Chapter 8

I froze, in a half crouch, the nervous cop twitching in his own frozen posture legs spread, arms outstretched in front of him, his finger already on the trigger. My stance had me in danger of losing my balance.

McGovern came out of the kitchen with his weapon drawn and held in a two-hand grip. “Where is it, Craig?”

“This asshole tried to draw a gun on me. I can see it in his pocket!”

“Gary?”

My hands were in high in the air and I stood frozen to the spot, but beginning to sway as my knees began to quiver. “I do have a pistol in my right front pocket. However I was reaching for my wallet in my right hip pocket.”

“Why were you reaching for anything?”

“The officer asked for my work details and I offered to give him a business card to save the transcribing. He agreed. Then, when I went to get it, this happened.”

“Why do you have a gun, Gary. Do you have a permit?”

I moved my head to look at McGovern. “I have a concealed carry permit, but this officer has made it clear to me how easily things can get out of hand in this type of situation. Now I think it would be better if I refused to answer further questions. And I’m about to fall over.”

“Put your hands on the table, Gary. And you’re not under arrest.”

I leaned on the table. “But there are already guns pointed at me, and I’ve done nothing but cooperate.”

“It was just a misunderstanding.”

My hands still on the table, I said, “Exactly my point. I do not want to be further misunderstood. I will wait for an attorney.”

At that point, Tate walked in the back door.

“What the hell, Terry?”

“He’s carrying, Tate.”

Tate looked at me. “The SIG I gave you last week?”

“Yes.”

Tate said to McGovern. “He was attacked here about a week ago. Knocked unconscious, probably still has the stitches. He comes here early, by himself, the only one in the buildings. Plus, he’s been on several gun-involved crisis calls with me, with you guys, and down in Foughbury. I gave him the firearm, suggested he keep it with him for a while.”

McGovern said, “We’ll need to take the pistol for now, Gary. Take it from his pocket, Craig.”

“Keep your hands on the table, scumbag, spread your legs.”

As the officer frisked me, McGovern said, “Have you been watching cop ride-along videos on YouTube, Officer Steponich?”

“Sarge, it’s my own time, to do what I want.”

He took the pistol from my pocket and put it in his own. He appeared to be finished with the search, but I asked his permission to stand up again.

I said, “I want a receipt for that pistol, with the serial number recorded.”

“Go fuck yourself, troublemaker,” Steponich said.

“Officer Steponich, give him a receipt. Use your citations book. Then go get the crime scene tape and I’ll start sealing the entrances to this room. You get a photo of every vehicle on the premises showing the license plate number, front and back. Include any county or other official vehicles.

“And Craig, please use the citation form to write only a simple receipt, not a violation citation of any sort. Put his permit number on it. Give Gary a legible copy for his records.”

“Yeah, Sarge, I get it.” He sat down at a table, then had to get up again to unlimber his citation book from its pouch on his service belt. He started writing on the form, using his notebook for a reference. Then he had to stand up again to pull my pistol from his pocket so he could record the serial number.

I looked at McGovern. “Sergeant, could you or Tate confirm the serial number, please?”

Tate said, “I’ll do that, Terry. Why don’t you go make sure they’re not messing up your crime scene? You know what firemen are like. They’d rather cut a hole in your roof than come in the front door.” He said the last in a voice intended to carry into the kitchen.

Just then, a tall, brown-haired woman, I’d guess to be in her middle-to-late thirties, came in the back door. She was wearing denims over polished, black, service boots, and a navy blue T-shirt under a khaki vest that had multiple pockets, most of which appeared to be in use. She acknowledged the other police officers, “Sergeant, Sheriff, Officer Steponich. Where’s the body?”

McGovern said, “In the kitchen, over there.” He pointed. “The EMTs are with it. I’d have been in there, but we had a little false alarm out here.”

“Sergeant, my report’s going to say that I saw him reaching for that gun.” Steponich growled.

“It’s your report, Officer. You write exactly, and I mean exactly, what you saw and what you did. In detail.”

“What’s all this about?” the woman asked.

