“Did you ever hear of Russell Janzen?”
“No, never on my radar. Remember a few years ago when we had a burglary on some new construction in that area? A hundred thousand dollars in cabinets went missing.”
“Yes,” said Sue. “Another one of America’s unsolved mysteries. The place was very isolated, especially in February, and the contractor had really lax security. I remember he said something like, ‘This is God’s country. I’ve never lost anything before.’”
“Richard Kinver,” said Ray, moving the conversation in a new direction. “He owned the plow that crashed into us. It was found the next morning. It had been torched. He had reported it stolen, and he seems to have a solid alibi. What do you know about Kinver?”
“I’m sure you know the family has been around forever?”
“Yes,” said Ray. “I was just wondering if you ever had any run-ins with Richard.”
“When I was first up here, he was just a teenager. He was a wild kid, lots of drinking, wrecked cars, fights.”
“This all happened when he was a minor?” asked Ray.
“Minor and beyond,” answered Ben. “His grandfather was still on the county board. And you’ve heard lots about how Sheriff Orville ran the department. Young Richard was part of Orville’s friends and family protection plan. He took care of tickets and made sure minor offenses never got to the prosecutor.” Ben chuckled. “Old Orville had lots of friends. He never had any trouble getting reelected.”
“Anything more than wild oats?” probed Ray.
“The wild oats were pretty wild. And his first wife, tiny woman, red hair like Sue’s. Wow, was she fiery. They were just kids, maybe twenty. I was out there several times on domestics. He was a mean drunk, but she was so much smarter than him.”
“Would there be any record of this?” asked Sue.
“Friends and family,” said Ben. “Lots of things were never documented.”
“Do you remember her name?” asked Ray.
“Just her married name. As I remember it, the first name was Jill or Jen or Jean. They only made it a year or two. Later I heard that she moved out of state to go to college.”
“Anything else we should know about Richard Kinver?” asked Sue.
“I recall there were some problems early in his second marriage too, years ago. Maybe he grew out of wife beating.”
“Anything else?” asked Ray.
“He had good parents, and his grandfather was a real character. The gene pool must have been running dry when Richard came along. I’ve always found him arrogant and stupid, not a winning combination.”
“One more thing, Ben, do you remember if Richard was ever connected to suspicious fires?”
“Not that I can think of.” He paused and looked reflective. “Now that I think about it, he was connected to a fire, but it wasn’t suspicious. He freely admitted setting it. The Kinvers had a pile of old tires out at their equipment yard. His father told him to get rid of them and Richard decided the easiest way to accomplish this was just to pour kerosene on them and burn them. The fire got out of control and it looked like it might spread to the surrounding forest. So Richard drives over to the township fire hall and comes back with the fire truck. Eventually some of the other volunteer firefighters showed up, and they got the blaze under control. Now here’s the kicker, Richard puts in for his fire pay, but he’s the one that started it. There was a story in the Weekly Standard and then some letters to the editor. But you know how those things go. In a few weeks most everybody had forgotten about it.”
“Don’t you think you should tell Ray about what we’ve been discussing,” said Maureen, who had been sitting quietly at Ben’s side.
“I don’t know what we’ve decided for sure,” he responded.
“I think we have,” said Maureen. She looked straight at Ray and began, “Ben’s got more than enough years in to retire. We’ve been talking it over. It seems this might be a good time. Our youngest, Jamie, will be finally graduating at the end of April. So we got all the kids through college. And there is a lot to do around here now that Ben’s vineyard is starting to mature and the new orchards are coming into production.” Maureen paused for a long moment, she appeared to Ray to be on the edge of tears. “Ben’s getting hurt, this was an important message. And we’re taking note.”
After a long silence, Ray asked, “When do you think you would like to retire?”
“I’m still getting used to the idea,” Ben responded. “I was told by one of the doctors that I probably wouldn’t be able to return to work for at least six to eight weeks. It will be almost spring by then, lots to do around here.”
Ray took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “It’s hard for me to think about the department without you, but I can understand your thinking. Once you’ve decided for sure, let me know how I can help.” Ray looked over at Sue. “I think we should be going,”
They said their goodbyes to Ben, and Maureen walked them to the door. She followed Ray outside. “I know it will be hard for Ben to retire, he loves police work. But I want to have him to grow old with. It would be the best thing for both of us.”
“I understand,” said Ray.
Maureen gave him a quick hug, then turned toward the house.
30.
Ray set the four bags of groceries on the kitchen counter and started unpacking them. As he put away the food he reflected on the events that had taken place since the assault on Brenda Manton. He thought about the flurry of activity that had absorbed his and Sue’s time and energy in the past week. “Just flailing around,” he said out loud, giving voice to his frustration at the lack of focus in the investigation.
He opened the refrigerator and looked at the array of wilted and sagging produce. Moving the trash container next to the door, he tossed all the rotting and soured food into the garbage, and in a second pass removed anything else that was slightly suspect. After cinching the ties on the plastic bag and carrying it to the garage, he put away the fresh produce, fruit, milk, yogurt, and eggs.
