Deer Season (14 page)

“No,” said Ray, “Not yet. I’ve just seen it from the water. It almost looks like an office complex. Lots of dark glass and metal. Do you know where their money comes from?”

“The old man owned a trucking company somewhere around Chicago that Boyd inherited. But I heard he liquidated that right away and used the money to start other businesses. One rumor was that Boyd was an international arms dealer. But I also heard that he’s made most of his money in currency trading.” Nora paused for a moment. “You know, dear sweet Hugh tried to explain that to me, currency trading, years ago. But I never quite understood it. Let’s just say he’s made millions, or tens of millions.”

“So you mentioned the young deputies,” said Ray. “Did you know who those people were?”

“Not really,” Nora said. “I just heard that Orville had sort of lost it, and these young guys ran the department. They even helped him get reelected, which isn’t too difficult to do around here with our one party system. Thing I could never understand is why one of them didn’t run to replace Orville?”

Ray sat for a long moment without responding. “Interesting question, Nora. They probably didn’t want the paperwork that goes with being the sheriff.”

“You want some more coffee, Ray?”

“I’ve got to scoot,” he responded. “Thanks for breakfast and the talk.”

Nora followed him out of the house, the dogs circling in the yard. As he drove away, he imagined Nora was lighting up a Chesterfield as she took Prince Hal and Falstaff on their walk around the neighborhood. Ray thought about his conversation with Billy Coyle and what he had just learned from Nora. He felt like he was trying to fit together the pieces of an elaborate, multilevel puzzle.

24
As Ray parked his Jeep in the visitors’ section of the sloping parking lot near the main entrance of the TV studio, he thought about the summer evenings when he was a teenager. He and his friends used to come by and watch the locally produced news at 11:00 p.m. In the station’s first iteration, the offices and studios were all crowded into one cement block building, remnants of which he imagined were still present somewhere in the new glass and steel structure that stood before him.

In those days, back in the late sixties, on hot summer nights a large garage door that formed the back wall of the main studio would be open to provide some relief from the heat generated by the spotlights and equipment. At the time air conditioning would have been considered an unnecessary luxury in northern Michigan. Ray and his friends would park just beyond the garage door and watch the news. Two reporters shared all the duties of the 11:00 p.m. news, moving between the three sets: the News Center, Weather Center, and Sports Center. The reporters, both male, usually dressed in sports shirts and jeans or Bermuda shorts— camera angles were maintained to only show the head and chest— would move to different parts of the studio during commercials, followed by one of the two cameras. The announcer would glue on a smile and be ready to read the news from folded sheets of paper pulled from the Associated Press, whenever the director, wearing a headset and dancing between the cameras, pointed at him.

Ray thought about the old days again when he entered the building, passing through two sets of glass doors. He was now confronted by elaborate security procedures. A receptionist, a pretty, young woman with a bleached-teeth smile and wearing a blazer with the station’s logo embroidered on the pocket, asked him who he wished to see from behind the protection of a thick Plexiglas window. Ray said he had an appointment with the station manager. She glanced at the screen in front of her.

“Oh yes,” she responded, her disembodied voice echoing in the empty reception area from a speaker above the window near the ceiling. “Mr. Plumb is expecting you. I’ll buzz you in,” she said, pointing to a steel door on his right. By the time Ray got through the door, the receptionist was in the hallway ready to guide him to a small conference room.

“Mr. Plumb will be with you in a few minutes,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Please,” Ray responded. She closed the door behind her, leaving him alone in an empty room. While he waited, he looked around. One wall was covered with glass and opened to a hillside that overlooked the bay and the edge of town. The other three walls were paneled in cherry and covered with awards and photos. He looked closely at the awards, most from the Michigan Association of Broadcasters, for excellence in various aspects of programming. Ray noted that all the certificates were from the last decade. He looked at the photos, most were of current station personalities standing with nationally-known broadcast figures. “There must be photo ops at national conventions,” Ray thought to himself.

