He sat down at his desk and picked up the other photograph. It was a copy of the photo owned by Willy Dupree. Maybe Willy knew where the path had led and where the house had stood. No matter what, his ex-father-in-law was the only person who might be able to tell him anything of value about Swamper Caribou. There was no getting around it. Lance was going to have to knock on Willy’s door again, for the first time in more than three years.
Out the window he could see below his house the headlights of a car driving along Highway 61. For a few seconds a small patch of the lake was also lit up. Lake Superior. Kitchi-Gami. Then he thought about standing in the parking lot near Baraga’s Cross, along with Sparky Redmeyer, Mike Jones, and Sheriff Eggum. That was after he’d discovered the murder victim. After he’d seen the crushed skull. The tufts of hair. The row of pearl-white teeth. Yet he now thought there was something innocent about the scene with the four policemen standing there and discussing whether this could be the first murder that had ever occurred in these parts. It wasn’t on that day that everything changed, as he’d previously thought. It was first now that everything changed for Lance Hansen. That was what he realized as he sat there, slumped in his desk chair and staring out the window. His entire perception of his own history and sense of belonging had been turned upside down. He had thought of himself as a member of a hardworking and law-abiding North Shore family, but he now saw himself as belonging to a family of killers. Murder was suddenly at the center of his life. As long as he didn’t tell the investigators what he knew, his actions were not much better than a murderer’s. But could he do it? Could he expose Andy, send him to prison for life? His own younger brother? No. Lance knew that was something he could never do. From now on his role as a police officer was a sham. When he put on his uniform in the morning, he would know that he had no right to wear it.
And what about Jimmy? How could he be a father to the boy when he would have to carry around this secret forever? He suspected that the worst secret was not that Andy had committed a murder, but that he himself had failed when something of such magnitude was finally demanded of him. Because Lance knew exactly what that demand was. He knew what would be the right thing to do. He couldn’t fool himself. Somewhere there was a mother and a father whose lives had now been destroyed. A young girl in love who was supposed to have gotten married. Maybe brothers and sisters. The fact that these people were Norwegian didn’t really matter in this context. That was more of a curiosity. The important thing was that he sat here, knowing full well who had killed their son, brother, sweetheart, best friend. He knew who was to blame for the fact that they would never be happy again.
It was when Ben Harvey told him Andy had actually met the Norwegians that Lance became convinced his brother was guilty. The whole time Lance had thought it was a serious matter that Andy had been in the vicinity of the crime scene just a few hours before the murder, and had subsequently lied about it. That was something that had to be concealed at all costs, but he hadn’t believed Andy’s whereabouts had anything to do with the murder itself. Yet if Andy didn’t kill Georg Lofthus, why hadn’t he told Lance he’d met the two Norwegians at Our Place in Finland just two days earlier? There was no good reason to keep that fact a secret; but there were plenty of reasons not to hide it. Provided Andy was not the one who had killed the Norwegian. If he was the perpetrator, he would most likely just continue to keep his mouth shut and hope for the best.
All of this, added to the fact that Lofthus was gay, just like Clayton Miller, had convinced Lance. He no longer had any doubts about who the murderer was.
19
SMELLS OF FRIED FISH AND FRESH POPCORN were coming from the vendors’ booths that had been temporarily set up along the harbor boardwalk in Grand Marais. The white paper sacks that people were carrying were stained with melted butter from the popcorn. Seagulls shrieked as they flew over the harbor, on the lookout for something to eat.
Eirik Nyland was sitting at a picnic table in front of the Trading Post. The shop sold sports equipment and vacation gear, Scandinavian sweaters and cardigans, Indian dream catchers, Norwegian trolls, wild rice from the lakes around the Iron Range, as well as books about traditional Indian foods, fishing lures, Swedish pioneers, and shipwrecks at the bottom of Lake Superior. Nyland had already handed over a few dollars in the shop. In a bag that he’d set next to the table was a little model canoe made of smooth, dark wood. It was a beautiful example of Ojibwe craftsmanship. But now he was sitting at this picnic table with Bob Lecuyer, Jason Fries, and Sparky Redmeyer. They’d been here for an hour. On the table stood two thermoses. One was already empty, while the other still held a few dregs of coffee.
