Theresa Monsour (11 page)

 

HE started up the truck, turned on the radio, pulled on his baseball cap. He searched the stations and hit one with the news. A male voice: “The Carlton County Sheriff's Office has not named the park employee, but may identify him at a press conference set for later today. It is the first murder of a state park worker in decades. In other news this morning . . .” More station scanning, and then a female reporter: “Moose Lake authorities have refused to release the apparent cause of death. The Ramsey County Medical Examiner's Office is conducting the autopsy. More information may be released at a press conference today. We'll be there with a live report. Now for the weather . . .” He switched stations again and found nothing more on the ranger. He turned it off. He wondered what the cops were up to, why they were holding back. He opened the glove compartment to take out his worry beads. His stiletto. He rifled around; it wasn't there. Then he remembered he'd shoved it in his jacket after the raccoon encounter in the park. He reached inside his pockets. Flashlight still in his left. He pulled it out and threw it on the passenger's seat. Dug around inside his pockets. Nothing more in his left. Nothing in his right. Where was it? Had he dropped the knife somewhere in the park? “Fuck no!” he moaned, and beat the steering wheel with his closed fists. “No!” He remembered checking his jacket for the flashlight after he fell over the ranger. His stiletto was gone from his pocket
by then. Had it fallen out when he tripped? No, he'd checked the ground around the body. So where had he dropped it? Probably near the grave when he took off the jacket. He had to go back for it. The dead ranger would draw an army of cops to that park; one of them could eventually come across the bridesmaid's grave—and his knife right with it. He'd used gloves that night, but his prints would be all over the knife from the hundreds of other times he'd handled it. Might as well have wrapped his signed confession in the tarp along with the dead woman. He had to get the knife back. He could feel that panic starting again, that clammy drowning sensation. He'd packed his pill bottle with his clothes, but had shoved the remaining few of his favorites into his pants pocket. He fished out two Adderall tablets and popped them in his mouth.

He took Highway 137 and drove past the park without slowing. The cops were still there, of course. Yellow tape crisscrossed the entrance and there were sheriff's and police squads parked along the highway. Only two television news vans so far. He went a couple of miles past the park and pulled onto the shoulder. He checked his rearview mirror. No one behind him. He shut off the engine. The pills were working; his mind was racing around an idea. Parts of the park were bordered by private farmland. He could cut through a farmer's field to get to the woods. Sneak in while the cops were in the south end of the park gathered around the campground. It would take them a while to start spreading out, work the rest of the park. He'd be in and out in no time. Could he do it in broad daylight? No. Stupid idea. Someone would surely see him. Wait until dark? No. He'd probably get lost. Plus the cops would still be sniffing around the park. If they caught him sneaking through the woods at night, they'd really have reason to suspect him. He thought about the knife again. His prints were the only identifying mark. Otherwise it was a mail-order piece. Cheap. Mass-produced. Could belong to anyone. They needed to suspect him and get his prints to compare them to those on the knife. He'd never been arrested for anything
before. Never had his prints taken. The big question: Did they have a suspect? If he was lucky, there was another Chad-type scapegoat waiting in the wings. He heard a helicopter overhead and looked through his windshield. A Twin Cities television station. He could see the call letters from the ground. A news van shot past him on the highway on the way to the park. He wanted to get the scoop on what was going on. He'd wait a bit and then swing back to the park. Give the news crews time to get there, get some inside information. He'd stop and chat it up with them. They all loved his ass. Maybe he could get on television one more time. Yeah. He was starting to get pumped.

IN THE MORNING Jack went out into the lobby and loaded a tray with bagels, cream cheese, fruit, juice, coffee. He saw a box in the foyer and bought her a
Duluth News Tribune
. He went back to the room. She was still sleeping. He laid the food and newspaper out on the table and turned on the tub faucet; the sound of the water didn't wake her. He sat on the edge of the bed, kissed her eyelids. “Paris,” he said in a low voice. “Time to get up, my desert flower.”

Her eyes fluttered open. He looked down at her and traced the scar on her forehead with his index finger. “Maybe you should see a plastic surgeon. You're so beautiful.”

She pulled his hand away from her face. “But not with the scar.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

“Nothing.” He stood up. “I'll get out of here.”

“Wait. I'm sorry. I'm super sensitive about that stupid mark. Can't you stay a little longer? Talk? How about some breakfast? I can't eat all this.”

“Quicker you get your day going, quicker you can get back.” He leaned over, kissed her on the mouth and crossed the room to shut off the tub. “Thought you'd want to get another soak in before you check out of the Taj Mahal.”

“Thank you.” She sat up. Felt bad about snapping at him. “Don't forget to phone my folks about tonight. Tell
Imma
we'll make it another night,” she said, using the Lebanese term of endearment for mother.

He pulled on his jacket. “Why don't you call?”

“Too early to call now and I'll be too damn busy later. Besides, my mom enjoys visiting with you over the phone.”

“And visiting and visiting.” He pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “Sure you won't be back in time for dinner?”

