Repo Madness (42 page)

“And then he realized the M.E. was incompetent,”
Alan urged.

I had sort of forgotten this, but it still irritated me to be reminded. “It wasn't a perfect murder at all,” I continued. “Her body was in good shape; his semen was in her. Rogan was a dentist at one time; he had to know the forensics were against him. Except the man in charge of the county lab was our good friend Dr. Kane, who suppressed evidence and chalked up the lack of decomposition to the temperature of the water.”

“Please don't tell me you've spoken to this Rogan and told him your theory,” Strickland interrupted.

“It's not a theory,”
Alan protested.

“There's more, though. The woman who fell off the
Emerald Isle,
Nina Otis, was in his bar, drinking, the day she died. She never got on the boat. He kidnapped her and did the same thing he did to Lisa Marie. And the woman who supposedly got drunk and slipped off the boat in Boyne City? The thing was anchored in front of his house. He probably saw her staggering around on deck and couldn't resist rowing out to see if he could grab her.”

The phone in my hand beeped, and I pulled it away from my ear to glance at it—the 911 operator was calling me back.

“All right, Ruddy,” Strickland said kindly. “I understand how attractive this is—it's an explanation that gives us a bad guy, a very bad guy, responsible for participating in a fraud that ruined your life. But cases like this just don't string together this easily. It takes hard evidence and proof.”

Alan and I were both silent for a moment. I pondered how to convince Strickland without talking for an hour, and hit on the solution. “He tried to do the same thing to Katie tonight,” I said bluntly.

Now it was Strickland's turn to be quiet. “Say that again,” he finally instructed sternly.

I told him about Rogan luring Katie to his home, drugging her, and holding her prisoner in his pump house. About my escape onto the ice. “Rogan drove his Humvee out after me and started crashing into the shanties. One of them had a man in it, and Rogan deliberately drove over him. He killed the guy right in front of me.”

“Where is the perpetrator now?” Strickland asked tensely.

Rogan had gone from being the subject of a wild theory to perpetrator. I felt a cold satisfaction. “He's out on the ice still. I burned him alive.” I gave the rest of it to him, the phone beeping at me frantically. “I've already called 911. That's what I meant by a lot of activity.”

“So you didn't actually confirm he was dead. For all we know, he escaped,” Strickland speculated.

“Have you looked out your front window? No one could survive out there. But I did tell 911 that he was armed and would shoot any cop he saw.”

“I have to call Cutty. Ruddy … you're going to need to make a statement.”

“Okay, but not tonight,” I responded testily. “Katie's headed to the ER. Besides, it's the middle of the night.” I told him I would meet him wherever he wanted in the morning, the late morning, but that I'd run out of steam.

“I can't promise you anything. You have to understand, you're reporting a homicide, accusing Rogan of being a serial killer, and telling me you burned him to death in Shantytown. There's going to be an all-points on you the second I hang up with Cutty.”

“He's got to let us see my daughter!”
Alan objected shrilly.

“All right. I'm headed home,” I stated evenly.

“You're not going to the hospital?” Strickland asked skeptically.

“Ruddy?”
Alan demanded.

“I am telling you that I am headed to my home in Kalkaska,” I replied pointedly.

Strickland was silent a moment. “I will advise Cutty that when I asked you where you were, you told me you were headed to your place in Kalkaska,” he finally agreed dryly.

“Thank you, Barry.”

“You're not going to have much time before they get there. If you're not snoozing in your bed, they'll widen the search pretty rapidly, and I can't imagine the hospital won't be the first place they check.”

“Thank you, Barry,” I repeated.

We hung up, and I turned off the phone even as it began ringing in my hand. “Okay, Alan,” I said grimly. “Let's go take care of your daughter.”

