by Rachel Ford
“We’re talking about a finished product. It doesn’t matter what the components are. It’s the end result that decides what it is.”
At this point, the waitress decided she didn’t want to be involved. “Well, I can see it both ways. I really don’t know. You two have yourselves a wonderful day, okay?”
Tanney laughed once she’d gone, and declared, “You’d better leave her a big tip after that. I’m pretty sure we scared her. Or you did, anyway.”
Tanney paid, and Owen left a tip – a good tip. She’d earned it, that was for sure, and not just by listening to them. She’d come in after a whiteout blizzard. That deserved something.
Then they headed out into the cold again. The parking lot had been blitzed by a plow early in the morning, but the job hadn’t been thorough. There were lines of snow and half-banks all over the place.
A plow had come by some time during their breakfast, and added a few inches to the snowbanks along the sidewalk, and buried the driveway. Not that it mattered to them. They hadn’t driven.
So they dove into the snow, through the piles and the drifts. Tanney seemed in a more gregarious frame of mind than he had been. He shook his head and laughed.
“Thank God my kids can’t see this, that’s all I can say.”
“See what?”
“See me, up to my balls in snow. They’d be packing my bags for California or Texas before we got back to the hotel.”
Owen snorted. “All you’d have to do is try that pancakes and waffle thing on them. They’d skip California or Texas and send you straight to a home for the senile and-or depraved.”
Tanney laughed a deep belly laugh, and the effort made him cough a little. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
Owen grinned and steadied the old man as they climbed a snowbank. “At least I know what a damned pancake –”
He stopped suddenly, mid-sentence. He froze in place, too.
Tanney teetered for a moment, then caught his balance and half-turned. “What the hell,” he started. Then, seeing Owen’s face, he changed his tone. “What’s wrong, Owen? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Owen felt like he’d seen a ghost. “It’s not a pancake,” he said.
Tanney stared at him, concern in his expression. “Okay. I wasn’t serious.”
“It’s a waffle.” Owen squeezed the old man’s arm. “It’s not a pancake, it’s a waffle.”
Tanney stared with mounting alarm. “Okay. Okay, Owen. I was just joking.”
Owen brushed this aside with a sweep of his hand. “Not real waffles. I mean, they’re not pancakes either. But…” He shook his head to clear his thoughts, like his brain was some kind of Etch-a-Sketch that just needed to be reset. “The killings, Tanney. They’re like the pancakes and waffles. They’re the same things, but not the same things.”
Tanney went on staring at him, concern and confusion in his face. “We should get you inside,” he said. “Out of the cold.”
“No. No, listen. You said waffles were really pancakes, because they’re made of the same things pancakes are made of, right?”
“Yeah, but I was just bullshitting. Arguing to pass the time.”
“Right. But you were right.”
“I was?”
“They are made of the same thing. Pancake batter, waffle batter, it’s the same thing.”
Tanney went on staring, seemingly too confused to know how to respond.
“They’re the same thing, but different. Just like the shootings. Marsha and Rick: they were both murdered on their own property. So we’re assuming they’re both the same thing. Like pancakes.”
“Murder pancakes?” Tanney asked, an eyebrow raised.
“Just work with it,” Owen said. He was too far into his explanation to switch analogies. “What I’m saying is, we’re looking at the batter.”
“Murder batter?”
“Yes. We’re looking at batter and seeing pancakes. We’re forgetting that you can also make waffles.”
“Listen, Owen, you either just had a breakthrough or a breakdown. I’m going to need you to start over. Slowly, with no more talk about pancakes, for God’s sake.”
Owen nodded and opened his mouth to speak.
Tanney cut him off. “After we get in the damned building.”
Owen obliged, and he reorganized his thoughts as they made their way through the snow. Then, still brushing wet, white clumps off himself, Tanney spoke.
“Okay, so at the beginning. Try again.”
“Once Marsha got killed, I figured I was wrong about Judge Wynder’s murder being connected to the serial killer.”
“Right.”
“I wasn’t wrong. I was looking at the two murders, husband and wife, and assuming they were connected. Assuming the same guy killed them both.”
“Or woman.”
“Right. That’s what I got wrong, though. They were killed by different people.”
Tanney frowned. “Hold on, you’re saying someone shot the judge, and then someone else came back to finish off his missus?”
“Exactly.”
“Why the hell would they do that?”
“The burglary.”
“What burglary?”
“When Marsha was killed. Remember? They took a computer and something else.”
Tanney nodded. “So, you think it was a serial killer and a random robbery gone wrong?”
“No. No, you were right about one thing, Tanney.”
The old man snorted. “Just one?”
Owen ignored the comment. “You said they were connected, all the Midwest serial killer’s victims, in some way I wasn’t seeing. I think you’re right about that. I think someone killed the judge because of something he did.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe something to do with the whole private prison scandal. But whatever – they killed him because of something he did, or was tied to, or knew. And then someone else came to collect that computer and whatever else they didn’t want to fall into the wrong people’s hands.”
“And Marsha?”
