Gathering String (56 page)

Jack nodded, a little unsure just what to say. “That was quite awhile back. I’ve been a journalist for a long time now.”

Andy said, “Yeah, I had a letter from Mrs. Fowler. She said you’d probably ask to see me. She really wanted me to talk to you. Otherwise …” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “She’s a nice lady, so here I am.”

“I appreciate it,” Jack said, not quite able to bring himself to call this boy "Mr. Brubaker," remembering the venomous old man on the Sheffield loading dock. But calling this indifferent shell in front of him the childish name of Andy seemed absurd. “She very much wants, needs, to know the truth about what happened the night of the fire.”

“I told her the truth. I didn’t start that fire, and she believes me,” Andy drew on the cigarette and seemed to be looking at something above Jack’s head. “She thinks you know who did. That’s what she very much
needs
to know.” The irritatingly quiet voice didn’t betray any emotion, but the flat eyes dropped to Jack’s and held them.

“I don’t know anything. Not for certain. But I’m hoping by talking to you, I can find more places to look for proof.”

“Why?” The question caught Jack off guard, and he hesitated to reply. “Why bother? It doesn’t matter to me anymore, and it just gets Mrs. Fowler upset. Why you stirring the pot now?”

“Let’s just say I’m concerned about a friend. You must know what that’s like.” Jack wasn’t sure what reaction that would get, but he knew somehow he had to break through the frozen indifference.

For a long moment the relentless eyes only stared and then, at last, there was a very slight flicker as Brubaker said, “I didn’t want anything to happen to Bobby and Jeff.”

“I know. I know you didn’t. And I have some good reasons to think you probably didn’t start that fire. I know you guys went there that night to trash the place, and I know that you said you all hid when someone came in the back door. What I’m hoping is that you can give me some clue who it might have been.”

Andy slouched back in his chair. “I told my lawyer everything I remembered about the guy. He said there wasn’t any evidence to back me up. It’s all in the court record.”

“It was a juvenile case. I can’t get those records. So you’ve got to help me out. Why do you think it was a man that came in? Did you see him?”

“No. He knocked some stuff over when he came in, and started swearing. It was a man’s voice. We hightailed it into the storage room. Jeff and Bobby got down on the floor behind the shelves, and I hid behind the door. He stopped just on the other side of it.” The barest trace of animation came to his face as he talked. “I was afraid to look around it, because I didn’t want him to see me. He was so close, I could hear him breathing.”

“Was he trashing the place too? Another vandal?”

Brubaker’s face crunched into a grimace that passed for a smile. “He knocked crap over because he was blind drunk. I could smell the booze on him. For a minute I thought my old man had come looking for me. But he was carrying a flashlight, and I could see the guy’s shadow. He was too tall and skinny to be Pa.”

Jack suddenly felt tired. So tired he just wanted to put his head down and go to asleep. But he forced himself to ask, “What else did you see?”

“Nothing. The guy moved off, toward the front of the store. That’s when we could hear the splashing and smell the gas. I snuck around the door to try to see what he was doing. Next thing I knew, a hot blast of air hit me, and I fell back. That’s what brought the metal shelves down on Jeff and Bob.” He paused, and Jack waited, watching as the cigarette burned close to Brubaker’s fingers, and still he managed one last drag before he let it drop to the floor. “I couldn’t pull it off them. I yelled at them to help, but I think they were out cold. I squeezed back out the window, thinking I could find help.” For a second the eyes seemed to grow larger at the memory, but they faded as they returned to Jack. “You must know the rest.”

Jack nodded and asked, “Your defense attorney? His name was Richard Webster.” Sure as he was, his stomach knotted as Andy nodded. “Court appointed?”

“The owner was Governor Erickson. Well, almost the governor. I guess he hadn’t been sworn in yet. Yeah, he talked with him. Webster said he convinced him not to raise a stink if I’d plead out. And it guaranteed I’d only be convicted of a juvie offense. I was such a scared little shit, I thought I was lucky.” That brought a strange, twisted smile.

“Time, gentlemen,” the guard, who had stood across the room staring out the window turned to them.

