It will be a pleasure to pay another visit to Dr. Gustavson with Ross. And it's time to bring in Bradley Karge for some official questioning. There is not yet quite enough evidence to charge him with Kate Danning's murder, but it is getting very close. Before I borrow a phone and call McGee at the hotel in Laramie, I take the Magic Eight Ball off Dave's desk and give it a shake. “All signs point to yes,” it reads.
McGee has scheduled an appointment for us to meet with Nathan Karge this afternoon. A roving security guard at the courthouse, a big, sunburnt man with a mullet haircut, unlocks the door after McGee knocks on the glass with the gold head of his cane. The rent-a-cop recognizes McGee and is fawningly polite to him, probably realizing that a bad word from head of the state's law enforcement division could keep him from ever getting a job on any police force in Wyoming. I smile, smirk really, watching the guard say “Good afternoon, sir,” and “How are you?” in his redneck drawl. There are few things more awkward than a cracker kissing ass. McGee merely grunts at him, and the guard in turn pretends I am invisible when I try to show him my badge. I wonder if he is a relative of Bender and Willis—he has the same big, sloppy, corn-fed build.
McGee looks worse than I have ever seen him. His skin is almost gray above his long white beard. His breaths are rapid and shallow, as if it is costing him an enormous effort to keep his lungs inflated. McGee sounds like Oso after a long run on a hot summer day, but with the addition of a new wheeze that makes me think my boss's throat is constricting. Leaning heavily on his cane as we climb the stairs, he shoots me a truly malevolent look when I move to take his free arm. I jerk away from him, a little stung by his glare. And saddened by his condition.
At the top of the stairs we finally come to the County Attorney's Office. I shake the double glass doors but find that they are locked. McGee again raps on the glass with the head of his cane. After a wait of a few minutes that is silent except for my boss's ragged respiration, it is Nathan Karge himself who appears on the other side.
He doesn't smile at the sight of the two of us outside his office's door. He looks tired but fierce. His tie is loose at the neck and his shirtsleeves are rolled above the elbow. Out of habit I notice his hands. He has surprisingly muscular forearms for a lawyer and there is a scribbling of tiny white scars across the backs of his hands. It causes me to examine the prosecutor more closely, wondering if he'd ever been a climber. On each side of his long, sharp-edged nose are faint black crescents beneath his eyes that indicate too many sleepless nights. He gazes at us through the glass as if evaluating whether to invite us in or not and rubs a hand across his jaw. I can almost hear the sandpaper rasp of his two-day-old beard.
“Still trying to ruin my life, eh, Ross?” he asks bitterly, finally unlocking the door. As he speaks the words he looks embarrassed that they have come from his own lips. “Sorry, I've been working late. Or early, I guess. I don't know anymore. Come on in.”
We follow him through the office lobby to a warren of hallways and smaller rooms. Karge's own office is all the way in back, in one corner of the courthouse. It is as austere as the man himself except for the stacks of notebooks and folders on his desk. There's an American flag and a Wyoming flag, and not much else but a picture of a young Bradley Karge with his mother, who I was told died of breast cancer a decade earlier. The windows face the south and west. I look out past his desk and can see the icy twelve-thousand-foot summits of Medicine Bow Peak and Old Main just forty miles distant. The sun is just starting its arcing descent toward them.
McGee collapses in a chair. Karge doesn't ask him if he's all right. He doesn't offer him a drink. I don't say anything either, but that is only because I know better. I resent that Karge acts unaware of McGee's condition, though, and find myself beginning to dislike the man.
McGee says, “Nathan . . . this is Agent Burns . . . with DCI. . . . He's the one . . . been looking into Kate Danning.”
Automatically, I start to step forward to shake the County Attorney's hand, but stop and return to my position by the door when the man merely nods at me.
“Your reputation precedes you, Agent.”
I can't tell what he means by that, so I say nothing. From the look he gives me I have a feeling that Karge is not one of those people in law enforcement that thinks I have done the state a favor by shooting three bangers. Besides, it wouldn't be good politics for a man with national ambitions to become friendly with someone who was involved in the disputed deaths of three minority citizens.
