by Neal Griffin
“Donaldson? Gerald Donaldson’s been arrested for murder?” Petite sounded flabbergasted.
Ben continued. “Mr. Petite, I have information that says after being arrested in Newberg, Harlan Lee was transferred to Florence County and charged with murder. You were the district attorney in Florence County at the time. I checked. There were no other homicides that year.” Ben leaned in for effect. “Here’s the wild part, Mr. Petite. I went to the County Clerk’s Office. There is no arrest record for Harlan Lee. No court record. I can’t even find a booking photo. Nothing. How do you figure that?”
Petite stumbled to one of the nearby benches and sat, mumbling to himself. Ben joined him and spoke in a quiet but rapid-fire pace.
“My wife didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Petite, but someone sure does want people to think she did. Donaldson? He says he didn’t kill anybody either. We’ll never know about Lipinski. How about you, Mr. Petite? Did you actually kill someone, or did you get set up too?”
“It makes sense.” Petite stared at the hard dirt, his face white. “Of course, it makes perfect sense.”
“Good,” Ben said. “Then tell me. Tell me how any of this makes sense.”
Petite looked up.
“I can’t talk to you about this. I have a family.” Petite laughed at himself. “I had a family … but I still have children.” Petite’s voice changed in tone. “I pled out quick and got manslaughter two. I’ll be out in eight years. They’ll still be young. I was assured that if I cooperated, they’d be taken care of. I’m not going to jeopardize that.”
“Assured?” Ben asked. “Assured by who?”
“Never mind, Sawyer.” Petite was firm. “I’m not going to talk with you about this. If you don’t already know, that means you don’t need to know.”
“Did McKenzie put you up to this? I can handle him.”
“I told you. I’ve never heard of this McKenzie.”
“You’re going to do eight years for a crime you didn’t commit?” Ben asked. “What about Lipinski? What happens if you end up like that?”
“I don’t want to talk with you, Mr. Sawyer. You don’t know what you’re up against.”
“Look,” Ben said, “just tell me about Lee and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go back to the family of the victim. Just tell me who he killed.”
“I’m not going to get into this with you, Mr. Sawyer. You want answers? Talk to Lars Norgaard. Let him tell you about how things work at Newberg PD.”
“He can’t, Mr. Petite. Lars had a stroke. Anything he knows is locked away somewhere I can’t get at it.”
“Then look beyond Norgaard. You got this far. Figure it out. But leave me alone. Please.”
“Mr. Petite, I’m a cop. I can protect you. We can protect your family. You can’t pretend none of this is going on.”
“Yes, I can and I will,” Petite said. “The last thing I need is more help from cops. Just leave me alone.”
Ben pulled the paper from his pocket and held it out for the man to see. The composite sketch from Danville.
“Mr. Petite, this man shot two cops and ran off. I think he had something to do with the murder my wife is accused of. Maybe he knows something about your case. I also think he is somehow connected to Harlan Lee. Do you recognize him?”
Petite looked at the paper, studying the face. He seemed about to speak when a whistle sounded, followed by a voice ordering inmates back inside the facility.
Ben reached out and grabbed Petite by the arm.
“Mr. Petite … Bill. Please.”
Petite stood and looked down at Ben.
“Get away from me, Sawyer. I’m going to do my penance in this hellhole. With any luck, I walk in the minimum and all this will be behind me.”
“Who is he?” Ben knew, but he wanted to hear it. He wanted it said. “Just tell me that and I’ll leave.”
A long pause and Petite blew out a breath. “The man in the picture is Harlan Lee. Find him. I’m pretty sure he can answer all your questions.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Ben drove the first twenty miles toward home with the accelerator smashed against the floor. He started to mentally string together the known facts so he could come up with a coherent plan. Get back to Newberg and find the district attorney. If necessary, go to her house. Show her Lars’s log entry; brief her on the missing case file; tell her about Donaldson’s arrest and how it ties into Tia getting shot. Explain the death of Henry Lipinski and McKenzie’s possible involvement. Get Petite into protective custody. Ben was deep in thought until the red-and-blue light flickered behind him and the siren brought him back to the present. He pulled to the side of the road, hoping the squad car would pass him by, but no such luck.
