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Authors: John Carenen

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BOOK: Signs of Struggle
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“Larry’s up all night drinking most nights, Thomas. He doesn’t need an occasion. You might say the wrong brother died yesterday.”

 

“You’re the second person today who’s told me that.”

 

“I doubt the observation will stop with two,” Mike said, holding his hand out again, “I’d be happy to be friends. The first of many, I suspect. And if you want to rent a movie…”

 

We shook again. “Thanks,” I said, then turned and left the gym, striding back outside and into a day where sweat would be cheap.

 

I waited for a John Deere tractor to pass, one of those green and yellow
Jurassic Park
monsters sporting tinted glass air-conditioned cabs with heavy-duty sound systems, refrigerator, and handball court. The driver, from his position behind the wheel ten feet up in the air, nodded. I nodded back and crossed the street, wading through a blue cloud of diesel exhaust.

 

I continued on toward the Municipal Building, thinking about Mike Mulehoff’s open offer of friendship. One doesn’t make new old friends, but one can make new friends who might become old friends down the road a ways. And then I remembered my new friend had overlooked my free t-shirt.

 

 

O
n First Street, the businesses all seemed to be thriving. Probably due to the plentiful, free angle parking, a Chamber of Commerce stroke of genius for those who equate parallel parking with surprise colonoscopies.

 

No malls for Rockbluff. And no boarded-up storefronts of small businesses that always show up around the malls, ubiquitous as rusty weight benches on the front porches of single-wides. I lingered in front of the Rockbluff Opera House, a refurbished brick edifice that attracted first-rate, second-tier entertainment, according to the “Coming Events” handbill in the glass case out front. The blues
chanteuse
heading our way in August I had actually seen on a PBS Special, and a Minneapolis production of
Wait Until Dark
was scheduled for September.

 

I’d expected a harmonica contest and maybe Elvis impersonators, or perhaps a “Battle of the Accordions,” but then, that’s a problem Iowans face: Always expecting bad stuff, hoping for good things, and stunned off our butts when those good things happen. Then, we go back to feeling inferior. The Puritan Ethic in bib overalls.

 

Iowans are well versed in politics, wrestling, and fine arts. Hard to beat that, especially when you match it up with no crime, average life span of 123 years, and the nation’s highest literacy rate. But pride would be a character flaw. So we’re always sure someone better will jump up out of nowhere and send us, collectively, to the woodshed for much-deserved self-flagellation. “Pride needs its comeuppance” is in Latin on the Great Seal of the State of Iowa. You can look it up.

 

Next door to the Opera House stood the limestone and glass Rockbluff Community Library and Media Center, new since 2004 according to the brass plate mounted on a granite boulder next to the book drop. Libraries are a cold pint of beer to curiosity’s panting thirst, and, based on the dozens of cars and pickups in the parking lot, the locals were busy reinforcing their literacy rates.

 

It felt like the temperature had gone up three degrees while I admired the new library, so I decided to just accept the heat and allow myself the simple pleasure of taking in a hot day. No point in fighting the inevitable. Iowa summers are as humid and sticky and close as a tight t-shirt after an hour on an elliptical trainer, but they are worth it. They make autumn worth waiting for. It was late May, and I was already looking forward to the next season, and humbly grateful that I had something to look forward to for a change.

 

The sharp pain in my left shoulder had progressed to merely aching now, to go along with my sore right hamstring: Perfectly-balanced discomfort that provided me with an upright posture as I approached the mid-town bridge.

 

It occurred to me that simply dropping in unannounced might be welcomed by a sheriff who, no doubt, had very little to do. According to a brochure in the motel lobby, Rockbluff employed eight law enforcement officers for the entire town and county. Eight. Of course, the population of the entire town and county together was just under 14,000 people. This “Serve and Protect” reconfiguration took place two years ago when, for fiscal reasons, the Rockbluff Police Department and the Rockbluff County Sheriff’s Department merged. Several police officers retired or took early retirement, and two were absorbed into the Sheriff’s Department, which had the higher jurisdiction in county law enforcement protocol.

