“Bos is making the call now. Captain Larson’s on his way. Should be here pretty quick.”
“Stay with it. I’m going to talk to Schilling.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Still a little pale.”
Cork returned to his Bronco, where Schilling sat hunched on the passenger side up front. Cork killed his headlights, and the two men sat for a moment in silence.
“Ever seen someone dead before?” Cork asked.
“Only in a casket. Never like that.”
“Tough, huh?”
“You’ve got that right.”
“You want to smoke, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Schilling pulled a pack of Marlboros and a silver lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket. He tapped out a cigarette, wedged it into the corner of his mouth, flipped the lid on the lighter, put the flame to the tip of the Marlboro. He shot a cloud of smoke with a grateful sigh.
Cork opened his window a crack.
“Didn’t touch the body, right?”
“Like I said, only to check the pulse.”
“When did you throw up?”
“Right after that. It hit me real sudden.”
“Sure. So you threw up and radioed the call in immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know exactly. A little before three, I’d guess.”
Cork had given up smoking a couple of years earlier, but he still found the smell of the cigarette enticing. “Tell me about your night up to that point.”
“Nothing to tell. Real quiet up till then.”
“Routine check of the park? That’s why you were here?”
“I ran Arlo Knuth out earlier. I just wanted to be sure he didn’t come back.”
Arlo Knuth was an itinerant who spent his nights sleeping in parks or on back roads or wherever he could get away with parking the old pickup that was his home.
“What time?”
“Maybe midnight. Maybe a little before.”
“You always do that after you’ve run Arlo off? Come back later to check?”
“Sometimes, not always.”
“What made tonight different?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“Why the hard-on for Arlo? He’s harmless.”
“Park closes at sunset. He’s not supposed to be here at night. No one is.”
“Most deputies cut Arlo some slack.”
“I figure it’s the law. Park’s closed, everybody should stay out. Hell, I run kids off all the time who are making out here. Why should Arlo be any different?”
“When you came back, did you check behind the restroom blockhouse down in the lower parking lot?”
“No, sir.”
“Sometimes Arlo uses the blockhouse for cover. That way he can wash up first thing in the morning.”
“I know. And I would have checked it out, but when I got here I found a dead man. Pretty well ended my patrol.”
“Think Arlo could’ve been involved in this?”
The deputy looked down at his cigarette, which hadn’t touched his lips since his first drag. “No, sir, I don’t expect so. Like you say, he’s harmless.”
Headlights flashed through the trees as several vehicles pulled off the main road and came up the winding access.
“All right, tell you what,” Cork said. “Finish that cigarette, then take a hike down the path to the lower lot, check the blockhouse, see if Arlo’s still around.”
Ed Larson pulled up in his Blazer and parked. Cork left Schilling and headed to the Blazer just as Larson got out.
“Early start to your day, Ed.”
“Same for you,” Larson said. “What have we got?”
“Male Caucasian. Multiple stab wounds to the chest. And castrated. That’s it so far.”
“ID?”
“Not yet. I didn’t want to disturb anything until after you’d had a chance to go over the scene. Looks like a rental vehicle. We’re running the plates, so we may get something soon.”
“All right. Who found him?”
“Schilling.”
“Where is he?”
“In my Bronco. He’s pretty shook. When you see the vic, you’ll understand why. Oh, and watch your step as you approach the Lexus.”
Larson looked at the SUV. “I called Simon Rutledge. I figured as long as he was in the neighborhood. He’ll be here in a bit.”
“Good,” Cork said.
Morgan stood beside his cruiser, arms folded, water dripping from the bill of his uniform cap. Cork went over, and together they watched as Larson’s team arrived and set about their work. Morgan had started his engine and left it idling so that the battery wouldn’t wear down while his headlights lit the scene. The exhaust gathered in a ghostly white cloud that crawled around and under the vehicle. A minute later, Schilling left the Bronco and started down the path to the lower parking lot.
“Where’s he going?” Morgan asked.
“I told him to check behind the blockhouse for Arlo Knuth.”
“Think Arlo’s still around?”
“Worth checking out. And gives Nate something to do.”
“Good idea. I still remember the first body I saw on duty.” Morgan’s face was lit from the reflection of all the light in front of him. His mouth was in a grim set. “Traffic accident. Guy went through the windshield, ended up on the other side in pieces. I lost my lunch that day.”
Ed Larson was kneeling under the ground cloth Cork and Schilling had tied above the body. “Cork,” he called.
Cork wasn’t in uniform. He’d thrown on a pair of wrinkled jeans and a green sweatshirt with MACKINAC ISLAND across the front, slapped a stocking cap on his head, and shrugged into his bombardier’s jacket that was so old and worn it looked like the hide of a diseased deer. The jacket was soaked dark from the mist and his face dripped as he walked to Larson.
“What is it?”
“You told me his balls were missing,” Larson said.
“They are.”
Larson held his flashlight out to Cork. “Look in there.”
Cork knelt beside Larson and shined the light into the cavern of the dead man’s mouth, which Larson held open with gloved fingers.
