Man in the Water, page 23
I assumed it was the Black man, yet I was only guessing.
Next I heard the weight of his footsteps as he ran the length of the narrow dock away from me.
I gave it what I thought was a long time, yet only turned out to be about thirty seconds, before I swam under the narrow dock to a thick, round wooden piling that was used to help keep the main dock in place. I managed to climb up.
I glanced toward the entrance of the marina, don’t ask me why, and saw people gathering near the gate. Instead of investigating, though, I turned toward the Maverick.
I shouldn’t have climbed back aboard; the deputies would criticize me for that later. Hell, I would have, too, if I was still in harness. At least I was smart enough not to touch anything as I moved inside the salon, although I was dripping water on the floor. There was a small lamp burning. It was just bright enough to show me the body of Rick Bennett lying on the deck. My first thought was to check for a pulse, apply what little first aid I had been taught. Only I knew he was dead. He had been shot in the face. The bullet came out the back of his head. It was not a pretty sight. I turned away.
As I did, my eyes swept across the boat’s galley. There was a laptop on the narrow counter, its screen open. I don’t know what compelled me to do it, yet I tapped the touchpad and the screen lit up, showing me a map of the Mississippi River from Stillwater to St. Louis. The ports of a dozen cities were highlighted—Red Wing, Winona, Lacrosse, Prairie du Chien, Dubuque, Davenport, Burlington, and others.
Were these all your homes away from home, Rick? Did you have friends down there? Will they miss you?
I left the lounge and climbed off the boat.
The partiers on LeMay’s yacht were no longer partying. Instead, they stood quietly murmuring to themselves, asking, “What’s going on?” and “What does this mean?” They weren’t sure what had happened, yet they all knew that it wasn’t supposed to happen here. In the Cities, sure. On the North Side of Minneapolis or the Thomas Dale neighborhood in St. Paul, but not Stillwater. Not at the Heggstad Marina.
I spied Nelson LeMay standing on the bow of his yacht. He reached up and touched his face. For some reason, that compelled me to touch my face. My fingertips became wet with blood. I wiped them on my waterlogged clothes.
Nina is not going to like this.
I found the piling I had climbed and leaned against it. A few seconds later, I slid its length to the floor of the dock. I could hear the music spilling from the Miss Behavin’s speakers; no one had thought to turn off the music system.
Amy Winehouse was singing “My tears dry on their own.”
In the distance I could hear sirens.
* * *
Most murders are mistakes, errors in judgment committed spontaneously by completely rational people who in a moment of rage do completely irrational things. They’ll confess later that they didn’t mean to do it. A surprising number will confess the moment the cops walk through the door. They might as well. Often they’ll be standing there covered in blood and surrounded by witnesses.
Only the murder of Richard Bennett was not a mistake. It was committed deliberately by a man who had no intention of confessing. It was committed, if I heard correctly, for money.
At least that was what I was thinking when the squad cars from the Stillwater Police Department arrived. There were three of them. One of the officers lingered at the entrance to the marina, surrounded by people who all seemed to be talking to him at once. The others climbed down to the docks and approached the Maverick as quickly as they could without running. I recognized one of them.
Officer Eden Stoll found me sitting on the dock, my back against the piling.
“McKenzie,” she said. “We just received a 10-78.”
I gestured at the Maverick.
“It’s now a 10-79,” I said.
“Make sure he isn’t armed,” the second officer said. His hand was resting on the butt of his piece.
“His name is McKenzie,” Stoll said. “He was on the job in St. Paul.”
“I don’t care,” the officer said.
I used the piling to help lift myself up and extended both of my arms. Stoll patted me down while her partner watched.
“The suspect is a Black man, about six feet, one-eighty,” I said.
“If you say so,” the second officer said.
“Murder victim is named Richard Bennett. He’s inside the salon.”
“Show us.”
I sat back down.
“Wait for the detectives,” I said. “The boat is clean. There’s nothing you can do except contaminate the crime scene.”
Stoll was inclined to listen to me. Her fellow officer was not. While Stoll used the microphone attached to her shoulder to inform dispatch that they were now at the scene of a murder instead of a shooting, he climbed the stairs onto the boat and slipped into the lounge. He returned less than a minute later.
“He’s dead all right,” the officer said.
“Is that your professional opinion?” I asked.
My response made him angry.
“Get up,” he said.
“No.”
He took a step closer to where I was sitting. Stoll intervened, putting herself between us. Her partner looked at her like she was a traitor.
“Washington County uses the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, right?” I said. “Let the BCA’s Crime Scene Team work the boat. You need to secure the crime scene.” I gestured at the crowd on the Miss Behavin’. “Lots of witnesses. You should get their names, contact information—don’t let anyone leave until the detectives arrive.”
“Are you telling us how to do our job?”
“Apparently someone needs to.”