*   *   *

The hospital in Charlevoix lies at one end of a neighborhood with expensive houses commanding fantastic views of Lake Michigan, and is so clean and efficient, it's a little hard to take the place seriously. They took
me
seriously, though—I passed Kermit on the highway, roared up to the emergency room, my light bar flashing, and stormed into the place, ready to shove people out of the way to make room for Katie if I had to.

The waiting room was completely empty, so I was not forced to use my bar bouncing skills to clear it. I had a doctor and an attendant lined up at the doors with a gurney when Katie arrived, though, and I needed to swallow back my reaction when she got out of the vehicle under her own power, her eyes a little unfocused as they found me. She gave me a weak wave as she lay down and was wheeled past me and through some double doors.

“They should let us go, too,”
Alan fretted.
“We're family.”

“I think the doctors know what they're doing and don't want me standing there,” I replied.

Kermit came up to me as I said this and nodded at my wisdom. “They have procedural trammels,” he noted. “Otherwise, you could present.”

“I can't argue with that,” I replied honestly, handing him his cell phone.

“She came awake in the car. I think she'll have a full resumption, I really do. Her conversation held coherency.”

“As opposed to
this
conversation,”
Alan observed snidely. I thought, though, that he was feeling what I was feeling—relief. Whether she recovered or resumed, I thought the fact that she was confabulating with Kermit was a very good sign.

“You want me to wait with you?” Kermit asked.

“No, that's okay. You can take Jake home. You should be with Becky.”

He didn't move, something obviously on his mind. I waited. “So, I know this is not a good time…,” he began. “I wouldn't bring it up if it weren't important.”

“No problem. What's up?”

“It's about my uncle Milt.” Kermit fixed me with a pain-filled stare. “The autopsy came back. The police were out to see me. Detectives.”

“What's wrong?”

“They said he had low levels of carbon dioxide in his blood. Not enough to kill him. He was way past drunk, though, so much booze in him, he was practically restive in a coma.”

Alan murmured,
“Carbon
monoxide
,”
and I ignored him.

“Is that what they say happened? Alcohol poisoning?”

Kermit gravely shook his head. “No. Someone made him get drunk and then, when he was unconscious, put a plastic bag over his head until he suffocated.”

I was thunderstruck. Kermit nodded at my expression. “Yeah. It wasn't suicide.”

I tried to process this. “Do the cops agree with the plastic bag theory?”

“They found the bag, once they bothered to look for it. It was wadded up in the corner. I guess somehow they can tell it was used to kill uncle Milt. It's been ruled a homicide.”

“God.” I tried to shake off the feeling of unreality. “Well, you were the last one to see him that night. Did he say anything about meeting someone else?”

“Me?” Kermit frowned blankly. “I didn't see him that night.”

“He said he was meeting you for drinks but not at the Black Bear,” I answered, straining to remember the conversation.

“Why would I give business to my wife's competitors?” he asked simply.

Now it was my turn to look blank.

“Either Milt lied, or Kermit's lying,”
Alan the detective chimed in. I tried to keep the irritated expression off my face. Alan wasn't even around when this all happened.

“Could you and Barry look into this?” Kermit asked. “The cops are going to investigate, but I'd feel better with my guys on it.”

His guys. In that moment, I felt it: Strickland, Kermit, and I
were
a sort of team, weren't we? Just not Alan. “Sure,” I agreed. “Of course. Wow. How are you doing with all of it?”

He shrugged. “It's pretty unreal. I'm not sure how I'm doing,” he said candidly.

“I'm sorry. I mean, I don't even know what to say about something like this.”

“I feel better just knowing you and Barry are going to check into it.”

“I have a couple of ideas how we might start,”
Alan mused. I blinked once, really hard, a clear signal for him to shut his nonexistent mouth.

“So, do you have any idea who would do this? Who might have a motive to murder your uncle?”

“Honestly?” Kermit gave me a searching look. “Well, me, I guess. I had the most to gain.” He wore a sadly ironic smile.