“Well, Nathan . . . our lad here . . . he has some problems . . . with the coroner's findings.”
Karge leans back in the chair behind his desk and raises one hand to the edge of his nose, which he pinches with his thumb and forefingers as he shuts his eyes. From my experience in reading body language it is apparent he's trying to have patience with an unimportant and disagreeable topic. When he opens them he says to us both, “I heard that you talked to Dr. Gustavson. He said you made a reference to the Kimberly Lee case. I want you to know that I don't appreciate you looking into a case that doesn't involve you or your office, except possibly Mr. McGee as a legal advisor.”
McGee is diplomatic. “This is about Kate Danning. . . . Agent Burns found some . . . inconsistent injuries. . . . Injuries that don't appear . . . to have come from a fall . . . but happened before she died. . . . And he found a weapon up there . . . on top of the cliff. . . . It's got some blood and hair on it . . . which might be Kate Danning's . . . the results aren't in yet.” He pauses for several breaths, then says, “I'm sorry, Nathan.”
The County Attorney drops his hand and stares at me. After a long while he asks softly, “What kind of weapon?”
“A bottle, Mr. Karge. A whiskey bottle,” I answer. I don't mention that I know it is Danning's blood, or at least her blood type, or that Brad's prints are on the bottle. I am afraid that if I tell him that he will never let us talk to his son.
Karge shuts his eyes again, then opens them and continues staring at me. They are red-rimmed and weary and the black smudges beneath seem to have grown twice as dark and heavy in the last few minutes. “Why would you think Brad would hurt her? She was his girlfriend. He'd even introduced her to me. That was very unusual for him, and we haven't been getting along too well lately.”
I feel some sympathy for him. He is a man who has devoted his life to the law, at least until he decided to pursue a career in politics. And now his ambitions could be ruined by his son, just as my father's ambitions to become a general were spoiled when Roberto was arrested and convicted. How painful it must be to watch your son self-destruct and at the same time ruin your own career as well.
“I don't know yet. There were others up there too. A couple of locals named Billy Heller and Chris Braddock,” I say to soften the impact and give him hope that his son is not the only suspect.
“That's right. Brad told me there were others up there that night.”
I ask, “Did he tell you who they were? I'm not sure if the list of names in the sheriff's report is complete.” I'm wondering about Lynn and if she'd told me the truth about leaving early.
“You'll have to ask him, Agent. I can't recall and I haven't even seen the report. I've been rather busy.”
I think that is a strange answer. I remember Sheriff Willis telling me that Karge had borrowed and read the report. But with the campaign and the Lee trial it's understandable that he would have a lapse in memory.
“So what are you going to do now, Agent Burns? Have you talked to my son already?”
“No, he won't talk to me. I was hoping that you could help.”
Karge looks at me sharply, then at McGee. “You're asking me to advise my son to talk to you, when you want to implicate him in a murder?”
McGee answers before I can. “There's a reason, Nathan. . . . A reason Agent Burns is asking. . . . Maybe Brad was involved . . . and maybe he wasn't. . . . But Burns found a few things . . . that may be possible links . . . to the Lee killing. . . . The exculpatory kind.
”
Karge's face turns red, his tragic composure slipping, and he explodes. “That's ridiculous, Ross. What the hell are you trying to do? Is this some kind of political crap? Trying to keep me out of the governor's race?”
McGee stays calm, evidently having expected this sort of reaction. “Look, Nathan . . . we've known each other . . . a lot of years . . . I think you know I'm a straight shooter. . . . Now do you want to hear . . . what Burns—”
But Karge isn't listening. He turns to me. “And who do you think you are? I know all about you, young man, and I know you have no credibility at all! You kill three men in cold blood, then come here to implicate my son and destroy my career?”
