Fishing for a Killer

by Glenn Ickler

  “What do you means she’s not selling?” Holmberg said. “I hear that she and her partner have been peddling their little asses all over the place this weekend.”

  “What I meant was Al and I are not buying what she’s been selling. She came along for the ride when she heard we were going fishing.”

  “I suppose you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me too.”

  “Believe what you want to believe—but the fact is that we haven’t been doing anything but talk to her and look at her in a bikini.”

  “So are both you guys gay or what?”

  “I’m married and he’s getting married Saturday,” Al said. He’d finished shooting pictures of the marks in the sand and had caught up with us in time to hear the sheriff’s comments. “We’ve been tasked with keeping each other on the straight and narrow.”

  “That can’t be easy,” Holmberg said. “Those two are a lot cuter than most of the whores we get up here.”

  We’d reached the burial site and I pointed out the lifejacket. Holmberg stopped, put his hands on his hips and looked at our excavation. “I suppose you trampled all over the ground around where you dug so there’s no hope of finding footprints,” he said.

  “I’m sorry that we weren’t more careful,” I said. “We never imagined we’d find anything like this.”

  “Well, we’ll tape it off and process the scene. It’ll take a while so you boys might as well go back to Madrigal’s.”

  “Are you calling it a crime scene?” I asked.

  “I ain’t calling it anything right now,” Holmberg said. “We don’t know for sure who the vest belongs to and if it was stolen or what. Those are the things we need to investigate.”

  I had to ask the big question. “Do you think whoever buried this might have murdered the owner?”

  Holmberg stared at me for a moment before he answered. “There’s probably a lot simpler explanation than that. This ain’t the big city where people go around killing each other over every little thing.”

  “Maybe it was a big thing,” Al said.

  “Big or little, we got no reason to believe that anybody connected to this vest was murdered. I can see that you’re looking to blow this way out proportion the way the media always likes to do. But before you boys get all hot and bothered about this, why don’t you go on back to the lodge, tell everybody what you found and have a nice relaxing drink. After that take your little hooker out to your cottage and take turns screwing her. You know, if you both do it you won’t be able to rat on each other. But what ever you do, don’t go away from Madrigal’s until you give me your statements tomorrow. And that goes for the hooker, too.”

  “What time will you be there for our statements?” Al asked.

  “I’ll be there when I get there. Have a good evening, boys.” He turned to the nearest deputy. “Run a tape around the area and let’s get started before it gets dark.”

  As Al and I walked back to the beach, I said, “I’m all for getting back to Madrigal’s before the sun goes down, but there’s no way we’re telling everybody what we found.”

  “I assume you are going to tell the city desk what we found,” Al said.

  “Trish Valentine can read the story live in the Daily Dispatch tomorrow,” I said.

  “With photos taken live by Alan Jeffrey.”

  * * *

  Obviously there was no way we were taking turns with Roxie, either. Our problem with Roxie was convincing her to keep her mouth shut. She was just dying to blab about our discovery to everybody who would listen. Al and I weren’t about to let that happen.

  “You have to swear that you won’t tell anybody about that lifejacket or we will lock you in the closet in our cottage all night,” I said.

  “There’s no lock on the closet doors,” Roxie said.

  “We’ll barricade the door with every piece of furniture in the cottage. You won’t be able to make a dime turning tricks tonight.”

  “That’s the answer. You pay me what I get for an all-nighter and I won’t tell anybody about finding the jacket.”

  “No way. You swear to keep quiet about the lifejacket or we keep you where you can’t find an all-nighter.”

  “That’s against the law,” she said.

  “So is selling your ass,” I said. “How about I call the Brainerd cops and tell them that you’re soliciting men here at the resort?” Of course this was a bluff. The resort was under the sheriff’s jurisdiction and he was already aware of Roxie’s illegal activities. And for some reason he was letting them continue.

  The bluff fooled Roxie, and we were able to settle on a trade agreement. We promised to put Roxie’s dinner and the next day’s breakfast on our room tab in return for her silence until the story and pix were in print and online. It was obvious that her vow of silence was painful but we had convinced her that we’d put her out of business one way or another if she talked. We shook hands to seal the deal and then she insisted on hugging us both before heading for her cottage to shower and get dressed for her evening manhunt.

  “Would you really lock Roxie in our closet all night?” Al asked when we were back in our cottage.

  “You bet I would,” I said.

  “What if she started screaming?”

  “I’d gag her with her own bikini.”

  “That wouldn’t work. It’s not big enough to cover her mouth.”

  “Then I’d use something bigger, like a band-aid.”

  I set up my laptop and sent an e-mail to the city desk telling them we had a page one story with pix coming.

  “How are you going to explain our landing on the island?” Al said. “You can’t write that I had to take a whiz.”

  “I’ll say we wanted to stretch our legs after two hours of sitting cramped up in a boat,” I said. “Most readers will accept that at face value, and guys who go fishing in boats will figure that we had to take a whiz.”