“Even if I am, I'll be tired.” She lied. Murphy suspected her folks had invited the two of them to dinner to meddle. Whenever she and Jack split, her parents made it their mission to get them back together. Sometimes their interference made reconciliation harder instead of easier. He walked to the door. She rolled onto her side and watched him leave. “Love you.”

He was in a hurry, didn't answer. Pulled the door open and walked out.

She flopped onto her back, stared at the ceiling, replayed the night. As usual, the sex had been great. Afterward, she'd tried to talk but he'd rolled over and gone to sleep, so she'd turned on the television. That was becoming their routine as well, and it pained her to see it happening. They used to cuddle. Rehash the day with each other. Lately, the list of what they could discuss without fighting had shrunk. Some days, she thought the neutral topics could fit on the back of a postage stamp. He'd grown to hate her job. Feared any day she'd be the next patient wheeled into the ER. She'd start describing an especially tough case or problem at the cop shop. He'd raise his arm as if he were fending off a blow and say “Give the Cliffs Notes version.” She respected his work as much as he resented hers. He was a top doc in town. Led the effort to
make Regions Hospital a Level I trauma center. Still, he hoarded the details of his day at Regions like they were buried treasure. If he was especially stressed out over something, she'd ask and he'd say, “You don't want to know.” They'd stopped talking about the future; planning was a wasted exercise since their life together was uncertain. The subject of children was a land mine. If the timing seemed right to one of them it was wrong for the other. She suspected the real reason neither was ready for kids was they didn't want to bring children into a marriage destined to end in divorce. She knew one night of spontaneous romance wouldn't fix everything, but she'd hoped to see a glimmer of their old relationship when she invited him to join her at the hotel. Instead, she saw more of what was wrong with her marriage.

She kicked off the covers and sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She glanced at the breakfast table. Typical Jack. Neat. Methodical. Precise. Bagels stacked into a tower on one plate. Cream cheese stacked on another. One of each kind of fruit in a bowl. One of each kind of juice and milk, cartons lined up in a straight row like soldiers. She wished the time he took laying out the food had been spent in bed with her, talking. She was surprised she'd been able to lure him up to Moose Lake at all; he didn't like messing up his routine. The bed was what drew him, she thought. He'd never sleep with another woman, but in a way she felt he was cheating on her by having sex and bolting for St. Paul. On the other hand, there was a part of her that wanted to get rid of him first thing in the morning. Maybe they were both only in it for the sex. She turned on the Jacuzzi and stepped into the bubbling hot water. While she was soaking, she wondered if there was a way she could fit a whirlpool on her boat, along with a fireplace. She leaned back in the tub and her cell phone rang. “Go away,” she said. It stopped ringing and then started again. Had to be Yo-Yo. She stepped out of the tub, wrapped a towel around her wet body and took the phone off the nightstand. “Murphy.”

Duncan: “Morning, Potato Head. Catch the news?”

“Damn,” she said. She grabbed the remote and turned on the television. “Now what?”

“I think we can completely rule out our pal Chad.”

Murphy stopped channel hopping when she got to the news. A helicopter shot showed a body in the woods being lifted onto a stretcher. Murphy turned up the sound. The cameras switched to a male reporter standing at the entrance to Moose Lake State Park. The gate was blocked with yellow police tape. She turned up the sound and all she caught was: “Back to you in the newsroom.”

“Who's the dead guy?” Murphy asked. She reached for a cup of coffee and took a sip. Cold and bitter. She downed it in a couple of gulps and shuddered.

“Park ranger. Robert Kermitt.”

“When? How? Who found him?”

“Got croaked last night. Head bashed in. Body run over. Couple of other parks workers found him this morning. I would have called you earlier, but the cops up there haven't asked for our help on this one, especially since the one St. Paul connection is heading south.”

Duncan was talking fast; he always talked fast when he was on to something big. Murphy knew he was saving the best for last. “What else?” she asked.

“The parks people found something with the body. Inside the ranger's jacket. I talked to the sheriff and police chief up there. They're keeping it out of the news.”

“Something tying the ranger's murder to Bunny Pederson.”

“That's my girl,” said Duncan. “How does a peach shoe sound?”

“Sounds like the ranger caught someone dumping the bridesmaid. Couldn't have been the ex and his pal?”

Duncan: “Not unless there's a third person involved. The cops were keeping an eye on Pederson and his buddy all night.”

“Good.” Murphy had never laid eyes on Chad Pederson, but she found something endearing about a man who took
his kids duck hunting and gave elderly neighbors tomatoes out of his own garden. “Still want me to talk to the cops here?”

“Sure. Give them what you got as long as you're up there. It'll reassure them Mr. Chad ain't their man. Then it's not a wasted trip.”

Murphy thought the last twenty-four hours had been a waste personally and professionally. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Tried to move her mind from her marriage to work. “I'll head on over to the park. They'll still be processing the crime scene. Scouting around for the bridesmaid's body.” She picked up a bagel and took a bite.

“You okay?” he asked.

Was her voice betraying her turmoil? Was Duncan that perceptive? She decided it didn't matter. Time to get down to business. “Fine,” she said shortly. “Tired.”

