If, on the other hand, the shell was from Johnny’s gun, that would be the end of this.
She prayed it was Johnny’s.
***
Joya Bonner was used to a coroner’s office that occupied a two-story building in the heart of one of the nation’s largest cities—a first floor with refrigerated rooms that could hold dozens of bodies, which it sometimes was called to do, and three “operating theaters” on the second floor for multiple autopsies at a time.
So what passed for a coroner’s office in Wahpeton, North Dakota, seemed amateurish. Two rooms. Not a refrigerator in sight. One room was the office. The other was the autopsy room. One steel table to hold a body. No communication system to record the report—just a tape recorder on a nearby shelf. No viewing room for visitors to monitor the autopsy. Here, if you wanted to observe, you sat on a chair in the corner of the small room as the body was cut apart inches away.
Joya walked into the office and smiled at the plump woman who was eating lunch from a Tupperware bowl.
“Oh, sorry.” Wiping her mouth, she set the bowl aside. “We’ve got a lot of work to do today so we’re staying in for lunch.”
“Well, it looks good,” Joya offered, smiling her friendliest smile. “Leftovers?”
“Yeah, meatloaf.”
“Oh, I love meatloaf. Nobody makes it like my mom. You’re making me hungry!”
The two women laughed and Joya always loved it when there was a connection.
“How can I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’d like a copy of the autopsy report on Darryl Harding,” she said. “The boy from Northville?”
“Oh sure, I know who you mean. We don’t have a lot of murders, you know, and this one was so yucky. That poor kid. Somebody just blew him away. Can you believe it? That kind of thing doesn’t happen around here.”
“I know. I grew up in Northville and the whole town is in shock. You wouldn’t think North Dakota would have to worry about stuff like this.”
“You sure wouldn’t.” The clerk reached over and pulled a file from her “in” basket. “Do you want a copy?”
“Yes, please.”
The woman got up and took the file to a Xerox machine in the corner, copying the six pages as she continued her testimony about the value of living in North Dakota. “You know, my husband wanted us to move to Odessa, Texas, because they’ve found new oil down there and he says it’s going to mean lots of easy money. But I said, Petie, I’m not moving! I don’t know what Texas is like, but I bet it’s not as nice as North Dakota and I don’t want our kids to grow up somewhere that isn’t safe. That’s what I told him. And he finally agreed, and we stayed here. That will be a dollar-fifty—we charge twenty-five cents a page.”
Joya stifled a laugh and handed over the money. “I thank you so much, and now I’m going to go out and find myself some lunch, and then call my mom and tell her I want meat loaf for dinner!”
Both women were giggling as Joya left the office.
She sat in her dad’s car and gobbled up the report.
Darryl Harding was killed by a single shotgun blast to his chest, the killer so close, the steel B-B’s hardly fanned out. The shooter was standing over the body when the trigger was pulled, probably holding the gun at the hip, rather than on the shoulder, according to the angle of the pellets. The wound was contaminated with plant material that was not identified.
The body’s wrists were raw, as though he’d been chained. His clothes still held remnants of straw and wheat shaft, suggesting he was in a grain silo.
The stomach was clear, signaling he hadn’t eaten in a day or so.
The body was moved after death, as much as a day after, according to postmortem lividity.
Joya closed her eyes, imaging how devastating this information could be in a news conference that went to the worst possible scenario—the kind she was used to hearing from her own sheriff back in Phoenix.
If Sheriff Potter were the publicity hog that Sheriff Arpaio was, he’d have already called a news conference to decry that this poor boy was chained up and starved to death before being blown away by a Rambo with a shotgun. How soon before some reporter came calling for this very report and reached the same conclusions?
She didn’t have all day to get the help they needed.
Joya next stopped at the office of the attorney who’d been recommended by a friend in Phoenix. He wasn’t a seasoned criminal defense attorney, but then, Wahpeton didn’t have any. Violent crime wasn’t a profitable specialty around here, since there was so little. For that, Fargo attorneys were needed. Around here, the money in lawyering came from the civil cases—more leases and rental disputes than kidnapping and murder.
But Dolan Lowe came recommended with enough experience to know the ropes. Besides, her Phoenix friend said, this guy hated Sheriff Potter.
Joya laid a twenty-dollar bill on the desk and said, “Let’s call that a down payment on a retainer so my father is officially a client, and I’m his representative.”
Lowe saw what their mutual friend in Phoenix had meant when he said, “Don’t bullshit this woman. She’s smart, and she knows the law.”
Under the attorney-client privilege standard, she filled him in on what had happened in Northville, stressing that while her dad and his buddies had kidnapped the kid to get him to talk, she was completely convinced none of them had killed him. She handed over the police and autopsy reports she’d gathered that morning and suggested he make her a copy and he keep the originals, and she noted the points in the reports that worried her.
“The sheriff thinks he’s got them because they kidnapped the kid,” she told the attorney, sounding anxious.
“So what evidence does he have that they kidnapped him?” the lawyer asked. Joya laid out the facts as she saw them.