Jack had what he came for, but he felt too tired to move from his chair. Carl Erickson had been the man in the store that night. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Drunk, he’d started the fire to get himself out of the failing mess he’d made. Two boys had been killed, another had his life destroyed, and Swede Erickson, Jack’s friend, his mentor, had covered it all up.

Brubaker stood, and Jack could only stare up at him, numb. At last he mumbled, “Thank you. I … I know more now.” He tried to remember what else he should say. “I appreciate your time.”

The contorted smirk returned. “Like they say, that’s all I got.” The guard stepped toward them. “I’ll tell the basketball fans on the block you said hello.” Jack nodded dumbly, and they took Andy Brubaker away.

Tess was sitting out on the porch swing when he pulled in the drive. With Rover bouncing around him, Jack came up the walk. She scooted over for him, and the swing creaked as he sat. He put his arm around her shoulders. It was a perfect, soft summer evening. For a few seconds they looked out over the fields in silence, and then she asked quietly, “It was Carl?”

“It was Carl. Webster was the kid’s defense attorney.”

Tess closed her eyes. “That’s why Sam didn’t find the connection. It’s in a juvenile file. It’s closed.” Jack nodded. Swinging gently to and fro, they were silent again, watching the sun sink. At last, in the growing dusk, she leaned close, taking his big hand between her two small ones. “And now?”

“Tomorrow I’ll drive to Kansas City.”

“I’ll come with you.”

But he shook his head. “No, I don’t want you near him.” She looked so pale and drawn. “I’m going to see him, and I’m going to tell him to get out. I’ve got to get him to drop out. It’s the only way. And when he does, I’m going to try to forget this whole thing. I’m not going to help that poor kid. And I’m not going to help Annie Fowler. I want to. God knows they’ve suffered because of what he did. The story should come out. But I just can’t do it. I can’t be the one to do it to him.” He tightened his arm around her shoulder. It wasn’t close enough. His arm dropped to her waist, and he pulled her onto his lap and buried his face in her hair.

The night before he left for Kansas City and the convention, Sam Waterman lingered at his desk checking what the
Times
and the
Trib
had to say about Erickson. He certainly wasn’t relying on Bundy coming up with anything noteworthy. But even the
Times
had nothing to shed light on the shady background Sam was sure lurked behind the all-American façade.

It was pushing two a.m. when Sam decided he had to pack it in. His flight was early, although, for the first time, he felt no anticipation at the thought of attending a convention. Even at the first one he'd ever covered, his role had been more significant than it would be now. With that bitter thought, he reached to his laptop to begin shutting down, but then reconsidered and opened Facebook instead. No one was around, so it wouldn't be noticed when he checked Quincy Nordquist’s feed.

The responses to Quincy's question were anything but helpful, and he half-wished he could show Hoss Westphal the crap this foray into crowdsourcing had netted him. Tonight Millie Swenson was going on about a fatal fire at the Page Theatre down in Shenandoah, and Sam groaned, knowing it had nothing to do with Carl Erickson. In another entry, a man mentioned Connie Bjorklund, the woman who died in the last fatal fire near Lindsborg years ago, saying she made the best apple pies he'd ever tasted. "Fucking Facebook," Sam muttered as he scrolled down through more discussion of Connie, who apparently also made great peach pies and outstanding fried chicken. If the old bird hadn't burned herself up in her bed, the fat in her diet sure as shit would have cooled her. Sam was tired, and he knew there was a bottle of Glenfiddich home on the kitchen counter. It was time to go home. He flipped to the last response and gave it a glance.

His eyes went wide. It was from a man named Clinton Delavan:
“I've been a volunteer firefighter for over 20 years. The last fatal I worked was the Corner Grocery Store fire in Sheffield almost ten years ago. Really tragic case you might want to research. Two teen-age boys died. I was with the first men to make their way in and found them in the storage room. It still haunts me. Governor Erickson's family owed the store, of course, but I think I heard it was his dad who managed the place."
Sam's breath went out of him in a gasp.

