Dear Crossing (9 page)

“It’s okay.”

“Virtually no one keeps breeding bulls anymore these days,” the vet said. “It’s too risky. I tried telling Hank that, but he refused to spend money on artificial insemination as long as that bull was doing the job on its own.”

“It was his choice. You did what you could.” Ray took him by the elbow and led him away from the steaming pool of vomit. As they approached the parked vehicles, he helped the vet into his car. “Go home. Don’t beat yourself up. There was nothing you could’ve done to help him.”

Lewis nodded. His hands shook as he gripped the steering wheel.

As they watched the vet drive away, Ray asked, “Is the coroner on his way?”

“Irene’s contacting him.” Neil took up a spot against the car alongside Ray. “Did you see the bull’s head when it came through that door?”

“I didn’t exactly have time to notice. Why?”

“I don’t know. It just didn’t look right.”

Ray swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “I’m going back to the barn for a look around.”

“What for?”

“I’d like to know how the bull got out of that pen.”

“Maybe Kramer never got him in.”

“That occurred to me.”

“Want me to come along?”

“It’s up to you. I won’t blame you if you’d rather not see Kramer’s body.” Ray started toward the barn by himself. Halfway there, he heard Neil trot up behind him and asked, “You sure you want to do this?”

“No.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Ray stopped at the door. “Ready?”

Less than a minute later, Neil rushed from the barn, adding his own share of stomach contents to Dr. Lewis’s. He went back inside and found Ray hunched over an object on the floor.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

“Yeah. Did you find something?”

“A bloody wrench.” Ray brushed some straw away for a closer look.

Neil looked over Ray’s shoulder. “Kramer must’ve got in a lick or two before that bull took him out.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Averting his eyes from Kramer’s remains on the other side of the barn, Neil walked to the pen at the back of the barn. “It doesn’t look like the bull forced its way out,” Neil said seconds later. “There’s no sign of damage to the bolt.”

Ray left the wrench where he found it and joined him. “You’re probably right then. He might’ve died trying to get the bull inside.”

The gate creaked as Ray stepped into the stall. “Neil.” Something in his tone demanded immediate attention.

“Find something?”

Ray had Neil look for himself. Inside the pen, partially hidden by the straw bedding, there was more blood.

“What the hell, Ray?”

He raised his head, straining to get a better look at the dingy walls which made up three sides of the enclosure. Cast off blood arced across the surface of one wall, indicating that serious damage had been inflicted by a number of blows. “One thing is sure,” he said, “if Kramer used that wrench on his bull, he did it while it was already inside the pen.”

“But why would he do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Tell me about it.”

13

Ray struggled to keep his voice calm. “I’m telling you something’s not right.”

“I heard you the first time.” Woody clasped his hands over his stomach. “Look, you’re upset. I don’t blame you. Anyone would be.”

“My state of mind has no bearing on it. What we found in that barn just doesn’t add up. Kramer valued that animal. He paid Dr. Lewis to keep it healthy. Why would the old guy pen it up and then beat the crap out of it?”

“To me, it sounds like Hank Kramer put up a good fight before he died.”

“The castoff is
inside
the pen—apparent multiple blows. The animal had to have been locked up at the time, not attacking the old man. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Then what are you saying happened?”

“At this point I can only speculate.”

Woody groaned.

“Look, something or someone was attacked inside that pen. I’m concerned that it might’ve been Kramer. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Who’s to say one of them didn’t go at him with that wrench and leave him in the barn to let the bull finish the job? Even the location of the wrench, the pen and the old man’s body don’t compute. They were at the opposite points of a long, wide imaginary triangle.”

“Okay,” Woody said, “my turn now. Follow along. Say Kramer
almost
has the bull locked in its pen. Almost, but not quite. It decides not to cooperate. Kramer tries persuading it with a couple solid whacks to the head with that wrench, but the bull forces its way back out. Kramer’s runs. He throws the tool at the animal and misses, or maybe not. Either way, the end. Literally.” He settled back in his chair. “There you go. That would account for the blood in the pen, the wrench on the other side of the barn, and Hank Kramer where you found him.”

