Badlands (11 page)

• Prostitution, drug abuse, and violent crime had all spiked in relation to the increase in population.

Cassie sat back and simply took it in. She was astounded and couldn't decide if she was in the middle of an economic miracle or a disaster.

*   *   *

WHILE HE
talked, Kirkbride took a muddy side road and parked at the top of the highest hill on the north edge of town. The view, Cassie thought, was astonishing.

As far as she could see out onto the dark prairie were natural gas flares, twinkling lights from man camps, pipe yards, pumping units, truck yards, and heavy equipment operations.

“At night you can see it from space,” Sheriff Kirkbride said. “I'm not kidding. There are satellite photos where if you didn't know better you'd say it's bigger and brighter than Chicago or Minneapolis.”

She said, “What about the stuff you always hear about with fracking—earthquakes, drinking water that catches on fire, that kind of thing?”

“Hasn't happened,” Kirkbride said. “That's not to say that someday one of these companies might get sloppy and screw up. But so far, nada.”

*   *   *

WHEN THEY
headed back into town, Kirkbride said, “Like every job you'll ever take in law enforcement, you've always got to remember that most of the people we serve are just good folks. All they want to do is make a good living and take care of their families. They pay our salaries. A big number of the new residents were unemployed for years somewhere else and now they've got a second chance at creating a prosperous life.

“Of course,” he said, “we rarely deal with
those
people. We see the pimps, the drug dealers, the whores, and the scum that shows up on the periphery. We've always got to remember they're here to prey on the good people who were here before the boom and the new folks who are living the dream. Our job is to protect the good folks and make sure the bad guys get punished. Simple as that.”

He sighed. “It used to be that if I ran across Ole the farmer out driving drunk after a big night of whiskey drinking and polka dancing, I'd follow him home to make sure he was okay and he didn't hurt anyone else. Maybe give him a stern warning or something. We can't do that kind of thing anymore. Ole has sold out and moved to Arizona, and the drunk driver may be some Idahole with a bad attitude and a pistol on his front seat. There's no such thing as North Dakota nice anymore,” he said wistfully.

“And when I was talking about the stress of living here, I wasn't kidding. We've always had drugs and we've always had fights. But the types of calls are just more traumatic now. Bar fights are more vicious. Domestic violence calls are more bloody. Bad actors from other parts of the country bring their lack of manners with them. Once in a while the crews from the different oil field outfits get in big fights with each other. It's something out of a Western movie. Think cowboys versus sheepmen or sailors versus marines—that kind of thing. They ride for the brand.

“The drugs of choice have gotten worse also. It used to be weed and blow. Now it's meth and heroin, both the black tar and white powder versions.”

Cassie said, “You said there was a lot of stress. Does that come from money, or change, or what?”

“My theory is there's a lot of mourning going on beneath the surface and it builds up until they lash out. The locals are mourning what they had, and the newcomers are mourning what they lost when they moved here.”

Cassie sat back and looked at him. She said, “That's profound. What keeps
you
here?”

He grinned ruefully. “You mean because I'm obviously so damned old I could retire?”

“I didn't say that exactly. Remember, you said I was getting old myself a while back.”

“I think I'll be hearing about that for a while,” he said with a wink. “Just don't tell my wife.”

“I won't. So what keeps you here?”

He merged into the heavy traffic for the slow ride back into downtown Grimstad. “My horses, for one,” he said. “I used to ride 'em in team penning events. Now they're too old to win me any money and I'm too old to ride 'em. So I keep 'em fed and doctored, and maybe we'll time it right so we'll all ride off into the sunset together.”

He paused. “And I guess I just feel like I need to see this thing through. I was here when it started and I want to try to make sure the good guys win in the end.”

Then: “You hungry?”

“Starved.”

*   *   *

EN ROUTE
to the Wagon Wheel, Kirkbride continued to play tour guide by offering anecdotes on places they passed.

