Read A Safe Place for Dying Online
Authors: Jack Fredrickson
A Safe Place for Dying (16 page)
The Maple Hills police station occupies a redbrick building designed to look like something in Colonial Williamsburg. Parking is in back, because nobody in eighteenth-century Williamsburg parked cars in front.
I got there a half hour early and waited in the painted cinder-block hall, reading public notices about lawn-sprinkling restrictions while I drank vending-machine coffee from a paper cup that had a losing poker hand printed on it.
Stanley arrived at quarter to ten, holding the door open for Bob Ballsard. Stanley's pale blue uniform looked crisp, but the skin on his face sagged like it was falling off of its own weight. Ballsard wore one of his blue blazers, a yellow tie with blue anchors on it, tan trousers, and polished boat shoes with no socks. He looked like he was going to a dockside tent party at the Chicago Yacht Club.
They paused in the hall.
“Elstrom,” Ballsard smiled nautically, “the chief invited you?”
“Actually, it was Agent Till. Seems he's angry at you and me.”
His lips closed around his teeth, choking off the smile. I
couldn't tell if he was mad at Till's impertinence at being angry or because of the indignity of being lumped in with me.
couldn't tell if he was mad at Till's impertinence at being angry or because of the indignity of being lumped in with me.
“We'll see who's angry at whom,” he said. He marched down the hall with Stanley following a half step behind.
The Bohemian arrived five minutes later. He was impeccably dressed as always, but there was a tight look to the skin around his eyes. The days were not being kind to the Bohemian. We walked together into the police department conference room.
Agent Till sat hunched forward at the end of the narrow folding table, his watch unstrapped and lying on the fake wood-grain table top. He was murmuring something to a red-faced Chief Morris, who sat to his left and looked like he would rather be anywhere but in that room. At the other end of the table, Ballsard and Stanley sat like two spinsters at a rock party, not speaking. Till gave me a quick, annoyed look as the Bohemian and I sat down. He repositioned his wristwatch a quarter inch to the left in front of him and began.
“Gentlemen, we need to get some things straight, starting with the fact that Chief Morris here is in charge of investigating this case.” Next to him, Chief Morris shifted gingerly in his chair like he had stones in his underwear. “We need all the leads we can get, but the chief, and I as necessary, will chase them down. Outside help is not needed.” Till aimed his eyes at me. “Am I being clear, Mr. Elstrom?”
“You bet.”
“That said, tell us how you came across the name of Michael Jaynes.”
“Actually, it was Stanley. He remembered that at the time the guard shack blew up, there had been a problem with one of the electric contractors. A supervisor had not shown up to do some final wiring, and there'd been concern that it would delay the issuance of the occupancy permits. Stanley wondered if the man's
absence was tied to the explosion. He checked it out, found nothing. We thought it would be worth a second look. I found the contractor, Universal Electric, and asked about him. They remembered sending on his last paycheck, a copy of which you are getting in the mail.”
absence was tied to the explosion. He checked it out, found nothing. We thought it would be worth a second look. I found the contractor, Universal Electric, and asked about him. They remembered sending on his last paycheck, a copy of which you are getting in the mail.”
“Like Mr. Elstrom just told you,” Stanley said, “I checked with Universal Electric right after the guardhouse exploded. They told me Michael Jaynes had a family problem and had quit his job. Now, I know they lied about that because they didn't want any trouble getting final payment, but back then, I couldn't see any connection between Jaynes and the bombing, so I dropped it.”
Agent Till reached in his shirt pocket for reading glasses, slipped them on, and opened a manila folder. “I don't know that he is much of a lead, but Michael Jaynes is interesting. He had an ordinary boyhood in Santa Rosa, California. Only child, average student, ran track in high school. Went to U.S.C., dropped out at the end of his freshman year. Got drafted, Vietnam, 1965â66. Reupped, took another tour over there. Wounded in a firefight, two Purple Hearts, got out in 1968. Got hired by Universal Electric. Good worker, they made him a supervisor. He was in charge of the Crystal Waters project until April 22, 1970, after which he didn't show up.” He looked at us over the top of his reading glasses. “According to his Army 201 file, he did advanced classes in demolition after basic training.” Till put down the folder and looked at the Bohemian. “Any chance you could pinpoint the day back in 1970 that you dropped the ten grand behind the restaurant?”
