Fractures: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  The chief turned to me. “Do you like her?”

  “She and Lee Rossman go back more than twenty years,” I said. “She’s the right age to have been in a relationship with him back in the day.”

  “But now with Florence on the scene?”

  “Yeah, Cheryl could be pissed about that,” I said.

  “One thing she did mention,” Ryan said, “was how Florence is the co-owner of the business. If Cheryl’s the woman scorned, that would be my vote for motive.”

  “Good to know.” The chief nodded. “She have an alibi?”

  I shook my head. “She lives alone.”

  “Who else have you talked to?”

  “Cheryl Garrity put us onto two environmentalists in town.” I forgot the guy’s name, so I looked at Ryan.

  “Nathan Kress,” Ryan said. “Rivers United.”

  “I know who you mean,” the chief said.

  “He has an alibi,” I said, “plus he owed Rossman.”

  “For what?”

  “Rossman paid the medical bills when Kress’ son got really sick,” I said. “Kress wouldn’t hurt a fly. No way he’d ever hurt Rossman. He’s the kind of guy wants us all to get along.”

  The chief turned to Ryan. “You see him that way, too?”

  “I do,” Ryan said.

  “And the second environmentalist?”

  “We just talked to her,” I said. “Lauren Wilcox. A professor in town.”

  “Like her?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk with Ryan about it, but, yeah, I do. First off, Cheryl Garrity calls her an eco-terrorist—”

  The chief tilted his head. “She used that term?”

  “Sure did.”

  “She explain what it means?”

  I shook my head. “No such luck. But she spelled out the name to be sure we’d look her up.”

  The chief turned to Ryan. “And when you looked her up?”

  “We found a professor who’s well-published,” Ryan said. “A little more radical than Nathan Kress—I mean, about environmentalism. She runs this student group at the university that gets the kids involved in the politics.”

  “She point you to a kid?”

  “No,” I said. “She called them puppies. Just not housebroken.”

  “One thing Karen thought of,” Ryan said. “We put in a call to the FBI to see if they’ve got her in some sort of database.”

  The chief looked wistful. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  I said, “She does have a temper. When we asked her if she had an alibi—which, by the way, she doesn’t—she gave us some lip.”

  “She’s sitting there in a brand-new lab,” Ryan said. “It must have cost a million bucks. Guess who paid for it?”

  “Lee Rossman?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So she owes Rossman, too, like Nathan Kress?”

  “No,” I said, “she’s got a real set of balls on her. She said she wouldn’t hurt him—what’s she gonna say?—but she was up-front about how she wanted to put him out of business permanently.”

  “But not with a knife,” the chief said.

  “She was clear about that.”

  “You stay in touch with the FBI.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So who you want to talk to out at the rigs?”

  “We want to start with Bill Rossman, Lee’s son,” I said. “You know him?”

  “Heard of him. Never met him.” The chief frowned. “What’s he doing out at the rigs?”

  “Florence told us he works on the rigs sometimes and lives here in town sometimes. When he’s here he’s going to college.”

  “His father’s just been killed. Why isn’t he here in town with Florence?”

  “We haven’t quite figured out that relationship,” Ryan said. “His step-mom said it’s a work-in-progress.”

  “Is he in our system?”

  Ryan looked down at his notebook. “Some misdemeanors. Criminal mischief. Underage drinking. Possession.”

  “Was he selling?”

  “No.” Ryan shook his head. “Just a couple of joints. These go back six or seven years. The only recent arrest was last year. Simple assault. He got into it with another student. They beat each other up. They’d been drinking. Neither one pressed charges.”

  “That’s all we know about that incident?”

  “The other student,” Ryan said, reading from his notebook, “is Kirk Hendrickson. Don’t know what they were fighting about. You want us to track him down, or the arresting officer?”

  The chief sighed. “Not yet. Let’s see where it goes. I’m more interested in why Bill’s still out at the rigs.”

  “And whether he was out there when his father got killed,” I said.

