Gone to Dust

by Matt Goldman

  “She’s running a twenty,” I said. “Maybe she’s taking it slow.”

  “Not this slow,” said Perry.

  “Tell him about the DNA,” said Ellegaard.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Thanks, Ellie. Perry, I had this theory that whoever killed Maggie, their DNA is in the system—that’s why they took such measures to hide it in the vacuum cleaner dirt with a billion other people’s DNA. So when I found out you and Beth had a key to Maggie’s, we ran a check on you two. No arrests. No trouble. Nothing. Your DNA wasn’t in the criminal database. So, in my mind, you couldn’t be a suspect. But that assumption was premature because you’re a military contractor who works in the Middle East. Your DNA is in the military’s system in case you were killed or kidnapped and they needed to identify a body part or something.”

  “And tell him the final piece,” said Ellegaard. He was starting to have fun with this. It worried me.

  “Right,” I said. “The thing I couldn’t figure out was how the killer carried so many bags of dirt into Maggie’s house without Maggie or anyone else noticing. I was really stumped on that one. Then I learned about the red oaks and how late they drop their leaves. That’s a ton of leaves that fall in late November and into December and even January. Leaf pickup is over by then. And Maggie, she wouldn’t hire any help to rake up all those leaves. But she’d accept help. From her kids. From Stevey Fine. Even from her ex-husband. And she accepted it from you and Beth, too. That’s why she has a garage full of bags stuffed with leaves. Except they weren’t all stuffed with leaves, were they, Perry? A bunch of them were filled with vacuum cleaner dirt—maybe a few leaves on top of it in case anyone opened them up—but a lot of dirt. And you had ample opportunity to put those dirt-filled bags in Maggie’s garage.”

  We listened to the tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock for half a minute, then Perry said, “Those are some interesting ideas. But I didn’t kill Maggie. If I did, you’d have evidence, not just theories. And you have no evidence whatsoever.”

  “I’ll admit it, Perry. I’m especially impressed by your timing. Waiting for the snowstorm like that so you could use the backyards and frozen ground and creek to flee the scene and get back into your house leaving no footprints, no trail, nothing.”

  “I’m worried sick about my wife, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me.” Perry stood.

  “You don’t need to worry about Beth,” said Ellegaard. “She’s safe and sound at the Edina police station.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We picked her up during her run,” said Ellegaard. “Told her we had a new suspect in Maggie’s murder and we were wondering if she could come to the station for more questioning.”

  Perry sneered at Ellegaard. “You had no right to do that.” He sat back down.

  I ignored Perry’s protest. “The first thing we did was ask Beth if we could take her fingerprints because we didn’t have them. She obliged and we compared them to the prints on the letters. It’s not easy to lift prints off paper, but we did it. Then we were positive Beth had written the letters.”

  Perry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Then we gave the letters to Beth. And I have to tell you, Perry, she was touched. She couldn’t believe Maggie had saved them. She burst into tears. She didn’t even care we knew she had written them. Not even a little.

  “And then we asked Beth some questions. Where did she write the letters? She said on the computer in her living room. Did she ever save them to files? No. She didn’t want you to see them. Had Maggie ever borrowed her computer? Yes, sometimes, because her kids were always on the computer at the house. Did she ever take something to help her sleep? No. She’s never had a problem sleeping. After she and Maggie returned from Beaujo’s Sunday night, did they come in for one more glass of wine? Beth’s memory of her last night with Maggie had improved. Yes, they did come in.

  “Why? Hadn’t they had enough wine for the evening? Yes, said Beth. They had. But when Maggie dropped her off, you stepped outside to ask if Maggie could come in for a moment. Beth said you wanted to talk to Maggie about the city planning to put sidewalks in the neighborhood. Apparently, it’s quite the hot topic around here, and you’ve been organizing opposition to the plan. You only wanted a minute of her time.

