“No,” he said a little too quickly. The lies kept coming.
“Do you know Ivan Eklund?”
“No,” he barked. “I’m out of here. Give me my laptop.”
I counted to ten, letting him get good and uncomfortable. He finally raised his eyebrows.
“Well?”
“Here you go.” I slid it across the table.
He grabbed it and stood up. He frowned at me, whirled around, and headed out the door. I got up quickly and escorted him to the lobby. He went out the entrance without giving me another look.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I got back to my desk, I called Audra Pickett. “Quick question,” I said when she answered.
“Okay. What progress have you made?”
“Still investigating. I talked to Gary.”
“Oh boy,” she said. A TV was on in the background, then she cut the sound. “What did he tell you now?”
“We discussed that fight you two had in San Diego. You know what I’m referring to, I assume. He says you came after him with a knife, and that he had to overpower you to get it from you.” She made a sharp noise. I went on. “In the struggle, he accidentally hit you, and Logan fell off his chair, and that’s how he broke his arm.” I paused. She still didn’t say anything. “What’s true?”
“Man, this dredging up the past is not fun.” She cleared her throat. “Yeah, he hit me on the side of the face, but I didn’t bump Logan off his chair. Think about it, do you believe a kid would break his arm falling out of a chair?”
“It’s possible,” I said, even though I tended to agree with Audra.
“That’s typical Gary, making it everyone else’s fault. It didn’t happen like he said, and I get that you probably think we’re both lying. All I can do is reiterate that Logan saw us fighting, he went at Gary, and Gary grabbed him, and that’s when Logan’s arm snapped.” Her voice cracked. “I wish you would believe me.”
I didn’t answer that. “I’m sorry I have to bring up these things. I’m just trying to get to the truth.”
“I know you are. It’s upsetting, but you call with any questions. I want to find out who killed Logan, okay?”
“Thanks for your time.” I disconnected and stared at the phone.
“Hey sunshine. Not even going to say ‘hi’ to me?” Ernie said from his desk.
“Knock it off,” I said. “What’s up?”
He shook his head and laughed gruffly. “How did your interview with Gary go? Based on your tone, I’m going to say not so good.”
I tossed my phone down in disgust. “The guy’s a narcissist if I ever saw one. Everything is everybody else’s fault, not his, and he’s lying through his teeth. He’s hiding something. Whether he killed his son or not, I still don’t know. But he’s dirty.”
He leaned to the side, making eye contact with me. “I’ve got something for you. I talked to Oakley. He’s done some follow-up on Ivan Eklund’s photography business. Eklund worked out of a studio off Santa Fe and Ninth. You know, that area that has the First Friday Art Walks?”
Ernie never ceased to surprise me. He didn’t strike me as the type who would care about art, and I sure didn’t know he knew anything about the Santa Fe Art Walk, a big event held the first Friday of each month in Denver’s art district. Several blocks of Santa Fe are closed to traffic, and people wander in and out of art studios and galleries, and buy food from several food trucks. Who knew that Ernie might be a part of that scene?
“It’d be worth going over there and talk to the woman who runs the studio, see what she thinks of Eklund.”
My phone rang. “It’s that professor.” I held up a finger for Ernie to hold on while I answered it.
“I’m curious about this,” Ernie whispered.
I shook my head at him impatiently and swiped to answer the phone. “Professor Wilder, thanks for returning my call.”
“No problem at all.” Wilder had a smooth voice, deeper than I’d imagined. “What can I help you with?”
“Tara Dahl, in my department, suggested I talk to you. I need a quick education about right-wing political groups and militia groups in Colorado.”
“Those can be two different things,” he said with a small laugh, “and I have a reputation, I see. I’m happy to help. I have a class soon, and then a quick appointment, but after that I should be free for a couple of hours. Could you come down to the school?”
I glanced at the time on my computer. “If I came in about ninety minutes, would that work?”
“Perfect.” He told me where his office was on the campus and ended the call. I looked at Ernie. “He’ll talk to me.”
“I want to know what he says.”
I nodded. “What’s the name of that art gallery? I’ll stop there on my way to DU.”
“Colorado Fine Photography.” He gave me the address.
“I’ll catch up with you later.”
Colorado Fine Photography is in an old building one block off of Santa Fe. The traffic was humming as I walked inside, but once the door closed, I was surrounded by soft instrumental music and the sound of running water from a small fountain in the corner. I glanced around. Several large framed photographs and paintings were on the walls, all nature scenes, some naturalistic and others veering toward true abstraction. In my opinion, all of them were beautiful.
An older woman with long straight hair pulled into a ponytail came around the small desk in the far corner and smiled at me brightly. “Welcome,” she said. She looked chic in a white pantsuit. “Feel free to look around. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
I shook my head as I approached. “I’m not here about art. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ivan Eklund.” I showed her my badge.
