The Occupied Page 13

  Manitou was about two hours northwest. I hadn’t been back to my hometown in more than two decades.

  I drove into Manitou from the west end of town along the Little Bear River, where the weeping willows still hung along its banks. I noticed the quarry on the other side of the road, with a high tower that still had a big Christmas star at the top that had been lit up every December. It would stand out because there weren’t any streetlights in that part of town. I wondered if the lighted Christmas star was still working.

  I kept driving into town, past the row of industrial plants. But several looked closed now. Including the Opperdill Foundry, where my father had worked for almost thirty years, and where he took his last breath.

  The road that approached the Opperdill Foundry was a long winding one, off the main road that led to the large industrial complex on the banks of the river. I slowed down and pulled into the opening of the driveway to the plant with half a mind to drive down and check it out. But there was a rusty chain across the drive blocking the entrance, and a red metal sign with a few bullet holes in it. The sign read No Trespassing. The cement drive had cracks, and there were weeds sprouting up in the broken spaces.

  I pulled back into traffic and cruised toward downtown. Different shops. A few new strip malls, little ones. The row of little houses across from the lane of foundries had been replaced by a Starbucks, a 7-Eleven, and a big Walmart.

  I did a tour of the residential area. Incredibly, the homes looked pretty much the same as I had remembered, including the house where I grew up. I thought about connecting with my mother by phone and asking her if she had ever returned to Manitou to see the house after she was remarried to Stanley, her current husband, who had made his money running a chain of carpet stores. Stanley and I never saw eye to eye, particularly after he made nasty remarks about my father. Stanley and my mother eventually moved to Boca, in Florida, years ago. After that, we rarely saw each other.

  On my way to the hotel I rang her up on her home phone, but she didn’t answer. I imagined that she must be over at the hospital where she helped as a volunteer, so I left a message. It was time to reach out. Try to patch things up.

  The day was winding down, and I eventually made my way to the Holiday Inn Express on the other end of town, which was in the direction of the site where the police had found Bobby’s body.

  The desk manager looked like a semiretired fellow. He was friendly but moved slowly as I checked in. He was wearing an Atlanta Braves T-shirt and I remarked about that fact. The man said, “Don’t care much for the Milwaukee Brewers. I moved to Milwaukee in the heyday of the Braves. Warren Spahn and that bunch. Eddie Mathews. Hank Aaron. Broke my heart when they moved to Atlanta. But I stuck with them anyway. Loyalty. That’s what it’s about.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “Loyalty’s important.”

  It made me think of my dead friend. Loyal—that was what Bobby Budleigh was. Among the other things that were good about him.

  “Loyalty’s rare,” the desk clerk shot back. Then he passed me my room key and asked if I wanted a newspaper. I nodded and grabbed a copy of the Manitou Times off the stack on the front desk and tucked it under my arm.

  My room was stuffy, and it was taking a while for the noisy air-conditioning unit to catch up, so I stripped down to my boxers, dropped into bed, and clicked through the TV channels. While I did, I mentally sorted out my questions about Bobby’s murder. Why had he returned to Manitou? And what kind of motive could there possibly be for someone to do that to my friend? Or was it a random act of a psychotic killer? A copycat?

  Dick Valentine was right. Of course the mutilation was familiar. But the other incidents like that were back in New York. Most recently at the hands of Sid Castor. Who was now dead. Before Castor it was Hanz Delpha trying to carve me up. But he committed suicide, and then Castor’s reign of terror followed that. Before Delpha it was Dunning Kamera, my client. He took his life also. The whole thing was beginning to look like a wicked relay race.

  Except for one big difference. The runners were homicidal, and they were dying. Several runners, but one baton. And yet somehow the baton was being passed from each bad actor only after he was dead. A theory was forming, and it wasn’t pretty.

  I reached over to the nightstand next to me and snatched up the local newspaper. There it was, right on the front page: “Arrest in Murder of Former Local.”