“Sheriff, good to see you,” said Plumb as he entered. The receptionist was at his heels carrying a tray with a coffee decanter and mugs, the station’s logo on them too. She quickly disappeared, leaving them in the closed room.

While Ray’s interaction with the station’s reporters happened on a regular basis, he hadn’t seen Plumb in a number of years. Ray noted that he had become rather rotund.

“You’ve got a wonderful view here,” Ray commented as Plumb passed him a mug of coffee.

“We do, don’t we. I’m glad I insisted that we put the conference room in this position during our last rebuild of the station.” He and Ray looked out at the vista, snow covering the open fields and woods, beyond the gray-blue water of the bay under a heavy overcast.

Finally Plumb broke the silence. “It looks like the view will be unchanged until I retire. For years I’ve worried that some developer will build a ton of overpriced view condos between here and the bay. Fortunately, it’s never happened. But you’re not here to talk about vista preservation or whatever they’re calling it.” He paused for a moment, sadness sweeping across his countenance. “I can’t imagine those two beautiful little girls growing up without their mother.”

Ray didn’t respond. He too was thinking about the girls, thinking about the trauma that had already been inflicted upon them.

“And all we could get out of you last night was that the investigation was continuing. No clear suspects, no one in custody.”

“That hasn’t changed,” said Ray. “And that’s why I’m here. Lynne came to see me over a week ago with some letters she had received here at the station. She told me that you had insisted that she contact law enforcement.”

“When I saw the letters, I wanted her to make sure you knew about them. Lynne did her best to say it was nothing, but if it was nothing why did she bother to show them to me.” He paused and looked at Ray before he continued. “Even though the writer’s approach seemed silly, I mean words and letters cut from papers, and then the whole thing Xeroxed. This person obviously watches too much television,” he said with a short laugh, and then looked embarrassed by his joke.

“Have any of your other employees received this kind of mail?”

“Not like the ones Lynne got. Our on-air people get mail, mostly e-mail now. The vast majority of it is friendly. If a viewer is unhappy, I’m the one who gets the mail or phone calls.”

“But you haven’t received…?”

“Not like these. These were clearly directed at Lynne. The writer didn’t like what she was saying, but the threats and sexual part, we don’t get stuff like that. This was personal.”

“The series that these letters reference, when did it air?”

“I think it was about three weeks ago. Lynne had been working on the series during the late summer and fall. Perhaps you remember that last spring there were two accidental shootings in our coverage area involving young children. In one case a six or seven-year-old shot himself with a loaded gun. In the second one—and this is the one that really struck home for Lynne—a toddler killed his twin brother with a handgun they found in their babysitter’s bedroom. I think the woman was doing something else, like making lunch, and the boys found the gun, and it went off. And there was a third death last year involving middle school boys. Lynne covered all three stories and was really moved by the enormous tragedy suffered by these families. I know she took these personally, especially the one with the twins. At the time she mentioned that she and her husband had had words a number of times about the way he secured, or I should say didn’t adequately secure, his gun. Late this summer she asked me if we could make this one of the topics for our fall news magazine.”

“Let me ask something again. Before this series aired, she hadn’t received any letters, e-mail, or phone calls of a threatening nature?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Ever?”

“Not since that incident with her old boyfriend years ago.”

“Have any of your other employees received threatening letters, e-mails, or phone calls?”

“No, this is most unusual. Like I said, when viewers are unhappy with something, most complaints come to me, as station manager. And the complaints are usually about network programs, not things locally produced.”

“Like what?”

“Sex, language. And then there’s politics. A certain number of viewers are convinced that we’re part of the mythical left-wing media.” Plumb paused and chuckled. “Actually, now that I’m a few months from retirement, I’m finding it harder and harder to be nice to these assholes. I just want to tell them, ‘Hey, all the networks and most of the stations are owned by corporate America. The whole network news structure provides a corporate view of the world. And maybe the corporate view is not as conservative as some doped-up wacko who broadcasts from a bunker in Florida thinks it should be, but it’s hardly left of center.’”

