The Covert Element (6 page)

The day after the murders, in Red Wing.

I was at Becker Law Office, reclining in my ultra-comfortable,
leather, swiveling lawyer’s chair, with my feet up on my huge
mahogany desk when the telephone intercom beeped.

"Yes?" I responded, without changing my position.

"Mr. Becker. There’s a Mr. Bull on the telephone for you. He
won’t say what it’s regarding. And excuse me . . . but he said you’d
‘damn well better pick up.’ "

The receptionist was a new hire. She hadn’t yet learned how to
treat some of my regular callers.

"Thanks, Allison. I’ll take that call."

"Thank you, Mr. Becker. Mr. Bull sounded sort of scary."

Allison was fresh out of the secretarial program at the
technology school in town. She had no idea what an understatement
she had just uttered.

I sat up, reached across the desk, and picked up the handset.

"Hey, Bull. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"Gotta meet."

"Is it a big meat . . . like half a cow, or just a burger?"

Bull and I went back a ways. He had a similar history of
disappearing from Red Wing for an extended period and returning
without a word of explanation as to where he’d been or what he’d
been up to. All anyone knew for sure was that he’d been in the
military . . . and they only knew that because his parents saw his
orders to report to boot camp. He refused to divulge further details
when asked, which no one of even modest intelligence did . . .
anymore.

Bull’s real name was Terry Red Feather. He was a full-blooded
American Indian – a member of the Mdewakanton Dakota tribe –
and had been born on the Prairie River Reservation a few minutes
distant from downtown Red Wing by car. Bull didn’t live on the
reservation. He owned a recently-built, log-style house on a
Wisconsin bluff overlooking the Mississippi river valley, together
with forty acres of mostly wooded land to spare. A modern -day
Native.

"Big joke. Ha ha. When can we meet?" Bull was a no-nonsense
kind of guy.

"Can it wait until dinner? We could do Jamaican at the Harbor
Bar around 7:00?"

"Be there," he said . . . meaning, I presumed, that he would be
there, rather than that I’d better be there, which would have been
rude. One was never certain with Bull. I was about to clarify when
there was a ‘click’ in my ear.

He had hung up.

I took a few minutes to ponder the significance of Bull’s call.

Bull and I saw quite a bit of each other when I needed his
assistance with my
ad hoc
law enforcement activities. He provided
an intimidating presence, serious muscle, superb surveillance
abilities, and tons of military expertise . . . like his extensive
knowledge of explosives, and his ability to sneak up on anybody.

But it was almost always I who called for Bull’s assistance. For
him to contact me was much more rare – and therefore, more
interesting. I wondered if he had gotten wind of the meth lab
massacre and had counsel to provide.

Whatever the case, I would see Bull soon enough.

But now that I’d started thinking about the murders again, I
couldn’t let go of the thought. The only remedy was for me to
investigate current developments. A visit to Gunner was in order.

Previous experiences had taught me not to call Gunner in
advance of a meeting. He was frequently unavailable if I went that
route. A surprise appearance at the Ottawa County Law
Enforcement Center (LEC) would be the better approach.

Turning conduct of legal business over to my capable legal
secretary, Karen, I headed out the door, hopped into my gray 2004
Honda Pilot, and drove off toward the LEC.

I barely had time to consider my questions for Gunner when I
found myself pulling into a parking spot in the LEC lot. It was a five
minute drive from my office – door to door.

Inside the LEC lobby, I asked the desk officer if she would
please page the Chief Deputy for James Becker. "He’s expecting
me."

I think I’d visited Gunner here a few too many times for her to
believe me. Nevertheless, she forwarded the message to Gunner. I
could just about hear his eyes rolling through the phone line.

She hung up the desk console.

"Chief Deputy Gunderson will be out in a moment."

"Thank you very much. I’ll just pace here a while." The molded
plastic chairs in the LEC lobby were lumbar killers.

Gunner made me wait ten minutes . . . probably to reinforce
that I had arrived without an appointment and that he was damn
well in charge. Then he appeared at the door to the inner offices and
waved me inside.

"Beck," he said, by way of greeting.

"Gunner. Great to see you, as always." I grabbed and pumped
his hand enthusiastically as I slipped past him into the hallway.
Gunner’s participation in the handshake was minimal.

"Let’s have a chat in my office, shall we?"

"Absolutely. I’ll lead if you don’t mind following," I said, to the
empty hall in front of me. I could hear Gunner’s eyes roll again.

"Right."

I turned the corner into Gunner’s private office and grabbed
one of the metal and green vinyl side chairs. Gunner took his place
behind the cluttered desk and reclined in his matching metal and
green desk chair, clutching the arms until the chair’s recline came
safely to a halt.

"Anything to report on the out-county massacre?"

Gunner placed both hands behind his head, displaying his tan
uniform’s perspiration-stained underarms. He sat like that for,
perhaps, 20 seconds . . . not speaking, eyes closed.

