Patricia’s voice rose. “But you aren’t helping us.”
Elizabeth could hear the shuffle of feet as another officer came into the bullpen area from either the break room or locker area.
“It’s not my job to help you. If you have specific questions, you can ask them.”
Charles spoke up. “Do you know who did it?”
“Not very specific, but no, I do not.”
Patricia glanced behind Elizabeth and lowered her voice. “Well, what about on-campus gambling?”
“Are you saying there is some?”
Patricia flushed deeper. “I’m asking you. You’re the cops.”
“We don’t patrol the Sweathog campus. Why don’t you check with campus security?”
Patricia surprised Charles with her abrupt turn toward the door to the street. He glanced from her back to Elizabeth, and swallowed. “Um. Thanks.”
“Be careful,” she said.
He nodded, and followed Patricia.
As the door shut behind him, Calderone spoke. “Didn’t feel like taking any crap today, Chief?”
She turned to him and Sergeant Hammer. “They’re either spreading rumors or making up stuff to see what kind of reaction they’ll get. Ticks me off.”
Hammer held up a piece of paper. "Before we talk about their estimates, I found a sheet on Johnson in Champaign."
Calderone said, "Dang. Didn't expect that."
Hammer nodded. "One bar fight. He didn't start it. A road rage incident. An uninvolved driver reported it. The guy Johnson was trying to cut off wouldn't say anything real specific. No charges."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Kind of puts Mr. Johnson in a new light."
Calderone nodded. "You want him brought in, Chief?"
"Not today. I don’t want him, or anyone, to think we’re zeroing in on Johnson. But let the other guys know. We’ve been asking if anyone saw angry patrons and barely mentioning staff. Let’s quietly add those questions to the mix."
"I'll pass it on," Calderone said.
"Back to those two so-called reporters,” Hammer said. “You think there might be something to a lot of students wagering in the diner, maybe any on-campus stuff?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “You know anything, pass it to the campus cops.”
Calderone smiled. “I believe about fifteen feet of the frat house is outside college grounds.”
She leaned against the counter, back to the outside door. “You think something’s going on there?”
Calderone shrugged. “Game is during the day, but the frat has its big homecoming party Saturday night. I’d volunteer to go, but a bunch of them know me.”
“You haven’t lived here all that long,” Hammer said. “And you’re younger than the rest of us. Why don’t you dress up and go? Or if you really want to get into it, jump on a parade float.”
ELIZABETH HAD NO intention of jumping on a float, but she did con Skelly into going to that night’s parade with her. She didn’t feel like a slacker, since half the town turned out for the annual parade. No one would be available for interviews, and her list of interviewees was running short.
She might also pick up information from someone who came up to talk to her. Regulars at the diner hadn’t noticed anything different the last couple of weeks, but someone who came in less often might have been there the one time Ben had to throw out a drunk or chase down a patron who hadn’t paid.
She and Skelly sat in the first row of bleachers just outside the college entrance, not far from where President Dodd and Mayor Humphrey announced the floats. The fifty-degree temperature was probably pleasant for those in the parade, but it was cool for anyone sitting on metal bleachers.
Whenever she wasn’t in uniform Elizabeth felt more like a resident of Logland. In the two years she had lived there, she hadn’t joined any service clubs or a church, but she enjoyed things like the farmers’ market or handing out Halloween candy. In Logland, people could have fun without fear of a drive-by shooting.
Elizabeth wore blue jeans, a heavy sweater, and an outdoor sleeveless vest. Skelly was similarly attired, but instead of a vest he wore a denim jacket.
He rubbed his hands together. “Told you we’d need gloves.”
Elizabeth stuck her hands in the pocket of her vest. “And you were right.”
“I think they’re selling hot cider. We can get some after the parade.”
Elizabeth didn’t respond. The local high school marching band was approaching, and their rendition of some Sousa march drowned out all options for conversation.
She saw Gene from the tattoo parlor across the street, sitting with Nancy Foster from the hair salon. Gene’s thoroughly inked arms were not visible under an unzipped brown hoodie that looked about two sizes too small for his broad shoulders. The t-shirt under the hoodie said, “Man Up Tattoos are for Women, too.”
Gene caught Elizabeth’s eye and waved. She waved back.
Skelly watched Gene for a minute. “His place is almost directly across from the Bully Pulpit, right?”
“He’s across and just to the left and Squeaky’s dry cleaning place is to the right. If they’d been at work we might have witnesses.”
Gene said something to Nancy and jogged across the street, carefully dodging a parade horse’s donation to the pavement. He made to sit next to Elizabeth and a guy in a Sweathog sweatshirt moved down quickly.
“So, Chief, I had an idea.”
“Let me hear it.”
“How about if I offer two free tattoos to anyone whose tip leads to Ben’s killer?”
Skelly leaned forward a few inches so he could peer over Elizabeth at Gene. “At least you use sterilized needles.”
Gene frowned. “That woman you treated in the ER got hers done at the stupid frat house.”
Elizabeth ignored the offer. “So, Gene do you have any thoughts yourself?”
“I been noticing who leaves flowers and candles.”