“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She spotted the thief, maybe confronted him.”
“Or her.”
“And he shot her.”
Tanney shook his head. “That’s a hell of a lot of assumptions and guesswork, Owen.”
“I know. I know. But I’m right.”
The other man stared skeptically. Then, he asked, “And pancakes and waffles? Dare I ask how they fit in?”
Owen smiled. “It’s a half-baked analogy. But the murders were the batter; and we were assuming that the finished product would be the same. Both pancakes. Not seeing that one was a waffle.”
“Wouldn’t the murder be the finished product?”
“Like I say…it was a little half-baked.”
“It’s a weird-ass analogy is what it is. But did you really come up with a whole new theory about murder because we were talking about pancakes?”
Owen shrugged. He wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped thinking about it. There’d been something off about this the whole time. But if an argument about pancakes was the impetus his brain needed to make the final connection, well, so be it. “I guess so.”
Tanney shook his head. “I guess it makes sense.”
“What?”
“That the analogy is only as strange as the man.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Halverson reached Sean Abbot’s house just after eleven in the morning. The trip over wasn’t the worst he’d ever made, but it wasn’t the best, either.
Abbot lived just on the other side of the county line, on a sideroad that wound its way through expensive, wooded properties with big homes and private lakes. Despite the road’s lazy, circuitous route, and the fact that it led nowhere fast, it always managed to find its way to the top of the list for maintenance, repairs and upkeep.
Right now, it looked better than some of the county roads he’d taken. The snow had been cleared away, a
nd sand and salt solution spread over the surface to combat ice.
That’s what happens when you live on a road full of millionaires, I guess.
And Sean Abbot was a millionaire. That was half of how he’d wound up the state’s attorney general. He had deep pockets, family money, and all the connections that those entail.
Even after his divorce six years earlier, there’d be no appreciable change. Abbot had stepped back from political life. He spent more time on his yacht, and more time with his grandkids. But losing half of his family fortune hadn’t seemed to impact his lifestyle in any negative way.
Ah, to have it all.
Halverson pulled into the drive. It too had been plowed, though presumably not by the county. It was a long, winding private drive through a dense forest. He passed a patch of evergreens, and then moved into a wide spread of leafless, deciduous trees.
Halverson was no kind of botanist, but he figured these were some kind of oaks, or maybe maples. They were tall and wide, with a wide spread of branches, and deep, grooved bark. Which meant oak, not maple. Didn’t it?
He wasn’t sure. Either way, the place would be beautiful any other season. Right now, with the leaves all gone and the branches bare, with snow and ice all over the place, it looked a little…well, creepy.
The snowy pines had had a Christmas village look to them. This was distinctly Halloween city.
He wound his way down the drive. Like the road itself, it twisted and turned ostentatiously, as if to give the impression of a remoteness more extreme even than the reality.
He passed a pond and crossed a little stream. Both had frozen over, but portions of the ice had melted across the stream. He could see burbling and foaming water rushing by.
Then he reached the home itself, and the yard. The aspect of the place was incredible. It was situated at an angle, with half of the house facing the morning sun and the other half facing the afternoon. The home’s great windows opened onto yet another body of water, and a massive yard filled with ancient hardwoods. Behind it all sat the endless expanse of forest.
The house itself was disappointingly ugly, though. At least, that’s what Halverson thought. Oh, he had no doubt it cost more than he’d ever make in a lifetime. But it looked more like a bank than a home, with gables stacked on top of each other like medals on some kind of tinpot dictator’s chest.
It was ostentatious and showy for the sake of it: a monument to wealth rather than a work of art. It would have been bad enough when Abbot had been married, and there were other people around to share it. But living here alone? It had to feel like a tomb.
Not that he, in his generations-old farmhouse, had any place to criticize, of course. It was a hell of a lot smaller than this place. The whole thing could fit in a few rooms of the bank house. And it would probably sell for less than Abbot’s lawn décor. But, small and inexpensive as it was, it could feel tomblike in its own right.
This place, he thought, had to feel like a sepulcher, especially on days like this one – when the sun stayed out of sight in a gray sky, and the wind screamed and howled through the trees. A haunted sepulcher.
Then, he shook his head. He needed sleep, urgently. His imagination was running away with itself.
He headed up the walk to the front door and rang the bell. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door opened, and a man stared out at him.
He didn’t know him personally, but he’d seen his ads and campaign mailings plenty of times. He’d seen his face all over the local news during election seasons past. So he recognized the man: Sean Abbot. Not quite the polished, smiling face he’d been ten years ago.
This Sean Abbot was older and needed a shave. He looked like he needed a good night’s sleep, too. There were dark ruts under his eyes. But it was Sean Abbot, all the same.
Halverson stuck out his hand. “Mr. Abbot? My name’s Halverson. I’m the sheriff of Yellow River County.”
Abbot frowned at him but took the hand. “Can I help you, Sheriff?”
