Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (21 page)

Head Shot

St.
Paul, MN

Early
November

D
R. JOHN GOODMAN TOSSED
in his bed. It was almost midnight, and for a man who seldom had a
hard time falling asleep, he couldn’t seem to get his mind to shut down.

He flipped over on his back and his thoughts shifted to the phone
call he had received earlier in the evening, soon after Jo and Frisco had left
for the bookstore. The president of the University of Minnesota had called him
personally to formally invite him to interview for the position of Medical
School Dean and Vice President for Health Services. The interview was set for
the following day, and he would be meeting with not only the president, but
also with several board members

The university’s president had been clear in expressing his
interest in John for the spot. Even though they hadn’t interviewed him yet, he
said they considered him their top candidate. His experience as a
world-renowned neurosurgeon, as well as a lecturer, had gotten their attention.
Recent headlines touting the success with Rick Wilson’s surgery had also been
noted.

John was torn. He was passionate about his work as a neurosurgeon
and couldn’t imagine the day when he would no longer perform that role.
However, in light of Jo’s pregnancy, his priorities needed to change. True, the
job would require long hours and some travel, mainly because he would be
representing the university’s medical school, with all the fundraising that
entailed. However, the hours would be regular, with no more middle-of-the night
emergency surgeries. Given Jo’s frenetic schedule – tonight being no exception
– one of them needed a reasonable schedule.

Less than a year ago, he would never have considered the position
at the university. However, after he made the decision to move to Minneapolis
to work out his relationship with Jo, the things that were most important in
his world had shifted.

The job opportunity did appeal to John. As the dean, he would have
great influence on building an already well-respected program into a
world-class one. He could direct research that would further progress in
neurosurgery, along with other medical sciences.

He turned his pillow over, finding a cool side. He wished Jo was
home to talk to about their future. Switching careers was only the tip of the
iceberg when it came to all the changes in store for the two of them.

John smiled when he thought about the life growing inside Jo, the
life they had created together. Jo and the baby were the most important people
in his life.

His first priority was to marry Jo. To accomplish that, he needed
to have her home for more than twenty-four hours.

***

Jo Schwann looked up from Billy MacGregor’s notebook and rubbed
her tired eyes. It was past one in the morning, and the long hours of reading
were taking their toll. She stood up from the couch in Frisco’s basement and
walked over to the detective, looking over his shoulder as he went through the
documentary footage on his laptop. He had plugged in headphones, allowing Jo to
focus on reading. On the screen, she watched as Rick Wilson interviewed a woman
in her kitchen.

Jo tapped Frisco on the shoulder. When he removed the headphones,
she said, “Find anything?”

Frisco paused the film and shook his head. “Lots on the dangers of
water contamination from fracking, but nothing that would have pointed a loaded
gun at Rick Wilson.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the notebook she
held in her hand. “Glad you can read that chicken scratch of his; I couldn’t
make heads or tails of it. Did you find anything yet?”

Jo frowned. “Same as you. Wellborne Industries seems to

be skirting the edge of the law, but nothing so far that would
make Rick and Billy murder targets.”

Frisco stood up and stretched. He rubbed his tired-looking eyes
with a meaty fist. “All this movie watching is making me hungry for popcorn.
Want some?”

Jo’s midsection grumbled at the mention of food. Lately, it seemed
as if her stomach alternated between feeling queasy and famished. “Sounds
great. Thanks.”

As the detective climbed the steps up to the kitchen, Jo settled
back on the couch and began to read the notebook again. She read for a few
minutes and then sat up suddenly, her tiredness disappearing in her excitement.

She was re-reading the passage a second time when Frisco clumped
down the steps, arms full of two large bowls of popcorn. “Hope you’re hungry….”
He placed a bowl on the coffee table in front of Jo. “Did you find something?
You look like you just won the lottery.”

Jo looked up. “Listen to this.”
She began to read Billy’s words out loud.

