“From the Holden murder?” asked Tyrrell, toying with the bullet.
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“In terms of physical evidence, that’s it. I do have a possible motive and an interesting theory.”
“I’m not used to you doing theory, Ray. By the time you bring me a case, there are no loose ends. Your attention to detail has helped me maintain one of the best conviction rates in the state. But give me theory, if you must.”
Ray started, “We have the Holden murder, and then we have three other deaths. Arthur Bussey was killed in that boat fire, Roger Grimstock died when his car went out of control on Ely road, and Robert Arden died after his canoe capsized.”
“And you’re suggesting there’s some connection.”
“I think there could be a connection. I just don’t have much to prove it. The Holden shooting was done with so much finesse that it looked like it probably was a hired killing. The information I’ve gathered since suggests Holden had, for years, been involved in a number of questionable business dealings, and had quite a list of enemies. It’s within reason that someone wanted him dead.”
“But you don’t believe that, anymore.”
“Let’s say there’s another possibility.”
“So give me your theory.”
“Holden, Bussey, Grimstock, and Arden. Four deaths, four white males in their forties. Unusual coincidence or too unusual. It didn’t seem right; it was a statistical anomaly. The last three deaths appear to be accidents. More accurately, the last two. Bussey’s death was more in the ‘accident of nature’ or ‘act of God’ category. Grimstock’s death bothered me….”
“Wasn’t his blood alcohol above….”
“He was legally drunk, but it doesn’t sound like his blood alcohol was ever much below the limit.”
“So what bothers you?”
“He was on the wrong road. Even though he was completely drunk, he knew the way home. And, about the same time, a truck with a snowplow was borrowed from John Lapointe’s farm. The blade of the plow shows evidence that it was used to ram something with a fair amount of force.”
“And you can tie this snowplow to the Grimstock car. You’ve got matching paint or something?”
“No, I can’t. The one thing that might have provided evidence, a rear bumper of Grimstock’s car, is missing. And even if I had it, it probably wouldn’t tell us much.
“The Arden death also seems a bit fishy, no pun intended. Arden’s wife has told us that it was extremely unlikely for her husband to be out in a canoe, especially at that time of night.”
“This is all interesting Ray, but I don’t know where you’re going.”
“Well, what I have are the deaths of these four men. I also have some other bits of information that led me to suspect that there could be a connection. For example, they’re all about the same age, and they all summered here as teenagers. I also have information from Bussey’s former wife and Arden’s wife that the two men were friends. The two couples used to get together in the summers….”
“Recently?”
“No.”
“Anything more?” asked Tyrrell; his voiced showed impatience.
“I thought the connection, if there was one, had to go back to the time when these four were in high school or college. I went and visited Floyd Durfee. He was an under sheriff when Orville Hentzner was the sheriff. He remembered that Orville brought in four boys who had been accused of raping a local girl.”
“Were they prosecuted?”
“No, not as he remembers it, there were no charges. He thought Orville cut some deal with the parents. He also remembered that the girl’s father, after that time, went to the bank every day to get some drinking money.”
“Did Floyd remember any names?”
“No, but he gave me enough to keep going. I went to Traverse City and had a talk with Hugh Clopton. He remembers Orville establishing a trust in the name of Joe Reed. Hugh also remembers the funds for the trust came from four large checks written on down state banks…”
“And you’ve got the names that were on the checks and they match….”
“Nope, no such luck. Let me continue. Reed, a Chippewa, was a fishing guide, and Orville’s explanation to Hugh was that four wealthy sportsmen he guided over the years wanted to establish a trust to help support him, but since they knew of his drinking problem, they specified that he was only to be given the interest from the trust. The money was paid out on a daily basis, only a few dollars at a time.”
“Anything else?”
“Reed died earlier this year. His daughter came to settle the estate and spent some time in the area. There’s another piece, Reed’s daughter.”
“Which is?”
“Her daughter, she lost her daughter last year. She died during a sexual attack; she was ganged raped. See how this fits?”
“Where is this person, what’s her name, where is she now?”
