The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

“We’re just doing a thorough investigation.”

  “Why would a lawyer kill his expert witness?”

  “Life-insurance money and his estate. Maybe your expert wasn’t going to give you what you wanted to hear.”

  “I told you about his findings.”

  “We did some research on Dr. Salar. All of his published research had been supportive of the oil industry. Why would he change his point of view all of sudden for this one personal-injury case?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe his conscience caught up with him. Maybe he discovered something about Bakken crude that caused him concern. Maybe because the oil industry killed his parents, his wife.”

  David proceeded to tell Pete about his visit to Killdeer, about how Harold’s wife and parents had died.

  “That’s interesting,” Pete said. “Do you have notes? A draft, a report, something in writing that purports to show his findings in your case?”

  “No, I haven’t come across anything like that. It sounds like you haven’t found anything, either.”

  “No, we finally got into his computer, and it didn’t have anything like that. So it’s your word against a mountain of evidence that says otherwise. Did you have a written retainer agreement with him?”

  “Not necessary. We were friends. Enough of this, Pete. Why didn’t you tell me about the warrant?”

  “Annie’s got a copy.”

  “Did you e-mail a copy of the warrant to me?”

  “No, I don’t have to do that. I gave the warrant to her.”

  “Yeah, and years ago I didn’t have to pick your sorry ass up off the front lawn of town hall after you passed out drunk that Saturday night, either. But I did it, anyway. That’s what friends do.”

  “I seem to recall a little matter concerning some shenanigans on your baseball field that I neglected to pursue, which involved you.” Pete was right. He did have David’s back when he was at war with the traveling baseball outfit that had been trespassing and vandalizing the field. “D, please understand that this is hard on me—”

  “Ah, Pete, give me a break. This isn’t about you. You’re not facing prison time.”

  “I can e-mail the warrant to you when I get back to the office, if you’d like. I planned to do that, anyway.”

  David thought back to the letter he’d received from Harold. He thought that might help exonerate him. It would show that Harold thought he was in danger from somebody else. The trouble was that the letter was protected by attorney-client privilege, even though Harold was dead.

  “You do that. I’d like to see your affidavit of probable cause. Annie says you’re looking for clothing.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not my size. So why are you looking through my clothes?”

  “Very funny. It’s in my affidavit. On the night you found Salar, I thought I saw some small stains on your khakis, maybe even your dress shirt. When the forensics guys submitted their report a few days ago, they found microscopic blood spatter near Harold Salar, where someone had banged his head against the wall. I didn’t put two and two together until then, and I got a warrant. Please understand that this has nothing to do with you personally. I’d do the same with anyone else, even my own mother. Where are those clothes, David?”

  There was silence on David’s end. He had taken the clothes off the night he’d come home, hung them from the hooks on the inside of his closet door. Then he’d forgotten all about them. His life was spiraling out of control. Dirty laundry was the last thing on his mind. The stuff either still hung on his closet door or had moved to hangers on the rod, washed and ready to wear. He didn’t bring those clothes with him. That was for sure.

  “I don’t know. What did Annie tell you?”

  “She said you told her not to talk with us.”

  David thought for a second. “Okay.”

  “Is that it? Is that all you have to say?”

  “If I got stains on my pants, I got them from Harold’s apartment, from being at the crime scene, from sitting on the floor. Now I have a question for you. Is Julius Moore behind this, or is it all you?”

  “Like I said before, we’re working together on this case. That’s all I’ll say. You know, if you just tell us where the clothes are, it will make it so much easier—”

  “Stop right there. Please don’t take this personally, Pete. My life is on the line, and I know my rights. If you want to play by the book, then I’ll do the same. Besides, I don’t keep track of my laundry. Do you?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Yeah, and if I did know exactly where these clothes were, you’d probably think that was suspicious, and that would feed the loop you’re stuck in that aims to pin this on me. And one more thing?”

  Pete sighed. “What’s that?”

  “Stay out of my office and my files. There’s no clothing in there. Now, please put Annie back on the phone.”

  “Before I do, can I ask when you expect to return? I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “I don’t know. When do you plan on coming to North Dakota to do some investigative work? Maybe we can trade places?”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “I didn’t think so. Now, may I speak with my wife, please?”

  “All right.”

  “David,” Annie said, nearly sobbing, “please come home.”

  “I got the message the first time, Annie. I will. Good job not talking with the police, by the way. Keep it up. Where’s Christy?”

  “He got back from working on the ambulance in Albany after they started searching the house. I told him to go next door and wait. I’m scared, David.”

  David’s heart ached. He was scared, too, but he needed to put on a brave face. “We’ll get through this, just like we’ve gotten through everything else. Are you okay otherwise? Is your job at Corning going all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s been great. I think I really like teaching. I’ll tell you all about it when you come home.”

  “That’s wonderful. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “Come to think of it, I met somebody you know there.”

  “Really? Who?” David felt a jolt of relief at the change of subject. Anything to lighten up the conversation, if just for a bit.

  “A man by the name of Julius Moore.”