Ray turned his attention to making dinner, an omelet with some sharp Vermont cheddar, and a salad. He cut a few pieces from a fresh baguette and poured some olive oil in a ramekin for dipping. He thought about opening a bottle of wine, but settled on soda water. Once everything was ready, he sat down at the kitchen table.
His cell phone rang as he lingered over a New Yorker article after completing his meal. Sarah’s face appeared on the phone’s display.
“Hello, friend,” he said after unlocking the phone.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good. How’s life?” he asked.
“Oh, Ray, it is so different. I’m used to being surrounded by adolescent drama and chaos. It is so quiet at the law office, all those people and so little noise. Everything happens behind closed doors, and the voices in the hallways always seem to be muted. But I’m starting to learn the lay of the land.”
“Any surprises?” he asked.
“Not really. I did this kind of work in Detroit before coming to Leiston. It’s just a different cast of characters and a much more affluent client base. And the city is great. I walked through a few galleries at the Art Institute during my lunch break today. I think I’m really a city girl at heart.”
“Any chance of you coming up for the weekend?”
“I’m way too busy, Ray. I’ll be working Saturdays until I get things under control. How about you coming to Chicago sometime?”
“I’m right in the middle of a murder investigation…”
“I think that’s part of our problem, you’re always in the middle of something. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m going to the Lyric, and I’ve got to get ready.”
“What are you going to see?” asked Ray, responding to the surface information, while thinking about the subtext.
“I don’t know, and I’ve really got to run. I’ll call you soon.”
“Take care,” he said, suddenly aware that she had switched off before the words were
out of his mouth.
You are going to the opera, but you don’t know what you are going to see. The thought bumped around in his brain, generating a rather obvious conclusion. It was followed by I think I’m a city girl at heart.
Ray mused about his relationship with Sarah. Little more than four or five months had passed since he had first met her, one of the most intense periods of his life. They had quickly developed a bond, perhaps more as a result of their mutual grief and loss. And when he was wounded, she was at his bedside. He had become enamored with her warmth and charm. He loved walking the beach with her and sharing quiet dinners. It was beginning to seep in that whatever they had was quickly vanishing.
As Ray sat at the table mulling over the contents of their phone conversation, he realized that they had never talked about the future. Everything had been in the moment. There were never any promises, any discussion of commitment. He had just assumed that things would continue, that Sarah would be part of his future.
Then he thought back to his conversation with Ben a few hours earlier. Ben had been such a key member of the department since Ray was first elected. More importantly, he had become a close friend and confidant. Ray considered what Ben’s retirement would mean to him and to the department, and then his focus shifted to Sue, who more than once in recent months had mentioned wanting to take her life in a new direction, perhaps finding a man and starting a family, or possibly doing something different professionally, maybe both.
He pushed all these thoughts back. There was a murderer out there. He had an obligation to Brenda Manton to bring the killer to justice. That was his mission for the near future.
After cleaning up the kitchen, Ray settled at his computer and quickly checked his email. Then he Googled Rod Gunne. He clicked on the first pick and his screen filled with the home page of Rod Gunne’s sophisticated Website. Ray turned his attention to the list of Webcasts of Gunne’s sermons. He watched one, a tightly edited message less than 15 minutes in length, then a second. He pulled a legal pad from a desk drawer and starting making notes. First he analyzed the structure and organization of each short sermon. Then he noted the topic and message. Finally, he speculated on the intended audience. Several hours flew by as he worked his way through the whole menu of talks. Afterward, he opened his word processor and quickly keyed his observations into a document.
Wide awake, in spite of the hour, he moved to his writing desk—a sturdy, handcrafted piece of furniture that allowed him to stand while writing. He retrieved his favorite fountain pen and his journal and wrote a long summary of the Manton murder. He noted the lack of any strong suspects and speculated on the unlikely possibility of the crime being a random event, perpetrated by someone who had nothing more than an incidental relationship with Manton.
He mulled over the missing laptop. Might it be an important element in the case, or would a high-end computer be something a thug might grab at the end of a vicious assault? Ray’s entry was mostly questions.
Then he reflected on his conversation with Sarah. This entry was short. He was still puzzling over what had happened, not comfortable yet with the possible conclusions. He closed the journal and returned it and the pen to their places under the top of the desk.
Before retiring, he thought again about what to do with his collection of journals. Their content was very personal; he was discomforted by the thought of anyone else reading them. Perhaps he should gather them up in a garbage bag and put them in the trash. He opened his closet and looked at the stack. He reached up and randomly pulled one from the middle and started to read.
The entry was about a phone call from his mother telling him that his father had had a stroke and was hospitalized. At that time Ray was teaching at a University three states away. The rest of the journal entry was about Ray’s relationship with his father. In the extensive essay, he reflected on his sometimes-troubled relationship and how, over the years, he had come to understand and accept his father’s alcoholism. He also talked about how their relationship had strengthened during the last years after his father had finally stopped drinking. He closed the journal and thought about what he had just read. He put it back on the shelf, realizing that he wasn’t ready to part with his journals yet.
