Death Where the Bad Rocks Live (7 page)

Helga smiled and Manny noticed a large gap between her front teeth. “For a price.”

“Don’t tell me—something like dinner?”

She frowned. “Not with you. Him.” She jerked her thumb at Willie standing in the hall looking absently at courthouse construction photos hanging on the wall. “It’ll take a lot of work to copy a report on microfiche. But I’ll have it ready for you Wednesday, say around suppertime?”

Manny forced himself to smile at her as he led Willie out of the station. What he had to sacrifice for the success of a case—promise her Willie.

An elderly woman with a decided leeward limp scowled at the Durango when Willie parked in an empty spot in the Parkside Manor. “Can’t read?” she screeched.

Willie nodded to the sign in front of the Durango. “Sure, it’s R. Head’s parking spot. But he’s not here and this is official police business.”

“Suit yourself, sonny, but if Richard catches you in his spot, you’ll get a tongue-lashing you won’t soon forget.”

“Fair enough. We’re looking for Micah Crowder.”

“You arresting that old bastard?”

“We just need to speak with him.” Manny read her name tag, which like her gimp, was slightly askew. “It’s pretty important, Joey.”

She softened at the sound of her name and stepped closer to Manny, her sheer, static-laden blouse attracted to his Dockers. Her wide smile reminded Manny of Pee Pee without his dentures. “This way.”

She led them into the Manor and down a long hallway. “You spoken for?”

Manny avoided Willie’s grin. “The government. You could say I’m married to my job.”

“Ever think of cheating?”

They arrived at a sliding glass door at the end of the hallway, and Joey pointed to a patio outside. “That’s Micah.”

A man teetered on the edge of a lawn chair as he trained a garden hose on two women twice Manny’s age. Their clothes drenched, they laughed as the man played a stream of water over their chests.

“Micah!” Joey turned the spigot and the water flowed to a trickle.

“Oh, Joey.” One woman gathered her top in her hands and
wrung out the water. Her boobs drooped decidedly south through the wet shirt. “Micah was just showing us what a wet T-shirt contest was.”

“Yeah.” The other woman, younger and thinner and one time attractive, stepped closer to Joey. Manny felt like a pervert for watching her chest. “He was just cooling us off. He’s just being a sweet guy. Besides, it’s hot today.”

“Go inside where it’s air-conditioned.”

“Air went to hell a month ago,” Droopy Boobs said. “Richard promised he’d get it fixed.”

Thinner laughed. “About Christmastime when we’re knocking icicles off our asses he will.” She grabbed Droopy Boobs by the hand and disappeared through the sliding glass doors.

Joey looked after them as she talked to the back of Micah’s head. “These officers are here to see you.”

Micah stood easily and turned toward them. With his full head of thick, black hair flecked with white around the temples, he could have passed for a man in his fifties, and reminded Manny of golfers on those Florida retirement commercials. “You must finally be taking my complaints seriously.” He grinned at Joey. His perfect teeth contrasted with her snaggletoothed smile. “Or maybe they’re here to cart you off.”

Joey turned and stomped through the door. Micah waited until her footsteps had died down before extending his hand, firm and well manicured. “Please sit.”

Micah motioned to a green glass-topped table with chairs situated around a center hole for an umbrella to cut the sun. If there had been an umbrella. “Know why this dump is called the Parkside?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Me either. The closest thing to a park is where I park my wrinkled old ass in one of these rusty chairs. Now tell me what you want to see this old man about.”

“Gunnar Janssen. He went missing…”

“In ’69. Kid was failing school and just took off.”

“You remember?”

“Quite well.”

“He’s been found.” Manny explained that Gunnar had been interred in an old Buick Roadmaster at the Badlands Bombing Range, and that he’d been found with a bullet hole in the back of his skull.

“I’d lay my next Social Security check that damned Judge High Elk is behind it.”

“What makes you think that?” Willie leaned close enough to Micah that he leaned back in his chair.

“Could it be that Judge High Elk is Lakota?”

Micah’s eyes narrowed, his brows coming together as he glared at Willie. He still had some fire left in his makeup. “Hell no, it don’t. I don’t have a bigoted bone in my body, bigun. It’s ’cause High Elk and Gunnar got arrested fighting each other just a week before High Elk reports his buddy missing. That didn’t pass the smell test.”

“You ever get any leads on Gunnar?” Manny cut in. The last thing he needed now was a source of information to take offense and clam up. “You find any reason he just up and left?”

“None,” Micah said, but continued to stare Willie down. “I went into his apartment—he’d moved out of the dorm he shared with High Elk two weeks before he disappeared—and found some topo maps of the Badlands. Had notes over it like he was doing some prospecting there.”

“Didn’t think there was anything worth prospecting for in the Badlands.”

Micah laughed. “None of us did, and we got a good chuckle out of it at the station house. But I thought I’d follow up on a long shot and go there, poke around. But I never found Gunnar or where he might have gone.”

Nothing leaves the Stronghold.
“Not even a SWAG.”

“SWAG?”

“Scientific Wild Ass Guess.”

“Judge High Elk,” Micah blurted. “’Course, he wasn’t a judge back then.”

“You don’t like him much, do you?”

Micah shook out a Marlboro and lit it.
Not a Camel, but it would do right about now.
Manny patted his pocket out of habit for one of his beloved friends that he’d abandoned three months ago for the healthy lifestyle. He suppressed the urge to bum one from Micah. “When Alex High Elk was being considered for the federal bench, one of your FBI agents looked me up on a background investigation. Asked what I thought of him. I told them I thought High Elk was dirty, that he’d had a hand in Gunnar’s disappearance. Made no difference, though. He still got appointed the judgeship.”

