“The fights go back a long way,” Fenwick suggested.
Verinder said, “Since we were kids.”
Nagel said, “Talk to those goddamn First Nations kids. They were always causing trouble. They’d wait until your back was turned and then attack.”
Doran said, “Scarth always was standing up to them. They tried to push us guys around and, dude, they had to be put in their place. They were always messing with us.”
Fenwick said, “It seemed kind of mutual.”
Nagel launched into a rant that was mostly barely disguised racism. The others chimed in with anecdotal episodes of alleged mistreatment.
Fenwick asked, “Anybody ever try sitting down and talking about your differences?”
Collective and random snorts greeted this suggestion. Doran said, “Man, the bleeding hearts around here were always trying to get us to sit down and talk. What’s to talk about? We know our place, and they should know theirs.”
Fenwick asked, “And what is your place?”
The four of them looked a little confused.
Fenwick said, “What is it then that is your place that is not their place?”
Verinder said, “They should just keep the hell away.”
Doran added, “Morningsky was always looking for trouble. He was an instigator. They did most of the petty crimes in this town that we were accused of.”
Fenwick said, “Did you bring your proof to the police?”
“Screw proof,” Verinder said. “The people in this town just believed them.”
Turner asked, “You guys know anything about the other six kids who drowned in the lake the last few years?”
Nagel said, “What’s the deal with them? Were they murdered? Nobody said they were murdered.”
Doran added, “They started dying years ago. We were teenagers.”
Fenwick said, “Probably big enough to push someone in the lake and hold them down.”
Doran said, “We don’t know nothing about that shit.”
Turner and Fenwick left them. They strode a block down to where they’d left the SUV. Dunsmith, the one who had been silent, emerged from the woods on the far side of the SUV. He glanced furtively left and right then raced to the passenger side of the SUV out of sight from the clustering teenagers. An attack? Turner wondered. An escape? Dunsmith stood in the shadows of the SUV. “I gotta talk to you guys.” Turner unlocked the SUV. Dunsmith scuttled into the backseat and scrunched down far enough so that he couldn’t be seen from outside. Turner slowly drove to the edge of the city park and let the vehicle idle.
“What’s going on?” Turner asked.
“I hate those guys. I hated Scarth. He was a shit to me. He busted my nose. Twice.”
“Why hassle us?” Turner asked.
Dunsmith said, “The rest were doing it. I didn’t dare not do it. It was kind of fun to watch people get scared. I’m a coward and as big a shit as them. I didn’t have the guts to get away.”
“Why’d you hang around with him?”
“Not hanging around with him could be even more dangerous, but Evon was worse. She was a total shit to me. She cheated on Scarth when they were dating.”
“They both knew what they were doing with other people?” Fenwick asked.
Dunsmith said, “She’d cheat with animals, vegetables, minerals, dildos, women, and men. She’s great at what she does. I hate the bitch. She gave everybody head. All of us.”
Fenwick said, “She do something specific to you? Did she break your nose?”
Dunsmith said, “She let everybody know I had a small prick and that I came real fast and then couldn’t get it up again. The whole goddamn North Woods knows I’m a lousy lover. I wanted to pound the crap out of her, but Scarth would protect her. Well, he’s not around now. I can speak my mind. Some Saturday nights she’d do all of us one by one in the backseat of Scarth’s car.”
Fenwick said, “Everybody would watch?”
Dunsmith said, “I think everybody else did at one time or another. Everybody knew her reputation. Supposedly she and Scarth were each other’s ‘first’ back in fifth grade.”
“They were sexually active even then?” Fenwick asked.
“Tell me you aren’t really astonished,” Turner said. “You know kids have sex. The studs like Scarth start early. He was handsome and an athlete from an early age.”
“Got that right,” Dunsmith said.
“I’m not surprised,” Fenwick said, “just in awe.”
“I think they were sort of sex outlets,” Dunsmith said. “Convenient without any commitment on either side.”