The trooper approached, Smokey hat firmly in place. Ben had been doing over ninety miles an hour since leaving Red Cliff. Nice going. Now just take your ticket and get moving.
The trooper reached the van’s window and leaned in. Ben picked up on the causal tone of voice.
“Good afternoon. Are you Sergeant Sawyer?”
Ben eyed the officer with caution. “Yeah, I’m Ben Sawyer. How did you know that?”
“Because you’ve got a law enforcement block on your tags.” He looked at Ben, and when he saw nothing but confusion, he went on. “I ran your plates from my mobile computer. When you registered your car you used your police ID as part of the process, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Officer. Guess I’m just kind of tired. Heading home after a long trip.”
“You must be in a hurry. You’ve been doing over ninety for the last two miles.” The trooper sounded like he’d had the same discussion with a thousand off-duty cops before Ben.
“Sorry.” Ben did his best to look sheepish. “I’ll slow down.”
“I’m sure you will, Sergeant. Let’s just see your badge and I’ll get you out of here and on your way.”
Ben tried to be casual. “I took off from Newberg in such a hurry, I left it behind.” He shrugged. “Off duty business, you know.”
“No sweat. Just let me run your license. Confirm your photo. Step back to my car for a sec.” When Ben didn’t budge, the trooper tried coaxing. “Come on, Sarge. I mean, I have to make sure you’re not a wanted criminal or anything. Then you can be on your way.”
“Sure, Officer. No problem.” Ben exited the car and walked alongside the man as he returned to his patrol car.
“You shouldn’t leave home without your badge,” the trooper said. “Personally I take mine everywhere. You never know when you’re going to need to talk your way out of a ticket, right?”
“You’re right, Officer, I’ll be more careful.” Ben just wanted to be back on the road.
“Suit yourself. Left it at home though, huh? You sure you didn’t leave it at Red Cliff?”
The words registered just as the trooper spun toward Ben and buried the short end of his baton in Ben’s solar plexus. As Ben doubled over, he felt a second blow on top of his skull. His vision blurred. He lunged forward and grabbed the trooper around the waist. Baton blows rained down on his back, and Ben heard the man cursing, yelling for Ben to let go. Ben reached up and found the hard plastic handgrip of the officer’s holstered weapon. It was the work of an instant to adjust his grasp to the correct angle and pull. It came loose easily and Ben fell back as he aimed and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Two wires shot out and one of the fishhook barbs planted itself in the fleshy meat under the trooper’s chin. The other punctured the muscle of his upper arm. A well-placed spread. The electric current began to cycle immediately and the baton flew from the trooper’s hand. The man’s body seized, and he gave a loud grunt of pain as he fell onto the roadway. The clack-clack-clack continued for five seconds—a brief enough interval that Ben was still on his knees, groggy from the baton blows. The trooper made as if to stand and Ben hit the trigger again, beginning another five-second fifty-thousand-volt ride accented by the clack-clack-clack and grunts from the trooper. This time, when it was done, Ben wa
s standing over the prone officer.
“All right, asshole. What the hell was that all about? Who sent you?”
The trooper got to his hands and knees and reached for the semiauto still holstered on his belt. His answer was short and sweet. “Fuck you, Sawyer.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
He hit the trigger again, and the patrolman fell to the asphalt with a thud, splitting open his left cheek. When the cycle ended, the trooper lay stretched out and still, a trail of spit mixed with blood running across his face. Ben used his foot to turn the man onto his back and read the man’s name tag.
“We can do this all day, Petersen. Who sent you?” When no answer came after several seconds, Ben spoke again. “I guess we’re going to find out once and for all if one of these things can actually kill a man, aren’t we? Ready for another ride?”
Ben held the Taser pistol up, making sure the trooper could see his finger on the trigger, and the man finally found his voice.
“McKenzie. Doyle McKenzie.”
It’s true, he thought. McKenzie is behind all of this. His thoughts turned to Alex and a sense of urgency overtook him. Ben nudged the trooper in the chest with the Taser. “Keep talking.”