“But none of your communications from unhappy viewers has ever looked like the mail Lynne received?” asked Ray, trying to keep Plumb on topic.

“I mostly get phone calls. Usually from old people who want to talk my ear off. Some of them are probably just lonely and need someone to listen to them. But why me? I don’t want to listen to the newest conspiracy theories from talk radio.”

“How did Lynne get along with people here at the station?” Ray asked, needing to move the interview forward.

“No problems. She’s just a good person. Everyone liked her: crew, colleagues. Everyone.”

“If Lynne doesn’t come back, is anyone’s career advanced?”

Plumb considered the question, his gaze shifting out to the swirling snow and then coming back to Ray.

“We’ll have to make changes. I’ll try out some of the young reporters for that spot or look at the possibility of going outside. But there’s nothing here worth killing for. We’re a small station; we don’t pay much. The kids who come through here look on this place as a stepping-stone to a major market. Their view of professional growth is tied to getting out of here as fast as possible, not moving up in our organization.

“Lynne’s staying around was anomalous, if she hadn’t married and had the twins, she would have been long gone: Chicago, New York, D.C., maybe California. She’s smart, attractive, and very professional. All those traits would have quickly carried her to a big station or a network job. I’ve always felt that we were lucky to be able to hold onto her. But our good fortune might have been at her expense.”

“So you don’t think she has any real enemies here,” asked Ray, trying to get a definite answer.

“No, I’m sure of it,” Plumb answered emphatically.

“How about office romances?”

“Lynne involved with someone here at the station?” Plumb asked, his tone incredulous.

“Yes.”

“Not here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Not possible.”

“How about Lynne being involved in a romance somewhere else?” Ray continued.

“I don’t think so. She’s not that kind of person. And given her family obligations and all the time she spends here, I don’t know how she’d schedule it. That said,” he stopped and looked away.

“That said, what?” pressed Ray.

“Her husband, what an asshole. I can sort of understand how she might have gotten involved with him after that tragic incident, but I don’t know why she married him. She deserves better than that.”

“You don’t like Dirk?”

“No. Do you?”

Ray avoided the question. “Why do you say she deserves better?”

“I just can’t see her with that guy. What joy can he give her?”

“Do you know that she’s unhappy in the relationship?”

“Lynne keeps things to herself. But remember, I’m a native. I’ve encountered Dirk lots of times over the years. And she’s said things, albeit obliquely, that suggest it’s not a happy marriage.”

“Do you think there’s any abuse?”

“Not physical, but I imagine he plays mind games with her, he does with everyone else. The guy’s into power and control.”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm her? Or anything that might give someone a motive to shoot her?”

“No, none. But, as you know, there are lots of wackos out there. And there seem to be more all the time.”

“Do you know if Lynne has any close friends, and if so can you give me their names?”

“Here at the station we’re all friends, but I don’t think people spend much time together away from work. Away from here, I don’t know. But if she’s like my daughter, her women friends would be other young mothers.”

Ray felt the buzzing in his pocket before the ring became audible. “Excuse me a second,” he said to Plumb. He pushed the answer button after seeing that the call was coming from Sue Lawrence’s cell.

“Yes.”

“Ray, I’ve got Dirk, and we’re on our way back. Any news on Lynne?” asked Sue, her voice starting to break up.

“Nothing has changed,” he answered. “Where are you?”

Ray waited, but there was no response. “Hello,” he said. He waited again, then hit the end button.

“I’ve got to run,” he said to Plumb. “Things are happening that need my immediate attention.”

“Can we get you on camera, just a short statement for our evening news?”

“I don’t have the time right now,” Ray said. “We’ll have a press release out this afternoon.”

“How about Lynne’s husband, Dirk?”

“We will be talking to him and anyone else who might help us find the assailant.”

“Is he, what’s the police term, a person of interest?”