by Glenn Ickler
“What’s the matter? Did you break a rib on that table?” Al asked.
“I don’t know. It feels like I might have. Go find the sheriff.”
“You’ve got his number in your phone.”
“That’s his office number, not his cell.”
“Okay, I’m off to see the sheriff. Sit tight ’til I get back.”
I sat as tight as I could. Every time I moved, a shot of pain ripped through my right side like a jab from Sir Lancelot’s lance. Between jabs, I felt something wet trickling down my left cheek. I wiped the spot with my left hand and my fingers came away wet—and red. Apparently my cheek was bleeding from Jones’s sneak punch.
Just what I needed, I thought. Won’t I look great at my wedding Saturday, walking like a wounded scarecrow with either a scab or a bandage decorating my cheek?
After what seemed like an hour, Al returned, accompanied by Sheriff Val Holmberg and Deputy Leo LeBlanc. While waiting, I had thought about picking up the thong panties from the floor where I’d dropped them but my ribs had advised against standing and stooping. Now I pointed at the small slip of red and said, “Looks like our missing lady left a souvenir.”
Holmberg unfastened the billy club from his belt, stuck the business end through the thong and held it up for inspection. “We’ve got three cars chasing Jones and a BOLO out on the radio,” he said. “We should catch him before he gets very far. Then he can tell us how he acquired this little number.”
“Let’s hope he’ll also tell us where the owner is,” Al said.
“And that the owner is still in need of underwear,” I said.
“That would be good for her—and for me, too,” Holmberg said. “I really don’t need to be working two homicides at the same time.”
That remark brought me back to my visit with Mari Gordon. “Do you have any suspects in the Gordon homicide case?” I asked.
“I’ve barely started the investigation,” the sheriff said. “I’m a long way from having any suspects in this mess.”
“Have you talked to the victim’s widow?”
“Not yet. I’ve been sidetracked by this missing hooker crap. I might get to Mrs. Gordon one of these days, after we catch that bastard Jones and persuade him to talk.” Holmberg’s cell phone chimed and he answered it. As he listened to the caller, his face showed pleasure, followed by disbelief and finally by amusement. “I’m on my way,” he said, shaking his head as he clicked off.
“They got him?” I asked.
Holmberg nodded. “He took off like a rocket when he spotted my deputies coming up behind him. They chased after him and about a mile later he missed a curve and went flying into the ditch and hit a tree. Before my guys could get to him he took off running and went into the woods. The deputies took off after him and when they were getting close and yelling for him to stop, you’ll never guess what he did.”
“He didn’t shoot at them, I hope,” I said.
“No, he doesn’t have a gun. The son of a bitch climbed a tree.”
“That beer-belly went up a tree?” Al said.
“It did. And the beer-belly’s owner says he won’t come down,” Holmberg said. “I’m going out to help persuade him that it’s healthier on the ground.”
“I’m right behind you. I’ve got to get pictures of this,” Al said.
“I think I’ll stay here,” I said. “The ribs can’t take the ride right now.”
“Oh, yeah, I meant to tell you,” Holmberg said. “I called an ambulance to take you to the hospital in Brainerd to get those ribs checked out. And they should patch up that cut on your cheek while you’re there.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I said.
“Broken ribs are dangerous. They could puncture a lung. You need to get them x-rayed. Anyway, it’s too late to call back the ambulance.”
The sheriff was right, damn it. And that’s how I missed all the fun at the tree. When Al picked me up later at St. Joseph’s Medical Center, he told me what had happened in the woods while I was getting poked and prodded and questioned by a parade of nurses and doctors, looking at x-rays of my three cracked—but not broken—ribs and having a sterile butterfly patch put on the inch-long cut on my cheek.
Al said that Ronald Jones was at least thirty feet off the ground in a huge pine tree when he and the sheriff arrived at the scene. The sheriff ordered Jones to come down out of the tree and Jones told the sheriff to go away and leave him alone. The sheriff again ordered Jones down and Jones said he wasn’t coming down and he wasn’t going to talk to the sheriff any more.
Sheriff Holmberg huddled with the two deputies who had treed Jones, and one of them went back to his squad car. The sheriff gave the third order to come down from the tree and Jones remained silent. The sheriff then announced that he would have his men cut the tree down if Jones stayed up there. Jones told the sheriff to go to hell and take his men with him.
The deputy reappeared, carrying a bright orange chainsaw. The sheriff pointed out the chainsaw to Jones. Jones told the sheriff to stick the chainsaw up his ass. The sheriff nodded to the deputy, who pulled the rope. The chainsaw started with a roar. They looked up at Jones and observed that he was beginning to show some interest.
The deputy walked over to the tree and revved the chainsaw—vroom, vroom, vroom. Jones was showing intense interest at the sound. As the deputy pressed the moving blade of the chainsaw against the tree trunk, Jones yelled, “Hey, wait! I’m coming down.”
“He slipped and fell the last ten feet and deputies grabbed him and handcuffed him,” Al said. “He was scratched all over from the tree trunk and the branches, and he was all sticky with pine pitch. He even had gooey pine needles tangled in his hair. He looked like he’d lost a fight with a lion and fallen into a vat of glue. Wait till Don sees the pix I got. He’ll forget all about your fiasco with Trish.”