The trooper struggled to speak. “McKenzie called me. Gave me the description of your car. He knew you’d be at Red Cliff. Said from there you’d turn for home. Told me to find you.”
“Find me and what?”
“Hold on to you. Let him know where you were. That’s all, Sawyer. I swear it.”
“And you did it? A guy calls you and says, ‘Hey, nab an off-duty cop for me,’ and you do it? How come I think you know more than that?”
“No. I don’t, I swear to—”
The current sounded again, and the trooper let out a pathetic squeal. When the cycle was complete, Ben offered some cursory sympathy. “Was that number three or four? Either way, you’ve got to really be hurting by now, huh?”
“Jesus, Sawyer. You’re going to kill me with that thing.”
Ben held the Taser directly in front of the man’s face with his finger poised over the trigger. “Maybe. Five seconds to start talking. Four, three—”
“McKenzie paid me.” The trooper’s voice started off sounding desperate, but when he saw Ben slide his finger away from the trigger, he fell into a slow, exhausted cadence. “I mean, he pays me to do special jobs for him. Usually it’s just turn my back on some dope or something like that. He says it’s undercover stuff. This time, though, he’s crazy. He said you’re working with a con named Harlan Lee and you’ve been out raising hell.”
“Where is he? This Harlan Lee guy?”
“I don’t know.”
Ben held the gun in front of the trooper’s face, and the man screamed. “Nobody knows, I swear! McKenzie thinks he’ll head for Florence County; Lee lived there before he went to prison. In some homestead shack deep in the middle of nowhere couple miles from the Michigan border.”
When the man went silent, Ben grabbed him by the shoulder. “Get your ass up.”
The trooper struggled to his feet and Ben pulled the forty-caliber semiauto from the other holster on the Sam Browne belt and tucked it into his own waistband. He took the spare magazines from the trooper’s belt and jammed them into the rear pocket of his jeans. He grabbed Petersen’s police radio and flung it into the woods that lined the highway. Ben motioned the trooper to head to his patrol car, the barbs still buried in his skin and the wires running back to the weapon in Ben’s hand.
When they reached the vehicle, Ben said, “Open the trunk and climb in, Petersen.”
“What are you going to do, Sawyer?” the man said, sounding truly lost. “Don’t kill me. I can help you. I’ll tell you everything. We’ll drive up to Florence and I’ll help you find this Lee guy. I will. Just don’t kill me.”
Ben forced the cop into the trunk. “I’m not going to kill you, Petersen, but this is police work and you ain’t a cop. You’re just another crook. I don’t work with crooks.” Now that his adrenaline rush was fading, Ben noticed the feeling of moisture—blood—on top of his head and running down his shirt. He touched his fingers to his wounded scalp and blinked his eyes at the throbbing pain of the contact. He could feel the welts growing on his back.
“Asshole,” he muttered and pulled the trigger one last time. The trooper’s body seized and he thrashed around in the trunk’s confined space as the electrical current played hell on his muscles and flesh. Ben threw the Taser in and slammed the trunk shut, with the trooper still a jerking mess inside. Ben heard the echo of the man’s cries mixed with the sounds of his latest electrocution as he walked away.
“I guess we’re about even.”
Ben fought the temptation to steal the much faster police cruiser. If he was seen in the marked car with a state trooper locked in the trunk, he’d have the entire Wisconsin State Patrol chasing after him. As it was, they’d be after him soon enough. The odds were that before too long, someone would check on Petersen, who might tell a story that would put them on all Ben’s trail. No doubt the crooked trooper would eventually alert McKenzie, and that spelled more trouble for Alex.
Alex was still on the hook for a murder she didn’t commit, and in the morning she was due in court. Ben realized even with all he had discovered, McKenzie seemed to be hooked up enough to make it go away. If the trooper had been successful, it would have been over for Alex. Once the state got rolling, there would be no stopping it. Ben knew what he had to do. If he could get to Florence and find Harlan Lee, it would be over. That was the single blow that would destroy the case against Alex. He was sure of it.