Mazlo
practically had a hard-on when he read the actual water contamination reports
we got from Trevor Wallace. After he finished reading, he told us, “I’ve got
the bastard now.”

When Rick
asked the professor what group of feds we were going to go to first, Mazlo
looked at him funny and then locked the reports in his desk drawer. Instead of
answering Rick’s question, he said, “I’ll handle this from here. You boys did a
great job and I’ll see you get an ‘A’ this semester.”

The smug
asshole couldn’t see that Rick didn’t care about grades any more. We were into
it. We were going to take on The Man. Rick argued with him, but Mazlo’s voice
went ice cold when he said, “I want all the documentary footage you’ve got.
Don’t forget the copies. I want it all.”

Well, that
pissed off Rick. We decided there and then to bug the guy’s office. No way was
he going to steal our thunder. Rick sweet-talked Mazlo’s secretary into letting
us into his office again and we put a voice-activated recorder in the cabinet
next to his desk.

Jo looked up from reading. “Frisco, did you happen to find any
audio files on the flash drive we recovered from Subtext?”

Frisco went back to his laptop and brought up a file. “This is the
only one I haven’t looked at yet. Let’s see what’s on it.”

He brought the laptop over to Jo and pushed aside the bowl of
popcorn. “Looks like an audio file. Maybe this is it.”

The detective unplugged the earphones and turned up the volume.
They listened for a few minutes. At first, the only conversations were mundane
discussions between Mazlo and his secretary, Amanda.

However, a few moments later, they heard Mazlo tell Amanda he
should not be disturbed because he had a video call to make. The distinctive
tones of a video call being connected came over the laptop’s speakers, and then
a voice said, “Wellborne Industries. How may I direct your call?”

Jo felt Frisco shift on the couch next to her and he quietly
muttered. “Holy shit. He called Wellborne. Why the hell would he tip his hand
like that?”

They both leaned in a little closer to the laptop. Mazlo said,
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Wellborne, please. He’s not expecting my call, but
tell him it’s an old buddy from high school.”

After a moment, they heard a deep, male voice Jo immediately
recognized as belonging to the oil company’s CEO and founder. “Jonathon
Wellborne, here. What can I do for you?”

They heard Mazlo say, “Mr. Wellborne, i
t's
been a long time. This is Michael Mazlo. Do you remember me? We were in the
same graduating class in Duluth, but of course, we didn't travel in the same
social circles. You were the captain of the football and baseball teams and I
was the captain of the chess team.

Wellborne sounded impatient when he answered, “Of
course, of course I remember you. Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have a lot of
time to talk right now. What can I help you with?”

“I'm calling about more than a walk down memory lane.
I'm now an adjunct professor at the University of Minnesota, and I’ve been
mentoring a student who created a little documentary I think you'll be
interested in viewing.”

The CEO spoke. “Are you talking about those two punk
kids who came in here a couple of weeks ago?”

“Those punk kids gave me some information that just
might sink you and your company. Here, let me show you the reports they
received from your compliance guy.”

There was a pause, and Jo assumed Mazlo was holding up
the compliance reports he had received from Rick and Billy to the camera on his
computer. He continued, “Look familiar? Tsk, tsk…you really haven’t been a very
good corporate citizen you know. What with all those levels of chemicals in the
ground water around Williston.”

Wellborne interrupted, his voice deepening into a
growl. “You think I am afraid of you, you arrogant little shit? The government
has come after us before, and all they can manage is a few miniscule fines here
and there. May I add, with a lot more data than your little watch dogs found by
talking with my staff.”

Mazlo’s voice was confident when he replied, “Ah, but
I have no intention of going to the government. I know you’d only get a slap on
the wrist, just like before. No, I’d go to the networks and CNN. I'm sure
public opinion would hold a lot more sway than the feds’ attempts at keeping
you in line.”

Wellborne’s voice had grown deadly. “What do you want,
Mazlo?”