  “Maybe Harold can help us with that.” The chief paused. “Anyone else you want to talk to out at the rigs?”

  “There’s a rancher named Mark Middleton who’s had some confrontations with Rossman Mining,” Ryan said.

  “What kind of confrontations?” the chief said.

  “Middleton is unhappy because he thinks Rossman wasn’t honest with him when they leased his property for drilling. So he organized some other unhappy landowners, bought some billboards, made some obnoxious YouTube videos. Then he started denying the company access to his property—”

  “Which violates his contract.”

  “Yes. Then Rossman equipment on his property started taking some small-arms fire.”

  “During the day?”

  “No, just at night,” Ryan said. “Middleton denies he had anything to do with it. But whoever was doing the shooting knew how to hit the expensive parts on the equipment.”

  “Any arrests?”

  “No. The local police have talked to him a couple of times, since it’s all happened on his property, but they didn’t have enough to charge him.”

  “So Middleton is trying to intimidate the company?”

  “That’s the way I’d read it. He figures the workers are going to start worrying about whether he’ll fire when they’re on his property. If they refuse to work the three rigs on his ranch, maybe the company will decide it’s not worth the trouble and just shut them down.”

  “But Middleton hasn’t made any specific threats against Lee Rossman?”

  “He stops just short. Calls Rossman a ghost, says he has him dead to rights. That kind of thing.”

  “Well,” the chief said, “I think you two ought to try to talk with him. Maybe he just crossed that line.”

  “So, we’re good, Chief?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  Ryan and I stood up and turned to leave.

  “Ryan, could you give me and Karen a minute?”

  “I’ll see you back in the bullpen.” Ryan left the chief’s office.

  “Sit.” The chief pointed to a chair. I sat. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  It took me a moment to figure out what he was referring to. “I’m good. A little tired.” I shook my head. “I’m fine.”

  He looked at me, didn’t say anything.

  “You mean the incident at my place, last night, right?” I said.

  He scratched at an earlobe. “If you want me to assign someone else—it’s a long drive out to the Bakken.”

  “No, chief, I’m fine. I’ll sleep in the cruiser. I mean, if I get tired.”

  “Karen, we’ve been through some stuff together—”

  “Which is why I’m telling you I’m fine.”

  “This man—McNamara—that was the man you were involved with a few months ago.”

  I stood up. “Listen, Chief, I appreciate what you’re doing, but it’s not your problem. I’m telling you I’m okay, so I’d appreciate it if you could just …” I showed him my palms.

  “All right, Detective, I hear what you’re saying.” He stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Do you intend to tell Booking whether you plan to press charges?”

  I had forgotten that the hospital would release Mac
to the Department, and he’d show up here. We’d need to decide what to do with him. “I’m sorry, Chief, I haven’t had a chance to think about that.”

  “Would you like my advice?”

  “I don’t want you to have to get involved.”

  He pulled his head back. “I’m the chief of police for the city of Rawlings. I have to either release this man or charge him. Now, do you want my advice?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Chief.” I felt my legs go a little wobbly, the fatigue catching up to me. “But I want you to think of me as just another cop.”

  “Charge him with B&E. That’s a felony. We hold him. When you’ve had a chance to get some sleep and decide what you want to do, you can add assault. Whatever you decide.”

  I nodded and stood up to leave.

  He stepped out from beside his desk and walked over to me. “Karen, trusting people doesn’t make you weak.”

  I started to weaken. “I trusted Mac.”

  “I’m not Mac.”

  “No, Chief, you’re not,” I said. “I know you’re not.” I knew if I said anything more, I’d fall apart. I pointed over my shoulder. “Ryan and I need to get going.”

  He nodded and I left his office. I made my way out past Margaret, his gatekeeper, down the hall, and out to the detectives’ bullpen.

  Ryan was sitting at his desk, looking at his computer. He looked up. “Everything okay?”

  I nodded. “You ready to go?”

  “Sure,” he said. “You want to try to make it there and back today?”

