Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

“So what do you know about Hoffman?” I asked Sam.

“Well,” Sam said out the side of his mouth. “You seen for yourself how he was all over the Chief there outside the diner. He does the same with anyone uphill from him; anyone he thinks has any kind of clout.”

He snickered. “It’s like he’s on a mission to keep that kissy-face of his grafted to their ass, you know?”

“How’s about if someone’s downhill from him?” I asked.

Sam looked at me, then back at the road. “Then it’s a different story all right. I figure what’s going on at the Gardens ain’t exactly an unbiased sampling, but I heard me a story a while back.

“See, there’s about a half dozen of these FFA kids, Future Farmers of America. Guess there’s more grant money in FFA than in 4H anymore. Anyways, these kids is old family locals, pure bred Stagger Bay Citizens all the way.

“Like I say, they’re high school kids, and they get some cases of beer and go schwabbin’ down on the river bank in their 4WDs one night. A lot of kids like partying at the river, there’s no one around, you got all the privacy in the world to get a little schwilly, maybe get your freak on, know what I’m saying?

“Anyways, this particular time, with these particular kids, Hoffman comes creeping out the bushes and busts ‘em. Its dark, town’s a long way off, and the six of them is all alone with him. I guess they’re expecting him to make ‘em pour out the beer and maybe cluck his tongue at ‘em, but instead he goes off all nutso. He grabs one kid by the throat; he even slaps a couple of the girls around and tugs at some clothes.

“They’re scared; they ain’t used to being treated like this by no one. Their folks is up in arms when their kids come home all messed up and crying. But someone convinces them it wouldn’t be useful to press the complaint, so they drop it.”

“And who was that someone?”

“That’s a good question, innit?” He shut his mouth, dropping the subject.

But I wasn’t quite ready to let it lie. “Must be nice being a Stagger Bay cop – sounds like you pretty much have a free hand. How’d Hoffman ever pass the psych eval?”

“Who says he did?” Sam asked. “Heard me another story, from Big Moe. Don’t be telling Moe I’m discussing his business, but he plays watchdog for this dominatrix chick sometimes, name of Breena. You know what I’m talking about, right? Moe makes sure her johns behave themselves. Anyways, I guess Hoffman is one of her clients.”

“Pray continue, kid,” I said when he paused.

“Well,” Sam said, a surprisingly prim and prudish look crossing his face. “I guess Hoffman likes Breena to step on his chubby with spike heels on, have her grind around ‘til his boner bleeds. You ask me, I’m saying Hoffman is the Driver.”

Elaine’s office was on the fourth floor of a brick commercial on the edge of Old Town, with a nice view of the marina and the crab boats. Her miniscule waiting room was empty, and any receptionist had apparently taken the day off.

She sat alone in her office behind her desk, staring at the surface of that polished mahogany slab. When we entered and she saw Sam, relief flooded her face and she ignored me to hurry around her desk to him.

I thought she was alone, that is: As we entered a fluff ball of fur charged me, bristling. It irked me that the mutt didn’t woof at Sam at all.

“Down, Lola,” Elaine yelled at her protective cur. “Down.”

Lola subsided and retreated to the side of Elaine’s desk; but the little bitch still lay there with her chin on the floor, looking at me from under in trembling indignation.

“Hello, Sam,” Elaine said, taking both his hands in hers and swaying up against him. “It’s been too long.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, looking at the floor without trying to pull his hands free.

Elaine pretended she was just taking note of me. “I’m in trouble here, Markus. I don’t know what to do anymore.” Her damsel in distress act was fairly convincing but it looked like she’d already been playing it on Sam for a while.

She was just as avian as when we’d first met. But meeting her now outside the cage, she reminded me more of a predator bird. Like a shrike with squealing victims spiked up and waiting in her rose thorn larder, or one of those meat-eating kea parrots down New Zealand way: beautiful, and with a sweet song – but no one to turn my back on.

“Yeah, well, let’s see if we can figure things out,” I said. “I had a hunch you weren’t telling the whole truth before, when you said you didn’t know what Karl was up to.”

“No,” she admitted. “I’m sorry for lying like that. But you were in prison, and couldn’t help me right then anyway. I told you Karl was trying to find the man who really killed the Beardsleys. Did you know the killings have never stopped? Did you know people still disappear to this day?”

“I’ve heard as much. I think the Beardsleys were probably one of his earlier sketches; he’s learned not to leave any evidence around. And now it looks like someone’s put him on a more constructive path.”

“Oh, it’s been horrible, Markus, you can’t imagine,” Elaine said. “Someone’s protecting him; he’s being allowed to do this. When I moved here a few years ago, I told myself I could fight the corruption, that I could make a difference in the way things are in Stagger Bay. But when Officer Reese killed Karl, I knew I was in over my head – and I was all alone. I didn’t know you, I didn’t want to involve you, and I wasn’t sure if you could make a difference anyway.”

If Elaine noticed how steamed Sam appeared when she said she was all alone, she didn’t let it bother her. Her words were for my benefit; she’d sold him a long time ago.

“Well, all I can do is try,” I said. “So Reese is the cop who killed Karl?”

“Oh, yes. That’s one of the things I have been able to find out: Reese has killed quite a few people over the years, all of them deemed justified shootings. And for all the people who disappear, the police only go through the motions – their investigations always come to nothing.

“A lot of people here in Stagger Bay don’t like the way things are, but anyone who stands up disappears. There was one group, the Peace Women? They began as anti-war protestors; they’d stand out in front of the County courthouse, all wearing black, holding lit candles. The Peace Women tried speaking out for a while, but they’ve been hit hard. There were about a dozen when they started, now they’re down to half that.

“Markus, I don’t think I was supposed to get your freedom. I’ve stepped on the wrong toes here. Business has dried up almost completely; it’s like I’ve become a leper. Some of my old clients kept coming for a while, but they were afraid, so afraid – I told them all not to come any more. And now, I’m being followed.

“Most of the time I can’t put my finger on it. Sometimes it’s just a feeling. But once in a while I’ll catch the same car tailing me, or see the same men standing outside my office day after day.”

Elaine looked toward the corner of her office: a set of Forzieri suitcases stood neatly arranged as though she was planning a trip, or at least trying to make it appear she was.

“I’m scared, Markus,” she said. And on that one I actually tended to believe her, even though she wasn’t nearly as afraid as she let on to be.

She continued: “Just so you know, Karl put together a lot of evidence. He was getting very close to where you want to be. He had piles of notes, and not just about the Beardsley killings, about other goings on in Stagger Bay as well.

“Karl told me he had something important to talk to you about when you got out; he refused to tell me exactly what. He dropped off the box of evidence he’d been accumulating, about the Driver and everything else he’d discovered. He was dead the next day.”