  The article quoted the county sheriff, Butch Jardinsky, saying a suspect was now in custody for the killing of Bobby Budleigh, PhD, honor student and graduate of Manitou High School. The suspect in custody was somebody named Donny Ray Borzsted.

  There was a feeling of relief, that maybe it was all over before I even got involved.

  But I had the nagging feeling that it couldn’t be that easy, that quick. The slim facts I already knew about Bobby’s death told me something different. Maybe Donny Ray Borzsted was linked in some way to the murder, but a hideous force had to have been behind it, and had jammed the knife in and had plucked out Bobby’s heart. The force that was carrying the baton.

  I tossed the newspaper onto the floor and turned out the light. The only sound was the humming buzz coming out of the air-conditioning unit.

  Then a random thought: Years ago I read a novel by Thomas Wolfe. He’d left behind an unfinished manuscript, and after he died, Wolfe’s editor published an excerpt, calling it You Can’t Go Home Again. Right then, in that hotel room in my hometown, I decided that the title was missing something. It struck me that even if you do go home, you don’t expect the devil to be waiting for you when you get there.

  28

  The next day I discovered that the Manitou police station had not changed much. It was still a one-story redbrick building, except that they had built out the back end and expanded it.

  After leaving my rented Fiat in the parking lot, I trotted into the lobby. I recognized the glass case with trophies from the police softball league and the historical display of law enforcement badges dating back seventy years. It was all still there. I remembered it from the day when a juvenile officer, a woman whose name I’ve since forgotten, towed me in as a sixteen-year-old for my high crimes and misdemeanors, and told me to sit tight in the lobby for a few minutes while she called my mother. I often wondered if it was a test. Seeing if I would bolt out of there if left to myself. If it was a test, then I passed, because there I sat, not moving, staring at the glass displays in the lobby. Those kinds of experiences get laser cut into your brain.

  The desk sergeant yanked me back from yesteryear. “Sir? Can I help you?”

  I collected my thoughts and gave her a professional card:

  Trevor Black

  Consultant to Law Enforcement Agencies

  Underneath was my old home address in New York City. I’d had them printed up when I was working with Detective Dick Valentine, assuming that I would branch out to other police departments and make a living out of it, but that didn’t happen.

  I told her I needed to see Sheriff Jardinsky, and that I was a friend of Bobby Budleigh, the murder victim, and wanted to offer my help. She gave me the same unenthusiastic side-glance that I used to give to homeless guys milling in the borough courthouses who would ask me for hasty legal advice as I hustled to my court appearances.

  The desk sergeant sighed and told me to sit tight. She called someone, presumably Jardinsky, speaking to him in a hushed tone. Two hours dragged by. Police lobbies are uninteresting places, even ones that hold personal memories. Finally she stood up and told me to follow her down the hall to Sheriff Jardinsky’s office, where I met a barrel-chested guy in a brown-and-tan uniform who had a mustache and iron-gray hair cut into a flattop. He was waiting for me behind his cluttered desk.

  He stood up slowly and we shook hands. He asked me, “Friend of the victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to know we’ve got the guy who did it.”

  “I read the headline. If that’s true, then it’s good news.”

>   “It’s true. You can believe it.”

  I noticed that he was fingering my business card in his hand while he spoke. I asked, “Any objections to letting me in on where your investigation is at?”

  He tossed my card down onto the desk. “Where we’re at is that we’ll be filing a criminal complaint for murder in the criminal branch of the circuit court. That’s where we’re at.”

  “I just want to make sure you’ve got the right guy.”

  Sheriff Butch Jardinsky grew red-faced in a hurry. “And you think we don’t?”

  I ignored the mini-meltdown. “Who’s your investigating officer?”

  After eyeing me for a few seconds he answered, “Detective Linderman.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “It’s a ‘her,’ not a ‘him,’ and I’ll pass that on to the detective. She can make the call whether to talk to you or not.” Then, like a lawyer who suddenly realizes he needs to amend a too-hastily drafted document, he added, “Of course, after she consults with me first.” He looked like he was still mulling the point, then asked, “You have any relevant evidence about the victim? This Mr. Budleigh?”