  “Are you including Roxie in the story?”

  “Who is Roxie? I never heard of her—and neither will Martha or Carol.”

  “That’s my boy,” said Al. “You got to have moxie when it comes to Roxie.”

  Twelve

  The Autopsy

  The first thing I did upon waking Monday morning was fire up my laptop and pull up the Daily Dispatch online edition. Halfway down the front page was my story, accompanied by Al’s photos of the lifejacket lying uncovered in its intended grave and of Sheriff Val Holmberg leaning over the site. The pop out was a quote from Holmberg: “. . . we got no reason to believe that anybody connected to this vest was murdered.”

  “Looks good,” Al said.

  “Let’s get over to breakfast and see if any of the troops have seen it,” I said.

  Apparently none of them had. Although the dining room was already crowded with men and women of the media when we arrived, nobody gave us a second look.

  We found a table next to a window and scanned the room for Roxie, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  “Lucky us, we get off free on the dinner and breakfast in exchange for a closed mouth deal,” Al said. Roxie hadn’t shown up Sunday evening to collect her free dinner so we assumed she had acquired a paying customer for the evening. Either her all-nighter was also providing breakfast somewhere else or the action was continuing in the bedroom.

  “She can pay for a semester of grad school after this weekend,” I said.

  “Hats off for the working girl.”

  “And everything else off, too.”

  “I’d like to get off—for home,” Al said.

  “We’ll be off as soon as the ME and the sheriff let us off.”

  “Oh, hey, here comes someone who looks pissed off.”

  The someone in question was Ann Rogers, who was headed our way at almost a gallop. The scowl on her face w
ould have caused a raging, breast-beating gorilla to stop pounding its chest and back away. However, because we quiet, unassuming humans were seated against a wall of glass, we had no choice but to stand our ground. Or, actually, sit our ground.

  Ann came to a halt inches from our table and tried to tower over us. Being only five-foot-four, her effort to create an intimidating image failed. Ann’s eyes while standing were level with mine while sitting.

  “What is this crap about a buried lifejacket with Alex Gordon’s initials on it?” she said.

  “Ah, you’ve been reading the morning Daily Dispatch,” I said, smiling my brightest smile. “Good for you. And how are you this morning, Ann?”

  “I’m ready to rip your eyes out, that’s how I am,” said the governor’s new press secretary. “I ask you again, what is this shit?”

  “Please, don’t use words that I have to bleep out of my story when I quote you,” I said. “It reflects poorly on your boss.”

  Her lips were forming another obscenity, this one starting with an F, when she stopped, puffed out her cheeks and held her breath until her face turned crimson. “You’re right,” she said as she finally exhaled. “I’ll ask again very professionally and non-profanely, why wasn’t I informed about this lifejacket before your story went in the paper?”

  “I really wanted to ask you for a comment—and the governor, too—but I was afraid you’d broadcast it to everybody else in this room and there’d go my scoop. If you’d like to give me a comment now for the follow-up story I’ll be writing today, I’m ready to take it.” I pulled my mini-tape recorder out of my shirt pocket and put my finger on the switch.

  “I have no comment on your bull . . . on your story and the crummy, sensational pictures right now, and neither does the governor. I just wanted to know why we weren’t informed and I guess you answered that with your selfish babble about a scoop. Did you also tell the sheriff not to contact us?”

  “No, I guess I just got lucky there,” I said. “The sheriff probably never thought about contacting you before he comes here to take our statements today. He had to work fast to finish processing the scene while there was still daylight, and anyway, he doesn’t seem to be the publicity hound type.”

  “Did you say he’s coming here to take your statements?” Ann asked.

  “I did and he is.”

  “Well, he’ll get my statement, too, whether he wants it or not, and he won’t like what he hears, I guarantee you that.”

  “One of the hazards of his job,” Al said.

  The look Ann gave him would have sent the aforementioned gorilla away at full speed. “One of the hazards of your job might be that you won’t hear about the governor’s next photo op until it’s over,” she said.

  “How will I survive?” Al said.

  “Okay, you two, knock it off,” I said. “Do you have any real questions, Ann?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “How about you filling me in on what you left out of the story?”

  “I think I covered pretty much everything. The island, the hiding place, the lifejacket, the initials, the mark of another boat, the sheriff’s comments. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “You might start with the real reason you were tramping around in the woods on that island.”

  “To stretch our poor cramped legs,” I said.

  “Full bladder,” Al said. “Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie.”

  “Don’t guys just go over the side, disgusting as that sounds?” Ann said.

  “Two other boats close by,” Al said. He pointed at me. “The old prude here didn’t want me showing off.”

  “They might have reported us for polluting the fishing grounds,” I said.

  Ann’s face turned a darker red. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “Anything else you’d like to ask us?”

  She thought for a moment before she said, “You played up the sheriff’s statement that no crime was involved. Do you think that’s true?”

