by Mike Markel
Ryan’s head sagged and he started to weep. “It was a .45, almost the same one you have right there.” He pointed to the pistol sitting near the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table.
Mark Middleton got up from his chair and walked over to Ryan. He hesitated, then put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about what I said, son,” he said to my partner. “I’m real sorry I said that.”
Ryan nodded and put his hand on Mark Middleton’s. Middleton squeezed Ryan’s shoulder and then walked back to his place at the table and sat down.
“Listen,” Mark Middleton said. He wiped at his eyes and his nose. “I don’t know how we got onto this, but you two have a long drive ahead of you, and it doesn’t look like the weather’s going to cooperate. Here’s what I have to say about Rossman. He was a crook, and till the day I die I will regret letting his salesman set foot on my property. But it’s one thing shooting up Rossman’s equipment. It’s quite another to kill the man himself. You have to know that I am a Christian. Not a perfect Christian, by any means. But I am a Christian. I would never hurt anyone. That’s not me.” He was shaking his head. “That’s just not me.”
“We know that, Mr. Middleton,” I said, my gaze fixed on his red-rimmed eyes. “Do you know anyone you think might have been mad enough at Mr. Rossman? Anyone at all?”
He shook his head. “We’re good people out here. We got a beef with the company, but nobody out here would kill. Nobody would.” He covered his face with his hands.
“Mr. Middleton, Mrs. Middleton,” I said as Ryan and I stood up. “We want to thank you for taking the time to talk with us.”
Doris Middleton stood. “It was our pleasure,” she said. She paused a second, like she wanted to say something. “What my husband said just now—about shooting up Mr. Rossman’s equipment? If he gave you the impression that he was suggesting that he ever did that, that was a misstatement. He did no such thing. And on the question of the murder of Mr. Rossman, we both categorically deny that either of us had anything to do with that. I am willing to testify that my husband and I were together all night long—right here—and that neither of us left the house.
“Mr. Rossman’s remains were discovered in Rawlings,” she said, gesturing to me and Ryan. “Which would suggest that either we were in Rawlings, where we killed him, or that we killed him here, transported his body to Rawlings, then returned here. If you’d like, you could check with our daughter, Emily—I’d be happy to give you her contact information. Emily, her husband, Richard, and our grandson, Alan, stayed overnight with us Sunday; it was Alan’s eighth birthday, and he loves to come out to the ranch. They left Monday morning, after breakfast. They live about three hours east.” She paused. “Would you like Emily’s contact information? It wouldn’t be a problem.”
I nodded to Ryan, who slid his notebook and a pen across the table to Doris Middleton, who started writing.
“One other thing, if you could give us just another few seconds. The name of that salesman? From Rossman Mining?” I said.
She nodded and wrote a little more in Ryan’s notebook. When she was done, she looked up and smiled. “Could I wrap up some cobbler for the trip back? I just made it this morning.”
“That’s a very kind gesture.” I wanted to say yes. It did smell good. “But no, thank you. Again, we appreciate you talking to us.”
Mark Middleton held the door open for me and Ryan.
The cold and damp hit me as the door closed firmly behind us. I buttoned up my coat. The sleet was mixing with snow, which threatened to make the trip back a little more interesting than I had counted on.
I held my collar up against my neck as we started walking toward the Charger. “You want to drive, or are you too grief-stricken?”
“I’ll pull myself together.” He smiled as I handed him the keys.
“Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“Cry?”
“Yeah.”
“I had a bunch of older sisters,” he said. “When I wanted to blame stuff on them, it worked better if I could squeeze out a tear or two. I practiced biting the inside of my cheek and thinking about really sad things.” Ryan scraped and brushed the windshield and then got into the cruiser.
“Like what a disappointment you must be to Jesus?” I said.
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. I could see him working his cheek.
“Can’t do it?”
He shook his head. “I’m not a machine. I have to be in the moment.” He gave me his big smile.
“You’re full of shit,” I said.
“That’s just the jealousy talking, Karen.”
“Okay, so we’re agreed Mark Middleton didn’t kill Lee Rossman?” I said.
Ryan turned over the big engine in the Charger. “No,” he said. “I don’t think he killed Lee Rossman.”
“That was an act?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “He might’ve had older sisters, too.”
“Then what?” I said.
“I assume he really was broken up about his polluted well.”
“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t get into it with Rossman Sunday night and stab him?”
“Very true.” He nodded.
“You think Middleton drove to Rawlings and stabbed him there?”
“No, I don’t think that happened.”
“You think he stabbed him here, threw him in the pickup bed, and drove all the way to Rawlings to dump him?”
“No,” Ryan said, “I don’t think that happened, either.”
“His wife? All hundred-and-ten pounds of her?”
“No, I’d be very surprised if that happened.”
“Okay, Sherlock, I give up. Why don’t you think Middleton killed him?”
“Because I don’t know who did kill him. So I’m not ready to say Mark Middleton didn’t.”
I let out a big sigh. “Well, obviously, you little shit,” I said, “if we know Lee Rossman was murdered but we don’t know who murdered him, we can’t say for sure Mark Middleton didn’t kill him.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Why do you do this to me?”
