Chapter 2

SATURDAY, JUNE 13

We invited Tate and Louise for a barbecue on Saturday and actually insisted they come and eat at our house, rather than It being a ruse to get invited to theirs, as I’d often engineered.

Emily made a wilted spinach salad with bacon dressing, Greta made twice-baked potatoes, and I smoked two chickens in my new electric smoker. It was nearly as delicious as anything Louise could produce, except it took three of us to do it. We had root beer floats for dessert. Duh -- A&W root beer, of course, with Blue Bunny French vanilla.

After we cleaned up the table and most of the dishes, Tate and I went to look at the smoker while the ladies made plans for the Fourth of July.

“Have you heard anything more about Evelyn Durkee?” I asked him.

Her body had been found outside the city limits of Leaufroide, so the state Office of Criminal Investigation, OCI, had assumed responsibility for the case. Most counties in the state were rural, with a largely agricultural tax base or with revenue from National Forest and Bureau of Land Management federal PILT (Payment In Lieu of Taxes) compensation. Due to that limited funding, the sheriffs of rural counties could not afford to provide investigative staff and facilities for the relatively uncommon occurrence of major crimes. For the most part, rural sheriffs operated the county jail, provided various administrative and enforcement services to court jurisdictions, and equipped and staffed a patrol component for the counties’ byways. The state’s OCI served as the collective detective bureau and forensic service for most of the unincorporated areas of the state. That bureau’s practice was to work as closely with the local authorities as that sheriff might prefer.

In fact, the OCI staff had developed a semi-formal rating system for every case they took on, grading the affected sheriff’s interest. There were four categories: (One) Sheriff Prefers Periodic Basic Data Summaries, (Two) Sheriff Requests Timely Data Details, (Three) Sheriff Provides Limited Assistance, (Four) Sheriff Provides Major Assistance. With the small size of his sworn and certified enforcement staff -- eight patrol deputies and twenty-two detention officers -- Tate was almost always rated by OCI detectives as a number three: Provides Limited Assistance, which put him in the good graces of the OCI detective cadre. He also received a weekly case summary via email and could call or email a request for additional data at any time.

The ratings were intended as an advisory to whomever or whatever state offices became involved with a case. They were not judgmental, as the sheriff actually had no direct authority or responsibility once the OCI took over the case. They were intended for state staff to mark and observe the sheriff’s preferences and to be as cooperative as possible.

Tate elaborated. “The medical examiner thinks most of the tissue damage was caused post-mortem, so they’re leaning toward the theory that she died from a blow to her head and her body was thrown into the river at the Keys. They think she was killed somewhere else because they found no trace of clothing or anything to indicate she was killed along the shore at the Keys, so...”

“Where was she last seen?”

“A neighbor saw her leaving her house about ten hundred on Memorial Day, wearing a dressy-looking yellow-check sun dress and white sandals with a four-inch heel. She got in her car and drove off, turning left on county road twenty-five.”

“Four-inch heel? The neighbor must have been another woman. Most days I couldn’t even tell you what kind of shoes I was wearing right at that moment.”

“But you wear the same shoes every day,” Tate said.

“And how do you know that?”

He rolled his eyes. “Louise mentioned it once.”

“There you go.”

“Yeah, I never did understand women’s thing for shoes.”

“I used to have a thing for hats,” I said. “Especially those crusher hats, the ones that you could pack in your luggage and still have them return to their shape.”

“Yeah, you’ve shown them to me, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Anyway, there was a sporting goods store near that youth agency I worked for. They had a really nice selection of those hats, from cowboy hats to Indiana Jones-style fedoras. I learned to stay out of that store because every time I went in--”

“You bought a hat. Yeah, I’ve heard that story more than a couple times, too.”

“Jeez, do I piss all over your fish stories?”

“Not anymore. I made a New Year’s resolution not to tell you about any of my fishing adventures, so you’ve been deprived for six months now.”

“Is that why my life seems better? I thought maybe I was getting more sex or something.”

“You are getting more sex. You live with two women, you bastard.”

“And yet I don’t bore with stories about that, do I?”

“That’s okay. I hear it all from Louise after Greta and Emily tell her.”

