Rough Country (12 page)

NOON. He called Mann from his truck and asked, How long is that meeting going to last?

I don't know, but it'll be a while. People are freaking out. Everybody'll want to talk for eight minutes, so that'll be an hour and a half of bullshit before we get to the hard stuff.

Do you have a number and address for a Ronald Owen? Virgil asked.

Sure. What does Ron have to do with this?

Don't know. I want to ask him, Virgil said.

That fuckin' Sexton pointed you at him, Mann said. Not a question. That little weasel. Listen, I'll vouch for Ron, if that means anything.

What about John Yao?

Jesus. Pointed you right at the two non-yuppie fucks in the office, Mann said.

Would McDill have fired them?

After a minute of silence, Mann said, Ron, probably. She didn't like him and he didn't like her back. John Yao, probably not. He's got good connections in the Asian community here, and they do a surprising amount of business with us in one way or another.

Mark Sexton said that his accounts didn't amount to anything, Virgil said.

That's because Mark's a dumbass, Mann said. None of John's accounts are huge and they don't do TV or glamour stuff it's all business-to-business work but taken all together, they bring a nice lump of change.

So Yao was safe, but Owen, probably not, Virgil said.

Yes. And Erica and John get along, Mann said. Don't know why chemistry or something. They got along.

What's Owen's address? Virgil asked.

I feel like a rat giving you all of this, Mann said.

I'd get it anyway, Virgil said. If Owen didn't do it, might as well clear him out.

OWEN LIVED TWENTY MILES northeast of Minneapolis, in rural Grant Township. Virgil headed that way, got a buzz on his cell phone, looked at it: Davenport.

Yeah?

You still in Grand Rapids?

No. I'm in North St. Paul, headed out toward Mahtomedi, talking to a guy who didn't like McDill. Virgil filled him in on what he'd learned, and what he planned to do the rest of the morning, before heading north again.

Stacy and her crew started processing McDill's house last night, Davenport said. They should be out there for the rest of the day. Her father's there, you might want to check in.

That's in Edina, right? He'd written McDill's address in his notebook; either Edina or Eagan.

Yes. Her girlfriend got back last night and made a fuss, but that's straightened out now, Davenport said. What's the story on the girlfriend?

Still thinking about her, Virgil said.

Okay. Stay in touch.

OWEN' S HOUSE SAT at the crest of a hill. A fifties-era ranch-style, the house had a later wing stuck on one end, with a garage and a shop building in back, on what Virgil thought might be ten acres. At the top of the gravel driveway, Virgil saw a man in jeans and a T-shirt watching him from the edge of a stand of sweet corn in a sprawling hillside garden. Owen, he thought.

He parked beside a Chevy pickup, got out, looked around the whole country smelled like fresh-cut hay and dry gravel then walked up to the front door. The inner door was open, and he knocked on the screen door. He could hear music playing inside, but couldn't identify it. A fiftyish brown-haired woman came to the door, wiping her hands on a towel, and peered through the screen. She smiled and asked, Can I help you?

I'm with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, Virgil said. Is Mr. Owen around?

Oh, boy, she said, the smile sliding away. Is this about Erica?

Yup. I'm interviewing people from the agency, Virgil said.

All of them, or some of them?

Several of them, anyway, Virgil said. I just came from talking to Mark Sexton.

That little shit, she said. He probably told you that Ron did it.

No, he didn't but . . . Virgil scratched at the screen. I really need to talk to Mr. Owen. You're welcome to listen in, if you want. I'll tell you that Barney Mann says that Mr. Owen had nothing to do with Miss McDill's death.

He's right well, I do want to listen in. She pushed through the door and said, C'mon. He's out in the garden.

OWEN WAS SHUCKING the last of the summer's sweet corn. He was wearing Oshkosh overalls and a T-shirt, a self-conscious hobby farmer. He nodded when Virgil and the woman walked up, and asked, Police?

Virgil identified himself, and the woman said, The Sextons.

