The Taking of Libbie, SD Page 26

  “My name is Daniel Hasselberg,” he said. “I am with the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. The FDIC has just taken control of First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. Please remain calm. All of your deposits are safe. Nobody is going to have any problems with their money.” He paused for a moment, then added, “It’s going to get a bit crowded in here.”

  Kampa squirmed against the chief’s grip.

  “This is my bank,” he shouted.

  Hasselberg studied him for a moment.

  “Are you Jon Kampa?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s my bank now.”

  I saw a familiar smile from behind Hasselberg’s back. Harry moved around the government official and joined us beneath the chandelier, letting his credentials lead the way. He spoke first to the chief.

  “Good afternoon, Officer. I’m Special Agent Brian Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Chief Eric Gustafson, Libbie Police Department.”

  “Geezus, Harry,” I said from the sofa. “You’re a half hour late. If I had known you were on government time…”

  “Did you do this?” Kampa said. “Did you call the FDIC?”

  I gave him my best “Who? Me?” shrug. “If your bank wasn’t in trouble, why would you steal all that money?” I said.

  “Oh, stop it, McKenzie,” Harry said. “The FDIC was already on it. After we spoke yesterday I made a few calls. The FDIC was going to close down the bank next month after its audit. They decided to accelerate their plans because they were afraid your accusations would cause a panic. Seems the bank was in trouble because its capital reserves had evaporated and the delinquent loans on its books have more than doubled during the past year. Most of the loans were tied to the housing market. The bank has been quietly up for sale for months, but there have been no takers.”

  “That explains motive,” I said.

  Harry nodded at Kampa, who was still being held by the chief. “Who are you?” he said.

  The chief answered for him. “This is Jon Kampa. He owns the bank. He’s my prisoner.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Murder,” I said.

  “You can’t prove anything,” Kampa shouted.

  “You were at the Miller home when Sara called Nicholas Hendel and arranged to meet him at Lake Mataya. I believe you overheard the conversation and followed her out there. I believe you stole the fuses from Hendel’s car, stranding him. Hendel called his accomplices for a ride, but neither of them was home, so he decided to hoof it back into town. I believe you ran him down. I believe you killed him with your car so if you got caught in the act, you could always claim it was an accident.”

  “Believing isn’t proving,” Kampa said.

  “No, it isn’t,” the chief added.

  “Don’t worry, Chief,” Harry said. “I’ve seen this before. McKenzie is a music lover. He likes to build to a crescendo.”

  “The front of your car was smashed in,” I told Kampa. “I saw it at Schooley’s Auto Repair. You said you hit a deer out on White Buffalo Road, the road leading to Lake Mataya. There’s an impact crater and blood on the windshield. A simple test will prove that it’s human blood. We don’t have Hendel’s body, but we do have the next best thing. His sister. What do you want to bet that if we tested her DNA and the DNA taken from the blood sample, we’d come up with a familial match? ’Course, we still have Hendel’s hairbrush. It’ll take longer to get his DNA off that, but the result will be the same.”

  “Ta-da,” Harry said.

  Kampa didn’t speak.

  “Besides, your vehicle was undrivable,” I said. “You needed a tow. So you couldn’t have taken the body far. If the chief examines the ground near where Schooley hooked up your car, I bet he finds where you buried Hendel and who knows what other evidence.”

  Kampa didn’t have anything to say to that, either.

  “As for the money you stole…” I waved at all the suits crowding into the bank and bustling about with laptops and file boxes. “People think computers can do anything. They can’t. I bet the FDIC finds the money, and I bet it won’t be in the Cayman Islands. I’m making a lot of bets, I know. I bet I win them all.”

  Harry patted Kampa on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, pal,” he said. “If you beat the murder rap, we’ll have a lot of federal charges waiting for you.”

  “Jon,” the chief said, “how could you have done all this? I would have said you were the most honest man in town.”

  “Maybe he was,” Harry said. “Until his bank failed.”

  “Show me a completely honest man,” I said, “and I’ll show you someone who has never truly faced temptation.”

  “That’s so profound,” Harry said.

  “You like it?”

  “McKenzie, you are so full of—”

  Before Harry could complete the insult, a commotion near the front door caused all of us to turn. Dewey Miller was shouting.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he said. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Who are you?” Hasselberg said.

  “I’m the mayor of this town.”

  Harry pivoted at the words and glared at me.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  Hasselberg tried to rest his arm on Miller’s shoulder, but Miller shrugged it off.

  “I’m with the FDIC,” Hasselberg explained. “We have seized this bank. The deposits are safe; you might want to tell your citizens that. We have arranged the sale of seventy-five percent of First Integrity’s assets to a bank in North Dakota. We’ll try to collect as much of the remaining outstanding loans as possible ourselves.”

