by Matt Goldman
Flynn said, “You had no fucking right going into those woods this morning without calling us first.”
I said, “Either of you assholes ever hear of gratitude? If it weren’t for us, you’d be eating lukewarm funeral food while sitting on an ice-cold case.”
Stensrud led Ben Haas toward the front entrance. Ben’s eyes and mouth were small. His face was red. Stensrud stopped a few feet in front of us. Ben Haas looked at me with darting eyes. His pupils looked too big. His chin trembled. He made eye contact with no one else. Just me. Stensrud said, “He hasn’t said a word. He’s eighteen years old and thus a legal adult. And that’s all I got to say. Could you please move out of the way?”
Officers Terrence Flynn, Jamie Waller, and Ellegaard stepped aside. I stayed put and said, “Let me talk to him.”
Flynn said, “Don’t fucking listen to Shapiro.”
Waller said, “He’s not here to help us, Tony.”
“Out of my way, please,” said Stensrud.
“Give me five minutes.”
Char walked toward us through a field of dormant grass. She called out to Stensrud. “Tony!”
Stensrud glanced at Char then looked away. His mouth contorted into something angry. Someone had told him, probably Waller or Flynn, after he ran his giddy mouth about having drinks with the tall, beautiful medical examiner from St. Paul. Stensrud gave Char an expression she’d grown used to seeing. Maybe she deserved it for letting Stensrud believe she was the person he wanted her to be. But all people are guilty of that when they’re after what they want, whether it’s a favor from a cop or a paycheck or a warm body. Stensrud just shook his head and led Ben Haas around me. Flynn looked like he wanted to hit me. He restrained himself then followed Waller into the police station.
Ellegaard said, “We have to walk away, Shap. Let the police do their job.”
“Ben Haas didn’t stick an arrow in me or anyone else, Ellie.”
Char arrived and said, “Who told Stensrud?”
Ellegaard ignored her. “You can’t be sure Ben didn’t do it.”
“Yeah I can. And I’ll prove it.”
34
I spent fifteen minutes searching the internet and making calls before I found her living in a “deluxe” condominium in Duluth, Minnesota. She took my call and believed my story. I told her I was a reporter for the Minneapolis Star Tribune writing an article on Minnesota’s greatest achievers. The proud mother was eager to talk and did so for forty-five minutes. I heard all I needed to hear.
* * *
Roger Engstrom’s NorthTech occupied a 1920s building on Main Street in Warroad. It was two stories of yellow brick with a shed roof that slanted toward the back. The NorthTech logo was painted on the side in the style of an old advertisement like the ones I’d seen along the Mississippi for Gold Medal flour and Pillsbury and Grain Belt beer. No one was there because it was Sunday or because Roger Engstrom was dead or just because.
“We shouldn’t do this,” said Ellegaard. I walked under the NorthTech logo on the north side of the building then around to the back door. He trailed two steps behind.
You can tell how serious a business venture is by the quality of its locks. We were inside in less than two minutes and I didn’t even take off my gloves. I wasn’t worried about the police. They were busy with Ben Haas. And I don’t think anyone else in Warroad much cared. The old building reminded me of the coat factory. Worn, undulating wood floors with brick walls and awning windows. The first floor was open with workstations scattered about. Computers and papers and headphones on messy desks. There was a kitchen along one wall and an adjacent lounge that had a pinball machine and one of those dartboards with plastic holes for plastic-tipped darts that keeps track of the score electronically. I prefer a bristle dartboard and real darts and a chalkboard and chalk and third-grade math and a pint of Guinness, but I suppose those things aren’t best for productivity.
A spiral staircase led to the second floor, and nearby, a fireman’s pole offered another way down. It was as if Roger read an article about how to inspire workers with a fun work environment and took every shit suggestion the article offered. We wound up the staircase to find the second story lit via large skylights. There was a big conference room and small conference room, both walled off with glass, and Roger’s office, which was also walled off with glass but hidden by drawn blinds. I knew it was Roger’s office because the glass door was embossed with: ROGER ENGSTROM.