McGovern shook his head. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, but Officer Steponich saw a gun in Gary’s pocket and believed he was going to draw it on him. He yelled ‘Gun!’ and a few other choice phrases in the best ... oh, never mind. It was a cock-up. Gary was carrying a compact semi-auto that the Sheriff gave him because he was attacked and knocked unconscious up here a week ago. He’s also been out with us on some gun incidents.”

“He has?” Then she looked at me. “Who are you?”

“While I suspect you’re a police officer, ma’am, you’ve shown me no reason why I should answer you.”

Her eyebrows went up. She reached in a hip pocket and brought out a shield case and opened it toward me. “I’m Detective Lindsey Turner with the Leaufroide Police Department. And who are you?”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Gary Mazur. I work for the county mental health program.”

McGovern said, “What he means is, he’s in charge of the county mental health program. He’s my brother’s boss, too, you know, Mike, the nurse over at the jail.”

“It’s a detention center, Sergeant McGovern,” Tate quipped.

“Sorry, Lord Sheriff.”

Turner said, “You’re the guy who’ll ride with us over to the state hospital?”

“Yeah, but I usually get a free lunch out of it, Detective.”

She shook her head and turned to McGovern. “Alright, let’s see this body.”

While the Leaufroide police went off to do their thing, Tate came over and sat with me.

“Tate, I can’t thank you enough, just for coming in.”

“Ah, I couldn’t sleep anyway, with all those Chinese hot peppers wanting to make a quick exit out the back door.”

“Thanks for the image. Actually, Louise called us earlier and said she needed some rest and asked if we could think of some way to get you out of the house. I came up with this.”

“It was uniquely effective. Are you really worried about this?”

“What with Greta’s affair, me knowing about it and, if they ask anyone, they’ll say there was no love lost between me and Phil. Motive, means, and opportunity. Plus, they’ll likely find my prints on the murder weapon, since I handle it practically every day and I clean it by hand, I don’t ever put it through the dishwasher.”

Then I said, “I’m no expert, but to me, this looks like a set-up. I mean, what possible reason would Phil and his murderer have for being down here at five in the morning? It was even timed so that his death would coincide with my arrival. I think someone wanted Phil dead and decided that I’d make a good patsy.”

“Yeah, I see your point.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the pipe that was used on my head turns up in the trunk of Phil’s car or in his shed, at home or, hell, in his desk drawer here. Make it look like we had a blood feud going over Greta. Oh, shit. Greta. I need to call her.” I checked my watch; it was still well short of six. She didn’t get up until six-forty-five. “Maybe I’ll wait ‘til I’m sure she’s up. No real purpose to waking her.”

He nodded and got out his small, spiral-bound notebook. “Okay. There’s an attorney over in Plattsburg, Stan Ostrowski. I’ve seen him work in court and I’ve watched him depose witnesses, chatted with him very briefly. Seems pretty sharp and concerned about his clients. He’s who I’d call.” He tore a page from the note pad and showed me the lawyer’s name and phone number that he’d written. “I’d give him a call even if the heat doesn’t come down, today. He may want to nip some of the negative stuff in the bud.”

I pulled out my cell phone and tapped in the numbers. “Okay, let me get on his answering machine, just to prime the pump. This is going to be pricey.

“It’s ringing. Yeah, an answering machine.

“Mister Ostrowski, my name is Gary Mazur. I live and work in Leaufroide. There’s been a murder over here this morning which I discovered and called in to the authorities. While the police haven’t yet told me I’m a suspect, there are reasons I might be implicated. Sheriff Plummer, over here, recommended you when I asked him to suggest someone. He’s with me here, and we’re still at the scene, up at the County Services Center. The Leaufroide police are investigating.” I gave my contact details and said I looked forward to hearing from him at his early convenience.

Turner came out of the kitchen, walked over to the table where Tate and I were sitting, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

“Sergeant McGovern tells me you’re reluctant to answer our questions. Why is that?”

“Are you asking why he felt compelled to tell you that or why I am reluctant, Detective?”

