Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries) (9 page)

Chapter 15

Journal Entry:

I know there’s a problem here. I knew that almost immediately. Even from far off in the bushes, looking into the Weber house, it’s obvious. I watch the family moving through their open patio door, though it’s mostly just shadows. Past midnight and there was no moon. I wish I had night-vision goggles so as to avoid the necessity to move closer to the house, as close as I can while still feeling safe.

There he is, right there. But he isn’t supposed to be there.

I rush quickly back to the bushes, cursing myself for being so stupid. How could I make such a stupid mistake? My timing was all off again, all wrong. I can’t afford to make any mistakes, not now. Not with the FBI agent in town. The rest has to be worked out with precision. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. If I fail this time, all will be lost and all my work will have been for nothing.

Chapter 16

Lockhart’s eyes opened at five am. He didn’t yawn or roll over, his eyes just simply opened and he was awake. It had been a long time since he actually felt like he’d gotten a full night sleep, let alone one that only lasted less than five hours.

Lockhart got up, if for no other reason than for fear that if he went back to sleep, he would get up an hour later and feel tired. He wanted to take advantage of the rare well-rested feeling while it lasted. He opened his bag and put on a pair of shorts and a long sleeved t-shirt before tying up his running shoes and putting in his ear buds. He never knew how long he might be gone on his junkets to one assignment or another, so he always brought a change of clothes to jog in. He had hours until it was time to meet the chief for breakfast, at Dan’s, of course, so with all that extra energy and the need to focus his mind for the day, a sunrise run was in order.

He had taken up running just a few years prior to help him quit smoking. Lockhart was a goal-driven man and rarely did he do anything without a reason. He knew that he was probably too old and too busy to warrant trying a marathon, so he set his sights on a half-marathon instead, a mere 13.1 miles. He’d started with a mile run; it took him over 12 minutes and he was desperately panting for breath most of the way. The next day, his legs and butt were sorer than they had ever been. After that, he never wanted to run again, but forced himself to hit the pavement anyway. Besides, if his superiors realized how out of shape he had allowed himself to get, they’d promptly assign him to a desk, and the only exercise he’d get would be walking to the bathroom. He had no intention of becoming a desk jockey, so he had to take care of himself.

Two months prior to his assignment to Crayton, Lockhart accomplished his goal: He’d run his first half-marathon and finished in a very respectable 1:45. He’d heard of the Grandma’s Marathon, a well-known Duluth running event, but he had no intention of being stuck in Minnesota until June.

The morning air was cool, almost cold, and he could see the faint wisps of his breath against the infant morning. Dew glistened on the grass, spraying his ankles and calves with a fine mist as he trotted down the hill toward the road. Rick Astley sang that he was never going to give him up. Lockhart turned the volume up and began to run.

Lockhart’s secret to running was like driving long distances: cruise control. The key was to let his brain switch from alpha to beta waves, like on long car rides. He kept his breath deep and flat, from the diaphragm, and he never gasped or yawned, for fear that he might cause a rift in the all-important pattern. The more he could relax, the better off he was.

There was crispness in the air that was sharp on Lockhart’s lungs. The cool wave flowed into him and almost made him cough on more than a few occasions. He hugged the shoulder of the road and focused on the crunch of the small pebbles beneath his feet. All around him, for hundreds of square miles in every direction, there was nothing but green silence. The fact that Mikey’s body was found at all was something of a miracle. Every nook and cranny of the wilderness that Lockhart was trekking through could have concealed any kind of carcass, human included; they could have easily obscured, hidden, or buried thousands of them. Finding one body had to be some kind of providence.

Or was it?

Lockhart slowed to a trot, his thoughts distracting him from his dedication to proper breathing. His breath fogged the space before his eyes. “Intent,” he whispered to himself, inaudible over the sound of his earplugs. Did the killer want the body found? There had been no effort to hide it. Then again, there were no foot prints, either.  Lockhart looked around. The mile marker indicated that he was still at least a mile down the road from the crime scene. Realizing this, he took off at a near sprint.

It took just under six hard minutes to get there. The more level-headed thing to do would have been to call the chief or deputy to ask for a ride to the scene, but as was often the case for Special Agent Lockhart, instinct had taken over. Lockhart slowed once again as he saw the muddied mess caused by all the cars that had parked there the day before. There was no way to determine if there were any additional prints, but he looked for drag marks or anything else that might indicate a struggle or a staged scene; he found nothing. In the cases he linked to Jack, the victims were all murdered with a certain brazen abandon: in cars, on a jog, or in their offices, for instance. The shooter went in, pulled the trigger, and left and he had never bothered to move his victims once the deed was done. He was patient, waiting for the perfect moment to do things his way.