“Make sure you call before you head back to St. Paul, in case something else pops.”

“Sure, Yo-Yo.” She bit her lip; it had slipped out.

“What?”

“No. No. I won't leave before I call. Later.” She hung up before he could say anything else. Shoved the phone in her purse. She dropped the towel and stepped into some panties and a sweater. She'd brought the union sweatshirt with her; it was huge. She'd wear it over her sweater instead of her jacket. Her stomach growled. More food. She walked over to the breakfast table and saw the
Duluth News Tribune
. Unfolding it, she wasn't surprised to see yet another story on Justice Trip. She sat down at the table and read it. Still making a big deal about volunteering for the search party. More fluff about how he felt an emotional tie to Bunny Pederson. Had he known her, he said in the story, they could have been friends. “Give me a break,” she muttered, folding the paper. She grabbed another bagel and took a bite. She wondered if a dead ranger would finally push Trip off the front page. She thought about the uncomfortable meeting with him the night before. The way he'd picked up her glass and swirled the wine around. The way he'd
repeatedly glanced at her drink and quickly averted his eyes. She was sure he'd dropped something in it. She should have challenged him on it, but all she wanted to do was get away from the creep. Trip and the bridesmaid. She kept thinking there was something more there. A connection, and not the bullshit kind Trip was selling to the newspapers.

 

CHECKOUT time wasn't until noon, so she left her things in the room. She wanted to get to the murder scene. The park entrance was a half mile east of the hotel. On her way in, Murphy passed a caravan of squad cars and television news vans parked along the shoulder of Highway 137. She knew the call letters from the Twin Cities and Duluth stations, but there were several others she didn't recognize. The murder was big news, and for good reason. She couldn't remember the last time a park employee was murdered on the job in Minnesota. Rangers wore uniforms, but their work wasn't supposed to be as dangerous as cops' jobs. When she pulled up to the office, Murphy spotted a familiar beat-up pickup truck parked in the lot adjacent to the building. She scanned the back bumper of the heap to make sure and saw the telltale sticker reflecting the owner's attitude toward most other human beings: “Some People Are Alive Only Because It Is Against the Law to Kill Them.” Cody, the
Pioneer Press
police reporter. Murphy drove up to the police tape blocking the road and flashed her badge out the window. A deputy stepped up to the driver's side of the Jeep and right behind him was Cody, with his shoulder-length brown mop and John Lennon glasses. He wore a down vest over a sweatshirt, but Murphy figured his signature Hawaiian shirt was under there somewhere. He was at the deputy's elbow while the officer checked her ID. “Murphy. What are you doing here? Got a St. Paul angle to this ranger slaying? Tell them to let me in. Come on.”

The deputy looked to be in his late twenties, about Cody's age. Even with his hair shaved into a crew cut, it was obvious he was a redhead. Freckles spattered his face
like measles. He handed Murphy's badge back and turned to yell at Cody. “Get lost!”

Cody was wired. Too much coffee and news. He had a notebook in his right hand and a pencil in his left. “She knows me. She can vouch for me. We work together in St. Paul. Tell him, Murphy. Tell him you know me.”

The deputy: “I don't give a shit who knows you. Go away. Go far away. Take that piece-of-shit truck with you.”

Murphy: “Sorry, Cody. Stay behind the tape with the rest of the pack.” The deputy untied the tape to let Murphy through. “Who's here? BCA up yet?” she asked, referring to the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.

“Everybody and his uncle. BCA. Sheriff. Police chief. Bunch of squads. Ramsey County ME is doing the autopsy. In fact one of their guys happened to be up here on vacation. Came by right away. Nice of him.”

She paused. Rural communities often asked Ramsey County to do autopsies in murder cases. Murphy figured Erik wouldn't be on the case, though. He was off work. “Yeah. Nice.” Damn Erik, she thought. He'd followed her up and then heard about the ranger. Figured she'd be here. He must have spent the night in town. She didn't want to imagine what could have happened if he'd ended up at her hotel.

“Which way?” she asked.

“Hang a left after the office,” he said, pointing toward the road. “You'll pass a boat landing. Keep going. Watch the signs. Campsite five. First loop off the road. Can't miss it.”

She noticed the deputy's eyes were red. “Knew him?”

The deputy leaned inside her window and spoke in a low voice; he didn't want Cody to hear. “He worked hard. Treated people fairly. Hell of an angler. Pretty good poker player, too. Taught me a few things. Couple of more years and he could have retired. The whole thing sucks. I want to personally nail the bastard's hide to a tree.”

“You'll get him,” she said.

He noticed her Homicide sweatshirt. “Catchy slogan.”

“What's your mailing address? I'll send you one. Our union rep came up with them.” The deputy's face brightened. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a card. “Sean Mahoney,” she said. She tucked the card in her purse. “My dad's name is Sean. A good Irish name. I'll ship you a shirt as soon as I get back to the cop shop.”

“Appreciate it.” He stepped back from the car, waved her through. Murphy looked in her rearview mirror as she pulled away and saw Cody following the deputy inside the office, yammering the entire time and waving his notebook around.