“Yes sir. I apologize for the lack of advance warning. I was in the area so I thought I’d try.” A lie, but a necessary one. He didn’t want to wind up on the former AG’s schedule for some time in the future, or penciled in as an eventual appointment. He also didn’t want to give him time to think over the questions he might ask. “But I was wondering if you had a few moments to talk to me.”
“What about?”
“I’m sure you heard what happened to Richard Wynder?”
“The judge?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. Terrible business. Someone killed the wife too, didn’t they?”
“Yes sir. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Me? I’m sorry, sheriff. I don’t know anything about that, except what I’ve read in the papers.”
A strange thing to say, Halverson thought. But he nodded anyway. “Yes sir. My questions are about the judge and the Reed Hill scandal. I believe you led the investigation at the time?”
Abbot’s face changed. It didn’t relax, exactly, but it took on a slightly different guarded aspect. “That’s right. But I wouldn’t say ‘scandal.’ It was really – well, a big nothing burger.”
Halverson nodded again. “Would you mind answering a few questions about it?”
Abbot considered for a moment and then shrugged. “Sure. But you’d better come in. We’ll freeze to death if we conduct an interview here, Sheriff.”
Halverson laughed politely and followed the other man into a massive space. A foyer, he guessed, but it was as big as his living room, and two or three times as tall. “That’s a relief,” he said.
“I’m impressed you were able to get out at all with the roads the way they are, to be honest,” Abbot said. Then, he moved toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee? I need a second cup.”
Halverson thanked him and accepted the offer. They entered a palatial space with detailed tilework and steel appliances everywhere. He was pretty sure he’d never seen as many appliances as this kitchen sported.
In the center of the room sat a massive island with stools at one end, making a kind of kitchen bar. Abbot waved him toward it and asked what kind of coffee he wanted.
“Dark roast, please.”
Abbot popped a pod into a machine, and a mug under the spout. It gurgled and burbled, and fragrant, steaming liquid started to stream out.
Halverson glanced around the kitchen, at the way the light came through the windows and played along the tiles, at the brilliant use of space – and the sheer vastness of the space. For all his criticisms of the exterior, he could find nothing to fault inside the house.
The coffeemaker finished, and Abbot swapped pods and mugs. The process repeated, and then he joined Halverson at the table. “Cream or sugar?”
Halverson shook his head. “No thanks.”
Abbot handed over the coffee and took a seat. “Right. Well, what can I help you with then, Sheriff?”
Apparently, he meant for the interview to happen here. There was an air of casualness to that, but also a degree of separation, as if Halverson wasn’t really wanted in the more private spaces. Like he was the help.
Halverson didn’t mind particularly. He’d dealt with guys like Abbot before: the moneyed set. Some liked to pretend they were just like everyone else, just average joes. And some liked to reinforce the distinction, to remind the average joes that they were anything but average.
It was all the same to him. So he offered a polite smile and thanked the other man again. He appreciated his time – especially on such short notice – and so on. All the happy horseshit he was expected to say in the circumstance.
Then he asked, “So when your office investigated Judge Wynder, were you personally involved?”
Abbot nodded. “Oversaw it myself. A big nothing burger, like I say.”
He nodded measuredly. “Do you mind telling me about it? What led to the investigation? What kind of ‘nothing burger’ was it – rumors? Suspi
cious but nothing could be proved?”
“Nothing could be proved because there was nothing there. We opened the case out of an abundance of caution. Some reporter had done some digging and found that Wynder – back when he was on a lower court – had sentenced a bunch of people to prison time.”
“Nothing suspicious about that, is it?”
“Ordinarily, no. If it was a public prison, no one would have batted an eyelash. They probably would have thought Rick was a hero. ‘Tough on crime’ and all that.”
He took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “But you know how it is, especially when politics are at play. It wasn’t a public prison. Reed Hill costs the taxpayers a lot of money every year, and the money goes to a private company. People stand to profit.”
“A lot of money?” Halverson asked.
“A hell of a lot of money. It’s big business. It’s a billion-dollar industry.”
Halverson knew that. He’d done his research. But he looked duly impressed. “Billion with a ‘b’?”
“You better believe it. Almost five billion. And there have been scandals before. Real ones, I mean.”
“What kind of scandals?”
“Judges taking kickbacks for sentencing people to prison, or for handing down extended sentences.”
“Like a sales commission?”
“Something like that, yes. All highly illegal, of course.”
“Of course.”
Abbot tapped the rim of his mug. “So you can see why there had to be an investigation. People were worried. There was the fear that they would lose faith in the justice system. And…”
“And?”
“I assume you think this might have some bearing on Rick’s death, Sheriff?”
Halverson didn’t answer right away. “To be entirely frank with you, sir, we don’t really know. We’re looking for motives.”
“And right now, you don’t have one?”
“Nope.”
“I can see why this would interest you then. I wish I could tell you I had something for you. But I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. When I say it was a nothing burger, I mean exactly that. Nothing at all. We looked into every account, pulled every bank record. We looked at Marsha’s accounts, and the kids. Hell, we looked at the ex-wife.”
