Dead Poor

by M. K. Coker

  Connor nodded. “Caught a rabbit in a snare. I don’t like to let them suffer long, if I can help it. When you live off your catch, you learn to be tuned to it. When I got there, I saw a man on the road, older, but he turned and went in the direction of the campground.” That was Gus Farley out for a late-night walk. “I took the rabbit back to the lean-to to skin. Lots of arguing, drama in the parking lot, but I didn’t know about Bunting’s death until you did the next morning.”

  “No wonder I felt that itch between the shoulder blades. You were watching.” Karen frowned at him. “Where were you, later, when we combed the woods?”

  “In the creek.”

  She frowned at him. “But the tracks... ah. You doubled back. We’ll have to give Walrus grief over that. But why didn’t we see you? The creek’s not that deep.”

  He shivered. “Hid in the cattails and used snake grass to breathe through when I heard you all tromping around. Ever been nibbled on by carp? It tickles.”

  Getting down to business, they ran through the night’s drama, for the record.

  CHAPTER 43

  When the three of them eventually emerged, Karen found Walrus and Bobby playing tabletop football with wadded BOLOs. Looking like a rag doll flung into a corner, Lori was in Karen’s chair, head back, either asleep or pretending to be.

  Bobby hooted. “Touchdown!”

  “You’re too good at this,” Walrus grumbled good-naturedly before looking up. “Ah, salvation. About time. Madden here was trouncing me.”

  Bobby flushed as he took in the tall stranger. He got to his feet and started forward. Then he stopped, until Connor broke the impasse. “Yes, it’s me, Bobby. Mountain Man. Chee Connor. Most just call me Connor.”

  Bobby lurched forward, and Connor caught him in a bear hug.

  When he was released, Bobby beamed up at him. “Mom said we had to come back to the Sheriff’s Office ’cause there was a good surprise waiting.”

  Connor ruffled his hair. “Well, I hope I’m some of that, but that’s not all of it.”

  But Bobby had turned on Karen and Marek, his face as fierce as only a child wronged could be. “I was right about Mountain Man... Mr. Connor.”

  “Yes, you were. I was wrong. Adults often are.” Karen glanced at the rag doll, whose eyes had miraculously slitted open. “Even when they’re trying their best.”

  But Bobby wasn’t finished. “You told my mom that she was a killer.”

  “No, I tried to find out if she was a killer,” Karen corrected. “That’s my job, to find killers. She passed that test with flying colors.”

  “News to me,” Lori muttered as she slid herself up in the chair. Like her son, she suddenly looked uncertain, and Karen thought she knew why. Mountain Man cleaned up well. Would the fantasy family that Karen had dreamed up as Connor’s motivation for the attack on Lori become reality? The two of them were going to be thrown together at least for a time over managing the trailer park.

  The heavy tread of footsteps ended the fraught silence, and the side door opened.

  Judge Rudibaugh emerged in his black robes, and out of instinctual respect, anyone not already standing, immediately did so. Commissioner Dahl entered on his heels.

  The judge took in the tableau and correctly assigned the players to the proper slots. “Sheriff, Detective, congratulations on being rescued. I hear it was a close thing. Finding your replacements would have been costly.”

  Talk about a backhanded slap. Nails must have gotten the story from the EMTs. The only surprise was that the judge listened to the radio, unless one of his clerks had been the messenger.

  But she wasn’t to know, as the judge turned to Chee. “Mr. Connor? As their rescuer, you are to be congratulated on saving the county endless amounts of aggravation, time, and money.” Finally, the judge looked down his bulbous nose at his youngest target. “And you, young man, would be Robert Jansen.”

  His mother glued to his side, the boy gulped. “Yes, sir. Bobby.”

  “Your Honor,” his mother coached, her face showing every ounce of her anxiety. Judges held an inordinate amount of power over the poor. A minor traffic ticket that most could pay and then drive off could land them in jail, often for good long chunks of time, in a downward spiral.

  “Your Honor,” Bobby repeated.

  “You knew Ted Jorgenson.”

