Vindicator
by
Denney Clements
PUBLISHED BY:
Denney Clements at Smashwords
Vindicator
Copyright © 2010 by Denney Clements
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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altKansas: a note from the author
As readers familiar with the Sunflower State will quickly realize, the “Kansas” that provides the canvas for this story is not quite the same as the Kansas they know. Readers will find places and geographic features that don’t exist mixed in with places that do. In some of the real places, they will find streets, public institutions, rivers and other geographic features that stem purely from the author’s imagination. And in some places, they will find real buildings that the author has remodeled for fictive purposes. But nowhere in this work of fiction will they find characters modeled on real people. Those who see themselves or others in this story, therefore, are mistaken.
The author also acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
For Robin, the light of my life
“Nobody expects anything out of Kansas. So that gives you a permission slip to do whatever the hell you want.”
– Erika Nelson, Kansas artist
Chapter 1: Boy in a Tree
October 12, 11 a.m.
Joe Emery followed Chief Deputy Al Martinez down the muddy slope toward a cottonwood tree. A boy’s body, bloated and stinking in the sunlight, was ensnared in its muddy, leafless lower branches. Illuminated by bright morning sun, the gray-green treetop leaves quaked in the breeze.
The river, still raging, had receded below the tree. But the mud zone – littered with broken branches, roofing shingles, lumber scraps, uprooted shrubs, dead fish and plastic bottles and wrappers – extended a good hundred feet above it. Of the vegetation along the river’s original bank, only a few trees, cottonwoods and some willows, remained standing. The surge had flattened or uprooted the rest.
The boy was clad in tattered, muddy red-and-white plaid pajama bottoms and a red sweatshirt. His feet, swollen and gray, were bare. From Emery’s vantage point 10 feet below, he could see dull purplish bruises on the boy’s face and arms.
“Poor kid,” Martinez said. “He’s the third victim we’ve found. Looks to be about 10 years old. Looks like something caved in the back of his head. The coroner can determine whether the injury was pre- or post-mortem. The river must have washed his shoes and socks away – assuming he was wearing any.”
Fighting down his gag reflex, Emery gasped, “Any idea where he came from?”
Martinez gestured upstream. “From over there somewhere, maybe the campground below the dam. There’s no telling how far the water carried him – five miles, maybe, rolling and bumping the whole damned way. We’ll know more when we get him identified.”
“What a horrible way to die.”
Martinez scowled. “To get swept into the water and drown – maybe get conked by concrete or driftwood. He must have been terrified … I gotta go call this in to the coroner.”
Martinez trudged up toward the cruiser, mud sucking at his boots. Emery, less nauseated now, wrote a description of the scene, and of Martinez’s reaction to it, in his notebook. Then he pulled out his digital camera and took some snaps of the scene – the river, the mud zone, the cottonwood and the boy. His bosses back at the Wichita Examiner could decide whether a corpse photo was too graphic for their web site.
They’ll post it, he thought disgustedly.
In the pre-web site days, fear of offending readers deterred the editors from publishing most corpse photos. But Internet journalism had driven standards into the gutter.
Emery, who’d been a newspaperman for 30 years, was old school. Thinking across multiple platforms (the “web product” and the “paper product”) did not come naturally to him. He wasn’t as skilled as the younger reporters at feeding audio clips, video clips and photos into the web site’s insatiable maw. But on ferreting out facts and putting them into context for the readers, he was still an ace. The ace.
That was why he was here, covering this disaster. Yesterday morning, on what was supposed to be a Monday off, a call from Pete Sarantos had awakened him from a fitful sleep. Sarantos, the Examiner’s metro editor, ordered him to drive out here.
The dam at eastern Colorado’s Herman Gunderson Reservoir, an impoundment of the Kiowa River 60 miles west of the Kansas line, had collapsed a few hours earlier, Sarantos said. Billions of gallons of water surged eastward. Authorities had recovered two bodies, both men. More deaths were expected. Local, state and federal law enforcement agencies were investigating. FEMA was on the scene.
“Why me?” Emery demanded. He needed the day to deal with personal problems.
“Because no one else can handle this as well as you,” Sarantos replied. “And there’s a state government angle.”
“I’m not the state government reporter any more, remember?”
“This is big, Emery. The surge has supposedly flattened out. But the water from the reservoir has already reached the state line. It should reach Wichita tonight.”
This was interesting. The Kiowa crossed two thirds of Kansas, exiting into northeast Oklahoma. In the west the riverbed was often dry – as though the state’s eastward tilt drained the river’s western reaches too rapidly. But excessive irrigation and light annual rainfall, Emery recalled, were said to be the real culprits. Only about 120 miles northwest of Wichita did the Kiowa become a reliably wet river. The water situation in the west had recently been in the news, something about the settlement of Kansas’ lawsuit against Colorado over water allocations from the river. He couldn’t remember the details.