“You aware he’s been nominated for the Supreme Court?”

“Sure I am. The president’s making a big deal out of it. First Native American Supreme Court Justice. Guess I’ll have to fire off some letters to the editor before his confirmation’s final, not that my bitching will have any effect.”

“How about this other friend of Gunnar’s”—Willie thumbed through his notebook—“this Joe Dozi?”

Micah sat back in his chair and looked away. When he spoke, he did so slowly and deliberately so as not to lose effect. “That Joe Dozi’s a dangerous SOB. He’s always lived on the fringe.”

“So you remember him?”

Micah’s eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to Willie. “Sure, bigun, I remember him. He hung around with High Elk and Gunnar, though I don’t know why the hell he ever went to college. He fell flat on his ass academically, what with the boozing and partying. We’d arrest him once a week back then and he always had some surprise for us.” Micah rolled his
shirtsleeve up to expose a four-inch scar that ran from his shoulder to his bicep. “Son of a bitch knifed me in the Bon Ton one night when I went to slap cuffs on him. Before I even saw the knife he cut me.”

“He get sent up for the assault?”

Micah laughed and pulled his sleeve down. “Damned circuit judge Wainwright gave him the choice of the army or state penitentiary.”

“I take it the army was blessed with his warm body?”

Micah nodded and flicked his cigarette butt into a flower box that was more like a weed box, with shriveled plants and cigarette butts stuck in it like people expected them to grow into cigarette plants. “Son of a bitch did three tours in ’Nam. Ended up being a bonafide hero.”

“Made it back?”

“Unfortunately. Owns a motorcycle shop in Sturgis that specializes in vintage iron. But he won’t talk to you about the judge.”

“Attitude?”

He frowned at Willie. “You got it, bigun. He hates authority, though I always thought that kind of ironic, hating authority while being the judge’s best friend.”

“All the same to you, I think we’ll visit with him.” Manny stood and stretched.

“Suit yourself, but you watch your ass. He’s still a coyote.”

Willie followed Manny to the parking lot just as a blue MINI Cooper, complete with the Union Jack splattered across the hood, skidded to a stop behind the Durango and hemmed it in. A wafer-thin man, pale toothpicks jutting from pocketed tan hiking shorts, sprang from the car and blocked Manny’s way to the Durango. “Can you not read, man? You’re in my parking spot.”

Willie stepped close to him and looked down. The man
came to Willie’s breast pocket. “You weren’t here when we pulled in. I had to park someplace. We’re leaving now.”

He eyed the OST decal on the side of the door, and eyed Willie’s sloppy uniform. “Maybe I’ll call our local police.”

“Look Mister Head.” Manny motioned to the
RESERVED
sign the Durango was parked in front of. “Can I call you Richard? How would it look if the papers mentioned their very own Richard Head was an antilaw administrator? I’d bet the state office overseeing retirement homes would take notice. Probably even pull a surprise inspection, not that this Shangri-la of a retirement home couldn’t pass muster, with no air-conditioning. Poor upkeep. See what I’m getting at here, Richard? See what could happen if one makes himself noticeable? The state inspectors are absolutely the Untouchables.”

Richard stepped back, his mouth agape, showing uniformly stained and uneven English teeth, before climbing into his MINI and moving so Willie could pull away. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Richard Head had gotten out of his car and looked after them as if he expected a squad of inspectors to come roaring up, clipboards in hand as they descended on the Parkside.

Janet Grass cursed Willie the entire three miles from the
Rapid City Journal
offices to Clara’s house on Skyline Drive. “Don’t ever send me on some frickin’ wild duck chase…”

“Goose.” Willie smiled. “It’s wild-goose chase.”

“Whatever. It was terrible, being down in that musty basement all alone with those dusty archives.” She scratched her arm, then her head, then back to her arm as if she’d been infected with bugs.

“Just tell me what you found out about Gunnar.”

“He was reported missing…”

“In the fall of 1969.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I had a vision.”

“Bullshit.” Janet slugged Willie on the arm. “You just wanted to get rid of me for the day.”

Willie feigned pain. “Why would I send my girl Friday away? Or is it Monday today? Anyway, the chief wants me to snap you in, teach you the tricks of the investigator’s trade. That musty archive office is part of our job.”

“Do you want to hear the rest?”

“We’re on pins and needles and my behind hurts just waiting for your report.”

“What did you find out?” Manny pushed.

Janet unbuttoned her top two uniform buttons and withdrew a notebook. She left it unbuttoned as she flipped pages, cooling her neck off. “Gunnar Janssen was president of the Black Hills State Geological Club, even though he was just a junior. Guess all the money his parents sent him had something to do with that.”

“Money?” Manny turned in the seat. “What money?”

“Gunnar came here from Des Moines—his parents owned a string of catering businesses throughout Iowa. When his freshman year ended, he stayed in Spearfish. He was fascinated with the Badlands. Guess they don’t have any fossils in Iowa.”

“Only those like Micah Crowder.”

“Who’s Micah Crowder?”

“I’ll explain later. What did the newspaper say about Gunnar’s money?”

Janet thumbed to another page and waited for a long moment, drawing out the drama before she explained. “Nothing direct, except the reporter who interviewed students after he went missing claimed Gunnar always had money, always bought the beer when they went out partying. And they quoted
a Spearfish policeman as saying he doubted Gunnar had gone into the Badlands. What’s that all about?”