He looked at himself in the mirror, his hair matted with blood, his shirt stained red and torn. He put the van in gear and rolled onto the road. A few miles to the south he’d pick up the state highway. His cell phone was dead, and he was headed into the remotest part of the state where not a single town had a population of more than five hundred souls. He hoped one of those souls was Harlan Lee.
FIFTY-SIX
McKenzie stood outside the bars and stared inside. Alex made sure to give it right back and lace it with steel hate. The isolation cell carried the thick smell of decades of nicotine being absorbed into the gray paint of the walls, mixed with human waste that sat in a covered bucket marked SUBJECT TO SEARCH. Alex figured the temperature in the cell hovered around eighty-five degrees, and she could smell that her visitor had already begun to sweat. McKenzie lit a cigarette as he began to speak.
“You can blame the new living arrangements on me, but you probably figured that out already.”
When Alex said nothing, McKenzie went on.
“Thought you might want to know, your husband’s a fugitive. He misrepresented himself to officials of the Florence County Sheriff’s Office, then provided confidential information to a state convict. After that, he assaulted a state trooper. Nearly killed the man. Seems to me Ben must have just snapped. Every cop in the state is looking for him. As it stands now, he’ll be lucky to survive the day.”
Alex hadn’t heard from Ben in more than thirty-six hours. In the middle of the previous night, male guards she hadn’t recognized came to her cell and escorted her to the maximum-security isolation wing. She was confined in a space no bigger than a large broom closet, lit by a bare sixty-watt bulb. The only furnishing of any sort was a cement bench built right into the wall that also served as a bed. Her circumstances now seemed hopeless, but she’d choke on it before she let McKenzie get a reaction out of her.
“Anyway, I figured just in case that crazy son of a bitch got some idea about busting you out, we’d better put you in a bit more secure environment. I ran it by the DA. She was good with it. She’s just wants to be sure you make it to the courtroom in the morning.”
Alex tried to control her voice, but even she heard the tremble. “I’ll be there, Detective. And so will my husband.”
“Sorry, Alex. But I don’t really think he’s coming back. He seems to be having himself a hell of a tim
e. Probably got a new Bonnie to go along with this Clyde Barrow image of his.”
“He’ll be back, McKenzie. You can count on it. And when he gets here, you’re screwed. For Ben to be gone this long, he must have found out what’s really going on around here. Something tells me you’re in it up to your eyeballs.”
McKenzie’s eyes roamed up and down her body and Alex couldn’t help but shiver, and she pulled her arms in tight around her waist. He seemed to pick up on her fear. “Tell you what, Alex. I got some pretty strong connections in the corrections department. Once you’re locked up, maybe a year or two down the line, I’ll stop by for a visit. We’ll see just what you’re willing to do for a square meal and a hot shower. See how sassy you are then.”
“You are a vile degenerate, McKenzie.” Alex nosed up to the bars and stood inches from his face. “On top of that, you’re the ugliest, most pathetic excuse for a man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’d spend the rest of my life in this cell and eat the shit from that bucket before I’d let you within a hundred yards of me.”
“Yeah. You are something. That’s really why I put you in here, Alex. Just to fuck with you.” McKenzie lowered his voice and leaned his shoulder against the bars. “You wanna hear something that’ll really blow your mind?”
Alex offered no response, and McKenzie gave his yellow smile. “I know you didn’t do it.”
Alex only stared ahead with a dumbfounded expression that made McKenzie laugh out loud.
“That’s right, sweetie,” McKenzie said. “I won’t go into any detail, but I thought you’d like to know that somebody out here knows, shit-ass bitch that you are, you ain’t a killer. Don’t mean you ain’t going to prison for it.”
“What are you talking about?” Alex shook her head in disbelief. “You’d let an innocent person go to prison?”
“If it helps you to know, seems like your husband pretty much has it all figured out. I gotta give it to him. Damn good cop.” McKenzie pulled on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke directly at Alex. “Only problem is he’s headed up to Florence, and there’s a hell of a welcoming committee waiting for him. When it’s all over, he’ll just be seen as the loving husband who couldn’t accept the obvious fact his wife was a cheating bitch who killed her lover.”