“Use rigorous logic?”
“No, asshole. Why do you break my balls? If you say you don’t think Middleton killed Lee Rossman, that means you have a reason to suspect that maybe he did. That’s what I was hoping you were gonna explain to me.”
“Interesting,” he said. “The things you hope for.”
“How about you just drive us back to Rawlings? I’ll be sitting here with wet feet, getting pneumonia, okay? Then I hope I die—and they blame it on you and it really fucks up your career.”
“The point I was trying to make is that, since we haven’t ruled anyone out, don’t you think we ought to interview the salesman who pressured Mark Middleton into signing that lease?” He pulled the notebook out of his suit jacket pocket and opened it. “Mr. Ron Eberly. I mean, as long as we’re out here? He might have an interesting perspective on Mark Middleton.”
“Pneumonia will take too long. Just drive me into a utility pole. Say you slid off the road. I don’t give a shit anymore.”
“I’ll phone Rossman Mining, get Mr. Eberly’s phone number. See if we can track him down. Wouldn’t you feel foolish if he’s here, and we go back to Rawlings and then have to come back to interview him?”
I waved my hand at him dismissively and closed my eyes.
Chapter 14
Mac and I were in a dark, empty space, all concrete and steel, like an underground garage or a warehouse. Even though there were no lights, somehow I could see him walking away, slowly, his body hunched over as if he was in pain. He was wearing a soiled down jacket and sweatpants, shoes with no socks. I raised my arms and got into a firing stance. I pulled the trigger, a puff of smoke shot out of the barrel, and I heard the explosion, the sound stretched out and followed by three long echoes. It seemed quite normal that the round flew through the air slowly enough that I could see i
t, even watch it spin. When he heard the shot, Mac turned his head around to see who had fired, but he kept walking. After the longest while, the round hit him, squarely in the back, but he didn’t flinch. The smoke from the barrel of my pistol traced the path of the round, and then enveloped him. He kept walking, but his shape started to fade into smoke. He turned to grey, then a dirty white, and then he disappeared in a wisp.
“Karen, wake up.” I felt Ryan’s hand on my shoulder. “You were screaming, Karen.”
It took me a few seconds to come out of the dream. I didn’t know where we were. I looked around. We were parked outside a big grey stone building. A silver-white mix of snow and sleet covered the pickups and SUVs parked on either side of the four-lane street.
“The county commission building.” Ryan’s concern showed in his eyes. “In Marshall. Rod Eberly’s inside. The salesman for Rossman Mining?”
“I was screaming?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “You want to take a minute?”
I closed my eyes for a few seconds, to try to call up the dream so I could dismiss it. “No.” I opened my eyes. “Think I’ll be okay. Sorry.”
“Forget it.” He shut down the cruiser. “By the way, Eberly’s called a landman. Not a salesman.”
“Got it.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and grabbed my bag from the seat behind me. “All right, let’s go.”
We both gripped the handrail as we climbed the icy courthouse steps. The stone building, a squat two stories, simple and solid, looked like it dated from when coal was the fuel that was supposed to make everyone rich. A brass plaque next to the wide glass doors said it was built in 1934 under a grant from the Works Progress Administration.
We wiped our feet on the huge rubber mat under the portico and walked through the revolving glass doors. The central hallway, thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long, was a drafty shell with dark brown floor tiles. Mahogany benches with scrolled arms were built into the walls. Gold lettering on the dark wood doors identified the offices of the various county departments. Fluorescent tubes hanging from the double-height ceiling cast a yellow glow on the hallway. Between the office doors, the tan plaster walls were filled with primitive murals of muscular and straight-backed farmers, ranchers, and coal miners going about their work, their gleaming muscles rippling against their rolled-up shirtsleeves, determined smiles on their faces.
A small group of men sat at heavy, old wooden tables clustered around one of the doors. Some were wearing business suits; others had on western sport coats and jeans. All of them were poring over large, leather-bound deed books and taking notes on legal pads.
“Do you know which one is Eberly?”
“Will in a second,” Ryan said. We walked over the landmen. He called out, “Ron Eberly?”
One of the men looked up.
“Mr. Eberly,” Ryan said as we walked over and he introduced the two of us. “Could we go over there and talk with you?” He pointed down the hallway to an empty spot. “It’ll just take a couple of minutes.” Ron Eberly stood and followed Ryan and me, our damp shoes squeaking on the tile floors. We huddled outside the door to the Highway Maintenance Department.
Ryan and I have been together long enough for him to know when to lead the interviews. Since I looked and felt like crap, he took over.
“We’re investigating the murder of Lee Rossman,” he said. “Let me start by saying we’re very sorry. You and Mr. Rossman were close for a long time.”
“That’s right.” Eberly shook his head. “Almost thirty years.” He looked like he used to be an athlete, a little under six feet but broadly built. He put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight, the way some guys do to display the testosterone. I used to think they did it only to make women go all damp, but I’ve seen it often enough when macho guys talk to Ryan that I think they want to signal it to other athletic men, too.
“We just talked with Mark Middleton and his wife, Doris,” Ryan said.