She looked at me for several seconds. “Now would not seem to be the time for word games, Mister Mazur.”

“And yet the police are always the first ones to play those games, Detective. Sort of like Word Twister, seeing how many ways an interrogator can stretch the answers to mean other things.”

She continued to look at me for several more seconds. “What can you tell me about this incident, Mister Amundsen’s death?”

“As I told the Sergeant. I arrived at five, as usual, found all the lights on, which was not usual. Thought I heard a door closing somewhere, also not usual. I called out to ask if there was anyone here. There was no answer. I proceeded, as usual, to the kitchen to start the early morning chores and found Phil’s body, though I didn’t know it was Phil, Doctor Amundsen, until I knelt to check for a pulse in his neck. I found no pulse but noticed he was still warm and that the blood pool was still getting bigger. When I knelt down, I got blood on the fingers of my right hand, which transferred to his neck. When I got up, I washed my hand, then called nine-one-one and then I called Tate, Sheriff Plummer. The only other unusual thing I noted was that our large cast iron skillet was on the floor near Phil’s shoulder. I called nine-one-one from the phone near the cash register.”

“Your largest skillet?”

“It’s twelve inches in diameter and comes with a lid. It’s very versatile, I use it often, since we don’t have a flat grill.”

“You’re the head of mental health. Why do you arrive at five in the morning to use a large frying pan?”

“I am the Mental Health Services Team Manager. I arrive early to mix and proof the yeast dough-based products that we want to be selling at seven-thirty. The skillet is never in use before seven-fifteen, if then.”

She paused again and looked at me. “Why have you, as the Mental Health Services Team Manager, decided that you are to perform these particular early morning tasks, rather than a lower-paid or less-management-tasked employee?”

“In summary, over the several years we’ve had the bakery here, I was unable to get the assigned staff members to establish certain procedural routines that I believed would be therapeutic for our mentally ill clients. Since each of the three people who held the job were intelligent, college-educated, and not given to insubordination, I was hard-pressed to understand why that assignment was never carried out. So, when the position came open a third time, I decided to temporarily assume the duties and see if I couldn’t institute those procedures. I have, and I am now phasing myself out of those responsibilities. In fact, that young man looking in the back door is who will take over the job. He’s starting today. May he come in and sit with us? He has been a client of this program and would benefit from being with me this morning.”

She looked over at Denny, who looked decidedly worried as he peered in from the other side of the crime scene tape. “Son,” she called, “Would you like to come over here?”

Denny froze.

I called, “It’s okay, Denny. Come on over here and I’ll explain things. You’ll get paid from six o’clock, but I don’t think we’ll be doing any baking, today. It’s okay, just lift the tape and come sit with us.”

Hesitating, Denny did as I asked. I addressed Turner. “Can we close that door? Flies, you know? They’re a pain to get rid of.”

“I don’t see why not. Let me move the tape outside.” She rose and walked over to the door while Denny hesitantly approached the table where we were sitting.

“Sit down, Denny, here, next to me.”

He pulled out the chair to my left and sat in it; Turner had been sitting across from me.

I said, “You know Sheriff Plummer, Denny. He’s been in now and again, for coffee or brownies or rolls. The reason we don’t see him more often is because his wife is the best cook in the world, so even our products pale by comparison.”

Denny nodded toward Tate, still looking uncertain.

Tate, with a big smile on his face, said, “I hear you’re to be congratulated, Denny, on becoming an employee of Coldwater County, just like the rest of us.”

Denny grinned. “I didn’t think about that, that I was working for the county, just that I had a regular job.”

Tate went on, “County jobs are not easy to come by. I know it was your work that earned you this one. Welcome to the club.” Tate offered his hand across the table and Denny took it for a brief handshake.

“Thanks, Sheriff, just, uh, thanks.” Then he looked at me. “What’s going on, Gary?”

