Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries) Page 8

  The office door opened and the FBI agents from Bemidji walked in; they were all dressed far more casually than Lockhart. The first, a younger Asian man, introduced himself as Agent Her and the men behind him as Agents Young and Estabrooks.

  Young and Estabrooks could have been brothers. They had the same clean-shaven Marine look about them, as well as squared shoulders and puffed-out chests. They were most definitely from military backgrounds. One was about four inches taller, but Lockhart wasn’t sure yet which was which.

  “I thought you said nothing would happen. Why are more agents here?” the deputy asked. His tone was earnest this time rather than contrary. Apparently, the threat of federal prison had given him the attitude adjustment that Lockhart was trying to accomplish.

  “I said I hope nothing happens, and the three of us can’t cover three angles of this town on our own.” Lockhart turned to the chief, “Speaking of manpower, I thought you said you had two volunteer officers too.”

  “We do,” Deputy Lind responded, “but they are hunting up near the Canadian border this weekend, and they never take their cellphones with on hunting trips.”

  “Outstanding.” Lockhart sighed. “Well, if anything does happen, it is going to be tough for just the chief, deputy, and myself to break up anything serious. Fortunately, Izzy’s Bar is in a decent location for a stakeout, so if we position ourselves accordingly, we can keep an eye on both bars.”

  Lockhart turned to Agent Her, who had much the same look as Young and Estabrooks. He was well built, with a shaved head, but he had a different look in his eyes: confidence, probably stemming from or causing aspirations of higher office. “Agent Her, did you bring surveillance equipment?”

  “Some,” Agent Her replied, “but we can’t use most of it without warrants.”

  “We won’t need to. I just want the video equipment. You and Deputy Lind will station yourselves across from Izzy’s. Your primary target is that bar, though you will be able to see The Pit Stop Bar to the east as well. Record everyone who goes in and out of Izzy’s.”

  “What about The Pit Stop?” asked the deputy.

  “Keep an eye on it, but our focus is on Mr. Weber.”

  “Is he a suspect?” asked Agent Her.

  “Yes,” answered Lockhart. “Deputy, I want you in the car with Agent Her to identify the men and women who go in and out of the bar, particularly pointing out unfamiliar faces.”

  “Do you think the suspect would show up in public after killing a local boy?” asked the tall, thinner agent, whom Lockhart thought was Estabrooks. Agent Estabrooks must have been nearly six and a half feet tall, far from inconspicuous even without being a federal agent. Lockhart actually did a double-take when he looked at him directly.

  “If we’re lucky,” Lockhart replied. “I want you and…” Lockhart paused, trying to remember the other agent’s name.

  “Young,” the agent filled in for him.

  “Thank you, Young. You and Estabrooks take the east side of the building and monitor the front and rear surveillance.” Lockhart turned to the Chief. “You and I get the back. I noticed that the shop behind the bar is vacant. I trust our using it as a monitoring post shouldn’t be an issue.”

  Donaldson smiled and shook his head. “In-a-Minute Cleaners. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “All right, gentlemen, take your posts. I have no idea what kind of paranoia is floating around here and who might be listening on their own anti-government surveillance gear, so maintain radio silence unless backup is needed. The chief will be our intermediary and check between posts every hour. His presence won’t cause concern. Let’s keep tensions at a minimum, got it?”

  They all nodded.

  “Then do it.”

  Chapter 13

  Lockhart and Chief Donaldson sat in the former dry cleaner’s shop. The front windows were largely soaped over, affording the two men some anonymity. There was a small viewing window in the back door that looked out onto the back patio of Izzy’s Bar. The patio served as the smoking area since Minnesota had passed a ban making it illegal to smoke indoors, even in restaurants with designated areas.

