Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  The mere thought of it triggers a montage of possible scenarios in my mind: me counseling possible suspects, me watching the police conduct their investigations, and maybe, just maybe, me having access to some of the investigative aids and resources the cops use all the time. That might help me finally make some progress on my mother’s case.

  Best not to seem too eager, though, I caution myself, and I focus on keeping my expression professional and neutral.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up too much,” Bob says.

  Too late for that.

  “We haven’t officially begun the search process to fill the spot, and the chief was thinking we might try out several people in the beginning. You know, get three or four people who are interested and rotate them through to see how they work and who might be the best fit.”

  I try not to frown at this, even though I know I’m the best fit. My mind has already imagined me in the position. For a few seconds I start pondering ways to sabotage the other candidates, but then realize what I’m doing.

  “Anyway, I thought I should be up front with you about things,” Bob concludes. “Give you something to think about.”

  He has certainly succeeded in doing that. For the next few minutes we eat in silence, Bob looking at his phone, me trying to sort through the thoughts racing through my mind as I try to figure out how I can secure this new position and keep anyone else from being a part of it. I want this job. I want it bad.

  One thing I think might play in my favor is that I know there aren’t a lot of social workers in Sorenson, but that doesn’t mean someone outside of town might not be interested. How wide a net will they cast for the job? I wonder. Perhaps I could get a leg up by interviewing with the chief before anyone else, an interview that would have to be perfect, so the man wouldn’t feel the need to look for anyone else. What could I do or say to convince him that I’m the perfect person for the spot? My résumé is decent enough. I spent several years working for the city of Milwaukee and was involved in counseling for addiction issues, mental health problems, and crisis situations. I spent a year working with a hospice program and two years as a counselor at a high school in Milwaukee. I also worked with child and family services for a few years in Milwaukee and one year in Green Bay, when I moved there for the love of a man who turned out to be a two-timing scumbag. Best not to mention my poor judgment in that situation, however, I think, stealing a glance at Bob as if he might be trying to read or see my thoughts.

  I’m starting to feel positive about my chances. My work experience is varied and good. My references are impeccable. And since moving to Sorenson, my hospital job has allowed me to provide a multitude of services at one time or another and given me a good knowledge base of community resources in the area.

  Of course, I realize there might be other social workers out there with better résumés than mine, or at least as good as mine. I need something to make me stand out from all the rest, to give me an edge. And I think I know what I can use.

  “Any chance I can get an interview with your chief soon?”

  “Hunh?” Bob says, looking up from whatever it is on his phone that has him engrossed.

  “I’d like a chance to talk to your chief about this position. I think I’m qualified and have the attributes and experiences that would make me a highly suitable candidate.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one, I have a varied background when it comes to my experience. I’ve done all kinds of counseling to a variety of age groups. I’ve dealt with addiction problems, domestic abuse, grief and loss, sexual abuse, and a host of mental health issues, including PTSD in military personnel and first responders. I’ve provided child and family welfare management, community outreach, and resource management for people with illness and disability. I’ve worked for municipal and government entities, health care facilities, and a school system.”

  Bob listens, occasionally taking bites of his food, his expression telling me nothing about his reaction to my verbal résumé. I had hoped he’d look a little more impressed.

  “I suppose there may be other social workers out there with a comparable work history,” I say, “but I have a personal history that sets me apart.”

  This gets me an arch of Bob’s brows, but no comment. Probably because his mouth is full.

  “I’m the child of a murder victim,” I say. “And I spent my life growing up in the foster system. I am well versed in the types of issues that most of the people the police are likely to encounter will be facing, because I’ve faced them myself, not just professionally, but personally.”

  Bob swallows and eyes me with smiling approval. “Sounds good,” he says. “I’m sure Chief Hanson will want to interview you, though it might not be until next week sometime.”

  “Anything you can do to facilitate that would be much appreciated,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he cautions. “I can’t promise you anything. There are no guarantees. But if our time together this weekend goes well, I think it will give you a leg up.”