“That’s not evidence. That’s circumstance.” Lowe was glad he was smarter than a journalist. “So what if it’s Earl’s silo? Ownership doesn’t mean anything in this case. It doesn’t mean Earl had anything to do with a kidnapping. I don’t see that they found a lock. Did they find a lock on the door?”
Joya noticed for the first time that the police report said nothing about a lock.
“Well, if there had been a lock, they sure would have mentioned it, because they could have traced that back,” Lowe stressed. “Found out who purchased the lock. Found out who had the key or the combination. And that would limit access. But if they didn’t mention a lock on the door, there probably wasn’t one and that makes ownership even less important. Anybody could have had access to that silo. Anybody could have kidnapped that kid and put him there. There’s nothing to tie it to your dad or his friends. Unless they’ve admitted they kidnapped him. They haven’t, have they?”
“Oh, no,” Joya assured.
“Fine. Let’s keep it that way.”
Joya gave a great sigh of relief. She’d totally missed the lock. She’d put too much strength in Earl’s ownership. She’d accepted that they’d have to answer for the kidnapping, and now she could see there was nothing that proved her dad had kidnapped anybody.
“The only thing they found in that silo was a shotgun shell, and if they can’t tie it to your dad, they’ve got absolutely nothing,” Lowe concluded.
Joya already knew that, and it scared her. “I know, that would be so bad.” She relayed how the sheriff already had come for her dad’s shotgun, but she’d stopped him.
“Good work,” the attorney said with real admiration. “But you know it’s almost impossible to trace a shotgun shell, don’t you?”
Joya perked up. “Really?” She hadn’t known, but then, guns weren’t her strong suit. She didn’t like them, didn’t own one, and since she’d left home, hadn’t shot one, although her dad had made sure all his children were gun savvy.
But in all the lessons Ralph Bonner gave his children, he never dis
cussed the traceability of a shotgun shell. Attorney Lowe now gave her a CliffsNotes version.
“Shotgun shells are anonymous. They’re not like bullets that get marked up as they go through a barrel of a rifle or a gun. You can trace bullets to a specific weapon. It’s very hard to tie a particular shell to a specific shotgun. Plus we have no evidence that the shell they found has anything to do with this murder. Maybe it had been there a long time. Having a shotgun shell in the same place as a shotgun murder doesn’t mean much. Especially not on a farm in North Dakota.”
Joya was thinking of all the nice things she’d do for her friend back in Phoenix for finding such a smart guy to save her dad’s ass. This was exactly why he needed a good attorney. This was the kind of clear thinking she’d seen defense attorneys in Phoenix do again and again. And here was a clear-thinking, answer-for-everything defense attorney that was taking her dad’s case.
“So what do you think?” she finally asked.
“I think one of your dad’s friends killed that kid.”
“WHAT?”
“You heard me. What makes you think they didn’t?”
“I know these men. I’ve known them all my life. The town knows them. They’re not killers. They were trying to save the town—to force him out, or to confess. Or to save Johnny. They never intended him to die!”
“Are you sure?”
“Goddamnit it, yes, I’m sure. Listen, maybe you don’t understand Northville. This is a nice little town. Families have lived there for generations. Everybody knows everybody. They take care of one another. It’s a wonderful place to raise children. It’s not some cesspool where people going around murdering somebody.”
“I might have bought that before somebody turned it into a cesspool where people go around murdering somebody.” He said the words slowly, quietly. He was surprised a seasoned reporter couldn’t see through the disguise to what the town was really like.
Joya refused to be swayed. “My dad and his friends thought they were helping the town. They aren’t murderers. If you can’t believe that, if you can’t get up in a court of law and argue that, I’ll have my twenty dollars back and we’ll forget this.”
“Oh, I can get up in a court of law and argue your dad is a saint, but it doesn’t mean I have to believe it. But I’m keeping your twenty dollars because I don’t believe your dad is a killer. Now his buddies, I don’t know. But here’s the thing…if one of them did kill that kid, all three are culpable. It’s called ‘felony murder.’ If someone dies in the commission of a felony, everyone involved is as guilty as the one who pulled the trigger. So the only way to save your dad is to pretend all three of them are saints. So here’s my first piece of legal advice: tell your dad and his friends to keep their mouths shut and they’ll be okay.”
Joya nodded in great relief.
“Why don’t I come down next week and talk to your dad and I’ll lay it all out for him?”
“He’ll want his buddies there, too. I know you can’t represent all three, but would it be okay if they all listened?”
“Sure. Let’s see, I’m in court on Monday. How about Tuesday?”
They made an appointment and Joya left feeling hopeful. This man knew what he was doing, and anyone who’s ever needed a good attorney knows how great that feels.
She stopped at Econo Foods to pick up greens for a salad—with diverticulitis a problem for both her mom and dad, their idea of salad was Jell-O. She left the store at about four p.m. and decided to take the back way home, rather than drive out to the interstate.
She was feeling so proud of herself, so happy to take such good news home. The country music station her dad favored even sounded good today. She didn’t notice the pickup until it was beside her, forcing her off the road.