I feel myself getting hot, but I hold up my hands and step toward his desk. I want to explain that I hate politics, that I simply investigate and act on my findings, but both pity and anger trip the words on my tongue. Before I can say much, Karge stands up abruptly and slaps his palms on the desk, leaning forward. He shouts at me, “Get out of my office!”
And that's what I do. I leave without a word. I go out to the courthouse steps, where I wait for McGee in the sunlight and breathe slow and deep to let the anger out.
It is just ten minutes later that McGee comes out, shaking his head and leaning hard on his cane. He looks like the inevitable coronary could come any minute. Karge's rage has burned off the last of his energy. It's the second time I see him unscrew the eagle's head and take a pull from the hidden flask. A good portion of the whiskey runs down his beard and onto his already stained tie. Sagging down onto the low sandstone wall, he ignores me for a few minutes while he struggles to catch his breath.
I finally say, “I can't say I feel all that sorry for that guy right now.”
“Come on, lad . . . how would you feel . . . if you learned your son . . . was being investigated for murder . . . and the case that's the fucking pinnacle . . . of your career may be . . . a bunch of horseshit. . . . Goddamn, have a little sympathy.”
I think about repeating McGee's often-quoted phrase about exactly where in the dictionary sympathy can be found, but say nothing.
“I told him . . . if he didn't get the boy to talk . . . you're going to get a warrant. . . . Then it's a matter . . . of public record. . . . The media and all that.”
“So he'll get Brad to talk to me?”
“He's going to go . . . get him . . . and bring him . . . to the hotel.”
“Don't you think it's interesting, McGee, that by doing so he's saying his career's more important than the potential consequences to his son?”
“Or maybe he's certain . . . his son will be vindicated. . . . Maybe he just wants . . . to do the right thing.”
“I don't think his son's going to convince us of his innocence.”
“Nor do I, lad . . . nor do I,” McGee says sadly.
SIXTEEN
AN HOUR LATER we are still waiting back at McGee's small suite at the Holiday Inn. Ross has chosen to conduct the interview in his room so that Oso cannot terrorize either of the Karges. We had argued briefly about that—I have found in the past that Oso is useful in keeping people honest. There is something about his size and yellow eyes and teeth that brings out the truth. McGee thought it would be unnecessarily coercive. But then he has never met Brad Karge and doesn't know the trouble I expect to have in getting answers from him.
While we wait I make notes on my laptop computer, then check the batteries on the microcassette recorder. I have heard about too many times where the batteries failed during an interrogation, losing that part of the interview. If a case like that ever goes to court, the defense attorney will accuse the officer of intentionally discarding it and argue to the jury that it contained evidence that would have exonerated his client.
Finally there is a knock at the door. McGee sits up on the bed and pulls off the oxygen mask he has been wearing. We haven't spoken much during our wait, as I think he hates having me see him sick and vulnerable like this. Out of the deep affection and respect I feel for him, I scarcely look his way.
After giving McGee a moment to catch his wind, I open the door and wave Bradley and Nathan Karge into the room.
Brad's face looks sullen beneath the tangle of blond dreadlocks. He tugs at the sparse goatee on his chin and glares at me. A tight tank top shows off his sun-bronzed skin and lean, youthful muscles. Other than that, he wears baggy shorts and leather sandals.
Behind him, Nathan Karge's face is neutral. He doesn't even look my way as he introduces his son. He simply says, “This is Brad,” and walks to the bar sink to pour himself a glass of water.
I ask Brad if he wants anything to drink.
“Fuck that,” he says.
“All right then. Sit down if you want,” I say, indicating the other chair at the small table. “I'm going to turn on this recorder. This is Special Agent Antonio Burns of the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation. Today is September 17, the year two thousand, at about four o'clock in the afternoon. I'm in Deputy Attorney General Ross McGee's hotel suite at the Holiday Inn in Laramie, Wyoming. Also present are Ross McGee, Nathan Karge, and Bradley Karge. Now, Brad, I'd like to ask you some questions regarding the fatal climbing fall suffered by Kate Danning. But first I want to advise you of your legal rights—”
Nathan Karge spins away from the bar and says, “What is this? What are you reading him his rights for? Is he in custody?”