The crime happened nearly ten miles from the Weber’s home. There were no bike tracks and no bicycle found, and Mikey was too young to have his driver’s license. Since there was no way Mikey would have walked out that far on his own, it was clear that someone had taken him out there.

To the best of Lockhart’s knowledge, Jack never forced the victim to go anywhere. Why now? Why Mikey Weber?

Lockhart began to think that he had been wrong all along. The more he investigated this crime, the less it seemed like the MO of his elusive Jack the Shooter. There was something different going on, and it was his job to find out what it was.

Chapter 17

Journal Entry:

I stand here, watching the FBI agent, just fifty yards away. The Fed’s attention is focused on the crime scene, of course, the place where I killed Michael Weber. He’s just standing there panting and sweating in his jogging clothes. The morning has just begun, but he is already on the scene. He felt the need to investigate even while out on a run? Impressive. Even my being here at this moment is happenstance.

But such beneficial happenstance!

The agent is middle aged, an experienced and dedicated investigator, if not an obsessive one.

Perfect.

Chapter 18

Lockhart took his time getting back to the bed-and-breakfast. Once he lost his focus on a run, it was always difficult—if not impossible—to keep going. Inside the B&B, Lockhart heard rustling from the kitchen. He smelled fresh coffee and was tempted to go get a cup, but he was covered in sweat and thought it best to retreat upstairs to the shower.

When he returned downstairs, no one would have recognized him as the man who had been out jogging. He was freshly shaved, and his hair was neatly combed. Since his suit was soiled from the forest, he was now wearing a powder-blue Hugo Boss shirt, dark blue tie and gray pants, essentially the remainder of the contents of his travel bag. Too bad the dry cleaner was out of business. Lockhart would need to do some shopping in Bemidji if he ever got the time.

Joy and Jill were busy in the kitchen, happily humming as they flittered about. Joy stopped and nudged her sister when she noticed the agent standing there.

“Good morning, ladies,” Lockhart said.

Jill blushed a little. “Good morning. Well, you certainly are a sight for sore eyes.”

This time, it was Lockhart who felt a blush coming on. He worked hard at looking presentable, but he had never been great at taking compliments. He managed an awkward “Thank you” and poured himself a cup of coffee from the large banquet urn in the dining room. Around it were assorted muffins and rolls. Clearly, the ladies were very good at running their inn, and he was glad to be one of their guests.

“Would you like some breakfast, Agent Lockhart?” Jill asked. “We made a frittata.”

“Darren please, Jill…and no thank you, not this morning. I am meeting Chief Donaldson in a bit at Dan’s Café.”

“Oh,” Jill said, with a sad disappointed-child tone. “Will you be in for dinner tonight?”

Lockhart took a sip of his coffee. “I am certainly going to do my best.”

Jill perked up a bit. “Oh good! Well, you have a great day, Darren.” She giggled and retreated into the kitchen.

Once again, Lockhart stepped into the Minnesota morning. The sun that had started to rise on his run was now gone, hidden behind an impenetrable gray veil of clouds, as if it might rain any minute. “Great,” Lockhart muttered, looking skyward and realizing he’d left his car at the police station. He could only manage a shuffling jog because of the coffee in his hand. His tie flipped and danced around his shoulders like a leaf in the wind with each gust of the cold breeze.

Besides the draft, the town was still. It was Saturday morning, so everyone was probably either sleeping in or already at Dan’s. Another crowd milled around as Lockhart walked in the front door. There was a ripple of silence from the patrons, accompanied by a lot of staring, which Lockhart ignored. He noticed the deputy through the kitchen window and found Donaldson sitting at a small, two-person table.

The chief kicked the empty chair out a bit as Lockhart approached, inviting him to sit down. He looked at his watch. “Eight on the dot. Punctual.”

“Always,” Lockhart said as he sat down. “Get any sleep?”

The chief scoffed as he took a drink from a tall, sweating glass of milk. “At my age? Hell, I piss five times a night. Plus, I’ve got the added concern about what kind of a mess this town meeting could turn out to be.”

A young waitress came over, with curly blonde bangs hanging in front of her eyes. She seemed overwhelmed by the crowd and asked, “What do you want to eat?”

Lockhart asked what she would recommend, to which she offered a nonchalant shrug, but the chief suggested he have the special.

“What’s in it?”

“Trust me,” he said, “you’ll like it. It’s going to be a big day; you’re going to need all the energy you can get.”

