Dead Poor

by M. K. Coker

  “You play, you pay,” Kurt returned.

  “Give it a rest,” Walrus groused. “The encampment is no more.” He handed Karen the list. “One of your camp visitors didn’t pay.”

  Karen cast her mind back. “The Farleys, perhaps? They didn’t look like they had more than a few pennies to rub together. Living on Social Security. Or maybe Mary Redbird?”

  “Bzzz. Sorry, you lose.” Walrus nudged Kurt. “You’ll like this one.”

  Kurt stepped back with a set face. “I don’t like anyone who doesn’t carry their own weight.”

  “The day I can’t carry mine, you can bury me.” Walrus looked at Karen. “No, boss. The Reicharts.”

  “Who are?”

  “The Floridians who reported us to Commissioner Dahl,” Kurt answered.

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Karen shook her head. “Kurt, you look into the fines for that, will you?”

  Her senior deputy looked torn between the desire to do just that—and his innate sense of justice that he should also be writing up fines for every member of the encampment. “You can’t get blood from a stone,” she told him. “Did you two check the license plates I gave you?”

  Walrus answered. “Yep. Not-Johnson? Get this. Albert Cram Bayton. Yeah. One of those Baytons, though a shirttail relative. He was hurt on a job on one of their construction sites, lost a lawsuit against the company because he’d been drinking. After that, he really went off the rails. But he’s been sober for a number of years now, a gold-plated AA member. Surprisingly, he never had a DWI.”

  While that was an interesting connection to Digges’s wife, Karen couldn’t see how that related to Bunting. “Any others we should know about?”

  Walrus grinned. “Well, not unless you want to know that your Mary Johnson is, actually, Mary Johnson. Came from Aleford, worked in Dutch Corners, now in Reunion. No record.”

  “Most of the homeless are at Lions Park,” Kurt told her. “Before I forget, Commissioner Dahl said to tell you. He’s gotten calls from the Lions Club about the homeless staying at their park.”

  “They’ve got three days—unless the Lions decide to close the park to everybody. Otherwise, that’s just discrimination.” Karen didn’t want to argue the point with Kurt, so she asked him, “Can we eliminate anybody yet?”

  “Well, Nadine Early’s story checks out. Old Man Martin says she was passed out cold at The Shaft. So she wasn’t the woman at the park who slapped Bunting. And Jack Biester’s alibi holds. He was there late, talking with the state people. And he checked out of the Garden Inn at six the next morning.”

  “Good. We can eliminate him and the campground visitors from our—”

  “Not yet,” Kurt interrupted uncharacteristically. “One of the campers filed a complaint against Bunting. Got him fired from his last job.”

  Karen pushed up from her desk. “Oh, really. That’s interesting. Who was it?”

  “Pat Donahue.”

  Their helpful first responder. Always around. At the body. At the fire. And the assault. And still sticking around. “He denied knowing Bunting. Good work. Marek and I will follow up on that.” She nodded at her detective. “What about the drone footage from Akio Miles?”

  Marek fiddled with his mouse and brought up the stilled scene. Karen leaned over. The drone was released before sunset at the park entrance, where it hovered for a moment, showing the clearly posted rules, regulations, and fees with the dropbox. From there, the drone swooped up the hill then up even farther. The footage made the hill look flatter than it actually was—and showed plenty of farmland on the margins. It wouldn’t make a National Geographic cut, that was for sure, though the small stand of maples in the campground was pretty enough.

  “With the tree cover, there’s not much to see,” Marek told the others as it ended. “Campsites. Parking lots. A bit of the trailer park. No sign of Bunting’s SUV in the evening shot.”

  “Any sign of Mountain Man’s bolt-hole?” Karen asked him.

  “Not that I can see. But then, I couldn’t see much of the encampment, either, even knowing where it was—just some unnatural color from the tents.”

  With a sigh, Karen looked down at her list. The stained duty shirt. Though the whole purpose of an incident meeting was to share information, not keep a lid on it, that was just too sensitive. “All right. Next up. We’ve got a statement from Taylor Peterson that Bunting told him Ted wrote a will. That Digges found the will and that he wasn’t in it. At all.”

