Penance (34 page)
I flashed on Laura’s face. And Anne Scalasi’s. And Cynthia Grey’s. “Yes, I can,” I said softly.
Then I said, “Tell me why you killed Dennis Thoreau.”
Louise did not seem surprised by the question. She merely shook her head and moved to a walnut desk shoved up against the wall next to the kitchen door. She opened a drawer and took out a videotape. She handed it to me.
“He put something in Amy’s drink. Then he made this movie. He offered to sell it to her for one thousand dollars. Amy didn’t have the money. She came to me. She told me about the movie because … because she didn’t have anyone else.”
That’s pretty much what I had figured. I knew C. C. didn’t kill Thoreau and Meghan had convinced me she hadn’t done it, either, although I had every intention of framing her for it. Conan had claimed he didn’t know Dennis Thoreau and I believed him. He was in Mankato when Thoreau was killed, playing chauffeur for C. C. and Marion. And Sherman hadn’t known Thoreau even existed until I told him. That left Louise. A wild guess? Not really. She had come after me when she thought I hurt Amy. Why not Thoreau? Besides, McGaney said Thoreau was killed with a .25, the same caliber as the gun I took off Louise in my office.
“Sometimes, the people we love, we just want to protect them in the worst way,” I mumbled and I slipped Louise’s Ruger out of my pocket; I had kept it in my trunk. I set both the Ruger and the video on the coffee table and told Louise, “If I were you, I’d get rid of these.”
“You’re not going to tell the police?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just too damn tired to argue with them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor.”
“Don’t thank me, Louise,” I told her, recalling my own sleepless nights. “I’m not sure I’m doing you a favor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” she repeated.
“Good-bye, Louise. I hope you find what you need.”
She did not answer. I left. The door closed softly behind me.
THIRTY-THREE
A
NNE SCALASI
put her hand up, shielding her eyes from the headlights of my car as I swung into the driveway. She was sitting on my front steps, waiting for me. Apparently she had been waiting a long time.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
I eased myself next to her. “I had an errand to run.”
She looked at her watch. “A little late, isn’t it?”
“I was about to say the same to you.”
“‘Eternal vigilance. We never sleep.’”
“I thought that was the motto of the Pinkertons.”
“Yeah, well, it goes double for homicide cops.”
I leaned back against the steps, looked up at the stars. Anne did not look up or down, just straight ahead. After a moment she said, “The state claimed jurisdiction. I can’t get near the place.”
“The capitol?”
“No, the fucking moon.”
“Let it go, Annie,” I told her.
“I’d like to, I really would.”
I watched the stars some more, then told her what she wanted to hear. “C. C. and Marion did not kill Dennis Thoreau. They had nothing to do with it. Brown, Sherman, Amy Lamb: They had nothing to do with them, either.”
“They’re innocent?” Annie asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that.”
“Tell me,” Anne said.
“Galen Pivec killed John Brown; thought he was Joseph Sherman, thought he was trying to blackmail C. C. Amy Lamb found out, so he killed her, too. Then he finally caught up with the real Sherman. End of story.”
“Thoreau?”
“Meghan Chakolis,” I answered, lying.
“Why?”
“It was a crime of passion. He was her ex-husband. She still loved him. He was playing around. Want a beer?”
“Bullshit,” Annie said.
I gave her a hard look; I didn’t know if she could see my eyes or not. “What happened to Thoreau and the rest, who killed them and why, had nothing to do with what you did or didn’t do, Annie. I wouldn’t kid you about this.”
“I have the feeling there’s a lot you’re not telling me,” she insisted.
“Yeah, there is,” I admitted. “But giving you the details won’t make any difference. We can’t prove anything.”
We both stood. I unlocked the door, opened it, held it for her. “What about the videotape?” she asked, brushing past me.
“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” I said, following her inside.
I switched on the lights and went into the kitchen to fetch two Summit Ales from the refrigerator. The phone rang. I looked at the clock.
Not even the telemarketers call this late
, I thought, betting myself a quarter it was Marion Senske with another offer. It wasn’t.
“I didn’t wake you, did I, Taylor?” Lieutenant O’Connell asked.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. What makes you think you did anything?”
“It is kinda late, Sean,” I reminded him. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”
“Well, lad, as a matter of fact it is. We’re just finishing up here and I thought I should tell you what happened before you read it in the papers.”