Holmberg and his men had taken Jones away for questioning and Al had driven to the hospital to pick me up. We were left with no word as to whether Roxie was being held captive somewhere or lying in a shallow grave.
When we got back to our cabin there was a message from Ann Roberts on the house phone: the sheriff’s scheduled four o’clock press conference had been postponed until eight. I wrote my story and e-mailed it to the desk while Al e-mailed some photos. Fred Donlin, the night city editor, e-mailed back a “great job” to both of us and we gave each other a high five.
At 5:30 p.m., when Martha should have been home, I called her. Getting no answer, I called her cell phone, which went to voicemail. I left a message and went to supper with Al, who had called Carol and described our day. “Carol says she hopes you make it to the wedding in one piece,” he said.
“So do I,” I said.
The dining room was buzzing with speculation when we arrived for dinner. The sheriff had not explained the reason for the postponement of the press conference and nobody in the room knew about the chase and capture of Ronald Jones.
“What do you guys think the reason was?” asked Harry Winston, a reporter for the Minneapolis paper.
“Check out the Daily Dispatch online edition,” I said. “That’s where you can get all the news.”
Harry found the page on his smart phone, read the first few lines of my story and yelled, “You bastard! Where’d you get this crap?”
“We followed our noses,” Al said. “That’s the best way to locate crap.”
Harry held up his phone and began spreading the word around the dining room. Al and I gave each other another high five and sat down at a table near the windows. Minutes later Trish Valentine was standing beside us. Her eyes were practically shooting sparks. “I can’t believe that sheriff,” she said. “How could he blow off the whole press corps except you two clowns?”
“We two clowns found the joker who hid the princess,” I said, cheerf
ully mixing three metaphors. “The sheriff had more important things to do than call in the audience for a briefing. Like getting the joker down out of the sky and into a jail cell.”
“He could have called Ann Rogers,” Trish said. “She could have spread the word.”
“You can discuss public relations with Sheriff Holmberg at eight o’clock,” I said. “Meanwhile, I have food on my plate and a stomach that’s growling because it thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“I think you bribed the sheriff some way, and I’m going to ask at the press conference,” Trish said. “Meanwhile, enjoy your greasy calories.” She spun and strode away as fast as she could go.
We were just finishing our delectable deep-fried walleye and seasoned fries when I smelled cigar smoke. I looked over my shoulder and saw Aaron Ross approaching with an unlit cigar stub clamped in his teeth. The lieutenant governor pulled a chair over and sat down between us at the round table.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I said. “The fishing opener is officially over.”
“The governor had to go back to St. Paul and he said for me to hang around another day to see what the sheriff knows about Alex Rogers,” Ross said. “I can’t believe somebody murdered the guy. There has to be some other explanation.”
“Sure looks like murder to me,” Al said. “Got any idea who hated Alex enough to whack him on the head and go to all that trouble to make it look like an accident?”
“Not a clue,” Ross said. “I know he wasn’t the most popular guy in the governor’s office but like I said, I can’t imagine somebody actually killing him.”
“Tough on his wife,” I said.
“Yeah, I feel for her. Hubby goes fishing and winds up swimming with the walleyes.”
“Do you know if they were getting along okay?”
The cigar almost fell out of Ross’s mouth. “What? You think Mari might have hired somebody to whack him while he was up here fishing?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time somebody hired a killer to take out their spouse,” I said. “And this would have been a perfect opportunity.”
“Oh, god, I can’t imagine that,” Ross said. “I don’t know anything about their marriage but Mari is just such a sweetheart.” He paused and then said, “But like you said, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“The spouse is always the prime suspect,” Al said. “But like you said, she’d have had to hire somebody to do the job.”
“So if it really was murder, who do you guys think might have done it—not including Mari?” Ross asked.
“We’re like you, don’t have a clue,” I said. No need to tell him that we had a couple of possibilities thanks to Mari.
“Hey, maybe it’s the perfect crime,” he said.
“Maybe it is, but our experience has been that the killer has made some little mistake in every murder case we’ve covered,” I said.
“In that case, I should be watching for your stories about Alex,” Ross said.
“Of course you should. So, when are you going back to St. Paul?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Ross said. “I’m going to take a swing up to Bemidji tomorrow and then maybe go around the northwest part of the state on my way back to work. Got to schmooze some folks that I’m hoping will support me when I run for governor this fall.”
“You seem very sure of the Republican nomination,” I said.
“Who’s gonna beat me? I don’t think I’ll even have a primary opponent.”
“Lucky you,” Al said.
“Damn right. Save me a pile of money if I don’t have to run a primary campaign,” Ross said.
“So you can buy more ads attacking the Democratic candidate,” I said. Ross was noted for the viciousness of his campaign attack ads, which had skewered his past opponents while playing fast and loose with the truth.
“Damn right again,” Ross said. “I’m sure I can dig up some dirt on whatever clown they pick to run against me.”
“Something to look forward to,” Al said.
