
Landsberger
, with whom I was familiar.
Landsberger
, like Stephen
Doltch
, looks like one of those assembly-line Scandinavian/German men who model skiwear and endorse snowmobiles.

The woman was not Scandinavian. She was short, dark-haired, brown-eyed, and looked like someone who might model makeup and fashion accessories. She wore small, silver earrings of an indeterminate design and a red headband that pushed back her curly black hair, the ebony locks and accessory complementing each other.

The officers sidled over to my booth after they got their coffee and doughnuts (one for her, three for him), to say hello.

“Morning, Stephen,” I said. “Have a seat. Who’s your chaperone?”

“Good morning, Thomas. I want you to meet Deputy Penny
Altemier
, new to our department. Deputy, this is Thomas O’Shea, a citizen good at finding bodies.”

I stood and took her hand.
Strong, confident.
I said hello. She gave me direct eye contact with brown eyes that might be the most intense and beautiful I have ever seen. “Stunning” is the word. We all sat down at my booth. I asked Penny where she was from since it was obvious she was new. She took a tiny bite from her plain doughnut, which she had cut in half with the plastic knife on the plate.
Then a bird-sip from the coffee, black.

“I’m from Dubuque, originally,” she said.

I don’t think she was twenty-five, but she had the confidence of someone much older and more experienced. Her lips were full and sensuous, her nose a bit prominent, her chin strong. Her field jacket, like Marty’s, was unsnapped and I noticed that her figure looked proportional, at least what I could see.

“Did you go to Dubuque Senior or
Wahlert
High?”

“Senior.
Played soccer, not too well, and tennis, badly.”

“So did you ever run into Mike
Mulehoff
? He tells me that’s where he works,” I said.

“Well, actually, I had Mr.
Mulehoff
for American History.
Both sections.
Great teacher,” she said. “Like Marty here,” she said sweetly, serving a glance in
Landsberger’s
direction. He caught it and pulled it in.

“Where have you served before?” I asked. I took a bite from my sour cream doughnut, enjoying the heft.

“This is my first job. I’m right out of the Academy. Before that, a couple of years of community college, criminal justice major.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll bring justice to any criminals around
Rockbluff
County,” I said.

“From what I understand,” she replied, “you pretty much cleaned them out, Mr. O’Shea.”

“An exaggeration, I’m sure.

“Well, we’ll scoot along,”
Landsberger
said. “Don’t want to invade your privacy any more than we have already, O’Shea. You might get annoyed and shoot us.”

“Always a pleasure to interface with symbols of power,” I said.

The two deputy sheriffs slid out of the booth and stood. Penny said, “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” and winked.

I love it when women wink at me.

“Give us a call if you spot a crime,” she said, turning away. Marty smiled at her and then they left. She took his arm in hand as they departed, Marty munching on his second doughnut and Penny glancing up at him in admiration, I guess.
Friendly.

When it got to be 9:30, I got up, left five dollars on the table, and took my bill up to the cashier. Her name is Margo and she’s a well-rounded lady with frizzy red hair and a big smile squeezed out from between chubby cheeks. Her complexion is florid and I worry about her blood pressure.

“Have a blessed day,” she said, taking my left hand in her right, and pressing my change into my other hand.

“Same to you, same to you,” I replied.

I walked two doors down, past a second-hand clothing store (“Back to the Future”) and a shoe repair shop (“Sole Proprietor”) and enjoyed the high cultural literacy rate of Iowans. Next was “
Bednarik’s
Books” and it was a small relief to have such a straightforward name to a bookstore.

The outside of the store looked like it belonged on
Diagon
Alley from the Harry Potter stories. It had a window with several displays of best-sellers and regional books, a couple of handbills inviting citizens to a reading by a local poet, to be followed by a wine tasting and autograph opportunity, and a t-shirt that one could purchase. The t-shirt was bright blue with gold letters with the exhortation: “So
Be
Stupid; Don’t Read.”

When one strolled inside, a little bell jangled over the door. The interior of the shop had shelves of books neatly divided by category—Used, Best Sellers, and Paperbacks in Fiction, then other areas marked off for poetry, travel, religion, and so forth. It was a little dark inside, and Boots had situated several overstuffed chairs in various locations with reading lamps on small tables nearby. A little nook had coffee and tea available for a small donation.

I waited a few feet away from the counter behind which stood
Bednarik
, next to a cash register, waiting on a customer. A tall wooden stool was also behind the wooden counter, and an enormous tortoise-shell cat slept on a thick, embroidered pillow on a shelf. A hand-lettered sign near the cat read: “Pet Bartleby
At
Your Own Risk.”

