Starvation Lake (30 page)

“Pardon me, Miss Martin,” Gallagher interrupted. “Tell me now, why is it that the county didn’t see fit to bring a charge of first-degree murder? Was this not a premeditated act?”

Flapp stood.

Eileen said, “Yes, Your Honor, we believe it was.”

Gallagher propped his glasses on his forehead and covered his face with his hands. I felt myself holding my breath. He removed his hands and his huge glasses fell into place. “Tell me, Miss Martin,” he said, “the prosecution does have a motive in this case, does it not? You plan to demonstrate precisely why Mr. Campbell would want to kill a man who had been his coach and, presumably, a mentor, even a father figure of sorts, for many years?”

“Yes, Your Honor, we do.”

“And these motivations,” he said, “would these prompt, say, a neutral observer—not an officer of the court, mind you, just regular folk; the lady at Ace Hardware, say, or the propane delivery man—would these prompt that person to conclude that what Mr. Campbell allegedly did was justified, in some, let’s say, moral sense, setting aside the law for the moment?”

“Setting aside the law, Your Honor?”

Gallagher waved her up to his bench. Flapp followed. As the judge listened to what Eileen Martin had to say, his face remained a blank. He glanced past them once at Soupy and nodded before sending them back.

“Miss Martin,” he said. “Please continue reading.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said. “Picking up where I left off…The defendant Campbell became highly agitated and produced a twenty-two caliber pistol…”

In the jury box, the lawyer Shipman was motioning toward the bailiff, who was sitting to Gallagher’s right. The bailiff stepped over to Shipman. Shipman whispered in his ear and handed him a piece of folded yellow paper. The bailiff walked it over to Soupy’s table and handed it to Flapp.

“…The defendant Campbell brandished the firearm in a threatening manner. The decedent Blackburn and Redpath attempted, without success, to persuade the defendant Campbell to disarm himself…”

Flapp unfolded the paper and read it. He showed it to Soupy, who glanced at it and turned away, pressing his eyes shut.

“…The defendant Campbell then fired two shots. The first bullet missed the decedent Blackburn and lodged in his snowmobile…”

Flapp stood. “Your Honor,” he said, brandishing the note. Gallagher had followed the note-passing and was now glaring at Flapp.

“…The second bullet struck the decedent Blackburn—”

“Excuse me, Miss Martin,” Gallagher said. Eileen Martin looked over at Flapp, annoyed.

“Mr. Flapp?” the judge said.

“Your Honor,” Flapp said. “May I approach?”

“This had better be good, Mr. Flapp.”

A murmur rose in the gallery as Flapp and Martin stepped to the bench. Gallagher tapped twice with the butt end of his gavel. “Quiet, please.”

Flapp handed him the paper. Gallagher read it once, then again, and offered it to Eileen Martin, who read it and handed it back. I couldn’t see the attorneys’ faces, but Gallagher looked perplexed. The three of them had a brief, whispered discussion, then the judge looked over at Shipman and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Mr. Shipman, can you tell me why the deceased here would need a lawyer? Are you representing his estate?”

“Your Honor,” Shipman said, “Mr. Redpath retained counsel approximately one day after the snowmobile washed up at Walleye. I was asked to deliver this note should any tragedy befall Mr. Redpath.”

“He wanted you to deliver it to the defendant, Mr. Campbell?”

“To his counsel, Your Honor.”

“I see,” Gallagher said. “Approach, please.”

Shipman eased out of the jury box and went to the bench. The judge leaned down and asked him something. Shipman nodded emphatically. His lips said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

Gallagher sent them all back. Eileen motioned to Dingus, who stood and leaned close to her while she whispered something. He immediately looked over at Shipman. Dingus kept his eyes on the lawyer as he sat back down.

The judge took his glasses off and directed himself to the court reporter. “For the record, Miss Reporter, I have just been handed a note from the attorney, Peter Shipman, who is representing Leo—excuse me—the estate of the late Leo Redpath. I have disclosed the note’s contents to counsel for the prosecution and the defense.”

Flapp whispered something in Soupy’s ear. Soupy put his head down on his clenched hands and shook his head an emphatic no. The gallery leaned closer still.

“So, Miss Martin,” Gallagher said. “What do we do now?”

