by Rachel Ford
“Really?”
Abbot nodded. “She wasn’t happy about it, either.”
“What about Rick?”
Abbot shook his head. “Couldn’t have asked for a more cooperative subject. The truth is, I think he wanted us to clear his name. Without an investigation, the rumors would have followed him around for the rest of his life.”
“So, why did you open a case, exactly? Was it just on the basis of rumors?”
Abbot smiled. A knowing smile. “Ah. Well, that’s a complicated answer, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“I assume you read the article – the piece that spawned this whole thing?”
Halverson said that he wasn’t sure. He’d read several articles about the business.
“Yes. It was a regular media frenzy for a bit. But the original piece – it was written by some Pulitzer-chasing ‘e-journalist’ or whatever they’re called nowadays. A young hotshot out to make a name for himself, working for some half-baked online newspaper. Name of Carrington or something like that.”
He didn’t remember the piece, and he said so now.
“I’m not surprised. You’d probably have to search the web archives. The place he was writing for went out of business a few years later.”
“And Carrington? Did he get his Pulitzer?”
“No. But he did get a lot of attention, and a job at one of the big papers. The Times, I think. Anyway, it was good journalism, and it was appalling journalism. All well-sourced and factually accurate. But a load of – well, bullshit at the same time.”
Halverson asked him to elucidate.
“Let’s say I wrote a piece about you, Sheriff, and your work.”
“Okay.”
“I’d note that there have been two recent murders in your county. True, yes?”
He nodded affirmation but said nothing.
“I could probably note that you own guns. I assume you do?”
Halverson nodded again.
“I could say you knew the deceased. Also true, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Those are all facts. You own guns, you knew the deceased, you live in the relative area that they were murdered. Factual. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“But suppose I wrote it in such a way to imply – never to say, or even to speculate, but only to plant the idea – that maybe there’s some significance to you owning guns and living in the same county.”
“That would be libelous, wouldn’t it?”
“Not at all. You do live in Yellow River County, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And by your own admission, you own guns, and you knew Rick and Marsha. And they are dead now. It’s all true.”
“But my guns have nothing to do with their death.”
“And I didn’t say they did. I simply noted the fact. Whatever conclusions you drew were your conclusions, not mine.” He shrugged. “That’s the way Carrington did it: very carefully. Very professionally.”
Abbot stared at some point Halverson couldn’t see. “Libel requires falsehoods. He didn’t print anything false. He printed the tallies of Rick’s convictions, and the cost to the taxpayer, and cherrypicked examples of sentences he didn’t agree with – sentences that, years later, devoid of context, seemed disproportionate. All smoke and mirrors.”
“Still,” Halverson said, “there had to be something to it. I mean, to open an investigation afterwards.”
Abbot smiled, a pensive kind of smile. “You remember I said it got complicated?”
“I remember.”
“I don’t know if you remember that election, Sheriff.”
“Not really, no.”
“Wynder’s seat was the swing seat. Whoever won the election would tip the balance of the court, conservative or liberal.”
“It’s a nonpartisan position, isn’t it?”
Abbot smiled – not quite condescendingly, but vaguely patronizingly. “Of course. Like our national supreme court is.”
“Good point,” Halverson conceded.
“The parties were involved. Each side had their candidates picked out. And Wynder – well, what I’m about to say is purely speculation. My own speculation. No one ever said anything along these lines, or even dropped hints. It’s just my feeling from the situation. I want to be clear about that.”
“Understood,” Halverson prompted.
“Everyone at the time seemed to agree that an investigation should be opened. The governor, several of the other justices, the press, the Republicans, the Democrats, the people.”
“His own party, then? So they didn’t trust him?”
“I didn’t say that. I said they wanted an investigation.”
“Why –?”
“Why would they want an investigation if they didn’t think there was something in the accusation? That’s where we get to my speculation. I think the thought at the time was that the rumors would be too damaging in the election unless they were addressed first. My suspicion – and again, this is entirely suspicion on my part – is that they would have exerted pressure on Wynder not to run again.”
“His party?”
“Exactly.”
Halverson considered that news, and he considered his next question. It wasn’t going to be an easy one to ask, but in light of Abbot’s theory, he had no choice.
Except that the other man intervened first. “And I know what you’re thinking – what you are too polite to ask. If it was all so political, did I let politics cloud my judgement?”
Halverson nodded ever so slightly. That was exactly the question he wanted to ask.
“No. Your job is partisan, Sheriff, right? Candidates run as either a Democrat or a Republican?”
“That’s right.”
“You probably see your neighbors’ yard signs. You know who the Democrats are, and who the Republicans are. Right?”
“That’s right,” he said again.
“Would you ever frame one of them over politics?”
“Of course not.”
“Exactly. Rick was a good guy. And as much as – politically – it would have benefited the party to bring him down, well, I would never do that. You can’t escape politics in this line of work, but it doesn’t have to be cutthroat. So – to tell you the truth – I was glad we could clear him.”