“I could check the old records to find out when the developers withdrew the money.”
“No need, Mr. Chernek,” Stanley said. “I remember. It was the night of April 22. It was Earth Day; there were protesters all over Chicago that evening. I was worried I wouldn't get through all the traffic tie-ups.”
“Jaynes disappeared the next day.” Till looked at Stanley. “Yet you say you saw no connection?”
“Not after Universal Electric explained it as a family problem.” Stanley dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.
Agent Till looked at Stanley for a long minute before he turned back to his folder. “As I said, gentlemen, Mr. Jaynes is an interesting man. He has not been seen, or heard from, since. No G.I. Bill applications, no claims for Army medical, no filing of income tax returns. For all intents and purposes, the man known as Michael Jaynes disappeared from the world when he quit Crystal Waters, the day after ten thousand dollars was left in the Dumpster.”
“He changed his name and disappeared,” the Bohemian said.
“And that's consistent with the facts,” Till said. “
If
it was Jaynes who blew up your guardhouse in 1970, he extorted your money and high-tailed it out of here. His parents were dead, he wasn't married, he didn't have any kids we know of. He saw a chance to score, took it, and vaporized.”
If
it was Jaynes who blew up your guardhouse in 1970, he extorted your money and high-tailed it out of here. His parents were dead, he wasn't married, he didn't have any kids we know of. He saw a chance to score, took it, and vaporized.”
“All for the huge sum of ten thousand dollars,” I said.
“Ten grand was a lot of money back then,” Till said.
“Not to a guy who had bigger plans. We don't have the 1970 letters, but Stanley and Mr. Chernek think the notes they received this summer are identicalâsame pencil lettering, same paper. It's not that much of a reach to think he wrote those back in 1970, too. And as we know, those demanded fifty thousand, and the five hundred thousand Stanley just paid.”
Till shrugged. “He got scared after the guardhouse, so he took the money and ran. Change of heart. It happens.”
“Come on, Till. It takes him all those years to get to thinking of the painless way he scored the ten grand, of the plan he put in place back then, of the notes he wrote, and don't let us forget all that D.X.12 he planted in the ground, before he decides to come back for another helping?”
Till looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Your point?”
“Our man never planned to quit at ten thousand dollars. It was a test run, just for openers. Then something stopped him, caused him to abort the plan. That's the key. Find what stopped him all those years ago, and you'll find your man.”
“Like from this?” He held up some white sheets of paper. “Your fabled parolee list?”
“Just because he isn't on the Illinois list doesn't mean the idea's not worth trying. You can do parolees for the whole country.”
“We did. Too many names to chase down.”
“What about Nadine Reynolds?”
Till looked at me, his face momentarily blank. “Who?”
“The woman Michael Jaynes listed as a contact on his employment application. I called you for her address.”
Till nodded and flipped through his file folder. He came to a photocopy. “Nadine Reynolds. General Delivery, Clarinda, California. I forwarded an interview request to our San Francisco office, asking them to check her out.”
“That's it? You forwarded a request?”
He took off his reading glasses. “Between us, the F.B.I., and local and state cops, we get hundreds of reports of terrorist sightings, bomb threats, and what-have-you, every day. Some days it seems like every Jordanian cabdriver, Egyptian flight student, and Saudi college kid around Chicago is reported doing something suspicious. Our reality is we have to check them all out. To say we're short-staffed doesn't cover the half of it.” He rubbed his eyes and looked around the table. “Do I believe there's a real threat at Crystal Waters? Yes. Does it rank with the other threats we get every single day, the bomb threats against big buildings, somebody overhearing something on the train about a plan to poison the water supply, or the hourly incidents at Milwaukee, O'Hare, and Midway airports? Maybe. I don't know. Without concrete evidence
linking these notes”âhe tapped his manila fileâ“to the two explosions you've had this summer, I'm limited in what I can do.”
linking these notes”âhe tapped his manila fileâ“to the two explosions you've had this summer, I'm limited in what I can do.”