Again, the officer was offended. He didn’t like the way I was speaking to him. I wouldn’t have liked it, either. Normally, I would have just sat there and kept my mouth shut, only I was in a bad mood.
Stoll bent to where I was sitting. She used the tip of her fingers to gently turn my face to the right and left. Blood stained my neck and the collar of my shirt; my clothes were wet and I was trembling from the cold despite the mid-seventies temperature.
Yeah, let’s go with that—you were trembling because of the cold.
“That’s an awful gash on your forehead,” Stoll said. “There’s a long sliver of wood imbedded in your cheek, too. Let me take it out.”
“No,” I said. “Leave it or it’ll start bleeding again.”
“McKenzie, you should be in a hospital. You might have a concussion. I know you’re going to need stitches.”
“We’ll wait for the detectives. Edie”—where did that come from?—“you need to go to work.”
She did. While her colleague hung around the dock, apparently convinced that I needed guarding, Stoll moved to the Miss Behavin’. People gathered around her, anxious to learn what she knew. I don’t know if she told them. She did ask plenty of questions, though, and wrote the answers down in her notebook.
“She’s wasting her time,” the officer said. “The Sheriff’s Investigative Division will take over when they get here, anyway. They always do.”
Jealous much?
As if on cue, Sergeant Stephen Holmes and his people made their entrance. I might be giving the impression that this took a long time, yet it was only a few minutes after the Stillwater PD arrived. A couple of deputies stayed at the front gate and basically closed down the marina. No one was allowed in and no one was allowed out until they were carefully identified and questioned. I kept waiting for the owner of the marina to make an appearance, only he didn’t.
“McKenzie, what are you doing here?” Holmes asked me.
“Brad Heggstad called and told me that Richard Bennett had returned. Heggstad said that he had also left a message for you, but I guess you didn’t get it.”
“I got it. I just thought it could wait until tomorrow.”
“I drove to Stillwater to see Bennett. I arrived just in time to hear the gunshot that killed him. I’m afraid I allowed the suspect to escape. Sorry about that.” I gestured toward the gate to the marina. “What happened over there?”
“According to witnesses, Heggstad was closing the front gate when a Black man hit him hard in the back of the head and ran through the opening into the parking lot. Heggstad might have broken his wrist when he fell. One of the witnesses transported him to Lakeview Hospital. I have a man heading over there right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“You look a little beaten up yourself.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Witnesses said that after hitting Heggstad, the suspect ran through the parking lot and up the street. If he drove, he didn’t park in the lot.”
“Probably knew about the surveillance cameras.”
“We’ll secure the footage after my man talks to Heggstad. Like I said, I was told that the suspect is Black.”
“Yes.”
“Can you ID him?”
“Only a general description, about six feet, one-eighty; I couldn’t even tell you what clothes he was wearing except that they were dark. Sorry.”
Behind Holmes, the Stillwater cop, who was still standing around like he had nothing better to do, smirked at me.
“The gash on your head, I’m surprised you know what clothes you’re wearing,” Holmes said. “I notice they’re wet.”
“I went into the river.”
“Why did you go into the river?”
“Funny story.”
“You’re going to tell me, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Start by telling me about Richard Bennett.”
“He’s inside the salon of his boat.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not on the job anymore. There are things I don’t have to stare at. I promise, Stephen”—first Edie and now Stephen; suddenly everyone is your personal friend?—“Bennett won’t be hard to find.”
“I better take a look,” Holmes said.
I watched as he climbed the ladder into the boat and entered the lounge. Meanwhile, his deputies were busy interviewing not only the guests on the Miss Behavin’, but anyone they could find on the boats in the marina. I noticed that they didn’t chase off Eden Stoll like her fellow officer had predicted. A few minutes later, Holmes returned. His face was visibly flushed. The Stillwater officer seemed amused by that.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Holmes barked at him.
The officer didn’t answer. Holmes used his thumb to indicate that he wanted the officer gone. The officer walked up the dock toward the front entrance. He passed four men who were fast approaching from the opposite direction. The men wore windbreakers indicating that they were members of the BCA Crime Scene Team. I knew from experience that two of them were most likely forensic scientists and the other two were field agents. They were all toting suitcases that you would never see at an airport, two of them on wheels.
When they reached the Maverick, one of them said, “Evening, Sherlock,” yet there was nothing derogatory in his voice.
“Watson,” Holmes said in reply. He gestured at the boat. “It’s all yours, boys.”
“The ME should be here soon,” Watson said.
Holmes nodded as the Crime Scene Team went to work, opening their suitcases and retrieving video cameras and other equipment, including yellow hard plastic tents with numbers printed on the sides that I knew they would use to mark the bullet holes in the dock and the ejected shell casings. Jesus, how did he miss you? Night was falling, so the team also set up lights while a field agent pulled out a roll of bright yellow tape.
Holmes squatted next to me on the dock; there was no place to sit.
“Touch anything when you were on the boat?” he asked.