  Walrus blew out the windsocks of his mustache. “Taylor? What does he have to do with this? He’s a good guy. Goes to my church. He got the rug pulled out from under him this past year, but he’s solid.”

  Karen explained and watched Walrus’s windsocks deflate. “Geez. That sucks. He should’ve said something. His boy is friends with Junior. We’d have given him our granny flat. Still can. Where is he?”

  Whatever else you could say about Walter Russell, he was a very generous man. “Still at the trailer park, at the moment. If we take his statement at face value—”

  “You can take it to the bank,” Walrus insisted.

  “—then we need to add Alan Digges to our suspect list.”

  An agitated Walrus shook his head. “If Digges found the will, why not just destroy it right then and there? Why bring Bunting into it? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  With obvious reluctance, Kurt backed up his partner. “If Bunting had that kind of leverage on Digges, he’d have used it to prevent himself from being evicted.”

  Marek pushed back from his computer. “Doesn’t a will require witnesses? Maybe Bunting was one.”

  “Something else to ask Judge Rudy.” Karen’s list of appointments that day was bulging beyond her time limits. “Though I’m sure he’s going to tell us it’s all hearsay anyway, so—”

  “No.”

  That brought Karen around to stare at Two Fingers. “No?”

  “In the trailer, in the desk drawer...” His face tightened. “I found some papers that I thought might be relevant. I had them in my hand when...”

  When they’d found the duty shirt. Dammit. “I picked them up... what did I do with them?”

  “You put them in an evidence bag,” Marek said. “I’ll get it.”

  She paced while he went downstairs to the evidence room. She didn’t even remember that. Marek must have taken it from her.

  When Marek returned, she nearly pounced on him. “Well? Is it the will?”

  His eyebrow quirked. “Can’t read it.”

  Karen snatched the evidence bag from his hand. And sank down to her desk. No wonder.

  “Well?” Walrus demanded. “What’s wrong? It isn’t the will?”

  “Oh, it’s a will,” she returned. “That’s printed legibly enough at the top in capital letters. And I think... yes... it’s signed. First name too long for Ted. Wait. T-H-E-O—yes, okay, we’re back in business. I think that’s Theodore. And that has to be a J, no matter the rest of the squiggle. But I don’t see any witnesses.”

  Walrus crowded her. “Oh. Wow. That’s bad.”

  Kurt, who hadn’t moved from his upright and locked position, said crankily, “What’s bad? Who got the trailer park?”

  Karen looked up. “No clue. Ted should have spent more time in penmanship class. But whatever the case, I think Alan Digges just moved up on my appointment list for the morning. Right after Judge Rudy.”

  She turned to go up to the judge’s chambers but found Two Fingers in her way.

  “What about the duty shirt?” he asked.

  Her heart fell. “You want to bring that up?”

  “It’s relevant.”

  “All right.” She wouldn’t blame Two Fingers for putting Eda County in his rearview mirror once this was done. She took a deep breath and turned back to her men. “When we were searching Bunting’s trailer, we found an old duty shirt from the highway patrol with the name Johnson on it, presumably swiped from Bunting’s stepfather, Ed Johnson, but it... had stains... on the front sh
irttails. Looked pretty old. Trophy, perhaps.”

  Kurt seemed unable to even breathe, one rigid exclamation point, while Walrus heaved to his feet, started toward Two Fingers as if to envelop him in a bear hug, then thought better of it.

  “Oh, geez.” Walrus nearly blew the windsocks right off his face. “Johnson? Like... your...” Even Walter Russell wasn’t clueless enough to finish that with father.

  “My mother’s rapist.” Two Fingers’s mouth twisted. “Yet another take on Indian giver.”

  “Couldn’t it be Johnson, not Bunting?” Kurt asked.

  “I suppose,” Karen mused. “But how did it end up in Bunting’s hands, and why keep it?”

  “Leverage?” Marek suggested.