 

I tramped over the Whitetail River at the bridge and marched up the brief knoll to the courthouse. On the right side of the solid granite-block building, there was a retro sign—a weathered wooden finger pointing down a flight of time-smoothed stone stairs. “Rockbluff County Law Enforcement Center” was positioned just below the finger. I descended and entered through a glass door straight ahead of me.

 

I went in with trepidation (my next dog will be named “Trepidation”), fighting a life-long discomfort in the presence of law enforcement types. I have never been convicted of any crime, civilian or military; have never committed any act that made me more ashamed than any other act I’ve committed; and have never, ever broken a law that, given the unique circumstances of the situation, didn’t need to be broken. Still, I’m not comfy with cops.

 

Two officers looked up, one, young, deskbound. The other officer stood in front of his desk, reading something; a report perhaps, or news of a suspicious yard sale. The man was lean, tough-looking, and about forty years old. He was tall, at least six-five. He studied me when I moseyed into the office, then looked back down at the paper in his hand. “PAYNE” was printed in white block letters on a black plastic nametag pegged over his right breast pocket, just like the one Deputy Doltch displayed at the Soderstrom farm. A badge was over the other, protecting his heart. His uniform was crisp, and why wouldn’t it be? How much sweat can one work up ticketing kids riding double on a bike? Or shooting rabid bunnies?

 

“What can I do for you?” he asked without looking up.

 

The other officer was too young to be serving and protecting anything except maybe his high school cheerleader girlfriend. His name, according to the tag, was “Lansberger.” He was blonde, tall even while sitting, and squared away. I wondered how in the world Rockbluff came up with all these law enforcement people who could make spare cash modeling for Land's End.

 

“I’m Thomas O’Shea,” I said, walking over to Payne and shaking hands.

 

“Harmon Payne,” he said, his voice deep and neutral, his handshake firm, his eye contact direct. “That’s Deputy Preston Lansberger.”

 

Lansberger and I nodded at each other.

 

“Just a second,” the Sheriff said, turning to Lansberger, “Call Doctor Elmendorf and see how Wendy’s doing, will you?” The deputy began punching numbers into the land line telephone on his nicked-up wooden desk. The Sheriff looked back at me.

 

“You didn’t come in just to introduce yourself.”

 

“No. I want to provide observations about the situation with Hugh Soderstrom.”

 

Sheriff Payne took a pen from his pocket, sat down behind the desk in an old green leather swivel chair that squeaked, ignored his computer, and dragged over a yellow legal pad. His right forearm revealed a globe & anchor tattoo with USMC beneath it. He said, “Have a seat. Talk to me.”

 

I sat in an oak banker’s chair and told Payne what had just happened at The Grain o’ Truth. He scribbled on the thick pad with “Samuelson’s Hy-Vee” lettered across the top. I mentioned that Larry appeared to be drunk.

 

“Nothing new for him. He’s been on one kind of intoxicant or chemical burn for a long time. I’m no fan of Larry Soderstrom. Far from it, but maybe this time he had a reason beyond finding nothing worth watching on HBO.”

 

“His brother.”

 

“Terrible accident. A man doesn’t fall under a rotary mower, especially a heavy duty job like Hugh was pulling, and live to tell about it. Same thing happened four years ago down in Maquoketa. Little boy riding with his dad. The fender broke off and the boy fell under.

 

“Dad grabbed the little feller’s hand, he was eight, but he slipped away and the big tire of the tractor ran the length of him and the mower finished the job. Dad went nuts. Tried to pick up his son. Couldn’t pick him up. Ran into the house to get his pistol to kill himself but a farmhand beat him to it, stopped him. Spent the night in a padded room in Iowa City. Later, he got himself some counseling, but he still hasn’t fully gotten over it. Might drive me to drink, too.”

 

“I understand. I was there. At the Soderstrom’s. Just before EMS showed up.”