  The chief sat on a high-legged stool, and rubbed his feet as he took a turn keeping watch out the back window. Lockhart sat on the floor, reading the FBI coroner’s report with his pocket flashlight. The coroner’s established point of impact and ballistics confirmed a 9mm round as the caliber of bullet used in the murder; however, they also determined that, while it was similar to other Jack the Shooter ballistics results, the bullet didn’t match previous records. Mikey Weber’s body showed no additional signs of distress, no bruising, and no ligature marks. There were no signs of internal damage or injury such as broken bones or organ trauma. The coroner did note what appeared to be some reddening of the skin, like mild sunburn, which was not common for September in Minnesota, though it was not unheard of either, especially for an active teenage boy living in a rural town. The fingerprint pulled from the bullet shell yielded no results in FBI or Interpol databases. The footprints that were found within the sectioned-off crime scene didn’t match any other prints around the scene. The prints were approximately three feet behind Mikey Weber’s body, and they bore no remarkable characteristics or treads—just a completely smooth sole. The shoe size was an eleven and based on the depth of the print and angle of the bullet entry, the suspect was approximately five-ten. They assumed the suspect weighed around 165 pounds; again, nothing remarkable. Just once, Lockhart wished he could get a seven-foot tall or 500 pound killer; someone that would stand out in a crowd. At least he had some information, but toxicology could still take more than a week to return their results.

  Donaldson said something, but Lockhart was too focused on the file to actually catch the words instead of just some garbled bass. “I’m sorry. What?” Lockhart said.

  “I asked, what song are you humming?” The chief kept his focus on the back window. Whether it was a newspaper or gravy, he seemed to have an uncanny ability to speak to Lockhart while concentrating his vision elsewhere.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was making any noise at all.”

  “Mostly just humming, but you kept saying something like ‘battlefield’.”

  Lockhart felt his face warm with embarrassment. “Love is a battlefield?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” Donaldson turned and looked at Lockhart with a raised eyebrow.

  Lockhart stared up at the chief defensively. “What? It’s Pat Benatar, a four-time Grammy winner, and it’s a great song.”

  The old, wry police chief chuckled. “No need to get defensive. Nice to see you’re human inside.”

  Lockhart chewed his lip and closed the file folder. “It was never been about me needing or wanting to act inhuman.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Lockhart shifted and stood slowly. His back slid up the wall as he slowly stretched out his legs and knees. “Yes, really,” He said as he rubbed his kneecaps. “I concede that this is new territory for you all, and it feels very personal—not only the crime, but my coming here to lead the investigation.”

  “Yeah, it does feel personal,” Donaldson said as he turned back to the window.

  “The concession is conditional. I will concede that point if you concede that when I say things, it is with the sole intent of solving a homicide and not just to bust yours and your deputy’s balls.”

  The chief looked back over at Lockhart and offered a small nod.

  Ideally, in Lockhart’s opinion, the chief and the town would start to look at him as a solution instead of a hindrance.

  Suddenly, Lockhart’s radio clicked on. “Fight in progress out front!” It was Agent Her at the front of the bar. Lockhart snatched the radio. “Maintain your position, Agent. Chief Donaldson and I will intervene. Agent Estabrooks will take over our position.”

  Lockhart and Donaldson circled around the storefronts to avoid giving away their vantage point, which he felt safe doing only because the deputy and agents were in position
to record the incident.

  Out front of Izzy’s Bar, a crowd had formed from the bodies pouring out the door; many appeared to be in an outright drunken stupor. Lockhart pushed his way through the shouting and shoving to find Michael Weber Sr. holding another man in a headlock. Weber was squeezing so hard that the man’s head was turning a turnip shade of red. Lockhart yelled for Weber to release his hold, but Weber refused. The crowd around them was obviously drunk and clearly on Weber’s side, or else they would have taken up a mob mentality. When a crowd of drunks approves of a fight, they will be content to watch and maybe join in if they saw a chance to kick a downed man. Lockhart hated crowds. There was no rationale to them. Their actions were equal parts stupidity and fear that created a strange kind of bravery. Lockhart barked at the elderly chief to push the crowd back. The man in the headlock was starting to struggle less, no doubt blacking out.