“Her name is Prudence Reed-Murphy, and I’m afraid she flew back to Arizona last night. It’s pretty thin, isn’t it?”
“Thin. Damn thin. Thinner than you think, Ray. Thinner than you think. Did you see yesterday’s paper?
“I glanced at the headlines.”
“Didn’t read the obits, huh. Floyd Durfee’s obituary was in the paper. I only noticed it because it said he was a former deputy sheriff. You don’t have anything, Ray. Nothing. Not yet, probably never. Did you question the Reed woman?”
“No.”
“Where was she staying?”
“Her father’s place. It’s an old fishing lodge Buster Kagan built on the Otter River. Kagan left it to her father.”
“Have you checked the place out?”
“This morning. I was looking for the Winchester, shells, and anything else that might help tie this together.”
“And?”
“Nothing. We even went over the area with a metal detector in case she buried the rifle. All we found were some rusty golf clubs Kagan must have buried years ago.”
“I know how thorough you are. I’m sure you checked the place out completely. Let’s try this one, Ray. Let’s say that Holden was killed by a professional shooter. The Bussey thing, the lightning and fire, I don’t think anyone could have intervened there. As for the other two, there are some things that are difficult to explain, but not out of the realm of possibility. Do family members of the victims know of your suspicions?”
“No.”
“Is anyone clamoring for action?”
“No. Holden’s wife is a flight attendant. She’s left the area. Bussey has an ex-wife in the area, and she’s not unhappy. I think she believes that God’s justice has been rendered. According to an attorney in Grand Rapids who handled his trust, Grimstock has no living relatives. Robert Arden’s wife, although she thinks his canoe trip is a bit unusual, seems relieved that he is dead.”
“Ray, I think you’re working too hard at this. You don’t have a case, and, from what you’ve said, we’re under no pressure. These aren’t our people. It’s time to lighten up. It’s summer. The primary is three weeks away. You need to give that your attention. Your opponent’s campaign seems to have collapsed since his brother was killed, but it would be good if you got out and squeezed the flesh.”
“And what about Reed?” Ray asked, although by now the question was little more than rhetorical.
“Forget about it. There’s no case. There’s no one to indict.”
Ray put his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet.
“Wait, there’s one more thing I’ve been meaning to tell you, Ray. We’re not friends, we’re not buddies. We’ve never even had a drink together. And I’m not being patronizing by telling you this. You’re a damn good cop, you’re a damn good sheriff. You’re bright, you know your business, you know the law. When you first ran for office, I couldn’t understand why you gave up a good job down state to do this. I guess I still can’t. But you have done one hell of a job. You�
��ve turned a rag tag group of cowboys into a professional police department.
“Ray, no one elects you because you’re good at your job. They don’t know if you’re good or bad, and they won’t bother to find out. You got to go out and tell them. You haven’t been doing that for years, Ray. Time to get started again. I’d hate like hell to have to work with a stupid bastard like Hammer.”
“Thanks, John. I appreciate that.”
“And Ray, there’s one more thing. After the primary you better take some time off. Your imagination’s getting the best of you. You need some rest.”
51
Marc, Lisa and Ray hiked along the beach until they were well beyond the other picnickers. Ray led them to the top of a dune that provided a panoramic view of the lake from the Empire dune to the Platte River point, a ten-mile stretch of nearly deserted beach.
“So, what did you bring to eat?”
“I’ve got all kinds of good things,” said Ray. “First, I’ve got a bottle of Krug and some white peach concentrate to make Bellinis. I went to the Italian grocery and got Greek olives, good baguettes, some excellent cheeses, and a paté made with smoked rainbow trout…”
“And dessert?” asked Lisa.
“I’ve got fresh peaches, Queen Anne cherries, a good Stilton, some proper biscuits, and an acceptable bottle of port.”
“How did you learn about food?” Lisa asked Ray.
Marc answered, “While I was on a ship protecting us from Greenpeace, Ray was stationed in Germany—perfecting his skiing, becoming a gourmet, and seeing everything he had studied in his college art history course. And he did that piece of his graduate education at taxpayers’ expense.”
