“What did you think when you heard about Josie?”
“I thought Coach must’ve fucked him, too.”
“Still you did nothing?”
Mallinger scowled again when I asked, “What does he have on you, Gene?”
Hugoson began massaging his temples.
“A while ago, he and Josie—they asked me if I had—They said they didn’t want to go through a dealer. They asked . . . shit. I gave them some anhydrous ammonia.”
Shit is right.
“What is anhydrous ammonia?” Mallinger asked.
“It’s a chemical fertilizer,” Hugoson said. “Farmers use it in the spring and fall to add nitrogen to the soil.”
“It’s also a chief ingredient in the manufacture of methamphetamine,” I added. “Did you know Coach Testen and Josie were cooking meth?”
“No, but . . .”
“But what?” asked Mallinger.
“I knew they weren’t growing soybeans.”
“Why didn’t you come forward?” Mallinger asked. “If you knew they were cooking meth, why didn’t you say so? When Josie was killed . . .”
“I couldn’t. Don’t you see? I gave Coach the fertilizer. Later, when he brought the truck back, he told me if I said anything, he’d take me down with him, claim I was in on it. What could I do? Tell me, what could I do? Even if I beat the meth rap, I’m not supposed to go anywhere near the bad thing. They would have violated my parole sure as shit. I can’t go back to prison.”
“Why did you give him the fertilizer in the first place?”
“He was my coach.”
It was one of the few things Hugoson said that I understood. I’ve had coaches I would have walked through fire for.
“Josie and the Coach dealing meth,” Mallinger said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” I told her.
“How does it make perfect sense?”
“People deal drugs for only one reason. Money. Josie needed a lot of cash for his pull-tab enterprises, and Coach—I saw his house, his car, his clothes. I didn’t think of it at the time, but he does awfully well for a retired high school basketball coach.”
“Not much money in coachin’ high school ball,” Hugoson said. “Coach had his pension—thirty years in the school system. He figured the town owed him more. He figured it shoulda done better by him. He had, whatchamacallit, illusions of grandeur.”
“Delusions,” I said.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Hugoson stood a few feet off. He was looking down at the toes of his heavy boots, probably wondering what was going to happen next. Mallinger gave him a hint when she went to the back of the pickup and examined the bed.
“We’re going to impound your truck,” she said.
“I need my truck,” Hugoson said.
“I want the county lab to take a look, see if they can find anything, any residue, that could link it to a meth lab.”
“That’s why Coach borrowed it,” I said. “To haul away Josie’s lab.”
“After I talk to the county attorney, you’re going to come in, Gene. You’re going to make a full statement—on camera—and then you’re going to testify in court.”
“I promise, Chief. I’ll do everything you tell me that’ll keep me from going back to prison. Only, beyond what I just told you—the truth is, I never saw Coach or Josie with meth, never saw them sell it or cook it or anything. So I don’t know.”
“Just tell us what you do know.”
“Yes, sir . . . ma’am. Yes.”
“In the meantime . . .”
Mallinger turned and walked out of the pole barn. Before following her, I turned on Hugoson.
“Listen to me.” I was leaning so close to Hugoson that I could have kissed him. “Listen to me carefully. The night Elizabeth was killed—”
“I had nothing—”
“Shut up and listen! After you guys had your fun, after she left, what did you do?”
“Had a beer.”
I was so angry now I was shaking.
“Don’t screw with me, convict! Your life is hanging by a thread as it is. After Beth left, what did you do?”
“Nothing. The guys were all anxious about Beth and Jack, wondering what was going to happen and I guess we found out. We didn’t do anything except . . .”
“Except what?”
“Josie.”
“What about Josie?”
“He called Coach.”
We were fast approaching Victoria and I was anxious. The left side of my brain wanted Mallinger to use her siren and light bar. The right side wanted her to stop the car and let me out.
“This is a mistake, Chief,” I said.
“It might not be smart police work, but I want to talk to him tonight.”
“You’re right. It isn’t smart police work. We should wait—see what forensics comes up with; see what CID pulls out of its hat.”
“No, I’ll talk to him tonight.”
“Chief, if you want to lose the interim label, if you want the job permanent, you should do it by the numbers.”
“This isn’t about the job, and I resent it that you think it is.”
“What then?”
“I’m tired of people fucking around in my town. If nothing else, I’ll put the sonuvabitch on notice. He isn’t welcome here.”
Mallinger found a road that allowed us to circle Victoria and the traffic, such as it was. The downtown was a soft glow in the darkness.
“It was there in front of me all the time and I didn’t see it,” I said.
“How could you have guessed?”
“I shouldn’t have had to guess, that’s the point. When I heard the autopsy results I should have known. Skin and blood type O positive were found under the fingernails of Elizabeth’s right hand. I’ve seen photos in back editions of the Herald taken at Elizabeth’s funeral. Coach Testen was wearing a bandage over his cheek, his left cheek, the cheek Elizabeth would have scratched with her right hand.”
“It’s still circumstantial,” Mallinger warned. “Since the samples were destroyed.”
“You know about that?”