  Right. No pressure there. I’m filled with self-doubt suddenly, whereas before this day and this experience were little more than a lark, a bit of fun in what would have been an otherwise boring day. Now it’s become important to me, critical to my future, or at least my desired future. I start playing back all the things I’ve said and done so far, trying to evaluate my performance as objectively as I can. Have I been too aggressive? Too forward? Professional enough?

  Damn Bob for not telling me about this sooner! What should I do going forward? Should I let Bob handle all the questioning and sit by as a dutiful observer? Or should I step up and participate? What is he looking for? What will make me look better in his eyes?

  I finish my meal and slip my jacket back on. Then I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. While I’m in there, I eat the stolen chocolate bunny.

  Bob is already at the counter paying for our meal when I come out. “Let me buy my own,” I say.

  “I have this one; you get the next one.”

  That seems reasonable, and it implies that there will be a next meal. I let it go, and minutes later we are back in his car, heading for Portage.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The village of Pardeeville, which has a population of a thousand souls or so, has no jail. Anyone arrested there and needing confinement is taken to the Columbia County Jail in Portage, much like anyone needing overnight jailing in Sorenson has to go to one of the larger cities. The county jail in Portage consists of two buildings, and Bob explains to me that one of them houses inmates who qualify to be in something called the Huber program, a work-release program. I log this info in my brain, knowing that if I get the job with the police department, it might prove useful.

  The prisoner we want to talk to is not in the Huber program, however, and we have to go through a series of check-in spots in the second building before we get taken to a small, private interview room.

  A guard brings in our drug dealer, whose feet and hands are cuffed. All I know from Bob is that the fellow’s name is Stewart Thomas—one of those people who has what seems like two first names instead of an obvious first and last name. These names tend to throw me off for some reason, and I find them annoying. Stewart—and in my mind I think of him as Stewie to help me remember which of his names is the first one—appears to be twenty-something, and he’s a skinny dude with hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed, cut, or even combed in weeks. He is also sporting several days’ worth of sketchy beard growth, and he has a pale, pasty color to his skin that suggests he rarely sees the sun. There are dark circles under his eyes and a sickly, glazed look to his face that makes me think he samples too much of his own product. I glance at his arms to look for track marks, but he is wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt beneath what I assume are jail-issue scrubs in an unflattering shade of orange.

  A guard pushes Stewie into the room and tells him to sit. Stewie shuffles two steps and drops into the indic
ated chair.

  Bob says, “Hello, Mr. Thomas. I’m Detective Bob Richmond, and this is Ms. Schneider.”

  Stewie sneers, “Whatever,” and lets out a breath of mocking antipathy that flows across the table like a toxic miasma. His breath is foul-smelling, and I see that his dentition is no healthier than the rest of him. The few teeth he has left are broken and rotten-looking, and his gums are puffy, red, and inflamed. All of this adds to my suspicion that Stewie is a regular user of his product—likely multiple products.

  His fidgety behavior tells me he’s starting to feel the effects of withdrawal. He raises his cuffed hands to his face every few seconds, swiping at his mouth and nose, or rubbing a hand over his cheek, creating a raspy sandpaper sound. One eye keeps twitching uncontrollably. His body is in constant motion, rocking slightly back and forth and side to side. The guard standing behind him keeps a wary eye on him.

  Bob explains to Stewie that we just want to talk, that our conversation is not being recorded and isn’t official. “We aren’t interested in prosecuting you for anything,” Bob says, trying to sound reassuring, though I suspect the nuances are lost on Stewie. “We’re more interested in knowing who your customers have been recently. I want to know if you sold any of your heroin product to the man in this picture.”

  Bob shows Stewie a picture of Toby Cochran on his phone, and Stewie spares it a glancing look before shaking his head.

  “Are you sure?” Bob asks. “Look close.”