“With all due respect, Your Honor, this note is merely hearsay at this point. Until we’ve had an opportunity to verify—”

“Yes, yes, Miss Martin, don’t worry, I’m not about to dismiss the charges, but let me ask you this: You have no body, is that correct?”

“That is correct, Your Honor, but the county is prepared to dredge Walleye Lake at the first opportunity.”

Gallagher turned to Dingus. “Is that right, Sheriff?”

Dingus half stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Had we only pursued such a seemingly logical step ten years ago, yes, Sheriff? Maybe we’d all be out watching the winter storm today. Instead, we’re here. So.” He looked at Eileen Martin. “Do we have a weapon?”

“Yes, we do, Your Honor.”

One of the other lawyers at the prosecution bench handed Eileen a clear plastic bag containing what everyone could see was a pistol. She held it up for the judge. “The county has marked this Exhibit 1-A,” she said. “It is a Browning Challenger III .22-caliber pistol, manufactured in 1984. Although it was most recently in the possession of Mr. Redpath—our ballistics analysis indicates that he used it to inflict a fatal wound on himself—the gun was registered to the defendant, Alden Campbell, in January of 1988, and we have reason to believe it was used on the night Mr. Blackburn was killed.”

Another murmur rose and again Gallagher rapped with his gavel’s butt end. He looked skeptical. “Miss Martin, why would Mr. Redpath have had Mr. Campbell’s gun ten years later?”

Eileen lowered the bag. “Your Honor, what we believe we will elicit at trial is that Redpath had it for safekeeping.”

I looked at Soupy. His eyes were fixed on the table.

“Do you have other evidence, Miss Martin?”

“Your Honor, we have a witness who has additional testimony that, albeit indirectly, bears on the night in question. We would have had him here today but”—she turned and looked directly at Soupy—“he was detained.”

“Detained?” Gallagher said. “Just who is this witness?”

“Theodore Boynton, Your Honor.”

Of course. Boynton had known something himself and embellished it with whatever he’d picked up from Joanie and used it to blackmail Soupy. After Soupy stranded him at the zoning board, he’d gone to the police.

Gallagher turned to Flapp. “So what do we do, Mr. Flapp?”

Flapp stood. “Your Honor, based on the contents of the note delivered by Mr. Shipman, I would offer a motion to dismiss—”

“I wouldn’t do that, Counselor. Despite the fact that the circumstantial evidence in this case could just as easily point the finger of guilt at Mr. Redpath, and that this note proffered by counselor Shipman could just as easily be a cover for Mr. Redpath’s culpability, I am nevertheless inclined, for now, to give the benefit of the doubt to the prosecution out of respect for their professional integrity as well as that of Sheriff Aho, who in my experience does not bring defendants willy-nilly before this court.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Flapp said. “In the alternate then, this note, as Your Honor suggests, does raise serious questions about my client’s guilt in this matter. So again, addressing the question of bond, I would ask merely that Mr. Campbell be granted time to deal with the pressing matters pertaining to his livelihood.”

I didn’t think bailing Soupy out for even a few hours was a good idea. If he really cared about his business, his affairs would already be in order and he would have been at the zoning board meeting. The way he’d been acting of late, I thought he’d be safer—less of a threat to himself—behind bars.

Gallagher hitched himself forward. The faintest hint of a smile played on his lips. “Tell you what, Mr. Flapp, I’m certain that everyone in the courtroom would love to hear what it is we’re talking about.” He produced the note Shipman had given him and held it out to Flapp. “Would you do me the favor of reading this aloud?”

“Objection,” Eileen Martin said.

“Overruled. Counselor?”

Flapp stepped forward and took the note from Gallagher. The judge motioned for him to turn and face the gallery. The judge then said, “Mr. Flapp will read into the record a one-page note, as yet unauthenticated, handwritten in pen on yellow legal paper, purportedly by the late Mr. Redpath. Is it dated, Mr. Flapp?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Sunday. Two days ago.”

“Proceed.”