“Jesus.”
“They’re not missing,” Larson said. “They were fed to him as a last meal.” He straightened up. “We’ll move him in a little while to see if we can locate a wallet for an ID.”
Cork had had a good look at the face. He swung the beam of his flashlight down to the dead man’s right hand, where a big gold ring adorned the pinkie—an odd finger, Cork had always thought, for a man to put a ring on.
“No need,” he said quietly. “I know who it is.”
9
JO WAS SLEEPING soundly, and Cork hated to wake her. For a little while, he sat in a chair in the corner, a maple rocker they’d bought when Jenny was a baby. Over the years, they’d taken turns rocking one child or another back to sleep during long nights of illness or restlessness or bad dreams, and Cork had often drifted off himself with a small body nestled against his chest. He hadn’t always been the father he wanted to be, but somehow his children had clung to their love for him, and he felt blessed. Blessed, too, with Jo, although they’d had their problems. The point was, he thought, looking at his wife’s face half lost in her pillow, to do your best as a man—father, husband, sheriff—and hope that your mistakes weren’t fatal and they would be forgiven.
He moved to the bed, sat down beside Jo, and touched her shoulder gently.
She made an effort to roll over. “You’re back?”
“Just for a bit.”
Her eyes struggled to stay open. “Who was it?”
When he’d left, all he knew was that there appeared to have been a homicide at the overlook for Mercy Falls. He had told her to go back to sleep.
“You awake?” he asked now.
“Almost.”
“I need you awake for this.”
<
br /> His tone brought her eyes fully open. “What is it?”
“I have to ask you a couple of questions.”
She sat up, her back against the headboard, her blond hair a little wild. She pulled the covers up to keep warm. “Go ahead.”
“How well do you know Edward Jacoby?”
“I’ve met with him half a dozen times over the past few months. Why?”
“How much do you know about him personally?”
“Almost nothing. What’s going on, Cork?”
“The homicide at Mercy Falls. It was Jacoby.”
“Oh my God.”
The mist had developed into a steady rain that ran down the windowpanes. Outside, the street lamp on the curb pushed a yellow light through the window, and shadows from the streaked glass lay over the whole room like gray stains.
“Jo, do you have any contact information we can use to notify someone?”
“Downstairs in my office.”
She threw back the covers. She wore a sleep shirt, her usual attire in bed. This one was black. She went barefoot ahead of Cork.
Downstairs, she turned on the light in the office she maintained at home, sat down at her desk, and reached for her Rolodex.
“Do you know who did it?” she asked.
“No.”
“Any idea why?”
“No.” Cork sat in the chair Jo’s clients used. “Do you want to know how?”
Jo glanced up, her blue eyes guarded. “Do I?”
“Pretty brutal.”
“Then no.” She flipped a couple of cards on the Rolodex, then looked across the desk at him. “All right. How?”
“Multiple stab wounds. And he was castrated.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“Still had his wallet with him, stuffed with cash, so robbery doesn’t seem a likely reason. Did he ever say anything to you, Jo, that might be helpful here?”
“Like what?”
“There’s a lot of feeling on the rez that runs both ways about Starlight taking over management of the casino.”
“Cork, you can’t think somebody on the rez would do this. Over a business issue?”
“I don’t know, Jo. That’s why I’m asking questions.”
She found the card she was looking for and took it off the Rolodex.
“All right,” Cork said. “What about his personal life?”
“I don’t know much.”
“Married?”
“I believe so.”
“Happily?”
“I have no idea.”
“Does he gamble?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has he ever talked about people here, what he might do when he’s not meeting with you?”
“Not really, but . . .”
“What?”
“I have my suspicions.” She sat back. “He had a pretty high opinion of himself, and he appeared to have a libido the size of Jupiter.”
“Yeah? Why do you say that?”
“He hit on me every time we met.”
Now Cork sat back. “You never told me.”
“It wasn’t important. I dealt with it.”
“You think he messed around?”
“I think he was the type.”
“He ever mention any names?”
“Not to me. Here.” She leaned across the desk and handed him the card. It contained Jacoby’s office number, his cell phone number, the number for his home phone and a mailing address at Starlight Enterprises in Elmhurst, Illinois.
“Mind if I keep this?”
“No, go ahead.” She studied him with concern. “You look so tired. Any chance you can lie down for a while?”
“I’m going to the office.”
“At least let me fix you some breakfast.”
He shook his head and stood up. “I’ll hit the Broiler when it opens. You go on back to bed.”
“There’s no way I can sleep now.” She came around the desk and took him in her arms. “Marsha, you, now this. What’s going on, Cork? Didn’t we leave Chicago to get away from this kind of thing?”
He took her in his arms and savored the feel, the only solid hold he had on anything at the moment. “Damned if I know, Jo, but I’m doing my best to find out.”
* * *
He waited until 7:00 A.M. to make the call to Jacoby’s home phone. After five rings, the line went to voice messaging, Jacoby’s own oily voice saying he and Gabriella weren’t home, leave a message.
