Max Cavanaugh received pretty much indicated she was killed because of the mine.”
“Or someone wants us to believe that’s why she was killed,” Rutledge said. “Whoever killed her knew about the other bodies, and the other bodies were there long before anyone proposed schlepping nuclear waste into Vermilion One.”
Quiet descended. Through the opened window came the sound of media vehicles continuing to arrive for the news conference at noon.
Cork said, “Maybe Lauren knew something.”
“Knew what?”
“Something about the Vanishings.”
“How could she?”
Cork said, “The Parrant estate belonged to her father before it belonged to Judge Parrant. She spent some time there when she was a child.”
“So?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she found something when she moved back in. Or returning to the old place caused her to remember something.”
“You’re suggesting she was killed because of what she knew?”
“Just throwing mud against the wall to see what sticks, Ed,” Cork said.
“All right. We need to interview her brother again with that possibility in mind,” Dross said. “If she knew something, maybe he knows the same thing.”
“Okay if I take that interview?” Rutledge asked.
Simon Rutledge was well known for his interviewing ability, especially when it came to coaxing a confession from someone. Among Minnesota law enforcement agencies, the particular effectiveness of his technique was known as “Simonizing.” On a number of occasions during his time as sheriff, Cork had seen hardened criminals slowly bend during Simon’s interviews and finally break.
“That’s fine,” Dross said. “Would you like one of my people with you?”
“I can handle it by myself, Marsha.”
“He knows his mother was one of the victims in the Vermilion Drift?” Cork asked.
“Yes,” Dross said. “I spoke with him at his home earlier this morning.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Surprised. Stunned, actually. But not emotional, really. It was a long time ago.”
“And Hattie Stillday?” Cork said. “Does she know about her daughter?”
“I’ve tried to reach her several times,” Dross said. “Until I do, we’ll refrain from making Abigail Stillday’s name public. Same with the others.”
“Mind if I track her down and deliver the news myself?” Cork said. “She’s a family friend.”
The sheriff thought it over briefly, then said, “I sent Azevedo out this morning to request her presence in my office, but he couldn’t find her. If you can, and you’re willing to deliver the news, all right. Just let me know when you’ve connected.”
“She’ll probably want to claim what remains of her daughter.”
Dross said, “That’ll be up to the BCA and Agent Upchurch.”
Cork gave the agent a questioning glance.
“I can’t say at this point. A week, maybe two,” Upchurch replied.
“I’ll tell her,” Cork said. “What about Isaiah Broom?”
“What about him?” Larson said.
“His mother was probably one of the victims. He ought to know.”
“When we’re certain of that, we’ll make sure he’s informed. In the meantime, it would be best if you kept it to yourself.”
“Sure,” Cork said. “Are we done here?”
Dross waited for someone to say otherwise. “For now,” she said. “By the way, Cork. Lou Haddad and his wife have taken a little vacation, and Kufus and her team are gone. The DOE pulled the plug on their assessment until all this gets sorted out.”
“But Max Cavanaugh’s still around?” Cork asked.
“Last time we checked,” Rutledge said.
TWENTY
On his way to the rez to see Hattie Stillday, Cork made one stop first, at St. Agnes Catholic Church. He found the young priest in his office there, reading a baseball book,
“When I was a kid,” Father Ted Green said, marking his place with a strip torn from an old Sunday bulletin, “I wanted two things: to pitch for the Detroit Tigers and to win the Cy Young Award.”
“What happened?”
The priest touched his collar. “Got called to play for another team with a manager you can’t say no to. That, and I never could deliver a fastball worth squat. What can I do for you, Cork?”
Ted Green was a lanky kid, half a dozen years out of seminary. He’d taken a while to get his feet firmly on the ground with the parishioners of St. Agnes but had proven to be an able administrator, preached a pretty good homily, and represented the Church well in a time when much of the non-Catholic world was suspicious of the Vatican and its clergy. Cork quite liked the guy.
“I’m wondering how difficult it might be to track down one of the priests assigned to St. Agnes years ago, Ted.”
“If he’s still a priest, not hard.”
“If he isn’t?”
“More difficult but not impossible. Care to tell me who?” The priest arched an eyebrow and added, “And I wouldn’t mind knowing why.”
* * *
Hattie Stillday was famous and could have been wealthy, except that all her life she’d held to one of the most basic values of the Anishinaabeg: What one possessed, one shared. Hattie was a generous woman. Long before there was a Chippewa Grand Casino bringing in money to underwrite education for kids on the rez, she’d established the Red Schoolhouse Foundation, which helped Shinnob high school grads pay for college. She’d helped build the Nokomis Home and had begun the Iron Lake Indian Arts Council. She lived with her granddaughter, Ophelia, in the same small house in which she’d resided when her alcoholic daughter, Abigail, had run away four decades earlier and had never come home. Except that Abbie hadn’t run away. Or if that had truly been her intention, she hadn’t gone far.
Hattie had decorated her yard and home with artwork by other Indian artists, which she’d acquired over the years. On her lawn, never well kept and chronically crowded with dandelions, stood a tall, rusting iron sculpture meant to represent a quiver full of arrows. There was a chain saw carving, a great section of honey-colored maple topped with a huge bust of
Cork knocked on the door and got no answer.
“Hey! Cork!”
He turned and spied old Jessup Bliss crossing the street. Because of his arthritic knees, Bliss walked slowly and with a cane.
“Lookin’ for Hattie?” Bliss called out.
“I am, Jess.”
Bliss walked up Hattie’s cracked sidewalk.
“Sheriff’s car was here earlier, looking for her, too, I guess.”
