My inner voice admonished me. What do you expect? Andy Griffith?
“What do you know about an Ojibwa named Eddie Curtis?” I asked.
“I don’t know an Eddie Curtis.”
“Really?”
“What do you think, that I know everyone in Cook County?”
“Has your department had any professional dealings with the man?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
“Deputy Wurzer would know.”
“Why?”
I described their confrontation on Marina Road in Grand Portage.
“When did this take place?” Bowland asked.
“Shortly before I had my own confrontation with Wurzer on Highway 61.”
I explained that to the sheriff as well.
“No guns were pulled or punches thrown,” I added. “Wurzer made it clear, though, that he was unhappy that I had seen him and Curtis together.”
“I’ll look into it. In the meantime, stay away from Wurzer, at least until I have a chance to talk to him.”
“How did he end up here, anyway?”
Bowland sighed as if it was a sad story that he was tired of telling.
“It’s about money, McKenzie. Isn’t it always? The average salary for a police officer in Minneapolis is $64,000. Do you think I can pay that? In a county with a population of fifty-one hundred? With a limited tax base? There’s not a lot of money to hire what we need so we end up having to make do with what we have. A man like Wurzer, he was dismissed from the Minneapolis Police Department for”—the sheriff halted on the sidewalk, closed his eyes, and spoke as if he was reciting a line from memory—“the intentional, reckless, or negligent withholding, hiding, altering, fabricating, or destroying of evidence relevant to a legal proceeding.”
He opened his eyes and continued walking.
“Something to do with a botched raid and a fence the county attorney was trying to build a case against,” Bowland said. “For most departments that would raise a bright, red flag. For me, though, for small town and county police forces like mine, that made him affordable.”
“He helped a fence?”
“I don’t know the details. The MPD likes to keep its secrets. Wurzer wasn’t particularly forthcoming about it, either, and I didn’t press. All I saw was a man who went through the Minneapolis Police Academy, who had eight years on the job, and who was willing to move to Grand Marais and work for the money I paid him. I’ve kept a close eye on him, don’t think I haven’t. Except for the occasional disrespectful remark about the bodunk way I run things and a couple of complaints about what one DUI called an overbearing attitude, I haven’t had any problems with him.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Just over four years.”
* * *
Agent Krause shook his head when I entered the Blue Water Cafe with the sheriff as if I was the last person he wanted to see. Plakcy grinned at me.
“Why is it that when we go to interview someone you’ve been there first?” he asked.
I gestured at Krause and said, “I don’t have any deadweight to lug around.”
Plakcy looked at his partner and laughed. Krause not so much.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was invited by the sheriff.”
“We’re all on the same side,” Bowland said.
Krause clearly didn’t agree. You could hear it in his voice when he said, “It’s your county.”
The BCA agents had grabbed a booth just inside the front door of the café with a view of the park that sprawled in front of the harbor. It was three thirty in the afternoon, yet the agents were both eating breakfast. Plakcy had ordered pancakes. Krause was working on a Denver omelet. They made room for us and Bowland and I sat.
“Well?” Krause said.
“Well what?”
“If you want information, McKenzie, you damn well better have plenty to give us. You go first.”
I told them every move I’d made and every person I had spoken to, including Peg Younghans at the Frontier Motel the night before. I also offered support for Louise’s theory that the theft of the McInnis paintings was a random act by pointing out that property crimes in Cook County had doubled in the past few years. I could tell that Sheriff Bowland didn’t like me mentioning that, yet he didn’t disagree.
“Your theory is that Montgomery used his job as a handyman to target his vics?” Krause asked.
“I don’t know if they’re his victims or not. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out, though. Just contact anyone who’s filed a complaint in the past few years and ask if Montgomery had worked for them.”
“Not too hard at all,” the sheriff agreed. The way he said it, though, made me think he wished he had thought of it himself.
Maybe Deputy Wurzer was right, my inner voice said. Maybe the job is past him.
“On the other hand,” I said, “according to his ex-wife, Montgomery had planned a day-trip to Canada next weekend. She said he was going to take his daughter to see the Kakabeka Falls.”
No one spoke for a few moments until Agent Plakcy said, “My little girl likes waterfalls, too.”
“Just telling you what I heard.”
“Something to consider, isn’t it?” Plakcy added.
“You know, I appreciate this, fellas. You’re suspicious of me, I get that. I’d be suspicious of me, too. You’re listening, though. Most cops have little regard for the things I have to tell them and here I am, a taxpayer in the thirty-seven percent bracket.”
“Well, at least we know who to send the bill to,” Krause said.
The waitress appeared and asked the sheriff and me if we wanted to see a menu. We both settled for coffee. After it was poured, I asked, “What did the county coroner say?”
“She ruled that Montgomery died of a single GSW to the head, specifically the left temple,” Plakcy said. “The bullet followed an upward ten-degree trajectory and exited through the top right of his skull. She remarked that the force he had used to press the barrel of the gun against his temple was significant. Very deep bruising. She also said she’s seen it before, suicides that were very angry with themselves.”
