William Krueger - Copper River

“Why not?” Jewell asked.

“Because this afternoon somebody shot him in his apartment behind Providence House. He’s dead.”

C harlie was sullen the whole way into Bodine. Ren sat beside her, quiet, too. Cork rode up front beside Jewell, who followed Hodder in her Blazer. Dina rode with the constable.

It was evening, daylight almost gone. When they crossed the bridge over the Copper River, Cork looked at the water below; its swift, roiling surface was mostly silver-blue, reflecting the sky. He thought of the river as a living thing. The surface was its skin; the pale streaks where boulders disturbed the flow were scars on that skin. He wondered what the river knew about the girl’s death but could not tell. His old friend Henry Meloux, the Ojibwe Mide, might be able to interpret the voice of the river and divine its secrets, but to Cork it spoke not at all.

They parked in front of the constable’s office on Harbor Avenue. Hodder unlocked the door, went inside, and turned on the lights. He disappeared through a door at the back where Cork saw the bars of a holding cell. He heard Hodder’s boots thumping down wooden stairs, and a moment later the sound of them returning. Hodder brought with him several folding chairs. Cobwebs hung between the legs. He set the chairs against the wall and opened them one by one, brushing at the cobwebs.

“Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t crowded this many people in here in a long time.”

Cork noted the furnishings were spare: a fine old wooden desk, a vintage rolling chair, a couple of tan metal file cabinets. On the wall next to the door was a bulletin board pinned with wanted posters, an emergency evacuation route, assorted flyers related to town events, and a photograph of Hodder standing on a dock holding up a lake salmon and grinning like an idiot. Framed certificates hung on the other walls. Occupying the space directly behind the constable’s desk was a print of Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. Cork smiled broadly. The same print hung in his own office back in Aurora.

“Anybody want coffee?” Hodder asked. “Be glad to make a pot.”

Nobody responded and he let it go. He sat down and one by one the others followed suit. Charlie slumped in her chair with her arms clasped across her chest and a defiant look in her eyes.

“Introductions first,” Cork said. “I’m Corcoran O’Connor, Jewell’s cousin. I’m sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota.” He reached across the desk and shook Hodder’s hand.

When he’d heard about Bell’s murder, Cork knew he couldn’t sit on his hands in the shadows any longer. A girl was dead. Another kid was in the hospital. Someone was after Charlie. Ren might even be a target, too. Cork understood the risk of revealing himself to Hodder, but it was what he had to do. He’d find a way to deal with Jacoby; first he had to deal with this.

“Family reunion?” Hodder smiled at Dina.

“Not really, Ned,” Dina said. “I’m not related to the family at all. My real name is Dina Willner. I’m a security consultant.”

Hodder frowned. “Why the charade? What are you doing up here?”

“That’s a long story and doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on,” Cork said. “But we’d be glad to help in any way we can.”

Hodder thought about it. “I guess I appreciate that.”

“Why don’t we start with Bell’s death,” Cork offered. “I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence, him killed just as Jewell and Dina start asking questions.”

“If Del was involved in the girl’s death, why kill him?” Hodder said. There was a coffee mug on his desk. He wrapped his hands around it and rolled it back and forth between them as if he were trying to sculpt it into a new shape.

“I never liked him,” Charlie said. “He was always looking at me.”

“At Providence House?” Jewell asked.

“Whenever he was at our place drinking with my dad. At Providence House he was just kind of around. He didn’t really talk to us or anything.”

“He was the one who told you about the shelter, right?” Dina said.

“Yeah. At first I wasn’t sure about it, because I knew he’d be there and I thought he was creepy, but he never bothered me.”

“What about the other kids?” Dina asked. “He ever bother them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ever see him talking to Sara?”

Charlie thought about it. “Maybe, but not like serious or anything.”

“You know who Calvin Stokely is, right?”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever see him at Providence House?”

“No.”

“Look, maybe we’re way off here,” Jewell said. “Maybe Del and Calvin had nothing to do with this.”

“Most murders involve people who know one another. Sara Wolf knew Delmar Bell,” Cork said, “and the connection through Stokely to the Copper River is hard to ignore. And we’re not trying to convict anybody yet, just looking at possibilities. But you know these guys, Jewell. What do you really think?”

“I hate to think what we’re thinking about anybody.”

“What about Stokely? Could he have killed Delmar Bell?” Dina said.

“Why would he?” Jewell replied.

“Maybe when Del saw us at Providence House, he panicked and Stokely was afraid he’d talk.”

Outside, dark had settled gently over Bodine. The flash of headlights crossed the windows and through the glass came the sigh of engines dying. A minute later Detective Sergeant Olafsson came in followed by a woman, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy. He paused and scanned the gathering in Hodder’s office.

“What’s this,” he said, “a town meeting?”

Hodder said, “You know Ren DuBois already. And Ms. Willner.”

“I thought it was Walport,” Olafsson said.

“Willner, actually,” Dina said. She pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it.

Olafsson studied the card. “Security consultant. What’s that exactly?”

“Among other things, I do private investigation.”

“She was with the FBI,” Ren said.

“That so?” Olafsson didn’t sound impressed.

“This is Jewell, Ren’s mother,” Hodder went on. “And Cork O’Connor, Jewell’s cousin. Also a sheriff in Minnesota.”

“Sheriff.” He shook Cork’s hand without enthusiasm. “Seems like we got plenty of help, eh?” He didn’t sound excited. His stern gaze settled on Charlie and he stepped toward her. “You must be Charlene Miller. I’m Detective Sergeant Olafsson.” He extended his hand.

The girl didn’t respond, didn’t even look up from the spot on the floor where she’d nailed her eyes, just sat with her arms folded across her chest and her lips cemented in a thin line. Olafsson drew back his hand.

Hodder stood up. “Have a seat, Terry.”

“Siddown,” Olafsson said. “I’m fine. All right, who’s going to lay it out for me?” He crossed his arms, as if mimicking Charlie’s obstinate gesture, and he stared at her, which did no good since she didn’t look at him. “Charlene?”

“I’m not saying anything,” she said under her breath.

“That so?” Olafsson swung his gaze to Ren. “How about you?”

The boy glanced at Charlie, who was locked so tight in herself, Cork doubted there was any key that would open her now. Ren looked to his mother, who nodded.

He told it in pieces, chunks of story broken by “mmm’s” and “uh’s.” In the end, however, a fairly complete narrative emerged including even the details that he’d probably rather not have Olafsson know, particularly that the kids were getting high at the old picnic shelter on Copper River when Stash saw the body. Olafsson listened, jotted notes, and stopped the boy only a couple of times to ask a point of clarification. Ren told Charlie’s story, too, of what happened at the trailer. Olafsson asked Charlie, “Is that correct?” The girl’s only reply was a silent nod.