Mad River (8 page)

“And then maybe it would have been you that got killed,” Jim snapped.

Virgil broke in: “Trying to backtrack a trail of what-if’s . . . everybody does it, but it doesn’t help. The trail gets too twisted up, and you wind up damaging people who really don’t need it.”

Rob said, “We know that. We’ve even said that.”

Jim said, “But we keep doing it anyway.” He glanced at his father, then said, “Excuse the language, but it’s because Dick is such a . . . dick.”

•   •   •

VIRGIL TALKED TO
them a bit more about Sharp, Welsh, and McCall, but none of them knew of any direct connection between themselves and the three suspects, except that their mother, Marsha, and Sharp and Welsh all came from Shinder. “But Mom left Shinder before they were even born.”

Virgil nodded, but didn’t mention the diamonds worn to the reunion; it would just be another cause for unwarranted backtracking, and sleepless nights.

Instead, he said, “So tell me about Dick.”

Dick Murphy was a couple of years younger than Ag, but they’d both gone up to the University of Minnesota, where they’d dated, had become serious, and eventually, after Ag graduated, had married. Dick’s father ran an independent insurance brokerage in town, and Dick quit school after three years to go to work as a salesman.

“They’re pretty rich, Dick’s whole family,” Rob said. “Dick was a running back on the football team, pretty good, he was always bombing around in those Mini Cooper cars in high school, and then he got a BMW when he went to college. You know, he’s a sales guy—he talks good and he looks good, but he’s sort of a dick.”

“He really loved her, I believe,” John O’Leary said. “I wouldn’t have let them get married if I didn’t believe that.”

“Dad . . .” Mary said. She seemed fondly exasperated.

“You don’t think so?” John asked. His tone of voice suggested that he had his own doubts, Virgil thought.

“In his way, maybe,” Mary said. “Ag was hot, and we’re pretty rich, too, and Dick sees himself driving around in a convertible with a hot rich chick. But I think it could have been some other hot rich chick, and he would have been just as happy.”

“I’d like to know more about how she lost the baby,” Jack said.

“He didn’t have anything to do with that,” Mary said. “If you’re thinking . . . He didn’t.”

“Didn’t want it,” Jack said. “He almost told me so. He had it all planned out. First they’d get a boat, then they’d get a cabin, then they’d get a time-share at Park City . . . then maybe they’d get a kid. Like when they were fifty.”

“Ah, jeez,” Mary said. “So he’s a dick. But he still didn’t have anything to do with the baby.”

They all sat around and looked at each other for a minute or so, then John said to Virgil, “Dick didn’t have anything to do with this. He’s not a bad guy.”

Jim: “Except that he’s a dick.”

“I’m perfectly willing to believe you, that he’s not a bad guy,” Virgil said to John. “But let me ask one last ugly question, and then I’ll leave it alone.”

“What you’re going to ask,” Jack said, “is, ‘Did Dick, the dick, get anything out of her death?’ And the answer is, ‘Uh, yes.’”

John said, “Jack . . .”

Jack said, “The cop wants to know, Dad.”

They reminded Virgil of his relationship with his own father: fond, but contentious. Virgil said, “So tell me about it.”

Rob said to Virgil, “The day we’re born, the old man sends a check to Fidelity Investments for the full exempt gift amount, for that year. Then he sends another check every birthday, every year. We were all told from the time we were old enough to understand it, that this money was to pay for our graduate school. It wasn’t for cars, or dope, or women, or any of that. It was for grad school. Dad would pay for undergrad work, but this fund would pay for graduate study. Ag didn’t do any graduate study. How much did she have in there, Dad?”

“She might have spent some of it,” John O’Leary said.

Frank said, “Bull hockey. She probably had more than a half-million dollars—because I’ve got that much, and she’s been collecting for a lot more years.”

Turning directly to Virgil, he said, “Our old man is no dummy. He got our money out of the market before the dot-com crash, then got us back in until things started looking ugly again, a few years ago. He got us back out, and after
that
crash, got us back in. . . . I don’t know exactly how much she had, but it was a lot.”

Virgil said, “A number would be nice. Just to give me a solid idea.”

John mumbled, “Last time we talked about it, she had seven-seventy.”

“More than enough for a boat and a cabin and maybe even a time-share,” Frank said. “Unless, of course, she walked out on him.”