Joya screamed as she pulled the wheel to the right and went into the ditch that was half-full of snow. She was amazed how the car plowed through the white snowpack, and for a second she thought it might just keep moving forward until it went up into the barren field on the other side of the ditch. But suddenly, the car came to a jolting stop as it smashed into something solid, hidden beneath the snow. Only her seat belt kept her from flying through the windshield, but it didn’t stop her head from crashing into the steering wheel. When she opened her eyes, she saw blood.
“Oh my God, oh my God, I’m bleeding,” she cried out. Who would come to help her? There was no one on the road. The pickup was gone. The wind was blowing and it was eighteen degrees outside, and she was alone in the last minutes of light on a North Dakota winter’s day. She started to cry.
“He ran me off the road. Who was that? Why did he do that? What kind of car was it? No, it wasn’t a car, it was a pickup. What color? Black. No, not black. Dark blue. Why? Who would do that to me? Oh God, I’ve smashed Dad’s car.”
She unhooked her seat belt and tried to open the door, but it couldn’t push against the snow. She was tilted downward, so it looked like the passenger door might be freer. She pushed and shoved and angled and tried to get herself up to the passenger side, but she couldn’t. All the time, the light was fading.
If she’d been on the interstate, somebody would have stopped by now and rescued her. But she was on the back road. It was a good road, used mainly by the farmers who lived off it or the railroad workers who had a depot up the way. Joya calculated that not many of them would be driving by soon. If she was to get out of this, she had to do it herself.
And then the dark blue pickup came back.
She stopped breathing as she looked in the rearview mirror and saw a man get out of the pickup and start down the ditch slope. He was carrying something in his hand and Joya feared it was a gun.
Oh God, he’s going to kill me. Right here. Who is he? Why? Why? Why?
The man reached her door and she saw he held a shovel. He used it to clear away some snow so the door could open. “Push,” he yelled, and she pushed on the door while he yanked, and their combined effort opened it enough that she could slip out.
He grabbed her coat and helped her get out of the car. She finally had a chance to look at him. He was wearing the badge of the Richland County Sheriff’s Office.
Her first instinct was to scream at the man who’d run her off the road and demand an explanation, but first instincts are best corralled when you’re facing a badge.
“So what happened?” He asked like he didn’t know. He was looking her straight in the eye, but there was a smirk around his lips.
“I, I, I, don’t know,” she stammered. She felt her palms sting, just like that day at the library.
“You probably hit ice and went off the road,” he coached, saying the words as though he were talking to a child.
“I guess…I hit…hit ice and…went off the road?”
“That sounds about right.” The deputy grinned. “You’ve got to be more careful, girly. Roads like this can be dangerous at night. You shouldn’t be fooling around out here. You know, it’s never good for your health if you’re foolin’ around in stuff you shouldn’t be. You’re not from these parts, are you?”
“I…I…I’m from Phoenix.”
“It’s a lot nicer in Phoenix these days than it is in North Dakota. Think maybe you should head back home?”
Joya’s mind was recording every word, even through her fright. She looked at his badge, No. 329. It was a number she’d never forget. She looked at his face—blue eyes, sandy blond hair under his ear-flap cap, a mole on his right cheek, thick lips that knew how to sneer.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” She was getting her bearings but careful not to let on that she was regaining her equilibrium. “I think my car is smashed. Can you radio for help or something?” She thought to herself, No way am I ever getting in a pickup with this man.
“I can pull you out. Put it in neutral.”
He climbed out of the ditch, backed up his pickup and uncoiled the chain. It
took him only a few minutes to hook onto her back bumper and pull her out. There was a dent in the front bumper, but no real damage. When she turned the switch, the car came alive.
“Think you can make it home without any more accidents?” Like he was concerned about her welfare. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to a visitor who’s not staying long.”
“I’m sure I can,” she said. “Thank you, Officer.”
“Yes, ma’am. Just remember, I pulled you OUT of that ditch.”
He smirked at her again and drove away.
Joya drove home, plotting her revenge. That stupid son of a bitch. He thinks he can scare me and make me run away. He thinks he’s so goddamned smart. Wait till I get him. The asshole called me ‘girly’!
She decided to tell her folks she hit ice and went in the ditch and a nice farmer pulled her out. She couldn’t admit what had really happened or they’d make her stop working on this case. No, she’d lie to them, but she’d sure as hell tell that smart defense attorney in Wahpeton. He’d know how to handle this. Badge 329 had pulled his last stunt.
Chapter Twenty-one
Wednesday, January 19, 2000
The next day, Joya stayed close to home, helping her mother make pierogies and enjoying a day of being the woman’s daughter.
Maggie signaled first thing that she wanted no discussion about “the case,” and that was fine with Joya. She was ready for a break.
When Maggie sent her uptown for more dry cottage cheese, Joya made a side stop at Leona’s Flowers to buy her mom a bouquet.
“How about those two pink roses and some white ones?” she asked.
“Sorry, the pink ones are spoken for, but I’ve got some nice red roses that are as big as cabbages.”
Funeral Hotdish Page 21