“What about ground-penetrating radar?” Stanley asked.
Till shrugged. “You can hire private contractors, if you want to waste the money, but my guess is that G.P.R. will never find it all. I certainly can't provide federal resources for that.”
The Bohemian spoke. “Then what are you telling us? We're not to chase down our own leads, yet you're too busy to offer us help?”
“I'm telling you to quit being such damned fools,” Till snapped. “I don't want you chasing down anything, making things worse, like your man Elstrom might have done last Sunday night.” He looked around the table. “Have any of you considered that Elstrom was spotted and scared away the bomber from the pickup? And that now the money is rotting somewhere, buried under tons of food waste and household trash, while your bomber is angrily planning something worse?” He glared down the table at Bob Ballsard. “But even more, I want you to quit being negligent with human lives. What is it about evacuation you don't understand? You might have bundles of D.X.12 wired together all over your little community, wanting just one spark to turn you all into ash. And don't tell me about your security; it's for shit. Get the people the hell out of Crystal Waters.”
Till grabbed his wristwatch from the table, jammed it in his suit coat pocket, and stood up. “I'm done. Any questions, direct them to Chief Morris.” He turned quickly and left the room. Chief Morris got up before anybody could ask him anything and followed Till.
“Bobâ” the Bohemian began, but Ballsard, red faced, was already marching out of the door. Stanley made a move to follow him, but the Bohemian motioned for him to stay.
“We must trace this Nadine Reynolds on our own,” the Bohemian said to both of us.
“You just heard what Till thinks of that,” I said.
“I also saw him fumble the lead about Nadine Reynolds. The man has too much on his plate.”
I looked at Stanley.
“Stanley has other commitments, Vlodek. You have to be the one to go to California to find Nadine Reynolds.”
“Chances are, she's long gone,” I said.
“What other leads do we have?”
“Till said he forwarded the information to the A.T.F. office in San Francisco,” I said. “He'll follow up.”
The Bohemian nodded, watching my eyes.
The clock ticked on the cinder-block wall.
“Surf's up,” I said.
“How are you going to start?” Leo yelled into the phone.
I pressed the cell phone harder against my ear. I was next to a window at an unoccupied discount airline gate at Midway Airport, trying to get away from yelling kids, hysterical parents, and the bobblehead on the loudspeaker, so in love with his own voice he'd been paging the same guy for the past half hour. I like discount flyers; they're cheap, and they take off the same day they're scheduled. But sound bounces around their end of the concourse like monkeys banging on drums, and it's always tough to talk on the phone. I moved behind a vacant check-in counter and crouched down.
“Say again, Leo.”
“Do you have a plan?” he yelled.
“Drive up to Clarinda, ask at the bank, start trolling the town looking for people who know her.”
“Why fly all the way to California? Hire a local. Or better yet, why not have A.T.F. do it?”
“That's what I told the Bohemian. He doesn't want to wait. Since Nadine Reynolds is our only lead, he wants me out there,
Johnny on the spot, to pursue it right away. Besides, A.T.F. is easily derailed these days, getting tons of threat alerts.”
Johnny on the spot, to pursue it right away. Besides, A.T.F. is easily derailed these days, getting tons of threat alerts.”
“At least the Gateville people are no longer buying the idea that the matter's over, since the payoff's been made.”
“No. Now they're realizing that if getting five hundred large is that easy, this Michael Jaynes, or whoever, is coming back for more. What scares me is he'll blow up something else first, to get us frantic before he sends another note. Next time he goes for a million, the A.T.F. agent said.”
The bobblehead was back on the P.A. system, this time with four new names.
“I told you, Dek,” Leo said when he heard the bobblehead pause for air.
“Told me what?”
“Told you you'd get lucky with a lead. I just didn't think it would be this quick.”
