Authors: Mimi Johnson
“Right.” Swede chewed thoughtfully, then said, “You know, Jack, I wonder how much those little local volunteer fire chiefs know about administering the fire office for an entire state. I’d hate to see you take off on a story with nothing but small town complaints that don’t take into account how complicated the man’s department is.”
“That’s why I’m giving Miller a chance to tell his side.” There was a watchful look in Jack’s eyes as he replied.
“Good. That’s good.” Swede went on then, talking about his mother and Pete, asking about different people they both knew back home, and finally asking about how Jack had received the subpoena.
“You know how it is,” Jack’s face flushed, willing to give his friend the basic story, but slightly embarrassed by the circumstances. “The two of us, alone in the haymow …”
Swede held up his hand with a chuckle, “I get the picture.”
Jack went on, sketchy on the details, but clear enough to bring the humor out. “Well, Tess is running from the rat, Thel’s out in the barnyard, calling ‘Yoo-hoo,’ the dog’s barking, and we’re both trying to compose ourselves …”
Swede roared, especially over Jack’s badly buttoned shirt and the straw in Tess’s hair. “I’d have loved to see the look on that crazy old bat’s face. I bet it set her back on her heels. Didn’t it ever occur to her that a young man’s fancy might turn to love?”
Jack shrugged, sheepishly. “Well not, apparently, at suppertime.”
“Ah, it’s good to share a laugh.” They’d finished eating and Swede stood up. “Jesus, I wish you were on the team with me. You do me good.” They walked to the door together. “You know, Jackie, I’ve been thinking about this Miller story you’re working on.” He stopped Jack from opening the door to the main office by putting his hand on his shoulder. “And I’ve got a favor to ask you.” Reluctantly, Jack met his eyes. “You know that jackass Waterman’s story on the Webster family’s contributions to my campaigns was just on Politifix?”
“Right. I read it.”
“Well, it wasn’t that harmful. But now, he’s working on another one,” Swede held up his hand to stave off Jack’s question. “Again, it’s not going to amount to much. But you know Ralph Miller was one of my appointments too.” Jack shut his eyes. “As a personal favor, could you just hold off on this Miller thing? Just until the die casts one way or the other on the nomination. The way the press has been riding me, they might pick up on anything, even if it’s just a story in the
Journal
.”
“Like your announcement story?” Swede didn’t notice the thinly veiled bitterness in Jack’s voice.
“Exactly. You posted it on the site that morning, and by evening, the town was jammed with reporters. The wires could pick up the Miller story too, and the next thing we know, it’s blown up into something it isn’t.”
“Swede,” Jack wasn’t looking at him as he spoke, “I have a responsibility to these firefighters. They’re anxious to see something done about Miller and his department.”
“I know, I know,” Erickson’s tone was reassuring. “If you can show me that Ralph is really incompetent, I promise you, I’ll cut him loose myself, story or no story. I’m just asking you to hold off on something that could set back my little bit of progress. It’s going to be close in California next week, and the little things just might swing the difference.” Jack didn’t say anything, and after a pained silence, Swede said, “I need your help on this one, buddy. You understand, don’t you?”
Jack was looking down. “I sure do.” When his eyes came up, there was hard glint that Swede Erickson had never seen before. “I know exactly where you're coming from.”
Swede’s eyes narrowed as he looked at him. “Good.” After just a second’s pause, he added, “Because I’d hate to think you were starting to get like that Waterman shit. Speaking of him, keep your eyes open. He might be digging around home again. Considering the trouble he’s already caused you, I’d hate to see any other folks back home get tangled up with him again.”
Patting Jack on the back, Swede opened the door, and called, “Deb, help Jack out. Get Ralph Miller’s office on the phone, and cancel his appointment there this afternoon.”
Even though he wasn’t going to see Miller, Jack still had some things to do before he started the drive home. Outside on the west stairs of the Capitol, he pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call to Tyson McDonald. He gave him the date of the fire that destroyed the Corner Grocery in Sheffield, and asked Tyson to check the insurance records for the financial standing of the store.
“You looking for something specific?” McDonald asked.
