The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  Nothing made sense. The apartment’s appearance didn’t match the Harold Salar that David knew. Harold always dressed neatly and was an extremely well organized man. His baseball scorecards for the kids’ games were a thing of beauty. Yet inside Harold’s home, David found himself standing amid piles of crap. He tried to make sense out of this nonsense as he walked back to the bedroom.

  There was a single poster on the wall that was not a killdeer. It was a photo of Brooks Robinson, the Hall of Fame third baseman who had played his entire twenty-three year career with the Baltimore Orioles. He was Harold’s favorite player. The poster had Hot Corner emblazoned under the picture of Robinson fielding a baseball.

  Third base is known as the hot corner because the third baseman is not far from the batter, and most right-handed hitters tend to send the ball hard in his direction. It was Harold’s favorite position on the baseball field. He knew all the Hall of Fame third basemen inside and out.

  In his head, David could hear Harold cheering, “Way to play the hot corner.” When one of the kids on their team pitched especially well, he’d say, “Way to paint the corners,” talking about home plate. Even Robinson’s jersey with its number five was a reference to the hot corner, as the official scoring-card designation for anyone who played third base.

  When David realized that Harold’s computer password contained the number five as well, he remembered how Harold even liked to coach third base. He loved to flash the signs. Then it hit David: Harold’s indicator sign was when he passed his hand over his belt buckle. It signaled that the next sign would be for real, like a sign for a runner at first to steal second base. When David found Harold dead, his right hand was hooked over his pants and covered his belt buckle like a play was coming. Maybe Harold knew he was going to die and was trying to tell him to think baseball, think Brooks Robinson, think of the hot corner, think of corners in general. It was then that David decided to search the corners of the apartment first. It was as good a place as any to start.

  First, he tackled the corner closest to him, next to the desk. Reaching into a pile of photos and albums stacked on the closet floor, he pulled out an eight-by-ten framed black-and-white photograph. Going through old family photos was one of the most heart-wrenching parts of doing estate work. When his client was the last leaf to fall from the family tree, David found generations of family photos. They would stare back at David, clusters of unknown people who had lived, loved, and lost. But to a stranger from the future like him, they were nameless mannequins, anonymous faces of history. There was no notation about their identities anywhere on the photos.

  David’s policy was to always postpone the disposal of family photos as long as he could, hoping to unearth some reason to keep them. It hurt to throw those ancestors and their lives in the garbage—to see them floating in layers at the top of a deathly green trash bag. It made his heart sink. He was God, deciding whose memory would live on and whose would evaporate. David absolutely hated it. But he saw no choice. Often, there was nobody left who knew or cared about the lost souls.

  The photo in his hand captured a man dressed in Lee bib overalls and a woman in an apron posed in a small general store next to a brass National-brand cash register. They were dwarfed by their stock, piled on the shelves past the windows all the way to the decorative tin ceiling twelve feet above. Work clothes and work gloves—all the same style—hung on racks. Ties and belts draped over a pole suspended from the ceiling, each bearing an individual price tag attached with a piece of string. Stacks of identical blankets and pillows arranged along the wall next to rolled area rugs, standing side by side like soldiers in formation.

  Boxes everywhere: for shoes, shirts, everything. Then something connected, linking the past to the present. In the picture, there was a stack of cylindrical, distinctive Malrov-brand men’s hat boxes, right next to the briefcases. He had seen one exactly like it in Harold’s closet.

  Like a kid opening a present, he slid the photo out of its frame. He searched the front, then along the bottom for any sign of handwriting. Nothing. He flipped it over. Penciled at the top in cursive writing, it said, Joseph and Hannah. Was it the same Joseph that Moore had said was Harold’s father? In the bottom right-hand corner, printed in all caps, it said, KILLDEER. David gulped, shut his eyes. Not again. What does it mean?