“Or this good. A bona-fide link to a name.”
The boarding call for my flight came over the loudspeaker. I told Leo I had to go.
“Dek?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't let the California beach babes touch your privates.”
I laughed, sort of.
If I'd owned a surfboard, I would have been angry I'd packed it. San Francisco Airport was cold, fifty-five degrees, and rainy when my flight landed at three that afternoon. I took the shuttle to the car rental building and stood in line at Avis. When it was my turn, I told the blond lady I wanted a convertible. It's been raining for days, the lady said. They had plenty, Mustangs and Sebrings. What did I want? I said red.
I snailed north on 101, one more clot in the afternoon rush hour. To the north, San Francisco was invisible in the soup. After
an hour, and maybe ten miles, 101 dissolved into a maze of city streets. I kept on for another ten minutes, following the traffic and looking for a gas station to ask for directions, when the Golden Gate Bridge came out of the mist like a ghost ship, not gold at all but a rusty red-orange, almost the same hue as Willadean the Electric Lady's hair.
an hour, and maybe ten miles, 101 dissolved into a maze of city streets. I kept on for another ten minutes, following the traffic and looking for a gas station to ask for directions, when the Golden Gate Bridge came out of the mist like a ghost ship, not gold at all but a rusty red-orange, almost the same hue as Willadean the Electric Lady's hair.
I drove across the bay, into the green haze of hills in Sausalito and Mill Valley. By now, the traffic had thinned and the rain had stopped. It was six thirty. And it was California. Fifty-five degrees or not, I pulled over, dug a sweater from my duffel to put on under my windbreaker, slipped on my Cubs cap to alert the Californians I was a tourist, and dropped the top of the Sebring.
I cut west, over to Highway 1, the old two-lane blacktop that chases the crags of the California coast. The airline magazine said it was all hairpin turns and switchback curves, offering views of protected land and undeveloped shoreline that were not to be missed. The airline writer was no romantic, but she was right. I got stuck behind two flatbed produce trucks lumbering through gear changes and a vanload of gawking tourists, their heads stuck out their windows like pigeons begging for peanuts, and I didn't mind at all. In the mist, the rock formations down in the froth along the shore looked like herds of prehistoric dinosaurs, hunkering down in the shallow waters for the night.
The road curved inland, and I drove through farmland that looked like Iowa until it curved back again to the sea. I got to Bodega Bay at dark. Clarinda was due north, and Santa Rosa, boyhood home of Michael Jaynes, was east. I opted for neither and pulled off in front of an old frame motel right on Bodega Bay.
While the dark-haired teenaged girl processed my credit card, I thumbed through a guidebook for sale on the counter. It said that Bodega Bay was the film site of Alfred Hitchcock's
The Birds.
I remembered three scenes in the movie: a house that was attacked by birds, a school that was attacked by birds, and a café where a
tweedy old lady, who resembled a bird, opined that doom was in the offing. The guidebook said the house had been extensively modified with plywood by Hitchcock and had never been a recognizable tourist site once the plywood was removed; the school wasn't in the town at all, but several miles to the east; and the café had been expanded so often it no longer looked like the place in the movie. Welcome, film buffs, to Bodega Bay, site of
The Birds.
The Birds.
I remembered three scenes in the movie: a house that was attacked by birds, a school that was attacked by birds, and a café where a
tweedy old lady, who resembled a bird, opined that doom was in the offing. The guidebook said the house had been extensively modified with plywood by Hitchcock and had never been a recognizable tourist site once the plywood was removed; the school wasn't in the town at all, but several miles to the east; and the café had been expanded so often it no longer looked like the place in the movie. Welcome, film buffs, to Bodega Bay, site of
The Birds.
