Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries) Page 11

  Heath rattled off several book titles, authors, and even direct quotes that Lockhart had to have him repeat, slower, even with his ability to write in shorthand. Lockhart wasn’t sure that he wanted to ask any further questions for fear of how long the answer might be and if it would even be relevant, but there was something else he needed to know. “Dr. Heath, just one more question. Knowing Michael as you did, can you think of any reason why anyone would want him dead?”

  “Lord no! Want him dead? Absolutely not. I can’t imagine why anyone would want such a thing for another person, let alone a boy of such potential. Whoever it was certainly had no desire to see the advancement of science as we know it.”

  Chapter 22

  Lockhart left the school with Deputy Lind.

  “What do you think, Agent?” the deputy asked.

  “I don’t know. It kind of seems like everything is pointing the same direction, huh?”

  “Mr. Weber…” The deputy’s voice trailed off, and his face grew cold.

  Lockhart snapped his fingers in the deputy’s face. “Hey! Back here. I don’t know where your mind just went off to, but stop it right now. We are investigators. We don’t assign guilt. Our job is to follow the evidence. If the evidence leads to the Webers, I’ll even let you slap on the handcuffs, but until then, you toe the line.”

  Deputy Lind’s jaw clenched and relaxed. He seemed to take several seconds to blink.

  Lockhart stared at him for a moment, then asked, “Have you been getting any sleep, Deputy?”

  Lind shook his head.

  “Is Lisa still at your house?”

  He nodded.

  “Take the night off and go be with your lady. Cook her dinner. If we need you, I’ll call. Otherwise, I don’t want to see you again until tomorrow. That’s an order. Consider yourself under house arrest.”

  The deputy’s eyes dropped as though the last of his energy had drained from his body with the permission to take the night off. His shoulders slumped, and he quietly said a humble “Thanks.” He got in his car, and Lockhart watched as he turned right out of the school parking lot, making sure the deputy was following orders; a left-hand turn would have taken him straight to the Weber house.

  Lockhart called in to the law enforcement office and was greeted over the phone by Joy. She asked him how his day was going and how his trip to Duluth went. Lockhart chatted with her a few moments until there was a long enough break in the conversation for him to ask about the chief.

  “Oh, he’s right here. Do you want to talk with him?”

  Lockhart smiled. “Yes, please. Thank you, Joy.”

  “Chicken wild rice soup for dinner tonight,” she added.

  “I can’t wait. Thanks.”

  The phone clicked as the call transferred to the chief’s phone. Donaldson answered and immediately asked Lockhart how Joy was doing. The man was in good spirits, and Lockhart hoped that meant he had gotten some leads from his interviews with Mikey’s friends; the deputy had made no mention of them.

  There was a reason for that, as there was nothing to tell. Donaldson had spoken with most of the kids in Mikey’s class—all 20 of them—and no one had much to say. The consensus seemed to be that he had been a little withdrawn lately, but the chief chalked that up to the college courses or figured the kids were starting to ostracize him for being too smart, as kids tend to do with anyone who is different. Evidently, even though he was only taking two science classes, the school had decided he could have his homework delivered so he could otherwise focus on science. The school board was quite excited about the discovery of Mikey’s intelligence and considered it a mark of their success. Their concern over his academic success led them to what Lockhart considered to be a foolish conclusion: taking him out of school altogether.

  “You sounded like you were in a good mood when you answered the phone, Chief. I expected a bit more than ‘normal kid stuff’.”

  “Oh, there is. That’s just what I got from the kids.”

  Lockhart turned his car into the gravel parking lot adjacent to the law enforcement office. “Hold on. I just pulled up. Tell me some good news in person.” Lockhart walked into the office and was immediately greeted by Joy. After a brief exchange of pleasantries with her, he walked over to Donaldson’s desk. “All right, Chief. Give it to me,” Lockhart said as he sat in the chair across the desk from the better half of Crayton law enforcement.

  “I think I found a motive,” the chief said with a smug smile.

  “Insurance policy?” Lockhart asked without hesitation.

  Donaldson looked disappointed, as if Lockhart had ruined the secret of what he was getting for Christmas. “How did you know?”

  “Oldest reason the world, right? That or sex, I suppose. How much was Mikey’s policy worth?”

  “$200,000.”

  Lockhart gave an impressed whistle. “I’ll admit that’s a bit high considering their living conditions. Did you look into when the policy was taken out?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “I’d bet the policy goes back to Mr. Weber going on disability. Call it demented wishful thinking on their part, but check into it anyway. Though, I still don’t think the motive holds. People around here watch enough TV to know that insurance claims for murders take about a day less than forever to clear. Besides, there are easier ways to kill someone. No sign of an accident here, nor the attempt to stage one.” Lockhart scratched at the five o’clock shadow on his chin. “Seems like a stretch, but until we get more on the policy, we won’t rule it out. We need to get confirmation of Mr. and Mrs. Weber’s whereabouts during the murder.”

  “What’s your money on?” the Chief asked.