“I wonder why he was angry.”
“Maybe he heard that you were trying to track him down,” Krause said.
“Does the coroner have an official time of death?”
“She now says the closest she can estimate is between twelve thirty and one P.M.”
“So Montgomery was dead before I started to track him down.”
Krause glared for a moment, yet said nothing.
“What about a right-hander shooting himself with his left hand?” I asked.
“The coroner said it happens about five percent of the time,” Plakcy answered.
“Without dropping the gun?”
“Twenty-six percent of the time.”
“I thought it was way less than that. Fingerprints on the gun?”
“Smudged.”
“The shell casings inside the gun?”
“The same.”
“C’mon.”
“It is what it is.”
“On the other hand, there are a few facts that don’t seem to jibe,” Krause said.
“Such as?”
“The GSR test results. There were trace amounts of gunshot residue on Montgomery’s hand, but the coroner doesn’t trust it. She said the patterning was off, like someone might have been holding his hand when the gun was fired.”
“Except she won’t swear to it,” Plakcy added. “She said the evidence is inconclusive.”
“What else?” I asked.
“There were two spent cartridges in the gun, yet only one bullet hole,” Krause said. “Could be the killer shot Montgomery, wrapped his hand around the gun, and fired a second round through the open doorway.”
“Or it’s possible Montgomery fired a round God knows when and where and never reloaded,” Plakcy said. “At least that’s the counterargument.”
“The handgun was unregistered. We can’t prove who it belonged to. However, Montgomery possessed a small arsenal, mostly hunting rifles and shotguns. They weren’t registered, either. In Minnesota they don’t need to be. You do need to register your handguns, though, and he did. Two handguns, two registrations, just as the law prescribes.”
“An inconsistency,” I said. “Don’t you love ’em?”
“You’ll love this then, too,” Plakcy said. “Montgomery had ammunition for every weapon in his gun cabinet, only none of it matched the S and W that killed him.”
“I don’t suppose there was any evidence of forced entry.”
“None.”
“Given all of this, what did the coroner decide was the manner of death?”
“Undetermined.”
“Meaning she’s leaving it up to you.”
“Us?” Krause said. “Hell, McKenzie, if it wasn’t for you we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t be investigating Montgomery’s death as a homicide. Would we?”
He glanced at the sheriff as if he was seeking confirmation. The sheriff looked at me.
“It was you calling it a homicide that made me think it was a homicide,” he said.
“What do you think now?” I asked.
The sheriff shook his head and said, “I don’t know. Could you have been wrong? Could I have been wrong? My original conclusion was based on Montgomery shooting himself left-handed; on him still holding the weapon. If that’s a common thing…”
“Assuming it was murder…”
“That’s what we’ve been doing,” Krause said.
“Who do we know who is capable of staging a suicide?”
“You mean besides anyone who’s ever watched reruns of CSI?”
The sheriff’s eyes grew wide with anger. He knew what I was suggesting. He didn’t say anything, though, and I didn’t pursue the matter. What was I going to tell them? That there’s this ex-MPD I don’t like who doesn’t like me, who knew Montgomery, but who said he didn’t? Despite having been a cop, or perhaps because I had been a cop, I’m not necessarily a big proponent of the thin blue line. Yet I was loath to cross it unless I had what the justice community deemed unassailable evidence, so I tucked the thought away.
Meanwhile, Sheriff Bowland turned in his seat to stare out the window.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“There are only a few reasons why people kill,” Plakcy said. “Remove drugs and booze and a lack of impulse control from the equation and the reasons become even fewer.”
“What have you decided?” I asked.
“We need to find those fucking paintings,” Krause said.
“Find the paintings, find the killer,” Plakcy said. “Or not.”
“Yeah,” Krause said. “Or not.”
“Wait a minute,” Bowland said. “You don’t think it’s the same case?”
“The lights in Montgomery’s house,” I said.
“You keep bringing that up. What about them?”
“We believe someone must have arrived on the scene shortly before McKenzie did,” Plakcy said. “Just after the sun had set. He or she—”
“Or them,” Krause added.
“Found Montgomery dead and promptly searched the house, turning on all the lights as they went. There were no drawers opened, no flower pots overturned because what they wanted wouldn’t have fit in a drawer or a flower pot.”
“The smallest of the paintings is twenty-two-by-thirty inches,” I said.
“Closet doors were opened, though, and so were the cabinets,” Plakcy added. “We could tell by how the bedspreads were wrinkled and dust was disturbed that the bed, sofas, and chairs had all been looked under. There was plenty of evidence that the garage and shed were searched, too. We figure the suspect either left just before McKenzie arrived or hid until after he left.”
“Unless it was McKenzie,” Krause said.
“It wasn’t,” I said.
“I’m inclined to believe you.”
“Really? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s highly unlikely,” Plakcy said, “that the person or persons unknown who murdered Montgomery—if he was murdered—would return to the scene of the crime six hours after it occurred and turn on all the lights. Meaning there were at least two people who knew about the paintings.”