“I’m interested in the bottom-line figures for that particular store, as well as the whole chain at the time. Think you can get it for me?”
"Sure. But this time, Jack, there’s going to have to be a fee.”
“Of course,” Jack assured him. “I just need an overall picture of the management of the place.”
“Competent or not?”
“Right. And I’d like to know the amount of insurance coverage as well. Any idea how long …”
“Give me a week.”
Jack’s next stop was the Polk County courthouse. He looked up Ralph Miller’s address, on the outskirts of town in the affluent suburb of West Des Moines.
Jack’s expression was solemn as he read that Miller had purchased a 3,000-square-foot house, just four weeks after he’d accepted his new position as state fire marshal. With a low, almost soundless whistle, Jack calculated from the revenue stamps what the hefty selling price must have been.
A grim, humorless smile touched his mouth as he sat back and stared into the screen, remembering Clint Delavan’s comment, “There were more than a few businesses around town that wouldn’t take his personal checks.” Where the hell had Miller come up with the down payment? Maybe he’d come into an inheritance? Inwardly, Jack laughed at his own desperate denial.
Swede had bought him off. And Jack knew why.
Sam was sure he had found the last old-fashioned phone booth in the continental United States. It was on a Lindsborg side street, across from the side entrance to the Corner Grocery store. As he clinked coins down the metal slots, he grinned, looking up at a line of scrawled graffiti that stood out from the rest: “LINDSBORG SUKS.” Muttering, “I feel your pain, buddy,” he punched in the numbers.
Giving his name as Keith Benedict, he was surprised how fast the doctor came on the line. “I could only take a few minutes to look at the file. It wasn’t easy, getting into the patient archives without being noticed,” he told Sam.
“And?”
“I still have confidentiality?”
“Yes.” It was a groan. Balancing the phone between his chin and shoulder, Sam took notes.
“He was a hugely troubled man. Alcoholic paranoia, an obsessive guilt complex …”
“Details, doc. I need something I can work with.”
The doctor sighed. “He was fixated, traumatized really, by a fire.”
"Where? When?"
“It never says,” the doctor said. “But it notes he said repeatedly that he was drunk, dead drunk, when it happened. I think that indicates it was after his POW experience because he didn't have a drinking problem before that. It's clear that in every session he constantly returned to the event, saying over and over that he was sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“The psychiatrist clearly was working hard to draw him out and get to the bottom of that. As the pressure increased toward the end, he became more and more agitated, saying he didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“Which means someone did get hurt.”
“So it would seem.”
“But there’s nothing saying who or how badly?”
“No names, no dates, nothing like that. But it’s pretty clear there was a fire, and that the old man felt responsible.”
“Who’s the shrink?”
“You can’t …”
“Come on, Doc. I need to talk to him.”
“You can’t. She’s dead.”
“Dead? Sweet Jesus, let me guess, she had an accident right after …”
“No, nothing like that,” the doctor sounded exasperated. “She was having chemo even while she treated him, pancreatic cancer, as I remember. All that’s left are her notes, and the old guy must have been pretty vague, because there’s not much specific information. I’ve told you almost everything.”
“Almost?”
“Well, on the last page, she documents Carl’s abject fear of judgment day …”
“Yeah, you saw that yourself.”
“Right, but in the margin she penciled in ‘obsessed – R.W. appt.’”
There it was. Sam shut his eyes and said, “I need a copy of that page.”
“I can’t,” the doctor’s voice was firm.
“I’ve got to have it. R.W. is Richard Webster. Whatever the old man did, and at this point I’m guessing it was some kind of crime, Richard Webster helped cover it up. The irony wasn’t lost on Carl that Webster was paid off with an appointment to the bench where he sits in judgment of others. I need a copy. It’s the only thing I’ve got to tie Webster and Erickson together before his appointment.”
“Well, you’re out of luck, because I’m not giving you any more documents.”
“Look, Doc …”
“No, I’ve helped you all I can. I’m done.” It was the last thing the doctor said before the line went dead. Sam slammed down the receiver and stood for a moment, thinking. Then he pulled open the folding door to the booth, and started across the street. Sam knew Carl Erickson had spent his whole life in Lindsborg, working at the store on the corner. It was the only place to start.
