by Mike Markel
“No, Allen Pfeiffer is giving us twenty-four hours. He told me to keep it from her, so she doesn’t run.”
The chief tapped a pencil on the edge of his desk.
“Chief, what if we just let the FBI bring her in? She’s facing jail time for the terrorism, she might be more willing to talk to us about Lee Rossman and Bill Rossman.”
The chief was silent as he thought about it. “Let me put in a call to the prosecutor’s office, see what Larry Klein thinks.”
“What’re you worried about?” I said.
“I’m not exactly sure,” the chief said. “With the two different jurisdictions—federal and county—I don’t know, I’m just not confident I understand the implications. I don’t want to jeopardize either of the cases on a technicality I didn’t see. If Larry has any questions, he can call Allen Pfeiffer.”
“Got it,” I said.
“In the meantime,” the chief said, looking at me, then Ryan, “do what Pfeiffer said: Her federal warrant doesn’t leave this office.”
“Chief,” I said, “if she’s got this terrorism stuff in her background, I’m liking her a little more on the Bill Rossman case. You see it that way?”
“First, I don’t know if Bill Rossman is our case. Until you can put the crime in our county, it’s Marshall PD’s case—”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said. “But if she has a history of getting her way by intimidation …”
“True, but she was in her twenties then. She’s almost fifty. Maybe she grew up.”
I didn’t take it as a comment about me. “Just saying: It’s a possibility.”
“Agreed.” The chief scratched at his cheek. “The way I’d handle it—if she can’t alibi out of it—”
“How can anyone alibi out of hiring three or four guys to beat the kid up?”
Chief Murtaugh looked at me hard for a few seconds. “As I was saying, the way I’d handle it, if she can’t alibi her way out of it, is to see if she has any history with Bill Rossman.”
Ryan stepped in so I wouldn’t piss off the chief again. “I think we can figure that out, Chief.”
“Yeah, we can do that,” I said. “And I’m sorry I interrupted. I just—”
“Just don’t step on the FBI’s case, all right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Thanks.”
Ryan and I made it back to the incident room. I was looking at the board, as if staring at a dozen photographs long enough was going to make the whole thing fall into place.
“I think the chief’s right,” Ryan said. “We need to figure out if Lauren Wilcox has an alibi for yesterday—and yes, I know she can’t alibi out of hiring three or four guys to beat the kid up—”
“Very funny, twerp.”
“Can’t I make fun of you when you’re rude to the boss?”
“Sure you can, but then you have to call over to the university to find out if Bill Rossman’s ever taken a course from Lauren Wilcox.”
“I’m happy to do it, Detective,” Ryan said, with a smile, “because I always show the proper respect to my superiors—”
“Asshole.”
“Even when they act like inferiors.”
“Just do it.” I waved him off.
He started whistling as he left, heading toward the detectives’ bullpen. I hung around the incident room a few moments, staring at the board a little more. Then I realized we hadn’t put in a request to look at Bill Rossman’s phone records. I hurried down to the chief’s office and asked Margaret to get that request in.
I got back to the bullpen when Ryan was just hanging up. “Bill Rossman took a junior-level course in water pollution from Professor Wilcox last Fall semester.”
“How’d he do?”
“B+.”
“You get a copy of the roster?”
He hit a key on his computer, then cupped his hand to his ear as the printer off in the corner of the bullpen started humming. He walked over to get it.
“Okay, good,” I said. “Let’s head over to campus and see if we can chat with the professor.”
We drove over, bucking the morning traffic. The trip took six minutes instead of the usual four. I parked in the lot behind the Science Building, and we took the elevator to the Biology Department, on the fourth floor.
The receptionist was a student, maybe twenty years old, with long blond hair.
“I got it,” Ryan said to me softly as we approached her. “Good morning,” he said to her, flashing his toothy smile. I stayed out in the hall to let the youngsters do their thing.
A minute later, he came over to me, carrying a slip of paper and waggling his eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes. “Professor Wilcox have an alibi?”
“If teaching a course counts, yes, she does.”
“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t hire a bunch of goons to beat up Bill.”
“Let me go back and ask the girl at the desk about that.” He smiled at me.
“Is she on campus now? Can we talk to her?”
“No and yes. She’s out on the river, in Municipal Park, doing something with a class of kids and their teacher.”
“You’re kidding. It’s ten degrees.”
Ryan shrugged his shoulders. We headed back out to the Charger and drove the two miles to Municipal Park, which borders the Rawlings River.
“Did the girl say where in the park?”
“Near the picnic tables.”
At least we could park nearby. There were three cars in the lot. The place looked desolate. A strip of patchy brown grass led to the picnic area, a dozen long picnic tables and some grills bolted to the concrete slab, all under a shingled shade roof supported by four thick timbers. Kids’ backpacks were scattered on the tables. Thirty yards away, where the grass led down to a little sandy area at the edge of the river, were maybe fifteen kids, two young women, and Lauren Wilcox.