Cork did, asking Ms. Jacoby to call him as soon as possible. It concerned her husband.
He stepped out of his office. The day shift had checked in, and the deputies were waiting for him in the briefing area. He gave them the lowdown on Mercy Falls, told them about a few changes to the duty roster, and reminded them to wear their vests.
At eight, he tried Jacoby’s number again. This time someone answered, a woman with a slight Latino accent. Puerto Rican, maybe.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Jacoby, please.”
“She is not here.” Her is came out ees.
“Do you know how I might reach her?”
“Who is this?”
“Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor. I’m calling from Aurora, Minnesota.”
“Mrs. Jacoby is gone. She will be back tomorrow.”
“Does she have a cell phone number?”
“I can’t give that out.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“I’m Carmelita.”
“Carmelita, this is an emergency.”
Carmelita breathed a couple of times before replying, “Mr. Edward?”
“Yes. Mr. Edward.”
“Sometheen happen?”
“I need to speak to his wife.”
She paused again, again considering. “Just a moment.” Her end of the line went quiet. Then: “She is on a boat on the lake. I do not know if you can reach her. Her cell phone number is . . .” Cork wrote it down. Then she said, “His father. You should call him.”
“His name?”
“Mr. Louis Jacoby. You want his telephone number?”
“Thank you.”
He tried the cell phone that belonged to the dead man’s wife, but it was “currently unavailable.” He punched in the number Carmelita had given him for the father. It was the same area code as Edward Jacoby’s home phone. The call was picked up on the first ring.
“Jacoby residence.” A man’s voice, modulated and proper.
“I’d like to speak with Louis Jacoby, please. This is Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor.”
“Just one moment, please.” The elegance of his voice seemed to lend a formality to the silence that followed. Half a minute later: “May I ask what this is in regard to, sir?”
“His son Edward.”
A very proper silence again, then: “This is Lou Jacoby. What is it, Sheriff?”
“Mr. Jacoby, I’m calling from Aurora, Minnesota. It’s about Edward.”
“What’s he done now?”
“It’s not that, sir. I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news. Are you alone?”
“Just tell me, Sheriff.”
“There’s no way for this to be easy. The body of your son was discovered this morning in a park not far from here.”
“His body?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Jacoby, your son is dead.”
Cork hated delivering this kind of news and hated doing it in this way.
“How?” Jacoby finally managed to ask.
“At the moment, we’re treating it as a homicide.”
“Somebody killed my son?” It was not a question but a hard reality settling in.
A silence that was only emptiness filled the line.
Then Jacoby rasped, “Eddie, Eddie. You stupid little shit.”
10
A LITTLE BEFORE ten, Cork visited Marsha at the hospital. Charlie Annala had taken time off from his job at the fish hatchery and was a constant companion. Marsha’s father, Frank, was there, too. Marsha looked better, with m
ore color in her face, and she was sitting up. She’d heard about Mercy Falls and asked for details. Cork told her what they had. Then he had to tell her that as far as her own shooting was concerned, he knew nothing more than he did yesterday. But Rutledge was waiting for results from the BCA lab that he was sure would be helpful.
A few minutes after noon, he met with Simon Rutledge and Ed Larson in his office.
Larson explained that they’d completed their investigation of the crime scene at Mercy Falls after daybreak when they had more light to work with. They’d gone over the interior of the Lexus, taken hair samples from the upholstery that didn’t appear to match that of the dead man, and had found in the ashtray two cigarette butts with lipstick on them. They’d fingerprinted everything; it was a rental, so there was a shitload of prints to process, and that would take a while. The door handles, however, had been wiped clean.
“Tom got right on the autopsy. He completed it about an hour ago. He’s working on the official report right now, but basically this is what he found,” Larson said, reading from his notepad. “There were fourteen stab wounds, all in the upper torso. Death was the direct result of a single stab wound to the heart. The mutilation came after Jacoby was deceased. The stab wounds were all delivered by a sharp, slender blade seven inches in length. The same instrument was probably used in the castration.”
“Sounds like a fillet knife,” Cork said.
“That’s exactly what Tom thought.”
In addition to being a physician and the county medical examiner, Tom Conklin was an avid angler.
“Was he robbed?” Cork asked.
“Nearly five hundred in his wallet, along with half a dozen credit cards.”
“What was he doing out at Mercy Falls late at night?”
“Good question,” Larson said.
“No indication of a struggle?”
“No lacerations on his arms or hands that would indicate he tried to defend himself.”
“So Jacoby was taken completely by surprise?” Cork said.
“I’m guessing the final autopsy report will show a high blood alcohol level. There was a nearly empty bottle of tequila in the Lexus. Probably it’ll show other drugs as well. We found a stash in the glove box. Cocaine, Ecstasy, marijuana, and Rohypnol.”
The date-rape drug. Also known as Roofies, Ruffies, Roche, and by a dozen other names.
“It’s entirely possible that Jacoby was too high to put up a struggle,” Larson said.
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 41