The door was locked with an Abloy Protec. They’re made in Finland. I could walk to Finland in less time than it would take to pick that lock.
I said, “You might want to leave, Ellie.”
Ellegaard didn’t look angry or sad, just disappointed. “I am going to leave.” He waited for a response, but I didn’t give one. “I got too much cop in me, Nils. Or maybe it’s just the way I am. It eats me up, buddy. Remember what you used to call me at the academy? Boy Scout.”
“Used to?”
The clouds gave way. Sun shined through the skylights. Ellegaard had a sad smile in his baby blue eyes. “I’m just not cut out for breaking the rules. I’ll go back to the police station and tell ’em what we know.”
I said, “You think they’re going to listen to you?”
“I think they would’ve if we’d been straight with them from the beginning.”
“Maybe, but that hasn’t been my experience.”
“Still, I’m going to give it a shot. Then I’m going home.”
I nodded. Ellegaard wound his way down to the first floor. The metal staircase rung like a dampened bell, then the old wood floors creaked as he made his way to the back door. I waited until I heard it open and shut. Then silence. Not even the radiators made a sound.
I considered taking a throw pillow from the lounge to muffle the Ruger but that could lead to me prying a slug out of a brick wall, and I didn’t want to take the time. I went downstairs and explored and found a granite bookend holding up a collection of tech manuals. It was carved to look like a statue from the Easter Islands. I carried it back upstairs, stood in front of Roger’s office, and bemoaned my left shoulder. So I did something I’d practiced as a boy. It was part of my twelve-year-old self’s plan to become an ambidextrous pitcher. I abandoned the plan before I turned thirteen. But I got enough behind the right-handed throw to send the bookend through the glass wall. The entire pane of tempered glass fell to the floor like an emptied sack of gems. I pushed aside the blinds and walked straight into Roger’s office.
I found what I’d expected. A safe. About waist high. Not big enough for a rifle but bigger than most document safes. I didn’t need to open it to know what was inside.
I pushed the call history button on Roger’s phone and scrolled down about twenty numbers and found what I was looking for. I scrolled down a bit more and found it again. Then a third time. And a fourth. Then I used my cell to call a cop who cared far more about justice than interdepartmental politics or justifying her job.
35
Jameson White took a fifteen-minute break to redress my shoulder then returned to helping Dr. Bhatt treat and monitor Linnea. I sat in the waiting area with Mel Rosenthal. We spoke little over the next hour, then Anne Engstrom walked in. She wore black cigarette pants, metallic pink Doc Martens, and a pink cashmere sweater. The stupid, shaking dog sat on her lap. Anne’s affectations provided identity and comfort. With her husband dead and her only child fighting for life, she held them more tightly than ever. Mel greeted her with a hug.
Anne went in to see Linnea. A few minutes later she returned to the waiting room and informed us Linnea had stabilized but was still unconscious. Both Dr. Bhatt and Jameson had changed their prognosis. Linnea would survive. Dr. Bhatt was most concerned about gangrene in Linnea’s frostbitten toes, fingers, and nose.
A steaming cup of shit coffee and a vending machine Salted Nut Roll sat on the plastic chair next to me. Lunch. I said, “Do you want to do this here, Anne, or somewhere more comfortable?”
Anne said
, “What do you mean?”
Mel said, “Now’s not the best time, Nils.”
I ignored Mel Rosenthal and looked at her sister’s tired eyes behind the big glasses. “How often did Roger go on his little hikes?”
Mel said, “You don’t have to talk now, Anne, if you don’t want to.”
Anne stroked the little dog’s tiny body and said, “Once a week or so.”
“Where’s his backpack?”
“In the back of our Lexus, I think. It’s parked at my parents’ house in St. Louis Park.”
“Does it have plastic tubes strapped to the sides?” She nodded. “Do you know what’s in those plastic tubes?” She shook her head. “Really? You weren’t curious. You never looked?”
“Once in the garage, I saw him put something in it. It looked like a shiny stick.”
“And you never asked him about it?”
