Another Dead Republican (23 page)

“Hackers can stop the Internet?”

“They can do a lot of damage to our side. We’ve tried to fight back, but they’ve got money. Way more than my piddly millions. No, I’m just giving you examples of how they fought and are still fighting. Dirty, mean, and desperate.”

Was he complaining that their side hadn’t had the money to be as dirty and mean? Or that they wanted to but couldn’t because of moral principles? Or that they had been beaten at the dirty-mean game?

“Are these hackers the ones who stole the election for them?”

“Maybe. I think the hacking has been very hush-hush, very low key. Few people really knew what was going on.”

The best kind of conspiracy. Nobody really knows what’s going on. The less people know, the more you can make up.

“You didn’t hire hackers of your own?”

“We’ve hired counter-hackers. We couldn’t afford both them and attack hackers. And we didn’t want to win by out-hacking them. We wanted to win honestly.”

“Why didn’t you hire someone to investigate before the election?”

“I was foolish. I didn’t think of it. I won money. I didn’t win brains.”

“You have proof they stole the election?”

“What election machines are being used in Wisconsin?” he asked.

I said, “I heard of a company, Flisterbiddle something.”

“The machines are Firbutton 20’s made by Flisterbiddle Von Struthers, Incorporated.”

Adlow had told us a bit, but it turned out Smith knew more or claimed he did. Smith said, “Firbutton 20’s were purchased with a no bid contract. They were built, designed, and programmed by minions of the republipigs. All of it was arranged and stage managed by the governor and the republipig party. That Mary Mallon is a threat to the existence of all that is decent. She’s an idiot, an incompetent fool. She couldn’t steal her own asshole.”

What an odd concept, but the derogatory meaning kind of worked. I
tried to picture the theft of this intimate part of your own anatomy, couldn’t. I avoided looking at Scott and kept the smile off my face as Smith continued, “The actual people in charge of the republipig operation in Harrison County are a Mr. and Mrs. Grum. Your sister married into them, but how much do you know about them?”

“I know they’re awful people, but I don’t how they’d go about stealing an election.”

Bowers looked bored. He’d yet to say a word. He was careful to act alert when his meal-ticket looked at him. I felt guilt about my disparaging of his caring for the old man. I’d been sneering at the Grums and now this simple thought about this poor kid who was probably trying his best to live his life made me feel guilty. I had to get a grip.

Smith said, “There’s all kinds of history here, all kinds. Mrs. Grum has been in the news for election violations a number of times. A gay candidate for U.S. Congress ran in a district that included a slice of Harrison County. He lost because of the stunningly high turnout and lopsided vote in the Harrison County portion of the district.” He thumped his cane on the ground next to his chair, waved a finger at me. “Accusations of fraud flew at the time. Investigations were held, lawyers fought, and six months later a squib at the bottom of page thirty-nine in the local paper said violations probably occurred, but no criminal charges were going to be filed. The item made the gay news websites, but the world doesn’t often dance to the tune the gay media plays. Hell, I tried to buy space to advertise for the recall in the few nationwide gay magazines left. I never got my calls answered. No wonder so many of them folded.”

I asked, “Do you know what the Grums did specifically this time?”

Smith continued, “Flisterbiddle Von Struthers is a fake company. The real owners are the Ducharmé brothers. You know them?”

I nodded.

“They are among the billionaire oligarchs determined to make sure laws are passed and tax breaks are given in local, state, and federal legislatures to make themselves and their cronies even more wealthy billionaire oligarchs. To win the election they are manipulating gasoline prices by using their money to drive up the cost of oil through mad speculation. There are those who doubt they would do such a thing. I don’t. They want the economy to fail. That’s treason. To the Ducharmés we are like toys in the hands of children. We are playthings for their amusement.” He puffed hard, coughed and hacked. Bowers put a hand on his back and caressed him gently. Smith’s spell subsided slowly.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you want to stop?”

“I’m fine. I’m going to die.” He waved a hand to stop my expressions of sympathy. “We’re all going to die. I’m just nearer the head of the line than most.” He drew several deep breaths. Bowers handed him what looked like a throat lozenge. Smith took it and sucked contentedly.

When he seemed better, I asked, “How did you find out about the company and the machines and their connection to them?”

He shifted in his seat. He glanced at Bowers.

“Some time ago one of their campaign workers came to me.”

“They have a traitor in their midst?”

He said, “You can have a thousand campaign workers. One of them has to have a conscience, even if he’s a republipig. One of them has got to be honest. However, this was the first I heard of it in my long life.”

I didn’t contradict him. There had to be at least one good Republican. I was fairly certain about that, maybe more than one, although I was less sure about that.

“What did the campaign worker say?”

“That she was suspicious. She’s a lesbian. A closeted lesbian. A frightened, closeted lesbian. After I talked with her, I knew I needed a plan.” He sighed. He clutched his cane with his right hand. His left began to twitch slightly. His left knee trembled. He continued, “Then I got too smart for my own good. I found a reporter for the
Milwaukee Gazette
who was hungry for a story. He had a suspicious editor as well. He got himself hired as one of the tech people on the campaign.” He ran hands crinkled with arthritis over his eyes. He passed them over his sagging jowls. I saw tears in his eyes. He whispered, “And they killed him.” Tears fell.