“The authorities are holding a press conference about the disaster tomorrow at 4 p.m.,” Sarantos said. “We want you to cover it, especially since Gov. Hodge is on the program along with the Colorado governor, Roy Franklin.”
“Mabel? Why?”
“For some reason, she bullied her way onto the program along with Franklin and a bunch of federal and state agency folks. So we need you out there to see what she says. And get some atmospherics for the web site, too. Management has approved your expenses, but keep them reasonable.”
“Expenses? Whoa. This must be big.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Emery. Just get out there as quickly as you can.”
So Emery packed a suitcase, grabbed his tech bag and cell phone, fired up his old Eclipse and drove westward, noting at several river crossings near the state line that the normally dry bed of the Kiowa was bank-full of rushing water. He arrived in Los Llanos, Colo., late in the afternoon and checked into the High Plains Inn at the town’s eastern edge.
After pocketing his camera and locking his laptop and suitcase in his room, he drove five miles south to the state park on what
had been the reservoir’s northern rim. Dozens of gawkers in cars and on foot dotted the boat ramp parking lot. The ramps slanted down into a morass of mud, tree stumps and human detritus, including a few shattered boat hulls. A mile or so to the south, Emery could see a brown ribbon of water – the Kiowa, restored by disaster to its original bed. He took some snaps of this mind-boggling scene and returned to his room to e-mail them to the editors.
Early this morning, clad in jeans, a jacket and hiking boots, he cornered Martinez at the Sheriff’s Office and begged to ride patrol with him. Martinez, tall and tanned, maybe 35, wore brown twill trousers tucked into calf-high green gum boots and a tan long-sleeve shirt with gold badge. A brown ball cap adorned with the insignia of the Los Llanos County Sheriff’s Office covered his crew cut. After Emery promised to obey his orders, Martinez agreed to take him along.
For the second day, deputies and disaster-response officers were aloft in FEMA and state Air Guard helicopters scouring the river’s banks and bluffs in search of the dead and injured. They radioed possible sightings, said Martinez, to roughly a dozen deputies and state troopers in cruisers for further investigation. In this fashion, two bodies had been recovered yesterday – both men, both still unidentified. An hour ago, they’d spotted a possible body in a tree and radioed Martinez to investigate.
Now, as Martinez trudged back down the bank, Emery said, “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
Martinez smiled. “No problem. You’ve stayed out of my way and asked good questions. And unlike some reporters I’ve met, you seem to have feelings.”
“How can anyone look at this poor dead kid and not feel heartsick? You need me to help you get him down?”
“Nope. We’ll let the coroner’s crew handle that. I gave them the GPS coordinates. They’re on their way, so we can get back on the road.”
As they settled into the cruiser, Emery asked, “Any sense why the dam failed? Was it in poor repair? It just seems incredible to me that this could happen.”
Martinez shifted into drive and guided the cruiser back toward the highway. He looked over at Emery, raising an eyebrow. “Those are questions for the sheriff.”
Chapter 2: An Act of God?
October 12, 4:30 p.m.
“The people of Kansas mourn for the victims of this terrible disaster and vow to do all we can to help their family, friends and loved ones recover from the pain they must surely be feeling,” declaimed Mabel Hodge, the governor of Kansas.
“Families, Mabel,” Emery muttered. The governor was noted for her grammar busts.
She had already exceeded her five-minute speaking limit. About two minutes into her remarks, Emery, now wearing his gray suit, had stopped taking notes. His digital video recorder, mounted on a tripod, was still running.
He had just about stopped listening, too, when Hodge, clad in a black pants suit and wearing a pearl necklace, set aside her script. She removed her reading glasses, leaned toward the microphone and said:
“In closing, I would like to note that this disaster, terrible as it is, contains an element of justice for the farmers and ranchers of the Kiowa River Basin of western Kansas. For three generations, they have chafed under the terms of the Kiowa River compact negotiated between Kansas and Colorado in the 1940s.”
Emery reopened his notebook and scribbled her words.
“The terms of that compact, as modified by the courts over the years, are hideously unfair to Kansas,” she continued. “The construction of the Gunderson dam in the 1950s has also allowed the Colorado Water Office, an agency under the control of Gov. Franklin, to allocate water to irrigators here in Colorado that rightfully should flow to Kansas.”
As Franklin, behind her on the makeshift stage outside the Sheriff’s Office, grew agitated, Hodge added, “If there’s any good news in this disaster, it is that the Kiowa now flows freely across the state line, recharging the aquifer and replenishing irrigation wells.”
Looking back at Franklin, seated in the center-stage chair, then back at her audience, she smiled, nodded emphatically and walked back toward her chair, the last one on the left.
“That case is settled.” Franklin, rising from his chair, shouted at Hodge’s back. He seemed at risk of an apoplectic fit. “Your lawsuit was a success. Your own attorney general declared the case to be over just a few months ago. Our state paid millions in damages to your state.”