  “That is when, according to Beth, you insisted on pouring them a nightcap. One last glass of wine. Into the kitchen you went. And out of the kitchen you came holding two glasses of red wine. But what neither Maggie nor Beth knew is that each glass of wine contained a couple of dissolved Rohypnol tablets. Within half an hour, Beth had to excuse herself to go to sleep. Maggie was so drowsy—you offered to drive her home even though home was just around the corner. Do you know how long Rohypnol stays in the system, Perry?”

  Perry didn’t say a word.

  “Ten days or so. We just asked Beth if she minded taking a urine test. She didn’t mind a bit. And guess what. Even though she doesn’t take sleeping pills, she tested positive for flunitrazepam, which is what Rohypnol is. How the hell did that happen, Perry?”

  “I think you gentlemen had better leave,” said Perry. He stood and waited for us to do the same.

  I remained seating. “I can’t prove you killed Maggie Somerville. Not today, I can’t. But the Edina PD will. They’ll go over every cell phone call, every e-mail you’ve sent, and every credit card purchase you’ve made in the last ten years. They’ll analyze the vacuum-bag contents found in Maggie’s house and compare them to the carpeting in your office. Not only will they search it for DNA matching the people who work in your building, but they’ll analyze the dye lot in the carpet. That’s the problem with wool carpeting, Perry. No two lots are exactly the same because each batch of wool takes the dye differently. And all the little things the police find will add up.”

  “Like last night,” said Ellegaard. “I asked the head cleaning woman how often she changes the vacuum cleaner bags. She got this puzzled look on her face then realized that she’s never changed one. Not once in nearly two years of vacuuming over a hundred thousand square feet of carpeting, six days a week, has she changed a vacuum cleaner bag. That’s weird.”

  “That’s not nothing,” I said. “And more evidence will turn up. It always does. Maybe it’ll take a while, but the police will find something that proves your guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt. And even if they don’t, Perry, even if somehow you’re not found guilty in a court of law, Beth believes you did it. We just went through all of this with her. She knows you killed Maggie Somerville.”

  Perry Lindquist’s face had turned scarlet. “I would like you gentlemen to leave now.”

  I pulled out my cell and made a call. “Hi, Chief. It’s Nils. Perry would like to talk to Beth.” I held the phone out to Perry. He took it, ended the call, and handed it back to me.

  “You’ve ruined my life, Mr. Shapiro.”

  “No, Perry. You’ve ruined it.”

  35

  Perry sat back down in his chair. A sense of relief seemed to wash over him. “I’m a duck hunter, gentlemen. Have been since I was a boy. I’m a pretty good shot. But even the best of us, sometimes we shoot a duck out of the air but don’t kill it. You can tell before they hit the water. If they fold, they’re dead. If they don’t, you just crippled it. The dog will swim out and get the duck, and it’s usually dead by the time the dog drops it at your feet. But once in a while, a duck refuses to be taken. It knows it’s no match for a seventy-pound labrador, so it uses whatever strength it has to dive underwater. Down it goes, as far as it can, then it clamps its bill onto a reed or whatever it can find. The duck never lets go of its grip and drowns. But it’s never taken.

  “I respect those birds. They were going to die either way but they went on their own terms.” Perry’s eyes grew calm and resigned. “I’d seen people die before. I was in the army for twenty years. I was on the ground during Desert Shield and Desert Storm. I’ve seen terrible things. And then again over the past ten years as a military con
tractor. Unspeakable things.

  “But to take the life of Maggie Somerville was a horror I wasn’t prepared for. I took two shots of Johnny Walker. Just to dull my senses. She was already unconscious. I just had to hold the pillow there. See, it was her or me. Because without Beth’s love…” He trailed off as if he’d lost his train of thought. Then he came back. “I’ve done a lot of good things in my life. I hope they count for something.”

  No one said anything for a minute. Maybe two. Then Ellegaard stood up. “Let’s go down to the station, Perry.”