Nyland had spent most of the morning on the phone with various people in Norway. He’d talked to three former teachers of Georg Lofthus and Bjørn Hauglie. All three had given the young men the best possible references. Nyland hadn’t really expected to hear anything else. Of course teachers would have liked students such as Lofthus and Hauglie. There was never any trouble with Christian boys who were the outdoors type. When he asked—without specifically mentioning homosexuality—whether the two might have had a very close relationship, he noted that the teachers had no idea what he was hinting at. For them, the possibility that the boys might have been lovers was apparently as likely as Georg being killed by a Martian. From a police sergeant in the Norwegians’ hometown, Nyland had also managed to obtain a brief statement from nineteen-year-old Linda Nørstevik, who was supposed to have married Lofthus in September. The sergeant had thought it better if he spoke to her instead of Nyland, since she was “in a state of shock and grief,” as he put it. So Nyland had asked him to find out what Linda thought of Bjørn Hauglie. According to the sergeant, she had only good things to say about him. Bjørn and Georg were like brothers. That was how she’d described them. When Nyland asked the police sergeant whether he knew if Hauglie and Lofthus were gay, there was a long silence on the phone. Followed by indignation. The sergeant had known Georg Lofthus personally. He was also good friends with his father. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d even known Georg’s grandfather, when he was still alive. “There has to be a limit,” said the sergeant. He said the words quietly, but his voice was smoldering with anger. Quite an emotional person, thought Nyland.
He ended up feeling annoyed after talking to all those people, and some of his irritation was still lingering as he sat outside the Trading Post. That surprised him a bit, because he didn’t usually react this way. Yet he felt a similar vexation when he thought about Georg Lofthus’s Bible. Or rather, when he thought about the Bible quote that the grandparents had chosen for the inscription in their gift to the newly confirmed grandson. Nyland knew the quote by heart: “For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving.” It made him both annoyed and a little sad.
By now it was almost eight o’clock in the evening. Since they’d worked all day, they hadn’t had time to watch the parade. Sparky Redmeyer was the one who claimed the Fourth of July celebration in Grand Marais was something they all simply had to experience. So far they’d mostly just walked around looking at the people eating popcorn and fried fish. For the past hour they’d sat at this table in front of the Trading Post as they drank coffee and tried to find something to talk about that wasn’t related to the case they were investigating. Sparky, who had quickly realized the other three men were not exactly impressed with the Fourth of July festivities in Grand Marais, now said it was the parade that made the day special.
“I think it’s the coolest parade in all of Minnesota,” he said. “The pharmacists, or maybe they’re nurses, with their big hoses, spraying water on all the spectators. And the Sons of Norway with their very own Viking ship. And Sheriff Eggum dressed up like a sheriff out of the Wild West.”
Redmeyer clearly regarded this as his day, and he wanted to show off his stomping grounds to the visitors who happened to be his bosses at work. So here they now sat at this p
icnic table, watching the people passing by and eating.
Eirik Nyland actually thought the very ordinariness of the whole scene was fascinating. Completely unlike the Norwegian independence day celebrations that he was familiar with, when the men wore suits and ties, the children were decked out in their best clothes, and the women donned national costumes that cost as much as a used car. Here most people had on T-shirts and shorts. The men all wore the ubiquitous visored caps. In that respect, the three law enforcement officers sitting at the table with Nyland were no exception. Lecuyer wore a Minnesota Twins cap. He had explained that this was the Twin Cities baseball team. Otherwise he was impeccably dressed in a newly ironed blue shirt, trousers with sharp creases, and shiny black shoes. Redmeyer had on a Hawaiian shirt, light-colored khaki shorts, and white jogging shoes. His cap said “Minnesota Timberwolves.” Lecuyer’s assistant, Jason Fries, wore a U.S. Navy cap to go with his light-blue jeans and striped T-shirt. Nyland had on a short-sleeved shirt and lightweight cotton trousers. All four men wore sunglasses, since the sun hadn’t yet set. It was still low in the western sky, shining right into their faces.