“What happened?”
“I killed Heather Schrotenboer tonight.”
“What?”
“Me or Adzick. You know Pete Adzick.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Aasen sent us over to pick her up; he wanted to ask her questions about a bullet fired from her gun. We knocked on the door. She asked who it was. I answered, ‘The police.’ She said, ‘Come in, the door’s open.’ That sounded a little queer to me, so we each took a side and I pushed the door open with my foot. She fired on us …”
“What?”
“Put three rounds into the wall behind us, across the hall. I went in high, Adzick went in low. We fired about eight rounds between us, hit her twice. Forensics said they’d tell us which one did the job if we wanted to know. I don’t want to know. Why would I want to know?”
“Jeez, I’m sorry, Sean,” I said, meaning it.
“I never killed anyone before,” Sean confessed. “Never even fired my gun except on the range.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Can’t figure out why she did it, though, started shooting at us. Why would she do something like that, Taylor? Hmm? Was she frightened? Did she think we were out to get her? Did she think we were, maybe, the Mafia or something?”
I didn’t answer.
“I think she thought we were the Mafia. Isn’t that crazy? Why would she think something like that?”
I didn’t answer.
“I never killed anyone before!”
I had nothing to say. Apparently, Sean didn’t either. After a minute or so I hung up the phone.
“What happened?” Anne asked, sipping on the beer.
Did Heather Schrotenboer belong to me?
Did she?
No, I decided. Randy, maybe. But not Heather. I had a lot of sins to answer for, a lot of penance to do. But not for Heather.
“I’m going to the football game Sunday, Vikes and 49ers,” I told Anne.
“Oh?”
“A friend of mine has tickets.”
THIRTY-FOUR
T
HE BANNER STORIES
on the front pages of both the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
and the
Minneapolis StarTribune
Sunday newspapers told the tale of the crazed gunman who had kidnapped Carol Catherine Monroe, killed her best friend and wounded her campaign manager before he was killed himself after a brief but tense standoff with State Capitol Security Force officers Friday evening. Both newspapers were quick to point out that the popular member of the Minnesota House of Representatives was unharmed and would continue her campaign; that she hoped to prove by example that people need not be afraid. “We need not allow ourselves to become victims,” the heroic gubernatorial candidate was quoted as saying. “We need not walk in fear, one of another.”
Jeezus, now she was stealing from Edward R. Murrow.
I read the stories three times and they didn’t mention my name once. Obviously the attorney general hadn’t given my statement to the press, which meant he was sitting on it—assuming, of course, it hadn’t already been shredded.
In a separate, six-paragraph article in the St. Paul paper, it was announced that the Ramsey County Medical Examiner had concluded that Joseph Sherman, the subject of a week-long manhunt by local law enforcement agencies, died of “self-inflicted gunshot wounds.” The article said the ex-convict had been sought for the brutal murders of John Brown and Amy Lamb. It was not explained why he had wanted to kill either of them.
No mention was made of Dennis Thoreau and his videotape.
I wasn’t surprised.
Cynthia Grey read the story over my shoulder. “This is a travesty,” she claimed. “We should file suit on behalf of Sherman’s family, make sure the truth comes out.”
“Does Sherman have a family?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s probably best to just forget about it,” I said.
“Is that what you’re going to do, forget about it?”
“Eventually,” I answered. I made a production out of folding the paper and dropping it in the recycle bin. “Ready to go?”
“I guess,” Cynthia answered with a sigh. Then she smiled. “Do you realize this is the first football game I’ve ever seen in person?”
“You’ll enjoy it,” I said, tucking a videotape-sized package wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Hersey Sheehan, c/o
The Cities Reporter
, under my arm.
“I need to stop at a mailbox first,” I said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
EPILOGUE
S
IXTEEN DAYS LATER
the mayor of St. Paul was elected governor of the state of Minnesota, defeating the former governor by less than one percent of the votes cast. Carol Catherine Monroe was a distant third—scandal had forced her to drop out of the race three days before the election, but the secretary of state’s office had not had enough time to remove her name from the ballot.
It was reported that she had a campaign debt of nearly a half million dollars.
Fewer votes were cast in this gubernatorial election than in any other in Minnesota’s history—this in a state that regularly ranks first in the nation for per capita voter turnout.
I was one of the voters who stayed home.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1995 by David Housewright
This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
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