  “Definitely,” I replied, not particularly caring about legal evidence or anything else except getting to the bottom of Bobby’s murder and talking to the investigating detective so she could help me get there.

  The sheriff said he would tell Detective Linderman about me. I asked for my card back, and I penned my cell phone number on it and gave it back to him. I urged him to have the detective contact me.

  As I left the police station I had my doubts about hearing from the detective. And if my efforts were to grind to a stop, it would be like a punch to the kidneys.

  I drove away in search of a root beer stand I remembered from my youth. A little shack with clapboard siding that used to serve astounding root beer floats. But when I arrived at the street where I was sure it used to be, I found a little duplex instead.

  Luckily, about two blocks away I spotted an ice cream stand called Otto’s Creamery. There was a long line, but I was willing to wait it out. I planned to drown the disappointment over my stalled investigation with a chocolate malt.

  The shake was great, worth the wait. But even a great shake tasted a little sour with my inner turmoil over Bobby. While I was sitting in my rental, slurping up the last bit of melted ice cream from the bottom of my paper cup, my cell rang. It read Restricted. Detective Linderman was on the line.

  “I understand you stopped by the station, and you were a friend of Bobby Budleigh.”

  “Yes. We were close friends back in high school.”

  “And you’re doing an investigation for who, exactly?”

  “Myself. In honor of a really good guy.”

  “Sounds noble.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But I am on a mission. Compelled, you might say.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Ice cream stand. Not far from the station.”

  “I know it. I could do with an ice cream cone. Be there in five or ten.”

  She arrived in seven, driving an unmarked black Dodge with no whitewall tires and a prominent antenna. Then Detective Ashley Linderman stepped out and swept the aviator sunglasses off her face. Before I could wave, she spotted me and stepped over to my car. I wondered if I had been that obvious, as the place was crawling with customers and the picnic tables were crammed too. How had she picked me out?

  She was in good shape, thin, about my height, and wore a dark suit coat and pants, and a white blouse. She had a pretty face and wore her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail wrapped with a red elastic band. By the time she was at my window, I noticed she had a long, thin scar on her left cheek.

  She smiled and reached out to shake hands through the open window. “Trevor Black?”

  “Yes. Thanks for meeting, Detective.”

  “My colleagues call me Ashley.”

  “If you’re calling me a colleague, I’m honored. Seeing as we’re meeting for the first time.”

  “Well, your card calls you a consultant to law enforcement, doesn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “I take people at their word. Unless I find out differently. And if I find out they’ve lied, I put them in jail.” Her smile broadened.

  I suggested that we find a table to sit down at and talk, even though they all looked occupied.

  She had a better idea. “Follow me.” She strolled over to the side door of the ice cream shack and pulled it open. “Hey, Otto,” she yelled. I heard a loud man’s voice call out her name from inside. He stayed hidden from view as they bantered for a few seconds. She pulled out a couple of one-dollar bills and passed them over to a man’s hand that reached out through the open door. “The usual,” she added. Then she waved for me to follow her. There was a single picnic table behind the ice cream shack, and it was empty. We both sat down.

  I said, “Restaurants in New York have special booths they keep open for celebrities. So this is yours?”

  “I wouldn’t know much about New York. I don’t get out of Manitou very much. I’ve only been to New York City twice, both times for law enforcement conferences. Believe me, we didn’t eat in any celebrity booths.”

  I decided to ask, “How’d you recognize me?”

  “There’s this great invention called the World Wide Web.”

  “You worked fast.”

  “Full disclosure: My second conference in New York was a few years ago. I picked up the paper at my hotel, checked the local news, and there was this article about a demon-chasing ex–criminal defense lawyer. So when Butch, my boss, told me that you had stopped by and wanted to talk, I already had the scoop on you. Then I did a little more Internet snooping today.”