  “What is it? Two hours’ drive?”

  “About.”

  “There probably isn’t anyplace to stay out there, is there?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said.

  “Let’s see if we can do it all today.”

  We headed out to the Charger, gassed it up, and started out on State Road 12, a two-lane, east toward Marshall, Montana, a little town on the Yellowstone River, a few miles shy of the North Dakota line.

  “I’m driving,” I said as Ryan headed toward the driver’s side. He stopped and gave me a hesitant look, but I wasn’t asking. “You can drive us back,” I said.

  Two miles out of town, the car dealers and RV places gave way to pastureland, dotted by the occasional farmhouse, with barns, sheds, and grain silos. The sky was turning a nasty grey. I hoped we wouldn’t get caught in a storm. Roads out here are fast—unless they get slick.

  “Were you able to get an address on Bill Rossman?” I said.

  Ryan was looking out the windshield. He didn’t turn to face me. “He’s in a Rossman man camp couple miles east of Marshall.”

  “Were you able to contact him?”

  “He didn’t pick up. I left a message.”

  The wind had picked up, charging across the empty prairie, pushing the Charger back and forth across the median line. An eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of steel pipe covered in canvas tarp approached us. As I steered the Charger onto the rumble strips to give us a little margin of error, the wind ripped a grommet off the tarp, snapping the heavy canvas like a whip. “Holy shit,” I said.

  I could tell we were getting closer to the oil fields when we started spotting the truck turnouts, wide paved strips a few hundred yards long for the guys to sleep. Even though the turnouts were full of brightly painted garbage cans, the black pavement was littered with trucker bombs, the two-liter plastic bottles full of frozen urine. When it gets down to twenty below, with thirty-mile winds, keeping Montana tidy just doesn’t seem worth the effort of getting out of the cab.

  Ryan used the GPS to lead me to the Rossman man camp. It looked like a one-story warehouse, painted cinder block with small windows every few feet. Off to the side was a paved driveway that led around to the back, where the guys parked their pickups and rigs. We took one of the handful of spots out front and went into the lobby. It looked like a low-end hotel chain, with a simple reception area. A few chairs lined the wall, and a plain cloth couch sat in the middle, flanked by two end tables.

  I walked up to the reception desk and introduced me and Ryan, said we were hoping to speak to Bill Rossman.

  The forty-year old woman wearing a Rossman sweatshirt looked at her computer screen. “He’s working now,” she said with an official smile.

  “You can tell he’s not in his room?”

  “Everyone here works for Rossman Mining. We know who’s on shift, who isn’t,” she said.

  Ryan walked up to the desk and gave the woman a big smile. “Can you tell us if Bill Rossman is in a single or a double?”

  She looked down at the screen. “Double.”

  “Is the roommate in?”

  She glanced down. “Andy Bellows. Room 156. Down the hall, first right.”

  “Thanks very much,” I said as we turned to head toward the glass door with the card reader next to it on the wall.

  “Put these on, please.” The receptionist handed us a couple of visitor badges. We heard a buzz and the door unlocked. We clipped on the badges and walked through the door. In a big room on the left, some bleary-eyed guys were playing pool under fluorescent lights. On the right was a smaller room with a dozen computers on desks lining the wall. Next to the desks, a small storefront sold candy, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, little boxes of detergent, and plastic razors. Past the laundry room with ten washers and dryers, we turned right into a hallway with individual rooms. Except for the fire extinguishers mounted on the beige walls, it looked like a standard motel.

  I knocked on the door of room 156. A slightly nauseating chemical smell hung in the hall. Ryan pointed down at the industrial carpet, colored a mud-friendly brown with pale yellow stripes. It looked new and quite clean. We waited.

  “He might be playing pool or something.”

  Ryan stepped up to the door and rapped on it with a little more authority. “Or maybe he’s just sleeping.”

  We heard some movement from inside and a muffled “Shit.”