“Oh, I was so sorry to hear about Ivan.” She frowned. “He was such a nice young man, so talented. I heard from Ivan’s girlfriend, Rachel.” She held out a hand. “Forgive my manners. I’m Charlotte Hall. I run the studio. Ivan was supposed to come in last night to drop off some photos, and he didn’t show up. I called his house, and then Rachel called me later and told me that Ivan had committed suicide.” Her face puckered up, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Excuse me.” She went to the desk for a Kleenex and wiped her eyes. “I admit, I was shocked.”
“You were close to Ivan?”
“We were friends.”
“What was Ivan like?”
“Oh.” A dreamy look entered her eyes as she stared past me. “He was special.” She gestured to encompass the walls and the variety of framed artwork. “He had a great eye, knew how to frame a scene. Here, let me show you.” She moved around a partition wall where a large framed photograph hung. Gold-leaved aspen cascaded down a mountainside. A lake in the foreground reflected back the aspen in a beautiful way.
“See how he captures the light here? It’s just visually stunning. I haven’t seen talent like his since John Fielder.” John Fielder is the premier Colorado photographer, known for his landscape photography. “I’m in awe of that kind of talent.” She smiled sadly. “It’s such a shame that Ivan won’t be around to share more of his talent with the world.”
“Yes, I can see that.” I gave her a moment before continuing. “I also understand that he did portraits–kids, families, that kind of thing.”
“Yes, that’s true. He was very good at that too, but it was mostly to pay the bills.” She gave a slight shrug. “The life of an artist is never easy. It’s hard to make money at this, so artists have to support themselves in other ways. Ivan started out doing portraits at a K-mart. It wasn’t his passion, obviously. His passion was his nature photography.” Her eyes went back to the artwork on the walls.
“I understand Ivan worked in a lot of schools, taking portraits of kids.”
She nodded. “Yes, I saw a lot of those. I’m sure I’m biased, but I thought even those were so good. If there was a way to get a shy child to smile, he could do it. He’d capture their personalities in a way few
others could.”
“Did he take pictures of kids from afar, action shots, that kind of thing? Or was it just portraits?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m not aware of him doing anything with people other than portraits, posed pictures. Any portraits were for money, to support himself. Other than that, he was working on nature photography. Let me show you another.” Before I could protest, she walked me farther down the wall to another mountain scene.
“See this one here? How he’s captured the gloom of the evening? It’s just wonderful. I could stare at this one for a long time.”
She did continue to look at the photo. I had more questions.
“Was Ivan ever in any kind of trouble?”
“No, he wasn’t.” Still looking at the photo.
“Was he ever inappropriate with kids?”
Her eyes swung sharply back to me. “What do you mean? Are you talking about abuse?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Did you ever hear of anything like that?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, never. That was not Ivan. When I saw him with children, he was great with them, kind and compassionate. He would never do something inappropriate.” She seemed very sure in her answer.
“You saw Ivan taking portraits of children?”
“A few times,” she said slowly. “You know, Ivan asked me, totally out of the blue the other day what it might feel like to lose my child. It was so bizarre. I have two sons, grown now. I asked him what he meant, and he wanted to know how I’d have felt if one of my sons had died when they were younger.”
“What was your answer?”
Her eyes lost their warmth. “I told him it would be devastating, and if that had happened to me, I don’t know that I could’ve gone on.”
“Why did he ask that?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
“Did Ivan talk about any troubles recently, was he depressed?”
“No, that’s the thing. Lately he’d been really upbeat. He was finally about to turn the corner and make some real money with his photography. He was happy about that.” Her hands twisted, her consternation showing. “That’s what I don’t understand. I mean, I get that we don’t know everything about a person, but his suicide just seems so strange.”
“Had he talked about anyone new, someone he was concerned about? Was anything suspicious going on with him?”
She mulled that over. “Now that you mention it, for about the last week or so before he died, he was asking me about right-wing political groups, and politics in general. He was asking what would make a person think that they needed to go to extremes to protect themselves against the government. It struck me as odd because Ivan never seemed political about anything. And yet he suddenly seemed to show an interest in the government and what was going on.”
“Was he angry about the government, anything like that?”
“No, just a lot of questions about how right-wing political groups differ from others, and did I know anyone in any groups. I don’t, by the way.”
“Did Ivan ever mention a man named Gary Pickett, or a John Merrick?” I asked, wondering if Eklund might’ve had some connection to Gary, might’ve known him somehow, and had gone after his son.
Charlotte again thought. “No, I don’t recognize either of those names.”
“Did Ivan own any guns?” I asked, now wondering whether she might be aware of some connection between Eklund and John Merrick, even if she didn’t recognize the name.
Her hands went to her chest. “Not that I’m aware of. Ivan was a very peaceful man. I’m not sure he would’ve ever wanted to shoot a gun, let alone own one.”
“How much do you know about Ivan’s past?”
“Not a lot. He grew up on the East Coast, in Virginia, close to the DC area. He has two sisters. He lived with a friend for quite a while until he was able to buy a house. I know that because Ivan said he liked living alone, that when he had a roommate, he didn’t have the privacy he wanted.”
“Privacy for what?”