“Or the person who zeroed Montgomery didn’t know about the paintings and killed him for some other reason.”
“Or Montgomery really did commit suicide.”
“Would you kill yourself if you had paintings worth God knows how many millions hidden beneath your bed?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Krause said. “It’s entirely possible that he killed himself because he had paintings worth God knows how many millions hidden beneath his bed.”
“Ninety percent of the time we know whodunit five minutes after we arrive at a crime scene,” Plakcy said. “This time, though…”
“This time you actually have to earn that huge government paycheck,” I said.
“Don’t you hate it when that happens, Sheriff?” Plakcy asked.
Bowland nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Did you have the chance to access Montgomery’s cell phone records yet, determine his movements?” I asked.
The agents both nodded.
“And?”
“He did exactly what you said he did on Friday,” Plakcy said. “He drove to Two Harbors and, after selling the tea set and candlesticks to the antiques dealer, drove straight home.”
“Where someone he knew was waiting for him,” Krause said.
“Something else that should make you happy, McKenzie—Louise Wykoff lied to us about her relationship with Montgomery.”
“How so?”
“He was parked outside Louise Wykoff’s home on Tuesday from nine A.M. until three in the afternoon.”
“He was fixing her water heater,” I said.
“Are you sure of that?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“By who? Wykoff?”
“No. A waitress at the Gunflint Tavern that Montgomery was friendly with.”
“All right, I’ll give you that for now.”
“Still,” Krause said, “I wonder what he was fixing from nine until midnight Wednesday and from seven until eight on Thursday night? Any ideas?”
“Before you answer,” Plakcy said, “know that according to Montgomery’s phone log, Louise also called him.”
“Louise called Montgomery and not the other way around?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“When? Tuesday to fix her water heater?”
“Nope. On Thursday. One half hour before he parked his car outside her house.”
“I don’t understand. Louise was being filmed by a documentary crew when Montgomery was killed,” I said aloud. “That gives her a perfect alibi.”
“Just like you,” Krause said.
“So why deny she had a relationship with the man?”
“Pride,” Sheriff Bowland said. “She’s the Wykoff woman. Do you think she wants her neighbors to know that she was playing bedroom tag with a low-life player like Montgomery?”
“I still don’t believe it.”
The two agents glanced at each other.
“What do you call it when you become personally involved with a suspect?” Plakcy asked.
“Stupid,” Krause replied.
“I’m not personally involved,” I said.
“Of course not. You’ve been running errands all over northern Minnesota for her because—why exactly?”
“I’m just a friend of a friend.”
“That explains it.”
I might have said more in my defense except Bowland’s phone went off, distracting me.
“This is the sheriff,” he said. “Hi, Eileen.” I pictured the woman dressed in beige slacks and a black fleece jacket that I had met earlier. “What do you mean CNN wants to interview me…? Who
else…? KBJR?”
“KBJR is the NBC affiliate in Duluth,” Plakcy said.
“What do they want to talk about?” the sheriff asked his cell phone.
At the same time, I nudged the sheriff’s elbow and pointed out the window at the park across the street. A TV van with CBS 3 NEWS painted on the side was breaking several parking laws while a cameraman and a woman with impossibly blond hair prepared to film a live remote with the harbor at her back. Meanwhile, Jeffery Mehren was standing off to the side with Jennica and the rest of the documentary crew preparing to film the TV news crew. Tourists were gathering in a semicircle to watch.
I don’t know if the sheriff was talking to his cell phone, us, or the world at large.
“This is not good,” he said.
ELEVEN
“Dammit, Louise,” I said. We were standing in the art school area of her converted church. Representatives of CNN, CBS, and NBC had left just minutes earlier. “You contacted the media?”
“Don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not nearly as angry as the BCA. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that Perrin Stewart was right. The world needs to know about Randolph’s paintings. They need to be seen.”
“I told you before—publicity makes the paintings harder to recover. Didn’t you believe me?”
“The police haven’t done anything.”
“It’s been less than two days. Give them a chance.”
“This way, the world will know the paintings exist and that they belong to me. That’ll make them harder to sell.”
“You don’t want to make them harder to sell. Don’t you get that? Listen to me—this is a true story. A sculpture made by Matisse was stolen from a Swiss museum in the early 1990s. Twenty-five years later—twenty-five, Louise—an auction house contacted the Art Loss Register to report that a man was attempting to sell it. The man claimed that he bought the sculpture in a thrift shop for something like one percent of its actual value a few weeks after the theft had taken place in the same town where the museum was located. He said he thought the sculpture was a copy but later came to think differently. He was unable to provide documentation to prove that his story was true. However, neither could the authorities provide evidence stating that it wasn’t true. Follow me? Eventually, the man returned the sculpture to the insurance company that covered the loss for an undisclosed amount of money. You can bet, though, it was for a helluva lot more than one percent. What’s stopping our thief from doing the same thing? What’s stopping him from stashing the paintings in an attic and waiting for ten, twenty, or thirty years before trying to sell them, all the while pretending that he bought them at a flea market?”
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