Ray almost came out of his seat. “I can shove my fist through the holes in that theory. If the old man was trying to get that animal inside the enclosure, why would he be carrying a wrench? Why not a cattle prod or whatever they call those things? As for his running across the barn, forget it. Your five year old could’ve outrun him.”

Woody smiled. “Gordy’s pretty fast. I’ll give you that.”

“The point is, Kramer wasn’t. He’d never have made it that far.”

“You can’t say that for sure. The bull could’ve been dazed.”

“Why would Kramer have the wrench with him in the first place?”

“Who knows?” Woody argued. “I think you’re making too much out of this, Ray. I’m not involving the BCA.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Okay. How’s this? I’ll have Dr. Lewis test the blood to see if it’s human or bovine.”

“On the wrench
and
inside the pen?”

“Both. Yes. If the blood turns out to be human, I swear I’ll be on the phone with the crime lab in a heartbeat. But if the blood belongs to the bull, I don’t want to hear another word about it. Have we got a deal?”

Ray drew in a deep breath. “All right, agreed.”

“Good. Then that’s that.” Woody stood and looked out the window. “One thing, though, Ray. You probably won’t be here when the results come in. I’m sending you to Minneapolis to investigate the Davis case.”

“What brought this on?”

He lifted a coffee mug to his lips and pushed a sheet in Ray’s direction. “E-C-G-O-I-N. It’s a personalized license plate. Cooper saw it on a vehicle that put in an appearance on the Davises’ property the morning of the murder. It slipped his mind. While you and Neil were out bullfighting, it came back to him. He says the vehicle came to an abrupt stop at the crest of the driveway and reversed in a damn big hurry. He got the feeling the driver might’ve been spooked by the sight of his police car. He wrote down the plate to be on the safe side. The car’s registered to an Ed Costales—Minneapolis. Lucky for us Cooper’s farsighted.”

“Yeah. Too bad he’s got a memory like a sieve. We could’ve used the information sooner.”

“Be glad we’ve got it now.” He drank more coffee. “The biker wrote down a Minneapolis address in Harry Schuster’s register—phony street address, but maybe the city’s right. By the way, Judge Froelich came through with the subpoena. Now we just have to get the Copper Kettle’s public phone records. I’ll let you know what we come up with.”

“When do you want me to go to the Cities?”

“Tomorrow. I already contacted the First Precinct—Captain E. Joseph Roth. Being a high-profile case, he’s willing to get on board with us. I don’t have the manpower to send anyone with you. You’re it. Announce yourself when you arrive. Roth said he’ll hook you up with one of his homicide detectives. You take it from there.”

Ray gave the paper a sharp crease and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Where am I supposed to stay while I work the case?”

“We don’t have a lot of funds to finance an off-site investigation, but Captain Roth offered a suggestion. The detective you’ll be working with knows someone. It’s one of those friend-of-a-friend sort of things. Anyway, this couple has a vacant mother-in-law’s apartment over their garage. The husband’s willing to rent it for a pittance on a day-to-day basis. The place is small but it’s supposed to be adequate and close to the station. If you’re okay with that, they’ll set you set up there.”

“I’m game.”

“Good. That’ll stretch our funds a little farther. I’ll let them know. And, Ray…?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got one more job for you before you start packing. The BCA is releasing the crime scene. I’ve got Paul Davis coming to do a walk-through of his place before they vacate the premises. He should be here anytime. I want you to stay with him while he does the inventory. It’ll give you a chance to observe him at the crime scene—assess his reactions.”

“No problem.”

“Promise you’ll keep it civil.”

“I can only promise to try.”

“Try hard.”

As they spoke, sunlight glinted off Paul Davis’s car as the silver Lexus rolled into the parking lot in the rear.

Woody jerked his head toward the lot. “There he is now. He’s not going to be thrilled to see you, you know.”

“He’ll have to deal with it.”

“Yeah, well, so will you. You might want to see if you can undo some of the damage you did the other day. Make nice, Ray.”

Ray snorted.

“If you don’t remember how,” Woody said, “fake it.”

