Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries) (7 page)

“Your brothers?”

Lisa’s eyes grew glassy. “I know he hit Mikey in the past, but not the twins—at least that I know of.”

Lockhart looked over at the chief of police, who was sitting in restrained horror, wide-eyed and nearly tearing-up. He had no idea of the family’s life behind closed doors. His fists were even clenched. It was no doubt a hard thing to hear, especially since he’d known the family for so long. However, the coroner hadn’t found any signs of violence on Mikey’s body. If his father had hit him, it had been months since the last violent episode.

Lockhart looked back at Lisa. “Lisa, have you noticed any strangers around town?”

“People drive through now and again, but they usually stay on Highway 71 between Black Duck and Funkley.”

“Do you know anything about the classes your brother was auditing?”

She shook her head. “You think the college classes had something to do with his death?”

“No, Lisa, I just need to explore any lead I can.”  Lockhart said, though he couldn’t help remembering her father’s odd comment about the college classes being the cause of Mikey’s death. He still had no idea what that was supposed to mean. From what Lisa had told him, her father was an ignorant alcoholic, prone to violence against his own children. Lockhart stood up, thanked Lisa for her time, and handed her his card. “Please call if you think of anything else that might help our investigation, or if you see anyone strange around town.”

As they shook hands, her small, thin hand nearly disappeared in his. Her grip was different from earlier, almost nonexistent.

The two men left Deputy Lind’s house and found Lind waiting outside, leaning against the car, like a naughty child sent to the corner. As Lockhart approached, he took a step toward him and pointed his finger at Lockhart’s chest, “What right do you have—”

Lockhart grabbed the Deputy’s hand, spinning it hard to the side and pushed against the back of Lind’s shoulder for leverage. The deputy slammed into the side of the patrol car chest first with a yelp, and Lockhart smoothly slapped a pair of handcuffs on him, clicking the ratchet shut.

“What the hell are you doing?” the deputy whimpered.

“What do you mean?” Lockhart asked, as if he was oblivious. “Isn’t this what you wanted? I mean, you interfered with a federal homicide investigation despite my warnings. I could only assume that meant you want to go to federal prison. Don’t tell me that you’ve changed your mind.”

The deputy said nothing, and Lockhart pulled up on his wrists, torqueing his shoulders enough for Lind to rise up on his tiptoes to relieve the pressure.

Lockhart’s tone was one of boredom, but underneath he was fuming at the deputy’s behavior. “Sorry? I missed that.”

“No!” The deputy yelled. “I don’t want to go to prison!”

Lockhart spun Lind around and pushed him back hard against the car. “This is your last warning. If you do anything like this again, I’m going to stop investigating the murder of your fiancée’s brother just long enough to personally escort your stubborn ass to a federal holding facility, and I don’t give a damn if you understand or not because the next time I want to hear you speak, I will ask you a question. So, just nod.”

Lind nodded quickly, without hesitation.

Lockhart unlocked the cuffs and opened the passenger door. As he sat down he asked, “You coming, Chief?”

Donaldson stood a moment, slack-jawed, his arms hanging limp at his sides, like he couldn’t quite grasp what he had just seen. “Uh…” he finally stammered, “…where to?”

“Joy’s bed-and-breakfast, I’m starving and exhausted. It’s been a day.”

Chapter 11

Lockhart was dropped off at the B&B, and before he departed the vehicle, he instructed the deputy to go out to the Weber house and inform them that they would need to be available for additional questioning and possibly identification of suspects. They were not to leave for any reason without notifying him. Also, that they were expected to report anything that seemed out of place.

Lockhart got out of the squad car and walked up to the Tudor-style house, which was easily in the best condition of any house he had seen in town as of yet. A light blue house with white trim, it stood out on top of a small hill that overlooked the area of Crayton that could be considered downtown. It didn’t surprise Lockhart at all that Joy would live in such a place. The windows were adorned with lace curtains and there was a mat at the front door that actually said “WELCOME” in a curly font with flowers and bumblebees in all the intersections of the letters.

Lockhart raised his hand to knock on the door just as it opened from the inside. At first, he mistook the woman who stood just inside the doorway for Joy, but her hair was different and had far more white in it than gray. It was pulled back into a tight bun instead of Joy’s short perm. It was Jill, Joy’s twin sister. “You must be Detective Lockhart,” she said, stepping forward to give Lockhart a remarkably strong hug.

“Uh,” he grunted as the air was momentarily squeezed from his body, “actually, it is Special Agent Lockhart, with the FBI.”

Jill released her hug and stepped back, blushing. “Oh I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to get that wrong. I’ve never met a real-live FBI man.”

“It’s no problem at all, ma’am.” Lockhart was at a loss. He wasn’t used to such a blatant sign of affection, let alone from a stranger, but for some reason, it felt all right, if not normal.

“Oh, you save that ma’am talk. My name is Jill. Please come in. You must be hungry. We heard you might be late tonight, so we waited a bit longer for dinner than usual. You are right on time!” Her words ran together in her excitement at his arrival.