  Both men were hunched over and Lockhart couldn’t grab Weber’s hands, so he did the only non-violent thing he could think of to stop the situation. He stepped closer to Weber, draping his right arm over the back of Weber’s neck and wrapped it around, his forearm and bicep on either side of Weber’s neck and squeezed. Weber released the man and started making a gurgling almost immediately. Lockhart let his own choke hold go and Weber fell, vomiting, to his hands and knees. The choke was meant to get Weber to let go, perhaps put him to sleep by cutting off the blood to his brain for just a moment, not nearly as dangerous as it seemed. The fact that Weber was throwing up was a good indication of how drunk he was.

  The crowd grew quiet, but no one left. They rippled like a flag in the wind, restless. Lockhart looked around the wall of hard-drinking Northern Minnesota men and women. There was anger, fear and confusion. Fueled by alcohol, it was only a matter of time until something broke. Lockhart was glad it was just two men, but Weber being one of those men didn’t make things easier.

  “Go home,” Lockhart said. No one moved.

  “Agent Lockhart said to go home,” the Police Chief echoed, in a far more commanding voice than Lockhart would have thought from him. Some shifted, yet still, no one left.

  Lockhart leaned closer to Donaldson and asked, “Do you have a city hall?”

  “School gymnasium.”

  Lockhart gave the police chief a double-take to make sure he heard him right before he turned and addressed the shifting, swaying mob of drunks. “Tomorrow at ten a.m. in the K-12 school gym, there will be a town meeting for anyone who wants to attend or ask questions. I will address what’s going on with the investigation into the death of Mikey Weber. Until then, go home, sober up, and be with your families.”

  At first, no one moved, as no one wanted to be the first one to back down to authority, but after Chief Donaldson said a few words to certain individuals around the street, people slowly began to disperse. Lockhart looped an arm under Weber and pulled him up to his feet. “Come on, Mr. Weber. Let’s have a chat.”

  As the two men walked down the street, Lockhart doing his best to keep the nearly-unresponsive man on his feet, Lockhart had the sudden feeling that he was being followed. He turned his head and for a moment, thought that he caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye, but there was no one there. It was just him and the gurgling Mr. Weber, who promptly swayed and vomited once again.

  Chapter 14

  Weber’s eyes were nearly shut as Lockhart stared at him from across the table. The man wore an old trucker hat low on his face and a thick beard covered most of what was visible. The room they were in was only about ten by ten feet, without any window or two-way glass. Joy told him it had been used primarily as a storage closet until recently, and before that, it was a laundry room. At that moment, it was serving as an interrogation room. Chief Donaldson waited outside at Lockhart’s request.

  Lockhart insisted that Weber take off his greasy-looking hat and asked, “What was the fight about, Mr. Weber?”

  Weber’s eyes stayed nearly shut and shifted away from Lockhart. They were dark brown and unfocused. Lockhart’s grandfather would have said it was a sign that he was too full of crap, but Lockhart refrained from sharing that tidbit of grandfatherly wisdom.

  “Did that man say something about you? Your family?”

  Weber sneered but didn’t lift his eyes.

  Lockhart stayed seated and stared at him. There was something going on with Weber, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had only seen the man wearing two expressions: annoyed or angry. His training had made him aware that anger is never a primary emotion, but a reaction to another one. Was it guilt? Lockhart wondered if the man had done something that led to Mikey’s death. Could it have been worse? Could the man have killed his own son?

  “Am I under arrest?” Weber asked.

  “Do you mean for the bar fight?””

  Weber’s eyes remained trained on the floor, shifted away from Lockhart’s, as though it was the laminate tile that was interrogating him.

  “No, Mr. Weber, you aren’t under arrest. Neither the bar nor the other patron are going to press charges.”

  The chief had identified the man Weber had in the headlock as a neighbor who lived next to the Weber’s farm. It wasn’t their first skirmish. The two had endured other arguments in the past over property lines or something and the whole incident was chalked up to drinking and bad timing. Lockhart didn’t like it, but he had to agree that it was all probably unrelated, other than the death of his son being a catalyst for him acting out because it had Weber—the whole damn town, really—on edge. All in all, it could have been far worse. No guns were involved, and no one was hurt, at least not yet.