“She wasn’t going to buy a boat and a cabin, she was going back to med school,” Jack said. To Virgil: “After she lost her baby, she moved out of Dick’s house and came back here.”

Virgil said, “When I hear about that much money, you know, I get curious, because I can’t help it. But I’ll tell you something: I’m about ninety-five percent, and climbing, that it’s Sharp, Welsh, and McCall.”

John O’Leary nodded, and said, “Okay. Then catch them.”

“I will,” Virgil said. “I just hope to God I catch them before they do any more damage.”

“You think you will?” Jack asked.

Virgil looked at them: tough and bright, the whole bunch. He said, “No.”

•   •   •

THEY TALKED A LITTLE
more about the circumstances of the night of the murder—James and Rob had been at the university, but Jack had come home for the weekend. He and Frank were sleeping in separate rooms down the hall from the room where Mary and Ag were.

They were both awakened by shouting, then a gunshot, and then people running, and they ran into the hallway where they encountered their father and mother, heard people running down below . . . but then they heard Mary screaming that Ag had been shot. Jack had started after the killers, but his father wrestled him back into the hallway, fearing that he’d also be shot.

Then John and Jack had gone to treat Ag, but knew immediately that she was dead. “Never any doubt,” John said. “She was just . . . gone. I’m sure she never knew what happened. No pain, nothing.”

Virgil asked about the kitchen window. “That’s a mystery. I never looked at it. The lock. I talked to Marsha, she never looked at it, I talked to the housekeeper, she never looked at it. . . . It should have been locked. I guess it wasn’t.”

“Wonder when the last time . . . Dick . . . was in the kitchen,” Frank asked.

John shook a finger at him: “That’s enough. Shut up.”

•   •   •

MARY TOOK VIRGIL
to the door, while the males sat slumped in the living room, all looking as tired as men can look. Mary looked back at them and said, “Ag was the oldest. Because there were so many of us, she really wound up being a babysitter for most of us. She took care of us growing up.”

“I’m so sorry,” Virgil said, and he was. Then he asked, “When Ag lost her baby, you’re sure Dick didn’t have anything to do with it?”

She shook her head and said, “I’m sure as can be. She and a friend went shopping up in the Cities that day, and Dick was here. I saw him myself, and Ag was fine when she left. She called us from the hospital, told us that she’d lost the baby. She was only six weeks along, so it wasn’t like a big awful thing. She just started bleeding, and they went to the emergency room, but the baby was gone. She was back here the next day.”

“All right,” Virgil said. “Like I said, I’m ninety-five percent that I know who did it, I just have to find them.”

He took another step and said, “Just to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s . . . what was the name of the friend who went to the Cities with Ag?”

Mary touched her neck, just at the collarbone, and said, “Why, Laura Deren. She’s an old friend of ours. Ag’s, especially. She lives here in town—she’s an accountant.”

“Thank you,” Virgil said. He looked out at the town—the O’Leary house was just at the crest of a hill, looking out over it—and he said, “You’ve got a great view up here.”

“It looks awful to me, right now,” Mary said. “It looks cold and lonesome forever.”

•   •   •

VIRGIL CALLED DUKE.
“Heard anything?”

“Silent as a tomb. Can’t figure out where that silver truck went. We’ve stopped every silver truck for five states around.”

“Well. Keep looking,” Virgil said. “The media on you yet?”

“Yes. They’re setting up on the courthouse lawn. We’ll have a press conference in a couple hours.”

“I’m gonna stay clear,” Virgil said. “If you need any information from me, give me a ring.”

“I’ll do that,” Duke said. “I should be okay. I did a few of these during the hassle over the so-called concentration camp.”

“I suppose you did,” Virgil said. “I’m going back to Shinder, and then probably on to Marshall for the night. Nothing much to do except monitor the phones. Not until they pop up again.”

•   •   •

THE CRIME-SCENE CREW
was still working on the two sites in Shinder, but had nothing that was either new or relevant. Virgil made some calls about getting the stolen car back to the Rogers family, and was told that it would be a few more days. He called LuAnne Rogers and told her that.

If Sharp, Welsh, or McCall had had more friends, there would have been more talking to do; as it was, Virgil sat outside the Surprise, eating an ice cream sandwich, and tried to think of something that he needed to do, that would help, but he couldn’t think of anything.