 

Payne gave me a look of skepticism, then rummaged quickly through some notes on his desk, found a report, scanned it, and looked with at me with new interest. “I guess you were. Sorry, didn’t make the connection right off.”

 

“I guess when it’s just an accident it doesn’t matter whom is whom.”

 

“I apologize. I should have noticed.”

 

“How’s Mrs. Soderstrom?”

 

His chair squeaked again as Payne leaned back and looked at Lansberger who had just hung up the phone. “How’s Wendy?”

 

Lansberger said, “She’s wiped out, but she’s strong. Doctor Elmendorf will take care of her.”

 

“That answer your question?” Payne asked.

 

“Yes, that’s good.” I continued to be underwhelmed with the police work, but I was impressed with Payne’s apology.

 

“Tough way to start out married life,” Payne said, leaning forward again, the chair groaning.

 

“I heard Hugh Soderstrom was a decent man.”

 

“Yes. And now there’s another big adjustment for his wife. Mighty young widow.”

 

“Another big adjustment?”

 

“Oh, you know, life on the farm for a city girl. Davenport. Alone a lot,” Payne said, relaxing back into his squeaky swivel chair. “Used to the city.”

 

“ I’ve got something else to report.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“When I was out driving, just before I saw Mrs. Soderstrom screaming for help, I met a car that was going pretty fast.”

 

“It’s a country road.”

 

“It was a silver Corvette.” Payne cocked his head just a little. “And I noticed that Larry Soderstrom was driving a silver Corvette today. Many like that around here?”

 

Payne started to say something, stopped, said, “Who was driving? Get a tag number?”

 

“Nope, I just think it’s interesting, a silver Corvette leaving the neighborhood of the Soderstrom farm right after the accident. In a hurry.”

 

“Might’ve been going for help,” Payne said, his response lacking conviction.

 

“Anything in the paperwork about Larry?”

 

“No.”

 

I shrugged and stood. Payne did, too. He said, “I guess I can have a conversation with Larry. Can’t hurt.”

 

“Might help,” I offered brightly, choosing to be chipper.

 

“Anything else?”

 

“A friend of mine, former Green Beret, used to say, ‘Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer.’ I guess you can stand the answer. I think Hugh Soderstrom’s death seems a little suspicious.” Fun to push people a little. My obnoxious side flexing a bit. Nothing else to do.

 

Payne grimaced, then sat down heavily in his squeaky chair and beckoned for me to be seated again. Lansberger was grabbing his hat and leaving, but it was clear from the scrutiny he gave me that he had heard, but did not believe. It’s one thing to be a skeptic; that’s usually cool. But stupid has yet to be cool. Payne said, “Go ahead, Mr. O’Shea.”

 

“There are several things,” I said, pleased to notice Payne was taking out his pen again. “First, I can’t believe Hugh Soderstrom fell off his tractor and got run over. He was young, and most farm accidents in Iowa are tractor turnovers with men in their sixties and seventies, and older. That’s common knowledge. Second, he was a gifted athlete, according to the EMS guy, I forgot his name. Aldrich I think it was. What in the world would make him fall off his tractor?”

 

Payne looked like he needed an antacid pill, but he was paying close attention to what I was saying. He scribbled something on his legal pad and looked at me.

 

“The questions that Deputy Doltch asked me were designed to prove a bias toward accidental death. For Pete’s sake, he never even asked me if I had seen anything out of the ordinary, and I was the first person on the scene, except for Mrs. Soderstrom.

 

“Anyway, I was not impressed with the investigative prowess of your deputy. Seemed like a nice guy. Wouldn’t even consider if the incident was anything other than an accident. Practically took my head off when I suggested maybe it was a suicide.”

 

“Hardly enough there to make us investigate suicide, and besides, who would commit suicide that way? And not much to go on for a homicide investigation, for that matter. Mrs. Soderstrom said he just fell. Eye witness. Stranger things have happened. Farming is damn dangerous.”

BOOK: Signs of Struggle
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