“Yes, but—”
“Is this the tip of the iceberg?”
“What do you mean?”
“We know about Armstrong and Edberg because of their connection to the Manthes case. Are there other cases? Other threats? Other cover-ups?”
It was possible, but we had to stay focused. “With all the aspects of the Manthes case we’re uncovering, I think I’d concentrate on that before worrying if there are others. Now that we’re looking for the dirty cop in our department, we’re bound to find him. Hopefully soon.”
“You’re wise for being so young, you know that?”
I felt much older than I had one short week before.
“Sheriff, Armstrong left on vacation. What about Edberg? Same deal?”
“Should be, but Edberg’s kind of a stubborn old coot. He may not fly away as easily as Armstrong did.”
I went on a long run, but it didn’t chase away my racing thoughts. There were many levels and facets to the cult investigation, and the implications were frightening. There was a dark dimension in our midst, invading our county’s primary law enforcement department, and we needed to identify it. Stop it. The sheriff had good reasons for his grave concerns. We all did.
Sheriff Twardy had brought up valid considerations. Were there other cult-related cases? Other personnel in the sheriff’s department who had bowed to personal threats and enabled more cover-ups?
I mentally reviewed the discussions I’d had with the victims, professionals, and officers, including Gregory Trippen, Dr. Marcella Fischer, Nichole Jaspers, Alden Armstrong, Bob Edberg, Smoke, and Sheriff Twardy.
Bob Edberg had indicated my damaged car was meant as a warning. If so, whoever had done it had given me more credit for connecting the dots than I deserved. Acts of vandalism were committed by a wide range of people, with any number of motives. It could be an act of revenge, or it could be an emotional display.
I thought of one man I had arrested. He was mad at his girlfriend for breaking up with him and had cut the arms off two of her coats. One was a sable fur. Very expensive. It was possible someone I had arrested had keyed my car out of revenge. Or was it done as a warning?
I dropped by the sheriff’s office before the start of my shift, and he waved me in. “Close the door.”
I did, then handed him the list of party guests and sat down in a chair. “More questions about my mother’s birthday gift?” I kidded.
The sheriff snickered softly. “Thanks. I needed a little comic relief. You talk to Dawes today?”
“No.”
“I called Edberg to come in shortly after I talked to you this morning. He was relieved I knew about the whole ordeal and offered to do everything he could to help clean house here. Expose those you-know-whats for every bad deed we can uncover. Edberg had no interest in taking his mother away, but he’ll probably move her to a friend’s house until we get to the bottom of this.”
“That’ll give him some peace of mind.”
“The other thing you should know. I unofficially assigned Edberg to investigations. Dawes is very efficient, but he needs help.”
“That’s a good idea, Sheriff. Edberg seems motivated to find whoever was behind all those years of threats.”
“He’s a damn good detective. I’ve tried to talk him into taking a position in investigations for years, but he would never go for it. He likes being a patrol deputy.”
“I’m willing to put in more hours, help with whatever.”
Twardy nodded. “It takes so much time when you want answers yesterday. Dawes is concentrating on the three hunters, mostly Sparrow, for now. Their personal friends. Professional contacts. Bank records. Holdings. You name it. Basic background, which takes a hell of a long time.
“There are men and women in this department I know with certainty are not the Benedict Arnold. Kenner is one, Captain Randolph is another. Edberg is going to work with them, figure out a game plan to catch that bastard.”
“Good.”
“I still can’t understand how two—not one but two—of our sworn officers told no one, not one person in the department, what was happening.”
“I know. I’ve thought about that a lot. We put ourselves in personal danger. It’s part of the job. But if someone threatens the life of your loved one and you’re convinced they will do what they’ve threatened if you don’t follow their instructions, that’s a different story. Both Armstrong and Edberg said they thought they’d figure out who it was, but they never did.”
“Yeah, I guess we can’t say for sure what we’d do unless we were in the same boat. Officers have a strong need to protect others. That’s part of the deal. I’d have maybe done the same, if I think of it that way. I want to say I wouldn’t, but I don’t know.”
I nodded.
I stopped by Smoke’s desk to check on his progress.
“I may have to take a trip to Germany, darn it,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Dieter Munden, the pharmacist. Born and raised in Germany. Came to the U.S. for college and stayed. Got his citizenship fifteen years ago. Attended the University of Wisconsin in Madison. Went to work in the drugstore in Wellspring after graduation then bought it three years later. I talked to the former owner. He said Dieter paid cash, which tells me his family has money or he has friends in high places. Or Sparrow paid him big bucks for the hunting episode.”
“Gregory Trippen and Nichole Jaspers both said they were given drugs. A pharmacist would come in handy.”
“Very. No complaints against Munden are registered with the Board of Pharmacy. But in the past, drug traceability ended at the manufacturing process. Now regulations require a certified chain of custody to improve security and prevent counterfeiting, which had been a huge problem. But if you’re unlawful and smart, there are creative ways around regulations.”
“Really?” I quipped.