The mega Walmart parking lot was packed with cars as if it were the day after Thanksgiving. “Up until a few months ago, they didn't even bother stocking the shelves because they couldn't keep up. They'd just bring pallets of stuff in and stack 'em in the aisles. There's actual merchandise on the shelves now, so I guess we're gaining a little ground.

“Last year, a garbage truck in the alley started lifting up a Dumpster when a guy jumped out who'd been sleeping inside on old mattresses. The guy started screaming and luckily the driver heard him. Last time I saw him he was working at Walmart.”

At the Amtrak station, he said, “Every single day the train stops and a few men get off. Some of 'em don't even have coats. Saddest sight you'll ever see—something straight out of the Depression. You'll see them walking through the parking lot toward the downtown looking for work. If they aren't bleeding or obviously high on drugs, they'll be employed by sundown.”

Cassie asked, “The oil companies hire users?”

“Oh hell no,” Kirkbride said. “The companies run clean outfits. If you can't pass a drug test you can't get a job out in the field. Same with drillers, pipeline outfits, tool pushers, truck drivers, whatever. But there are plenty of jobs that don't test. And believe it or not, we've got our share of lazy bastards who refuse to work. They'd rather live on government cheese, even though—these days—they could pull down a pretty good income flipping burgers.”

As they drove by the strip clubs Kirkbride told her, “The dancers rotate through here from Chicago, Phoenix, Seattle, Denver, Philly. We're talking hot women, and they make top dollar entertaining the troops. Thing is, they wouldn't even have to be all that good-looking around here to get attention. One of the bars has a big sign inside that says, ‘Welcome to Grimstad, where even ugly women get lucky.'”

*   *   *

CASSIE SAW
why Kirkbride had called the Wagon Wheel in advance. Despite the cold, Carhartt-clad knots of young men stood outside the front door drinking beer and smoking cigarettes and waiting for a table to open. Inside, every table and booth was filled with rough-looking men and women, the bar area was shoulder to shoulder, and the clamor was ferocious. Above the bar, a live hockey game from Canada and a recorded NFL football game were on.

The owner, a fleshy square-headed man, obviously knew Kirkbride and he waved them over to a booth near the kitchen. Cassie sat down while the sheriff shook hands with a few locals on their way to the booth. The locals seemed to genuinely like him, she thought, in contrast with the reception Sheriff Tubman used to get in public back in Helena.

There was a raucous group of five men at a table. They were still wearing their oil-stained coveralls and they eyed her with interest. Two of them were obviously whispering about her. All five of the men had beards and wore ball caps. Dozens of empty beer bottles littered the table. She looked away and hoped she hadn't flushed red. Cassie couldn't recall a similar situation since the high school cafeteria. It was as if testosterone circulated through the air.

Kirkbride and Cassie ordered beer and cheeseburgers from a teenage waitress wearing a Grimstad Vikings hoodie. She told Cassie her beer was on the house, since it was company policy that women drank for free. When the waitress was gone, Kirkbride said, “You can see why I don't go out much anymore. They're building more restaurants but they aren't open yet because they can't find employees. Do you cook?”

“Not enough,” Cassie confessed. “But I can see that I should get better at it. My mother will be in for a shock, that's for sure. She's a vegan and she's into sustainable and organic.”

“Whatever that is,” Kirkbride said, taking a long pull of his beer. “She's in for a culture shock.”

A line of foam stuck to his mustache. “So tell me about the Lizard King.”

Cassie relayed what had happened in North Carolina. Kirkbride leaned forward so he could hear her over the din. A frown formed on his face.

“So they haven't charged him with any abductions or murders yet?” he asked.

“Not that I've heard,” she said. “I'm in close contact with the county prosecutor, and she's good. But right now the only thing they've got to hold him is his attack on me.”

“From what you tell me it sounds a little shaky,” Kirkbride said. “Not that I don't admire the hell out of what you did to provoke him—I do. That took guts. But I wish they had more than that. If there ever was a beast that deserved the needle or the chair or whatever they do down there, it's that guy.”