  David’s jaw dropped. He slapped the palm of his free hand against his forehead, wiping away the droplets of moisture creeping down from his hairline. He could hear someone pacing the floor in the room above. Then he heard a sneeze in the room next door. He didn’t even want to identify the sounds emanating from the room on the other side of his. The walls and ceilings were paper thin. All of a sudden, he had the sensation that the world was closing in. Get ahold of yourself.

  “David, are you there?”

  “Ah, yes, just trying to remember the last time I saw him.” David did not want to let slip that Moore was an FBI agent—not until he knew what was going on with his wife. Annie knew about Pete’s investigation. She didn’t know that the FBI had opened a file on him as well. “What did he say to you?”

  “He saw your picture with Christy on my desk, said he got to know you from some legal case he was working on.”

  David tried not to let on that Moore’s presence at the school irked him. “Oh, yeah, he’s quite a guy. Why was he there?”

  “He was picking up his granddaughter.”

  David didn’t buy it. It was too coincidental that Moore’s granddaughter was in Annie’s class. He thought the federal agent was trying to pump information from his wife while he was out of town.

  “She’s in your class?”

  “No, I was subbing for the after-school program aide, and I had a bunch of kids from other classes, different grades, in my classroom. She was one of them.”

  “So, she went home with him, then?”

  “Yeah, why not? His daughter had signed a permission slip. Why do you ask?”

  David had overstepped. It was time to beat a
hasty retreat, time to change the subject. Moore didn’t question her, and it seemed he really did have a granddaughter at Corning Elementary. “I was just curious, that’s all. What’s Christy been up to?” David knew that asking Annie about Christy almost guaranteed a smooth transition away from talking about an unwanted topic.

  “He’s been spending a lot of time on the ambulance.” David heard male voices again around Annie. “Look, David, I have to go. Need to keep an eye on what’s happening. Please come home soon.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Valley City, North Dakota.”

  “I thought you were in Williston.”

  “I was, but I had to move on.”

  “Okay, I have to go. Please be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Keep in touch, too. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  David hung up and sat frozen, hunched over his knees on the side of the bed. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. But every move sent the old cigarette-smoke odor wafting out of the bedclothes. The rising nicotine coated his throat, and he tensed.

  Outside, the wind was blowing fiercely, rattling the loose screens at the windows. The temperature was plummeting, headed to zero on the weather report David had heard on the radio in the Spark. A car pulled into the motel parking lot, and its headlights breached the outer edges of his drapes, slicing rays of light around the bleak, brown room. David rose from the edge of the bed, slightly moved the drapes with his index finger, and peered out the window. It wasn’t the black Chevy Suburban.

  David went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. The sink drained slowly; the pipe was clogged. He managed to scrub his face and brush his teeth before the sink filled. The long-awaited hot shower turned out to be a lukewarm drizzle that faded to ice water after five minutes. He dried off and pulled on some sweats to sleep in and rolled back the spread. He spotted a long, brown hair in the sheets. That did it. He threw the covers back onto the bed and pulled his Walmart sleeping bag from its sack. He slipped into the cocoon and lay on top of the bedspread, like a man wearing a life-size condom. He didn’t bother to call the front desk for a wake-up call; it would be a miracle if he slept at all.

  Much like the tattered, water-stained drapery liners that billowed in heat flowing from the floor registers, David was torn. He had to stay in North Dakota to find Harold’s killer because nobody else would do it. But as long as he was there, he couldn’t manage what was going on in Indigo Valley. Annie and Christy were left to cope with his mess on their own. This ate away at David. At this point, there was little he could do except search for someone else to throw into the suspect pool. As soon as he had a bead on someone—anyone—then he would head home to his family.

  TWENTY

  David flung open the drapes to a parking area jammed with all types of vehicles. He scanned the lot, but no Chevy Suburban was in sight. It was 6:00 a.m., and the only things moving were David and a few gray clouds racing in overhead from the west. The room heater’s motor had grown noisier as the night wore on. It was clearly overheating and made the room smell like burned gym socks.

  In a hurry to hit the road, David shaved and pulled a crumpled blue suit from his suitcase. He hated suits, kidded his clients about charging extra if he had to wear one, but he needed to wear his best that day. He didn’t want to appear as some out-of-work slob looking for an oil-industry job. Williston had taught him that those guys were a dime a dozen and were treated with suspicion by the locals. No, David wanted to look like a professional when he met with Frank Barber, the Valley City police chief. He didn’t know if Agent Moore had reached Barber already and insinuated that David was being investigated for a hate crime, for being associated with a potential terrorist cell, or for some other crap. David had to make a good first impression to overcome any preconceptions that Barber might have.

  He had told Barber over the phone that he wanted a meeting about the Safferson slaying because he might be able to help. Barber said he didn’t have any suspects, was without any solid leads, and was happy to meet with someone who could help. David didn’t mention the FBI, and neither did Barber.

  David could feel the hairs in his nostrils freeze as he walked outside to the breakfast room near the front desk. His car was loaded, and he was ready to head out. The motel website had advertised a complimentary continental breakfast. But when he arrived at the breakfast room, David quickly found out this meant the free breakfast was on another continent. The table held nothing but some crumbs and a stick of butter that had developed a dark, yellow outer shell. Nobody was around, not even at the front desk. David was pressed for time, so he followed the express-checkout instructions taped on the wall. He hopped into the Spark and pointed it toward the center of Valley City.