  Lockhart sighed and leaned back on the rear legs of the chair. His head arched back, and he stared at three pencils protruding from the white paneled ceiling. He took it as proof that things must get boring for the Crayton P.D. “I’m guessing that Mr. Weber was at Izzy’s, drunk as usual. The mom was probably at home with their sons—not great for her as far as alibis are concerned because she could tell those eight-year-olds to corroborate anything. Still, we could interrogate the twins.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not sure yet. Depends on how much more frustrated I get with this case,” Lockhart said through his teeth as he chewed on his lower lip in disappointment.

  “So, what’s next in the FBI field manual for homicide investigations?”

  “Well,” Lockhart said, standing with a groan and walking toward Joy’s desk, “for now, I plan to escort Joy here back to the delightful bed-and-breakfast for what I can only assume will be the most delicious chicken wild rice soup I’ve ever eaten.”

  Joy looked up from her knitting and blushed, “Oh my!”

  “Well, with a killer out there we can’t have young ladies going around unescorted.” Lockhart smiled and winked at the B&B’s matriarchal proprietor.

  Chief Donaldson wished them both a good night, and Lockhart walked Joy back to her house for what did, in fact, turn out to be the best soup he had ever eaten.

  Chapter 23

  Maybe it was the three bowls of hearty soup and the half-loaf of fresh-baked sourdough bread; maybe it was the chorus of chirping crickets that seemed to surround the house like an army, devoted to keeping Lockhart awake; or then again, maybe it was working a murder with no leads, but Lockhart couldn’t sleep.

  He lay there and watched the seconds tick by on the hanging wall clock across from his bed. The swinging pendulum did nothing to relax him; it just ticked seconds off his life.

  Finally, at about eleven p.m., Lockhart got up and walked over to the window. The town was largely asleep, and only a few buildings were still lit up. In the distance, Lockhart saw the tree line that blended into the horizon. For a moment, it looked as though lights danced from tree to tree like squirrels, but then they were gone. He quickly dismissed it as his own mental and physical exhaustion or just another thing he didn’t understand about the North Woods.

  Since sle
ep seemed to be avoiding him, he decided to throw on a pair of pants and go get a drink. He had been running through the details of the case, with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts, as such, he was only growing more and more annoyed by it all. He wanted a drink, but he didn’t really want to have to deal with anyone, which shouldn’t be a problem, after the town meeting, either people wouldn’t recognize him out of his suit or they would likely want to avoid him. Besides, liquor stores were closed, and he was sure the sisters wouldn’t have anything stronger than some box wine in the house. It was time to check out the Crayton night life. First hand.

  It was late enough at night that he figured a plain white t-shirt was probably okay to satisfy the Northern Minnesota dive bar dress code. He grabbed his jacket and quietly crept down the stairs of the sleeping house. Each step groaned under his weight, and he did his best to minimize the annoyance. The married couple from the Twin Cities, Bob and Cindy, had left that morning and were replaced by another couple, Adam and Mandy, and their young daughter Lily. The family seemed unaware of the crime, and he didn’t intend on filling them in. They would be gone in the morning, no worse off for not knowing that they’d slept in the town where a boy had recently been killed.

  With the risk of Mr. Weber being at Izzy’s, Lockhart decided to drink at The Pit Stop instead, a small hole-in-the-wall saloon with a bar that ran nearly the length of the building. It wasn’t a particularly big place and only had room for a half-dozen tables near the front. A person would almost have to turn sideways to get past the bar to the back. The floor was covered in peanut shells and discarded pull-tabs. Pictures of fishing expeditions and hunting trips hung, crooked, around the room. There were no other patrons in the bar, and Lockhart considered that it might be closed.

  The bartender, a younger man around twenty-five was wiping down bottles. He was dressed in a tank top, showing off tattoo-covered arms, and when he looked up from the bottles he was wiping down and saw Lockhart, he grimaced. He then looked at the neon clock that hung over his shoulder. It was eleven thirty p.m. “Slow night. Closing at midnight,” the bartender said.

  “Not a problem,” Lockhart said as he walked, half slid to the end of the bar and took a seat at the corner so he could watch the entrance. “Boilermaker.”

  “Drop-shot or separate?”

  “Separate.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Got Bushmills?”

  “White label okay?”

  “My brand.”

  “Beer?”

  “Got anything local?”

  “Local? We got Lienie’s Honeyweiss or Grainbelt Nordeast on tap.”

  “Which is darker?”

  “The Nordeast.”

  Lockhart nodded his approval. He appreciated the brevity of it all immensely. The bartender seemed to be in no mood for chatting, and that suited Lockhart just fine. He sipped the amber-colored beer and found another reason to like Minnesota, or at least one less reason to dislike the place. It was a full-flavored beer, but not bitter like darker ones. He was hard pressed to think of a time when a beer had tasted better, though he wasn’t sure if it was the beer or simply the intense desire for a drink. Lockhart picked up the shot just as a familiar face sat down next to him.

  “Soda and lime, Trev,” said Chief of Police John Donaldson, still dressed in his blue uniform. Lockhart hadn’t noticed that the chief’s green wind breaker hung on a hook around the side of the bar.

  Lockhart was mildly annoyed that his peace had been disturbed. “Are you following me, Chief?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been here since ten. Ain’t that right, Trevor?”

