by Jeff Siebold
“Under control?” he asked.
Zeke said, “Well, sort of. Conrad’s dead, a bullet in his head.”
Clive mumbled something to himself and then said, “Bloody bad business.”
* * *
The police spent what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time on the crime scene. In addition to the uniforms who were first dispatched, four detectives and a crime scene team showed up to look at the results of the suicide. The first set of detectives examined Clive’s I.D., called in, and were promptly told that Clive Greene and company weren’t to be detained.
“We checked with the FBI, and this guy’s security clearance is through the roof,” Zeke heard coming over the police radio. “He’s good. Just take his statement and let him go.”
When the cops arrived, Kimmy released the woman, who turned out to indeed be Mrs. Cassidy Conrad. But she was the dead man’s mother, not his wife. Kimmy kept the Colt, hidden discretely, until the detectives had arrived. Then she returned the gun, sans bullets, over the protests of the crying Cassidy Conrad.
* * *
Zeke spent the next morning preparing for North Dakota before catching up with Clive for lunch.
“The Elephant and Castle?” asked Zeke. “Again?”
“You know you love it, old boy,” said Clive. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Zeke smiled to himself and stepped into the establishment, following Clive through the door. A young server behind her podium said, “Just two?”
“Yes, two for lunch,” said Clive, and he gave her a wink. “How are you, Amelia?”
“Just fine, Mr. Clive,” said the girl in a faintly Scottish accent. “It’s good to see you again.” She was wearing a short black skirt and a white shirt with a red tartan tie. The colors matched the restaurant’s decor.
Zeke noticed some energy between the two and took a harder look at Amelia. She was a tall, thin girl with clear skin and slight hips. He noticed the slightly exaggerated roll of those hips along with her almost military bearing as she led them to their table. It was obvious she knew she was being watched, and further that she liked it.
“A close friend?” he asked Clive after they were seated and the girl left to get their drinks.
Clive smiled. “You could say that, I suppose.”
“She’s a wee bit young for ye,” said Zeke in a thick Scottish accent. “She’s bound to wear ye out, ye know.”
Clive nodded away the comment and said, “What do you think happened with Bart Conrad?”
“The police said suicide,” said Zeke.
“They did, indeed,” said Clive. “But…”
“But, it wasn’t. A suicide.”
“How do you know?” asked Clive.
“It’s not just one thing,” said Zeke. “It’s several.”
“Do tell,” said Clive, rather dryly.
“OK. First thing, when I opened the office door, Conrad was lying on the desk with the left side of his face down. He’d been shot in the right temple.”
“And we confirmed that he was right handed, so that makes sense,” said Clive.
“Maybe,” said Zeke. “Also, his head wasn’t touching anything on the desk. So he hadn’t been working on anything specifically before he was shot. Although he had papers stacked there, it doesn’t appear that he was looking through any of them when he decided to kill himself.”
“You think he should have been reading something?” asked Clive.
“It would be natural. If you felt trapped enough to kill yourself, you’d probably be re-reading whatever caused that feeling, looking for a last way out.”
“He may have decided to keep it hidden, maybe to protect someone else,” said Clive.
“It’s possible,” said Zeke. “But then there’s the whole ’state of mind’ thing. Here’s a guy who has a local franchise on money laundering. He’s got to be clearing $20,000 to $30,000 a month, and he has no idea that the FBI is closing in on him.”
“Yes?”
“Why would he kill himself?” asked Zeke.
“Same reason as always,” said Clive. “Love or money or disease.”
“As in, he was terminal?” asked Zeke.
“In one of the three, yes, I’d say.”
* * *
“What else did you see that made you think Conrad didn’t commit suicide?” Clive persisted.
“Well, for one thing, wouldn’t a right-handed shot to the temple tend to twist the head? The temple’s about two-thirds of the way forward on the skull. I think he’d be much more likely to end up lying on the right side of his face than the left,” said Zeke. “Think about the torque, the twist.”