“Really?”
Abbot nodded. “We didn’t always agree, obviously. But he was a good guy. And he was innocent. And – more selfishly; more politically – that kind of thing is always potentially messy anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s say I found evidence.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s say it was good evidence, but maybe not perfect. What do I do?”
“I guess it depends on how good.”
“Yes. But if my office recommends charges on anything less than a perfect case, it’s a political hitjob. Not really, but that’s how the other side sees it. Hell, that’s how a lot of them will see it no matter what. I could have a signed confession, and they’d still say it was a hitjob. That’s politics nowadays.”
Halverson nodded. “So clearing him–”
“Is the right thing to do. I look fair and impartial – because, as corny as it sounds, I was. I was just doing my job. And the political stink bomb…” He made a gesture like he was clearing his hands. “Is out of my hands. Win-win.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
He waited until he saw the sheriff’s car disappear into the woods. Then he waited two more minutes, just in case Halverson decided to come back for some reason.
Then he pulled out his cell, and he dialed a number. A Missouri number. A number he thought he’d never have to call again.
It picked up after three rings. “Sean?” a voice said.
He skipped the preamble. He got right to it. “We’ve got a problem.”
A pause. “What kind of problem?”
“You know what kind. The sheriff from Yellow River showed
up.”
Another pause. “I thought you said you didn’t leave any evidence?” the voice asked.
“I didn’t. They weren’t here about me. They know, Roy. He said he didn’t have any leads, but he was bullshitting.”
The voice – Roy – asked, “What did he say, exactly?”
So Sean told him, word for word, or as close as he could remember. “He wouldn’t let it drop. He wouldn’t take ‘nothing burger’ for an answer. He knows, Roy. I’m telling you. He knows.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing – nothing at all. I played it down, all of it.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Yes.” Then, he shook his head. “No. I don’t know. He seemed…suspicious. I don’t think he knows the extent of it. I don’t think he suspects me. But – but he knows Rick was working for you.”
“No names, goddammit.”
“Sorry. It just – Roy, you told me this would never be a problem. You told me.”
“It’s not a problem.”
Sean shook his head, flabbergasted and annoyed. “Are you listening to me, dammit? He knows. He knows!”
“I heard you. I believe you. But it’s not going to be a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ll handle it.”
Sean snorted a laugh, a derisive, dismissive sound. “What are you going to do – kill a sheriff?”
Silence.
Sean frowned. “You’re not going to, are you?”
Another pause, shorter this time. Then, “Don’t worry about it, Sean. You handled it well. You did the right thing in calling. Now, try not to think about it anymore. It won’t be a problem.”
* * *
Owen laid his papers across the coffee table. They were seated in the hotel lobby, with a clear view of the diner. Owen needed that to catch the sheriff whenever he came back for lunch.
In the meantime, he was explaining his theory to Tanney. “You said I was missing something – something that connected all the killings.”
“Yes.”
“You were right.”
“Not that that’s not something I love to hear…but how?”
Owen tapped a photo of a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes and a shave that was fresh a week ago. “Eugene Cooper.”
“Am I supposed to recognize Prince Charming there?”
“Eugene Cooper.”
“Right. I think I saw the name in your notes.”
“Yeah. He was one of the victims, killed in Michigan.”
“Okay. And?”
Owen tapped another page, this one a biography. “He was linked to multiple domestics, sexual assaults, and had a possible involvement with a missing girl.”
Tanney grimaced. “Nice guy.”
“Not at all. And then there’s this guy.” He tapped a picture of a youngish Hmong man. “Randy Khang: suspected gang activity. He was linked to human trafficking on I-90. Linked, but nothing could ever be proven.”
He shifted papers to bring up printouts from several newspapers, tapping the headlines in quick succession. “Witnesses disappeared. They recanted their testimony. They decided they’d been mistaken.”
Tanney’s expression darkened. “Another prince among men.”
“And look.” He pulled a photo of a man in his thirties to the top of the pile. He had a set, square jaw, and no hair on his face except his eyebrows. “Thomas Chojnowski, age thirty-four. Known KKK affiliations. Felony assault and battery charges. Suspect number one in an arson attack on a Sikh temple in Milwaukee that left one dead and multiple people injured.”
He skimmed through the papers until he found what he was looking for: an article describing the event and the aftermath. “They investigated him for months, but they didn’t have enough to charge him. His mother and father swore he’d spent the night at their house, and they couldn’t get them to change their story or slip-up.”
Tanney shook his head. “Rapists, killers, human traffickers, white supremacists…I’m still not seeing the link. I mean, Khang and Chojnowski couldn’t have been working together. A Hmong gang leader and a KKK member?”