“I want in. Oh, not in the oil business. But you see,
there are a lot of ways to make money in your neck of the woods.”

After a moment the CEO said, “I'm listening.”

“Let me be blunt here. My dad, brothers and I have
built up quite a little industry, dealing in the flesh trade, particularly here
in the Twin Cities. We want to expand our operations to the oil fields of North
Dakota.” Jo could hear the haughtiness in Mazlo’s voice as he continued,
“You’ll have your oil pipelines and we’ll have our trafficking pipelines.”

Wellborne snorted. “You don't need my permission to do
that. From what I hear, there's plenty of sex trafficking going on here
already.”

“But that's the point. We want to be the exclusive
traders up in the oil patch, and I know you've got that kind of pull. I did
some checking on you. I’ve heard the local police chief plays poker with you
every Thursday night. I’m sure he’d be happy to do you a favor or two, being
close pals and all.”

He chuckled and continued, “So, do we have a deal? I
keep the documentary under wraps and you grant us open access.”

The oil executive was silent for a moment and then he
said, “I’m curious. How does an adjunct college professor become involved in
sex trafficking?”

Mazlo’s voice was cold when he replied, “Let’s just
say it’s an old family business. I initially went to college to learn how to
run our operations more efficiently and hide money. Along the way, I discovered
college campuses were a great place to find naïve and beautiful young flesh for
foreign customers with discerning tastes. Now, about my proposal. Do we have a
deal or not?”

“What about the two kids who made the documentary?
They're not just going to roll over.”

Mazlo chuckled. “They won't be a problem. I will make
sure they won't say a thing. Ever. Now, are you in or are you out?”

Wellborne’s voice sounded ancient when he responded.
“I’ll make the call to the police chief.”

Frisco turned to Jo after it was clear there was nothing else of
importance on the audio file. “Good God. Can you believe that piece of filth?”

Jo felt sick to her stomach, only this time it had nothing to do
with being pregnant. The idea that Mazlo and Wellborne could talk about human
lives with such disregard made her ill. Not only the lives of their victims,
but all the people who had been trafficked in her hometown, by Mazlo and his
family. She suddenly remembered the flyer for the missing college woman’s vigil
she had seen at Mazlo’s house. Jo was now certain he was connected to her
disappearance.

“I always knew the Twin Cities had a bad reputation for human
trafficking. Our interstate system, as well as our proximity to the Canadian
border makes us a prime location. And heaven knows, there is a huge problem
with the exploitation of Native American Women in the area. But, to hear Mazlo
talk about it and to know he’s responsible…” She shook her head. “How does a
man lead a double life of adjunct college professor and sex trafficker? We’re
going to do something about this. And I mean fast.”

The detective’s face was grim when he said, “Count me in. So,
what’s our first step?”

Jo sat for a moment, thinking. “We’re going to talk to Wellborne.
Let’s see if he’s willing to plea bargain to save his company.” When she saw
the frown on Frisco’s face, she said, “Don’t worry. He’ll still get his. Thanks
to Rick and Billy, we’ve

got enough to damn near bankrupt him.”

Turners
Bend

March

C
HIP STOOD AT THE KITCHEN WINDOW
,
his first cup of coffee of the day in his hand. The early morning sky was gray;
the temperature on the outdoor thermometer read a minus four degrees. If
Dickens was around to pen the opening line for today, Chip thought
 
it might read…
There was nothing happening and everything was about to happen.
It
was a time of suspended animation.

After
the excitement in St. Paul and the short respite at Captiva, all was back to
normal…the new normal where Hal was still a lingering threat and Chip was
plagued by constant unease and lagging motivation.

Jane
was preparing to leave the house. “I thought you didn’t have any appointments
today,” said Chip.

“I
don’t, so I thought I’d drive over to Madrid and take a look at the Lely
Astronaut A4 that Sunny Day Farms just installed. I’ve never seen one in
operation.”

“What
the heck is that? Sounds like a video game.”

