The Mortal Groove (22 page)

“Okay, then how about this.” She pulled out a black beret. Cordelia tried it on. “It fits. I've never really been the beret sort. I don't suppose they have it in gold lame.”

Jane ripped it off her head. “One more,” she said. She'd bought the last one as a joke. “Maybe you better close your eyes again.”

“Why?”

“All right. Don't.” She took out a red and black plaid man's hunting cap and held it up.

“Janey, I love it!” cried Cordelia, grabbing it away from her. “This is it! It's me me me! It's even got earflaps. How did you know I've
always
wanted one of these? None of the designer shops in the Twin Cities carry them, God knows why.” She placed it on her head with great reverence, pulled down the visor, and flipped up the mirror. “Oh, this is too fabulous.”

“You're telling me you've always wanted to look like an old Minnesota farmer standing in a cornfield?”

“Always!”

Jane wasn't sure it was a good idea for Cordelia to go wandering around with that hat on her head. On the other hand, red buffalo plaid wasn't exactly unheard of in these parts. Now that it was attached to her, it wasn't likely to come off anytime soon.

“It's not exactly hunting season,” said Jane.

“I'm not a slave to fashion rules, Janey, you know that. I wear white after Labor Day all the time.”

“Well, at least it covers your colored spikes.”

“Do you like it with the flaps up or down?”

“Up, I think.” Jane turned and looked out the window at the bar across the street.

“I'm ready for anything now,” said Cordelia. “Bring on the day.”

 

“Welcome to my home,” said Alf Trotter, leading them into the living room and spreading his arms wide. “Sit anywhere.”

The room was tiny. Two brown corduroy La-Z-Boys flanked a matching love seat. Along the opposite wall was a massive oak entertainment unit, where the TV, VCR, DVD, and stereo system were located. Cordelia edged her way between the wall unit and one of the chairs and sat down.

“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” said Jane, lowering herself onto the end of the love seat nearest Cordelia.

“I was sorry to hear about Melanie,” said Alf. A bowl of peanuts sat on a glass-topped coffee table. He pushed it toward them. “Hope she recovers quickly.”

Alf Trotter was was about five eight, heavily built, with a halo of wispy white hair surrounding an otherwise bald head.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Nothing, thanks,” said Jane.

Cordelia tried a peanut.

“Well, all right then.” He slapped his hands together and sat down. “Let's get down to business, shall we? I'm not the kind to beat around the bush. You're here because of that opinion piece I wrote in the
Fort Dodge Messenger.
Tell you the truth, I got a lot of hate mail after I wrote it.”

“Why?” asked Jane.

“It was a politically charged time, much like it is today. We all like to think we're patriotic Americans. I served my country in a just war, and I'm proud to say that to anyone. But Vietnam, well, that was another matter entirely. And so's this new travesty in Iraq. Don't get me started.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” said Jane, “but in your op-ed piece you seemed to suggest that the authorities around here gave Randy Turk and his friends a pass when it came to the murder investigation because they'd just come back from serving in the military.”

“I did indeed,” said Alf, flipping up the foot of the La-Z-Boy. “And I still believe that today. I taught history for thirty-two years at Buena Vista University in Storm Lake, so I know how difficult it is to get at the truth. There are always a lot of pressures that try to shape something this way or that. Take, for instance, our view of the Ottoman Empire, specifically, the Siege of Vienna in 1529.”

For the next fifteen minutes, he gave them a history lesson. It was interesting, sort of, but Jane thought it came under the heading of “beating around the bush.” On the other hand, she was sure that, to Alf, it was right on point.

“So you see,” he said, crossing his ankles, “what gets recorded
isn't always the full story. Take the sixties and early seventies here in the U.S. It was an explosive time. People were polarized into two camps: those who supported the war, and those who opposed it. Around these parts, people generally felt our reasons for being in Vietnam were valid. In Waldo, specifically, we'd sent off three of our sons to war. The kid who left before Randy came back in a body bag, so when Randy returned, he was treated like a hero. We gave him a parade down the center of town. We gave him a dinner at the local Lutheran church. The high school over in Prairie River asked him to come talk to the students. People couldn't seem to get enough of him. He was a quiet boy, and I think all the attention kind of overwhelmed him. A week or so after he got back, his two buddies showed up. They weren't quite as presentable as Randy, but to most of us, they were vets who deserved our admiration and gratitude. After a while, things quieted down. But Randy remained the kid we all wanted to see succeed in life in every way possible. And it's in that context that you have to put the murder investigation. Nobody wanted to believe that Randy or his friends could have murdered Sue. It was simply easier on our consciences, our sense of right and wrong, our understanding of how the world should work, to point the finger at Ethan.”

“Do you think Ethan did it?” asked Cordelia.

“No, never. But the county deputies who were the first ones on the scene that morning, they concluded Ethan was guilty. It wasn't a big leap. Ethan was there, and he was mightily confused, had a terrible hangover. He's not the most articulate guy in the world. And from what I hear, he told the police he didn't know what had happened. He even said that maybe he had done it. That was all it took. Word got around. People liked Ethan, but he was different. For many people, that made him an easy target.”

“What he said, was that considered an admission of guilt?” asked Jane.

“It wasn't admissible, but the police assumed it would be. A friend of mine on the force let me take a look at the initial police report. I saw the photographs that were taken at the scene. Believe me, you never get images like that out of your mind. Sue was on the ground, her legs splayed, her back was against the willow. Her head had rolled to the side, and you could see these wicked bruise marks around her neck. The doctors determined later that she hadn't been raped. But the truth is, we really don't know what happened.”