  He remained seated. “When I was working over there as a military contractor, a lot of people wanted me dead, or better yet, captured. They would’ve tortured the hell out of me to get intel on how to protect their digital information. That wouldn’t have been good for me or my country.” Perry put his pipe in his mouth. “I was afraid this day might come,” said Perry. “Didn’t think it likely, though. Thought I had all my bases covered.”

  “Can I ask a question, Perry?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Was the carpeting a coincidence or did you try to frame Andrew?”

  “Both. I’ve been in Andrew Fine’s office park a hundred times on business so I was well aware his building and my building had the same carpeting. I’d been collecting the dirt for over a year when Fine started seeing Maggie. That presented the opportunity to frame him. And from everything I know about Andrew Fine he deserved it.”

  Ellegaard said, “How so?”

  “Sometimes Beth and Maggie would stay up late and drink wine on the deck. They thought I was asleep upstairs, but I’d crack the bedroom window and listen to their conversation.” Perry held the pipe in his teeth as if he were smoking it. “He treated Maggie like a sex slave. Introduced her to sodomy and the whole shebang. Maggie wasn’t crazy about the deed but she put up with it because she’d fallen in love with that monster. Beth did not care to hear about it, poor thing.

  “It’s not so much that she’s a prude. No, it bothered Beth because of her feelings for Maggie. I think that one-sided love affair started before Maggie and Robert divorced. It’s a terrible thing, divorce, rips a whole family up by the roots and scatters them in the dirt. Maggie leaned on Beth for support. Beth liked having someone who needed her. She and I were never able to have children. We tried. For decades. Saw a fertility doctor. That didn’t work. I wanted to adopt, but it didn’t feel right to Beth. Her sister adopted a child and had a rough go of it. I said that could happen with a biological kid, but her mind was made up. So we kept trying. Never gave up hope until Beth turned forty, then we just kind of quit.

  “Truth is, all those years the sex was more about function than love. We started right after we were married so that’s all we knew and it seemed normal. I don’t want to speak for all heterosexual men, but a woman can just lie there and the sex can still be pretty good. Does the trick anyway. One of the guys at the office says sex is like pizza—even when it’s bad it’s good. I have to agree.”

  Ellegaard looked at me in disbelief over how much Perry was telling us.

  “I was in Afghanistan seven, eight years ago. For the first time in my life I slept with a woman other than Beth. Another military contractor. Also married. She initiated it. Said what happens in the battlefield stays in the battlefield. When there’s death around you every day, you grab as much life as you can. Kind of like Majors Burns and Houlihan on M*A*S*H. I didn’t know sex could be like that. Frequent and physical and in all sorts of positions and locations. We were both clear on what it was. We loved our spouses and, if all went well, would be returning to them, not each other. That’s just what we did.

  “After that experience, I started to suspect Beth might be wired to prefer women more than men. She’s a timid thing. Maybe if she were coming into her sexuality today instead of thirty years ago, she’d have the courage to be who she was born to be, but she certainly didn’t then. She is no trailblazer, my Beth. Maybe she doesn’t prefer women, I don’t know. Maybe she just fell in love with Maggie. Either way, my bride stopped loving me. Or being in love with me, at least. I guess she couldn’t genuinely love two people at the same time.”

  Perry moved the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. “My parents are gone. I had a sister, but she died of leukemia when we were kids. Beth is all I have. She is my life. She was my life.” He looked around the room, taking it all in, then smiled a melancholy smile. “Please tell Beth there’s a letter for her in the attic. It’s buried deep in the insulation between two joists, directly under the attic fan. It’s a love letter, not a confession. A simple love letter.”

  Perry Lindquist bit down on his pipe. The stem cracked, then crunched. Perry’s breathing grew heavy. Then he collapsed.

  “Perry?” said Ellegaard. “Perry?!” Ellegaard pulled out his phone and dialed 911. “This is Detective Ellegaard with the Edina police. I have a male, midfifties, who just collapsed.” Ellegaard asked me the address. I told him. He told the operator and hung up then made a move toward Perry.