“Speaking of condemned women,” I said, “does the medical examiner think Evelyn was killed on Memorial Day? That was like, what? Ten days before they found her body?”

“Maybe. There’s speculation that the body was weighted down with rocks in the river, and with the water still pretty cold from snow melt, it’s hard to say. They think a coyote or maybe a bear may have dragged the body ashore, but there’s nothing to say any of that for certain.

“They’ve interviewed Nick?”

“You psycho-babblers interview, cops interrogate. They’ve interrogated Nick three times. He’s using your lawyer, Stan Ostrowski.”

“Can’t fault him for that. Have they interrogated John?”

“Yeah, once.”

“Have you talked to John, since the big surprise?”

“No, not really. He seems to be avoiding me. He’s only come into the office when he knows I’m not there.”

“Why’s he coming into the office?”

“Oh, just wrapping up stuff that he was working on. Louise thinks I should call him.”

“Well, why not?”

“If he’s avoiding me, why should I bother him? Besides, I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound like whining.”

“Yeah, but people are used to that with you.”

“Asshole.”

(Saturday, June 13)

MONDAY, JUNE 15

I went to Chet’s office as soon as I got to the Center, at 07:30. If the weather was decent, I usually jogged to work, as it was less than two miles. I’d leave the car for Greta because she would rather sleep longer and arrive at work at the more banal 08:00, when the Center opened for business. Meanwhile, we early birds were feasting on worms. Chet provided my first, that morning.

Actually, I went to Chet’s office after I bought a mug of coffee at the bakery. Then I walked into his office and parked in one of his guest chairs. He didn’t even look up, but shoved a sheet of paper toward me.

It was a copy of the email he’d sent to Burt advising him that the source of the bakery odors in the DA’s office had been located and repaired, with a brief mention of the details.

The reply from Burt was succinct: “The damage is done. That bakery’s gone by the end of the fiscal year. Any insurance deductible from the lawsuit comes out of your budget.”

“That guy’s starting to piss me off.”

Chet, still reading something, said, “It doesn’t count until oh-eight-hundred.”

“What? Are you saying it’s too early to be angry?”

“I’m saying it’s too early to be pissed off in my office. I come in early so I can get some work done before the bulls start shitting and the sky starts falling. Why don’t you go down to the bakery and supervise the yeast-dough proofer or something more useful? When was the last time you scraped the old electricity out of the wall sockets? A butter knife works good for that. Go, be angry somewhere else.”

“Jeez, all you had ‘a do is throw something at me. There was no need to use that tone of voice.”

I stood and left his office, then made my way to building two and down to the bakery, as my supervisor had instructed. There, I sat down at my usual corner table and pouted. No one seemed to notice.

Every couple minutes someone from the county offices would come in and make a purchase. I noticed that Denny had Barney Austin handling customer service, while Sue Takahashi was cleaning equipment over at the sink. Sue was doing better, but her responses in social interactions were still a problem; she had a tendency to freeze up. I know Denny and Greta were trying to figure out how to move her into more active participation. Dealing with customers had not worked out, so far. What Sue excelled at, however, was detail work. Her decorated cakes, for instance, were so perfect, they looked machined. I knew Denny was trying to figure a way to help her use that skill.

I saw Denny have a quick word with Sue and with Barney, then he carried his coffee mug over toward my table.

I used my foot to push a chair out for him to sit on.

“Are they gonna close the bakery?” he asked, looking worried.

“That’s what Burt has said. By the end of the month.”

“Will they really do it?”

“We’re trying to figure a way to keep it running.”

“Did I screw something up? I heard Adrienne Babbitt wants to sue me.”

And I’m thinking, Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck! Goddamn shit-spewing assholes! If this guy slips backwards, there’ll be more bodies floating in the Keys.

But I kept a neutral expression and I said to Denny, “Don’t worry about being sued. You have two laws that protect you. One is a state law which is called qualified immunity. If a government employee is doing their job properly, then they can’t be sued just for doing their job. You’re a government employee and you do your job properly.”

But he was looking down and shaking his head. “Maybe not, Gary. To be strictly honest, sometimes I take coffee and don’t pay for it.” He looked up at me and shrugged.