Motioning to Marc, Ray said, “He’s still bitter about that. He doesn’t tell you that his grandfather gave him a grand tour of Europe after he finished his undergraduate degree.”
“And Ray doesn’t tell you that my grandfather offered Ray the same opportunity, but he was too in love to leave his babe of the moment, so I had to go alone.”
“So tell me about your time in Europe,” said Lisa.
“It was really quite extraordinary. I was in a military police unit attached to NATO. We worked regular hours and had lots of free time. I bought a part-interest in an old VW and spentevery free moment traveling. In those days Europe was still quite inexpensive. Hard to believe, isn’t it. Initially, I did all the tourist things, seeing the places I had read about in school. But after awhile I started pursuing other things that I was interested in. I wandered around the West Country in England looking for Arthur.”
“Did you find him?” asked Lisa.
“No, but I think I saw Merlin. I carefully worked through a copy of Carlos Baker and followed Hemingway’s tracks to Schruns and Gstaad for skiing, Italy and Spain for touring and eating, and Paris, well just for Paris…”
“And I was on a carrier listening to planes land over my bunk,” said Marc, “getting post cards from all these places. And to make things worse, he even followed the Tour De France, the fantasy of my youth, from beginning to end. He sent me a card from every stage.”
“Well, now that you’re retired, you can spend a month doing that,” said Ray. “I will make the Bellinis in a minute, but first I’ve got to have a swim. Anyone going to join me?”
“Too cold for me,” responded Lisa. “I’ll just work on my tan.”
“I’ll time you,” said Marc. “I bet you can’t take more than thirty seconds of Lake Michigan.”
Ray pulled off his T-shirt, adjusted his swimming trunks, and ran across the beach with boyish enthusiasm. He screamed as he ran into the lake and dived into the chilly water.
“I didn’t know Ray could be like this,” said Lisa. “He’s so relaxed.”
“This is the Ray I grew up with. He’s just been tense as hell since all these deaths.”
Ray swam out about fifty yards, flipped over and did a backstroke to shore. He crossed the beach, and Lisa threw him a towel.
“Forty seconds,” said Marc. “I can remember when you could take thirty minutes in early June and stay in almost indefinitely by mid August.”
“That was then,” said Ray as he pulled a large glass pitcher from the cooler. He added the white peach juice, and opened and added a bottle of champagne. Then he carefully filled three champagne glasses. While he was doing this, Lisa opened the other packages of food and arranged them in the center of the blanket.
Ray lifted his glass, “To summers, beaches, and old friends.”
They touched glasses and drank.
Lisa said to Ray, “Yesterday I was afraid that I had made a permanent enemy of you.”
Ray looked out at the lake and said, without looking at her, “I have to admit I’m very angry. You really did interfere, and if Murphy had been a desperate character, you might have put yourself in danger. As it turned out, it probably didn’t matter.”
“You talked to the prosecutor?”
“And?”
“He told me what I already knew. He doesn’t have enough evidence to take action. He’s convinced there isn’t a case.”
“And you disagree?” said Lisa.
“No. I agree. There’s no case.”
“How do you feel about that?” she pursued.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. If I were convinced that she was the killer, I would be very upset.” Ray paused and looked out at the water. “I’ve been there. Not up here, but when I worked down state. I worked on cases where we knew we had the killer, but we couldn’t get a strong enough case to go to trial. There is nothing worse than having to deal with some smug son of a bitch who knows that you know, and also knows that he’s going to walk. That’s when you want to take the law into your own hands, but in this case, I don’t know. I’ve never even seen Prudence ReedMurphy.”
“I think you’d like her.”
Ray didn’t respond to Lisa’s comment. “Let me say one more thing, and then I’d rather not talk further about it. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
They sat in silence several minutes, each looking out at the lake, each lost in their own thoughts.
Ray broke the silence. “I think we’d better drink to summer, again.” He refilled the glasses.
Summer People Page 20