  “Stop, Ellie. Don’t try to resuscitate him.” But the Boy Scout didn’t listen. He knelt toward Perry. I dove from the couch, tackled Ellegaard and pinned him to the ground.

  “What are you doing?!” shouted Ellegaard.

  “It’s cyanide. Put your mouth anywhere near his and you’re dead.”

  36

  Perry Lindquist chose to die and the master logistician didn’t make any mistakes on that endeavor. He had put three cyanide capsules into the mouthpiece of his pipe, well beyond a lethal dose. It took less than five minutes for his heart to stop beating. When the paramedics arrived, they pronounced him dead on the scene. Just as well. Maggie’s children, including Ansley, were spared the heartache of a trial and the media fuckery that no doubt would have ensued.

  I felt somewhat guilty about lying to Perry. Rohypnol only stays in the system two or three days—there’s no way Beth could have tested positive for it. I also made up that bullshit about Karyn and Alice having an open Wi-Fi network and logging his cell phone. But we all use a few tricks, private investigators and everyone else, just to get through the day.

  I finished giving my statement to Chief McGinnis at 7:15. We said good-bye with a handshake and wished each other well, though at least one of us had no desire to see the other again. I drove home, took a shower, and made it to Lauren’s a few minutes after 8:00. We went to Mill Valley Kitchen on the corner of France Avenue and Excelsior Boulevard and sat at a table for two. The restaurant has heavy white woodwork, white linens, and white-clad servers—all awash in firelight from glass oil lamps.

  Lauren absorbed the flames and reflected them back like an opal in a thousand colors from a thousand depths. I found her beauty impossible to ignore. We ordered a bottle of wine. The server asked to see her ID. I thought oh boy, and, in my dog-tired state, might have said it out loud. She showed her license to the server, who nodded and smiled and then said, “Thank you.” Then we ordered half a dozen small plates, which we agreed might or might not be enough food—we could always order more if we wanted to—there were no rules. The server said she’d return in a moment with our wine and left.

  “You must be exhausted,” said Lauren.

  “I am, but if I went to sleep now, I’d get up at 4:00 in the morning and wouldn’t know what to do with myself. So I’m happy to be here, especially with you even though I have no idea who you are.”

  She smiled. “What would you like to know?”

  “Let’s start with your last name.”

  “Brown. Anything else?”

  “What kind of nurse are you?”

  “Oncology.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yep.”

  “Can I ask you an impolite question?”

  “Please.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Thank you.”<
br />
  “How old are you really?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “They don’t ask a lot of thirty-four-year-olds for ID.”

  “Flattering lighting.”

  “She didn’t ask to see my ID.”

  “Are you thirty-four?”

  “I’m thirty-eight.”

  “There you go.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Have any kids?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to get married?”

  “Meh.”

  “Please try to keep your answers brief.” She laughed. “Where did you grow up?”

  “St. Louis Park.”

  “What year were you born?”

  “I’m thirty-fucking-four. Do you want to see my driver’s license?”

  “Yes.” Lauren reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She flipped it open, removed her driver’s license, and handed it to me. “This looks like a fake.”

  The server brought our wine and uncorked it and poured a splash in my glass. I pushed it over to Lauren, who lifted the glass to her mouth as I told the server, “She’s buying.” Lauren started to laugh and nearly spit the wine back out but managed to swallow it. “That wine made you almost choke. I think we should send it back.”

  Lauren said to the server, “Don’t listen to him. It’s perfect.” The server continued pouring and left. “So, any other questions? Before we start enjoying our evening?”

  “Ouch.”

  “I don’t get to joke around?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I have something to say.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Why would you be sorry?” The question was genuine. Not a hint of sarcasm. She must have seen the confusion on my face. With kind eyes she said, “Oh, don’t tell me you have one of those good-boy complexes. Because that’ll catch up with you.”

  I laughed, but she wasn’t joking.

  “Take care of yourself first, Nils. It’s the only healthy way to get through life. And regardless of what you think happened last night, you were sweet.”