“Forget it. First of all, nobody is suing us about the coffee. Second, bakery workers are allowed a free cup of coffee every hour.”

“Really? Since when? I’ve worked in the bakery for three years and I never heard of that.” He looked skeptical.

“You mean Sandy or Mike never said anything? Would you believe I can’t remember when it started?” But I had, just that moment, made the whole thing up. I hadn’t lied to Denny, because I had couched it as questions, not statements. Hey, remember my Mom’s logic games? BTDT.

I had mentioned Sandra Piersol and Michael Niedermeyer, two rehab techs who had supervised the bakery in years past.

“Mike never drank coffee and Sandy brought coffee from home,” Denny said.

“Well, there you go.”

“But you always paid for your coffee when you ran the bakery.”

“Are you implying the bakery owes me money?” OK, that one dumped some water on his fire. Time to change the subject.

“Anyway, the other law that protects you is the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

He refocused. “Yeah, the ADA. But how does that apply to me? I’m not a client here, anymore, and I sure don’t need wheelchair ramps to get around.”

“But you’re still a client of voc rehab. They want to keep you on the roster for the full two years of your eligibility for their work support program.”

“You mean the ADA applies to me even if I’m no longer disabled?”

“Denny, please tell me that you understand that all the fears and confusion could come back if you stop taking the prescribed meds.”

“That’s what everybody and my sister tells me.”

“And you don’t you believe that?”

“Look, I take the meds. Faithfully. I know my job depends on it, so I take the meds. Don’t worry about it.”

Not exactly the insight I’d been hoping for, but it would do, for purposes, so I said, “The fact that you have a condition that can be not only debilitating, but can actually threaten your life, means that certain disability services and benefits will always be available for you. Paranoid schizophrenia can’t be cured, just like epilepsy or diabetes, but it can be controlled with the right meds, just like those other health problems...

“And that’s no reflection on you or what you’re able to do. It just sort of levels the playing field because you’ve had to work through a ton more shit than most people have. And you’re going to have to stay on your toes way more than most, too.”

“So, a level playing field means I won’t have to stay on my toes so much?” The question sounded innocent, but I could see he was losing the struggle to control his grin.

“No. A level playing field means that I can knock you on your ass and you can’t call a blocking foul unless the ref sees it, you fraud.”

Then I was serious again. “What will finally make you ineligible for disability benefits is your earned income, not a change in your health.”

He grimaced and shook his head, resigned to it, perhaps. He said, “Okay, then, but what about the bakery?”

The St. Louis Bakery & Deli had developed into a social institution well beyond the rehabilitation purposes for which it had been established. County employees, veterans groups, Alcoholics Anonymous groups, and clients of various Health Center departments and programs used the bakery, as a convenient coffee shop, as a respite from a demanding work day, or as a socialization hub, and in lieu of the non-existent water cooler at the County Center. Just the fact that the bakery existed was a point of comfort for many county employees and a matter of pride for some of them.

Was it appreciated to the point that the employees would arise with pitchforks and axe handles to storm the ogre’s stronghold? Not likely, especially not at a time when folks were just glad to have a steady job. But still...

I said to him, “Now that you mention it, I wanted to ask you something. Did Adrienne Babbitt ever complain to you about the bakery odors in her office?”

“No, not that I remember. She never really talks to me, or to Barney or Sue, if they’re at the service counter. She just places her order, then steps outside for a cigarette while we get her stuff ready.”

“How often have you seen her smoke?”

“About every time she comes down here. Maybe once or twice a week.”

“What? She just steps out on the loading dock?”

“She’d stand there with the door open so she doesn’t get locked out. I told her about letting in flies, but she acted like she didn’t hear me. If it’s cold out, she’ll stand half in the door and stick her head outside.”

“Huh, I never noticed that.”

“Oh, she doesn’t do it when you’re around, or Greta, or other clinic staff. When you were working down here, she’d just wait over there on a stool at the counter.”

A smoker, complaining of anxiety-producing food odors? I knew, from a brief experience in college, that smoking dulled both senses of taste and smell.

I looked at my watch and said, “Time for me to get going. By now there are other employees whose day I can brighten.”