“No. We didn’t talk about those things. We talked about the house, mostly. How we were going to redecorate it. And where we were going to go for our winter trip. We always took a trip to somewhere warm. Usually over Christmas. Last Christmas we went to Cancun. It was just me and Roger. Linnea refused, so she stayed here. Why a girl would want to be in Warroad, Minnesota, in the dead of winter I couldn’t understand.”
I caught sight of Mel. She scrunched her forehead and pressed her fingers over her lips.
“We stayed at one of those all-inclusive places. It was lovely. Just the two of us. The way it used to be. The water is the prettiest shade of aquamarine. We took long walks on the beach at sunrise and sunset so we didn’t burn. During the day we read and napped in hammocks under palm trees and one day we took a tour of Chichen Itza. Roger climbed up the big pyramid. He was in shape enough because of his hikes. But I didn’t go. He said it was scariest coming down. I was so proud of him…” She trailed off and removed her windowpanes to wipe her eyes.
Mel looked sick. She placed a hand on Anne’s as if Anne were old and feeble and in need of reassurance.
I said, “But you never asked Roger about the shiny stick?”
“No. We never talked about that.”
“It was a collapsed umbrella made out of a heat-reflecting plastic. Kind of like Mylar. The stuff shiny balloons are made of. He carried it so he could walk through the woods near the Canadian border without thermal cameras detecting his body heat.” Anne said nothing. Mel looked at me with concern. “Did you ever wonder, Anne, why Roger needed a big pack to hike for only a couple hours?”
“He said it was to practice carrying weight in case we ever went hiking in the Appalachians or California or Switzerland. I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland. Or Austria. It’s so beautiful in The Sound of Music.”
“You went for long walks on the beach together in Mexico, but he never invited you to go on his hikes near home?”
“Roger said he needed his thinking time.” She smiled, then the smile faded. “I knew he was doing something on those hikes. Once, last summer, he came back from one. A bee had stung him on the cheek. It was red and swollen so he made a paste out of baking soda and aspirin to put on the sting. He’d left the pack in the garage, so I looked in it. There were packages wrapped in brown paper. I opened one just enough to peek underneath the paper. It was a plastic bag of white powder.”
Mel looked like she might throw up.
I said, “Did you ask Roger about the powder?”
“No. I didn’t need to. I knew what he was doing.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was selling drugs. It was just temporary. To fund NorthTech. Once NorthTech took off, he wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”
“Did he say that?”
“No. But I knew.”
“And you were okay with it?”
“Roger was a brilliant businessman. He had real vision. Like that Mark Zuckerberg. But people didn’t understand Roger, so they’d lose patience with him and pull funding or fire him. That’s what happens to geniuses and that’s why he had to take matters into his own hands. So he could prove once and for all that he knew what he was doing. But I knew. I always believed in Roger.”
Mel peered at me through her frameless teardrops. The rosiness of her cheeks had faded. I said, “Anne, do you know why Linnea went to the Twin Cities some weekends?”
“Yes,” said Anne. “She had an internship at the public TV station.”
“That’s what she told you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know she drove the white powder to Minneapolis and then drove cash back to Roger?”
Anne sat with her knees together and scratched between the dog’s ears. “I don’t believe that’s true.”
“I don’t think Linnea knew that’s what she was carrying. At first anyway. But at some point she figured it out. Do you know what the white powder was?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“You don’t have to say another word.” I crossed my legs and slid on the plastic chair. It gave me a shock. I hate plastic chairs. “The white powder is something called W-18. It’s a synthetic opioid. Ten thousand times more powerful than morphine. When it’s in pills, there are other ingredients mixed in to hold the pills together and give them bulk. But Roger bought pure W-18 from a Canadian supplier then sold it to an American buyer in the Twin Cities. Roger took a nice cut in the process.”
“To fund NorthTech,” said Anne.
“Yes, to fund NorthTech.”
“NorthTech was going to change everything for us.”
“Down in St. Paul last week, Linnea helped herself to about a hundred thousand dollars from Roger’s W-18 sale. When you and Roger hired me to find Linnea, did you know that Roger also hoped I’d find the money as much as your daughter?”