Eventually, he drove over to Marshall, called his parents and invited himself to dinner, then took a shower and a nap.

Thought, as he drifted away, that everything had gone too quiet, and smiled at the thought, remembering the old black-and-white films on late-night TV:

The drums . . . the drums have gone quiet. They always go quiet just before they attack.

7

WHEN VIRGIL ARRIVED FOR DINNER,
there were three freshly painted chairs sitting in the mouth of his parents’ two-car garage. His father collected old furniture from the congregation, repaired it, painted it, and passed it along to anyone who needed it, except the twenty or so people who populated the local Church of Scientology, which he loathed.

“If I go to hell, which would be very disappointing, I can tell you, after all my efforts, it’ll be because I really . . . despise those people,” he said. He was in the mudroom, scrubbing his hands with odorless mineral spirits. “I can’t find it in my heart to forgive them,” he said. “It’s the biggest con job in the history of the United States. It makes what’s-his-name look like a piker.”

“Good old what’s-his-name was a jerk, that’s for sure,” Virgil said.

“You know who I mean. That guy who stole all those billions of dollars. The Ponzi scheme.”

“Madoff.”

“Yeah. Him. They make him look like a piker,” his old man said.

“That’s interesting,” Virgil said. “I don’t think I’ve heard the word ‘piker’ and ‘Madoff’ in the same sentence before.”

“So now you have,” his father said.

Virgil followed him into the kitchen, and they chatted while the old man finished the scrub-up with soap and water, and his mother grilled some hamburger and sliced some large purple onions, and they all ate cheeseburgers together, with fries and beer, and they picked at him about the murder. Then Virgil said, “Yeah, I understand Becky worked over here for a while, at the McDonald’s. None of them could get . . . What?”

His father had stopped chewing in mid-bite and was staring at Virgil. He said, “Don McClatchy wasn’t in church this morning. Neither was his wife. They’re almost always there.”

Virgil said, “Don McClatchy?”

“Runs the McDonald’s.”

His mother had given Virgil a couple of folded paper towels to use as a napkin, and he popped the last piece of cheeseburger in his mouth and dabbed at his face with the towels, and said, “Come on. Let’s go over there.”

“We could call them in one minute,” his father said. “I’ve got them on my computer.”

Virgil shook his head. “I want to see them. These kids probably tried to rob the O’Learys because they thought the O’Learys were rich. They probably think her boss at McDonald’s is rich.”

“They
are
rich . . . at least for Marshall.”

The McClatchys lived off Horizon Drive, a half mile or so from the Flowers place. They were there in two minutes, driving Virgil’s truck; his father pointed it out: “Light’s on.”

“You stay here,” Virgil said. He got his gun out from under the seat, checked the magazine, made sure it was seated, and put the gun and holster under his back beltline.

“Try to avoid getting shot,” his father said.

“I will.”

“Maybe I better come with you.”

“Okay. Get your gun, so you’ll have something to do if they’re inside and start shooting,” Virgil said.

“Virgil . . .”

“Stay here,” Virgil said.

•   •   •

VIRGIL TOOK A LONG
look at the house, then walked up the circular drive to the front door and looked through the window. He could hear music playing, but couldn’t see anyone. After a few seconds, he reached out and pushed the doorbell, then stood back and put one hand on his pistol.

He heard footsteps, and a moment later a young woman opened the front door and looked out at him. She didn’t open the storm door. He said, “I’m Virgil Flowers. I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. McClatchy.”

She said, “They’re not here.”

She didn’t seem to be under any particular duress, so Virgil let go of the gun and took his ID out of his jacket pocket and held it so she could see it. Then he asked, “Could you step out on the porch and tell me where they are?”

She hesitated, then said, “Sure,” and stepped out on the porch. “Why do you want me out here?” and, “Are you related to Reverend Flowers, over at—”

“I’m his son,” Virgil said. “Could you tell me where Mr. and Mrs. McClatchy are? And who you are?”

“They’re in Naples.” Virgil frowned and she said, “Florida. Until the twentieth. They go down there to play golf so they can get a jump on the season. I live down the street. I take care of the dogs. What happened?”

“I just . . . uh . . . Do you know where they’re staying?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. I have an emergency number for them.”

She got the emergency number, and by that time Virgil knew that she wasn’t hiding any killers. He explained about the suspects in the murders. “I don’t think you have a problem, but don’t hurry to open the door. Check first. Feed the dogs and go home. Don’t hang out.”