  “But Bunting was gone from the household. And if he had evidence against his stepfather, who he hated, by all accounts, why not just turn it in?”

  All they had were questions. When the kolaches—and her men, except for Marek—were gone, she went to get some answers from Judge Rudibaugh.

  CHAPTER 30

  Judge John Franklin Rudibaugh sat through Karen’s long list of tenant allegations without a single indication of his thoughts. His hands were threaded together just below his black robes as he sat in his huge leather chair. The only thing that marred the gravity of his visage was his nose. Bulbous and red, it had led more than one outside lawyer to take him for a drunk—and an easy mark.

  But Judge Rudy was no one’s mark, nor did he give or take markers. But he often left one on those in his courtroom—or his chambers. Karen admired him like she admired the grizzlies that Biester talked about. When in his presence, you felt the adrenaline churn—and hoped like hell to live for another day. One wrong step, one whiff of weakness, and it was over.

  She laid down the will in its evidence bag. “We found this in Bunting’s trailer, substantiating Taylor Peterson’s allegations. While I can’t read most of it, I believe that’s Ted Jorgenson’s signature.”

  The judge picked up his reading glasses and peered down.

  “Yes, I’m surprised you do not recognize it, Sheriff.” He looked back up, weaving his hands back together on top of his desk. “Ted did not trust the vagaries of computers. Every document he filed in court, he wrote by hand. Though I suppose that, since he started to slow down in the last year or two before his death, Ted may not have had any evictions for you to serve. Frankly, I was relieved that Alan Digges was going to take over the reins. You should be, also, since I believe a couple of your more serious cases involved residents of the trailer park.”

  A burglary, drug dealing, and a domestic. Two of the three miscreants were currently doing time at the Big House in Sioux Falls. The last had taken a plea deal and was in court-ordered therapy with Pastor Tricia. “Digges was the only relative?”

  The judge narrowed his eyes.

  She hadn’t meant it to sound accusing. A misstep.

  “Ted had no wife, no children, only one older sibling—a deceased sister who left one child. Alan Digges was the sole heir per statute and had all the proper documentation to prove it.” For the first time, Karen caught a whiff of emotion in his sonorous voice. “Believing that no will was to be found, I granted him the administration on the estate and power to manage the assets thereof.”

  Though the end might have been the same, that Digges had bypassed the judge would not go unnoticed—or unpunished. Karen cleared her throat. “Can you read the will?”

  He looked back down at the papers. “Even for Ted, this is cramped, uneven handwriting. It appears to have been written only days before his death, but as I saw him the day after this date, I can attest that he was of sound and disposing mind. His Ds are quite distinct, so yes, it appears Digges is not mentioned at all. I do see a legatee whose name begins with R or B?”

  That brought her up short. “Bunting?”

  “No. The surname begins with J and ends with an n.”

  “Jorgenson? Might be a distant relative.”

  “One not legally competent, I believe, as a trustee is mentioned. Con—Conway? It will take some time to decipher the will. I will let you know when I do.” He pushed the will to the side. “Whatever the actual contents, Alan Digges subverted the cause of justice. He well knew that I, not Bunting, was the arbiter of probate matters. I dislike being used as a tool against the very thing I am sworn to protect. Justice. Digges will not find my court a lenient haven, no matter his lawyers. I presume you and your laconic detective have taken all the required and necessary steps to ensure that the evidence is unassailable?”

  Karen thanked her lucky stars that she’d placed the papers in an evidence bag and that Marek had logged them in as evidence. “Yes, Judge. Chain of custody was preserved. It’s too bad the will wasn’t legal without witnesses. Still, Bunting may have told him otherwise later, after he had the will in his possession as leverage, and that caused Digges to snap.”

  Judge Rudy creaked back in his leather chair as he looked up at her—and down his nose at her. “And this is why probate matters are best left for those who actually know what they are doing.” His tone left papercuts in her ego. He tapped the bag. “This, Sheriff, is a holographic will—in the testator’s own handwriting.” He swiveled, plucked a thick volume of state statutes out of the wall-to-wall bookcase, and thumbed through it, then with an evil eye, he handed her the open book. “For your edification—and my satisfaction.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Karen could say one nice thing about Digges’s lawyer. She rocked the color red.