“Hey, all’s fair in love and politics,” Ross said. “Well, I gotta go see if Ann has heard anything new from the sheriff. He’s wasting way too much time chasing after that missing hooker, if you ask me. He should be concentrating on catching Alex’s killer, if there really is one. Anyhow, it’s been nice talking to you boys.” He rose, shook hands with both of us and hustled away to find another victim.
“Hey, we can breathe again,” Al said. “The second-hand smoke coming off his clothes nearly gave me emphysema.”
“Think what the governor’s office will smell like if he spends four years or eight years sitting there,” I said. “The walls will be permeated just from his clothes.”
“Old stogies never die, they just pollute your walls.” Al sniffed the hand that had been gripped by Ross and made a face like Mr. Yuk. He dipped his dinner napkin into his water glass and sponged his hand with the wet cloth.
My right hand also smelled like stale tobacco smoke but before I could wash it, my cell phone rang and the screen said it was Martha. I answered, not knowing whether she would be worried, puzzled or angry. Turned out she was sympathetic. “Your story said you cracked some ribs when that man attacked you. Are you in bed or what?” she said.
“I’m ambulatory and taking nourishment,” I said. “But ambulatory doesn’t mean pain-free.”
“Oh, you poor babe. I wish I was there to give you a hug.”
“Not a good idea. The hug, I mean. You being here would be wonderful but physical contact will have to be minimal for a while.”
“Are we still getting married Saturday?” Martha asked.
“I sure as hell hope so,” I said.
“Then you’d better bring along some pain pills because there will be physical contact.”
“I’ll take two Oxycodones and call you in the morning.”
“Oxydones? Is that what they gave you?”
“It is, and I’m feeling a little floaty. Fortunately I don’t have to drive.”
“That’s my next question,” Martha said. “When will you guys get to drive? I need you back in St. Paul. You have a suit to try on and I could really use some moral support.” Because my only suit looked shabby—and had shrunk at the waistline since it was last worn at my college graduation—I had purchased a new one for the wedding. I needed to check the alterations in time to have them redone before Saturday if necessary.
“I’m sure the suit will be fine,” I said. “What’s with the moral support?”
“The feds are driving Grandma crazy, and because of that she’s driving me crazy. Plus there are little last-minute wedding things to do.”
“How do things stand with Grandma?”
“We had a hearing today and the judge took the case under advisement. We don’t know for sure whether she’ll be granted asylum so she can begin the permitting process or whether she’ll be put on the next plane to Cape Verde.”
“I’m hoping we can come home tomorrow, but we might be stuck here covering the missing-woman search if the guy they caught won’t talk.”
“Make him talk,” she said. “I need you.”
“If I had the power to make him talk I would,” I said. “But I’m only a mere reporter, not a police interrogator.”
As 8:00 p.m. approached, Ann Roberts herded us all into the conference room to await Sheriff Val Holmberg’s press conference. When the sheriff arrived at 8:05, he walked into a room full of angry, frustrated people. Before he could speak he was bombarded with a volley of questions about his afternoon activities and with several complaints about giving exclusive information to the guys from the St. Paul paper. I was in my usual spot, directly behind Trish Valentine, when she accused Holmberg of taking some sort of bribe from us.
The decibel level in the room dropped substant
ially as Holmberg stared, or I should say glowered, at Trish for a long moment before responding. “Young lady, I have been sheriff of this county since you were in grade school and I have never, ever traded any information for a favor of any kind with any reporter from any paper, TV station, radio station, magazine or any kind of publication on God’s green earth. For your information, the gentlemen in question were the ones who called our attention to the suspect and immediate action was necessary on our part. And now, unless you apologize for your ignorant accusation, this press conference is over.”
Nineteen
No News Is Bad News
A chorus of “apologize” and “tell him you’re sorry” arose around the room. Trish hesitated, but finally decided she’d overstepped. She offered an apology that sounded at least partially sincere, the sheriff accepted it and the press conference resumed with Holmberg clearly in charge.
He gave the group a description of the deputies’ pursuit of Ronald Jones, the standoff at the pine tree and eventual surrender of Jones, who, Holmberg said, was thought to be involved in the disappearance of Ms. Roxie Robideaux. The sheriff said that nothing had been learned about Ms. Robideaux’s whereabouts by questioning Jones because Jones had denied having any knowledge of where she might be and then “lawyered up,” refusing to say anything more to the interrogators. Jones had complained of pain from a bruise on his head incurred when he fell from the tree, and was being held for observation under Brainerd police guard in St. Joseph’s Medical Center. Upon release from the hospital he would be arraigned on charges of speeding, reckless driving and resisting arrest. Holmberg said the only evidence that could possibly connect Jones with Ms. Robideaux was a pair of women’s panties found in Jones’s cabin. There was, however, no proof that the panties belonged to Ms. Robideaux and therefore Jones could not be charged with any crime connected to her disappearance.
“The search for Ms. Robideaux has been suspended because of darkness and will be resumed at daybreak,” Holmberg said. “We will attempt to question Mr. Jones again after the arraignment, presumably in the presence of his attorney. Now, are there any questions?”