She was wide-eyed. “I saw about the murders on TV. When are you going to catch them?”

“Soon—but don’t take any chances,” he said. “My dad’s out in the car. Wave at him.”

She stepped off the porch to look around a stunted cedar, and waved. Virgil could see the old man wave back.

“So we’re good,” he said. “But—be careful.”

In the car, the old man said, “So we’re good.”

“Yeah, we’re good. It was a long shot. But I’d like you to call the McClatchys.”

His father did, and one of the McClatchys answered, and they had a brief gossipy chat, and then his father hung up and said, “Now we
are
good. And thank the good Lord for that.”

•   •   •

VIRGIL DROPPED HIS FATHER
off and went back to the motel, watched a movie on pay-per-view, got undressed, took a shower, then lay on his bed and thought about God, and eventually, almost drifted off to sleep. Almost.

Then he was wide awake, said to the ceiling, “Ah, bullshit.” He lay there for a few more seconds, then looked at the telephone. Not that late; but then, his parents usually went to bed about nine o’clock.

He picked up the phone, pushed the “home” button, and ten seconds later his father asked, “Virgil?”

“There are two McDonald’s in town. Do the McClatchys own both of them?”

“No, the one out on 23 is Rick Box. I don’t know where they live . . . in town, though. Are you going over there?”

“Maybe. Rick Box.”

“Yeah. Rick and Nina. Maybe Paul Berry would know, I think they belong there. You want me to come with you?”

Berry was a Catholic priest, and an old golfing pal of Virgil’s father. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll get back to you. Like, tomorrow.”

“If anything happens, call me tonight.”

Virgil didn’t call the priest. Instead, he brought his laptop up and signed onto the DMV computers. Rick and Nina Box were both licensed drivers. Rick was thirty-six and overweight, and Nina was thirty-four, and they lived on Parkside, not far from the McClatchys.

Virgil got dressed, went out to his truck, and drove over; not
really
that late, still well before midnight, but the streets were empty. The Boxes lived in a brick-and-clapboard ranch house that was elbow-to-elbow with other ranch houses, and right next door to the parents of a guy, Randy Carew, with whom Virgil had played high school basketball seventeen or eighteen years earlier. Old man Carew always had a couple cases of beer in the garage, and Virgil had stolen more than a few bottles from him.

Virgil went on past the Boxes’ place, past the Carews’, to the next house, stopped, got out, and walked up the Carews’ driveway. There was no sign of a light, but there was no sign of a light in most of the houses on the street. He leaned on the doorbell. Nothing happened for a moment, and then he heard an impact, feet hitting a floor. A minute later, an older man came to the door, looked out through the glass panel, turned on the porch light, opened the door, and said, “Virgil?”

Virgil thought,
God bless you,
and said, quietly, because he couldn’t remember Carew’s first name, “Mr. Carew, I’m with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension now. I’m a cop.”

“I knew that.” Carew was wearing a pajama top and jeans, and was barefoot.

“I need to come inside and talk to you for a minute,” Virgil said.

“You’re not here for the rest of my Budweiser, are you?”

Made Virgil laugh, and he said, “Not at the moment, but maybe later. I need to take a second of your time.”

“Sure, come on in,” Carew said, holding open the door.

Virgil stepped across the threshold and Carew called, “Viv? It’s Virgil Flowers.”

“Virgil? What’s he want? The rest of your beer?” She came out a minute later, a robust woman in a pink terrycloth bathrobe, and Virgil remembered that her name was Vivian. She said, “C’mere, you,” and grabbed Virgil by the cheeks and bent him over so she could kiss him on the forehead.

Carew asked, “What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m trying to chase down some kids who’ve gotten themselves in a lot of trouble. . . . Killed some people over in Bigham and Shinder.”

“We saw it on TV,” Carew said. There was wonder in his voice. This didn’t happen. Not here.

“The thing is, one of them worked at a McDonald’s over here, and they’re kinda dumb, and it’s remotely possible . . .
remotely possible
 . . . that they’re targeting people that they think can give them money or a new ride. The McClatchys are fine, and I just want to make sure the Boxes are okay.”

“Haven’t seen them today,” Vivian Carew said, her fingertips going to her mouth. “But it was kind of chilly. They might not have been out when we were.”