“Hmm,” said Clive.
Just then, Amelia brought their drinks, a Sipsmith and tonic for Clive and a glass of Pinot Grigio for Zeke. She set the drinks down with a flourish.
“Your fav,” she said, looking at Clive. “Anything to eat?”
“Not just yet,” said Clive.
“Then I’ll come back and check on ya in a bit,” she said.
The girl hesitated. She looked at Zeke, then back at Clive and said, “Didja lose my number, then?”
Clive looked sheepish for a moment, but then he rallied. “No, Amelia, certainly not. This is our busy season, you know.”
“Hmm,” she said, feigning disbelief.
“But I was just telling Zeke, here, that I’ll need to make it up to you…”
“Indeed you will,” said Amelia. She wrote something on her servers pad, ripped it off and handed it to Clive. “Just in case,” she said, and she walked away.
“More than you can handle,” said Zeke, under his breath.
Clive ignored him. “I see what you mean about the suicide,” said Clive, retreating to a safer topic.
“Let’s chat about the bigger picture,” said Zeke.
“Certainly,” said Clive, taking a sip of his drink.
“The FBI asked for your assistance. They’re investigating a huge money laundering operation across the northeastern United States,” said Zeke. “How long have they been working on this operation?”
“Several years, from what I can tell,” said Clive. “They’ve been playing it close to the vest, but once they realized the magnitude of the operation and how spread out it is, they asked us to assist. Their ultimate plan is to take down as many of the retail operations as possible, and all at the same time. What we were to do by serving the warrant for Conrad’s arrest was a way for the FBI to access that data without showing their cards. This was supposed to look like a local law enforcement arrest.”
“Where did Conrad fit into the picture?” asked Zeke.
“Small cog,” said Clive. “They thought they might flip him and benefit from the information. And they thought that a peek at his financial records might give them specific direction when they ask for warrants for the rest of the franchisees. But they didn’t want to tip their hand about the bigger effort yet.”
“To the other franchisees, you mean?” said Zeke.
Clive nodded. “And the franchisor. So they sent us to arrest Conrad on a false charge, ‘receiving stolen goods’, and they were going to use that arrest to review his books.”
“To justify the rest of the arrests, to get the warrants they’ll need,” said Zeke. “Makes sense.”
“You’re off to the Dakotas tomorrow, then?” Clive asked.
“I am. I’m hooking up with an FBI agent in North Dakota to take a look at the Jenny Lakota killing. A guy named Tillman Cord,” said Zeke.
Clive shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
Just then, Amelia stopped by the table again. “Need anything?” she asked, looking at Clive.
“I do,” said Clive. He looked her full in the face. “I need to see you again.”
“I know,” said the girl.
“Tonight, then? What time are you done here?” he asked.
* * *
Zeke walked briskly across the tarmac from the regional jet to the Williston, North Dakota a
irport terminal. The light wind was cool. He carried a backpack and pulled a small roller bag behind him. His weapon had been checked thru from D.C.
Inside, Zeke glanced around the terminal and headed for baggage to retrieve his handgun. Waiting for the luggage, he set his backpack on an empty seat and texted Sally. ‘Arrived.’
“You must be Zeke,” said a tall man with a sports coat and a bolo tie. He looked to be about fifty, and his cowboy hat matched the gray of his moustache.
“Guilty,” said Zeke. “You’re Tillman Cord?” Zeke had seen a picture of the FBI agent earlier.
“Yessir,” said the agent. “Of the East Texas Cords. Here in the Great Plains via Denver. Seems like my career is heading in the wrong direction.”
Zeke smiled. “Well, with the discovery of oil here, this has the potential to become a hot spot.” Then, glancing at the incoming luggage, he said, “Here, I need to retrieve my weapon.” They walked toward the luggage carrousel.
“Yessir,” said Cord, nodding his head. “Mix up money and alcohol and drugs and semi-literate people, and watch out.”