“No, Mr. Karge. I'm simply doing it as a precaution. There are three law enforcement officers in the room, including yourself who brought him here, and I do this as a matter of practice even in consensual interviews such as this.”
While Karge thinks about that, McGee speaks up. “We all know he's not . . . in custody, Nathan . . . but let's entertain Agent Burns.” He intends it to sound like a reprimand but I know it is not sincere.
“I don't give a fuck anyway. I didn't do anything,” Brad says.
I explain his rights to him and at first am only able to get him to grunt noncommittally when I ask if he understands his rights. With some coaxing I get him to answer “Yeah” to each of the rights I state. Out of the corner of my eye I see the County Attorney shaking his head, angry.
I begin by asking Brad about how he met Kate, and what the nature of their relationship was. Brad states that they met when he was climbing in the Tetons and that they started dating right away. He admits that they were intimate on the first night they met. He perks up a little as he talks about that, and looks directly at his father when answering. I glance at Nathan Karge, trying to guess at why the son seems to be taking such pleasure at saying this in front of his father. His white face is streaked with red splotches beneath the tired eyes.
After ten minutes or so of outlining the nature of Brad and Kate's relationship, I move on to what they were doing the night she died.
“We partied up there sometimes. There's a cave. It's where we kick in the summer.”
“Who glued the bolts to the rock?”
Brad smirks. “You found those, huh? I don't know who put them there. Probably Billy. Dude's got a sick sense of humor,” he says admiringly.
“Who was up there that night?”
“Me, Kate, Chris, Billy, some other chicks.”
“Who were the other girls?”
Brad appears to think about it for a while. “Cindy. Sierra.” Then, after a pause, “And Lynn. You know Lynn, right?” He smirks again.
“Can you tell me their last names?”
“Cindy Topper. Sierra . . . , I don't know. Lynn White.”
“Did everyone get there at the same time?”
“Naw, dude. Me, Billy, Chris, and Kate were up there early. We'd been climbing around there all day. The other chicks came up after dark and jugged up a rope we left for them. They left early too, before Kate fell.”
“What were you doing?”
“Drinking. Smoking some pot.” Brad again looks at his dad, who turns away, back to the bar.
“Was anyone taking any other drugs?”
“Did you have sex with Kate up there, during this party?”
“Yeah. Me and Billy both did.” He is looking at his dad again. I wonder if the County Attorney knew this embarrassing fact—if this was why he asked the coroner not to do a rape kit on Kate Danning's corpse.
“Both of you?” What had Billy brought all these kids up there for? I remember Lynn calling him the King of Vedauwoo, and Deputies Jones and Knight telling me how those kids worshipped him. At Vedauwoo, no one could touch him. Apparently they were all his supplicants.
The father turns around to say something, then stops and goes back to the bar. The red splotches on his face are darker, the skin around them whiter.
“Where were the others while this was going on?”
“They were around, you know. Hanging out.”
“Did anyone leave before she fell?”
“Like I already said, the girls did. First Cindy and Sierra. Then Lynn. She was a little pissed, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you know what time Cindy and Sierra left?”
“No, dude. I was wasted. I wasn't wearing a watch.”
“Can you even guess?”
“It was night. It was fucking dark.”
“How long after they left did Lynn leave?”
“Don't know. Ask Billy.” His grin is almost sly when he says it. God, I think. Had Lynn been up there when Kate fell or was pushed?
“How did everyone get down?”
“We rapped off, man. There's a pretty easy climb off the back side but I won't do that when I'm shit-faced.”
I think about that for a minute. That means after Kate was smashed on the boulders at the bottom of the cliff, they rappelled down to almost on top of her. And someone pulled the rope and coiled it while standing over the body. To me that indicated no one was too upset with her death—this was quite a cavalier group of friends.
“So only you, Billy, and Chris were there when Kate fell?”
The Edge of Justice Page 16