That figures, Owen said. He asked Virgil, You want some sweet corn? We've got too much for the two of us, and not enough to freeze.

I'd take a few, Virgil said. The corn smelled sweet and hot in the light breeze playing through the plot; but it was a shade too yellow, and might be a little tough. Good, though. He said, You know what I'm doing. Were you here in the Cities night before last?

Owen nodded. Yeah. I worked until six at the agency, then came home. He named a few people who'd seen him working late. I wouldn't have killed her anyway. I wouldn't kill anybody, for any reason.

Virgil nodded. The Sextons said you hunt. Whoever killed Miss McDill was good with a rifle.

How did it happen, exactly? Owen asked. Virgil told him, and Owen said, Sounds local, to me. You can look at all the Google Earth you want, and it won't tell you about wandering around in the North Woods. And one shot, right between the eyes?

Yeah.

The thing about that is, it was either an accident, or maybe there was another shot that you don't know about, and she looked at it, and caught the second one . . . or the guy's crazy, Owen said, shucking the green leaves off another ear of corn. He exposed a corn worm, cutting down through the kernels, snapped off the worm-eaten end, dropped it, and crushed it with a boot. Why would you take a high-risk shot like that, when her whole heart-lung area was right there?

Don't know, Virgil said. The question hadn't occurred to him. Maybe she was an amateur, and thought the head was the natural place to aim.

She?

We think the shooter might have been a woman, Virgil said.

So you really didn't think it was me? Owen asked.

Nope. But everybody said you didn't like her, that she might be planning to fire you, so I had to check, he said. He glanced at the woman and said, I mean, maybe your wife shot her.

The woman said, I don't even kill mice. I take them outside and let them go.

And you were here the night before last?

I was at work until five, at Highland Junior High, she said. I'm a teacher. I had after-school volleyball.

Virgil smiled: I thought it was local, myself. . . .

To Owen: If you had to pick out one woman, that you know of, who was most likely to shoot McDill, who'd you say?

Owen thought for a couple of seconds, scanning Virgil's face, and then said, Jean.

Who's Jean?

That's me, the woman said. I really didn't like that bitch.

They talked for a few more minutes: Owen didn't know anybody at the agency, he said, who'd kill McDill.

It's some backwoods redneck antigay thing, he said. I'll bet you a hundred bucks that some backwoods guy did it. I was watching a football game once, at Palachek's up in Milaca, and somebody said something about one of the quarterbacks being gay, and this redneck guy said, I'd kill a queer,' and he meant it.

Wonder if he'd think the same about a lesbian? Virgil asked.

Why would a lesbian be different?

Lesbian's not a threat to a straight guy, Virgil said. Some straight guys have fantasies about lesbians.

Jean checked him: Sounds like you have personal experience in that area.

VIRGIL ASKED, It's been suggested that I might check into the whereabouts of a John Yao. Do you know . . . ?

John? John wouldn't hurt a rabid rat. The Sextons suggested him, right? Those fucks . . .

VIRGIL LEFT with a brown paper bag full of sweet corn and cucumbers.

Why the head shot? Maybe a personal passion, and the killer wanted to mutilate McDill's face? That happened in male homosexual murders of passion, but he wasn't sure about females. Owen was right, though. The head shot had made the killing harder, and no more certain. Something to think about.

Did he have fantasies about lesbians? He considered the proposition and decided that he did not. He had fantasies about women; he'd never considered the lesbian angle. Maybe he'd give it a try, the next time he needed a fantasy.

VIRGIL LEFT the Owens's place behind, headed back into the core of the Cities. First to McDill's house, then to the board meeting, to see what that might produce. He should put more pressure on Davies, he thought, to see if he could squeeze something out of her; and talk to the crime-scene crew working on McDill's house.

He'd just gotten back inside the I-694 loop when he took a call from the duty officer at BCA headquarters in St. Paul. You know a woman named Zoe Tull, up in Grand Rapids?

Yeah what happened?

