Dying to Play Page 19

  Dermer said, “You’ve had cops shot at and wounded and arson. What the hell is your local police chief doing?”

  “Not enough,” Knecht said.

  “Did the bus make any stops?” Dermer asked.

  Head shakes.

  Dermer said, “Then whoever did it must have done it before you left.”

  Heads nodded.

  “Whose jurisdiction is this?” Knecht asked. “Where the crime started or where it happened?”

  “If we catch somebody, it’s not going to make any difference to me,” Dermer said. “The guilty one is going to pay. We’ll have to talk to each of the guys on the bus to see if they saw anything suspicious.”

  “Is the team going to be staying over another night?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t think it will take that long,” Dermer said. “You’d think if someone saw anything they’d be eager to come forward.”

  Neither Smith nor I had seen anything.

  When the meeting was over, Smith and I walked back to the motel. He was to organize the guys to come talk to the cops. As we crossed the parking lot, he said, “At least we know now that it isn’t one of the players doing this.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’d risk killing himself.”

  “Unless he was a very demented killer.”

  “You think he’d risk dying?”

  I said, “I’m not sure what people involved in all this would be willing to do.”

  FRIDAY 4:00 P.M.

  Late Friday afternoon we had a new bus. It was great. All the windows could be pushed outward and were large enough for an adult to crawl through. There was a working washroom in the back. The seats were plush. The new driver wore a uniform and the logo of a nationally identifiable company.

  Three of the people who had been on the bus were still in the hospital. Another twelve of the guys had broken bones and other less serious injuries but were returning with us.

  Before we left, all the members of the team had been interviewed by the cops. Everyone claimed they knew nothing.

  Knecht rode on the bus with us. His limousine would follow behind. Campbell had once again saved me a place, but Knecht waved me over from his seat immediately behind the driver. Trader Smith sat across the aisle from us and leaned over so he could take part in the conversation.

  Knecht said, “Are you okay?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “Did the police tell you anything?”

  “They confirmed again that it was sabotage. What the hell am I going to do?”

  Smith said, “You could shut down the team.”

  “I won’t. I just won’t.”

  Smith said, “People are starting to die. People are hurt.”

  Knecht said, “I’m not going to let my enemies win.”

  I asked, “If anyone is even still willing to play for your team, how many people are you willing to sacrifice against your enemies?”

  “I haven’t sacrificed anybody.”

  “But it could begin to look like that or perhaps look like you care more about cash than people.”

  This gave Knecht pause for several seconds then he asked, “People would say that?”

  I nodded. “All of us could have died. If the brakes had failed while we were on the bridge going over the Mississippi, it could have been catastrophic. Whoever’s behind all this did an awful lot of elaborate planning.”

  Smith said, “Sometimes you have to back off a little bit so you can organize your own campaign against the bullies.”

  “No,” Knecht said. “I won’t. This can’t happen in America.”

  “It can and has. Far worse.”

  Smith said, “This is what terror feels like.”

  Knecht said, “I won’t be stopped. I’m hiring twenty-four-hour-a-day guards. There will always be someone watching the bus. There will be a platoon of security guards at the stadium. None of these teenagers. Real guards. I’ve already called several places. They’ll be in place before the first game next week. We’ve got to know who is doing this.”

  “Will you have guards at all the stadiums around the league,” Smith asked, “and at all the motels?”

  “That’s impossible,” Knecht said.

  “Will other teams even want to come to Butterfield to play?” Smith asked. “Have you heard from them?”

  “I talked to the people in Bismarck, of course, because the games there are cancelled. None of the other teams have called. You’d think they’d want to rally around not run in fear.” He pointed at me. “I want you to investigate this new horror as well as everything else that has gone on.”

  I said, “I’m going to find out who did this. I’ve still got people to talk to in town.”

  Knecht said, “I knew most of them growing up. They wouldn’t go this far.”

  “Then it’s somebody on the team,” I said, “or at least connected to the team.”

  Knecht said, “If they’re on the team, they could have died. Does a killer have that kind of nerve?”

  “Some do,” I said. “This one might.”

  “Do something,” Knecht said. “I’m paying you. This has got to stop. You have to find out who’s doing this. Do something!” Knecht was on his way from a rant to hysteria.

  “He almost killed me,” I said. “Motivation is not the problem.”

  That stopped Knecht’s rant.

  I asked, “Did the Minnesota State Police talk to Rotella back in Butterfield?”

  “Yes. They said it didn’t accomplish anything.”

  We talked for a while but no one had any insight that might lead to a killer.

  I told them I’d talk to each of the players as well. I said, “My role as private eye is now going to be in the open.”

  Knecht said, “Just do something! This has to stop!”

  When we were done talking, Knecht stood up, faced the group, and using the driver’s intercom said, “I want to thank all of you for sticking with this, but if anybody wants to leave, I’ll pay full transportation back to your hometowns or anywhere else you want to go. I don’t blame anybody for being unwilling to play. I want to assure you, we’re taking every precaution.”

  No one asked to go home.