They were actually waiting for the fireworks, which wouldn’t start until ten o’clock, so it would be another couple of hours. But it was clear from the mood at the table that the other men would not be staying that long. Yet Nyland thought it was a fine evening. The Fourth of July celebration in Grand Marais was mostly just a big picnic, a casual summer gathering most notable for the sea of red, white, and blue—the Stars and Stripes in every imaginable shape and size. A ten-year-old girl with a sullen expression walked past wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, “I’d rather be in New York.”
“Can you see the other side of the lake from here?” asked Nyland, turning to Redmeyer.
“Not with the naked eye, no,” said Sparky.
“But this isn’t the widest part of the lake, is it?”
“No, not at all. It’s much wider farther north, as soon as you get into Canada. Up there it’s like an ocean.”
Nyland noticed the hint of pride in his voice.
“So what exactly is on the other side?” asked Lecuyer in his matter-of-fact, slightly clipped voice.
“Wisconsin,” Redmeyer told him.
“Oh. You mean cows,” said Lecuyer.
Jason Fries’s acne-pitted face crumpled with laughter. His complexion looked even worse when he laughed.
Nyland suddenly felt sorry for Sparky. No doubt he wanted to show them his hometown in a more positive light than what they’d seen so far in the investigation that had been occupying their days. It was a grotesque murder, after all, and that was the reason they were all sitting here.
“I really appreciate a good fireworks show,” said Nyland, rubbing his hands in anticipation so that Redmeyer would know that he, at least, was not planning on leaving until he’d seen the undoubtedly spectacular finale to the Fourth of July celebration in Grand Marais.
“Oh, me too!” said Sparky happily.
“So you intend to stay here until ten o’clock?” asked Lecuyer. Nyland nodded.
“Well, for my part, I think it’s time to head home and digest all the impressions from the day.” Lecuyer got up. “Shall we?” he said to Fries. It was an order, formulated as a question. Fries leaped to his feet. The two FBI agents said good-bye to Nyland and Redmeyer and then vanished into the crowd outside the Trading Post.
Nyland closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back. He didn’t mind staying in Grand Marais for two more hours. Redmeyer might not be the world’s most interesting conversationalist, but he was pleasant enough. Maybe they could find a café in a little while and get a bite to eat. That would be one way to pass the time. And he really did want to see the fireworks display over Lake Superior.
“So you were the one who was supposed to pick me up at the airport when I arrived, right?”
“Yeah. And I really appreciate that you haven’t mentioned it before. In front of the others, I mean. I don’t think Lecuyer would like it.”
“Probably not,” said Nyland. “So why couldn’t you come and get me?”
“It was a family matter.”
Nyland remembered now that it supposedly had something to do with Sparky’s wife. Didn’t Lance say that Redmeyer was scared of his wife? That’s right. He’d made her a promise and would rather lie to the FBI than break his promise. That was it. Nyland had to stop himself from laughing.
“So where’s your family today?” he asked.
That hadn’t occurred to him earlier—that Sparky Redmeyer, who had a wife and two young children, was spending Independence Day with his colleagues instead of with his family.
“In Silver Bay.”
Nyland knew that was where Redmeyer lived.
“And they’re having a celebration there too?”
“Of course! The Fourth of July is celebrated everywhere. I usually spend the holiday in Silver Bay with my family. I just thought it might be nice for all of you, who aren’t from around here, to experience a local Fourth celebration. But I was afraid our festivities in Silver Bay would seem a bit . . . hmm . . . what should I say? . . . provincial, maybe. So . . . well . . . ” He threw out his hands and nodded toward the crowds, but there was something halfhearted about the gesture.