Bowers held out a tissue box for him.

Smith blotted his eyes and his nose, folded the tissue into a small wad, then continued while clutching the dampened wad of paper. “It’s my fault he’s dead. All my money, and I killed him. I wish I’d never won that money. All that money wasn’t worth it. Not worth a beautiful, sweet young man’s life.” He drew deep breaths for several minutes.

Bowers put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.” His voice was gentle and soft. “You were doing what you hoped was best. You didn’t know they were like that. You didn’t know they’d kill to get what they wanted.”

The old man nodded and sniffled. “I should have known. It was my own hubris, my own hubris that got someone killed. I thought that much money solved everything.” He gulped, sniffled some more, wiped his nose. “Zachary Ross. He was a beautiful young man. Yes, physically, but most important, a kind, gentle soul, trying to do right, and he got in with those vipers, and they killed him. I will never forgive myself. But I’m old. I’ll die soon anyway. He had wonderful years ahead of him.” Bowers held out to him the trash can from the side of the desk. Smith threw in the tissue. He sat up straighter. “But I can avenge him. I can get even with these people. I can find out who killed him.”

“We’re not official investigators.”

“You’re here asking questions. Each time I create a new enemy for them, I’m taking a step in the right direction, and you’re an in to the Grum family. We haven’t had that before.”

“I’m a brother-in-law.”

“Who is staying at Edgar’s house. It’s a start and it’s more than we had before you walked in the door.”

True as far as it went, and I was there to help my sister. I didn’t care much that Edgar was gone or who did it, but if finding that out would help Veronica, fine. If it would keep her from being arrested, perfect. As a bonus, if we discovered who and how either the Grums or the Ducharmés cheated on the election, even better.

Scott asked, “What exactly happened to the reporter?”

“The killers made it look like an accident. A week ago the police found his body floating in the lake.”

“How do you know it wasn’t an accident?”

Bowers said, “How do you accidentally jump off a bridge?”

“It wasn’t suicide?” Scott asked.

Bowers responded, “He would never kill himself, never.”

“How do you know this?” I asked.

Bowers got a stubborn look. “I just know. I knew him. He was a friend.”

Smith added, “And the police didn’t say suicide. They said accident. It wasn’t raining so it wasn’t slippery. It was the Racine Avenue Bridge over the Milwaukee River. It’s an old bridge that you have to climb several railings to be able to jump in. You can’t just trip and fall off.”

“It didn’t make the news?” Scott asked.

“He was a minor reporter, little more than an intern. His position in the recall campaign was never mentioned. Even his death was hushed up. His editor is frightened. His editor has bosses. His editor has a publisher who takes a lot of advertising from Ducharmé-backed companies.”

“How’d you get Zachary Ross the job in the first place?”

“He’s a tech genius who decided not to get rich out in Silicon Valley. He was gay. He knew the good fight was going on right here. He wanted to be part of stopping them. Even six months ago we knew they’d try to pull something. If you don’t win an election by a landslide, the republipigs will find a way to steal it. Florida. Ohio. Need I say more?”

“Who interviewed him for the job at the campaign?”

“I don’t know a specific name. They were starting up the campaign, hiring all kinds of people. They started before we were done gathering signatures. Their budget was unlimited.”

I asked, “Is the lesbian alive?”

“Yes, but even more frightened than she was.”

“Will she talk to us?”

“I hope so.”

“Maybe you could call her.”

“I will.”

Scott asked, “Why didn’t they come after you? You were giving lots of money to the opposition.”

“Yes, but see, they always had more money. They knew they couldn’t be outspent. We had to outthink them, out plot them, out plan them, and I got somebody killed.” His crabbed left hand clutched at Bower’s sleeve, but he spoke to me. “You’ve got to do something. We’ve got to avenge his death.”

I said, “If they killed once, what’s to stop them from killing again?”

“You guys are famous. I just have money. They wouldn’t kill someone with fame and money. You people can fight back.”

“We don’t have the resources of the Ducharmé brothers. If they have access to killers, we’re in trouble. Even if I could, I’m not sure I want to summon killers.”

Smith said, “They can’t get away with this. You’ve got to investigate.”

Bowers spoke up, “They broke into Frank’s house last night.”

Smith said, “We don’t know who did it. I have many valuable things.”

Bowers said, “We were planning to attend a protest in Madison about them stealing the election. We were going to stay overnight. We forgot one of Frank’s medicines. We had to come back. We’d been gone maybe an hour. We saw a black SUV rush out of here just as we were pulling up the driveway. When we got inside, we saw that they tore up the house.”

I said, “You were lucky not to be here.” I looked around. “You cleaned up pretty fast.”

“I stayed up late.”

Frank said, “We don’t know it was them.”

Bowers said, “It had to be. I’m scared. What if they come back? What if they send an army of people?”

Frank said, “Does anybody have enough guns to defeat an army of the demented right wing? That’s why we have laws and civilization.”

“If they’re enough,” Bowers said.

Frank shook his head.

Scott said, “They came when you weren’t here. They might or might not have had something to do with the campaign. Whatever they are looking for is the problem, not you.”