  He opened his eyes and gazed around the living room. With the photograph fresh in his mind, things began to make sense. In the closets, David had found racks of clothing. Much of it was new, with intact plastic wrapping. The shirts and pants still bore price tags, bought from local stores that went out of business long ago. There were stacks of shoeboxes, filled with new footwear outmoded years ago, still stuffed with tissue paper.

  Another aspect of Harold’s hoarding was home to old vinyl LPs, seventy-eights and forty-fives; eight-track and cassette tapes; videotapes, CDs, and DVDs. They marched in rows under the beds, inside drawers, on the closet floors, all over the laundry room, and hanging off the backs of doors on some plastic-coated wire-shelving system from the Container Store. Recordings of all kinds were stacked in crates and in liquor boxes in the living room. Not hundreds but thousands of them. Books and magazines, as well. The apartment boasted every form of media available in the second half of the twentieth century, many duplicates, too. It was like Harold couldn’t remember if he had bought something before, so better to buy it again just to be sure.

  David was convinced that he was holding a picture of Joseph Salar, Harold’s father. They had different store locations and inventory, but son, like father, had his own general store. Joseph Salar’s was someplace in North Dakota; Harold’s store was in his apartment. Now that pieces were falling into place, David could see a story developing in his mind. He was starting to make sense out of Harold’s apartment.

  He made his way to another corner of the apartment. It was behind the entrance door in the living room. On the floor, there were two stacks of papers, each about two feet high. David quickly shuffled through them. They were Medicare Summary Notices, a list of claims every senior citizen receives for the health-care services that Medicare processes on their behalf during a three-month period. One stack was for Joseph and the other was for Hannah, all in chronological order. David sighed, shook his head. He hated to see it. He knew from the size of the piles that Harold’s parents had fought long illnesses before their deaths.

  He scanned one of the notices, and he spotted it again. He flipped through the piles of papers, faster and faster, first one pile and then the other. A knot formed in his stomach and tightened with each turn of a page. When he finished, he dropped the piles of papers on the floor and stared unseeing out the dirty living-room window. Killdeer had been typed on all the notices, on every single page. But it had nothing to do with the bird; it had to do with the place. Both Joseph and Hannah had a mailing address in Killdeer, North Dakota.

  David whipped out his cell and Googled Killdeer, North Dakota. He learned that it was a city, but then again, every place was a city out there. Four people living at a crossroads would qualify. According to the 2010 Census, the metropolis of Killdeer had 751 people.

  He discovered that the name came from the Killdeer Mountains. But he read that it wasn’t really a mountain range, more a series of hills about 700 to 800 feet in height. They looked like mountains because everything around them was flat. And the range wasn’t named after the bird. The name actually came from the Native Americans who used the area as a hunting ground for deer. When it came to the bird, the city, or the mountains, nothing was simple about killdeers. Things weren’t always what they first seemed.

  Harold’s apartment was the same way. David knew now that there was sense in the nonsense that was Harold’s apartment. To the outsider, it looked like something right out of the reality-TV show Hoarders. That’s what Harold wanted. But David suspected the squalor of the apartment was partly a ruse, a design to deceive, a scheme to keep its secrets intact. The apartment represented Harold thinking and acting like
a killdeer, drawing attention away from the nest.

  When Harold was around the ballpark, he knew the location of everything—people, tools, players, equipment, even David’s cell phone when it was lost. Harold knew it all. David bet that if he asked Harold to find something in this apartment, he’d pick it out in two shakes of a mouse’s tail. And Harold had the mice to prove it, at least before Ritz and Oreo came along.

  Now David’s head was spinning. In his letter, Harold had said, Always follow killdeer. But which one? The bird, the society, the city, or the mountains? Why?