“Because there were no witnesses,” said Jane.

Alf nodded. “Although, of course, there were. ”

“You think Randy did it?”

“No. But I think he was there.”

“Did something in the police report lead you to believe that?” asked Jane.

Again, he nodded. “The report I saw contained all the information the police assembled in the aftermath. Statements from people who knew Ethan and Sue. Teachers, employers, family. As you can imagine, there aren't many murders around here. I got the impression that the police left the in-depth interviewing to the prosecutors in Fort Dodge. But there was one extremely significant detail that should have been in the report that wasn't. It never became public knowledge. I only learned about it after the trial. The judge ruled that this piece of evidence was inadmissible, so the public defender wasn't allowed to use it in Ethan's defense. That's what I wanted to talk to your friend Melanie Gunderson about. I didn't mention it in the op-ed piece that I wrote because I couldn't. I had no physical proof—just the word of someone I trusted.”

“Your police officer friend?”

“She wasn't an officer, Ms. Lawless. She worked in the department. That's all I can say.”

“What was this extremely significant detail?”

“One of the deputies on the scene that morning found Delavon Green's dog tags in the dirt not three feet from Sue's body.”

“Uffda,” said Cordelia, sitting forward. “How could they cover that up?”

“In my opinion, it was a classic case of telescopic thinking. The police had their theory of the crime, and this didn't fit. Apparently, Green was called in and questioned about it. He said that he and Larry Wilton had cut across the field where Sue was found on the night in question. They were on their way to a bar in town. He stated for the record that he and Wilton—and Randy, too—often wrestled each other, partly to burn off energy, and partly because Green was so big that Wilton liked the satisfaction of pinning him. Wilton backed up the story. They said they'd been wrestling that night in the field, and that Green's tags had come off. They tried to find them, but eventually gave up and walked into town. They figured they'd come back in the morning, when the light was better, and look again. Randy backed up the story, too, said that Green had made the comment in the bar that he'd lost his tags, that he was pretty bummed. ”

“So the police let it die right there,” said Cordelia.

“They did.”

“Del Green's story seems awfully convenient,” said Jane.

“Doesn't it,” said Alf.

“Do you think Green killed Sue?”

“That's exactly what I think happened.”

“Why?”

“I think he was in love with Sue and she rebuffed him. He was drunk, and he got angry. Next thing he knew, she was dead and he was on the hook for murder. His two buddies rallied around him, came up with a cover story. The reasons for the murder may have been a bit more complex than that, but I think I've hit the high points.”

“But you have no proof,” said Jane.

“None. Except for the dog tags.”

“You think that Randy let his brother go to trial, knowing he wasn't guilty? Are you suggesting he was willing to sacrifice Ethan to save his buddy?”

“Nobody ever thought Ethan would be convicted,” said Alf. “I think Randy was willing to take a calculated risk. And it paid off. In the end, none of them went to jail.”

“But Sue was Randy's girl,” said Cordelia. “He loved her, right? Why didn't he stand up for her—point a finger at the guilty party?”

Alf shrugged. “Depends on a man's fundamental allegiances, I guess. War forms potent bonds. Randy must have felt more deeply connected to his buddies than he did to his girlfriend, because the fact is, on that warm May night in 1971, Sue Bouchard slipped from the world and has been largely forgotten. With her last breath, we not only lost a young woman with a brilliant future, but we also lost any chance of finding her murderer.”

 

 

“Let's get out of here,” said Cordelia on the way back to the car. “Go somewhere else for dinner. I don't want to stay in this town a minute more than we need to.” She scanned the quiet neighborhood, then ducked into the car. “Wilton could be watching us right now, for all we know.”

“Dinner sounds fine,” said Jane, reaching into the backseat to give Mouse a scratch. “But first, we have to pay a visit to Big Chick's Lounge.”

“Rats. I forgot.” She waited for Jane to get settled in the front seat, then started the engine. “Let's make it quick.”

 

It was going on six when they finally entered through the battered front door. They'd spent some time driving around town, looking for the two-tone Chevy truck, but thankfully, it was nowhere to be found. Cordelia called the hospital again. After
she hung up, she said, “I'm going to take the position that no news is good news.”

A sign in Big Chick's window said that they now served burgers and fries. The smell of grill grease assaulted them as they sat down at the bar.

A middle-aged, heavy set guy set a couple of napkins in front of them. “What'11 it be?”

Cordelia slipped her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose. “I'd like a nice wheat beer and a slice of lemon Stilton, please.”

Jane kicked her under the table.

“Ouch! Don't—”

Jane gave her a hard stare.

“Oh, I mean, anything you have on tap will be fine.”

“You?” asked the bartender, switching his gaze to Jane.

Jane glanced at the row of beer pulls. “Give me the Sam Adams.” She took a moment to look around as the man pulled the brews.

It was a fairly large room. Black linoleum from the fifties covered the floor, knotty pine the walls. Toward the back were a couple of pool tables that looked like they'd seen better days. Just inside the door was an old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox. At the moment, it was playing the Percy Sledge golden oldie, “When a Man Loves a Woman.” Most of the tables were empty, except for a gray-haired guy and a young woman enjoying their hamburgers, and two middle-aged men playing pool. Seated at the other end of the bar under a large TV was another customer, his attention glued to the basketball game above him.

The bartender set their beers on the napkins. “Four bucks.”