This interested Elizabeth. Some items at the small memorial had a note from the person who left them, others did not. “Who comes most?”
“Course Jen brings Alice. They’ve come three times.”
“In four days?” Skelly asked.
Gene shrugged. “Alice and Ben, they were close.”
“Who else?” Elizabeth asked.
“Almost all the business owners. Guy from the frat surprised me. Ben threw him out once.”
Elizabeth turned to face Gene’s profile. “Monty?”
“Think that’s it. And let’s see, the mayor, of course. But I don’t see everybody. You want me to keep an eye out?”
Elizabeth thought the issue of who left flowers wasn’t likely to mean much. Unless they found the murder weapon with unidentifiable prints and could match them to a vase or something from in front of the diner.
“Sure. You don’t need to check 24/7, but feel free to let me know if a couple other people come a lot.”
Gene stood. “I’m on it.” He dodged a convertible that bore the college’s homecoming king and queen and sat next to Nancy again.
Skelly coughed into a red hand. “You think there could be something to that?”
“Not so much, but everyone wants to help.”
Mayor Humphrey’s voice came from the review stand. “And we again have local businesses supporting the college homecoming weekend.
Dodd chimed in. “We always want to encourage campus and town interaction.”
Skelly snorted. “It’s like a PTA meeting. No, Chamber of Commerce.”
Elizabeth murmured, “Part of his job, I guess, make nice to everybody.”
The Weed and Feet float had fake smoke pouring from a bong the size of a bushel basket. About a dozen students dressed in the garb of various sports rested on several chaise loungers or sat on the flatbed.
A huge sign said “Your feed source for after the game.” A smaller sign wished the Frisky Heifers good luck.
Apparently not knowing his mic was hot, President Dodd muttered, “A business we do
n’t need.”
Most people hadn’t heard the remark, but several near the review stand laughed or booed.
The college’s Chemistry Department sponsored a green pickup truck whose bed had several stalks of corn and seemed to promote various fertilizers.
Skelly spoke into her ear. “At least they aren’t saying better living through chemistry.”
“Not a phrase you hear a lot these days.”
Chemistry Professor Wally Kermit was driving the pickup. Someone threw a small pumpkin at it and he skidded to a halt, then resumed driving. Elizabeth had a good view of his red face and deep frown.
In an annoyed tone, President Dodd said, “Do not throw anything except candy at the floats.”
The next float was the last, and sat atop a flatbed truck that was easily thirty feet long. The cab was festooned in yellow, green, and brown crepe paper, and a black pig sat atop it.
The float had a huge sign that said “KIZZ Puts the Kick in your Game.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but think of how many people in town probably wagered on the game. If they used to do it at the Bully Pulpit, where would they gamble now?”
President Dodd’s amplified voice came over the air. “And now we have the college’s one fraternity displaying the height of team spirit.”
A large object, Elizabeth assumed maybe a state-fair sized pumpkin, was covered with what appeared to be a bunch of sheets sewed together. Someone behind the oval entity pulled off the sheet.
As the float reached the front of the viewing stand, a wave of laughter and catcalls grew loud.
Dodd’s tone changed. “What the hell?”
In the middle of the float was one of the college’s electric blue security cars. The front end was smashed and the Southern Illinois Agricultural College logo had been replaced with one that read Sweathog College Fans.
Leaning out of the car’s window was a scarecrow wearing the uniform of the campus police.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FOR HOMECOMING WEEKEND, the Logland Press held Saturday’s front page until after the parade. Jerry Pew once told Elizabeth that the parade and the homecoming game increased circulation a lot, so he didn’t like to have both in the Monday paper.
The Saturday paper prominently featured the fraternity float. Fraternity brothers maintained the car had “just been sitting in a parking lot,” and they intended to return it.
Wally Kermit, whose name though not visible was pinned to the scarecrow’s uniform, was especially irate. It turned out that he had been at the wheel when the college security car collided with a partially completed float. His identity had not been mentioned in a previous article on the accident.
The parade and the Saturday article were the bright spots in a bleak week. Elizabeth turned from the newspaper to a compilation of information on Ben Addison’s phone and credit report.
The phone was not passworded, but the voice mail was. The month-to-month service plan he used did not store call data in its computers.
However, the call history on the phone itself went back fifteen calls. Most were to and from the bookstore, some were to a paper goods supplier, and one was to his sick sister in Idaho.
Elizabeth saw no point in interviewing a dying woman, especially when it didn't seem that she and Ben were close. Surely when her officer called to inform her of Ben's death the woman would have brought up any threats to Ben that she knew about.
With the number of calls between Alice and Ben, Elizabeth didn’t figure Alice would remember what each was for. Elizabeth planned to ask her what they generally discussed and whether Ben had seemed distressed at all. She was especially interested in a fifteen minute call the afternoon before Ben was murdered.
The day of Ben’s murder Alice had said she thought Ben was upset, but she didn’t know why. Still, knowing when she thought he became troubled might help.
The bookstore would be busy homecoming weekend, since it sold buttons and a few pens with the college name or logo. Probably other items that would interest alumni though, Elizabeth smiled to herself, not a replica of a campus security car.
