Death at Gills Rock (24 page)

Roger gripped the chair and leaned back. “I had to. I'd flunked all my classes and lost the scholarship. There wasn't anything else to do but leave, and I had nowhere to go except to come back here.”

“Did you tell Walter what happened?”

“Hell, no! Not then. I knew he was disappointed, so I tried to make it up somehow. Got a job delivering pizzas and then working at the coast guard station. Pretty crazy, huh? I blame Big Guy for ruining my life and then find myself fixing up things for this big event where he'll be one of the stars. What the fuck, I thought. One day I found these cartons in the storage room. I'd heard that some of the stuff was gonna be put on display and figured if I couldn't stop the event, I could try and sabotage it. So I took a couple of the boxes.”

“Where'd you put them?

“In the loft at the garage. I didn't want my roommates to find them.”

“What's in the boxes?”

“A lot of papers. Old pictures and shit. I didn't really pay that much attention at first.”

“Your dad found the stuff ?”

“Yeah. He was really pissed at me, too. Kept bugging me about walking off with the archives. I told him I just borrowed some stuff 'cause I wanted to know more about the coast guard and local history. He knew I always liked history in school and at first he bought it. Then he got on me about taking it back, but by that time I'd stopped working at the station. He couldn't understand any of it. He was really disappointed that I quit school, kept saying he didn't want me to be a bust-out like him. He was on my back about it all winter, telling me to talk to someone and reapply.

“That Friday evening, I was at the garage going through all those records and shit, getting really pissed off. Every time I saw a picture of Big Guy, the other two were with him. Jesus, it was so fucking obvious. Then my dad came in with the
Herald
. He was already half in the bag and mad, too. When he saw what I was looking at, he grabbed a couple of the photos and tore them in half. ‘Fucking hypocrites,' he said. I'd been drinking some myself and wasn't exactly sure what he meant but somehow we both started going on about Big Guy. Suddenly my father got real quiet and looked at me kind of funny. ‘You gonna tell me what the hell's been going on or do I have to guess?' he said.”

“You told him?”

“Yeah. Everything.” Roger played with his thumbnail. “I don't know why. Should have just kept quiet about it but I guess I finally had to tell someone, so I told him.”

Just as Marty had so many years before. “How did he take it?”

“I never saw him so out of control. He started throwing things and yelling. Cursing the coach and Big Guy, blaming himself. Said he'd failed me and begged me to forgive him. I kept pouring him shots just to calm him down. Finally he passed out.”

“And you?”

“I filled my pocket with Styrofoam and took the boat up to Gills Rock.”

Cubiak dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. When they popped up, he put the toast on the table with jars of peanut butter and cherry jam. “Here, I already ate,” he said.

Roger forgot that he wasn't hungry.

“Then on Sunday night you came back and vandalized the shed, just to muck things up a bit,” Cubiak said.

Roger grimaced, his mouth full of food.

“And the boat?”

“I didn't go near the
Ida Mae
. I wouldn't do that, not to something with my grandma's name on it.”

“Did you write the note?”

The last of the food disappeared off the plate. “What note?”

“There was a message left in Ida's mailbox,” Cubiak said as he cleared the table.

“What'd it say?”

Under the gush of running water, the sheriff ignored the question and thought about what he was going to do with Roger. Cubiak didn't want to lock him up with Walter where the two could compare stories. He also wanted to keep the boy—he couldn't help but think of Roger as still a kid—out of the legal system. Walter had a paltry record, several drunk and disorderly conduct charges. But Roger had a clean slate. There'd been no trace of Styrofoam pellets in the vent the morning the bodies were discovered. Cubiak was sure the boy was telling the truth but worried that according to the letter of the law it might not be enough to keep him from being prosecuted.

He held out his hand. “Give me your keys.”

“My keys. What for?”

“I'm leaving you here—call it house arrest. If you give me the keys to your car, I'll feel better knowing you're not about to take off and that if you do, you won't get very far.”

“You want me to stay here?”