  “Considering what you found there, I’m surprised you agreed to meet.”

  “Train wrecks. Car crashes. Embarrassing celebrity bloopers. It’s hard to look away from real messes.” She smiled wide enough to flash a dimple on the other, unmarred cheek.

  Otto, a short, balding guy, came out and handed Ashley Linderman her ice cream cone, a strawberry and vanilla swirl, along with her change in coins, then nodded to me before disappearing back into the shack.

  Without embarrassment, she tore into the ice cream, demolishing it from the top down to the edge of the cake cone and getting some ice cream on her nose in the process. She demurely swept it away and went back to finishing it off. She paused to ask about my defense practice in New York, so I gave her a breezy overview but avoided anything about my infamous Dunning Kamera case. While she was crunching down on the cake cone with her mouth full, she asked me an almost-indecipherable question and, after swallowing, repeated it. “Did you really punch that stockbroker in the face, the one who was your client?”

  “Former client. And yes, I did.”

  “I suppose you feel vindicated.”

  “What, by having my license to practice law taken away?”

  “No. Because the guy’s just been indicted for selling dope to the rich and famous.”

  “Really? Bradley Yelsin?”

  “I thought you would have known. Just happened. I picked that up in my online search. They mentioned you in the article—said that you had decked him because he sold drugs to your wife, and that, well, you know, she died from an overdose.”

  My reaction must have given me away. Ashley bit the corner of her lip. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dig up bad memories.”

  “I’ve been avoiding the news from New York. But I’m glad they nailed him.”

  She wiped her mouth with a napkin and asked, “So, you actually chase demons?”

  “I used to.”

  She raised an eyebrow way up. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Not anymore?”

  “I’ve retired.”

  She got serious. “Why are you in Manitou, exactly?”

  “I want to make sure whoever killed my friend gets caught.”

  “Well,” she
said, “I don’t know anything about demons, or that sort of thing. Not my bag. But as far as the Bobby Budleigh murder, what happened to him, I suppose an ex–defense lawyer hotshot who thinks he can track demons is not a bad way to go.”

  That sounded vaguely like a compliment, and I was searching for some kind of reply, but before it came out, her police radio started squawking. Ashley plucked it out of her jacket, listened, and then replied, saying she’d check it out.

  She studied me for a few seconds, like she was sifting me through a sieve. “Want to tag along on an investigation? Just received a call.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I suppose I could call you a background source to the Bobby Budleigh murder. Have you ride in the backseat of my unmarked, behind the screen.”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  She kept eyeing me. Then she shook her head and said, “No. You’re a consultant. Come on. Ride in the front.”

  We walked together over to her black Dodge.

  I asked a simple question. “What’s this about?”

  “They found a body. A dead male.”

  “Where?”

  Ashley Linderman had no idea, she couldn’t have, about the impact her next words would have on me. “Over at the town incinerator. You know, at the Manitou landfill.”

  29

  The windows in Ashley Linderman’s unmarked squad were down as we entered the Manitou sanitation landfill. There was a stench in the air of dead things, mingled with smoke. Ashley drove her black Dodge over the gravel road that cut between a high plateau of dirt on the right, and on the left the three-story-high incinerator, an ugly concrete structure with a smokestack in the back.

  “That smell,” she said, “is because today is dead animal day. Roadkill, dead dogs and cats, skunks, woodchucks, and whatever else the cat dragged in. Plus, bigger animals like deer and horses and cows. They are all burned the same day each week. They used to be tossed into the incinerator. But then the thing malfunctioned. An environmental group got involved. They targeted this operation and, before that, a factory down along the river. There’s been a legal dispute for years about levels of pollution in the air from the incinerator, so it’s been shut down. Protesters flocked here, the whole nine yards. Now it’s back to the old-school type of burning. All kinds of dead animals dumped into a ground pit and set on fire. The incinerator has been cleared to start up again, though, I guess.”