I don't know if anything happened. But she called and said she needs to talk to you, and it's urgent. Actually, she said, kinda urgent.'

VIRGIL PUNCHED in Zoe's number and she answered on the second ring, fast for a cell phone. Virgil?

What happened?

Somebody was in my house last night, while I was in bed, she said.

Ah, jeez why? He had an image in his mind's eye, a killer at night in a dark house. Why do you think there was somebody in the house?

I couldn't sleep last night. I lay awake forever, thinking about everything, Zoe said. After that fight, my brain was going around in circles. Then, really late two o'clock I thought I heard something. In the kitchen. Or maybe, in the office. So I sat up and I turned on the light, and then I got up, and I couldn't see anything, because it was so dark in the rest of the house, so I yelled, Hello, I've got a gun.' After a minute, I didn't hear anything, so I peeked out and I saw the cat in the hallway, and I thought it was the cat, and I walked through the house, and didn't see anybody. Then this morning, the back door was open, maybe a quarter inch. I didn't even see that it was open until I went out. I mean, I reached out to open it, and it opened as soon as I touched it. It won't even close now, because they broke the wood around that hole-thing where the lock goes in.

The strike plate.

Whatever. I looked at it, and somebody had pried it. They broke some of the wood around the lock.

Did you call the cops? Virgil asked.

Yes. I told them the whole thing, about how I'd been talking to you, and they said the door definitely had been pried, but they couldn't tell when, she said. They didn't do anything, though. They said I should get better locks. They said I should tell you.

Okay. Get better locks. Is there anyplace else you can stay overnight? A motel . . .

I could stay with my sister if I had to, Zoe said. Her husband is out of town.

Go to your sister's, Virgil said. The crime-scene crew is probably still there, so I'll have them look at your back door. Did the cops screw around with it, looking at it?

No, no. I don't think they touched it, she said. They looked at it pretty close, though.

All right. I'm going to give the crime-scene guys your number, and they'll call you, and talk to you about it, Virgil said. Don't touch the door again. Go to your sister's until you get the locks changed.

Okay.

What kind of gun do you have? Virgil asked.

I don't have a gun. I've got a baseball bat. Also, I've got one of those Wave radios and a CD of a Doberman barking, she said. But I forgot about the bat and the CD last night. I'm such a twit.

Get the locks. Go to your sister's. I'm coming back up this afternoon. I'll call you when I get there, Virgil said.

HE CALLED MAPES, with the crime-scene crew, and had them send a guy to Zoe's. Called Zoe back and told him the guy was coming. Next he checked with the medical examiner: We got all the usual stuff, Virgil, and I can tell you she wasn't drunk or doped up, to any significant extent. There's a messy entry wound in her forehead, which I guess you saw . . .

Yeah . . .

I'm calling that a .223. Won't know for sure unless you find a slug, but we can see the rim of the impact hole, and judging from the damage it did, it sure looks like a high-powered .22 of some kind .223 would be the best bet, could be an old .222. I don't think it's one of the small hyperspeed ones. . . . I'm going with .223.

Thank you.

Independent confirmation. The .223 was one of the more popular shooter's guns in the state, the same caliber used in current military assault rifles, low recoil, relatively cheap ammo, very accurate in the right gun. All he had to do was find the gun; preferably with attached fingerprints and a map of the murder scene.

And he thought: If the killer had broken into Zoe's house, then the killer was local, from Grand Rapids; she would have to have been hooked into a local gossip network to know that Zoe had been talking to Virgil.

ERICA MCDILL HAD LIVED in an area of million-dollar homes with quiet suburban streets, big yards, tall trees, and swimming pool fences in the backyards, where the backyards were visible. McDill's home was a low, flat-roofed midcentury place, showing steel beams and glass, ugly, but probably architecturally significant, Virgil thought. The driveway wound around back and ended at a four-car garage. A guy named Lane, from the crime-scene crew, let him in: the house had been professionally decorated, from the carpets to the ceiling paint.