By noon, he’d been to Erickson’s store, the Wishbone Café and the farm supply store, asking random people he buttonholed if they remembered the fire at the Corner Grocery. All he’d gotten for his trouble was a lot of suspicious stares. Not one could remember any fire ever having taken place there, let alone one that had caused anyone injury. For a moment, he thought he was onto something when an elderly clerk named Tilford thought he remembered the roof of the store being repaired in the sixties, but a few folks who had paused to listen to their conversation quickly reminded him that the damage had been caused by a tornado. Sam quietly slipped away as the group began reminiscing about all the other bad storms the area had seen.
Stepping into the warm sunshine, he rubbed his eyes, trying to think where to check next, when he heard a familiar voice call, “Sam?” She was climbing out of a Honda hybrid, just a few parking stalls down, her camera bag over her shoulder. He knew in a town this small he might well run into her.
“Hi, Toughie,” he didn’t hide the smile of pleasure on his face, and with relief, saw that she returned it as she came toward him.
“What are you doing back?” Tess looked good in her familiar jeans and T-shirt.
“Spinning my wheels.” He sighed and looked around as the old woman he’d spoken with inside the cafe stepped out and gave them both a long stare. “Walk with me?” He inclined his head, and they started down the street. “What are you up to?”
“I just came in to get some shots at a household auction down the street today.” She looked him over. “What’s wrong?” He looked awful, haggard and drawn.
“You mean besides the fact that I’ve got a grand jury breathing down my neck? Or that Swede Erickson’s dirty as sin, but slipping through my fingers? Or that my editors are nipping at my heels for bigger stories than I’ve given them? Or that my divorce attorney is calling constantly with questions and taking a couple hundred out of my hide every time I answer? Or that Bundy already has her eye on my desk when I’m sent to jail for contempt?” His red-rimmed green eyes met hers.
“Well, at least we can rule out stress.” She smiled when he had to laugh. “Seriously, you look like shit.”
“Thanks, I’ll add that to the list.”
“So? Why are you here?”
He shook his head as they turned the corner and walked down a tree-lined residential street. “A fishing trip. A desperate fishing trip.” He looked down at her, and was glad beyond words she had crossed his path before he’d been forced to seek her out. “Things are going south for me,” he sighed. “I need to nail this guy. There’s a hell of a lot riding on it for me.”
“Erickson? Are you sure …”
He nodded. “I’m sure. But he is one cagey fucker. It’s not coming together, and I’m running out of time.” Sam could see a large crowd gathered a couple of blocks down, in a wide front lawn.
“What do you have?” she asked. He hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. But Tess was a direct conduit to Westphal. And Westphal, Sam knew, was a direct conduit to Erickson. As he wavered, she looked up at him and added, “I’d hate to see you go to jail, Sam.” In her eyes he saw the same look of deep concern that had been there the day she curled up next to him in that Rapid City hotel suite.
He said, “All I have is one thin lead. Do you know anything about a fire Carl Erickson might have been involved in? It would have been at least six years back, maybe longer.”
She shook her head. “But that was before my time.”
“Well, even the old timers I’ve talked with this morning don’t remember anything like that. But there had to have been one. Maybe at his store. Not only a fire, but one where people, some young guys I think, were hurt.”
She thought about that, and then said in a low, tentative voice, “Jack would know.” Sam gave her a long look, eyebrows raised, and he didn’t have to elaborate. “OK.” She stopped walking, her voice low to keep from being overheard as more and more people passed them on their way to the corner. “I take it I should keep this to myself, so it’s better if you don’t tell me anything more.” He nodded. She thought for a moment, waving at a passing couple that greeted her, and then said softly, “There’s a guy named Thurman McPaul you need to find. He’s been the volunteer fire chief here for as long as anyone can remember.” Sam took a deep breath, grateful that she not only understood but also still wanted to help him. “And there’s a roomful of back issues at the
Journal
you could check. A fire like that would have been a front-page story.”