Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“Let me take your wet coat,” he said.

“That’s fine.”

Ritchie’s eyebrows went up a notch at her refusal.

“Suit yourself there, Kate.” He turned and cast a hand over the empty house. Naked walls, naked hardwood floors. It smelled musty and looked as if it could use a good cleaning, maybe some paint. “I’d offer you a drink or something, but I’ve got nothing. I just came by to give the place a quick look, check the wiring and plumbing, see what kind of shape it’s in before we rent again, or sell it, or tear it down. I don’t know. This way.”

The floorboards moaned and his strong cologne trailed as he led her to the kitchen, where there was a table and four chairs.

“At least we can sit and talk here.”

He pulled out a chair for her but remained standing, leaning against the sink with his arms folded. Before Kate got out her notebook, she positioned her pepper spray can in her bag so it was on the top, easy to reach without Ritchie seeing.

“What can you tell me about the Zurrns?”

He looked at the ceiling, chewing.

“That takes me back a few years. The woman was nuts, so was her kid. But they never gave us any trouble and she was always on time with the rent, until the day she hung herself in her bedroom closet.”

“She hung herself.”

Ritchie nodded, still chewing.

“I found her. Dad sent me to check on her when she was late with the rent. It was awful…and the smell. I tell you, I had nightmares.”

“Did she leave a note?”

Ritchie shook his head.

“Nope, nothing. She was living alone. Her kid was grown, long gone. She used scarves, tied her scarves together. Sad.”

“Any indication why she did it?”

“Drugs, booze, who knows? We all knew she was hooking, but there was never any trouble. She told Dad that they were her boyfriends. Look, I never knew the woman and my dad didn’t know her. And neither of us were her johns, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

His gum snapped.

“So what can you tell me about her son, Sorin?”

“Him?”

Ritchie looked off at the walls as if reading a memory there.

“Creepy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?”

“In the basement, come on. You have to see this.”

He walked to a door leading from the back just off the kitchen.

“Follow me.” The door stuck and he jerked it open.

Kate hesitated.

“Come on,” he said, and tugged the chain switch for the light. “You want to know about the kid, you should see this.”

She tossed her notebook in her bag and collected it. As she reached the top of the stairs she felt inside her bag, sliding her fingers around the canister. A disagreeable, damp, cold smell wafted up as she followed him down the creaking staircase.

It was dim and unfinished.

Pipes, cables and ductwork were tucked into the joists of the main floor. Spiderwebs swayed in the breeze Ritchie made as he passed. Empty crates and boxes were piled into one corner. Somewhere water was dripping. Kate heard scratching as a large shadow zoomed across the floor.

Was that a rat?

“Over here.” Ritchie stood by a heavy wooden door with a large steel lock. “There’s a crawl space in there, but I don’t let renters use it.”

Keys jingled and he inserted one in the lock. It clicked and he opened it. He pulled on the door, swinging it, scraping it across the floor. No light reached inside the crawl space. It was black.

Keys jingled again and Ritchie selected a penlight from his key ring, crouched and entered. “In here. You won’t believe this.”

Kate froze.

Should I follow him in there?

She checked her grip on her pepper spray and twined her fingers with her keys in the spiked position. Then she followed him in. He’d lowered himself to a squatting position in a corner and began raking his flashlight across the crawl space.

“See?”

Kate saw a row of cinder blocks stacked to make a small room. Steel circles were anchored in the wall.

“I found this after they moved out. My dad said it didn’t exist before they moved in. Her kid did this. I thought it was for a dog, or something. Looks like a little jail cell-what do you think?”

Brilliant light flashed as Kate took a picture.

She had to take several more because her hands were shaking.

Pine Mills, Minnesota

Something’s going to break.

Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler held on to that belief. He had to, because this case had been troubling him ever since he’d first responded to the scene in Lost River.

The images of the victim-her hands rising from the earth-haunted him. But he didn’t tell his girlfriend that when she’d returned.

“Is it true, Cal? Was she buried alive? Did you see her?”

Some of the TV stations in the Twin Cities had called it one of the most gruesome crimes in Northern Minnesota. The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension had taken the lead with support from the FBI. They’d also pulled in more resources and detectives from Rennerton, Tall Wolf River and Haldersly.

It was a big investigation and Meckler had taken pride in how the BCA and FBI agents had commended him for his “solid, by-the-book protection of the scene.” But after that he was assigned to canvass designated rural areas with the other deputies.

Meckler wanted to do more to help.

But that was all BCA had asked of the county.

For the past few days he’d visited the homes of people who lived on the southwestern edge of Lost River State Forest. One by one he tried to find out if anyone had seen anything that could help-any strange vehicles, anything that seemed out of place or out of the ordinary.

He knew these people. They were the kind of people who’d drive into a snowstorm looking to help stranded travelers; they were the kind of people who turned off their cell phones in church. If you visited them, they walked you to your car when they said goodbye and insisted you take something home with you, a slice of homemade pie or at least the recipe.

That something so hideous had happened so near shook them.

When Meckler told them, some of the moms and dads shouted for their kids in the yard to stay closer to the house. “A murder in the woods, there? No kidding? Hope you catch the guy.” Others tried hard to be helpful, scratching their heads. “No, I didn’t see or hear anything, Cal, but if I think of something, I’ll let you know.” Most would look to the forest pensively in a way that told him that if they said they didn’t see anything, it was the truth.

And always, before he left, they’d shift the subject, almost in a respectful, funereal fashion. “How do you think the Vikes are going to do, Cal?” or “How’s your car running, there, Cal?”

That’s how it had gone.

He’d pretty much visited everybody on the list attached to his clipboard. The addresses and Meckler’s responses for them would be collected into a digital map the BCA analysts had created as part of the investigation. For now, he decided to go to Bishop’s General Store and Gas, get a coffee and say hi. Meckler hadn’t been by since the murder. He’d expected that Bishop’s would be on his list of places to canvass but was told that Rennerton detectives would canvass all businesses in the area.

But what do those guys know about the folks out here around Pine Mills? They don’t know how to talk to Fergus Tibble.

Ferg hadn’t been quite the same since a car he was working under five years ago slipped off the jack and nearly crushed him.

Sure, he could still do his job, and eighty-year-old Agnes Bishop had been letting him run the store since her husband Wilson died. But sometimes Ferg was slow remembering stuff and you had to prompt him.