“You know Phil, Phil Amundsen, or maybe you know him more as Doctor Amundsen? The guy who runs the alcohol and drug program?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Well, he died this morning, there, in the kitchen, and the police showed up with the ambulance crew after I called nine-one-one. The police routinely look into any death that is unusual. Some old guy dies of cancer in the hospital, the cops don’t get excited. A younger, supposedly healthy guy is found dead, then the cops need to make sure what happened. Since you knew Phil, they may want to ask you some questions.”

“Me? Why me?” Now he looked more worried.

“Because you knew Doctor Amundsen, had seen him here in the bakery. I expect they’ll talk to most of the county workers here at the County Services Center. Just answer their questions, don’t worry about anything except answering as honestly as you can. You don’t need to make guesses or pretend you know stuff that you don’t. Besides, you’ve known cops. They’re just regular yahoos like the rest of us.”

“Well, okay, I guess.”

“One thing more you should probably know. It may very well be that someone killed Doctor Amundsen, so the cops’ questions could include stuff about that.”

“What do you mean? Like murdered him?”

“Maybe. That’s what they’re trying to figure out. They may need to question you to help figure that out, so just answer any of their questions, but only as much as you can be sure of. If you don’t know an answer, just say, ‘I don’t know.’ Don’t make shit up. It might make it harder for them to figure things out.”

Tate said, “He’s right, Denny. Just answer any questions with what you know for sure. If you don’t know, then tell them that. I’m a cop. I knew Doctor Amundsen. If they question me, that’s how I’ll handle it.”

“Okay, Sheriff Plummer.”

“Denny, my name is Tate. We both work for the county, now, so please call me Tate and I’ll call you Denny. Fair enough?

Denny beamed. “You bet, Tate.” Tate grinned back.

Turner came back to the table and sat down. She looked at Denny and offered her hand. “I’m Detective Lindsey Turner with the Leaufroide Police. And you are?”

I jumped in. “With apologies, Detective, I will make only this one interruption.” She looked at me, annoyance apparent. I turned to Denny. “If someone not in a police uniform asks you any questions, ask to see their identification first, to make sure the person is a police officer. Go ahead, ask her for her police ID. She’s obliged to show it to you, if she expects you to answer her questions. She won’t be offended, will you Detective?”

Turner said, “Fair enough, I can’t argue with that. Always ask to see the ID of anyone who says they’re a cop but is not in uniform.”

Denny looked back and forth between us, then looked at Turner and said, “Let me see your ID.” Socially abrupt, but the asking, alone, was a big step.

Turner got out her shield case and held it so both the badge and her ID card were visible. Gary glanced at them, then back to me.

“If you’re confident she is who she says she is, go ahead and answer her questions.”

He looked back at Turner and she said, “What is your name, sir?”

“I’m Denny Kelly.”

She pulled out a small notepad from her shirt pocket and began to write. “Is Denny short for Dennis?”

“Yeah, but my folks call me Denny. My sister, too. And everybody here does, too.”

What’s your home address, Mister Kelly?”

“Why?”

“So we don’t confuse you with any other people named Kelly who live around here.”

“There are other Kellys in Leaufroide?”

“I’m sure there are, it’s a fairly common name. So what’s your address?”

He glanced at me, but I kept my face neutral. Finally, he said, “I live at sixteen-oh-one Beech, apartment three.”

“Did you know Phil Amundsen?”

“Well, yeah. He, uh, came into the bakery most days. He liked the brownies. Sometimes he ate lunch here. Sometimes breakfast, too. He wanted everybody to call him Doctor Amundsen.”

“Did you ever have, uh, did you ever meet him anywhere else?”

“I saw him at the grocery store once in a while. Never talked to him, though.”

“We suspect uh, Doctor Amundsen may have been murdered. Do you know why someone might do that?”

Denny looked at me, then at Tate. Then turned back to Turner. “Because he was an asshole?”

Tate and I burst into laughter. Denny grinned big and Turner looked annoyed.

“Mister Kelly, why do you say that?”

“Because these two told me to.”

She glanced at Tate and me, then said to Denny, “They told you to say Doctor Amundsen was an asshole?”

“No. They told me to tell the truth, but only what I knew for sure.”