  Stewie lets out an exasperated sigh, thrusts his face forward toward the photo on Bob’s phone, and widens his eyes dramatically, staring for several seconds. “There. Happy now?” he says when he sits back and looks at Bob again, an insolent cock to his head. “I still don’t recognize him.”

  Bob pulls the phone back and swipes at the screen while asking, “Have you sold to any college students from Madison recently?”

  Stewie gives him a look of incredulity and laughs. “Geez, let me check my files,” he mocks. “Or you could call my secretary and have her check on it.” He shakes his head and chuckles in amusement, taking another swipe at his nose. Bob’s expression doesn’t change. He stares at Stewie, waiting, and it doesn’t take Stewie long to cave. “Dude,” he says with a shrug, “if they got the cash, I got the goods. I don’t ask a lot of questions or check their résumés.”

  Bob turns the phone toward Stewie again, showing him a different picture. “How about this guy?”

  I’m able to glimpse the screen briefly and realize it’s a picture of Liam Michaelson, probably a DMV photo. Stewie looks and shakes his head. Bob takes the phone, swipes and types and then shows Stewie another picture. This goes on until Bob has shown Stewie a picture of all the boys involved in the email exchange we read on Toby’s computer. Stewie claims not to recognize any of them, but I figure his word is about as reliable as a roll of the dice would be in predicting the weather. Of course, if he suspects we’re here investigating the death of someone who used his “product” he’d be crazy to admit to selling to anyone lest he be brought up on homicide charges. Wisconsin has gotten quite serious about prosecuting the dealers as well as the users. And Stewie has no reason to believe Bob’s claim that our discussion today is informal and off-the-record. Criminals and cops aren’t known for the trust they have in one another.

  I sense Bob’s frustration, which mirrors my own. I knew this chat with Stewie was a long shot, but I did hope it might help us make a little progress. I get an idea then and take my phone out. A moment later I have the picture of Toby and the gaming team that came from Lori’s phone, and on a whim, I show the picture to Stewie and ask him if he recognizes anyone as someone who has bought product from him.

  He gives the screen a cursory glance much the way he did with Bob’s phone and starts to shake his head. Or maybe it’s a spasm. His whole body is twitching and jerking like water drops on a hot skillet. Then he squints and looks closer. “Maybe,” he says, swiping at his nose for the hundredth time. Bob perks up, leaning forward eagerly. Stewie jabs at the screen, his shaking finger coming down squarely on Toby’s face. “That guy, I think.”

  Bob visibly deflates, and I feel my own hopes flag.

  “That’s the guy we showed you in the beginning,” Bob says irritably. “Are you recognizing him now because you sold stuff to him, or because we showed him to you back at the start of this charade?”

  Stewie tips his head to one side and gives Bob a pained, pitiful look. “Not that kid,” he says with disdain. “The guy standing right behind him.”

  I grab my phone and turn it around, looking at the picture. Bob leans over and stares at it with me. Standing behind Toby, his head seeming to float above him, is the middle-aged man. I turn the phone back toward Stewie and carefully position my finger on the screen beside the man’s face. “This guy?” I say.

  Stewie rubs his raspy cheek and gives one exaggerated nod that looks hard enough to make his head fall off his scrawny neck. “Yep, that guy,” he says, enunciating with great care. “Pretty sure that guy bought some heroin off me about three weeks ago.”

  “Do you know his name?” Bob asks.

  “Hell, no,” Stewie says dismissively. “Couldn’t care less about names. Don’t want to know ’em. Tell the truth, I don’t much remember faces, either, but this guy sticks.”

  “Why is that?” Bob asks.

  “Two reasons,” Stewie says, holding up two fingers on his right hand while his left dangles in the cuffs below it. “One, he asked for the strongest stuff I had, and he didn’t look like no tweaker, you know? Pretty sure that guy wasn’t using anything stronger than aspirin. And two, he offered to pay me twice what the stuff was worth, so he clearly wasn’t very up on things, get my drift?”