“I called the county coroner’s office after your performance at Nick’s. You did well getting those guys to talk after so long.”
“Thanks.”
“Still.”
“Hmm?”
“I was thinking, we probably can’t get Coach for Elizabeth. We probably won’t be able to get him for Josie, either, unless we can connect the gun to him or he left something of himself at the scene. As for the meth, if he destroyed the lab—it doesn’t look good.”
“He did try to kill me with the truck.”
“Why did he try to kill you? I’m playing devil’s advocate here.”
“To keep me from learning about Elizabeth and probably the meth.”
“Yes, but if we can’t connect him to Elizabeth and the meth . . .”
“I see what you mean. Most likely he’ll be charged with hit and run.”
“How do you know he tried to kill you? Did you see him? Did you see his face? That’s what a defense attorney will ask.”
“No, I didn’t see his face.”
“It’ll be Coach’s word against Hugoson’s and Hugoson, the ex-convict who did time for armed robbery, car theft, and assault, he did have a motive for attacking you—the fight outside Nick’s the night before, remember?”
“We do have one thing going for us. I haven’t known him very long but I know this much, Coach likes to talk.”
“He does indeed.”
“Still, you should wait, Chief.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“Is there no way I can talk you out of this?”
“I’ll drop you off at the motel.”
“You could do that, Chief. ’Course, I’ll just follow you to Coach Testen’s.”
“You would, too.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Does the term ‘interfering with a police o
fficer in the performance of her duties’ mean anything to you?” Mallinger asked.
“Minnesota Statute 609.5—Obstructing Legal Process. It’s a misdemeanor punishable by up to ninety days in jail. Since it’s my first offense, I’ll probably get a thousand-dollar fine. I’ll take it out of petty cash.”
“Let’s hope that’s all it costs.”
I shouldn’t have been there. Mallinger shouldn’t have taken me. The Nicholas County sheriff told me so later, and the Nicholas County attorney agreed—oh, boy did he agree. It was foolish, reckless, and possibly even criminal; certainly it was against proper police procedure. ’Course, I knew that going in. I told myself I went because I needed to see Testen’s face, I needed to look into his eyes. The evidence against him was so iffy, it was the only way I could be sure he was guilty, and I needed to be sure for Governor Barrett’s sake. Yet, at the same time, I was aware of a curious mixture of fear and excitement twisting together in my stomach that I found exhilarating. It was like the time I buried the needle on the Audi, taking it up to 130 miles per hour. I didn’t want to give up the feeling.
We parked in Testen’s driveway. Mallinger stood for a few moments gazing across the street toward Jail Park. I wondered if she found it as forbidding as I had.
Without comment, Mallinger rubbed her gloveless hands together and headed for Testen’s front door. There wasn’t a single light showing in the house.
Mallinger rang the doorbell and knocked.
She rang the doorbell and knocked some more.
There was no response.
“He’s not home,” Mallinger said.
“It only now occurred to me, he’s probably at the basketball game,” I told her.
“Just as well. Now that we’re here, we really shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Let’s go talk to the county attorney,” I said.
Behind us, we heard an unexpected voice.
“What would you tell him?”
We turned. The chrome and glass of the Crown Victoria police cruiser glistened under the bright night sky. Beyond that I could see nothing.
“Who’s there?” Mallinger asked.
“What are you going to talk to the county attorney about?” the voice asked.
“Coach? Coach Testen?”
A shadow moved near the corner of the garage.
“Coach, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I know. I know what questions you wish to ask.”
The shadow detached itself from the garage and drifted forward. Mallinger moved to meet it. Soon she was standing on one side of the cruiser and the shadow was on the other. I was standing behind Mallinger and to her right. The wind had picked up and was raking my face. Don’t you just love the weather in Minnesota?
“I’m surprised you’re not at the basketball game, Chief,” Testen said.
“I could say the same thing about you, Coach.”
“I’ve seen my share of big games.”
“You were at the biggest game.”
“That’s right.”
“Now that there are four classes, there’ll never be a game as big again.”
“I agree.”
Testen was smiling.
“Why are you here, Chief?” he asked.
“Coach, I’m almost too embarrassed to tell you,” Mallinger said.
“Please do. I won’t be offended.”
“There have been allegations, sir.”
“From whom?” Testen nodded at me. “This gentleman?”
“Among others.”
“Concerning what?”
“Josie Bloom’s murder. A drug called meth.”
“How can I ease your mind, Chief?”
“I like your permission—written permission, if you’ll give it—to search your property.”
“I’d be happy to grant you that permission,” Testen said. “I have nothing to hide.”
Nice touch asking for written permission, I thought. The way the Chief was playing Testen—very professional. Yet it wasn’t getting us anywhere. Coach was too smug, too sure of himself. He had been expecting us, which meant the lab equipment and everything else linking him to Josie—anything that would taint the shrine he had carefully built to himself—was gone, gone, gone. Still, I had a hunch and I played it.
“Chief Mallinger is looking for evidence of methamphetamine,” I said.
Coach smiled at me.
“That is my understanding,” he said.
“I’m searching for the silver locket you took off Elizabeth Roger’s body the night you killed her.”