  “Correction: it was the city editor who played up the sheriff’s statement, not me. I don’t think Alex buried his lifejacket on the island. And why would someone else do it if he wasn’t covering up a crime?”

  “Oh, god, so you think Alex was murdered?” Ann said.

  “I really can’t think of any other explanation for the buried jacket,” I said.

  “Who would want to kill Alex?”

  “I can think of several reporters who might. But seriously, I don’t know. I need to find out more about Alex’s life. What he might have done and who he might have done it to. Maybe you can help me there.”

  “Why would I help you after what you did to me this morning?” Ann said. “One day on the job and the governor thinks I screwed it up.”

  “I’ll explain it to the governor. You’ll help me because, I assume, you want to see justice done and the killer, if there is one, punished.”

  “I don’t know that much about Alex outside of what he does in the office. You’d have to ask his wife about his home life, family, friends and all that.”

  “I intend to do that as soon as we get back to St. Paul.”

  “Why wait? She’s in a cottage less than a hundred yards away,” Ann said.

  “Which one?” I asked. “We’ll go see her right now.”

  “I wasn’t serious. You wouldn’t actually bother her in her grief today, would you?”

  “That’s what reporters do. That’s why everyone loves the press. I’d have bothered her last night if I’d known she was here.”

  “If you spent more time working and less time entertaining those two cheap little whores from Bemidji you’d have known that Mari flew in while they were searching for Alex.”

  “Are the whores really cheap?” Al asked. “We haven’t asked about prices yet.”

  Ann gave him another withering look and turned to me. “Is your photographer friend always such an asshole?”

  “Not always. I think you offended him somehow,” I said.

  “It was the word ‘crummy’ used to describe my photos,” Al said. “‘Sensational’ I don’t mind. ‘Crummy’ is a gratuitous insult.”

  “Well, you guys insulted me this morning by running that sensationalized stuff without any prior notice,” Ann said. “So I think we’re even on that score.”

  “As I said before, there was no way to swear you to a night of secrecy, being as how providing equal access to information for everyone is in your job description,” I said. “Actually, it was a compliment, because I assumed you would do your duty and spread the word.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do now,” she said. “I’m going to broadcast the word to everyone in this room and let them tear you to pieces.”

  “Oh, god, they’ll be swarming all over us asking questions about a story they haven’t read and doing dumb TV interviews,” Al said.

  “Trish Valentine will be reporting live about us,” I said.

  “Give us a five-minute head start so we can get to the cabin and lock the door,” I said.

  “I’ll give you as much head start as you gave me advance warning about that story,” Ann said. She turned away from us and raised her voice to a shout. “Please give me your attention, everyone. Can I have your attention please?”

  As we were pushing through the outside door we heard her say “St. Paul Daily Dispatch.” We hit the blacktop running and set a record for the distance between the lodge and our cabin. This gave us time to throw the extra locking bolt before the first knock rattled the front door.

  “This is Channel Five; we need to talk to you,” said Barry Ziebart’s baritone voice between knocks.

  “No comment,” I yelled through the door. “Talk to the sheriff when he gets here. He’s coming to take our statements.”

  A voice
I didn’t recognize demanded an interview and I told him the sheriff had ordered us not to speak to the media.

  “You are the media,” the voice said. “And you splashed your story all over the Internet.”

  I had just told him that we weren’t talking to reporters when a familiar female voice asked, “Will you talk to me?” The disconcerting thing about this voice was that it came from behind me. I spun around and found Trish Valentine standing in our living room. Tony, her cameraman, was a step behind her, aiming his lens over her shoulder.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” I asked.

  “Back door wasn’t locked,” she said. “Now tell me about finding a lifejacket buried on an island in Gull Lake.” She pushed the microphone with the big square Channel Four logo on it to within two inches of my moustache.

  I was so stunned that I actually responded. “We were on the island to stretch our legs and found what looked like a burial site. We dug away the sand and there was the lifejacket.”

  “Was it a Madrigal’s lifejacket?” Trish asked.

  “No, it was the kind you get at a sporting goods store.”

  “Do you know what brand it was?”

  “REI.”

  “And it had initials written on it in ink?”

  “Yes, A.R.G.”

  “And you think the ‘A’ and the ‘G’ stand for Alex Gordon, the governor’s press secretary who drowned in Gull Lake Friday morning?”

  At that point I finally came to my senses. “Wait a minute. Stop. That’s enough.”

  “Trish Valentine reporting live from Madrigal’s Resort on Gull Lake,” Trish said. “Thanks, Mitch, that was great.”

  “You can’t run that,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I won’t give my permission.”

  “This is America. Freedom of the press. You may have heard about that.” Trish turned away, pushed her cameraman ahead of her and out the back door they went. Al was one step behind her and threw the locking bolt the second the door slammed behind the fleeing Channel Four invaders.