  The boy’s bottom lip trembled. “He was awesome.”

  The judge’s brows rose. “Ted Jorgenson was certainly a most estimable man. Except for his handwriting, that is.” The judge glanced at Karen. “I believe I have now deciphered the whole will.” His eyes dropped back down. “You, young man, have been given a gift—and a weighty responsibility. You will one day have the fate of others in your hands, never something to take lightly.”

  Bobby looked more confused than anything. “Did Ted leave me his gun? Or a knife?”

  The brows rose higher. “No, though that is a good guess. I am glad to hear you understand that those are not items to be carried lightly.”

  So Lori hadn’t told her son about the trailer park. She probably thought it was all bull, a tactic, no more. But the growing hope on the woman’s face told Karen that what Lori wouldn’t take from her, she would from the judge. But would she take it from Ted?

  As if making his own assessment of the dynamics, Judge Rudibaugh placed his hands in his robe arms, all black, all serious, as he looked down at Bobby. “I knew Ted Jorgensen very well. We differed somewhat in our viewpoints on justice or mercy, but I never once doubted his very real concern about what would happen to his tenants when he died. He thought of them, perhaps in an outmoded paternalistic way, as his responsibility. He helped many, here and there, in some known and many unknown ways, to get their feet under them, to give them a rock to stand on—a home. You know what it feels like to lose yours. Alan Digges was not, as Ted apparently knew and that I discovered, alas, too late, the proper individual for that trust. Ted decided to leave the trailer park to you, in the trust of Mr. Connor and with the help of your mother.”

  While Lori appeared frozen, Bobby’s nose wrinkled. “You mean... we get our trailer back?”

  The judge cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should ask, young man, what you wish to be when you reach your majority.” He got silence. “When you grow up.”

  “Oh. A graphic artist. I want to do animations for Disney.” He bit his lip. “Or be a baseball player.”

  “I see. Well, normal enough for a boy your age. However, I would guess the first, and probably the second, require some postsecondary education.” He paused. “College.”

  Lori looked far more excited about that prospect than her son, who made a face. “Oh. I guess. Maybe.”

  “The profits from the trailer park will enable you to do so without going into debt. Always something to avoid wherever possible. When you turn twenty-one, you will need to decide whether to run the trailer park yourself, to turn it over to your mother and Mr. Connor or some other combination thereof, or to sell it. You, or the trustee until your majority, will be deciding who gets to stay and who goes in the trailer park.”

  Bobby looked anxiously up at the judge. “Mr. Connor? We can give him a trailer?”

  Before the judge could comment, Connor shook his head. “That’s not how it works, Bobby. You need to make a profit.”

  “Ted gave us the trailer park,” Bobby pointed out with perfect logic.

  “And he’s no longer in need of the profit. But you are. I expect growing boys cost a fortune in food, if I recall my own years.” Connor’s bittersweet smile told Karen that he’d often gone without.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Laura, the mother of three boys, muttered.

  Harold Dahl cleared his throat. “We have a different proposition for Mr. Connor’s housing.”

  Lori looked alarmed. “You’re not putting him jail!”

  “I sincerely hope not,” the commissioner said. He looked at Karen, got her shake of the head, then he looked back at Connor. “The county commissioner
s voted just now to pull the application with the state parks board for Grove Park.”

  Connor’s face fell. “Why? I never had a problem with Biester’s goal.”

  “We decided to offer the job of park manager to someone who might have a bit of trouble with the state’s background check.”

  Connor looked stunned.

  With a whoop of delight, Laura hugged her cousin then spun him around until he looked dizzy. “Connor lands—finally, back in Connor hands.”

  But her cousin, once released, held up a hand. “I have one condition.”

  Dahl looked taken aback. “What’s that?”

  “That you replace the vault toilet at the overlook.”

  Dahl gave him a pained look. “The park fund was pretty much depleted for the upgrades at the campground.” But when Connor didn’t so much as a blink, he sighed. “Done.”

  And that, apparently, was how you got things out of Dahl. You threatened to quit before you even got started. Too bad Karen had already burned that bridge and said yes without conditions.