Hodge turned toward Franklin, smiled sweetly, shrugged, and said, “He’s not my attorney general, Roy. He belongs to the other party. I never signed off on that water deal.”
She resumed her seat. Breathing hard, Franklin stared at her a second or two, then sat down.
Emery edged toward the back wall of the sheriff’s office and called Sarantos.
“You won’t believe what Hodge just did.” He recounted the incident. “I got it all on video.”
“She’s a whack job all right. Can you upload the video right away?”
“As soon as the press conference is over. In a few minutes.”
“Good. And send me a text blurb right away, too. We'll splice it in at the top of your earlier story. This evening you can bat out a write-through for the morning paper. Unless something bigger pops up, her outburst, and Franklin’s reaction to it, will be our mainbar story. OK?”
Emery sighed. “Sure. Talk to you later.”
The officials who followed Mabel Hodge to the podium told the reporters what most of them already knew:
● From Sheriff Myron Cowan of Los Llanos County: The Gunderson dam had failed about 4 a.m. on Monday, sending a “tsunami of water” downstream. Yesterday and today, sheriff’s deputies and state troopers recovered the bodies of camper Carl Kempfer of Rocky Ford, Colo., 41; his son, Carl Jr., 11; and an unidentified white man in his mid-20s. Aided by an FBI forensics team, the Los Llanos coroner, Martin Legrand, was working on identifying him. The search for more victims was continuing. It was a blessing that the Kempfers were the only campers below the dam. If the disaster had occurred on a weekend, the death toll would have been much higher.
● From Col. Ron Sharpe of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers: The surge originated with the collapse of the dam’s concrete center portion. Prolific summer rains on the Rockies' eastern slope had swelled the lake behind the dam, adding to the surge’s destructive power. The out-rushing water had wiped out several hundred feet of the abutting earthen portions of the dam. Years might pass before the dam was reconstructed, due to a funding shortage and the depletion of existing Corps reserves by the New Orleans disaster of 2005.
Sharpe acknowledged that the budget shortage had resulted in “deferred routine maintenance” of the Gunderson dam but asserted that regular inspections had determined that the deferrals would not compromise the dam’s integrity. He had no idea what caused the collapse.
● From Dan Deal, an FBI supervisor working out of the bureau’s Denver office: The FBI was assisting Los Llanos County law enforcement but would remain in a “subordinate supportive role” unless the investigation turned up violations of federal laws. For now, the bureau was working with the Corps to determine why the dam failed and was treating the disaster as an “act of God.”
Then the sheriff threw the floor open for questions. Emery shouted out a demand that Hodge explain why she alone seemed OK with this disaster. Other reporters yelled questions, too.
Hodge glared at him and started to rise. But the sheriff pointed to a plump, pale young man with a mop of brown hair just below the podium. He wore khaki trousers and a blue shirt, both wrinkled, and sneakers. Hodge sat back down. The reporters fell silent.
“Armand Jenkinson of ColoradoMuckrakers.com over in Colorado Springs,” he said. “I have a question for Mr. Deal.”
As Deal, tall, slender, natty in a navy blue suit and red necktie, reached the podium, Jenkinson said, “We just posted a report that this could be an act of sabotage and not a so-called act of God. Some folks who live near the dam reported hearing an explosion early Monday. Can you confirm that ex
plosives blew up the dam, sir?”
As a murmur rose from the reporters, Deal flushed and said, “Neither I nor the sheriff will have any comment on that.” He looked pointedly at Cowan and sat down.
“Doesn’t your no-comment amount to confirmation?” Jenkinson shouted above the din.
Cowan, graying and portly in his brown uniform and Stetson, smiled sadly. “As Mr. Deal said, we have no comment on that aspect of the investigation.”
“So this is a criminal investigation?” Emery yelled. “Can you confirm that?”
Cowan sighed. Looking over at Deal, then back at the reporters, he said, “All I can tell you is that, like all good law enforcement agencies, my Sheriff’s Office never makes a determination until the evidence is in.”
“What about the FBI? Is that why they're here? Are they treating this as terrorism? Are they the ones really in charge?” demanded one of the TV reporters, a heavily made-up young woman with thick brown hair.
Deal stood and said, “This press conference is over. Thanks, folks.”
The assemblage of officials exited into the sheriff’s building, pelted with unanswered questions.
“Whoa,” Emery muttered, thumbing the speed dial for Sarantos.
Chapter 3: Strange Conversations
October 12, 7 p.m.
“Could I talk to you for a minute without being quoted?” Franklin asked.
“Can I use what you tell me as background?”
Franklin, sitting across the table from Emery at La Hacienda in the Los Llanos town center, took a bite of enchilada verde and a swallow of Tecate. “OK. I thought Mabel Hodge was my friend. We’re both Democrats, though I’m not the loose cannon she is.” He took another bite of his dinner. Emery sipped his Modelo and picked at his burrito.
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