“No. You?” Holmes didn’t respond. “My prints might be on the stern of the boat; the hull, but not inside. I might have dripped water, though. Maybe some blood.”
“I’ll let the boys know your prints are on file anyway. McKenzie, talk to me.”
I responded slowly and carefully, detailing everything that I had seen and done since receiving Heggstad’s phone message even though I knew I would be giving my statement again—and again. While I was speaking, Stoll appeared. She stood quietly behind Holmes until I completed my story. Holmes didn’t seem to mind.
“Witnesses partying on the boat corroborate McKenzie’s statement,” she said. “Most of them said they didn’t hear the first gunshot, but they all heard the second, third, fourth, and fifth. A couple witnesses claim they saw McKenzie approach the boat. More claim they saw the suspect running away from it. One witness who was using her cell phone to film her partner while he danced has a few seconds of video showing the suspect running. I’ve recorded names and contact information.”
Stoll held out her notebook. Holmes accepted it.
“Your investigators are re-interviewing the witnesses now,” she added. “One of them secured the camera phone.”
“We’ll talk more later,” Holmes said.
“I think we should get McKenzie to the hospital.”
“I agree. You take him. I’ll meet you there soon.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
The two of them helped me to my feet and Stoll and I started off toward the direction of the front gate.
“Officer Stoll,” Holmes said. “Good work.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
What about you? Don’t you get any love?
* * *
Somehow Stoll and I managed to evade the media that had already gathered in the parking lot of the Heggstad Marina; the camera people seemed to be vying for position along the fence, wanting to get as much of the marina as possible in the background while the reporters did their live remotes. Apparently a killing on a boat in Stillwater was considered big news. But then, what is it they always say? “If it bleeds, it leads.”
I sat in the front seat of Eden Stoll’s patrol car as she drove to Lakeview Hospital less than ten minutes away. My clothes were still damp, but at least I had stopped trembling. I pulled out my cell phone. To my utter astonishment and delight, it still worked.
The children in China who put this together really know their stuff.
I called Nina.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “Something came up and I’m going to be late.”
I attempted to keep my voice light and carefree, only Nina had known me for a long time.
“What happened?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are. You. All. Right?”
“Yes, Nina. I’m going to be fine. They’re taking me to the hospital—”
“Hospital? If you’re all right why are they taking you to the hospital?”
“A cut and a bruise—”
“Dammit, McKenzie.”
“I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll be home soon. You can kiss it and make it all better.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m trying to tell you not to worry.”
“Geez, why in the world would I worry? What hospital are you going to? I can drive down there.”
“Nina, no. By the time you got here I’d be already driving home.”
“You’re able to drive?”
“I told you, it’s only a cut and a bruise.”
“If you say so.”
“Nina, I’m really sorry about all of this.”
“That’s what you always tell me.”
“I always mean it, too.”
Nina paused for a long moment.
“We’ve had this discussion before,” she said.
“Yes, we have.”
“You are who you are. Wait, does this have anything to do with E. J. Woods? Is this because of me?”
“Okay, one—I don’t know. And two—absolutely not.”
“McKenzie—”
“I mean it, Nina. You’re not responsible for anything someone else does, including me.”
“I feel responsible.”
“Please don’t.” By then Stoll had pulled her patrol car into Lakeview’s parking lot. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
I hung up the phone just as Stoll turned off her engine.
“You love her more?” she said. “Is it a competition?”
“My wife has always given me much more than I could possibly give her.”
* * *
The emergency personnel at Lakeview Hospital proved that they were both efficient and professional. In short order, they determined that I did not have a concussion; they treated the gash and bruise on my forehead with antiseptics and a bandage. However, it required eight stitches for them to close the wound after they removed what turned out to be a nearly two-inch-long sliver of wood imbedded in my cheek. They said the stitches should come out in three to five days to minimize scarring. I said a scar would only make me look more dashing. Stoll, who never left my side, said I could always hope.
After covering the stitches with petroleum jelly and a nonstick bandage, the physician in charge offered me a prescription for opioids to deal with the pain, only I turned him down. I figured I had enough problems.
Holmes arrived at the hospital along with a videographer and a Washington County assistant attorney named Nicholas Powell. They found an empty room where the videographer and I were installed. I spent nearly a full hour recording my statement. The assistant CA seemed to think that asking the same questions in a half dozen different ways would change my answers. They didn’t. At the same time I nearly shouted at him, “Hey pal, even baseball games take less time than this.”
Holmes wasn’t pleased, either. He had remained interested in what I had to say for about twenty minutes, but checked out when Powell began repeating himself. Officer Eden Stoll had been in the room with us; Holmes had invited her and Powell seemed to enjoy having her for an audience. Maybe that was why he took his time. ’Course, he didn’t see her yawning behind his back.
Afterward, Holmes said, “Now tell me that wasn’t fun.”
Stoll looked at him like he was nuts.