  Knecht said, “I also want to officially announce that we have a private investigator with us. Many of you know Mike King. I hired him before this to work undercover. Now it has to be out in the open. Please cooperate with him in any way you can.”

  A voice called from the back, “We already talked to the cops.”

  Knecht snapped, “And you’ll talk to him, or you’ll be cut.”

  I’d rather not be talking to people who are under a threat because of me. I stood up, “If I’m going to find who tried to kill us all, I’ll need your help. I’m not saying somebody held back information from the cops. Lots of times we remember things later. I’m going to be asking if you remember anything out of place at all this entire season, not just the past few days. I’d like to try and establish a pattern to all that’s gone on. I’ll intrude as little as possible.”

  Dowley said, “I think you should intrude as much as you like. Somebody tried to kill us.” Heads nodded.

  I went back to sit with Donny. As soon as I sat down, Brandon Saldovi put his head over our seat. He asked, “Are you a real private investigator?”

  As opposed to a fake one? I let the sarcasm go and just said, “Yeah.”

  “Cool. Like on television?”

  Campbell said, “No, like real life.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Saldovi asked.

  I said, “I’m going to figure out who tried to kill us.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Do you remember anybody hanging around the bus?”

  “The cops asked that. Nah. I got on the bus, and I fell asleep before we were even moving. Do you have a gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, what does a private investigator do?”

  “I talk to people. I ask questions.”

  “That�
�s it?”

  “What did you want me to do?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Shoot people? Or at least hit them?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I’m not sure.” He crossed his arms on the seat edge and leaned forward so his head was almost on his arms. He spoke so that only Campbell and I could hear him. “Are you guys boyfriends?”

  “What?” Campbell asked.

  “I saw the maid go past your room as we were walking to the bus. Only one of the beds was mussed up.”

  “How did you know it was our room?” Campbell asked.

  Saldovi said, “We all went to our rooms about the same time. Hey, don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. I’ve got a sister who’s a lesbian. Everybody knows somebody who’s gay these days.”

  Saldovi turned to me and said, “And you were an athlete in college, and you’re gay?”

  I just looked at him.

  Saldovi blushed slightly and said, “Who’s trying to kill us?”

  Excellent question.

  FRIDAY 7:30 P.M.

  On the bus ride to Butterfield guys slept, engaged in murmured conversations, or did lots of staring out the windows. I spent time with each one. Mostly they were happy to be alive and angry at whoever had done this, but I learned nothing that might lead to a killer.

  When I was done, I went back to sitting with Donny. My muscles ached, but I felt more adrenalin-rush-alert than fear. Duncan had called three times with his concerns about me. I finally told him I was going to turn off my phone so I could get some sleep. I awoke as we passed through acres of cornfields somewhere in Minnesota. Donny was asleep with his head on my shoulder. That felt comfortable.

  Shreds of sunlight were dissolving into long shadows when we arrived in the stadium parking lot. The press swarmed around the bus. Reporters mobbed Connor Knecht. They asked if he was going to disband the team or cancel the rest of the season. I didn’t listen to the answers.

  A Butterfield cop car roared up, lights flashing, and siren blaring. Rotella jumped out and got in my face. He said, “You’re in a heap of trouble!”

  I said, “I’m not on the page of you questioning me.”

  Big mistake. I got myself slammed up against the side of the squad car. I had the sense not to fight back. He brought his lips close to my ear and hissed, “I’ve had complaints about you.”

  “I’m Mister King’s attorney.” It was Georgia’s voice.

  Rotella’s grip loosened. I turned around.

  Georgia’s hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She wore steel-frame glasses and was using an Ipad to record the scene. She wore a gray skirt, gray business jacket, and a starched white blouse that gleamed in the last moments of twilight. She said, “Could you let me know the charges you’re going to prefer against my client?” Her voice was severe and courtroom ready.

  “Who are you?” Rotella demanded.

  Georgia produced a crisp white business card and handed it to him. She spoke, “You arrested a Mr. Edwin Hempil in connection with the crimes in your city. Those are the ones my client was investigating. I’m afraid I don’t understand the problem.” Among her many talents Georgia had a real law degree and had passed the bar exam.

  “Your client has been bothering people.”

  “I’ll need the names of those people so I can have subpoenas issued so they can be questioned.”

  Rotella began to deflate. I guess he was used to being unquestioned king of his small town monarchy.

  I was more than a little fed up with this. Before I could say something, Georgia leaned close and whispered, “We need to get out of here.”

  I chose to take her advice.

  Rotella might have had a different idea but at that moment, a swarm of reporters descended upon him.

  I found Campbell. We agreed to meet back at the house he was sharing after I was done with this night’s round of investigating.

  Shadows of the setting sun surrounded us. The pavement on the parking lot felt warm even through my shoes. When we came through downtown Butterfield, the electric sign over the bank read 96 degrees. The humidity was as relentless as it could be on a Wisconsin summer evening.

  FRIDAY 8:06 P.M.

  I got in the passenger side of Duncan’s car. Georgia got in the back.