  Of course, she could still threaten to quit. But right now, he would see right through her ruse. Why had she taken this job, again?

  Because of payoffs like that.

  And the payoff to come, as Walrus finally entered with his sling-armed prisoner in tow. Two Fingers followed on his heels, holding up an evidence bag with a phone in it.

  CHAPTER 44

  Marek’s head hurt. And his butt. All he wanted was to go home, retrieve Becca from Arne so he could hug her close enough to feel her heart against his, then invite Nikki over for a nightcap—or possibly more. He even wanted to get licked to death by his gun-shy dog.

  But none of that would happen until they turned the key on Biester.

  The former park manager seemed remarkably calm, though mildly stoic, as if merely awaiting release from the dentist chair. And that made Marek frown. A sane person facing murder charges and two attempted murder charges on police officers would usually be shaking in his booties. Either that, or asleep. He’d encountered the latter once or twice. They all knew the outcome.

  With the formalities out of the way, Marek wasn’t sure if he was pleased that Biester hadn’t immediately cried for a lawyer, which was what he’d expected. No going home just yet.

  Standing to the side of Marek’s chair, Karen started the interview. They’d decided that might keep him off balance. “Mr. Biester, we are aware that, instead of staying in Sioux Falls last Friday night, you set up a sting operation to capture the evictees on camera.”

  His ruddy face reddened slightly. “If you’d done your job, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “If you’d waited, I would have done my job,” Karen countered. “I had a few minor things to deal with in the last month, like an election loss with a side salad of murder, then a job hunt with same, only to come home to yet another homicide.” Karen put her hands on the table and leaned into Biester’s space. “You should’ve taken your pictures and left. Why didn’t you?”

  He lifted his chin, his square face set. “I tried to, but Bunting attacked me. Pure self-defense. Just like tonight. You both go batshit crazy on me, accusing me of murder of all things, when I was trying to help you with the real murderer, who you’re treating like a returning hero. Typical small-town myopia. Just because you knew Connor, not me, I’m the bad guy? I had a right to protect myself. I only pulled the gun to stop you. That’s all. No harm, no foul. I’m the one who got hurt.”

  A long night ahead, Marek thought. Or not. He pulled out the evidence bag with the phone.

  Biester didn’t bother to deny it was his. “So? I have a phone. That’s not working. Another thing to add to a lawsuit for false arrest that will bankrupt this county.”

  “Make sure it’s for the full value of the phone,” Karen told him. “Because you apparently forgot that it’s top-of-the-line.”

  “What does that have to do with...” Biester trailed off as Marek swiped the phone alive.

  “It’s waterproof,” Captain Obvious—in the person of herself—gloated. “Play it again, Sam.”

  Marek started the video he’d queued up. Biester slumped as the chaotic scene unfolded.

  On the trail, Bunting was barreling toward the encampment, intent unknown. But halfway down, he stopped, his head turning directly toward the camera lens, no doubt alerted by the red IR light. Then he changed direction toward the camera and charged.

  The video continued. “What the hell are you doing?” Bunting demanded, trying to grab the phone, his sausage-sized fingers not quite quick enough as Biester pulled it out of reach.

  “A present for the new sheriff,” Biester returned.

  Marek paused the video. “Despite pretending otherwise on the next morning, you knew that Bunting had lost the recount.”

  Head in hands, Biester nodded. “I heard it on the radio when I passed Reunion.”

  Marek hit play. Biester was still speaking. “Taking out the trail monitor I just installed at the entrance? Stupid. You’re screwed.”

  They’d found that recording on the phone, as well. And that explained what Bunting had seen when on the phone with his aunt: the new trail monitor, just waiting to catch him evading the entrance fee. The last straw, he’d said. He’d used his nightstick on the trail monitor. All very damning. If only Biester had left it at that.

  On the video, Bunting lunged for the phone as if it were a smoking gun—which it was. There was a tussle, a hand closed over the phone and its attachment, and the camera spun then hit ground, but the audio still worked. Bunting’s throwing arm was weaker than a Ramen noodle. The audio still picked up the low, intense tones that hadn’t carried all the way down to the encampment.