Elizabeth planned to talk to Alice on Monday. Maybe at Ben’s Sunday wake, but she’d have to play it by ear.
Ben’s credit report had taken a few days to get. The police had to provide a formal statement from Skelly about Ben’s death, since the official death certificate would take a bit longer.
The report was a sad tale of a business that was going down the tubes. Ben’s credit card balances appeared to have reached the maximum on all of them. Several had late-payment reports in the last six months, and one had been closed by the creditor.
Had business been that bad, or had Ben gambled away income with online betting? Getting that information was above Elizabeth’s capabilities. She’d have to see if the county prosecuting attorney knew how to access data from gambling websites. Likely they’d need a warrant, and it could be difficult to prove the need for one.
Would knowing his online losses make a difference in solving his murder? Probably it would only help understand Ben’s state of mind.
She doubted prior tax records would offer much. Ben might have declared gambling losses, but the taxes wouldn’t show to whom he owed money related to those losses. If anything, since future buyers would have asked for business records and tax returns, he might have tried to make the business appear healthy on his tax filings.
Though the diner’s income potential was not her concern, it would be good to have the place reopen. Maybe a job for Nick, if nothing else. She hoped Ben's executor would be flexible in dealing with prospective buyers.
Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. She had really become a small-town cop.
She needed to get beyond paperwork and back to suspects.
Elizabeth hadn’t wanted her officers to ask a lot of questions about Johnson, in part because it could get back to him. If he had killed Ben, she didn’t want him to think he was considered a suspect. But her radar was alerted and she wanted a better sense of the man.
She walked to the bullpen. Because of homecoming, the station was busier than the average Saturday.
They’d already had a missing child report, with the kid found almost immediately. He’d been sleeping under a large bush in the center of the town square, where his parents had been taking a reminiscent stroll. Apparently his alumni mom and dad had more energy than he did, and he wanted a nap.
The adrenalin of a twenty-minute search had led to relief among the officers that was almost as palpable as that of the parents. Mahan and the quiet Officer Simmons leaned against a desk near the public counter, comparing notes on their frantic search of town alleys and dumpsters.
“Hey, guys. Good work.”
Mahan did an exaggerated wipe across his brow with the back of one hand. “Took five full minutes for my heart to slow down.”
Simmons nodded. “My kid’s about the same age. I kept trying not to think about that.”
Elizabeth did a thumbs up sign. “Listen, I’m going over to the sandwich shop where Johnson works.”
Hammer spoke as he hung up his phone. “You are?”
“Yep. He won’t be able to talk much. There will be lots of customers. I want to see how he acts when it isn’t an easy day.”
“Want company?” Mahan asked.
“Nope. Won’t be long.”
Elizabeth had to take a roundabout way to the sandwich shop. Several streets were blocked for the annual pork barbeque meal always held the Saturday of homecoming weekend. Half the pig farmers in the county sold food, and every service group and school had a bake sale table. When it didn’t rain.
She lucked into a parking spot in front of the sandwich place and stayed in her car. The large plate-glass window had been spray painted with congratulations to the Frisky Heifers on their win the night before. The washable paint was dark enough that she had to peer around the lettering.
About ten people were waiting to be served and the few tables were full. The barbequ
e meal in and around the square was good, but it was expensive. Plus, many alumni had hung out at least some in the sandwich shop, and liked to stop by.
Glass that would reach Elizabeth’s chin separated customers from food staff fulfilling orders. Steve worked quickly, making the cold-cut sandwiches almost as fast as they were ordered. His expression was harried and his smile thin.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she noticed a small sign on the entry door. “No tips needed.”
What is with these businesses? Surely they had to know staff would hunt for other jobs. It must be that Ben was right – the rise in prices brought more income to the owner. It became worth it to recruit and train new staff. Elizabeth thought they would get entry-level employees who would move on as soon as they had experience.
Tipping policies didn’t concern her except that this one would add stress to Johnson’s routine. If he killed Ben, he snapped once and could again. It would have little to do with tipping policies, more the feeling that another boss was sticking it to him.
Elizabeth decided not to go in. She’d wanted to see his demeanor when there were a lot of demands placed on him. It was very different than the manner he’d displayed when he talked to her earlier in the week.
It told her nothing specific about Ben’s murder, of course. It did put Johnson back into her mental mix of suspects.
As she drove back to the station, Elizabeth’s mind turned to that night’s frat party. The only reason to go was to listen in general, and see if the frat was another gambling spot.
She wasn’t sure why she was so certain that wagering would move from the diner to the frat house. Maybe simply because she thought Blake Wessley and his snobbish affect would want to take over. In any event, if local gambling was an option, she wanted to see who showed up.
Her immediate concern was a costume that hid her face. She had found a couple options at a big box store in Carlinville. Rather, Skelly had found them, and was quite pleased with himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
KIZZ’s HOMECOMING COSTUME party would usually have been at the top of Elizabeth’s list of events to avoid. Between the parade Friday night and that day’s honking lines of traffic throughout town because of the rare football win, she was fed up with noise and students.
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