Polished and poised, Paul Davis walked into the station moments later. Ray and Woody approached to greet him.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Davis,” Woody said, shaking his hand.

“Will this take long?”

“Probably not,” Ray told him. “For the most part, your house was undisturbed. The living room could take awhile, though. Things were overturned, broken. It may be hard for you to do a quick inventory there.”

“Officer Schiller will go with you,” Woody said. “BCA technicians are still be on the scene. He’ll go through the house with you room by room.”

Davis stood motionless, scowling like a cigar store Indian as several other officers milled around the station. “What about one of them?” Davis asked.

“Officer Schiller is the only man available right now.”

“Then I’ll meet him there.” Davis started for the door.

Anxious to have him alone as long as possible, Ray stopped him, saying, “The prospect of doing this walk-through is probably unsettling for you. You’ve already driven quite a distance. Let me take you there.” Giving him no time to consider, Ray held the station door open.

Davis surprised him by following.

The tires hummed over the road while Davis sat erect and rigid, staring out the side window.

“Are you all right?” Ray asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“We’ve been making progress. I hope hearing that helps.” Ray watched for a reaction. Positive or negative, it might tell him something. He saw neither.

“Thursday my wife’s body—what was found—will be laid to rest. At the moment, Officer Schiller, nothing is likely to help.”

“I understand.” Ray pressed him for some answers. “We heard you didn’t arrive in town alone on Friday night. Is that right?”

Davis’s head swiveled 180 degrees. “What?”

“We’ve been told you had someone with you. A man. A biker.”

“Oh, the biker. I forgot. Yes, I gave him a lift into town.”

“Someone you know?”

“No. I’d never seen him before.”

“But you gave him a ride,” Ray said. “That’s risky these days, especially for a man of your obvious means.”

“He’d had an accident trying to avoid a deer. I saw it happen. It’s hardly something he could have staged for my benefit.”

Ray hadn’t expected a denial; it would have been foolish. The real question was whether they’d been strangers traveling alone, or accomplices arriving in tandem. “We heard the man was hurt.”

“Not so badly that he’d let me call an ambulance for him. I offered to drive him to the hospital. He refused.”

“Did he give you his name, say where he was from? Is there anything at all you can tell me about him?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” Davis said.

“Nothing at all?”

“There wasn’t much time to talk. I dropped him off at the nearest garage—that Amoco station. Speltz’s.” He heaved a deep sigh. “But then, you obviously know that already.”

Ray let it pass. “Could you identify him if you saw him again?”

“It’s doubtful. It was night and the car interior was dark.”

Whether Davis’s account was accurate or self-serving, Ray couldn’t be sure. He’d been seen with the biker, but the story he was giving covered his ass like chain mail boxers.

“Why all the interest in this man?” A long, silent moment stretched between them like a tightrope. “You’re not suggesting he may have had something to do with my wife’s murder.”

“We need to locate him and find out.”

“My God.” His head fell back against the headrest. “How am I supposed to live with myself if that turns out to be the case?”

Playing the part of victim. Nice touch.
Ray staunched a flood of antagonistic questions building inside him. He parked beside a crime lab vehicle on the edge of Paul Davis’s driveway and walked with him to the front door where they signed into the logbook.

“This may be more difficult than you expect,” he warned him. “Be prepared to see blood. A lot of it.” Maybe Paul Davis had already seen it. Caused it. Woody’s words ricocheted inside his head. Make nice. He gritted his teeth. “Are you ready?”

Davis pushed past Ray and stepped into the foyer. On the living room floor ahead, just as Ray had told him earlier, there were scattered pieces of figurines, a table lamp, books, an heirloom mantel clock, its glass lens splintered.

After a lengthy inspection, Davis announced, “Everything’s here.” Giving Ray no time to prevent it, he walked into the kitchen nearly stepping onto Valerie’s dried blood. “Dear God.”

Ray hurried closer as Davis swayed. “Are you okay?”

“I need some air.” He shoved Ray’s outstretched arm away and retreated to the outside.

“Take a few deep breaths,” he said, following him.

A member of the forensic team trailed after them and took Ray aside. “We’re done here. There’s still no sign of the victim’s forearm.”