“This was mutually agreeable?” Turner asked.
Dunsmith shrugged. “I guess.”
“Any arguments about who was doing what to her when?” Fenwick asked.
“Nope,” Dunsmith said.
“Scarth didn’t get pissed?” Turner asked.
“He and his hard-on were in line like the rest of us,” Dunsmith said.
“But weren’t they boyfriend and girlfriend?” Fenwick asked.
“Sometimes,” Dunsmith said, “but that mostly meant if there was, like, somebody getting married, it was them two that went together. They were like convenient dates for each other. Nobody got pissed. No, dude, the point is Scarth is dead. I’m free of him. I’m dumping those other three assholes and clearing out of this screwed-up end of nowhere.”
“How did you know I was gay?” Turner asked.
“You’ve been up here a few years. You go around town with another guy. People notice.”
“Whose idea was it to attack us the other night?”
“Scarth’s,” Dunsmith said. “Everything we did was Scarth’s idea. If we sat around being bored, that was Scarth’s idea, too.”
“Why did you stay friends with him?”
“Better to be a friend than to piss him off.”
He knew nothing specific about Scarth’s movements late Monday or Evon’s current whereabouts. After several furtive glances outside the SUV, he left.
As the detectives drove down Main Street past the cafés and tourist shops, Turner said, “Seem like a normal bunch of aimless thugs who don’t know how to deal with their emotions except to turn them into violence.”
Fenwick said, “Evon doesn’t shine as an example of feminist liberation.”
Turner said, “Desperate to be popular and liked? A psycho bitch?”
“All of the above?” Fenwick said.
Turner said, “These guys kill their buddy?”
“Nah,” Fenwick said. “They’re followers. If Scarth killed somebody, they’d go along. Except maybe Dunsmith. He’s a traitor and he’s pissed, but he’s our pissed-off, angry traitor. For now, he’s on the Definitely Maybe list. Who’s next?”
Turner said, “We could try Scarth’s hockey coach.”
20
They found the coach, Elijah Sterling, sitting in front of his double-wide trailer in a clearing in the woods. Weeds and scruffy, uncut grass swept from tree line to mobile home. Tires and rusted toys and half-chopped logs dotted the clearing. Sterling’s bulk oozed from every opening in a cheap plastic lawn chair. The mound of beer cans and fast-food containers around him attested to the source of his bulk. Even Fenwick paled in comparison to the heft of this man.
Sterling glared at them in the glint of the sunlight. As they walked up the driveway, the corpulent coach said, “I hear you don’t like my boy, Scarth.”
“Lots of people didn’t like him,” Turner said.
“Jealous of his daddy’s money. Jealous of Scarth’s athletic ability. The losers and whiners and complainers in town didn’t like him. They were jealous of his looks, of his success, of his humor, of his joy at being alive.”
“Didn’t he make a lot of people miserable?” Fenwick asked.
“A lot of people prefer to enjoy their misery. I’ll show you the kind of boy he was.” He beckoned them into the trailer. The kitchen had dirty dishes heaped in the sink. The living room had three pieces
of furniture: a thirty-six-inch television, a recliner, and a trophy case that stretched along one whole wall. Sterling drew them close to it.
He said, “See them. All of them. They were for teams of mine that won championships. Scarth could hit a hockey puck through the eye of an opponent at fifty paces. The boy was the best athlete I ever coached. He was the one who took the other kids on the team to another level. He knew how to play and how to inspire his teammates. He had a work ethic that I’ve never seen matched. He’d get to school early every day to work out with weights. He had specific exercises to do for specific muscle groups on specific days. He kept charts of his progress. Hell, he inspired me. It always made me proud to be a coach when I watched him play. He’d listen to suggestions. He wanted to be better.” He wiped incipient tears from his eyes. He abruptly walked out of the trailer back to his seat on the patio. He grabbed a handful of chips, stuffed them in his mouth, chewed a moment, took a long drink of beer, belched, farted, and scratched his balls. The escaping gas was loud enough to silence the local birds for several seconds. He took another gulp of beer, then used the back of his hand to wipe away tears.