Flapp cleared his throat and read:

To the good people of Starvation Lake,
Today, I trust my higher power to guide me to a realm of peace, light, and rapture. No longer will I allow shame and guilt to control my feelings, nor will I willfully prevent myself from grieving the losses in my life. I am fully human on this day, and every day going forward.
Jack Blackburn was my mentor and my friend. He taught me many things about life. Knowledge can be a gift, and it can be a burden. Everything Jack did was rooted in the desire to live life to its fullest possibilities. This on occasion led him to places of shame and hurtfulness. He was human. He meant harm to no one. His knowledge became a burden he could not bear. On that night in the woods, Jack and I entered into a suicide pact. Jack honored his end of our agreement. I was weak at the time, and did not, until now.
You should look for Jack’s body in Walleye Lake, if it hasn’t been swept into the river by now. I pray I’ll be forgiven for keeping this to myself for so long. I pray this will satisfy those who want the truth, and release any and all who might mistakenly be held responsible. I am now willing to surrender to the darkness with the knowledge that light awaits me.

Flapp handed the note back to the judge. The gallery sat silent, stunned. I had begun to transcribe Flapp’s reading in my notebook but had to stop when he came to the suicide pact. I listened in a daze, without believing, without knowing what to believe. Nothing added up. I tried to picture Coach putting the pistol to his temple. I imagined Leo depositing the snowmobile in Walleye Lake. What “knowledge” could have prompted such an end? Why had Leo let Blackburn end his life if he didn’t think he could end his own? And why now, ten years later, had Leo felt the need to “honor” his end of the pact? Why hadn’t he simply confessed to what happened and let it be? What was he afraid of? Jail? The town’s recriminations? How had he concluded that a journey to peace, light, and rapture led down the barrel of a gun? Even if what he said happened had truly happened, there had to be something more, something darker and more sinister that he had determined to take with him to his grave. I looked at Soupy. He had lowered his head to the table and was gently shaking it, no.

Gallagher broke the silence. “I will be giving this note to the county for handwriting analysis. We’ll deal with that at trial, which I’m setting for March seventeenth, nine-thirty a.m. Mr. Flapp, I’ll give your client twenty-four hours, bond one hundred thousand dollars. Naturally you’ll need to post ten percent. When the twenty-four hours is up, he goes back to the county jail. Mr. Campbell, do you understand?”

Soupy’s answer was barely audible. “Yes.”

The judge looked at Eileen Martin. “Objections, Counselor?”

“Your Honor—”

Gallagher stopped her. “Keep in mind, Miss Prosecutor, that you have no body. You might have the weapon, or you might not. Many of the people in this courtroom, and in our town, are probably wondering why we’re dredging this up at all. Because it’s the law, of course, and the law is sacred. But the fact is, Miss Martin, I could shut this down right now, and the law would be served well enough.”

“No objection, Your Honor.”

   Cigar ashes and snowflakes flecked Delbert’s steel-wool beard when I found him outside the courthouse. An unruly gray mane spilled from his black fedora. He wore his camouflage jacket open and hid his eyes behind Ray-Ban shades.

“You know,” he said, “we had a perfectly good picture of the sheriff on file. Did you even bother to look?”

A few feet away, gawkers crowded the courthouse steps to eavesdrop on Tawny Jane Reese interviewing Flapp. With one hand Delbert raised his camera to his shades and snapped off a clicking whir of pictures. Behind me I heard someone call out, “Hey, Gus,” and I turned to see Elvis, grinning and pointing toward Flapp. “The puck’s over here,” he said.

I turned back to Delbert.

“Well,” he was saying, “if you have a bottomless budget for film stock and developing chemicals, fine with me, I’ll just keep shooting these people over and over again. Maybe you could make a flip book.”

“I have to talk to you,” I said.

“Talk.”

“Over here.” I motioned him toward the street. Standing close, I smelled the cigar smoke clinging to his beard. “You knew Blackburn, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Delbert said. “Fine man. Fine businessman.”

“You did some business with him?”

“Now just hang on, sir, I had permission from the publisher himself, Mr. Nelson P. Selby, to do my freelance work with whomever I chose. It didn’t cost the
Pilot
more than—”

“I don’t care about that, Delbert. What was it you did for Blackburn? Take pictures? Develop film?”

“Both, actually. I shot stills at hockey practices, a few things out at his place when he was building. I made him some prints. Mostly I sent stuff away for him.”

“You took pictures when I was playing?”

“That’s right, you played, didn’t you. Yeah, I was out there a few times.”

“And what stuff did you send away?”

“All film. Eight-millimeter. Sent it for developing.”

“You didn’t develop it yourself?”

“Nope. Wasn’t my thing. I got it done by a guy downstate. Cheap and reliable. But”—he chuckled—“he was mixed up with some shady characters. Like the Mafia or something. I think he got whacked.”