The girl handed me my room key and told me that the restaurant across the street would close in half an hour. I have that kind of face; it always looks hungry. I left my bag in the car and ambled across Highway 1, deserted now, in the dark, of trucks and tourists. The restaurant was old and paneled and apparently had not been featured in
The Birds,
but it was serving sea bass and lime pie, and I had both, with coffee, although it was late for caffeine, past ten o'clock. I was the only customer, and the waitress, a nervous woman without much of a smile, left me alone. At eleven, having successfully fended off starvation for another night, I walked back across the highway. My room was old enough to have windows that opened all the way, and I fell asleep listening to the water lap at the pier pilings, remembering another such place, on an inlet off Lake Michigan, where Amanda and I stayed once when we were married.
The Birds,
but it was serving sea bass and lime pie, and I had both, with coffee, although it was late for caffeine, past ten o'clock. I was the only customer, and the waitress, a nervous woman without much of a smile, left me alone. At eleven, having successfully fended off starvation for another night, I walked back across the highway. My room was old enough to have windows that opened all the way, and I fell asleep listening to the water lap at the pier pilings, remembering another such place, on an inlet off Lake Michigan, where Amanda and I stayed once when we were married.
I was up at seven the next morning, but that was Chicago time. It was only 5:00 A.M. in California, and the roosters in Bodega Bay were still chilling in their rooster haciendas. The restaurant across the street was open, though, and as I went to a booth, I eyed the lime pie sitting in the glass case. There was plenty leftâmy piece last night was the only triangle missingâand fruit is always good for breakfast. But it was a new day. I had whole-wheat toast and black coffee and felt the leaner for it. I did get a slice of the pie to go, though, in case I got stranded in the desert, should a desert appear along the ocean coast highway.
I walked back to the motel. As I paid my bill, I asked the counter clerk about Clarinda.
“Not much there,” she said. “Mostly it's a hub for practitioners of the therapies.”
“Therapies?”
She walked around the counter to the tourist brochure rack, picked out a directory the size of a small phone book, and handed it to me. “They're all in here. Whatever problems you're having with your aura, your pet, your living room furniture, or if you just want to get more intimate with your plants, these people can take care of it.” She smiled a good, sane smile. I thanked her for the book and walked out.
The sun was brightening the sky behind the rolling hills to the east. No rain today. I put the top down on the convertible and drove out of Bodega Bay, site of the film
The Birds.
The Birds.
Highway 1 was still empty of tourists and truckers. Clarinda was less than an hour away, even if I poked along, so I drove slow, and stopped at most of the observation points to watch the rising sun color the monstrous stone humps in the water first red, then orange, then yellow. I lingered at one particularly spectacular vista, listening to the ocean pound below, watching the colors of the coast change, second by second, before my eyes. I forced myself to remember the wires under the lamppost, and how likely it was that others just like them connected dozens, maybe hundreds, of highyield explosives throughout Gateville. It seemed impossible that something like that could exist on the same planet that offered the beauty I was seeing along the California coast.
Even with poking along, I got to the brown molded plastic sign welcoming me to Clarinda at eight thirty. The town was a hundred yards up, not much more than a wide place in the road, with a green two-island BP gas station, a small general store, and, fifty yards past those, a long white frame building with green shutters and another molded plastic sign, also brown, saying it was the
Clarinda Inn and Convention Center. I swung into the B.P. and filled up. The young girl inside was Asian and didn't understand English. She gave me correct change for my twenty, but when I asked her about the Clarinda State Bank, she giggled and tried to give me the key to the men's room. I smiled back and left.
Clarinda Inn and Convention Center. I swung into the B.P. and filled up. The young girl inside was Asian and didn't understand English. She gave me correct change for my twenty, but when I asked her about the Clarinda State Bank, she giggled and tried to give me the key to the men's room. I smiled back and left.
The gravel lot in front of the Clarinda Inn was empty except for a rusted old Plymouth Reliant and a faded tan Volkswagen Microbus that looked straight out of the sixties. The bus was painted with red flowers and round blue peace symbols and had a POLLUTIONâIT'S EVERYBODY'S WORRY sticker on the back bumper. I'd seen television images of the sixties, of dark swooping helicopters, bright flashes of ground fire, and men running with stretchers in Vietnam; of girls flashing their fingers in a
V,
for peace, as they put daisies into rifle barrels held by stiff-faced, trembling National Guardsmen; and of hippies, rolling down the road in Volkswagen buses adorned with flowers and peace symbols. Apparently, some were still rolling, and one had rolled to a stop right in front of the Clarinda Inn. I parked next to it, stepped around the oil it was leaking, and went in.