She gave me a funny look. “I don’t know. Whatever one wants privacy for.”
Like abusing little kids? I thought but didn’t say.
“Sounds like you know Ivan’s girlfriend Rachel?”
“Yes. She’s nice, although I’m not sure she was right for him.”
“Why do you say that?”
She pursed her lips. “Just a hunch. She was so different from him. But I guess opposites attract.” She closed her eyes for a second. “Rachel said a detective who talked to her indicated that Ivan had killed himself, but she just had to wonder about that. Both she and I really can’t believe Ivan would take his own life. However, that would mean someone murdered him. I hope, if that’s the case, that you find out who did that to him.”
“Why would someone want to murder him?”
She shrugged. “I can’t answer that. I’m not aware of any trouble Ivan might have been in, or of anyone hating him. I don’t know anyone that would want to do that to him.”
That left me with little else to go on. “I appreciate you meeting with me,” I said. I handed her a business card as I headed for the door. “If you think of anything that might be important, please give me a call.”
She took the card. “Sarah, that’s a nice name. My aunt was named Sarah.”
I smiled. “Thanks for your time.”
She nodded and turned back toward the mountain scene that Ivan had taken. I left her like that. I didn’t know what else to ask at the moment, and if I needed to, I could always talk to her again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I got caught in traffic on Interstate 25, which delayed me. When I finally turned south off I-25, toward the University of Denver, I was running late. DU is a small, private school near I-25 and University Boulevard. Coincidentally, fairly close to where Gary Pickett lives. Professor Wilder’s office is in Sturm Hall, on the school’s main campus. I found a parking place on a side street. It was a beautiful morning, and I enjoyed the sun’s warmth as I passed lush lawns on my way to the building.
I got to Wilder’s office a little after our agreed-upon time. His office door was closed, and I knocked, but no one answered. I paced the floor, and a few minutes later, a stocky man with long graying hair and glasses walked down the hall.
“You must be Detective Spillman,” he said with a smile. He shifted books from one hand to the other, then unlocked his door and stepped into a small office. “Come in.”
I followed him in and took a seat at an oak chair across from a similar oak desk. He scooted around the desk, plopped the books onto a stack of others, then sat down and looked at me. “I’m sorry I was late, it seems at the end of every class, students have questions.”
“No problem, I appreciate your time.” I glanced around. Although the space was small, it felt inviting, with several bookcases filled with books, some pictures of historical places like Machu Picchu and Stonehenge, and knickknacks on a windowsill.
“You’ve got questions about Denver’s right-wing and militia groups,” he began. “Now that is an interesting subject. One you wouldn’t think we have to deal with, but we do.” He sat back and laced his fingers. “How much do you know about these types of groups?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid.”
“That’s quite all right. If you don’t mind, I’ll give you a little bit of background.” I nodded, and he went on. “First, we have right-wing political groups, those opposed to socialism and social democracy. They range in how extreme they are, and how much they resort to violence. Then you have militia groups. These groups have been around since revolutionary times. Over our history, they’ve not been uncommon. They usually stay on the fringes, and they haven’t caused,” he tipped his head to the side, “too many problems. However, we’ve heard more about them after Timothy McVeigh and the Oklahoma City bombing. You’ve heard of that?” I nodded again, and he smiled. “You’d be surprised how many younger people haven’t. Anyway, McVeigh was erroneously
thought to be a member of a militia group in Michigan. Turns out he wasn’t in any extremist groups at all. You had the Justus Township incident in Montana. There was a decline in groups for a while in the late 1990s and early in this century, but with the global financial crisis in 2007, and then the election of Barack Obama in 2008, modern militias surged again. Right now, there are more than five hundred groups across the United States, more than double what they were in 2008. There’s the 3 Percent Militia, the Oath Keepers, and on and on. These groups tend to call themselves patriot groups. They have a wide range of ideas and objectives, but at their core is a dissatisfaction with government and a fear of a tyrannical government. As such, they think the way to protect their rights is through armed force.” It was a good introduction, and I felt as if I were in class. “Now, in Colorado, we’ve seen a rise in militia groups. There’s the Colorado Front Range Militia, 3 Percent Defense Militia, the Northern Colorado Militia. Have you heard of any of these?”
I shook my head. “No, not in my investigations. I’m sure other officers have, but I haven’t had a reason to learn about them. Before now.”
“Perfectly understandable. As you can imagine, some of these groups don’t necessarily want to make themselves known, until they get pushed to the brink. Then you might have trouble.”
“Are you familiar with the Colorado Citizens Militia?”
“That’s a newer group, some would say they’re only a right-wing political group. But, as their name says, they are a militia. They lean toward nationalism and object to what they see as control by elitist liberals. And, they don’t like the power of large corporations.”
“Are they violent?”
“I don’t know of any official acts of violence. That’s not to say that they couldn’t have done things under the radar.”
“Speaking of violence, what would push a group that far?”
He shrugged. “It depends on political leanings at the time, or if they’re acting against what they see the other political party or its organizations doing.”
Deadly Connections Page 15