As I got up to leave, he asked. “If I skip one of my free coffees, can I let someone else have a cup?”

“Nope, sorry. It’s for bakery workers only.” I should have seen that coming. I was tempted to soften the new rule, but then I imagined all the variations that could arise, so I decided to let it stand as is. Oh, rats. Now I had to tell Greta that I went over her head, or around her back, or under the table, or something somewhere, but I circumvented her authority. Ah, well, I’ve faced tougher duties.

“Denny, I think you’re doing a great job. And let me make sure you understand that your job does not depend on the bakery. Even if the bakery did close, those clients would still need some other work. Maybe we’ll start an airline or a steel mill, so don’t worry about your job. Anyway, I think we’ll keep the Saint Louis Bakery running, no matter what.”

He nodded, then he looked at his watch and said to me, “Sorry, Gary, I’ve got team meeting.”

“Then shove off, Bub. Neither of us want Greta mad at us.”

After the bakery, I did my management-by-walking-around, stopping by various offices in Public Health, Substance Abuse Rehabilitation, Developmental Disabilities Habilitation, Community Mental Health, Discretionary Services, and Administrative Support.

Greta had back-to-back team meetings every Monday morning, with Children’s Mental Health Services, Adult Mental Health Services, and Community Maintenance Program crews, each staff group meeting for thirty minutes. In Center jargon, the department was officially called a Team. Subdivisions of the team were informally called crews, not to be confused with the clients’ cleaning crews that the Community Maintenance Program supervised. Greta presided over each of her clinical crew meetings and was often tied up with that until closer to 10:00, so she was the last of my visits that morning.

“What?” I asked when she walked into her office -- my former office -- where I was waiting for her. She looked worried or angry or both.

“Hank came to me after the meeting, after Denny had gone back to the bakery. Hank said that, when he was driving home after church yesterday, he noticed that there was a grocery cart outside Denny’s apartment door.” She shook her head. “It could have been a coincidence, maybe somebody just dumped it there, but if those sonsabitches have fucked Denny up I will be kicking in some heads.”

Denny rented an efficiency apartment in a building that had been converted from a motel, his rent supplemented by a federal program under Section 8 of the U.S. Housing Act. Hank Nolan had been Denny’s case manager when Denny was a client in our Community Maintenance Program. The reason Hank and Greta were concerned was that gathering grocery carts was among Denny’s defenses when he was subject to the paranoid delusion that wheat harvesting machines were coming after him. He’d start gathering large metal objects, like grocery carts, which were intended to jam the harvesters’ machinery.

“You should tell Doc B. Let him talk to Denny. But see if you can keep it from looking like it’s coming from the CMP staff, now that he’s part of that staff.”

Doc B -- Frank Bartkowiak, MD -- was one of the two psychiatric practitioners on the Mental Health staff who supervised medical interventions for the clients, including anti-psychotic medications. Denny still went to him for the prescribed medications that kept the delusions under control.

Greta already had her phone out and had tapped in a code. After a few seconds, she said, “Doc, it’s Greta. We have some concerns about Denny Kelly. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me back. Thanks.”

I said, “I spent about twenty minutes with Denny this morning. He sat down with me when I stopped in for some coffee. He was worried about the bakery closing and about being named in Babbitt’s suit.”

Greta said, “Those cocksuckers. I need to get some steel-toed boots.”

“I told him he was protected from being sued by qualified immunity and by the ADA, so not to worry about it. I sort of explained how they would shield him. Then I told him that his job would be there even if something happened to the bakery, but that we were working on a plan to keep it open.”

Greta said, “There’s no reason to close it, now that the problem’s fixed.”

“Yeah, about that. More bad news. Burt still wants it closed. Chet found Burt’s reply in his email this morning. In effect, Burt said ‘so what?’ to our report.”

“Why would he do that?”

“The simple answer is, because he’s an asshole. Anyway, the reason doesn’t really matter, he just wants to see us fucked up. He’s been trying to starve us into submission with budget cuts ever since the Center was created, except we keep coming up with new revenue sources that he doesn’t control.