She agreed. “The FBI has their top people going over his truck and trailer, so I'm confident they'll find something that will tie him to a murder. The guy is smart and cagey, but no one is
that
smart and cagey. They'll swab every inch of that truck for DNA.”

Kirkbride nodded, but his frown remained. “Let's say they find some,” he said. “Then they have to try and tie it to one of a thousand or two thousand missing truck stop lot lizards who may or may not have left any usable DNA to match up with. Man, talk about a needle in a haystack…”

He paused and looked hard at Cassie. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Ninety-five percent. He's changed his appearance.”

Kirkbride shook his head.

Cassie felt herself go cold. She hadn't considered how near to impossible it might be for the forensics experts to identify a specific victim—even with tangible evidence. Not without a body. Again she was reminded how difficult it was to catch serial killers who were long-haul truckers. Not only was the driver likely ten states away when a woman was reported missing, but he had thousands of highway miles to dispose of a body.

“At this point, I can only hope,” Cassie said. “I bought them some time and I can only hope they come up with something.”

Kirkbride nodded in agreement. “Me too,” he said.

After their cheeseburgers arrived, Cassie inadvertently glanced over toward the table of five men. They were still staring at her. One of them waggled his eyebrows at her as he took a long pull from his beer mug. She quickly looked back to Kirkbride.

“What about prostitution?” she asked.

“Oh, it's here,” Kirkbride said with a laugh.

“Is it organized?”

“Not really. The days of whorehouses are over. There's a few low-life pimps who show up with a carload of girls, but most of it's done over the Internet. Check out a Web site called ‘North Dakota Backpage.' You'll see how it's done. It's quite a marketplace.

“But to be honest, we really don't want to make it a high priority. Look around you. Unless these guys are crossing the line seeking underage girls or getting involved with human traffickers, we'll kind of look the other way. We've got tens of thousands of single men out there and I'd rather they blow off steam that way than busting a beer bottle across someone's face. We've got bigger fish to fry, is what I'm saying.”

She understood that.

“What about homicides?” she asked.

“Up until the boom, we averaged one every three years. Usually domestics. Lena had it up to here with Ole and brained him with a cast-iron skillet in the farmhouse. But there are seven so far this year and two are unsolved. Maybe even three. That's one of the reasons I'm happy you're here,” he said with a slow grin. “You'll find the files on your desk in the morning. I
hate
unsolveds. It jacks my stats. The worst thing is two of 'em look like professional contract hits.”

Cassie stopped chewing. She'd never worked a contract murder investigation.

“That's right,” Kirkbride said. “As crazy as that is to believe out here.”

“Tell me more,” she said.

“Those guys over there at that table are ogling you.”

She blushed and wished there was a way to take it back. She sighed, and said, “I know. Tell me more about the two and maybe three contract hits.”

Kirkbride said, “Two months ago, we found two bodies dumped in a field ten miles from town. Males, tatted up, tortured, killed, and dumped. I've never seen anything quite like it but I won't get into the details until you finish your dinner. Each of 'em were still in their colors.”

“Colors?”

“Have you ever heard of an outlaw motorcycle gang called the Sons of Freedom? They're originally out of Colorado but they've got chapters all over the country. They do it all—strong-arm robbery, murder, meth, heroin. They're one of the original One Percenter gangs.”

Cassie knew a little about One Percenters—Hell's Angels, Warlocks, Sons of Freedom. They wore patches on their vests proclaiming it.

“We've heard the Sons started a chapter here a while back.”

“Wouldn't they be obvious?” she asked.

“I know what you're thinking. You're thinking they all ride around on Harley choppers wearing their colors, so why haven't we picked them up and questioned them? The thing is, some of those guys still do that, but a lot of them don't anymore. They have to operate under the radar to get a foothold in a community. The colors come out once they're established and they've intimidated everyone to the point that no one will try to take them on.”