  Kampa moaned loudly at that and slumped down in the chief’s arms; the chief had to make an effort to keep him upright. “My family,” he said. I don’t know if he was in anguish over his wife and children, if he had any, or the generations of Kampas that had built and maintained the bank these many decades.

  “We’re going to be out of here as fast as we can,” Hasselberg said. “All of this will be just a blip in your history.”

  “I have questions,” Miller said. I wondered if they were about the town or his holdings.

  “Please ask them,” Hasselberg said.

  While they spoke, Sheriff Balk arrived.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “Ahh, Sheriff,” Hasselberg said. He extradited himself from his conversation with Miller. “We would like to hire some of your deputies to assist with crowd control. Of course, we’ll pay overtime.”

  While they spoke, Miller surveyed the chaotic scene in the bank. Eventually his eyes found me. I gave him a Victoria Dunston microwave. He didn’t wave back. He didn’t react at all, not even to display his disappointment. He was totally without guilt, I decided. Without conscience, shame, remorse, regret, empathy, sympathy—there was no compassion or tenderness in his heart.

  “What about it, McKenzie?” Harry said.

  “Later,” I said. “I have things to do first.”

  “What things?”

  I drifted to where Hasselberg and Big Joe were having their conversation. As soon as it began to wane, I said, “Excuse me, Sheriff. You and I need to chat.” He stared as if he were surprised to see me. “There’s the matter of Tracie Blake’s murder.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Four in the afternoon and there were only two customers in the Tall Moon Tavern. A man and a woman, no longer young, sitting in a booth near the jukebox, were surrounded by discarded pull tabs, empty beer bottles, and the remains of a pizza-oven pizza. I wondered briefly if this was what they had planned for their retirement or if it just worked out that way—but only briefly. Jeff was standing at one end of the bar, a knife in his hand. The blade of the knife seemed too long and too sharp for the job—he was slicing lemons, limes, and oranges. Wayne was sitting at the other end of the stick, his elbow propped on the smooth surface, his chin resting against his hand. There was a coffee mug in front of him. He called to us.

  “Look what
the cat dragged in.”

  The sheriff and I moved across the impossibly warped floor. I settled on a stool at the bar. Big Joe Balk took a chair at a table facing Wayne.

  “How are you doing?” I said.

  “Fair,” Wayne said. “I heard that you disappeared after Church and Paulie got busted. I thought one of their friends might have had a hand in it until I realized that Church and Paulie didn’t have any friends. So, what happened to you?”

  “I was just checking out the countryside, bathing in the scenery.”

  “Some of that scenery punch you in the eye, did it?”

  “It’s a rough neighborhood.”

  “Well, I’m always happy to see you. You, too, Sheriff. What’ll ya have? Jeff, take care of these boys on me.”

  Jeff wiped his hands on a towel and moved down the bar.

  “Ringneck,” I told him.

  “I’m good,” said the sheriff.

  “Not drinkin’?” Wayne said.

  “I’m working.”

  “Can’t even offer you a cup of joe?”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “Shit.” Wayne picked up his mug, took a long sip, and set it down again. “Shit,” he repeated.

  Jeff served the Ringneck and went back to his fruit. He didn’t look at Wayne, or me, or anyone else for that matter. Just a fly on the wall.

  “Well, shit,” Wayne said again. “If I had known you boys were coming, I never would have climbed back up on the wagon. Hey, Jeff. Pour me a shot.”

  Jeff didn’t look, didn’t move; just stood there, slicing lemons as if it were the most important task a man could perform.

  “C’mon, Jeff,” Wayne said. “I need it.”

  Jeff ignored him some more.

  “Hell,” Wayne said. “You tellin’ me a man can’t get one last drink before he goes to prison?” He drained what was left of his coffee and slammed the mug on top of the bar as if he didn’t care if it shattered or not.

  “Take your time,” Sheriff Balk said. “We’re in no hurry.”

  “That’s damn white of ya, Big Joe,” Wayne said. “It truly is. But I guess there’s no sense puttin’ it off. I want to tell you, though—McKenzie, I want to tell you—I’m sorry. I really am, man. Hittin’ you with my bat like that—see, Sheriff, I’m confessing. You won’t have any trouble with me. McKenzie, hitting you with the bat, that was wrong, flat-out wrong, and I’m sorry. I thought you were stepping out with Tracie, and I got all jealous, and then I find out that it wasn’t even true. Then the way you did Church, that was beautiful, man. You’re a stand-up guy, McKenzie, and I’m sorry I went after you.”

  I raised the Ringneck in salute. “Don’t worry about it. I forgive you.” I took a sip of the ale and set the bottle down.