Ron Eberly nodded slightly to tell us he knew who the Middletons were. Although he must have realized they told us he was a total shit, he was experienced enough not to show us anything. He was going to listen to us respectfully and say as little as possible.
“Tell us about the conflict they’re having with Rossman Mining.”
“Nothing really unusual about it,” Rod Eberly said. “Everyone in mining sees it all the time. Landowners bring a set of unrealistic expectations about drilling, and the reality can catch them off guard.”
“The Middletons showed us the methane in their water.”
Eberly nodded his head. “I’m aware of the migration.”
“They say the drilling caused that.”
He shook his head, just a little bit, like he was weary of having to refute an obvious mistake. “There’s really no evidence of that.”
“You mean the Middletons never tested their water for methane before the drilling, right?”
“That’s right, legally. They’d need to be able to document their claim that the drilling caused the methane migration—or at least that the water was methane-free before the drilling. But in terms of geology, there’s methane in all the shale. That’s what natural gas is.” He put out his hand, palm up, as if to say that’s why the company came to town, started giving people money. “It’d be hard to find water wells without some methane in them. Plus, we drill more than a mile below their well, with a thick solid-rock layer in between.” He shifted his stance. “Did they get a chance to mention the water buffalo we put in?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“We bring them fresh water. It’s a one-thousand gallon reservoir, stainless-steel lined. We fill it up once a week. And cases of bottled water for drinking. As much as they ask for. Did they mention that?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Did they mention our offer to drill them a new water well?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” The index finger pointed at Ryan was the only sign of Eberly’s anger and frustration. “All we asked for was his signature on a confidentiality agreement. We asked him to cease-and-desist on his videos and other publications, and we stated we were not admitting liability for his methane problem. In exchange, we offered to do the geological assessment, site the new well in the best place, drill it, and hook it up. Free of charge.” Eberly paused to catch his breath. “He said no.”
“How do you interpret that?”
“He’s a proud man. I respect that. I do. But if he’d been willing to work with us, we would have solved that problem for him—even though we didn’t cause it in the first place.” Rod Eberly noticed his finger pointing at Ryan and pulled his arm back. “I think he’d rather make videos about flames coming out of his faucet than admit that maybe he was at fault.”
“How do you see him being at fault?”
“He didn’t read the contract. Didn’t get a lawyer. Some of these owners aren’t willing to do any homework. Aren’t willing to learn the difference between net and gross. It’s not that hard. Aren’t willing to pencil out the difference between a big signing bonus and a big royalty percentage. Aren’t willing to look up the word easement—then they get mad at us when we put in a road for the trucks. You know the question I get asked most often by landowners?”
“What’s that?”
“‘You got a pen?’”
“Mark Middleton called Mr. Rossman a crook,” Ryan said. “He blamed the company for ruining his ranch. Some of the things he’s written about Rossman and his company are pretty nasty. You think he could’ve wanted to hurt Lee?”
“Tell you the truth, I didn’t get to know him. I spend half my time right here.” Ron Eberly pointed to the tables at the other end of the hallway. “I’m researching four or five leases every week. I did maybe three trips out to his place. Total time with him and his wife: maybe a couple of hours. My job is to do the research, draw up the contract, present it to the landowner, get the signatures. Once that’s done, I’m off to the next piece of dirt. Y
eah, I know he’s angry. Deep down, I think he’s angry at himself. From my perspective, nothing bad has happened at his place, certainly nothing that isn’t covered in the leasing contract. And Rossman Mining has lived up to the letter of the contract.” He was silent a moment, gathering himself. “You know how I know that?”
“How’s that?”
“They haven’t taken any legal action against us.”
Ryan spoke. “Mr. Middleton told us he tried contacting Mr. Rossman a number of times but that he never replied.”
Ron Eberly shrugged. “If you buy a Ford and don’t like it, do you expect the president of Ford to come out to your place?”
“Tell us a little about Cheryl Garrity.”
Ron Eberly paused, like he wasn’t expecting us to mention her. “What do you want to know?”
“A little bit about her history with Lee Rossman. I take it you and Cheryl were both working for Lee when he was married to his first wife.”
“That’s right.”
“What was the first wife’s name?”
“Helen.”
“How did Cheryl get on with Helen?”
Ron Eberly’s brow was furrowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
The question seemed pretty clear to me.
“Cheryl and Lee spent a lot of time together on the business,” Ryan said. “They must have traveled a lot together. You know, on business. Any problems there with Helen?”
Ron Eberly looked at Ryan for a moment, and I thought I could see a hint of a smile. “Lee’s had a corporate jet for many years. He’d always invite Helen along.”
“So she’d travel with him?”
“Not always. When Billy was little, she’d stay home most of the time. If there were any problems between Lee and Helen about Cheryl, I didn’t see them.”
“Cheryl Garrity is single, is that right?” Ryan said.
He nodded.
“Never married?”
Ron Eberly looked like he was trying to pull up a distant, trivial memory. “I think she was married for a little bit, maybe twenty years ago. Just for a year or two.”
“To someone with the company?”
“No, I don’t think so. An attorney or something like that. Maybe a businessman. But, no, he wasn’t with Rossman Mining.”