  I asked, “What the hell is going on?”

  Duncan said, “They arrested Edwin Hempil for cutting the brake lining. He was supposedly seen hanging around the bus before it left.”

  “He was always hanging around.”

  Georgia said, “But the bus didn’t always break down. If he didn’t do it, they assume he saw who tampered with the brakes.”

  “They could have been tampered with hours before.”

  Duncan threw in. “Maybe Hempil makes an easy scapegoat.”

  I said, “Poor guy. Why’d you guys want to get me out of there?”

  Georgia smiled. “There was some fear you’d beat the crap out of Rotella.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Even though you were on the bus, he’s suspicious that you were involved in some way. Or if he’s not suspicious, he’d like to involve you in it.”

  “How do we know this?”

  Duncan said, “Murray has been most helpful.”

  “He get underwear from you?”

  “He didn’t ask. Where to?”

  “The bed and breakfast.” I took out the flash drive and phone and held them out. “These were in my duffel bag from the bus. They aren’t mine. You didn’t put them in there?”

  “No.”

  As Duncan put the car in gear and drove toward our headquarters, I filled them in on finding them.

  “Anybody could have put them in there at almost any time. I had no reason to check all those little pockets. It could be the same as when they moved the body. Someone is trying to set me up.”

  “For which crime?”

  “Good question. If they knew the bus was going to crash, then why risk getting these wrecked? Someone must have wanted these to be found on me. Or did someone want me to have them? Does someone think they have clues to one, some, or all of the murders? Or does someone think they were lost and destroyed in the crash or fire?”

  Duncan said, “They still could want you caught with them. You’re holding them right now.”

  I said, “I think whoever is plotting has a lot more to be worried about now. The crash complicates things. And there could be more than one set of plotters. If they wanted to silence Czobel because of what he knew about Skeen and drugs, then they’ve succeeded.” I jiggled the phone and flash drive in my hand. I leaned my head back. I was drained.

  We rode in silence for a few minutes until I spoke one of my key questions aloud. “Did the person who cut the brakes put the stuff in my duffel bag?”

  Duncan asked, “Who wants to implicate you or threaten you or get you out of town?”

  “Well, everybody.”

  Duncan said, “Not everybody. At least one hot guy has thrown himself at you.”

  “Two, Czobel and Campbell.”

  “Unless Campbell is using you, getting close to you to find out what you know.”

  “Hey! I like him.”

  From the back seat Georgia harrumphed and said, “How many times have guys you liked turned out to be rats?”

  “Not that many. And he’s not into drugs, and he didn’t kill anyone.”

  “If you say so.”

  At the bed and breakfast Caesar greeted me with flop-eared joy. Andy was still taking care of my dog when I had to be out working.

  Jerry met us in our ersatz office. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt. He sat his butt on the edge of a desk and asked, “You okay?”

  “Nothing broken and I’m not currently bleeding.” The horror of what had happened to Henry the driver flashed in my mind. I didn’t know how soon, if ever, I’d forget his gaping wound or the pain of his suffering. I shook my head. I’d rather have slept for a week or been in Donny Campbell’s arms, but this thing needed to be resolved
.

  Duncan plugged the flash drive into his computer. It asked for a password. He said, “This is going to be even harder to break without knowing whose it was.” He turned on the phone and shook his head. “This is password protected as well. Both of these are going to take time.”

  “Give them a shot.” I asked, “What have you guys found out here?”

  Duncan had his laptop out and was ready to take notes.

  Jerry said, “I spent all night last night out at Charlie Hopper’s place.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Even with the whole night, I only got to the larger pole sheds. Most of them had cows.”

  “What did the non-cow ones have?”

  “Various chemical labs. I didn’t have time to go inside. I think they need a look.”

  “Can we go tonight?”

  “Good as any other night.”

  Jerry had put in a call to a friend in the DEA. They would meet in town the next day.

  Duncan promised to keep working on getting into the flash drive and phone. I asked Georgia to retain her lawyer garb and see if she could talk to Hempil or help him. I said, “He’s being railroaded. Although he said his dad was a judge, so I’m not sure how much help he needs.”

  Duncan said, “Wouldn’t that depend on which side in the fights his dad was on?”

  Jerry added, “And evidence, don’t you think?”

  “In this town,” I said, “I don’t think evidence means shit.”

  Duncan said, “There is one other thing.” He pulled up a web site which was filled with conspiracy theories about the reporter’s death, Skeen’s keeling over, and how Knecht was evil incarnate.

  Jerry said, “Somebody’s pushing bullshit.”

  Duncan said, “You’d think they’d be ashamed.”

  “That kind never is,” Jerry said.

  Before we left, Duncan reminded Jerry and me to slather on insect repellant.

  FRIDAY 10:30 P.M.

  I called Donny and told him I’d be late. He said he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Jerry and I set out in the car Georgia had driven up in, a black Cadillac Escalade Hybrid.

  We returned to the farm. We parked a half mile from an entrance. We planned to enter by tramping through the cornfields.