“I’ve done some very informal interviews, so people I’ve talked to don’t know who I am or that I’m conducting an investigation, or that I’m doing anything other than making general conversation. I found out Munden belongs to the Lions and the Presbyterian Church.”
Smoke thought for a second. “This is interesting. He had a wife who died in childbirth, apparently on the way to the hospital. She was home alone and called an ambulance. Don’t know where Munden was. No other kids and he didn’t remarry.” He referred to his notes as he talked.
“Wow. That’s a little suspicious.”
“Lives in a nice house, not extravagant. I’m close to accessing bank records, but that’s a little trickier.” He flipped another page in his notebook. “And I paid a visit directly to Cyril Bishop of the Wellspring Mortuary and Cremation Services.”
That surprised me. “You did?”
“I may not have used my real name, or the official purpose of my visit.”
I smiled. “You were not there as a Winnebago County detective. And you’re sure he didn’t recognize you? You’ve never had any calls there as a deputy, or as a detective?”
He nodded. “I responded to a call there a number of years ago when family members actually came to blows over their mother’s funeral arrangements. But no, he didn’t recognize me. I may have looked different this time, changed my appearance some.” Smoke raised his eyebrows up and down several times, and I smiled again.
“I went in for some pre-planning of my funeral and was able to weasel a little info out of him. He inherited the business from his uncle. Uncle had no sons or daughters to leave it to. It’s been in the family for three generations. He’s married, has a son who will be joining him in the business when he finishes college. Belongs to the non-denominational church out there.”
“How did you get him to talk about his family?”
“It’s amazing what a guy will tell a lonely older man when he wants to make a sale. Then I went to the local café and chatted with some folks. Word is no one knows much about Bishop personally. He’s friendly out in public, but it appears his family membe
rs are his only real friends, as far as they could tell. Has one assistant who is on call to pick up bodies when Bishop is away. I’d like to talk to him, but he has another job, and we haven’t connected yet.”
“So how did Bishop strike you?”
“Like he isn’t the same underneath as he is on the surface. Superficial, but in a much darker way. And I don’t think it’s from all the embalming fluid he’s inhaled over the years.”
“The crematorium is connected to the mortuary?”
“Yup. Both Armstrong and Edberg did some version of checking them out twenty years ago, and probably since, but came up with nothing. The sheriff mentioned hiring a private eye, if need be, and it may come to that. I’d like to put twenty-four-hour surveillance on these yahoos.”
“Anything on Sparrow yet?”
“Not much. I talked to some people at the Little Mountain Hospital. There again, just casual conversation so as not to arouse suspicion. I’ll head up to Saint Cloud tomorrow, see what I come up with.”
“Gregory Trippen will be back next week. His paperwork should help.”
“I am praying for names and dates and specific criminal acts, so we can nail them good.”
“Me too. You’re making fine progress. You’ve gotten a lot in a few days.”
32: The Coven
Roman pulled his car over to the curb beside a parking meter in the last available spot, two blocks from the Harbor Shelter in downtown Minneapolis. He hurried out of his car to the curb and dropped some coins in the meter. Roman was dressed in jeans and a navy sweatshirt. Nothing to call attention to his appearance. He walked at a near-jogging pace to the shelter, signed in, and went back outside to wait for the van. It was six minutes before eight p.m. He had a two-hour shift, from eight to ten p.m.
Seven minutes later, a blue van with bold white letters spelling out HARBOR SHELTER stopped a few feet from where he stood. A tall, chubby black man climbed out of the driver’s seat and waved at him. “Hey, Doc, good to see you. Can you give me a hand?”
“Hi, Pete. Busy night?”
“Oh yeah, nicer weather gets ’em out of their winter hiding places. Talked two into coming with me to sleep it off in a nice bed.”
Roman walked over and opened the side door. Strong, mingled odors of different alcoholic beverages escaped the van then drifted into the evening air. He offered his arm to an older white man with gray hair and whiskers. The man’s head bounced slightly as he grabbed Roman’s arm for support and tried to find his balance.
“There you go, sir. Nice and steady.” When the man was on the ground, Roman walked with him into the shelter. A couple of volunteers stepped forward and took over. When he turned around, he saw Pete was holding onto an American Indian.
Within minutes the drunks were safely delivered inside, and Roman began his tour of duty. At nine o’clock, he added more coins to the meter his car was parked by to avoid a ticket. He stopped at various places, finding an occasional intoxicated man or woman who was willing to go with him. By nine thirty he’s made three trips back to the shelter with people.
At nine forty he found him: a thin, bearded man in his thirties who strongly resembled Jeffrey Trippen from the printout Noris had given him. He was wearing blue jeans and a black tee shirt stamped with a logo that was no longer readable. No jacket to keep him warm on the chilly evening.
The young man was completely wasted.
“Hey, dude, what are you on tonight?” Roman moved in for a closer look. Constricted pupils, watery eyes, droopy eyelids. Roman touched the man’s arm, and his skin felt clammy.
The man focused on Roman as best he could, wondering if he knew him. “Found me some smack.”
Heroin. Perfect. Putty in his hands.