“No,” Owen said. “No, they weren’t working together. That’s not the link. The link is, they’re all criminals. Serious criminals. Killers, rapists, human traffickers.”
Tanney stared. “What? You’re saying this is some kind of vigilante thing?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Look at them, William: they’re not just dirtbags. They’re dirtbags who got away with killing people. The justice system tried to nail them – we assume, anyway – and failed. Someone’s doing what the system couldn’t or wouldn’t.”
Tanney’s eyebrows rose. He wasn’t buying it. That was clear. “What about her?” he asked, tapping another picture. “Mary or Margaret or whatever her name is. Your file has nothing about her being a criminal.”
“Mary Koehler,” Owen said.
“Right. She’s like, what? A mom or something?”
Owen paused at that and thought. He remembered her biography, of course. Mother of three, church secretary, leader of a local 4-H club and business owner. “And widow,” he said aloud.
“What?”
“She’s a widow.”
“Is that a crime now?”
Owen fired up his tablet. “We’re not talking crimes. This guy isn’t law enforcement. He’s a vigilante.”
“Still, who is going to kill someone because their husband died? That’s crazy.”
Owen brought up google, and glanced over his sheet of paper, looking for the name of Mary Koehler’s dead husband. Ralph Koehler. He put it into the search engine, along with the word “death.”
Dozens of hits popped up. The first title read, “Tragic boating accident claims life of local businessman and philanthropist.” The others more or less followed the same pattern: boating accident, tragedy, local businessman. Some mentioned a silver anniversary.
Owen tapped the first link and skimmed through the opening paragraphs. They detailed a late afternoon 9-1-1 call, placed by the widow from the Koehler’s lakeside cabin. Mary and Ralph had been celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. The youngest son had been staying with their grandparents. The oldest kids were adults at the time.
Mary and Ralph had gone swimming in the morning. Then she’d laid down for a nap. Ralph had gone out fishing in his canoe sometime during the afternoon, as she slept. It capsized in the shallows and he struck his head.
Mary woke to find him floating face down in the water among the weeds and rocks. He’d been dead for an hour at least, and longer by time paramedics showed up.
A tragedy made all the more poignant because the couple had been celebrating twenty-five years together. A silver anniversary, and a death, all in the same day.
But not a coincidence. Owen was sure of that. He was surprised he missed it the first time. He glanced up, grinning with excitement. “She killed him. She killed her husband.”
Tanney regarded him like he might a ghoul. “Jesus. What’s funny about that?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s funny about it, but don’t you get it? That’s the link. She got away with it. She killed him on their anniversary. Read the article: it’s nothing but sympathy. The grieving widow. Twenty-five years of marriage. A terrible tragedy.”
He shook his head. “She killed him, Tanney, and then she pretended to be the tragic widow. And she got away with it. Or she would have, except for this guy.”
“You’re telling me everyone of these people did something that merited death?”
“Or that our killer thought merited death, anyway.”
Tanney snorted. “That sounds like a stretch. What about the boy scout leader?”
“Danielson?”
“Yeah. What did he do that deserved death? I thought your file said he was a good guy.”
“I don’t know. It did. But there’s something. I’d guarantee it.”
Tanney snorted again. “That sounds like speculat
ion to me.”
“I know. But I wasn’t looking for a criminal history among the victims. I wasn’t digging. And there’s a pattern here. So if we actually started looking into them…”
“Maybe,” Tanney said. “But how does that relate to the last guy, Wynder. You said he’s connected. He’s the latest victim.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell did he do?”
Owen smiled again. “Reed Hill. Remember what I was telling you earlier, about the private prison scandal?”
“I remember. And I remember you saying he was innocent.”
“I didn’t say that. I said the attorney general cleared him.”
“Same difference.”
Owen shook his head. “It’s not. This whole thing, Tanney – that’s what it’s about. Our guy is killing people who got away with crimes. That’s why he targeted Judge Wynder. Because Wynder was taking bribes to send people to prison.”
Tanney didn’t seem convinced, but he did allow that maybe there was something to the theory. Not evidence, though. “You’re speculating. Again.”
Owen acknowledged the point. He didn’t have evidence. Not yet.
His first thought was to talk to the sheriff. There’d be problems with that, though. For starters, he’d just told Halverson that he got everything wrong. How would it look to approach him a second time in the same day, and completely reverse himself?
Not good.
Sure, he could give him the folder with all his demographics, and lay out his theory. But better to have evidence. Better to have something solid.
He tapped away at his tablet, pulling up story after story related to the Reed Hill scandal. There had to be something. He knew that. He just needed to find it. He just had to keep picking, like you might at the edge of a tattered sleeve. Sooner or later, the fabric frays, and the work comes undone.
He found his frayed fabric just as Tanney spoke.
“And there’s another problem. Aside from you not being able to prove any of this.”
“What’s that?”
“The AG cleared him. Why would the AG do that if he was guilty?”