“Which reminds me: Burt also said that if there’s a payout to Babbitt, any deductible that the county’s liability insurance doesn’t cover comes out of our budget.”

Greta said, “Figures.” Then she pointed a finger at me and added, “I wouldn’t put it past him to offer a quick settlement just to make us pay, before we could call ‘bullshit’ in court.”

“I think the county commission has to make that decision, and the state Sunshine Law means a five-business-day notice has to be published, but I think you make a good point.”

She said, “We need to do something.”

I said. “I think somebody’s civil rights are getting trampled here, and I’m betting it’s Denny’s, at least. I think I’ll call Stan Ostrowski and see if he can recommend a civil rights attorney. Besides, from what we know of Babbitt’s suit, it’s a sham. Qualified immunity protects everybody she listed, except maybe the county commission itself. I asked Denny if Babbitt had ever complained to him about the smells. He said she barely speaks to them. He also told me she’s a cigarette smoker.”

“A smoker with a sensitive nose? We’re definitely shopping for steel-toed boots after work.”

“Gary?” Stan said, after I was put through by his wife, Nina, who was his clerk and receptionist. “Are you in trouble again? They trying to pin Evelyn Durkee’s murder on you?” I’d gone back to my office and shut the door to make this call.

“Not yet, though Sheriff Plummer says neither of us have good alibis.”

“That’s not surprising, since they’re not sure when she died. But why should the sheriff be worried?”

“A few years back, Tate and I executed a mental health hold on Miz Durkee. She’d been shooting her rifle at buildings in Limekiln. However, she was the ex-sister-in-law of his chief deputy, and Tate knew she’d had a history of psychiatric care. So, instead of preferring criminal charges, he wanted to take her over to Plattsburg. And, after I spoke with her, I was in full agreement. But she wasn’t, of course.

“A month later, her attorney filed a letter of intent to sue us and the county. Nothing ever came of it, though.”

“Well, you and the sheriff would have been protected under qualified immunity, unless she had something more specific that she said you’d done wrong.”

“It was a laundry list. The one that stood out was that she said she was choking and that we didn’t do anything about it. She did start coughing at one point and asked for something to drink, but she never said she was choking. We stopped at Coldwater Junction and got her a bottle of cold water and Tate cuffed her hands in front, so she could drink it. Then, as we pulled back onto the interstate, she tried to dump the water on Tate’s back, through the mesh barrier.”

“What did Sheriff Plummer do?”

I chuckled. “He put on the lights and siren and got us to the state hospital ASAP.” Then I added, “Listening to a siren gets old real quick.”

“I understand Nick Durkee has retained you,” I said. “Now, knowing our history with Miz Durkee, if push comes to shove, you can offer Tate and I as an alternate theory of the crime.”

“Hey, do I call you up and tell you how to do your work? But do you recall exactly when that choking occurred?” he chortled.

Then he asked, “So, why did you call, Gary?”

“It’s a long story,” I sighed, “but I think our Mental Health program is getting screwed around by some people in authority, and maybe some of our clients’ ADA rights are being abused. I’d like to talk to a civil rights attorney. I was wondering if you might know someone to recommend, or at least suggest some names that won’t steer me wrong.”

“Seriously? This isn’t a joke?”

“Not at all. In fact, we’ll be forced to close the rehab bakery at the end of the month, unless we can find some way to push back. And it’s putting pressure on one of our staff members who used to be a client, and who’s still pretty fragile.”

“So you don’t know about my step-daughter?”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a step-daughter. Uh, what about her?” I hoped I hadn’t somehow blundered into a painful family issue.

“She just passed the state bar exam. She’s joined my practice and intends to work in civil rights, as much as she can.”

“Seriously? This isn’t a ... Never mind, I just remembered you don’t have a sense of humor.”

“According to the man whose written statement for the police said that the assailant he had just shot and killed had literally kicked the bucket.”

“Well, he had. Haven’t you ever seen that movie, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World?”

“I have, but we were talking about your desire to consult a civil rights attorney.”

“Oh, yeah. So are you recommending her, or just trying to get Nina off your back? Assuming this is Nina’s daughter we’re talking about.”

“It is, but, if anything, it would be to get Nora out of her mother’s office, so Nina can get some work done.”