I had been in
Bednarik’s
twice before, and was impressed with his inventory. He had paperbacks, hard covers, classics, and a few rare books, which he called his hobby. On my first visit I had bought or ordered every Robert B. Parker book I did not already own, and my second time I had just browsed, purchasing only a used hard copy of
Catch-22
.

The customer, a man in his 60s wearing a gold and black Hawkeye stocking cap, a worn leather jacket, and wool trousers, had just asked, “Where can I find the self-help books?” to which
Bednarik
replied, “If I told you, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?” Both men laughed and I found myself smiling as the store owner pointed in a direction toward the back. The man turned and walked by me, smiling. I nodded and he went on by.

“What’ll it be, Thomas O’Shea?”
Bednarik
asked, demonstrating his habit of calling people by their full names. His first name was Benjamin, but everyone called him “Boots” because he had been an all-state kicker in football for
Rockbluff
High School,
then
kicked for Coe College in Cedar Rapids.

“I guess I need to pick up a copy of Suzanne
Highsmith’s
book.”

“Ah-ha!
I was wondering when you were going to stop by for your own copy of
Something Rotten in
Rockbluff
. Hate the title, but I love the sales. I thought maybe you bought one from Amazon or one of those outfits.
Or a Kindle version.”

Boots was wearing a blue shirt with a button-down collar and a darker blue cardigan, buttoned over his small paunch. The cuffs of his shirt stuck out from the sweater’s sleeves. The cuffs were white around the edges where they were frayed.

“I saw Suzanne
Highsmith
the other day and promised I’d buy the book,” I said.

Boots had reached into a cardboard box behind him and produced a hard-cover copy of the book. He said, “I’ll bet she promised to autograph it, too.” He handed the book over. I reached for my wallet.

“That’ll be two hundred fifty-seven dollars even,” he said with a straight face.

“All I have in cash is twenty-seven dollars,” I said, seeing the price on the sticker.

“That’ll work, seeing as how you’re one of the principles in the story. I have a copy Suzanne signed for me. Would you kindly sign, too, right next to her autograph?”

I paid for my copy and tucked it under my arm. “I’ve never been asked for my autograph before,” I said, trying to figure out how I felt about it. I really couldn’t turn Boots down.
Too nice a guy.
“But I’ll be happy to sign for you.”

Boots grinned, reached under the counter, and produced his own copy, handing it over. He handed me a Sharpie, then studied my hand as I opened the book to the second page and wrote next to Suzanne’s signature, “Best wishes to my friend, Boots
Bednarik
,” and signed and dated the comment.
Suzannes
’ signature included the inscription, “Thanks for the memories, handsome” and the date. I handed the book and Sharpie back over the counter.

“I’ll put this on E-bay today!’ he said. I gave him a look.
“Just kidding!
Just kidding!”

“See you around, Boots,” I said, heading for the door.

“If you don’t turn square.”

I jangled the doorbells and strode over to my truck, tossed the book onto the passenger’s seat, fired up the engine, and drove over to have a chat with Dr.
Jarlsson
. His car was parked in his reserved space. No other cars. That was good, I thought, because our conversation needed to be private.

I parked and went in. The office was tidy and spare. No receptionist, just an open office with file cabinets and a big oak desk, a refrigerator, microwave, and a handful of framed photographs of family, I guessed, given their strong resemblance to each other. Dr. Prentice
Jarlsson
sat behind his desk, his head in his hands. His hair was unkempt and his tie was loose.
Jarlsson
looked up with fear in his face which remained when he saw me.

“Hello, Prentice.”

“Oh, hello, Thomas.
What brings you here so early in the morning?” He ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair and adjusted his glasses.
Twice.

“I was curious about the dead girl I found in the river. The paper said it was a suicide. That right?”

Jarlsson’s
shoulders slumped and he stood up from his chair, touching his fingertips to the edge of his desk, as if for balance. He looked up at me from above his glasses. He said, “That’s right.
Clear case.
Water in the lungs.”

“When you examined the body, did you find anything peculiar that might have led you to believe she had
not
drowned herself, Prentice?
Just wondering.”

His face visibly reddened and his body trembled. “I know what you’re up to, Thomas, and I’m telling you to leave it alone. I’ve taken care of the poor girl’s Cause of Death and that’s it. That’s legal. I don’t need you coming around here stirring things up. Why the hell can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

I like Prentice
Jarlsson
, so it bothered me to see him so much on the defensive, but I couldn’t let it go. Not after what I knew.

“I can’t leave well enough alone because that girl had two bullet holes in the back of her head, Prentice. I guess you just overlooked it.”

Jarlsson
looked down at his desk and moved some papers around, then back to where they were. Then he rearranged them.
Alphabetically or chronologically?
He re-adjusted his glasses again.