“How do you want your eggs?” the waitress asked.

“Over-medium.”

“Sausage or bacon?”

“Bacon.”

“Home fries or hash browns?”

“Jesus…hash browns.”

“White, wheat, or wild rice?”

“Wheat,” Lockhart said, assuming she was talking about toast, though he had never heard of wild rice toast.

“Coffee, juice?”

“Coffee and water please. Cream and sugar.”

And then she was gone; the order ticket was on the kitchen wheel before Lockhart had time to think about anything he’d selected.

“What did I just order?” Lockhart asked.

The chief reassured him that he would like it, and the two men moved on to going over what they would discuss at the town meeting. They both agreed to keep the details to a minimum. The key was to keep the people calm as best they could, and they both knew Weber’s fight the night before was just a preview of how bad it could get. Paranoia was bad enough, but mob mentality and ardent supporters of the Second Amendment made things dangerous.

They decided Donaldson would take the lead at the meeting. He was a familiar face whom the people could anchor their trust in. Lockhart would answer any of the more panicked or volatile questions. Details of the crime were off limits. Officially, it was an isolated incident, but if people were concerned about the overall safety of themselves or their families, an eight p.m. curfew was recommended. They would be warned that no one under eighteen should be out after that and that people should do their best to travel in pairs and groups.

It was all basic safety rhetoric. People assumed Jack was a lone nut who preyed on Mikey for some specific reason, and Lockhart hoped to keep it that way. If anyone knew how potentially random the act was, things would get ugly and Lockhart didn’t want additional federal agents milling around in town when he didn’t need them. However, if it came down to a potential riot, he wouldn’t hesitate to make the call and fill the town with suits. Agents Her, Young, and Estabrooks had driven back to Bemidji the night before, right after what had turned out to be an uneventful bar close, but they were only a short drive away if he needed them in a pinch.

The curly-haired server returned to the table with a massive oval plate and set it in front of Lockhart.

“Holy…! What is this?” Lockhart asked. He was somewhat confused by the culinary collision on the huge platter in front of him.

The server had already turned to walk away, but she returned to the table, rolling her eyes. She pointed at each item on the plate as she talked. “It’s chicken-fried steak, gravy, two eggs over-medium, hash browns, wheat toast, coffee, and water—just like you asked for.” And without another word, she walked away again.

Lockhart looked at the chief skeptically. “Chicken-fried steak? Fried steak?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it. I’m jealous. Doc won’t let me touch that stuff anymore on account of my cholesterol looking like a ZIP code. Can’t tell you how sick I am of bran.”

“And last night’s turkey and gravy was filled with bran?” Lockhart asked.

The chief arched an eyebrow and raised a single finger to his mouth. “Shh…don’t tell.”

Lockhart cut into the steak to find that it was actually fork tender. It had never occurred to him to fry a steak, let alone cover it in chicken gravy, but he had to admit it was delicious; tender, salty, peppery, and fatty—qualities he’d always enjoyed in a meal, though it was the kind of food he tended to avoid on his current exercise regimen. It wasn’t that he was overly health conscious, but junk food tended to exhaust him and he needed to fire on all cylinders at a moment’s notice.

Lockhart didn’t speak as he ate, as he found it hard to put down his fork. The deputy had cooked his eggs perfectly, with just slightly runny yolks. He mixed the hash browns with the eggs and yolks, but he could only get halfway through his plate before having to push it away. Even with morning runs, if he kept eating the Dan’s Café breakfast special, he was going to need a nap. It was going to be a long day regardless, just like the chief had said.  After the town meeting, he had to drive back to Duluth to interview Mikey’s professor at the University of Minnesota-Duluth.

The two men were finishing their respective coffee and milk when the deputy came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, to ask what the plan was for the day. Lockhart made sure to compliment the deputy on his cooking. Attitude or not, the man had talent. Lockhart looked back into the kitchen and saw two heads darting back and forth in Freddie’s place, and filled the deputy in on the plan.

The deputy nodded along. “That’s a good idea. Keep it simple. Make people feel better.”

“Glad we’re finally on the same side, Deputy.”

“We were never on different sides, Agent. I just have some anger issues…and bad timing, I guess. I’m with you on this 100 percent.”

It was good to know, but Lockhart still had his reservations. He knew people well, and it could be disconcerting to see a person act rational when they had the capability of flying off the handle and becoming volatile. Never knowing what person would show up was something Lockhart didn’t want to deal with.

“When you’re done here, meet us at the law enforcement office, and we’ll touch base again before the meeting starts.”