  Stewie’s drift has gone precariously to the right, and he catches himself just before he’s about to lose his balance and topple from his chair. I notice that the guard makes no move to stop this; in fact, he watches the kid tip with a hint of a grin on his face, and then looks disappointed when Stewie manages to straighten himself.

  “How did he find you?” Bob asks. “How did he contact you?”

  Stewie’s face forms into an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness for a few seconds before he resumes his usual clueless look and shrugs. He raises his right hand, the left one dangling again, and points a finger at Bob. “Now, that’s a good question,” he says, withdrawing his right hand to take another swipe at his nose. “He just found me.”

  “What do you mean, he just found you?” Bob asks impatiently.

  Stewie, again drifting precariously to one side, rights himself at the last second and narrows his eyes at Bob. “I have a spot. I can’t say where because . . . well . . . him.” He flashes Bob a conspiratorial smile and tries to point a thumb over his shoulder at the guard standing behind him. Unfortunately, the weight of his other, cuffed arm interferes with the gesture, and all Stewie manages to do is to jab himself in his own shoulder with his thumb. Still, the inference is clear. “It’s a spot some of my regulars know. You know, my best repeat customers.”

  “And you only saw this man and sold to him one time?” Bob asks.

  “Yeah, I’d remember him.”

  Bob’s brow wrinkles in thought for a moment and then he says, “Thank you. That’s all.” He pushes back his chair and gets up. I do the same. Stewie stays seated and watches us leave, and I swear he looks disappointed. I suspect the guard will be yanking on him any second.

  “Who is this guy?” Bob says once we’re back in the car. His face is screwed up into a frown. “And what’s he got to do with these college kids?”

  “I’ll bet our frat boys know.”

  Bob looks over at me, his eyes narrowed. He looks ticked, and I’m hoping that ire isn’t directed my way. Without another word, he starts the car and takes off. We ride in silence for half an hour, long enough for me to figure out that we’re headed back to Madison and, I’m guessing, the frat house. I’m about to ask if this is the case when Bob’s phone rings.r />
  “Detective Richmond,” he says into the phone, after a quick thumb swipe and subsequent frown at the screen. He pulls off onto the shoulder of the road and shifts the car into park. I lean a little closer to him, hoping I might overhear some part of the conversation on the other end, but I can’t make out any words.

  “I’d like to come out and talk with you regarding a case I’m working,” he says. “And I’d like to take a look at your property.”

  My heart leaps when I realize the call is likely from Warren Sheffield.

  “I see,” Bob says in a tone of voice that suggests otherwise. “May I ask why not?” He listens, the angles of his face growing harder with each passing second. I can tell he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

  “Yes, sir, I do know him,” Bob says, his jaw tight. “And I’ll be sure to let him know that you have no interest in seeing justice done.” With that, Bob takes the phone from his ear, jabs angrily at the screen to disconnect the call, and then throws the phone up on the dashboard.

  “I take it that was Warren Sheffield,” I say after a few seconds of electric silence goes by.

  “The guy’s an ass,” Bob mumbles. “He claims people of his stature,” Bob puffs himself up mockingly when saying this, “are constantly bothered by us lowlifes who are always looking for any reason to take them down a peg.”

  “He called you a lowlife?” I say, surprised.

  “No,” Bob admits irritably. Then he puffs his cheeks out in a prolonged sigh. “But the inference was there. He told me if I wanted anything to contact his lawyer. And at the end he asked me if I knew who Gerhart Albrecht is.”

  “Albrecht the state senator?”

  Bob nods, shooting me a can you believe it? side glance. “Sheffield suggested that if I have any issues with his refusal that I run them past Albrecht.” Bob shifts the car back into drive, and after checking for traffic, he pulls back onto the highway. He doesn’t say anything for the first few miles and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s mulling things over in his mind.