31.
“You’re in rather late today,” observed Sue.
Ray was working at his computer. He looked up at her and smiled.
“I seldom beat you to the office, and never by two or three hours,” she continued. “Were you off on some special investigation, perhaps checking on the steelhead in a local stream while looking for Tristan Laird?”
“That’s really good, Sue. I wish I had thought of that. More than once I’ve solved a crime walking a stream with a fly rod in my hand. Your brain gets a chance to work out there without all the buzz of an office.
“The truth is that I stayed up way too late. And I did something that I don’t think I’ve ever done before, not since college, anyway. I overslept.” Ray looked slightly abashed. “When I first awakened, it was light. Which I thought was rather peculiar, and when I looked at my watch it was after nine. My first thought was to go into panic mode, and then I decided to just take it easy, to kick back and go slow. I even took time to make a real breakfast.”
“Well, you look rather pleased with yourself.”
Ray took in her comment. He wasn’t feeling jubilant, but he wasn’t sad, either. Not like he had been last evening.
“You did the right thing,” said Sue. “You’ve been looking very tired and tense. I’ve been worried about you.”
Ray could tell from the tone of her voice that her concern was genuine. In recent years he had come to depend on Sue. She was smart and insightful, and she often intuited things that he missed. “Anything new?” he asked.
“I spent most of last evening and early this morning doing computer searches and looking through and adding to our investigative notes.”
“It’s good that one of us is on task.”
“Yes,” said Sue. “What would happen if we had real lives? What would it be like to go to a movie, or spend the night chatting with friends at a bar?”
“Tell you what. I’ve got tickets for the simulcast of the opera on Saturday. And after I’ll take you to a restaurant where you can’t even order a burger with fries. They don’t have the ingredients on the premises. But the good news is that you can drink wine. I’ll be the designated driver.”
“Is your current love interest away this weekend?”
“It’s a long story,” replied Ray.
“Opera? I’m not sure. What’s playing?”
“Hamlet. You’ll love it. Very uplifting. Early on the ghost of the dead king appears and identifies the perps that offed him. Justice is wrought by the closing curtain. And in between lots of blood and gore.”
“That’s what we need, a ghost,” said Sue. “You didn’t happen to be talking to one last night?”
“I wish. The thing that kept me up,” began Ray, “was that I got on Rod Gunne’s Website and started listening to his sermons. I got hooked and went through the entire series.”
“Are you a convert?” asked Sue, a wry smile forming on her face.
“Sort of,” he responded. “He’s good. He’s staked out a target audience and created a message that would appeal to them. I’m impressed by how he uses words, images, and music to communicate with his followers. And as you observed when the two of us looked at his Website, Gunne, or the people he hires, really know how to use technology.” Ray paused for a moment, then continued, “The thing that really knocked me over was his mission statement, or I guess I should say the mission statement for the church. It’s a bit buried in the Website. Did you notice it?”
“I don’t think so, nothing comes to mind,” Sue responded. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s labeled as the mission statement,” said Ray, “but it’s not one for the church, it’s his personal mission statement. Gunne writes that through his close reading of scripture he has
had personal conversations with God and he, Gunne, has been given the mission of correcting old thinking and making God’s teaching relevant to a modern world. He goes on to say that he has been inspired to create an entirely new religious paradigm. And if you keep that in mind when you read the sermons, you can see how he’s developing a very clear message.”
“What did you learn from the sermons?” Sue asked.
Ray looked down at the notes he had made on a legal pad and glanced at a printed copy of the summary he keyed last night. “First, and this isn’t about message, but it’s important, is time. Gunne knows what every good eighth-grade teacher knows. If you want people to listen, talk at them for fifteen minutes or less and give them one or two things to remember. Every one of his messages is less than fifteen, usually around twelve minutes. Have you watched any of them?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Well, you should. They are skillfully produced. There’s a story line, theme music, and the narrative develops his intended message.”
“Which is?”
“Essentially, God wants you to be rich. You can enjoy the fruits of his kingdom while on earth if you just follow Reverend Rod’s teaching, based rather loosely on scripture he cites and spins to fit his message. His theology is not completely original, but he’s done a good job of making it all hold together fairly logically. And if you want to get the full pop of his teachings, he will personally pray for you for only pennies a day.”
“Is that prey with an e? Anyone who sends money is the prey. Oh, come on Ray, the guy’s a complete charlatan, a cyber Elmer Gantry.”
“Sue, his message isn’t all that bad. And it’s mostly directed toward people who have been hurt economically the last few years. What he’s telling people is that if they work hard, avoid debt, and stay away from gambling and drink or anything that wastes their resources needlessly, God will reward them. I suspect that message could be very helpful to many people.”
Ray Elkins mystery - 04 - Shelf Ice Page 14
