Jess Lourey - October Fest

Like a cockroach that can ambulate without its head, Brad could still flirt while carrying a load of face lice. “Leave.”

He didn’t have the brains to be hurt. He nodded as if I’d told him it looked like rain today and then started on a new conversational track. “Hey, Not With My Horse is playing in town tonight. You should come check us out. We’ve gotten four new gigs out of our blazing Octoberfest performance. Did you see us? We rocked that jam!”

“That’s awesome. Bye.”

“And we even had cute groupies this time. You shoulda been there! I got with a hot little number between sets. Somebody famous.”

Again, he lit my curiosity against its will. “Somebody famous from Battle Lake?”

“Just in town for a coupla nights,” he said coyly. “Wanna guess who?”

“Nope.”

“She’s connected to politics.”

Cripes. It was probably Kennie Rogers. It for sure wasn’t Sarah Glokkmann. Maybe Swinton? She seemed too high class for a pre-encore one-nighter with a polka-fusion singer, but I didn’t know any other politics-affiliated women in town. “Don’t care. And you should tell her you’ve got critters setting up shop on your face.”

He seemed to consider and then discard this. “Thanks again for your help. You know where to find me if you need me.”

“Not gonna happen.”

He nodded conspiratorially, as if my words were code for something else, and headed out to, I could only hope, get the biggest shot in the butt of his life. I took advantage of the lull in the library to call Kennie. Might as well group my unpleasant tasks.

“Hello, Bronze and Bond. How may we make all your dreams come true?”

“Hi, Kennie. It’s me. I have a couple questions.”

“Hmm. Well who needs whom now?”

Which is precisely why I’d dreaded this call. “Look, I’ll help you out tomorrow. I promise. In exchange, I need you to answer a few questions. Deal?”

I heard the sound of a nail file at work. “We’ll see. What’re the questions?”

“First one: you said that Glokkmann didn’t have an alibi for Saturday night, right?”

Kennie exhaled. “Not exactly. That little cookie has always been a squirmy one. She says she was at the motel, in her room, from ten o’clock that night on. Thing is, there’s no one to corroborate her story. She was sharing her room with one of her daughters, who was out partying with a band all night.”

The shortest distance between two points is a line. “How old’s her daughter?”

“I dunno. Twenties I suppose.”

Bingo. Bet I just discovered Brad’s political liaison. “Are Glokkmann and her daughter still in town?”

“They are, and so are her people. And Swydecker. Deputy Wohnt told them it would be in their best interest to remain in our fair city.” She sighed. “Doesn’t he look great? That man has put on weight in all the right places since he left.”

I ignored her. “So Glokkmann and her crew and Swydecker and his crew are in town indefinitely but everyone else in the motel was sent on their way?”

“Yes and no. Swydecker doesn’t have a crew. But otherwise, you got it.”

“So those two are the main suspects in Webber’s murder?” I circled their names in my notebook and drew unhappy faces next to them.

“Not sure. The Deputy and I don’t share all our information.”

“But you’re the Chief!”

She purred. “I certainly am, but a smart woman knows to let a man feel like he’s in charge.” She tried to switch subjects. “Have you seen all the national news reporters in town? Bronze and Bond is going to be a huge success.”

“What’s Swydecker’s alibi?”

“I’ll tell you after you help me spray-tan strangers.”

I groaned. “Can’t you tell me now?”

“And risk you not showing? No way. Free help is hard to come by.”

“You said I’d make $250 an hour!”

“No, I asked you if you wanted to make $250 an hour. Completely different than offering you $250 an hour. One is a commitment, and the other is small talk. See you tomorrow at 6:00!” And she hung up.

Agh. No use worrying about what I couldn’t change. I channeled my frustration into researching Bernard Mink, my last total unknown. I first located a series of Register articles he’d written. He didn’t seem to have a beat, covering sports, local news, and community events equally. More interesting than the articles he’d written were the ones he appeared in. They weren’t news stories so much as police logs, and I unearthed two of them, one from three years ago and one posted the previous month. The oldest blotter entry:

Police were called to a Lincoln Street residence on a report of domestic dispute. Officers arrived to find Fergus Falls residents Bernard Mink, age fifty-three, and Andrea Lang, age forty-two, arguing over meatballs. Mr. Mink was charged with fifth-degree assault for threatening to choke Ms. Lang with a Crockpot power cord and fourth degree assault for resisting arrest. Ms. Lang left with the meatballs.

And the most recent:

Police were called to a Lincoln Street residence on a report of domestic dispute. When officers arrived, they discovered a belligerent Bernard Mink, Fergus Falls resident, age fifty-six, in a physical altercation with Pelican Rapids resident Claude Wayne, age thirty-two. Mr. Wayne claimed he was a neighbor who’d interceded in a physical fight between Mr. Mink and Roberta Kennedy, Fergus Falls resident, age sixty-three. Ms. Kennedy declined to press charges. Mr. Mink was charged with third-degree assault.

The police logs left my hands shaking. They painted a portrait of Bernard as an abusive creep. I had figured I would find something like this, but I didn’t want to be right. I had to tell Mrs. Berns, but how?

I strode into Mrs. Berns’ hospital room and was happy to find that her family wasn’t around. “Here.” I held out the pumpkin-and-spice colored mums I’d bought for her, trying not to wince at the sight of her harsh bruises. “How’re you doing?”

She shushed me and pointed at the TV. The evenings news was on, and if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, this national news station’s cameras were panning downtown Battle Lake. “And it’s here that the campaigns of Representative Sarah Glokkmann and her challenger, Arnold Swydecker, took a precarious turn.” The camera found the face of the commentator and widened slightly to include an appropriately somber-looking Glokkmann.

“Representative Glokkmann, can you comment on the death of Bob Webber, the man behind The Body Politic?”

“It’s terribly sad, Craig. This whole town is shook up about it. My staff tells me it appears to be suicide. He must have been a desperate man.”

The commentator nodded sagely. “There’s been some talk that this was a murder.”

Glokkmann looked shocked. “Well, I’ll leave the investigative work to the police force.”

The reporter tightened his lips. “Will this unfortunate tragedy affect your campaign?”

“I’m always saddened by an early death, but I didn’t know Mr. Webber personally. My condolences go out to his friends and family. In the meanwhile, I have a job as a representative of Minnesota, and I have a duty to fulfill. I will fulfill it.”

“Thank you. I’m Craig Clutch, live from Battle Lake, Minnesota.”

I stared at the image of Glokkmann appearing properly sad but not weak. She was a polished act, and I became aware that I needed to speak with her, and soon. Swydecker, too. They wouldn’t be in town for much longer, and I had a strong hunch that one of them knew exactly who’d killed Bob Webber.