“Actually, North Dakota has one of the highest literacy rates in the country,” said Zeke. “Tied with New Hampshire and Minnesota at 93%.”
Cord looked at Zeke sideways as they walked. “You don’t say.”
Waiting for the baggage carrousel to start, Zeke said, “You have anything on the girl’s death? Jenny Lakota?”
“Well, I don’t have anything firsthand. The tribal officers were on it long before I arrived in New Town. I’m headquartered in Bismarck, about a three and a half hour drive from here. But, yes, I’m up to speed on what happened.”
“Williston’s big, with a population that’s grown over 65% in the past five years. Almost like a gold rush town. Doesn’t the FBI have an office here?” asked Zeke.
“We do, but it’s understaffed. They called in for my support in New Town. We share like that when we need to.”
“Has the M.E.’s preliminary report been completed?” asked Zeke. The luggage carrousel groaned as it continued to make its circuit.
“Only just. I looked at it before I came to get you. This whole thing is only four days old,” said Cord. “They’re being very careful.”
Zeke spotted his locked gun case and scooped it up from the conveyor belt. “All set,” he said.
“We don’t have a base office in this area,” said Cord, “but we can use space at the Fort Berthold Police Department facilities. In New Town.”
Zeke nodded and followed Cord out to the unmarked car, which was parked at the curb in a “No Parking” zone. It had a cardboard sign in the windshield that read “FBI” in familiar yellow letters on a navy background. Zeke smiled and shook his head.
* * *
The ride to New Town was uneventful, even boring. It seemed to Zeke that there were a disproportionate number of trucks on the roads, and most of them drove aggressively.
“So this is why they call it the ‘Great Plains,’” said Zeke, looking across vast fields covered with browned grasses. They extended for miles in every direction.
“Until you get closer to the Missouri River,” said Cord. “Then the view changes some.”
“How so?” asked Zeke.
“Well, basically you can see the river, too.”
Zeke asked, “Where did they find the oil?”
“Everywhere,” said Cord. “We’re sitting on a reserve large enough to supply all the oil needed in this country for six months. The Bakken Formation, it’s called.”
“I read that they estimate it at over four billion barrels,” said Zeke. “And possibly as many as 11 billion. Maybe 200 billion in the entire region.”
“Yeah. And a lot of it is on the reservation.”
As they drove, Zeke asked Cord about the local politics.
“There’s a lot of resentment in this part of the state,” said Cord. “The population has grown up quick.”
“Right. The county went from 7,500 people to almost 11,000 people over the last seven years. About 450 people a year,” said Zeke.
“That sounds about right.”
“Because of the oil,” Zeke said. “So, is it the old guard versus the new residents?”
“Well, yeah, sure, you’ve always got that. But also the Native Americans versus the whites. And the oil workers versus the welfare recipients. Big oil just came in and took over.”
The scenery hadn’t changed much. And then Zeke noticed the steel blue water of the Missouri River in the distance.
“But there’re a lot of people getting rich from the oil,” said Zeke. “That should make for some forgiveness.”
“Some,” said Cord. “But the way I understand it, a lot of people sold off their mineral rights back during the depression. Sold them for a few dollars to feed their families. Now suddenly, with today’s technology, it’s feasible to get the oil out. But mostly the money stays with the oil companies.”
“That’ll cause some resentment,” said Zeke.
“Which manifests itself mostly in thefts and assaults. Not to mention prostitution and drugs.”
They both paused for a second, thinking.
“New Town’s right up here,” said Cord. “We’re about ten miles out.”
* * *
“Here’s the police station,” said Cord, pulling into a parking space and shutting the engine off. They’d driven for about 75 minutes and were now sitting outside a red building.
“This building?” asked Zeke.
“Actually, this is a Tribal Court,” said Cord. “The police station is next door. That’s where we’re heading.”