  In the end it at least served to let people know they were being watched and that the FBI was handling the investigation. Lockhart had hoped for more. There was always a part of him that hoped for that simple answer to the solution, like Mr. Weber confessing to the crime, or getting in a fight with the man he accused of committing the crime, but it was never that simple. Lockhart had to take his minor victories, wherever they came from.

  Weber slowly propped his hands on the table and stood up. He shuffled from the room like a child, as if he was dragging his socked-feet across the floor to create a static shock. Twice, he started to lean as though the room were tilting. As he opened the door he asked in a slur, “Where’sss mu truck?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Lockhart asked in disbelief. “If you get within ten feet of your truck or any other vehicle in your condition, I’ll arrest you on the spot for DUI.”

  “You thin thish ish drunk? Thish ain’t drunk.” Weber slurred as he set his hand on the desk next to him for balance.

  Lockhart had the suspicion that the man was sadly correct.

  The chief assured Lockhart that he would drive Weber home. It was after midnight, and Lockhart didn’t put up an argument about who got to babysit the drunken Weber patriarch. He told Donaldson he would meet him at the diner at eight a.m. and to let the other FBI agents know where they could spend the night after the bar closed.

  Back at the B&B, Lockhart barely had time to take off his gun, badge, and suit before he fell asleep on what he determined to be the most comfortable bed he’d ever lain upon, cradled in knitted flowers. For a moment, the first in a long time, Lockhart felt warm and safe.

  Chapter 15

  Journal Entry:

  I know there’s a problem here. I knew that almost immediately. Even from far off in the bushes, looking into the Weber house, it’s obvious. I watch the family moving through their open patio door, though it’s mostly just shadows. Past midnight and there was no moon. I wish I had night-vision goggles so as to avoid the necessity to move closer to the house, as close as I can while still feeling safe.

  There he is, right there. But he isn’t supposed to be there.

  I rush quickly back to the bushes, cursing myself for being so stupid. How could I make such a stupid mistake? My timing was all off again, all wrong. I can’t afford to make any mistakes, not now. Not with the FBI agent in tow
n. The rest has to be worked out with precision. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. If I fail this time, all will be lost and all my work will have been for nothing.

  Chapter 16

  Lockhart’s eyes opened at five am. He didn’t yawn or roll over, his eyes just simply opened and he was awake. It had been a long time since he actually felt like he’d gotten a full night sleep, let alone one that only lasted less than five hours.

  Lockhart got up, if for no other reason than for fear that if he went back to sleep, he would get up an hour later and feel tired. He wanted to take advantage of the rare well-rested feeling while it lasted. He opened his bag and put on a pair of shorts and a long sleeved t-shirt before tying up his running shoes and putting in his ear buds. He never knew how long he might be gone on his junkets to one assignment or another, so he always brought a change of clothes to jog in. He had hours until it was time to meet the chief for breakfast, at Dan’s, of course, so with all that extra energy and the need to focus his mind for the day, a sunrise run was in order.

  He had taken up running just a few years prior to help him quit smoking. Lockhart was a goal-driven man and rarely did he do anything without a reason. He knew that he was probably too old and too busy to warrant trying a marathon, so he set his sights on a half-marathon instead, a mere 13.1 miles. He’d started with a mile run; it took him over 12 minutes and he was desperately panting for breath most of the way. The next day, his legs and butt were sorer than they had ever been. After that, he never wanted to run again, but forced himself to hit the pavement anyway. Besides, if his superiors realized how out of shape he had allowed himself to get, they’d promptly assign him to a desk, and the only exercise he’d get would be walking to the bathroom. He had no intention of becoming a desk jockey, so he had to take care of himself.

  Two months prior to his assignment to Crayton, Lockhart accomplished his goal: He’d run his first half-marathon and finished in a very respectable 1:45. He’d heard of the Grandma’s Marathon, a well-known Duluth running event, but he had no intention of being stuck in Minnesota until June.