“I know
you
wouldn't do it, Kermit,” I said levelly. I clenched my fist, hoping Alan would take it as a signal I didn't want to hear any contrary theories from him. “Strickland and I will get to the bottom of it, I swear.”

“Thanks. So, you sure you don't want me to stay with you, keep you company?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” I said.
I don't need company; I have a voice in my head,
I didn't say.

“Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything.”

“He's a good guy. You should tell him,”
Alan advised me.

I agreed. “Hey, Kermit.” He waited. I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “You, uh, saved my life out there tonight. By bringing Jake. That was genius.”

“That was actually contingent happenstance. Jake wanted to go for a car ride.”

“Huh. In my experience, Jake never even wants to leave the bed.”

“Maybe he instincted something was going on with you. Dogs are amazing that way.”

“Maybe. Well, anyway, I'm just really grateful, Kermit. You saved Katie's life, too.”

“Why were you out in Shantytown anyway?”

“Oh.” With that question, I suddenly realized how much nobody knew but me. “I'll tell you later, Kermit.”

“Sure.”

“That's it? He saves your life, and you just say you're grateful?”
Alan chided.

I gritted my teeth.
Okay, Alan.
“It's kind of not the first time you've done that, Kermit. Pulled my fat out of the fire, I mean.”

My brother-in-law nodded as if this had never occurred to him.
“Your fat? What Western novel did you lift that expression out of?”
Alan scoffed.

“I'm just saying, I'm glad you're married to my sister. I'm glad you're in my family. My brother-in-law. It means a lot to me.”

“Thanks, Ruddy.”

I did something pretty unfamiliar then: I put my arms around Kermit and gave him a hug, slapping him on the back a couple of times, hard enough to give him the Heimlich. “Take care of yourself,” I said, my voice a little hoarsened.

Kermit gave me a smile. “Yeah, you too, Ruddy.”

*   *   *

I discovered something about hospitals—they can look completely deserted, but when you leave the lounge and head back to the examining rooms, people appear at your side to ask you if they can help you. I used my bar bouncer voice to say I needed to see Katie Lottner, and within two minutes I was speaking to her doctor—a striking African American woman, thin boned, with fine features and large dark eyes. Those eyes were warm and sympathetic as she led me over to some chairs and sat in the one next to me. I could feel Alan inside, bracing himself, but there was something so reassuring about this woman's demeanor, the tension left me like a chill in front of a warm fire.

“Your girlfriend has mild hypothermia, but no frostbite. The drugs in her system seem to be wearing off on their own.”

“Actually, we're engaged,” I corrected.

She smiled more broadly. “Congratulations.”

“Would you let her talk?”
Alan shouted at me.

I blinked my eyes once, hard, to get him to knock it off. The doctor watched me curiously. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” I apologized.

“There is no reason not to expect a full recovery. She's been alert, but we're letting her sleep.”

“Can I speak to her?”

A cool expression came into her eyes. “May I ask exactly how she came to ingest Rohypnol?”

My jaw dropped when I realized I was a
suspect
. Alan was sputtering indignation. Once again I found myself searching for the most economical way to relate a potentially enormous amount of information. It was fatiguing. I considered my words and had an idea. “Doctor, how long have you lived here?”

She blinked at the change of subject. “Seven years, why?”

“You remember Barry Strickland, then.”

“Yes, he was the best sheriff we've ever had. Where are we going with this, may I ask?”

“If I give you his number and he says it is okay, will you let me see my fiancée?”

She looked troubled. “He's not the sheriff anymore, Ruddy. He doesn't really have the authority. There's a protocol I must follow.”

“You have procedural trammels,” I translated a bit bitterly.

She frowned over this one.

“There's no way I can see her?”

“I'm afraid we have to wait for the deputy sheriff to give the okay.”

“Oh. So you called the sheriff?”

“Yes, I'm required to,” she informed me without apology.

“That's good. That's really good. I'm looking forward to getting this all cleared up. Say, I need to use the men's room. Can you tell me where it is?”