Highway 61 (3 page)

He slowed to a brisk walk. The street sign on the corner told him he was on North Cumberland. Truhler couldn’t believe his luck. It was one of the few streets in Thunder Bay that he recognized. The Prince Arthur was on Cumberland. Truhler didn’t know where he was, but he was now convinced that if he kept walking he would eventually find safety. He walked for several miles, passing shipyards, windowless concrete buildings he could not identify, and a variety of retail outlets, all of them closed. Cars and trucks passed him, including one patrol car from the Thunder Bay Police Service. None of them stopped. He smoked cigarette after cigarette until the package was empty. His head throbbed and his hands trembled and he began to wonder if he was walking in the right direction. Eventually he found himself approaching Marina Park and, in the distance, his hotel. His heart leapt in his chest, and it was all he could do to keep from running again. He entered the hotel through the rear entrance, the one facing the parking lot. The desk clerk, a young woman with narrow glasses, glanced up at him and then back at whatever work she was doing. Truhler went directly to the stairway. His room was on the fifth floor, only he didn’t want to wait for the elevator, didn’t want to meet anyone on the elevator.

Truhler soon found his room. He went inside, making sure the door was locked behind him. He kept the lights off except for the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and took the longest shower of his life, filling the room with a thick cloud of steam. Afterward, he took three aspirin tablets and two capsules of ibuprofen from the plastic containers in his suitcase. He swallowed them along with a tall glass of water before climbing naked between the cool sheets of his bed. He felt like crying but didn’t. He had done all of his weeping in the shower.

The next morning, after a fitful sleep, Truhler dressed, packed, and drove home. During the long drive south he kept asking himself, “What happened?” By the time he reached the outlying suburbs of the Twin Cities, he decided nothing happened. This bit of self-deception lasted for about a week, lasted until a person or persons unknown sent a photograph to his cell phone. Truhler showed it to me after first making sure that Erica was still in the backyard; we downloaded it onto my computer so I could study it later. It was taken at a high angle and showed him on the bed and the girl on the floor. Their faces were clearly visible. The girl seemed very young. After waiting twenty-four hours to make sure Truhler was properly terrified, the blackmailer called and demanded money. Truhler paid it. Then he paid it again. And again. He paid the blackmail until he decided he couldn’t afford it anymore.

*   *   *

Truhler was upset that I wasn’t particularly impressed by his story.

“I know you think I’m lying,” he said.

I used to date a psychiatrist who told me one of the toughest parts of her job was getting past all the lies that patients told her; told themselves. When I asked how she could tell the difference, she said there were a number of things to look for. One was their emotional reaction to pointed questions. If they became angry or defensive, laughed nervously, or made accusations, she knew something was up. Another was their way of talking. If they spoke in a higher or lower pitch, or more quickly or slowly than usual, that could be a sign of lying. Still another clue was nonverbal body language. A shoulder shrug should never accompany a definitive statement. Wrapping legs or hands around chair legs or arms was a sign of restraint, of holding back, while leaning away might indicate lying because we lean away from things we want to avoid. She also had what she called the belly-button rule. She claimed that when we’re telling the truth we generally point our belly buttons toward our audience. When we’re lying, we turn away. If our belly buttons face the door or exit, it’s because subconsciously we want to escape. Yet my favorite clue was the simplest. She said patients were usually being honest when they said, “You may not believe me, but I’m telling the truth.” When they said, “I know you think I’m lying,” they nearly always were.

Jason Truhler did all of these things, all of them with the most sincere expression on his face. Still, there was nothing to be gained by calling him a liar.

“Tell me about the blackmailer,” I said. “Any idea of who he might be?”

“No.”

“How did he contact you?”

“The first time he called my cell phone.”

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. He only called that one time. After that it was text messages and e-mail. But…”

“But what?”

“He sounded black.”

“Don’t let the ACLU hear that. They’ll accuse you of profiling. Does your cell have caller ID?”

“Yes, but it never gives me a name, just a number. I hit recall after the first time. A recording said to please leave my message and then repeated the number. When he texted me, the numbers were different every time.”

“Probably using prepaid cell phones.”

“He’s smart,” Truhler said.

“Not necessarily. Cash is careless. It requires someone to pick it up, transport it, possibly launder it, deposit it—the FBI will be the first to tell you, always follow the money. The fact that the blackmailer isn’t using electronic transfers makes me question his sophistication. Let’s talk about the girl. Are you sure she was dead?”

“Of course I am.”

“Did you feel for a pulse?”

“No. God, McKenzie. She was dead, okay? The blood—Jesus Christ, the blood.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t you think I would have known if she was—if she was still alive?”

“I don’t know. Would you have?”

His eyes bulged in anger, and then diminished as he thought it through.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked.

“Let me tell you a story. Guy walks into a bar. Maybe he’s on a business trip. Maybe he’s in Thunder Bay, Ontario, for the blues festival. Could be he’s leaning on the stick, minding his own business, and the sexiest woman he’s ever seen sits next to him, and he offers to buy her a drink. Or she’s sitting at a table all alone and crying, and the guy, being a gentleman, decides to comfort her. In any case, the guy and the girl meet, they talk. She asks questions, and he tells her things—such a pretty girl he can’t help himself. He tells her he’s alone. He tells her he’s a big shot in—exactly what do you do for a living, Jason?”

“I work in agribusiness.”

“Lucrative, is it?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said softly.