Roman needed assurance the man wasn’t carrying a weapon and gently patted his back, then around his waist and pocket area. The man didn’t seem to notice. No weapon and no wallet.
“So where’s your backpack? Your ID?”
His words were slurred. “Sold my ID awhile back. Traded my backpack and stuff for the smack.”
“Nothing of value, I hope.”
“Yeah, but I can’t tell you. Secret.” It came out she-cret.
“Where do you live? Can I give you a ride back to your family?”
He grunted. “My family gave up on me a long time ago. I live everywhere, and nowhere.”
“It’s okay, we’ll see what I can do to help you. I got some smack of my own, enough to share if you want.”
“No shit. Whadda I gotta do?”
“Not a thing. I’m rich and I like to share my wealth.”
“Serious, man?”
“Yeah, we’ll drive this van to my car, and you can wait for me there.”
“Iz a deal.”
Roman helped him into the van and drove to an alley half a block from his car. There was no one hanging out there, so Roman parked, got himself and the other man out, then assisted him to the sidewalk at the edge of the building.
“Okay, you wait for me in my car. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.”
He pointed. “Walk to the blue car there. I’ll open the lock and you climb into the back seat. You lie down there and rest for a few minutes.”
“Okay.” He seemed to understand and managed to get to Roman’s vehicle without falling. Roman hit the keyless-entry button. The man struggled with the handle and finally got it open. He climbed in the back seat, closed the door, and disappeared.
Roman smiled. He was easier than most. He usually had to repeat instructions several times to an impaired person. He was still standing in back of the van when a couple, a man and a woman both badly in need of showers, walked down the sidewalk toward him. He willed himself to be calm, smiled, and said, “Good evening.”
They glanced his direction, but didn’t respond. When they passed, Roman hopped in the van and drove back to the shelter. He signed out and handed the keys to Mac and Cindy, a husband and wife team who often volunteered.
Roman jogged to his car and climbed in. Calming relief washed over him when he looked over his shoulder at the young man passed out on the back seat. He pushed the trunk release button, got out, and retrieved his medical bag from the trunk. He slid back behind the wheel and laid the bag on the front passenger seat. A syringe loaded with a sedative was in the bag, if needed.
The young man slept through the entire forty-five mile drive to Wellspring. The closer they got, the more uneasy Roman felt. Usually it was the other way around. Were all the years of securing sacrificial offerings catching up with him? Something was wrong.
The young man stirred when they pulled into Dieter Munden’s driveway and stopped. “Huh?” he said, making an effort to sit up.
“Let’s go inside the house where it’s warm.” Roman climbed out and opened the back car door. The young man latched onto Roman’s arm and got out. Roman assisted him to the door, where Dieter greeted them.
“Come in.”
They went in and walked directly to the door leading to the lower level. The two older men held on, preventing the younger one from falling down the steps. Dieter had the basement room prepared.
“Heroin?” Dieter asked.
Roman nodded.
“His name?”
“I didn’t ask, and he said he sold his ID card.”
The young man lifted his heavy eyelids as best he could. “Talkin’ about me?”
“Yes, son,” Roman said.
“Lost my home, lost my family, lost my name. They call me Blue.”
“Okay, Blue. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Where’s the smack?”
“First you take a shower and change into clean clothes,” Roman said.
Blue was nearly sober when they finished scrubbing him with soap and a shower brush. Roman toweled him dry then Dieter slid a white gown over his head.
“What’s this?” Blue asked.
“Something comfortable,” Roman said as Dieter stuck a short needle in the side of Blue’s n
eck and pushed the syringe plunger with his thumb, emptying the contents in seconds.
They grabbed onto Blue as he collapsed and laid him on the specially-equipped table. They secured restraints around his waist, hands, and ankles. There was no reason to tape his mouth shut. No one would hear him. In twenty-four hours, he would be freed from his life on the streets forever.
33
The small Winnebago County Courthouse conference room was filled to near capacity with deputies, corrections and communications officers, office personnel from the sheriff’s department, county attorneys, and probation officers. The other sheriff’s employees, attorneys, and probation officers had either gone through the adventure in the two days prior or were scheduled for the afternoon session. Those who had gone through the course were sworn to secrecy about it.
I noticed Smoke and Chief Deputy Mike Kenner standing in the front of the room when I walked in. Smoke blinked his eyes twice to acknowledge me. I scanned the sea of people and spotted Mandy Zubinski, one of my team members, sitting in a middle row. I took the empty chair to her left.
“Hey,” she offered.
“Hey,” I returned. “Good-sized crowd, lots of teams.”
“Yeah.”
Most of the people were in jeans and hooded sweatshirts. A few wore sweatpants. A number had on hiking boots, and the rest were in athletic shoes. Two things distinguished the deputies from the civilians: a sidearm and a badge, either attached to a belt or hanging from a neck chain. A day off from Kevlar vests, at least.
The chief deputy drew his hands together in a loud clap. “All right! If I can have everyone’s attention, we’ll get started.” It took a minute for the din to die. “You all know your team assignments. Is there anyone missing?”
An Altar by the River Page 18