“Hockey’s a violent sport,” Turner said. “Was he a violent kid?”
“No more than your average player.”
Fenwick said, “He had the strength to make his emotions felt in physical ways that other kids couldn’t stop.”
“He knew his strength. He knew when to stop.”
“He drank a lot,” Turner said. He noted the empty beer cans and liquor bottles.
“So do I. So does everybody in this godforsaken corner of the planet. You ever try and find something to do night after night in the middle of a cold, cold winter? You do what you can to warm up.” He took a long pull from his beer can. “Don’t you put this on Scarth. Don’t you dare. Scarth was a fine boy.”
Fenwick said, “He drowned while he was drunk.”
“Somebody tried to kill him. The current isn’t that strong. There was no storm Monday night. Someone had to get him while he was drunk.”
“Who did?” Turner asked. “If he was such a great guy, who would have reason to kill him?”
“Everybody has enemies. Even the best people.”
Fenwick asked, “Did he get drunk every night?”
“He liked his beer. There’s no crime in that.”
Fenwick asked, “He get along with his younger brother?”
“Kid wasn’t much of an athlete.”
“Is that the only criteria you have?” Fenwick asked.
“It’s as good a way as any to judge somebody. The younger one was a wuss. He was worthless. He kept out of my way. Always had an excuse not to be in gym class. That’s fine. I don’t want that kind in my gym class.”
Fenwick said, “You’re not much of an advertisement for an athletic life.”
“Neither are you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a gym teacher and don’t pretend to be someone who works with or for the physical well-being of those with whom I come in contact.”
Sterling gave him an odd look. “You talk like that much?”
If they were alone, Turner would tease Fenwick about his verbiage.
“Did he have fights with anybody?” Turner asked.
“Some kids might have been jealous of his ability. I never noticed. I was too busy to care about silly complaints.”
“No enemies at all? You didn’t hear about him picking on other kids?”
“Exaggerations. He was a good kid, a good man. I was proud to call him my friend.”
“Did you know his girlfriend, Evon Gasple?” Turner asked.
“A sweet girl. She always made time for Scarth. She’d bring cookies for him and the team. He took her to the prom. I thought they might get married.”
Fenwick said, “We heard she had the reputation around this town for being a slut.”
Sterling stood up. “Look, I’m putting up with a lot from you two. You hear rumors about famous people all the time. Even about not famous people. Like the rumor you two are fags.”
“I am,” Turner said, “but he’s not.”
“Does that make it okay?” Fenwick asked Sterling.
“That’s enough questions. This town needs to mourn that boy. He—” And he actually began to cry. They were the first tears they’d seen for the dead youngster. He paced back and forth on his minuscule patio, stopped for a moment, lifted one foot, then the other. For a few seconds he shuffled like a dancing bear.
Turner wasn’t through yet. “Some people are saying that this death is connected to the other six college-age kids who died.”
Sterling paused in his pacing. “Those six? I coach at the college most winter evenings. Gives me something to do. They were all on one team or another of mine.”
Fenwick said, “It didn’t seem funny to you that it just so happened that kids who were on your teams were dying?”
“A couple of them were only on the team for a week or two the year before they died. I didn’t know any of them others real well. They weren’t great athletes. I don’t really remember them that well.”
“It wasn’t sad that they died?” Fenwick asked.
“Well, yeah, sure, but I’m not going to pretend that I was all broken up. They weren’t friends of mine or anything.”
“Would Scarth have known them?” Turner asked.
“Maybe the last two. He was too young to play in the earlier one’s division. Don’t pull this shit that you think Scarth had something to do with those murders. That’s bullshit absurd.”
“Did his buddies know the other guys who died?”
“Scarth’s friends were loyal to Scarth. They wouldn’t harm anyone.”
“They were harassing some First Nations kids the other night.”