“Yeah, and he tells her that, too. After a while it’s his place or hers, usually hers. Pretty soon the guy and the girl are doing—doing what? They’re being polite to each other. Isn’t that what you said before, that you were being polite? Suddenly there’s a knock on the door, and an angry man, usually a husband, is standing there with his hand out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s the original version of the badger game. It dates back to the nineteenth century. Hell, it probably dates back to the beginning of time. Nowadays, you don’t usually get an angry husband, though. Instead, the grifters more often confront the mark after the fact with photos or audiovisual. This works best with husbands or prominent businessmen afraid of scandal, and you’re neither of them, of course. For single guys like you there’s the threat of a rape charge; the woman claims the encounter wasn’t consensual, that it was rape, and she’s going to call the police. Or the girl is underage, which brings on a whole different set of problems. Are you sure the girl was old enough to drink, Jason?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“This version—I have to admit that this version shows imagination.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” I said.

“Goddammit!”

“Yeah, that’s much better.”

“You think it’s just one big, enormous fraud.”

“A guy with a camera being in the right place at the right time suggests planning.”

“What if—”

“What if the girl is really dead?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, Jason. What if?”

“I didn’t kill her, McKenzie. You have to know that.”

“The only thing I know for sure is that someone took a photograph and it wasn’t you.”

Truhler went to the kitchen window. After a moment, he said, “Rickie’s coming back.”

“She’s been very patient waiting all this time,” I said.

“Look, I don’t care about the girl.”

“What do you care about?”

“I just want the blackmail to stop.”

“Only two ways to do that. Get rid of the reason for the blackmail or get rid of the blackmailers.”

“Kill them?”

“No. Let’s be clear about that, Jason. If you’re looking for a hitter, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“What can we do?”

I didn’t like the way he said “we” but let it pass.

“When is your next payment due?” I said.

“They’ll probably contact me Tuesday or Wednesday.”

I chuckled at that.

“What?” he asked.

“Give me time to work, wouldja? It’s Sunday.”

“I know.”

“All right. First, we’ll find out if a crime has actually been committed.”

“How?”

“The newspaper.”

“What newspaper?”

I heard the door open behind me.

“Thunder Bay has a population of over one hundred and twenty thousand,” I said. “I bet it has a daily newspaper.”

“Newspapers are dead,” a voice said. “Everything is online now.”

I heard the door close. I turned to see Erica stamp her feet and unwind the scarf around her neck. She had her mother’s black hair, high cheekbones, and narrow nose and her father’s eyes and tapered chin. Her generous smile was up for grabs.

“It’s getting colder,” she said.

“Well, it is Minnesota in November,” her father said.

“Yes, but this is the first cold day we’ve had since August.”

We all laughed at the joke. It had been an odd November, with days like summer; this following a summer with days that reminded everyone of early winter. It was enough to make you wonder if all those environmentalists screaming about climate change might not be onto something.

There was a little more chitchat before Erica’s father decided it was time to leave. We all moved to my front door. Truhler was the first to reach it. He opened the door and stepped through it.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Sure,” I told him.

He gave his daughter a glance over his shoulder and then looked hard at me before continuing toward his car. I think the look was supposed to warn me to keep my mouth shut.

What a jerk,
my inner voice said.

“Are you going to help my father?” Erica asked.

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

I was surprised when Erica curled her arm around mine. She was rarely that familiar, at least with me. We walked out the door and across the porch together.

“How come you and Margot have never, you know?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“She thinks you’re a hunk, a hunk of burning love.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.”

“Seriously.”

“Oh, you’re being serious?”

“McKenzie, seriously.”

“I love your mother, Erica. It’s as simple as that.”

She uncurled her arm from mine. She said, “I’m counting on that, you know,” and walked quickly to her father’s car.

TWO

Despite Erica’s cynicism, I discovered that Thunder Bay had two newspapers—the
Chronicle Journal
and the
Post,
although the
Post
had apparently been transformed into tbnewswatch.com. Oh well.

I searched the archives of the
Chronicle Journal
first.

A Thunder Bay man charged with first-degree murder after human remains were found in a burned-out car earlier this month will be back in court next week.

A 49-year-old Thunder Bay man is charged with second-degree murder following an incident at a North Edward Street apartment.

A Thunder Bay man with a personal history blighted by dysfunction and criminal behavior will spend the next chapter of his life in prison as the result of the beating death of a Geralton teenager.

The death of a 37-year-old woman in Thunder Bay this week could once again label this community as the murder capital of Canada.

I spent some time with the latter story. It seemed that Thunder Bay had been the scene of six homicides that year, and since statistics are compiled on a per capita basis, the city was fast approaching the designation of most murders per 100,000 residents. People were outraged. One citizen, unswayed by the fact that Thunder Bay had a total of only nine killings in the past six years, was appalled by the community’s horrific criminal record and wondered what the police were doing with all that tax money they were being paid.

“Hell,” I said aloud. “A half-dozen murders is just a bad three-day weekend in the Twin Cities.”

The
Chronicle Journal
listed the killings in chronological order. None of them involved a young woman in a motel room.

I turned to tbnewswatch.com. It was a bit more sensational in its reporting than the
Chronicle Journal
but provided no additional information. I tried the Web site of the Thunder Bay Police Service. The cops were asking for help in three unsolved murders that occurred in 1984, 1992, and 2005. There were no reports concerning missing persons uploaded on any of the Web sites.

“I need to go up there,” I said aloud. “Just to be sure.”

*   *   *

“You’re doing what?” Nina wanted to know.

“Sweetie, it’s not my idea. Besides, I’m not actually doing a favor for Jason.”

“Then who are you doing it for?”

“Erica.”

“Bullshit.”

If there was any doubt that Nina was angry, that settled it. She almost never cursed.

“See, this is why I called instead of telling you in person,” I said.

“Dammit, McKenzie.”

“Erica asked me to help her father. What was I supposed to say?”

“You were supposed to say no.”

“How could I do that?”

“By reminding her that you’re my boyfriend, not hers.”