Lockhart stepped inside and felt immediately out of place. He spent a great deal of time on the road with investigations and usually wound up in the same single-queen bedrooms with TV, table, chair and ill-equipped minibar.

Everywhere he looked inside the bed-and-breakfast Lockhart saw doilies—hand knit, crocheted, or sewn items that had been created by hands more patient and loving than his would ever be. Jill led him through the living room just to the right of the entryway and kindly requested he remove his shoes before joining the other guests in the dining room. He gladly complied, but he wondered how many others he’d be sharing his dining space with.

“Do you get a lot of visitor’s here?” Lockhart asked.

“Oh sure, all the time—usually couples on their way north for fishing or coming down from North Dakota and Canada. Right now we have a nice young couple, Bob and Cindy, up from the Twin Cities.”

The “young” couple Jill referred to was, in fact, about ten years older than Lockhart. They both nodded politely as Lockhart entered the dining room, and Jill introduced him as Special Agent Derrick Lockhart.

The husband, a stocky man in his fifties was dressed in a purple Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. He stood and shook Lockhart’s hand. “Hi, I’m Bob, this is my wife Cindy. Are you here because of all this we hear about a body being found in the woods?”

Lockhart wasn’t surprised that word had spread so fast, but even the tourists were privy to the news. Though he was a little taken aback by Bob’s forthrightness, he opted not to skirt the issue. “Yes, sir, I am.”

Bob’s wife, Cindy, looked concerned. “Do you have any suspects?”

Lockhart turned to Cindy and put on his calm, diplomatic face. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not in a position to discuss the investigation. However, please rest assured that the FBI is taking this case and the safety of everyone in town as our primary concern.”

With any luck, Lockhart hoped he’d have a better opportunity to address the case and the town soon. As it was, the mood in the room shifted, and the husband changed the subject to baseball. He was a plant manager of a Twin Cities factory that made some kind of cake pan and, as was indicated clearly by his very purple sweatshirt, he was a huge Minnesota sports fan. Evidently, the Twins had hit an abnormal skid after the All-Star game and Bob was concerned about their ability to get an ace starting pitcher in the rotation. Lockhart did his best to participate in what was a good-hearted—albeit one-sided— conversation; however, he barely remembered that the Nationals were a professional baseball team and he hadn’t been to a live game in more years than he could count.

As if offering a reprieve from a conversation in which Lockhart could only awkwardly mutter an occasional contribution, Joy emerged from the kitchen with dinner in hand. She smiled and said hello to Lockhart as she set the hot casserole dish at the middle of the table on a knitted pot holder.

Jill dished up heaping scoops of cheesy julienned potatoes, steamed broccoli, and what looked like tater tots.

“Uh, Jill,” Lockhart asked, “what are we having for an entree?”

The rest of the table looked at him with utter confusion written all over their faces.

“Why, you know, hot dish,” Jill said matter-of-factly.

“What’s a ‘hot dish’?”

“Seriously?” Cindy asked.

Lockhart felt immediately out of place, as if it were possible for him to feel more alien than he already did. He had no idea there was a part of the United States—or  a part of the  world, for that matter—that served tater tots as some form of casserole, but he was cordial about it. As his mother had always instilled in him, he was determined to try two bites of it; “After that, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it,” she always used to say. He had fully expected not to like it and was surprised to discover that it was a really delicious comfort food. The days were growing cold in late September and there was something warm and nostalgic about the dish, as well as the ladies who had prepared it. It did not take long for Lockhart to quickly but politely ask for seconds, and he had to hold himself back from asking for thirds, even though each mouthful seemed to make him even more ravenous. The hot dish itself was fairly simple: ground beef, mixed veggies, a great deal of frozen tater tots and what he assumed was cream of celery soup.

The meal was eaten in almost complete silence by all in attendance. There was little talking as everyone seemed to focus their attention on their forks. Lockhart didn’t mind the reprieve from the sports conversation. It was a chance to let his guard down, as much as he ever could at least, and relax a little.

When the hearty and soothing meal was over, Lockhart helped to clear the plates, despite the objections of his hostesses. Not only was he being polite, but he also hoped to avoid another stumbling conversation. The three ultimately decided that Joy would wash, Lockhart would dry, and Jill would put the dishes away.

Bob and Cindy went out to the front porch to enjoy the colors that the setting sun had painted in the cool fall sky. Lockhart overheard part of their brief discussion; they were considering taking a walk in town, but the fear of a killer on the loose quickly stifled that desire, and the couple instead decided to retire for the evening, excused themselves, and headed upstairs.

Lockhart continued to dry the dishes like a fly on the wall. Jill and Joy talked as though he weren’t there or perhaps thought he should be a part of their conversation. They gossiped about family affairs and the goings-on in the town. They spoke nothing of the Webers; in fact, they didn’t mention any names that he recognized. Mostly, they talked about gardening or who the chief had written tickets to for any number of penny ante crimes.