“You haven’t seen a silver pickup around . . .”

The Carews looked at each other, and then Carew said, “Virgil, there was a silver pickup in their driveway this morning. An old Chevy . . . kinda crappy-looking. Broke-down. It was there when I got up this morning. It was gone by lunchtime.”

Virgil said, “Ah, man.”

“What does that mean?” Vivian asked.

“It means I need more cops. A whole lot of cops,” Virgil said.

•   •   •

MARSHALL DIDN’T HAVE
a whole lot of cops, but more than enough—maybe eighteen or twenty city officers, and ten or twelve sheriff’s deputies. Virgil walked back to his car, after warning the Carews to stay inside, called the law enforcement center, got the duty officer, and filled him in as he drove over.

When he got there, a city patrol car was pulling into the parking lot, just behind a sheriff’s deputy’s car. Virgil got out, said hello to the two cops, realized that he vaguely knew one of them, who said, “I’ve read about you in the newspapers, Virg. Goddamn, can I get a job like yours?”

“You’d have to fuck up first,” Virgil said, and they all went inside, where they were joined by the duty officer, who said, “I called everybody. We’ll have ten people here in a couple of minutes.”

•   •   •

THE TEN MINUTES
seemed to take forever, but in something like six or seven minutes, the sheriff walked in, and Virgil decided to start: they all gathered around a computer and Virgil pulled up Google Maps and got an aerial view of the Box house; all of the city cops and all but two of the sheriff’s deputies knew the street pretty well. Virgil said, “We need to block it off.”

As he detailed the blocking action on the computer monitor, two more officers showed up; they were members of the drug task force, trained in SWAT-type entries, and the sheriff designated them to enter the house, with Virgil. Virgil didn’t have full SWAT equipment, so he’d go in last.

Virgil finished and said, “We need more planning, but we just don’t have the time. If they’re in there, and they don’t know we’re around, they could kill the Boxes anytime.”

“If they haven’t already done it,” the sheriff said.

“That’s right,” Virgil said. “We’ll block the place, then we’ll call. If they answer, I’ll take it from there. If there’s no answer, then we’ll approach the front door, and if we still get nothing, we’ll enter.”

“Better not have messed with my cheeseburger man,” one of the drug guys said, as he slapped the Velcros on his vest.

“You know him?” Virgil asked.

The drug guy said, “Sort of. By sight.”

“Anybody know him well?” Virgil asked. “Anybody know any of their relatives?”

“I don’t think they went to school here,” somebody said. “When they opened the other McDonald’s, I think I heard they came up from Worthington.”

“All right . . . so we’ll have to do it cold,” Virgil said. He told the duty officer to hold any late arrivals at the law enforcement center. “We don’t know how it’s going to break. We might possibly need people with cars. So keep them loose.”

Half the cars went to an elementary school south of the Box house, and the rest went to Horizon, north of Parkside. They coordinated with handsets and cell phones, crossing backyards in the dark, until they had the target house surrounded.

Virgil called from his cell phone. The Box phone rang four times, then kicked over to an answering machine—but they’d gotten lucky: an answering machine, and not the phone company answering service. He said, “Mr. Box, this is the Marshall Fire Department. We’ve got a major problem at the McDonald’s. If you’re there, could you pick up, please? We need to talk with you immediately. Please pick up.”

No answer, no lights, no movement.

Virgil called on his handset, “Everybody stay in place, we’re going to make an approach.”

They came in from the garage corner, a blank windowless wall where they couldn’t be seen. Virgil and the two drug cops stopped there, and Virgil whispered, “Give me a flashlight.” One of the men handed him a Maglite, and he stepped around to the back of the garage, eased up to a back window. The inside of the garage was dark. He risked a peek, and could see almost nothing; he looked longer, couldn’t see anything that looked like movement. He risked the flashlight, and found himself looking into an empty garage.

Had the Boxes gone somewhere as well? But the silver truck had been there in the morning. . . .

He crept back to the two drug cops. “Nothing in the garage. Maybe they’re gone.”

“So now what?” one of them whispered.

“I want to look at the front door.” They moved to the front corner of the garage, then Virgil got on his hands and knees and crawled alone along the sidewalk, under a picture window and past a thawing flower bed, to the front door. He checked the door with the flash. No damage.