V,
for peace, as they put daisies into rifle barrels held by stiff-faced, trembling National Guardsmen; and of hippies, rolling down the road in Volkswagen buses adorned with flowers and peace symbols. Apparently, some were still rolling, and one had rolled to a stop right in front of the Clarinda Inn. I parked next to it, stepped around the oil it was leaking, and went in.
There was no one at the desk. The sign above the dining room entrance said to seat myself, so I did, at a small table by the window that looked out over Highway 1 and the ocean inlet just beyond. Only two of the other tables, both by the window in the long, dark hall, were occupied. A young girl, fresh-faced without makeup and wearing a red-checkered apron, came over. “Breakfast?” she asked.
“That would be great.” I was thinking of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and hash browns. Surely no one would count the dry piece of whole-wheat toast I'd had earlier as anything but a crouton.
“Coming right up,” she said, and left.
I sat and looked out the window while I waited for her to bring a menu.
There were four middle-aged women at the next table, dressed to varying degrees in faded denim and flowery blouses. None wore
much makeup. As they chatted, first one, then another would get up and go to a small table in the corner, to return with a glass of cranberry juice. Being tack-sharp from the top-down drive in the morning air, I looked around and noticed the coffee was kept elsewhere, on a sideboard, alongside glass pitchers of orange juice. I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee.
much makeup. As they chatted, first one, then another would get up and go to a small table in the corner, to return with a glass of cranberry juice. Being tack-sharp from the top-down drive in the morning air, I looked around and noticed the coffee was kept elsewhere, on a sideboard, alongside glass pitchers of orange juice. I got up and poured myself a cup of coffee.
In a few minutes, my waitress returned, carrying a plate. She set it down in front of me. It held two little stacked pancakes, topped by a lone, shrunken raspberry.
I smiled up at her. “I haven't ordered yet.”
She looked at me as though I'd said I left my lunar orbiter idling on the roof. “You said you wanted breakfast, sir.”
“I don't recall ordering this.” I looked down again at the two tiny cakes and the puckered berry. If they continued to serve food that looked that small, they ought to start using smaller plates.
“We don't cook to order,” she said. “We offer one entrée for breakfast. Today, it's granola cakes with raspberry.”
I caught the singular on “raspberry.” “I'll eat it,” I said. California was making me healthier by the minute.
She left, and I ate the poor raspberry in one bite, sparing it from further isolation atop the two griddle cakes. I cut the pancakes into tiny squares to make them last and looked out the window while I ate.
“I'm thinking of getting into reflexology,” one of the women at the next table said, as she returned with another glass of cranberry juice. Either my hearing was improving in the California air or the conversation at the next table was getting louder. The woman speaking was pretty in a natural way, blond hair with streaks of gray, and a rose blush on her cheeks. “Things are becoming so competitive, I can't just do aromatherapy and massage. I've got to find another niche to survive.” I snuck a peek at the other three women at the table. They were nodding enthusiastically in agreement.
Another of them, this one red-haired, drained her glass with a
flourish, got up, and walked over to the corner table for a refill. I wondered again why they kept the cranberry juice on one table, the orange juice next to the coffee on another. Then again, I was in California, and perhaps that was explanation enough.
flourish, got up, and walked over to the corner table for a refill. I wondered again why they kept the cranberry juice on one table, the orange juice next to the coffee on another. Then again, I was in California, and perhaps that was explanation enough.
I looked around the room. The only other occupied table was shared by a bearded fellow with a ponytail and an overweight girl in desperate need of a bra. They were also drinking cranberry juice. I caught my young waitress as she walked by. “Why do you keep the cranberry juice on one table and the orange juice on another?”
She looked where I was pointing. “Oh, no, sir, that's sherry. We serve it during afternoon tea, but it's there all day.”
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