As far as Nyland could see, their table was the only one not fully occupied. That made the absence of Lecuyer and Fries even more noticeable. He was sure Redmeyer understood why the two men had left. They hadn’t bothered to hide the fact that they were thoroughly bored. He thought it was a shame, since Redmeyer had given up spending the day with his family—especially since he was a man who was afraid of his wife.
“I think it’s great,” said Nyland.
“Really?” Redmeyer sounded skeptical.
“I’ve never been to a Fourth of July celebration before. It’s something I’ll remember all my life. I’m really grateful you took the trouble to bring us out here today.”
“Oh, that’s okay. It was no trouble,” said Redmeyer. His face suddenly radiated genuine joy. “Really no trouble at all. Just ordinary hospitality.”
Nyland turned around, pretending to study the people at the neighboring tables as he smiled. It was impossible not to smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d encountered such a sincere response from an adult. And someone he didn’t even know very well. It made him happy. At the same time, it struck him that Sparky Redmeyer would not have made a very good investigator. That job required being able to play a covert game with people, as well as the ability to expose the double-dealing and hidden agendas of others. An investigator constantly had to listen for what people were not saying.
“How about having something to eat before the fireworks?” he heard Redmeyer asking.
“Sure, why not? But I was wondering about one thing. How well do you know Lance Hansen?” As usual, his thoughts were still on his job.
“Hmm . . . I see him once in a while. This is a small place, and we’re both in law enforcement. But we don’t socialize, if that’s what you mean. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I just happened to be thinking about him. Probably because we were talking about that night when you were supposed to pick me up at the airport. I don’t know. He seems like a nice guy.”
“Sure, Lance is a good man,” said Redmeyer. “But he knows too much,” he added.
“And that’s not a good thing?” asked Nyland.
“That depends on how a person . . . what should I say? . . . how somebody makes use of the knowledge that he has. Don’t you agree?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lance is unique in the sense that he has all that knowledge about the region. He knows everything about everyone. Even the Ojibwe. But I’ve heard some people say—and quite recently too—that these days the local historical society is a joke. The same person said Lance no longer cares about the group; he just cares about the huge archive he’s got i
n his house. Did you know about that?”
“About what?”
“That he has a huge historical archive at home?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“And it contains all sorts of information,” Redmeyer went on. “About everybody who lives up here. About the immigration period and our ancestors, what kind of jobs they held, who ended up in prison, everything!”
“And you think Lance just broods over this information, keeping it all to himself? Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Heck, what do I know?” replied Redmeyer.
“Is he somebody that people gossip about?”
“Sure, of course he is. He’s different, you know. People don’t like the idea of him sitting there all alone in that house near the hardware store, with an archive containing so much information about their families and other people they know. Plenty of folks figure there’s personal information about them in Hansen’s archive. So, yeah—of course people talk about him.”
“Is that what they call it?” asked Nyland. “Hansen’s archive?”
“No, that’s just something I happened to make up right now.”
“But the impression I’ve got so far is that Hansen is well liked.”
“And he is. Nobody has anything bad to say about Lance Hansen. I mean, what would that be?” Redmeyer gave Nyland a searching look. “Why are you so interested in Lance?” he said. “Because he’s our only witness. He found the dead man, and he brought in Hauglie. That means he has firsthand knowledge of the crime scene, which nobody else has.”
“Except for the murderer,” said Redmeyer.
“Right. Except for the murderer.”
“But surely you don’t think that Lance is . . . involved?”
“No, of course not,” replied Nyland. “I’m just wondering whether he might have overlooked something of importance on that day. Some detail that might prove to be significant. That often happens. And in order to try and pinpoint what sort of thing he could have overlooked, I need to learn as much as possible about the way he thinks. And part of what shapes our thought processes is how other people perceive us. That’s why I’m trying to form a picture of how folks up here regard Lance Hansen. Do you see?”
The Land of Dreams (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 21