  “Andy Bellows?” I said when a big guy in a tee-shirt and boxer shorts opened the door. He was rubbing his eyes. I introduced us and apologized for waking him up.

  “Where the hell you say you from?” I picked up a Southern twang.

  “Rawlings. Couple hours west of here.”

  He shook his head, like he didn’t know there was anyplace couple hours west of here. “What you want with me?”

  “We’re investigating the murder of Bill’s father, back in Rawlings. Just wanted to ask you some questions. Five minutes, tops.”

  “Who’s Bill?”

  I looked at him. “Your roommate.” I pointed to the other bed in the eight-by-twelve room. “Bill Rossman.”

  “That’s his name?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. You know, you work for Rossman Mining? Your roommate’s dad was the boss.”

  He rubbed at his eyes. “Didn’t know that.”

  “You heard Lee Rossman died couple days ago?”

  “I do twelve-hour shifts, fourteen of them in a row. I haven’t heard much of anything.”

  “Okay, Andy, just let us come in and ask you a couple questions. I promise we’ll be out of here fast.”

  He stepped back and gestured for us come in. I took the plastic chair that went with the tiny desk bolted to the wall. Ryan sat on Bill Rossman’s rumpled bed.

  “Thanks, Andy. So you didn’t know Bill’s the boss’ son?”

  “Never put that together. We just sleep in the same room. We’re not on the same crew. He don’t talk much. Not to me, anyways.”

  “The murder happened Sunday night, late. Or early Monday.”

  “Here in Marshall?”

  “We’re not sure. Do you know whether Bill was here in his room Sunday night?”

  “This is Tuesday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I don’t think he was. I was here, though.”

  “Is it common for him to be out all night?”

  “I been here less than two weeks, so I can’t say what his patterns are.
And he don’t tell me shit. But judging by the way he smells when I do run into him, I’d say he’s out a lot of the time.”

  Ryan said, “What does he smell like?”

  “Beer.” He paused a second. “And pussy.” He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, like it was my partner who asked. What was he supposed to do: not answer the question?

  Chapter 12

  “Beer and pussy,” I said as we walked back out toward the main lobby of the man camp. “I wonder what he was trying to say.”

  “It’s a real head-scratcher,” Ryan said. “We get back to Rawlings, I’m going to run it by some of the older guys. See if they know.”

  The receptionist gave us directions to the drilling rig Bill Rossman was working. I thanked her and handed her the two visitor badges.

  “Ah, shit,” I said as we got outside. “Look at this.” It had started to sleet, and the black Charger was covered in ice. The doors crackled as we opened them. Ryan got a scraper out of the trunk. I turned the defroster on high as he hacked away at the windshield.

  We crunched our way slowly the three miles out to the rig, which was perched on a bluff. The steel derrick, painted red, a good hundred feet tall, looked like what the guy who did the Eiffel Tower would have designed if they’d told him to make it ugly and sturdy enough so you could screw an eight-inch diameter pipe a couple miles down through rock.

  The derrick sat in the middle of what must have been three or four football fields’ worth of bulldozers, pallet movers, construction trailers, water trucks, and a few dozen racks holding hundreds of thirty-foot lengths of black steel pipe. I recognized generators and tanks, squat like propane tanks but bigger than pickup trucks. Off to the side was a pond as big as a municipal swimming pool filled with a thick, clay-red liquid that was cascading out of a wide white PVC pipe leading back to the rig.

  I stopped the Charger on the edge of the drilling pad, almost fifty yards away from the derrick. We got out of the cruiser, our feet crunching on the clay surface that was dimpling up with ice, and walked toward the construction trailer with the most lights on.

  The noise from the diesel generators was deafening. Ryan shouted to me, “They’re bringing the guys in. Because of the rain.” A guy on a steel platform sticking out from the derrick, forty feet up, guided a length of pipe into position so a couple of men at the base could lower it into the well. The guy unhooked his harness and started climbing down the ladder. He hooked his boot heel on the icy rung and slowly lowered himself to the next rung.