The kids were sitting on two benches in the sandy area. The two women were standing guard between the kids and the river. Lauren Wilcox, wearing a puffy down coat and waders, was in the river, gathering water in test tubes and jars.
Ryan and I stood there a moment, watching her. She looked like a natural teacher, smiling and animated as she emerged from the river, holding up the samples. She walked over to the kids, who gathered around her as she showed them what she had taken out of the river.
“This is our terrorist?” I said to Ryan.
“Maybe she did grow up.”
“I’ll see if I can grab her.” I walked up to one of the women, introduced myself, and asked if I could speak with the professor a moment. She turned out to be a mom; she pointed me to the other woman. After I explained what I wanted, she walked over to Lauren Wilcox and whispered in her ear.
The professor knit her eyebrows and frowned, then handed the teacher the water samples and walked up the bank toward me, shaking the water off her pale, chapped hands. I led her back to where Ryan was standing on the grass.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said to her when the three of us were out of earshot. “Just need a minute.” The wind was gentle, but I could feel, out here by the river, it was a couple degrees colder than it was downtown.
She looked at me, annoyed that I was taking her away from something she obviously enjoyed.
“Do you know a student named Bill Rossman?”
“Yeah, he was in a class with me—last year, I think. He’s the son of Lee Rossman.” Her expression became clouded. “Why?”
“He was attacked yesterday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Is he okay?”
“Not really. Beat up pretty bad.”
“That’s terrible.” She waved her arm toward the kids. “I didn’t hear about it on the news. I was preparing to do this little class for the kids.”
“It hasn’t been on the news. We were wondering if you had any ideas about someone who’d want to hurt him.”
She shook her head. “Don’t know anything about him, really. He’s not a major of mine. I haven’t
seen him in months.”
“We think the attack occurred out in Marshall. He was working out there, at a rig.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry to hear it. Must be very tough on his family. I mean, coming so soon after his father was killed.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Must be.”
“Why did you come out here to tell me this? Bill Rossman’s a pretty big guy.” She put her hands together in mock fists and put on a boxer’s scowl. “You think I beat him up?”
“Someone poured a bellyful of fracking fluids down his throat.”
“What?”
“He was beat up, then he swallowed a quart of fracking wastewater.”
“Who would do that to someone?”
“That’s what we were hoping you could help us with.”
“You’re not thinking I had anything to do with it, are you?” She stepped away, like I was contagious.
“No,” I said. “But you know everyone in the environmental community. If there’s someone who would do it, we thought maybe you’d know that person.”
“Detective.” She leaned back in toward me. “I have spent my life trying to keep poisons out of the drinking water. I am trying—this morning—to educate ten-year-olds about water pollution, in the hope that maybe one of them will study science.” She paused, shaking her head. “The idea that I would ever poison someone—it’s just obscene. It’s unbelievable. I would never do anything to hurt anyone, under any circumstances.” She paused, then stuck her finger right up toward my face. “I’m beginning to think you might be mentally ill.”
She turned and walked back toward the kids, fast.
Ryan spoke. “She said it. Not me.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“And she didn’t arrange to have a group of guys do it,” he said.
“No, she didn’t,” I said. “Shit.” I turned and we headed back to the Charger.
Chapter 24
“You’re an intelligent young man,” I said. “What the hell is going on?” I turned over the big engine in the Charger.
Ryan sighed. “I have absolutely no idea. I’m reasonably sure Lauren Wilcox had nothing to do with the attack on Bill Rossman.”
“She didn’t even know he got stomped on by a group of guys.”
“That’s right. And therefore I conclude she had nothing to do with pouring the fracking fluids down his throat,” he said.
“She might’ve been an eco-terrorist a few decades ago,” I said, “but I’m not seeing it now.”
“Unless we get some new forensics, the only thing left to pursue now is Cheryl Garrity. You think it’s a coincidence she called Lauren Wilcox an eco-terrorist—and she turns out to be correct?”
“What is the link between these two women?” I said. “Allen Pfeiffer didn’t say anything about Lauren Wilcox attacking any of Rossman’s operations, right?”
“No, he did not.” Ryan was silent. “Why don’t we ask Cheryl?”
I pulled out of the parking area at Municipal Park and headed downtown, to Montana Street. I parked in the garage under the big office building that housed Rossman Mining. We rode up to fourteen and walked into the offices.
The young receptionist recognized me and Ryan and gave us a corporate smile. “Sorry,” she said. “Ms. Garrity called in sick today. She said she’s a little under the weather. If it’s important, I can call her at home.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” I said, “We’ll catch up with her another time. Thanks very much.”
The elevator hummed as it delivered us to the basement parking lot. Back in the cruiser, I said, “Get us her home address from DMV, would you?”
Ryan logged on and hit some keys. “She lives in the Madison Condominiums. Number 1503.”
“That’s one of the penthouses, right?” I said. “I’ve always wanted to see those places.”
“Well, this is your lucky day.”