And then he wanted to kick himself. There were Corner Grocery stores all over Iowa. It should have occurred to him to check each and every one for a fire story. It was a rookie mistake, and if the grand jury investigation, his own divorce and Tess wandering into and out of his life hadn’t distracted him, he’d never have made it. Bringing up the Lexis-Nexis search page, he typed in the simple query: ‘Fatal fire, Corner Grocery, Sheffield, Iowa.' The
Des Moines Record
stories came up immediately. One headline was enough: “Two teens die in fire in Erickson-owned store.”

Sam reached for the phone. When Johnson’s gruff, sleepy voice answered, Sam said softly. “I found it, Steve. I found Carl Erickson's fire.”

He gave up any thought of sleep and he didn’t see any reason Steve Johnson shouldn’t forget it, too. But even with the
Record’s
stories, it wasn’t an easy sell.

“OK,” Johnson said when he picked up the phone in the den so he could talk without disturbing his wife. “What’d the
Record
have?”

That was a problem. There was the first-day story with the facts of the fire. The names of the two boys who were killed hadn’t been released at press time. There was a follow-up the next day, naming the dead and mentioning that another juvenile was in custody. There was a longish piece on the joint funeral, which had been held at the school gymnasium. And then there was a story saying that authorities had announced they had a plea from the juvenile in custody, and that all court proceedings of the case would be sealed.

"What makes you think so? According to the Governor, he was sitting on his ass drinking himself to death about that time."

Sam knew better than to explain how he'd found that unconfirmed information, and said instead, “Give me some time, and I'll nail it down. Remember, the doc said he was obsessed with a fire, a fire where young guys died.”

“Yeah, a doctor who won’t go on the record. Even if you’re right, even if this is the fire …”

“If?” Sam clenched the phone in a white-knuckled grip. “How many fatal fucking fires do you think the Ericksons were involved in?”

“But Sam, who’s to say that Carl Erickson’s obsession with this fire wasn’t just a fixation of his alcohol-addled brain? You gonna tell me that doesn’t happen? The deaths of these two young guys could have just dragged up an old wartime memory of comrades Napalmed to death. He might not have ever been within 200 miles of the place.”

“Bullshit. This is it I know it. Jesus, Steve, it’s not like I’m doing anything better. Let me chase it.”

“How? The court records are sealed.”

“I can check …” Sam broke off what he was going to say, suddenly remembering combing through the court cases of Judge Richard Webster. “Sweet Christ, this is where Webster comes in. He was a lawyer in Sheffield, the town where the fire was. I bet if I check my notes they’ll show he was working there when it happened. I searched every case he was ever involved in, but I didn’t find it because it’s in that mother-fucking closed juvenile file. Instead of going to Kansas City, I’ve got to get back to Iowa.”

For a long moment Johnson was silent on the other end, and Sam knew he was thinking things over. Then he said, “Sam, you need to go to the convention.”

“Jesus, Steve, I’m doing rewrite there for a cast of thousands. Anybody else …” Sam’s voice rose.

“Hold on, just let me finish. You’ve got to have your nose to the grindstone every time Dodson glances in your direction, you got me? I’m struggling to keep every single writer on my staff, but …”

Sam’s heart sank. “Layoffs?”

Johnson didn’t answer, saying instead, “Your plane leaves in about five hours, and it’s too late to send someone else in your place. Play ball with me Sam, for your own sake.” The editor’s tone softened. “But I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send a stringer to the courthouse tomorrow to ask for the file. They’ll tell him no, but that’s the place to start. Then we can get one of our lawyers to make an appeal that it be opened.”

“That’ll take forever and come up with zip. Steve, the best way for me to prove my worth is to drag in this story. I’ve got to go to Sheffield. I bet half the fucking town remembers every detail, along with the names of everyone involved. I know I can get a fleet of old-timers to confirm what you and I both know. Webster was the kid’s attorney. Maybe some of the dead boys’ families are still around. You know someone will give me the name of the boy who pleaded out. Then I can go find him. It’s so fucking clear: Swede Erickson and Richard Webster railroaded that kid into confessing. That's why Erickson is still paying Webster off. And why Webster troubled to call my boss and give him a pile of bullshit about me.”