“Yes.”

Roger brightened. “Not worried I'll trash the joint or rob you blind?”

“Nothing worth stealing. Besides, the puppies will need feeding in another couple of hours and I don't have anyone scheduled to come in. The instructions and everything you need for their food are there,” he said, pointing to the counter. “You just have to remember to hold them up, otherwise they'll fall face first into the bowl. They can't stand on their own yet.”

“Aren't you gonna book me and let my father go?”

“There's time for that.”

Roger pulled his key ring from his pocket and tossed it up and down. “You can't hold my father. He's innocent.”

Cubiak snatched the keys in midair and opened the door with his foot. “Everyone's innocent until proven guilty,” he said and stepped backward onto the porch.

C
ubiak found Agnes curled up on her cot, her face to the wall. Was she sleeping? She had refused to make bond and seemed to enjoy the simple routine and the relative comfort of her surroundings. For the first time she could eat without slaving in the kitchen, she'd told Cubiak. In the men's wing, Walter also lay on his bed, hands behind his head and eyes open. His mouth twitched, as if he were uttering a prayer or hankering for a taste of whiskey. At the sound of the door lock releasing, he flung his feet to the floor and sat up. He looked almost cheerful as he greeted the sheriff.

“Morning…”

“Roger claims he did it.”

The man's smile disappeared. “What the hell you talking about?”

“He's at my house now. Came out and confessed this morning.”

“You ain't arrested him?”

“Not yet.”

Walter wet his lips and screwed up his mouth. “He didn't do it.”

“He thinks he did.” Cubiak leaned against the cellblock wall. “Even told me how.”

“Stupid fucking kid!”

“Why don't we start all over again? Only this time, you tell me what happened Friday night when you came to and realized that Roger was gone.”

Walter rested his elbows on his knees. “It was Saturday morning.”

“All right, Saturday morning. Still dark. After Roger told you what had happened last summer with Vinter and what Big Guy said to him, you drank yourself into a stupor. When you came to and saw that the key to Marty's boat was gone, you knew Roger had gone up to the cabin and figured he was up to no good.”

Walter nodded.

“You went after him?”

“I couldn't. He took my keys! Probably afraid I'd get behind the wheel and kill someone.”

Or yourself, Cubiak thought. “So you waited for him. And when he got back you made him tell you where'd he gone and what he'd done.”

“He swore he'd cleared away all the pellets, Sheriff, and I believed him. Roger never lied to me. I was relieved he'd changed his mind. Proud of him for that.”

“But you had to make sure, didn't you? Before daylight you snuck up to the cabin, using Marty's boat, just like Roger had hours before. And when you got there, Big Guy and the others were okay, still at the table playing cards.”

“I don't know what they were doing. The curtains were closed and I didn't hear anything. Figured they'd fallen asleep.” Walter grabbed the edge of the mattress. “The vent was clean, like Roger said, just a couple pellets inside. Not enough to do any damage.”

“What time was it?”

“Four, four thirty, maybe. It was still dark.”

“And no one knew you were there. If anyone saw a boat on the water they'd figure it was a fisherman heading out early. You could do anything you wanted and get away with it. You had plenty of reason to want to settle the score with Big Guy and his pals. So you brushed away the last of the foam beads and filled the vent with dried leaves, thinking you'd blame the squirrels.”

“That's right. Just like I said.”

Walter held the sheriff 's gaze. Cubiak wanted to believe him but couldn't be sure that he was telling the truth. He might have found more bits of Styrofoam than he admitted and if so, the men might already have been dead.

Cubiak turned toward the hallway. “What about the stuff Roger took from the coast guard station?”

“Everything's still in the upstairs room at the garage.”

The sheriff pivoted around. “You look through it?”

“Some.”

“Take anything out?”

“No.”

“I'd like to see it. Get a search warrant and go over it myself.”

Walter fell against the wall. “Hell, Sheriff, you don't need no warrant. Just go on in. Front door's padlocked, but you can get in from the side. There's a door down the gangway from the alley. Key's on a nail under the eave, right side of the door.”