  One thing was for sure: David knew there were more things having to do with killdeer in North Dakota than in Indigo Valley. Given the photo and the writing on the back, Harold’s parents must have operated a general store in Killdeer. The Medicare papers suggested they lived there, maybe died there. So Harold most likely grew up in Killdeer with his parents, might still have roots there. Then there was the killdeer-sightings data on Harold’s computer. It showed a high number of killdeer sightings in North Dakota. Along with that, Julius Moore had said that a Killdeer Society victim had been killed in Valley City, North Dakota. When David located an article on his cell that put the location of the City of Killdeer in the Bakken-oil formation, he made up his mind. It was the same oil that had almost killed Ben Prior. He had to go there and had to find out what it all meant. Maybe there was something there to help with Ben’s case.

  But David had another more selfish motive. McNeal and Moore were perfectly content to churn through what little information came their way in and around Albany. And that mix did not favor David. No matter how they stirred it, it all pointed toward him. As far as David knew, the pool of suspects was empty except for him. It was a pool party for one, and McNeal and Moore didn’t care if anyone else showed up. There was no competition, no hard choices for them to make. David was the automatic winner.

  It was up to David to fill the pool with more attractive suspects. Maybe they were in North Dakota. But Chief McNeal wasn’t going on a road trip to North Dakota to look for suspects, and neither was Julius Moore. Now if Hawaii or the Caribbean were involved, a road trip would have been an absolute necessity to complete a thorough investigation. But North Dakota? Nope.

  Surfing the Internet on his cell, David learned that North Dakota had the reputation for being the last state that people hit on their quest to visit all fifty states. Tourism officials capitalized on this phenomenon by creating “The Best for Last Club,” giving a certificate and a T-shirt to those who had made North Dakota their last stop. There was even a Facebook group by that title, which posted photos of new members daily.

  David would have been very happy to leave North Dakota for last, too. But his mind was made up. He had to go to North Dakota to find the answers to Harold’s death. There wasn’t much of a choice. It was either jail or North Dakota for him, a choice between the proverbial rock and a hard place. David chose the hard place.

  TWELVE

  Annie asked, “North Dakota? Isn’t that where Mount Rushmore is located?”

  “No, Mom, that’s South Dakota,” Christy replied.

  It was early Saturday morning, and all three Thompsons were sitting around the breakfast table. The small kitchen TV was set on low volume and tuned to the local news. Annie was trying to catch the weather. David had gotten up early to make them pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. It was Annie’s favorite breakfast, and David thought it was a good way to ease into the idea of his North Dakota trip.

  Annie was half-awake, and that fit right into David’s plan. Morning fog jammed her radar. She sipped a cup of milk and pushed her hair back from her face, trying to take control of her bedhead. “Now tell me again: why are you going there? What’s in North Dakota?”

  “Nothing,” Christy said. “Remember Johnny Wilkins and the Geography State Fair we had in fifth grade? He drew the slip for North Dakota. When you guys came to the gym to see our exhibits, all he had on his table was a slab of sod. He said tall grass was the only identifying factor he could find about the state.”

  “In defense of North Dakota,” David said, “Johnny Wilkins is a bit of an idiot.”

  “I know it’s on the Canadian border,” Annie said.

  Christy sat up, looked almost like he was about to raise his hand. “Yeah, right between Minnesota and Montana—two other nowhere states. North Dakota is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “When would you leave?” Annie asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “Why so sudden?”

  “I need to look for assets connected to Harold Salar’s estate and to file an inventory for probate. I wanted to get it done before Thanksgiving.” That was only partly true, though, more of an afterthought. He wasn’t about to pepper the breakfast conversation with the idea that he was a suspect in the man’s death and needed to either find new evidence or locate another suspect to clear himself before he landed in jail. Annie would need something stronger than milk to wash that idea down.

  Annie pointed to the TV. “Christy, turn it up. There’s an update on Harold’s death.”