I drove us the six blocks to the Madison Condominiums, which sit on the two top floors of Rawlings’ best and biggest hotel. It’s got convention space on the main level and hotel rooms up through twelve. There are only four units on fifteen, each one with a wrap-around balcony. It’s where I plan to retire, after I marry an extremely rich guy and kill him with my sexuality.
We nosed into the garage, and I pulled a ticket from the machine. The gate rose, and I parked us in a reserved spot. We walked over to the elevators for the residences, but they required a special card. We had to go into the hotel and show our IDs to the kid at the desk, who really wanted to call Ms. Garrity to get her okay. I really didn’t want him to, and I almost had to pull the plastic card out of his hand.
The elevator opened to a small area with the doors to the four units in the corners. For some reason, the space included some fancy upholstered benches, side chairs, and narrow tables up against the walls. I rang the doorbell at 1503.
In a minute, I heard the deadbolt click, and the door opened. “Detectives,” Cheryl Garrity said.
“Good morning, Ms. Garrity,” I said. “We need to speak with you for a few minutes. Can we come in?”
She hesitated a moment. “Yes, of course.” She stepped back. “Please come in.” We walked into the hallway, which was covered in large marble tiles. “Can I take your coats?”
“No, thanks. We’ll just be a minute.”
She led us past the kitchen and dining area into the living room. Off to the left was a big gas fireplace, with a widescreen on the wall above it and a leather chair and sofa ringed around it. Off to the right was a conversation area with a big couch and two matching chairs, and a coffee table made of a thick cross-section of a really old tree. Straight ahead was a wall of windows that opened to the patio. Cheryl Garrity gestured for us to sit on the big couch.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
They always say that. The reason they never expect us is that we try very hard not to tell them we’re coming. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be there when we arrived.
A buzzer rang four times from a hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Would you excuse me a moment? I’m just doing a load of laundry.”
“Of course,” I said.
She stood and walked down the hall.
“She’s washing the fracking shit off her clothes now,” I said softly.
Ryan nodded his head gravely. “The only explanation I can think of.”
We walked over to the wall of windows. The foothills ringing the town were covered in snow, the river a black strip slicing downtown in half. If I lived in a place like this, I’d spend a lot of time just watching the silent cars and trucks moving around town like little toys. “This is some view, huh?”
“About one point six million dollars’ worth.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he said.
I turned when I heard Cheryl Garrity’s footsteps on the marble floor in the hallway. “I’m sorry,” she said as we all took our seats again. “How can I help you?”
“We stopped by your office. They said you were a little under the weather.” She looked fine.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “The events of the last few days … very disturbing.”
“I take it you’ve heard about the attack on Bill.”
She put a hand to her temple. “Florence called me soon after she heard.”
“We talked with her at the hospital. How is she doing?”
“Yes, she mentioned that she talked with you there.” I couldn’t tell whether Florence told her we mentioned her affair with Ron Eberly. “She’s not doing at all well, as you can imagine.”
“She has friends?”
“Yes, of course, she has many friends—and I count myself among them. But still, this week has been an absolute nightmare.”
“And how are you doing?”
“At times like this, I find it best to stay busy. I’m working with the medical team at the hospital.”
“How do you mean?”
“They wanted all the information about the
ingredients in the fracking fluid. I authorized giving them that information. And I tasked one of my chemical engineers to be the liaison—I mean, if they have any questions about any of the materials we use.”
“Ms. Garrity, we have interviewed Ron Eberly. Several times. He mentioned that you were a very important person in Bill’s life, especially after the death of his mother. When we talked with Bill, a few days ago, he called you Aunt Cheryl …”
Cheryl Garrity looked down at her lap, picking at a cuticle with her thumbnail. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening. “Detective, a long time ago, I was married for a brief period, but we had no children. Because of my role at Rossman Mining, I worked closely with Lee for many years. Those years coincided with Bill’s childhood. Naturally, I spent some time with him. Lee and Helen were very good about making me feel like part of the family. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter—all the holidays. I think they felt a little sorry for me: you know, noplace to go. When Helen became ill—she was seriously ill for three years—I did spend more time with Bill.” She wiped at her eye with a finger.
“Bill was like your son.”
“I cannot speak for his feelings toward me. But I do love Bill as if he were my son.” She struggled to maintain her composure. “To learn that he was attacked—in that way—is devastating.” She paused. “I cannot express my sorrow—and my outrage.”
“Can you help us understand why someone would do that to him? Who would do that to him?”
She shook her head. “If I knew … I would tell you.”
“Ms. Garrity, something else Ron Eberly told us.”
She looked at me, tears running down her cheeks now. “What is that?”
“He said that you had a relationship with Lee Rossman but that Lee broke it off when he realized that you could not be both his business associate and his mistress. Is that true?”
She looked at me for a long moment. “Detective,” she said, “I don’t know anything about your life. Your personal life, that is. You have asked me questions about Bill Rossman, and I have answered you honestly. I understand that you have a right to ask questions. You are doing your job. But I don’t see that any relationship I might have had with Lee Rossman, decades ago … I just don’t see how that is relevant either to his death or the attack on his son.”