  “Good luck finding your phone in this thicket,” Bunting said. “But it doesn’t matter. You want to clear the park? I can still do that for you. Only this time, it’s going to cost you. Five hundred a month and a blind eye toward the earth berm, where I’ll live and keep watch, earn you a trash-free state park.”

  Biester’s response was quick. “Yes, I’ll have the last.”

  A pause. “Well, okay, then—”

  “I’ll have the trash out of my park. You included. I don’t take bribes. And the idea of you staying in that earth berm that Mountain Man built—that’s just laughable. You wouldn’t last a day, not now, certainly not come winter.”

  “I’ve survived worse,” Bunting returned. “Much worse. And you’re no saint. You want the county commissioners to hear what I dug up on you, Mr. High and Mighty Park Manager? You got fired from your last job. Got a little too aggressive with a tourist who crowded a bison calf that had to be put down. Looks like the pot calling the kettle black. All I wanted out of this backwater county was a nice retirement job—and that’s what you’ve got here. I want part of it.”

  A long silence ensued. Finally, Bunting spoke. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You won’t get a better deal. Have the money for me by tomorrow. I gotta eat. And not rabbits.”

  Bunting must have turned his back, because there was an intake of air, a strangled sound, then a surprisingly soft thud. A minute later, something that sounded heavy was dragged away. Then the battery gave out, and the recording ended. Biester had obviously come back, found both phone and attachment in good shape, and instead of getting rid of them, he’d kept them and played clueless.

  The pocketknife, though, was likely at the bottom of Connor Creek. He wasn’t that stupid.

  “Self-defense?” Karen challenged, putting her hands on the table. “Bullshit.”

  Biester started to cross his arms then winced. “He was threatening me. You heard him. I put my hand in my pocket, found my Swiss Army knife, and got it ready. I was within my rights there, defending myself. Just like I was with the tourist—some idiot with connections in DC, that’s all. My supervisors took my side. But might makes right, and I was out.”

  Marek’s head ached. “Survival of the fittest?”

  “That’s all that there is. A
ll there ever was. When I stuck my knife into Bunting’s back, I didn’t think. I just acted. And you know what? After the shock wore off, I was elated. Like a weight had been lifted that I hadn’t known was there. All those years living constricted by rules. I’d become one with the wild, just as we’re meant to be. Bunting got it. Might makes right. I had the might, so I was in the right.”

  Marek wondered if that was how Biester would live with himself, with what he’d done. “Why attack Lori?”

  Biester shrugged. “That wasn’t personal. I didn’t even know it was her, just that I was on the brink, the very cusp, of getting the park clear. When I realized someone was coming down the trail, I jumped them, intending to make sure they never returned. Then she started screaming, and Mountain Man came flying. Then Donahue.”

  Karen’s lips pursed. “But Connor was the hero, not you.”

  His square face tightened. “Heroes are another name for the winner.”

  “That makes us the winners, not you,” Karen needled him.

  “Only a desperate throw by a washed up vet, a chance hit, made it so. Otherwise I’d have been the winner.”

  Marek asked, “You were going to blame it all on Connor? Our deaths?”

  “Why not? I was the fittest to survive. The people in the trailer park? In the wild, they’d be dead, picked off by predators or by their own—or subservient. Not the ones reproducing. If Hitler hadn’t messed up eugenics, we could have a much better citizenry. No more poor.”

  Karen settled back against the door. “There’s this thing called civilization. Not perfect, but it beats the alternative. Of course, when you get banned from it? Prison. You can try out your survival theories there.”

  His face twitched.

  “We’ve seen a lot of the poor this past weekend,” Karen told him. “And you know what? I’d pit a Lori Jansen or Chee Connor against you, and they’d come up aces. Their guts, their resilience, their humanity beat the hell out of you. You could have, should have, walked away from Bunting, come back for your evidence, and brought it to us. Bunting would be in prison, and you’d have a state park.”