  Sweeping into the interview room, Michelle Bayton was one of those polished titanium blondes who could wear bright red without diminishing her aura of authority one iota. No one would leer or risk being frozen in place with her ice-blue eyes. While Karen had never met her, or any of her powerful family, the Baytons were big time, she’d discovered. Their lips to the statehouse’s ear.

  Alan Digges sauntered in on her heels, looking around the dingy, crowded room with a sneer. Karen was getting tired of seeing that particular expression on his face.

  After the formalities were completed, Michelle Bayton tapped red-painted fingernails against the scarred surface of the table. Unlike her husband, she didn’t seem to care about her surroundings or even notice them. And despite her flawless face, Karen judged her at about her own age, early- to mid-forties, at least a decade older than her boy toy. Her concentration was all on Karen and, showing her to be more astute than most, on Marek.

  “Very well, Sheriff. Detective. We’ve taken a precious chunk out of our busy day to drive down to talk to you. I put a flight to Pierre on hold to be here. Just what is this about? Irregularities in the eviction process, I believe you said?”

  “That’s right. We served a large number of evictions yesterday and—”

  “Late,” Digges interrupted.

  Karen gritted her teeth. “Not late. I had, and have, a killer to catch. I finished the evictions in the allotted time.”

  “Only because I threatened to have your ass in a—”

  “Alan,” Bayton interrupted. “Leave this to me.”

  He sulked then muttered, “Sic ’em, babe.”

  A tic appeared on that flawless face. “Continue, Sheriff.”

  “Allegations have been made. Tenants were locked out of their homes before the required notice time, checks not accepted, rents raised without proper notice as stated in the leases.”

  “Is that all?” Bayton’s tapping fingernails stilled. “You must be new to the game. That’s standard fare for this level of tenant. Landlords have a right to their profits. I realize that Ted Jorgenson did not maximize his profits, so you may not be aware. That dump of a trailer park is a goldmine if properly managed. Now, you may not like Alan’s tactics, but they’re legal. If there were any concerns about proper procedure, the tenants should have brought up their concerns before the judge during an eviction hearing, not after the fact.”

  Marek spoke up. “We have a check signed by the tenant, dated before several other
s that went through after that, that wasn’t accepted by Mr. Digges. Several tenants witnessed this and will testify—”

  “Oh, come on,” Digges cut in. “I’ll bet you made that all up, just because I called you a dumb—”

  “Alan, shut up.” His wife crossed her arms. “Checks can be written but not presented. Tenants will often lie for each other. Mutual survival, tit for tat.” She started to rise, looking almost disappointed—maybe she liked a better challenge. “If that’s all—”

  “We have Alan Digges’s fingerprints on Ted’s will,” Karen told her. They’d been fortunate that Digges had been booked for drunk and disorderly one fine night before he’d married a lawyer.

  “What will?” she snapped after Digges froze beside her.

  “A will that your husband found in Ted’s trailer while Ted was still hospitalized.” Karen placed a photocopy of the will on the table. The judge still had the original.

  Michelle Bayton sank back down, her gaze locking with Karen’s for a very long moment, then she turned on her boy toy. “What the hell is she talking about?”

  The man crumbled. “It wasn’t valid. Bunting said so.”

  That name swept an arctic cold into the room.

  “Bunting. The man who was murdered?” Her voice barely rose, but that must’ve taken considerable control. “You assured me that you had nothing to do with him. Whatsoever.”

  Digges actually started to babble. “I don’t. I didn’t, but he was... he was at that point the duly elected sheriff of Eda County, and I couldn’t get Mehaffey on the phone. She was off joy-larking in the sunny Southwest—”

  “She was helping to solve a homicide of international interest,” his wife said, to Karen’s surprise. “Do not drag down others to pull yourself up, Alan. It’s unbecoming.”