"Did I come at nap time?"

Gunner didn’t let my crack disturb his zen. He breathed deeply
and exhaled slowly through his mouth. I think maybe Gunner had
recently taken a class on how to intimidate suspects and he was
trying out some new – and boring – technique.

Finally, the Chief Deputy opened his eyes and sat upright. His
hands now lay folded on his slight, but discernible, paunch.

"I don’t really have much to tell you, even if I was s’posed to.
BCA has primary jurisdiction on the matter you’re referrin’ to. And
in case you haven’t noticed, they’re keepin’ pretty tight lips. Not
even a press release regarding the drug connection or the
unfortunate victims. Only thing they’re sayin’ is there were deaths
in a fire and the Fire Marshall is investigating its cause. The BCA
Chief has sworn everybody to secrecy for now."

"Don’t they think somebody is going to spill the beans about all
the dead bodies? I mean, there were a bunch of firemen there. And
cops aren’t exactly known for their discretion either. Geez, Gunner,
I even guessed about the murders just from listening to police
chatter on the radio. What do they think . . . people are stupid?"

"Listen, Beck. I don’t make the calls." His voice was even. "I am
but a humble public servant, trying his best to carry out his
appointed duties."

"Okay. I get it that you’re pissed because BCA has frozen the
Sheriff’s Department out."

Gunner gave me an "I have no idea what you’re talking about"
look.

"So do you plan to just mope about it?"

Gunner paused before answering. "Seems a reasonable
approach to me."

"Gunner. You know you want in on this investigation. You can
see the Staties are already screwing it up with this press brownout.
If I were in your shoes, I’d do a little investigating on my own and
prove my worth in this deal. You know what I mean?"

Gunner considered for a moment.

"Well . . . you’re
not
in my shoes. I’m just a cog in this frickin’
chain of command. Sheriff says leave it to the BCA . . . I leave to the
BCA."

I raised an eyebrow and gave him a "what a weenie" stare.

"Don’t give me that look, dammit!"

I could tell Gunner was softening.

"Okay. Well, I’m taking a look at that crime scene again.
Whether you come along is up to you."

Gunner tilted his head all the way back and stared at the
ceiling.

* * *

We took Gunner’s cruiser out to the scene of the previous day’s
holocaust. There was a State Trooper’s car at the end of the
driveway. Gunner pulled over and rolled down his window.

"What’s up, Deputy?" the Trooper asked. "Restricted area, you
know."

Gunner gave him the "aw shucks, I gotta kick the shit off my
boots" schtick.

"I know. But I was out here yesterday." He showed his ID to the
Trooper, who checked it against a list of the previous day’s
attendees. "And this is sort of embarrassing . . . but I left my walkie
in there. It’s not something I’m proud of. But I’d sure appreciate it if
you’d cut a local guy a break and let me go fetch it."

The Trooper noted that Gunner had assumed the appropriate
subservient attitude.

"Okay," he said finally. "You can go in. But don’t mess with
anything. Just get the walkie and leave. Got it?"

"Absolutely. Got it. Thanks much, sir. You’re an officer and a
gentleman."

Oh for God’s sake
, I thought.
Gunner’s acting sucks
.

Surprisingly, the Trooper flipped us a friendly finger gun and
clucked his cheek – apparently a law enforcement universal sign of
good will – and waved us on our way.

I could tell Gunner was tense from all the groveling.

"Good sucking up, Gunner. Couldn’t have done better myself,"
I lied.

Gunner grunted and released his shoulder belt. We proceeded
up the narrow dirt drive to the building site . . . coming to a stop
well before we reached the yellow "Crime Scene" tape.

I’d seen enough of local police procedure to know that, if this
place wasn’t crawling with Crime Scene geeks, they had already
finished their work. It wasn’t likely we could inadvertently ruin any
valuable evidence that hadn’t already been measured,
photographed, tested, catalogued, and filed – in triplicate – at BCA
Headquarters.

"So what do we look for, Deputy?"

Gunner squinted at me.

"You’re the guy who had the hots for gettin’ out here. BCA will
have already done all the stuff I would do. And I’m not exactly a
human crime lab."

"Okay then. Let’s look for stuff you wouldn’t normally look for."

Gunner put a hand on his hip and raised an eyebrow.

"If I knew what stuff I wouldn’t look for, I’d probably look for it
. . . wouldn’t I."

"All right." He had a point, actually. "How about I suggest some
things and you tell me whether we should look for ‘em. That work
for you?"

"Like what?" Gunner remained skeptical of my approach.

"Let’s assume that our initial impressions were correct. This
whole mess is part of some sort of gang war or drug fight."

Gunner looked at me like I hadn’t said anything helpful.

"Wouldn’t the bad guys who did this leave some sign, you
know, to send a message to the other bad guys of who they’re
dealing with? To scare ‘em off? Like ‘Don’t mess with us or this is
what you’ll get’ kind of thing?"