  Christy lifted the remote off the table and cranked up the volume. A young woman reporter stood outside of the Indigo Valley police station. “Police have made no arrests in the killing of Harold Salar, who died of a fractured skull in his Hilltop Manor apartment almost two weeks ago. I spoke to Chief of Police Pete McNeal, and he says the investigation is making progress. McNeal has been criticized by some in the community for not making an arrest in the case. Residents that I have spoken to are afraid to go outside. McNeal declined to discuss the case further, noting that the investigation is ongoing. A source close to the investigation tells WTML News that the FBI has joined the investigation, but the source wouldn’t elaborate. A spokesperson for the FBI declined to comment. The same source indicated that they are pursuing multiple new leads but refused to give details. This is Meagan Whitney reporting live for WTML News.”

  Christy turned the volume back down. “I hope they find the guy who did it,” he remarked.

  “Me, too,” Annie said. “That reminds me, David. Pete called here yesterday evening while you were at Harold’s apartment.”

  David’s stomach dropped through the floor. “Oh . . . does he want me to call him back?”

  Annie looked at David, eyes wide open, not a blink. “He called to talk to me.”

  David looked down at his plate and scooped up some eggs. He told himself to stay calm. He could feel sweat starting to bead on his upper lip and between his shoulder blades. “What did he want?” he asked before sliding the loaded fork into his mouth.

  “He wanted to ask me about events surrounding the killing. He said he had to fill out his report, needed more details. He mentioned that he and Elle went out bowling the night Harold was likely killed, the night before you found him. I told him we went out to dinner at Perreca’s. David, we should go bowling with them one night. It sounds like fun. We haven’t seen them lately, and they’re such good friends.”

  David ran his hand through his hair, front to back, wondering what to say. If he told Annie not to talk with Pete, she was sure to ask why. David didn’t want to have that conversation if he could avoid it. “Yeah, that’s an idea. What else did you guys talk about?”

  “Nothing much. He said they went to Albany, to the City Beer Hall, after they bowled. I told them dinner was it for us. We didn’t go anywhere else, but you went out to get a six-pack after we got home. I guess Pete likes the same Magic Hat beer that you do. What’s it called again?”

  The first Magic Hat flavor that came to David’s mind was Wacko. He thought Annie was crazy for talking with Pete. But she didn’t know any better. How could she?

  “Blind Faith,” David said.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Annie said. “What a great name for a beer.”

  It was no coincidence Annie liked the name. It summed up the way she led her life. She thought if she was nice, everything would fall into place. It was a belief in God, but it went beyo
nd her place of worship into everything she did. It was how she approached each day. David wasn’t fond of the beer’s name, but it was a good brew. Not that he didn’t share the same belief as Annie; he just thought that sometimes you needed to make your own luck.

  David believed nothing good would come from talking to Pete. He could not use Annie as an alibi for the time while he was out to get beer. It was a short timeframe for sure, but Pete was under pressure to arrest someone, anyone, even a good friend. If Pete had to choose between their friendship and his career, David knew that friendship was the losing hand. Pete would drive a freight train through that opening if he had nothing else, just as he used to do on the football field. David had to put a stop to this circus right away. It had gone too far.

  “Annie, Pete’s not a friend right now. He has a job to do, and his job comes before any friendship we might have with him and Elle. Please don’t talk with him anymore about Harold’s death.”

  David knew this request would rub Annie the wrong way. She was social and trusted people, especially good friends. But things were different now. She’d have to adjust to the new circumstances.

  “Aren’t we supposed to help the police, David? You’ve always done that.”

  It was time to let the cat out of the bag. David told himself to keep his tone calm, appear nonchalant in doing so. That was the only way he could get through this talk without Annie blowing a gasket. “Pete’s job is to follow all leads, and right now, he doesn’t seem to have much except little old me. Christy, could you pass me the salt?”

  Boom, there goes the dynamite. He’d done it. He’d told his wife he was a suspect, but he’d tried to disguise the news as no big deal. David thanked God that Christy was there. That was a big help. He knew Annie wouldn’t pick a fight with him in front of Christy. “Never fight in front of our children,” she’d say to David when Christy was an infant and the prospect of having more children was real.