“Billy Morningsky, right? That kid has a mouth on him. He was the rudest teenager I’ve ever had in any of my classes in all my years of teaching. He needed to have somebody beat the crap out of him.”
Fenwick said, “Sounds like Scarth could have used some crap pounding.”
Sterling crunched his beer can. His breath rasped out of his throat. “Billy Morningsky could have been a great athlete. He wasn’t willing to put out the effort. He wasn’t willing to work. Billy Morningsky thought the world was going to be given to him.”
“Seemed like a nice kid to me,” Fenwick said.
Sterling glared. “Get off my property.”
Turner and Fenwick retreated.
In the SUV Turner said, “We finally have a connection between all these dead guys.”
“I don’t think Elijah Sterling did it. Hell, he’d never catch them, no matter how drunk they were. All they’d have to do is walk slowly away from him.”
Turner said, “He’d be big enough to hold them down.”
“He’d have to catch them.”
“They were drunk,” Turner said.
“This is a connection,” Fenwick said, “just not a very murderous one, as far as I can see.”
“Me neither.”
“That makes it unanimous.”
Turner said, “Who’s next?”
“The kid who brought the gun to school to kill Scarth sounds like a good possibility.”
21
Oliver McBride no longer sported spiked hair. Its red color didn’t look like a dye job. He may have been a portly child, but as an adult he was a rail-thin six feet three. He was a part-time mechanic and salesman at a used-car dealership out on Route 17. A sign over the door said MCBRIDE AND SON AUTO DEALERS, NEW AND USED CARS SOLD. CARS FIXED WHILE YOU WAIT.
The man they wanted to question was leaning over the engine of a Lamborghini. A chubby man in a rumpled business suit hovered near him. This man said, “You’re sure you can fix it?”
“Part’ll be here tomorrow,” McBride said. He tapped the engine and stood straight. “You’re lucky you broke down near here. There’s not another shop that can fix it in a hundred miles.”
Turner excused himself and said, “We’d
like to talk to you about Scarth Krohn.”
McBride turned very blue eyes on them. “You’re not the Provincial Police.”
“No,” Turner said. “We’re interested in what happened. We’re hoping you can help us get some insight into him.”
McBride called back into the shop. “Dad, I’ll be on the lot for a while.” He left the customer wringing his hands.
McBride led them outdoors. They stood between a 1955 Chevrolet and a 1964 Rambler. McBride said, “You know about the shooting or you wouldn’t be here.”
They nodded.
“I wish I’d have killed him then and a thousand other times. I wish I’d been the one to kill him this time.”
“You think it was murder?” Turner asked.
“I hope it was. I hope someone was getting even for all the rest of us. I hope someone made him suffer for the asshole, son of a bitch he was. His life was an intrusion on the rest of us. He was the puke in the middle of the cheese dip at anyone’s party. He deserved to die. They say he drowned. I hope he knew he was dying. I hope he suffered. He deserved to.”
Turner asked, “Why didn’t you try to shoot him the day you brought the gun?”
“I was crazed. I didn’t know if I was too scared of him, or his whole gang, or the whole world.”
“Yeah, but you hit an innocent kid.”
“It was an accident. He was trying to pull the gun away from me. I’m not sure I wasn’t trying to commit suicide. Life, when you were a target of Scarth Krohn’s, was hell. He’d whisper to me when nobody was around, ‘Your ass is mine,’ or ‘I know you like being corn holed.’ Even when I dated girls he would hound me. I screamed it at him once, told all his buddies about the threats he had made to me. They all laughed. Nobody believed their straight hero was even slightly a fag.”
“He never actually touched you?” Turner asked.
“I was a master at hiding. When I finally got taller and lost weight, I could outrun almost anybody in school. He never caught me. I don’t know what he would have really done. His straight credentials topped my straight credentials. I’m married and I’ve got a little kid. More than Scarth ever had or will.”
Hook, Line, and Homicide Page 13