The smile went away.
“You killed her,” I said. “Elizabeth didn’t find Jack Barrett that night. Instead, she found you. She told you what happened in Josie’s basement and what she had planned. You strangled her to death for it. Didn’t you?”
“There’s no proof to support these spurious allegations.”
“Yeah, there is. Add the locket and it’s a slam dunk.”
“Do you understand what is happening here?” Testen asked Mallinger, his voice climbing the ladder. “Do you fully appreciate what this . . . this gentleman is attempting? Do you, Chief?”
“Sir?”
“He’s attempting to destroy the legend, the myth on which this town exists.”
My stomach suddenly had that express-elevator-going-down feeling. There was danger here. I felt it. Mallinger had not. She had been correct at the motel when she told me that no one had taught her how to behave. She stood with her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, not even thinking about her gun. I couldn’t imagine a St. Paul police officer standing so casually before a suspect.
“Read him his rights,” I said, frantic to get Mallinger’s attention, trying to make her start thinking like a cop.
She glanced my way, but her attention was quickly drawn back to Testen.
“Rights?” Coach asked. “What about the rights of the people who live here? What about the rights of those people who were inspired by what was accomplished here? By what the Seven did, by what they represent? There is virtue here that the world does not often see. Sacrifice and commitment, perseverance and character, strength, and yes, integrity. It is what we teach our children. It is what all of us aspire to. Yet he would defecate on all that. And make us eat it.
“I cannot allow that to happen,” Testen added.
“Coach?” asked Mallinger. She was smart, but not experienced. When the shadow raised its hand and pointed it at her—the hand holding something made of dark metal—she did not move.
“Gun!” I shouted.
That made her react. Mallinger quickly removed her hands from her pocket and went for her Glock. It was too late. Testen fired his gun. Mallinger was hit. She spun hard to her left and collapsed on the driveway.
I did a foolish thing. I moved forward. Not toward Testen, trying to get his gun—nothing as brain-dead heroic as that. I went toward Danny, wanting to help Danny. I might have even called her name.
Testen fired again. How he missed me from that distance I don’t know. The explosion jolted me back into the reality of the moment. My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. Outside Fit to Print I had been a deer caught in the headlights. Now I was a deer running, covering asphalt in a hurry as I dashed down the driveway toward the street.
The sound of multiple explosions followed me.
I wasn’t running out of fear, I tried to convince myself. The point of running was to find a better place to fight, to give myself a chance. To give Danny Mallinger a chance. I couldn’t help Danny if I was killed. I needed to escape so I could call for help. Yeah, sure.
I crossed the street and kept running toward Jail Park. Oak, pine, spruce, ash, and birch trees loomed above me, bending and swaying in the hard wind. The boulevard of snow between the street and the trees slowed me down. It filled my boots and immediately began to melt. Floundering, once falling, I pushed myself forward, knowing I made an inviting target in the bright moonlight.
I heard an
other explosion.
My heart beating wildly, breath coming in rasps, an ache in my side—how is this possible, I wondered. I play hockey thirty weeks out of the year. I work out three-four times every week. How could I be so out of shape? I pressed my hand hard against the ache and kept running.
Finally, I was there. Inside the park, surrounded by trees and underbrush. I squatted against an oak and searched for Testen. He was at the edge of the park and coming in. He was watching the ground, trying to follow my tracks in the snow. He seemed confused. The moonlight barely penetrated this deep into the forest and he was having trouble following my trail.
I fumbled for my cell phone, stopped. There was something on my hand. Blood. I didn’t have an ache in my side because of running. I had been shot. I opened my coat, pulled up my shirt. More blood. I grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it against the wound. The snow quickly darkened. My body heat melted it and rivulets flowed into waistband of my slacks. The damage didn’t seem too bad in the moonlight, but what did I know? I gathered more snow and held it against my side while I worked my cell with one hand, using my thumb to punch the numbers 911.
“Officer down.”
I spoke so quietly the operator had trouble hearing.
“Officer down,” I repeated, forcing my voice higher. I gave the address, explained that Mallinger had been shot and by who—that I had been shot—that I was being stalked by the shooter. The operator didn’t seem to believe me, kept saying, “You’re kidding.” Still, she passed my call for help to both the city of Victoria Police Department and the Nicholas County Sheriff’s Office without hesitation. She told me to stay on the phone.
Testen’s head jerked up and he held it at an angle that suggested he was listening for something. I deactivated the cell phone. I was breathing deeply and rapidly and the noise distressed me. I covered my mouth with my hand, hoping my breathing sounds wouldn’t be heard at any distance.
I wondered how long it would take for help to arrive. If it was the Twin Cities, the first squad would have been on the scene within two minutes. But this wasn’t the Cities. There was no telling where the nearest cop could be.
The wound wasn’t bad. Movie heroes would call it a mere flesh wound and then ignore it. Pardon me if I wasn’t as hardy as those guys. I gathered up another handful of fresh snow and winced in pain as I pressed it against the injury. I started running some more, pushing deeper into the woods.
Pretty Girl Gone Page 24