  David first drove past Valley City State University, where Safferson had been a professor. A sign outside the Astroturf football field read Home of the Vikings. He then passed the high school and its football field. It was hard not to notice that Killdeer High School, home of the Cowboys, had a fancy Astroturf field with its team mascot emblazoned on the fifty-yard line, while the athletes of Valley City High, located conveniently next to the Barnes County Jail, still played on dirt, rocks, and even some grass. David saw the sign outside the field announcing it as the Home of the High Liners. What the heck is a High Liner? But then he figured it out. The school logo, engraved into the stucco over the front entrance, depicted the famous High Line Bridge. The bridge was the school’s official mascot.

  David had read about the bridge on the outskirts of Valley City, spanning the Sheyenne River. It was located near Chautauqua Park where Dr. Safferson had been killed, her throat sliced. Built in 1908, at about 3,900 feet in length, it is one of the longest rail bridges in the country. David shook his head in disbelief as the high-school football field moved into his rearview mirror. He could understand a Viking and a cowboy as mascots, but a bridge? He imagined some poor student running around the football field dressed as the bridge after the team scored a touchdown. He didn’t get it, but then again, he didn’t get a lot of things about North Dakota.

  The questing lawyer was still hungry after his near-miss with the continental breakfast, and he had a few minutes to kill. He found a coffee shop two blocks away from the police station in the heart of Valley City, the Barnes County seat. The city roads were wide, the sidewalks were double-wide, and the parking was plentiful. There was no litter and nothing out of place. The only thing missing from this picture was people, at least at this hour. David felt as if he were walking on a vacant movie-studio lot.

  Inside the coffee shop, there was a long counter full of pastries, muffins, fruit, and cereals spanning one side of the large room. The space had high ceilings of whitewashed decorative tin, with pendant lamps and silent circulating fans. Several canisters of flavored coffee sat at the far end of the counter. At long last, David had found his continental breakfast and even a few of the local folks.

  At the middle of the shop, a pair of older men hunched over a table. They sported well-worn flannel shirts; one had added a royal-blue down vest while the other tried to hide his receding hairline under a gimme cap with a John Deere logo. The duo cradled their steaming cups of coffee, as if to warm knobby knuckled hands, speaking softly like library patrons. Two slim, middle-aged women, still wearing their Chesterfield coats, sat in perfect posture by the front window, feet crossed at the ankles, gazing outside in between exchanging words.

  David snagged a banana, then filled a cup of coffee and went to the far end of the counter to pay. Out of the corner of his eye, David could see the men glance at him. The city wasn’t very large, more the size of a town in most states, so David figured they probably pegged him as an outsider.

  Like the checkout at the motel, there was nobody available to take his money. Instead, the cash register displayed instructions on how to pay via cash, credit card, or check. One sign said that exact change wasn’t necessary to pay in cash:
Round down to give yourself a break, or round up to help keep us in business. He looked around the shop to see if it had any employees whatsoever. He sure couldn’t see any. The coffee shop ran on the honor system. That’s one way to solve the labor-shortage problem. David decided to pay by credit card. He needed to conserve his small stash of cash so he would have it when there was no other option available.

  He placed his breakfast on the table closest to the counter at the back of the shop and peeled the banana. The wall opposite the counter boasted a good-size television. The set was tuned to CNN’s broadcast with the sound turned down. David bit into the banana and then swigged some coffee while he looked at the TV. That’s when he saw it, footage of a huge fireball followed by a mushroom cloud set off against a blue sky. He figured it was from South Heart, but there was something different about the setting.

  David stood abruptly, left his coffee and banana on the table, and walked toward the TV. He snatched the remote from a vacant table nearby. One of the men glanced at him as he turned up the volume. It looked exactly like what he had seen the day before in South Heart, except the train sat on a bridge over a body of water. The woman reporter said that an oil-unit train had derailed on a 4,800-foot-long bridge that spanned Lake Pend Oreille in Idaho. It had blown up the bridge and was spilling hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil into the water. Nobody had been injured, and nothing could be done except to watch the fire burn out while hazmat teams worked frantically on the lake to contain the spill. Federal investigators were flocking to the scene now.

  When the reporter wrapped up the segment, David turned the volume down and returned the remote to the vacant table, then headed back to his seat. He passed by the table where the two men were now looking at the TV. The man in the down vest peered up at him. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

  David looked over at the local resident. He had gray-rimmed glasses that matched his hair. His eyes were the faded blue of weathered denim.

  “Yeah,” David said, stopping. “I hope they can clean up that oil.”

  The man nodded. “When I worked for the railroad, I went over that bridge many times. I loved it, even wanted to retire near there, but my wife couldn’t take the train traffic. There must be, like, fifty or sixty trains cross that bridge a day. I’m going to miss it. It was quite a thrill riding over the trestle, train reflecting in the water, no real side rails, nothing between you and the water, like skating on top of the lake. Great bridge. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”