Inside, the precinct station house looked like any other, a long counter manned by a law officer directly in front of them, a sitting area off to one side, and several metal doors, all closed and presumably locked. Each had a keypad associated with it.
“Hello, Tom,” said Cord. “You have that space ready for us?”
Tom, apparently of Native American lineage, looked at Cord for a minute and then said, “I’ll check, Tillman.” He picked up a phone and dialed three digits. He asked a question, listened, and hung up. He looked at Tillman and said, “Yeah.”
Zeke signed in, then Tillman flipped his badge to the outside of his pocket and led Zeke through one of the locked doors into an office area, then to one of the offices along the outside wall. Cord signaled, and he and Zeke entered the office and closed the door.
“This is what we’ve got,” said Cord, briskly. “We can spread out here, look at the files and reports. The M.E.’s preliminary report is especially gruesome.”
“I heard,” said Zeke.
“The girl was skinned alive,” said Tillman, pushing the topic at Zeke, looking for a reaction.
Zeke nodded. “How closely are you working with the Tribal Officers?” he asked.
Cord shook his head. “Not very. That doesn’t really work. We’ve got this case, and we’ll prosecute after we find the bastard. The tribal officers, the tribal court…well, they don’t really have any teeth. And everyone knows it.”
Zeke nodded again. “OK, where’s the FBI with the investigation? Have you guys finished interviewing the possible suspects?”
Cord made a snorting sound. “Closest FBI field office is in Minneapolis, about eight and a half hours from here. That office covers Minnesota, and North and South Dakota. The agents haven’t even arrived here yet. The crime scene guys beat them by a couple of days.”
“You have FBI satellite offices, though,” said Zeke.
“Sure, in Fargo, Grand Forks, Minot, Bismarck, and Williston. But they’re not staffed for this kind of a crime. The Minot office is responsible for Mountrail County and New Town, but they don’t have the expertise to handle something like this.
* * *
“Let’s start by talking with the witnesses,” Zeke said, after they’d reviewed the police files and the ME’s preliminary report.
“Alright,” said Cord. “But there’s not much there. Most of
those folks were drunk or they just didn’t see anything.”
“You’ve talked with them?” asked Zeke.
“No, I read the interview transcripts for the most promising of the possible witnesses. Nada.”
“OK, let’s break it down,” said Zeke. “Earlier in the evening, the victim was, what, in the bar, drinking?”
“Yes, the Salty Dog,” said Cord.
Zeke looked at him. “We’re eleven hundred miles from the nearest salt water…” he started.
Cord shrugged. “Don’t ask me where the name came from,” he said. “Maybe there used to be a mine around here…”
“What time was Jenny Lakota at the bar?” asked Zeke.
“A couple of the witnesses say she got there around 7:30 or 8:00 that evening. There was some axe competition going on and apparently Jenny’s boyfriend was one of the players.”
“Axe competition?” asked Zeke.
“It’s the latest in bar games,” said Cord. “They toss hand axes instead of darts.”
Zeke paused. “And the tribal police were called to break up the fight…when?” he asked.
“Their report says they got the call at 10:37 that night,” said Cord.
“Do we know what the fight was about?” asked Zeke.
“No one seems to know for sure. But Jenny’s boyfriend, Sam Bearcat, was pretty drunk. A couple of guys said he might have started the fight,” said Cord.
“So we think Jenny left the bar around the time of the fight, before the cops arrived. Where did she go from there?” asked Zeke.
“To Lakeside Trailer Park, we think.”
Zeke looked up again. “Lakeside? Really? Is it near a lake?”
“Uh, that would be a big ’No’,” said Cord, smiling.
Zeke shook his head. “And that’s the place we think she was raped?”
“It was, according to the tribal police. They were first on the scene of the murder, also.”
“Same officers?” asked Zeke.
“Yep, one was,” said Cord. “That’s how they connected the murder with the disturbance at the Salty Dog the night before. And they were smart enough to leave the body alone, to not touch anything.”