As Joy worked to scrub the casserole dish, Lockhart’s phone rang. He excused himself and answered it in the foyer. It was Chief Donaldson. He updated Lockhart that the deputy had gone out to talk with the Webers and that all were present and accounted for, less Lisa who was still at her fiancé’s house.

“What’s the mood around town?” Lockhart asked.

“Bit of a mix between scared and pissed.”

That was to be expected, Lockhart thought to himself. “Well, you and your deputy be sure to get some food in your stomachs. I’m going to make some calls. Where does the Weber dad drink?”

“Izzy’s, about a block east of the station.”

“Okay.” Lockhart looked at his watch. “I’ll meet you and the deputy at the station in about two hours, at nine.” Lockhart hung up and called the Bemidji FBI office. He was only able to get three additional agents, but it would be enough for one night staking out bars. Then he called the Duluth office and requested appointments be made with any university teachers who moderated Mikey’s online classes. He was informed by the office that, per their information, Mikey was enrolled in two classes, both taught by a Professor Hubert Mendez.

By the time Lockhart finished with his calls, there was about ninety minutes remaining before he needed to meet everyone at the law enforcement office. Lockhart asked Joy to show him to his room with the slight hope that he would get a chance for a quick nap.

His room was at the top of the stairs and faced out the front of the house. Down the hill was the town of Crayton. Lights turned on as the sun disappeared behind the line of trees. His room was decorated with countless doilies and an abundance or lace, just like the rest of the house. He had a twin bed, with a brass wire headboard and flower- print sheets.

“Sometimes it gets cold in here,” Joy warned him as she set a couple of bath towels on the dresser. “There are extra sheets and blankets in the closet if you need them.”

Lockhart thanked her and set his bag on the bed.

“Jill’s apple cobbler will be ready soon if you’d like some warm dessert,” she said on her way out.

Lockhart sat next to his luggage and rubbed the back of his neck. Then he set his badge on the table, pulled off his hip holster containing a Glock 37, and unstrapped his two ankle holsters that held his Kel Tec P-3at pistols. There had been a time when he only wore one as a back-up piece, until the day when he was forced to throw it away by a hostage-taker. The second time he was asked to throw away his weapons, he threw away his primary and the gun on his left ankle. He used the gun on his right ankle to shoot the perpetrator through the clavicle.

There was a time when he had gotten such a rush from the job. Earning his special agent status and taking the lead on investigations, riding into some new town like an Old West lawman, telling the locals how it was going to be had given him a charge. Now, though, it all seemed largely irritating. The people didn’t bother him, it was the crimes themselves. So many bodies. Some agents couldn’t do the job because they couldn’t stop seeing the bodies as individuals with names and loved ones that would miss them. It got too personal for them once they got into the victims’ lives. Lockhart never used to have that problem, which was probably why he had lasted longer at his position than almost anyone else, but it was wearing on him. It was worse at night than in the morning, when the sun was down and he was alone with his thoughts, questioning his life and his choices. Then he would interview a suspect, investigate a crime, or organize raids on felons. That was his purpose, and without it, he didn’t know who or what he was.

Lockhart swung his feet onto the bed and draped his arm over his eyes, but it was no use: all he saw was Mikey Weber’s body. One eye looked off into the distance; there was a red halo of blood around his head. And the worst of it all was that there were no real leads. It wasn’t the image that bothered him, but the utter lack of knowledge.

Mikey’s face disappeared from his mind with the sound of his cell phone ringing. It was the Bemidji agents, alerting him that they were on their way and would be in town in thirty minutes. They said that they had the autopsy results as well, though the toxicology results were still pending.

Lockhart got up and left his room. He crossed the hall to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face as he looked at himself in the mirror. The face he saw didn’t resemble the one that appeared on his federal identification. His eyes bore an unimpressed look and his skin didn’t look as tight anymore. His black hair had become a salt-and-pepper mixture and the whiskers on his face were all grey. He had spent so much time with death that it seemed his own life was passing him by without even bidding him farewell.

The feeling only lasted a moment before he snapped out of it. He had no time for a pity party. Lockhart grabbed his jacket, opting to leave his sap-soaked suit coat in the room. He slid his gun into his hip holster and clipped his badge to his belt. Downstairs, Jill had instinctively wrapped a piece of cobbler in aluminum foil and poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee in a Styrofoam to-go cup. He could get used to such things.

The air was still and crisp outside. Lockhart walked down the hill toward the town, unwrapping and eating the cobbler bite by bite. It was incredible, something Lockhart had never thought to himself about any dessert. It was warm and sweetened with brown sugar, tart because of the crisp Granny Smiths she had peeled and sliced into perfectly sizes proportions. It made the black coffee, which he usually avoided, far more tolerable. The hot caffeine gave him a second wind he needed, and he nearly jogged to the law enforcement station.