  The bartender, evidently named Trevor, set the club soda and lime in front of the police chief on a round cardboard coaster. “Yes, sir,” he said as he tossed the bar towel over the inky tiger on his shoulder and wandered into the back room.

  “You’ve been here more than two hours drinking club soda and lime?” Lockhart asked, staring down into the amber depths of his beer.

  “Can’t drink ‘cause of the diabetes. I used to come here after my shift to unwind, and booze or no booze, I can’t seem to get out of the habit.”

  Lockhart drank his shot and reveled in the oaky taste that burned its way slowly down his throat. He let out a long exhale, almost as if he was literally letting off steam, and then he sat there in absolute silence.

  The chief walked around the bar. “What are ya drinkin’?”

  Lockhart just looked at him.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Being part owner of this place has its perks. And don’t look so surprised. It’s a small town; it was just a good investment.”

  Lockhart shrugged and blinked slowly. “Bushmills.”

  “You an Irish whiskey man?”

  “Just Bushmills.”

  “Creature of habit, huh? I can respect that.” The Chief poured Lockhart another shot, with an unexpected flair. He started the stainless steel spout close when he first started the pour and ended with the bottle a good two feet away. Clearly, the man was no stranger to slinging liquor. He set the bottle on the bar. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  Lockhart shrugged as he threw the shot into the back of his throat, then chased with a large gulp of beer.

  “What did you do with the other cases? I mean, I’m sure you still have this one pegged for your Shooter theory, or at least you have your suspicions. Am I right? So what was next on those other cases? Maybe something that can help out here.”

  Lockhart looked at his shot glass, then peered at Donaldson, who grabbed the bottle and poured another shot. Lockhart picked up the glass and stared at it, watching the caramel swirls as the liquor settled. “Well, I interviewed potential witnesses, re-interviewed families and friends. I ran background checks and generally dissected everyone’s lives. I did everything I could with the resources of the federal government at my disposal. And then…” Lockhart dropped the full shot of whiskey into the half-full glass of beer, causing a slight splash followed by a small, rolling wave of foam. He picked up the glass and slammed it all down in one large chug, then slapped a twenty on the bar and placed the empty glass on top of it. “Then, after nothing happened, I left—just another dead body because the killer is smarter than I am.” Without another word, Lockhart left the bar.

  He somewhat awkwardly ambled along as the alcohol absorbed into his blood. As he walked down the street, he felt like the town was closing in on him. He passed by the empty building he and Donaldson had staked out in. He stared at the blurred words of the “Lee’s Laundry” sign and the blacked-out windows. He was definitely drunk.

  Lockhart staggered up the hill to the Bed-and-breakfast and wished he was home.

  Chapter 24

  Lockhart spent the majority of the next three days working split shifts between the Duluth and Bemidji FBI field offices. While he had the chief and deputy re-interviewing people around town, particularly those who had seen Mikey at least forty-eight hours prior to his death, he had Bemidji agents doing background checks on the same people, not because he didn’t have faith in the Crayton police, but because they just didn’t have the same resources or experience. It also gave him excuse to get out of the town for a while. His frustration had been mounting as the days dragged on and he felt far more comfortable in the drab and somewhat sterile environment of the FBI offices than he did among all those trees. The Duluth agents were busy going through any Internet and school files they could find for Michael Weber Jr.

  The case was growing colder by the minute, and Lockhart wanted to feel like he was at least accomplishing something before being called back to Washington DC. Each day that he called or e-mailed in his status update, he expected to be reassigned, but Director Chalmers always offered the same response: “Proceed with your investigation.”

  On the fourth day, Lockhart ran a background check on Dr. Heath, and the results came back exactly as expected: Ivy League education, prestigious internships, government grants, and so on, but then it all
just stopped. The information was there one minute, and in the next, it suddenly wasn’t and Lockhart didn’t have clearance to access it. For a five-year period, there was no public record of Dr. Heath, and he remained completely under the radar. Finally, as he faced a roadblock he couldn’t get around, in particular one that pushed him past the brink of silent curiosity: Lockhart had to ask his superior officer, exactly what was going on.

  “You are to proceed with the investigation as you would for any other murder,” Chalmers told him.

  “With all due respect, sir, in any other investigation I would have had more experienced agents working with me. And, given the amount of information we have to go on, there isn’t much to investigate at this juncture—not to mention the fact that one of the people involved with the victim has a confidential file.”

  Assistant Director Chalmers paused on the other end of the phone, before he flatly blurted out, “Dr. Heath is not a person of interest in this case.”

  Lockhart didn’t bother to point out the fact that he had never mentioned Dr. Heath by name, and it was suddenly clear that Dr. Heath’s involvement was the reason for the added investigation. Lockhart needed to be cleared up. “Director, what was Dr. Heath involved in that I’m not cleared to know?”

  “There is a reason you are not cleared to know, Special Agent.” There was another pause. “However, in the course of your investigation, should you learn of any involvement or connection between Dr. Heath and the victim, besides as an educator, that may change. That said, until then, the particulars of Dr. Heath’s background will only be deemed important and of consequence if you are able to ascertain the necessity through your own investigative skills.”