Now, Turner was smiling, too. “Mister Kelly, what makes you think Doctor Amundsen was an asshole?”

“Because he’d never talk to me, or any of the other clients, except for ordering stuff. And he’d make people call him Doctor if they used his name, you know, Phil. And the cheapskate never left tips.”

“Do you think that was a good enough reason to kill him?”

“What? No, not to kill him. But it’s a good enough reason not to act sad about him being dead.”

“Did you ever see him pick on anyone more than others?”

“No. But nobody liked him. Except maybe Jimmy.”

“Jimmy? Who’s Jimmy?”

“Uh, he’s, uh, a Director of something, uh, he’s one of the big bosses.”

She looked at me. I said, “Jimmy, that is, James Schuster, is the Health Services Center Clinical Director. He’s my direct boss, same with the other service team managers, including Phil. Jimmy reports to Grant Pollard, the Health Services Administrator, and Pollard reports to the County Administrator. Jimmy and Phil were friends, I think, since before they worked together here, but I have no detailed knowledge of that.”

I turned to Denny and said, “When I just said, ‘I have no detailed knowledge of that,’ that was my way of telling the Detective that I don’t know for sure. I was just trying to dazzle her with my vocabulary.” Denny grinned. So did Tate and Turner.

Turner looked at Denny. “One last question, Mister Kelly. Do you know of anyone who might have killed Doctor Amundsen?”

Denny said, “No, I don’t. I have no detailed knowledge of that.” Everybody was smiling.

“Thank you, Mister Kelly, I appreciate your candor.” She offered her hand and Denny shook it.

“You’re welcome, Detective.”

Denny looked at me. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’m not sure. This is a really odd situation. I wasn’t prepared for you doing alternate duties.

“Tell you what, though. Maybe you can go out with the church crew this morning, observe how Dave Randal interacts with the clients, and see what he does to help folks do their jobs. Hang around with him until noon, then call it a day. Do you see any problems with that?”

“No, that sounds okay. When does he get here?”

“He won’t be in until eight or maybe a little earlier. Do you want to hang here or would you rather wait in my office?”

“Probably your office. I may take a nap on the couch.”

“Fair enough. If I can, I’ll come get you at eight and link you with Dave.” I stood up. “But I’ll leave a note on his door to get hold of you, in any event. Come on, I know where all the light switches are.”

Turner said, “Can you show me Doctor Amundsen’s office?”

“I can show you the door, but I don’t have a key.”

“I’ve got his keys. Hold on, until I get some crime scene tape.” She went over to the service counter where a roll of the tape had been left and tore off a hefty length and stuffed it into a pocket on her vest.

I led them to the central core of the building and the elevator there. Only Buildings 1 and 2 had an elevator, due to the extra floors. We rode the elevator up to the second floor and then followed the central corridor over the enclosed walkway that bridged the 45-foot gap between the buildings

When we entered Building 3, I pointed out Phil’s office door, down near the corner of the inner-ring hallway. I said I’d join Turner there after I took Denny to my office in Building 4, but she decided to go along with us.

I got Denny comfortable in my outer office, then, with Turner in tow, went to the rehab tech’s bullpen, and stuck a note on Dave Randal’s computer screen. I suddenly realized we needed to show Denny his desk in that room. Rehab techs spent little time in the office, so their desk spaces were in an open floor plan with cubicle dividers.

Then Turner and I went back to Building 3, and to Phil’s office, which occupied one corner of the building. The other three corners were occupied by Jimmy’s and Grant’s offices with the final corner serving as a conference room, where we held management team meetings, among other functions. Admin Support occupied the remainder of the second floor, with Substance Abuse Rehabilitation and Developmental Disabilities on the first floor.

I’d been offered an office on that second floor, but wanted one closer to the services I supervised. And, yes, let’s face it, I not only have a certain perverse egalitarian streak, but I also seem to have some difficulty dealing with authority; I did not want to be associated with authority figures more than necessary. As I’ve pointed out, I’m not a democratic leader, but I do have an overwhelming urge toward consensus, in its strictest sense.