“Can I talk to her on your retainer, or do I need a credit card?”

“No charge for an initial consult.”

“Now we’re talking my kind of money.”

“She’s here, now. Shall I transfer you?”

“Please, Stan. And thanks.”

I was on hold for about half a minute.

“Mister Mazur?” came a mellow-toned voice. “Hi. I’m Nora Galin. My Dad says you’re a smart-ass.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t say your Dad has no sense of humor, but I have a nagging suspicion that he thinks Monty Python is funny.”

She laughed. “You sure have him pegged. He also mentioned that you had good insights into people.”

“Maybe, but what clued me into your Dad was the Monty Python T-shirt he wore to my arraignment hearing.”

Another laugh. “I could just picture that -- as a prelude to the end times.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. Then I said, in a sober tone, “Your Dad’s a good guy. He saw me through a tough time.”

“Me, too. More than once. So, what’s going on over there that you think might require a civil rights lawyer?”

I explained it to her. With all my superfluous whining, that took about ten minutes.

“Now isn’t that interesting,” she said. “I had heard that Marty August was dating an attorney from Leaufroide. What does Adrienne Babbitt look like?”

“Jeez, I’m rotten at describing people, but I’d say she’s a bit on the short side, brown hair, wears it kind a’ short, uh, full figured, I guess you could say, I’ve never seen her except in a dress or a business suit skirt, usually worn a bit short, by local standards, not that I’m, uh, ah ... maybe, um, mid to late thirties, but I’m especially bad at ages.” I stumbled over the comment, thrown off my by clumsy lapse toward impropriety.

She chuckled at my omission. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen Marty out with her at a couple restaurants. If it’s her, she does have nice legs. I just hope she doesn’t think she’s exclusive with him.”

“Maybe you should save that little nugget for your cross examination.”

She laughed again. “I wonder if she knows his name used to be Augustiniak before he shortened it so it would fit on billboards.”

I laughed. “How do you know that?”

“I went to grade school with his youngest sister. Well, she was a couple years ahead of me. Her name was Augustiniak.”

“You grew up in Plattsburg?”

“Until I was ten. Mom had met Stan at a legal secretary CEU conference in Kingston and we moved there after they were married. My first Dad died in a lumbering accident when I was six.”

I chose not to put her on the spot about remembering her father. If she had fond memories, it could be painful. If she hardly remembered him, it could be embarrassing. In either case, it was likely more than twenty years ago, so instead I asked, “Do you prefer big city life, or small town?”

“I liked the city when I was a teenager, but now I prefer Plattsburg. Except there’s not a lot of call for civil rights work. I’ve only had my license for a month, so yours could be my first case. Mostly I’ve been helping Mom and Dad with their work.”

“That’s not the way your Dad tells it. He says you’re distracting your Mom from her duties.”

“Distracting her by helping her plan a trip for their twentieth anniversary, is what he means. She wants two weeks, he’s only agreed to one.”

“Tell him that, if he’s only gone for a week, then Sheriff Plummer and I will see that he spends the first three days of the second week at the state hospital over there. He knows we’re good for it. Besides, I’ve met your Mom. She seems way too much fun for only a single week.”

“I agree. It’s all I can do not to beg to go with them.”

“Where does she plan to go?”

“Hawaii.”

“Of course. I paid for that trip last year. I’m sure it’ll cover two weeks.”

“I’ll remind Dad,” she chuckled.

“But,” she said, “time to get serious. When would be a good time for me to come over there?”

“Ah, I thought we could save some money by coming over there.”

“Don’t worry about the money. If I take the case, it will be on a contingency retainer. So, when would be a good time?”

“Whenever, then. Sooner would be better, what with our June thirty deadline.”

“What about today?”

“My schedule’s open starting at eleven-thirty.”

“Do you know a good place for lunch?”

“Depends. Do you like lasagna with meat sauce?”

“I like good lasagna with meat sauce.”

“Then you’re in luck. The Saint Louis Bakery and Deli has Sue Takahashi making the lasagna today. It’s always good, but hers is the best. I think its something in the way she browns the meat. Don’t be late, though, because we usually run out.”