“It’s
a robotic milking system. A cow decides when she wants to feed, enters a stall
and sensors automatically attach the milking machine to her udder. Very high
tech and very costly. I think it runs about $200,000 per cow and Sunny Day has
a herd of about 120.”

“Whoa,
that’s bizarre. So a dairy farmer can just flip a switch and then head to the
Bun for coffee. Speaking of, I think I’ll head there for breakfast this
morning. I’ll just flip the switch on my laptop and see if it will write the
next chapter of
Head Shot
.”

***

The
Bun was crowded and Chip took a seat at the counter next to a guy in a brown
uniform, a dead give-away for UPS. Bernice was bustling behind the counter.
“What’s your newest bakery delight?” asked Chip.

“Cronuts, a
croissant
-donut
hybrid.
Today’s
are filled with chocolate. The guy next to you just ate three, and I’m not
hearing any complaints.” Bernice laughed, gave Chip a cup of coffee and put a
cronut in front of him. “Like it or leave it, I don’t have time to take your
order, Chip, especially when I can read your mind.” She spotted a raised cup
and rushed off to deliver refills.

Chip
ate the cronut in three bites and turned to the delivery man. “Not bad, huh?
Name’s Chip Collingsworth. Are you new on the route?”

“Most
folks call me Smitty. No, I took over this route last year. Not too many
deliveries to Turners Bend, although I’ve been making lots of drops to that
weird place out on County Road 17. Guy won’t let me on the property. I have to
call him and he meets me out near the “No Trespassing” sign. What’s going on
out there?”

“From
what I understand Rod Mueller is an anti-government nut. He took a shot at me
once, so be careful.”

“I’ve
been delivering lots of stuff with hazard warnings on the boxes, but today I’m
dropping a box from Amazon. It’s some kind of cookware. Makes me wonder what
he’s cooking out there. Suppose I shouldn’t be talking about what I deliver,
but that dude creeps me out, even more so now from what you just told me.”

Smitty
finished his last swallow of coffee and put a five dollar bill on the counter.
“Nice talking with you, Chip. This place has awesome baked goods; maybe I’ll
see you here again some time.”

Chip
felt an adrenaline rush, his skin began to prickle and he could almost feel the
sparks jumping between the synapses of his brain. He had to find Fredrickson or
Agent Masterson quick. He scanned the tables; neither of them was in the cafe.
He paid for his breakfast and headed first for the FBI office. Agent Masterson
was behind her desk.

“What’s
up, Collingsworth?” Chip was reminded again that the agent was never much for
pleasantries; she always got right down to business.

“Do
you know about Rod Mueller and the Republic of Iowa out on County Road 17?”
asked Chip, taking the chair in front of her desk, talking fast and sweating despite
a chilly draft in the office.

“Oh
yes, he’s been on our watch list for years. I’ve got a pretty thick file on
him. Why do you ask?”

Chip
related his conversation with the UPS guy. “I remember you saying someone in
Iowa had contacts with Hakim, Baba’s brother. I’m just wondering if it could be
Mueller.”

Agent
Masterson sat up very straight and began to punch things into her computer. She
stopped and stared at the monitor. “Well, well, well. Chip you just broke this
case wide open. Hakim is a chemical engineer. He’s known as the “Master Bomb
Maker” of the Wahhabi Muslims in Ethiopia. Looks like our friend Mr. Mueller
may be learning how to make bombs from him. I’ve got a lot of work to do to
confirm our suspicions, but if this is the case, the FBI is going to make a
little visit to the Republic of Iowa. This is big. I don’t have to tell you
can’t say a word about this to anyone, not Jane, not Fredrickson, not Baba. If
you leak this, I’ll have your hide. Remember Manning, remember Snowden?”

Chip
gulped. “Yes, Ma’am.”

***

Back
home Chip reflected on his early morning Dickensian musings. Nothing was
happening yet, but something was surely going to happen soon, and maybe all
hell would break loose in Turners Bend.