“Roger needed to raise money. It was his fiduciary responsibility.”
Mel removed her glasses and buried her face in her hands.
“Thank you for taking time to talk to me, Mrs. Engstrom. I hope Linnea wakes up soon.”
“Me, too,” said Anne. “Me, too. It’d be nice to hear her voice.”
My phone buzzed in my hand. It was my old friend Jamie Waller. I ignored the call and stood. Mel lifted her tear-stained face. I looked at her, said nothing, then left.
36
The police station had the same plastic chairs as the urgent care. Waller appeared, said “come on,” then led me to a small conference room with a white table made of smaller tables that fit together like a puzzle for idiots. A large TV hung on the wall behind one end of the table. A video conferencing camera was mounted over it. Stensrud and Flynn were already seated, each at one end of the table. I sat in the middle, facing a wall of high-quality windows. Waller sat across from me. Fluorescents buzzed in the suspended ceiling.
Officer Tony Stensrud said, “Anders Ellegaard stopped by here a little while ago and recommended we speak to you. I appreciate you taking the time to come in.” I said nothing. The silence hung, then Stensrud continued. “Ben Haas seems to be in a state of shock. He hasn’t said a word, and I’m not sure he’s understanding the words we’re saying to him. Paramedics are examining him now.”
Another silence. Then Waller said, “Do you know what may have caused Ben to act like this?”
“I do. And he’s not acting. His life is shattered.”
Fat Flynn exhaled something tired and frustrated. “You want to share with us what you know?”
“You sure, Officer Flynn? Last week outside the cave, you didn’t seem too eager for me to participate.”
“Don’t be an asshole. We’re doing our jobs. We got pressures from brass and the press. We got procedure. We got jurisdictions. We got interdepartmental politics. We got to account for every second of our time. We don’t have the freedom you have, you motherfucking private asshole. We can’t sleep with victim’s aunts and get precious insights during drunken pillow talk. Give us a fucking break here. We want the same thing you do.”
“You want a little more than that,” I said.
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“Yeah, we do. We want to cover each other’s backs and get promoted to make a little extra cash. We don’t have Ellegaards out there raising money and putting our fat asses in fancy offices and shiny new lady station wagons.”
I tried not to smile, but failed. Flynn was growing on me. I needed a pasty white fat fuck cop friend in St. Paul and had finally found one. I stared out the triple-pane window behind Waller’s head then started talking. About Haley Housh and Linnea Engstrom, their Warroad activities, and their weekend trips to the Cities. Stensrud squirmed when learning a teenage prostitute serviced builders and designers who visited Warroad on Marvin Windows business. He’d had no idea and blushed right through his crew cut.
“One of Haley’s customers was Gary Kozjek. That’s why Kozy ran after getting ejected from the hockey game. He had slept with Haley at The Wabasha Hotel after the Tuesday night victory. He noticed the large police presence at the game, felt the eyes on him, and figured someone had found out. Maybe not the biggest crime in the world to pay an eighteen-year-old girl for sex, but when she turns up dead, you can understand why he got a little jumpy.”
Waller said, “How do you know about Haley Housh and Kozjek?”
It was one of those dilemmas that arise when you’re a private. I call it collateral information. Not what you’re looking for but something you learn along the way. Something that could ruin a person’s life, deservedly so maybe, but I didn’t like holding the lever. “Doesn’t matter. I’m only telling you so you understand why Kozjek ran. And that he didn’t shoot any arrows.”
I told them about Roger Engstrom and his Canadian W-18 business and that Linnea unknowingly muled the drugs down to the Cities and cash back up to Warroad, where Roger used it to keep NorthTech in business. I told them about Guy Storstrand asking Linnea to break Luca Lüdorf’s heart during the tournament and, in return, Guy helped Miguel Maeda prepare to sneak across the Canadian border.
Stensrud said, “Where is Miguel Maeda now?”
“That, I don’t know. Only that Linnea Engstrom nearly froze to death waiting for him. Maybe he never crossed the border. Maybe he crossed in the wrong spot.”