“You don't worry about someone coming in and stealing your tools?”

Walter snorted. “I'm more worried about getting soused and locking myself out.” He crushed his hands together and looked at Cubiak. “Roger's a good kid. You can't arrest him, Sheriff. I did it.”

W
hen he returned to his office, Cubiak pulled out the threatening letters that had been sent to the coast guard station chief and arranged them in chronological order across his desk while he waited for Lisa to get the number for the athletic department at the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire.

He talked to three people before he was transferred to the school's wrestling coach, who agreed to fax a copy of the squad's away schedule from the previous fall. “I'd scan it but I can never get the damn thing to work and my secretary is out sick,” he said.

“A fax is fine,” Cubiak said.

The schedule confirmed that the dates and locales coincided with the letters sent to Chief Dotson. Cubiak studied the wall map behind his desk. Over four months the team had traveled to the UW campuses in Stevens Point and Platteville as well as to several other locations, allowing Roger to postmark his threats from towns around the state, inadvertently leaving a trail of evidence that would undermine any argument about a crime of passion. With this information available, a prosecutor would have little trouble arguing the state's case for premeditated murder against Roger.

Cubiak shrugged into his jacket and headed out again. “I'll be at the coroner's—sorry, Doctor Bathard's—if anyone needs me,” he told Lisa.

B
athard was spreading primer over the hull when the sheriff rolled back the door to the boat barn. A Mozart piano concerto flowed from the overhead speakers.

“You finished sanding the Bondo already?” Cubiak said.

“Yesterday.”

Cubiak surveyed the
Parlando
. There were still months of hard work to be done on the boat but already the vessel was taking on a regal air. “I thought you'd be getting things ready for Saturday.”

The coroner gave a wry smile. “I'm getting myself ready.” He stripped off his gloves and lowered the volume on the stereo. “I may have been a bit cavalier the other day, making things sound so simple and straightforward, but they're not. Truth is I question every step I've taken since Cornelia died. We don't ever know, really, the right thing to do. I can give you a dozen reasons why I shouldn't marry Sonja, and a dozen why I should. Ultimately, I simply have to decide, yea or nay.”

“You mean you might not go through with it?” The wedding was three days away.

“To be honest, at this moment, I don't know.”

Cubiak had never seen Bathard so indecisive and was uncertain how to respond. He needed his friend to be a rock, to show the way even if he chose not to follow. “I don't know what to say.”

“There's nothing you can say.”

“Does Sonja know?”

“Sonja!” Bathard chuckled. “Sonja's going through her own version of hellish self-examination.”

“You've talked about this with her?”

“It's all we talk about. We'll probably be talking about it as we walk up the church steps.” Bathard tamped the lid onto the can of primer. “Life is a leap of faith, son. You jump or you don't, and right now I feel the concrete hardening around my ankles.” The coroner started toward the door. “Let's get out of here, go to the house. I'd like a drink.”

In the library, they watched the sky fill with striations of orange and pink as the sun slipped below the horizon. Over whiskey, Cubiak told Bathard about Roger.

“It never ends, does it? And there's still this other business to sort out,” the doctor said.

“Walter claims the vent was clean when he got there.”

“If so, then Roger didn't kill the men. Still, in terms of intent and action, he's as guilty as his father, even though he said he changed his mind. It's also possible that Walter is lying to protect him,” Bathard said.

“I'm not so sure either of them is guilty.”

“Really?” The physician swirled his glass. “I don't follow. I haven't had that much yet, have I?”

“Roger arrives at the cabin around midnight. He stuffs insulation into the vent, sees the men through the open curtain, has a stab of conscience, and cleans out the pellets—or thinks he has—and then he leaves. When Walter gets there it's some four hours later. The curtains are closed so he can't see in. He doesn't hear anything, but the vent is clear and he assumes the men are sleeping and haven't suffered any ill effects from the bits of insulation Roger failed to retrieve.”