  “Yeah, only Big Joe, he ain’t the forgivin’ sort,” Wayne said. “Are you, Big Joe?”

  “Vic won’t press charges, what am I supposed to do about it?” the sheriff said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We didn’t come for that,” I said. “You hitting me in the head with a baseball bat, there are worse crimes. Not many, but some.”

  “We came about Tracie and Mike,” the sheriff said.

  “No, no, no,” Wayne said. He slipped off his stool, and for a moment I thought he might fall to his knees; he steadied himself by gripping the bar. “You can’t believe—no, McKenzie. No, Sheriff. I didn’t have anything to do with that. You gotta believe me.”

  “We do believe you,” I said.

  “Relax,” the sheriff said.

  “Relax?” Wayne said.

  “Tracie and Mike were killed after 2:00 a.m., killed right after closing time,” I said. “They were killed while you were at the Libbie cop shop trying to convince Chief Gustafson to drop the DUI charges against Councilman Hudalla’s kid.”

  “That’s right,” Wayne said. “That’s right.”

  “Besides, you didn’t know Tracie left the bar that night to see Mike. You thought she had gone to see me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Jeff knew, though. He told me so the night Church’s truck accidentally caught on fire. Didn’t you, Jeff?”

  Jeff didn’t move, not even to look up from the cutting board.

  “You said a lot of things about Wayne that night, Jeff,” I said. “You said he was furious when Tracie left on her date with Mike. You said he insulted her, called her names. You said he went off in a huff but later came back happy. You gave me as many reasons to believe that Wayne killed Mike and Tracie as you could without actually accusing him. I thought that was odd. Do you think it was odd?”

  “I think it was odd,” said the sheriff.

  “Did you, Jeff?” Wayne said. “Did you say those things?”

  Jeff didn’t say if he did or didn’t.

  “Where were you that night, Jeff?” I said. “You said you got off early; said that Wayne was in such a good mood that he closed up. Where did you go after last call? Jeff?”

  Jeff stared at the lemon on the cutting board, the knife poised above it.

  “It’s just a hunch, Jeff,” I said. “I could be wrong. I could be way, way out there on this one. During the ride over, the sheriff said you could sue my ass for slander if I accused you and I was wrong. Am I wrong, Jeff?”

  “Whoever shot Mike and Tracie left his fingerprints on the gun,” the sheriff said. “If they aren’t yours, Jeff, you could take a lot of money offa McKenzie. I’ll even testify on your behalf.”

  “Jeff?”

  “Do I need to get a court order to take your fingerprints, Jeff?”

  “Say it ain’t so, Jeff,” Wayne said.

  Jeff’s head came up slowly. He looked at the sheriff. He looked at Wayne. He looked at me. Then he threw the knife at the sheriff.

  I ducked at Jeff’s arm motion and spun off of the stool. I didn’t see the knife in flight, but I heard the sheriff’s painful cry, and I saw him wrench his left shoulder back and spill from his chair.

  Jeff rounded the bar and ran to the door. I went to the sheriff. He was lying on his side and gurgling angrily. I gently rolled him on his back. The knife was four inches deep and protruding from the upper part of his armpit. It didn’t seem to have sliced any major arteries.

  “Not so bad,” I said.

  “Fuck you, McKenzie,” the sheriff said.

  I reached across his body and yanked his handgun from its holster. It was a Glock 17, the primary sidearm used by the St. Paul Police Department while I was there. I never liked the Glock, was never comfortable with the grip.

  “What are you doing?” the sheriff said.

  “Wayne, call the sheriff’s department,” I said. “Call them right now. An ambulance, too. Did you hear me, Wayne?”

  “Yes,” Wayne said. He went running for the phone behind the bar.

  “That’s my gun,” the sheriff said.

  “This is what comes from confiscating my grenade launcher,” I said.

  I went to the door. The couple sitting in the booth stared at me mutely. They could have been watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger for all the excitement they showed.

  “McKenzie, wait,” the sheriff said.

  I did wait, but only long enough to be sure that it was clear.

  I stepped out of the tavern into bright sunlight, the Glock leading the way. I shielded my eyes as I surveyed the parking lot. I saw the sheriff’s cruiser and a battered pickup that I guessed belonged to the older couple. There was a seared and blackened area in the corner of the lot where Church’s vehicle had burned. No Jeff. I circled to my right, carrying the gun with both hands, staying close to the building. I heard movement. I quickened my pace until I was at the corner of the tavern. I peeked around the corner. Jeff was rummaging in the back of an SUV parked alongside the building about twenty paces away.

  “Stop,” I said.

  He paused, looked at me, then pivoted away from the SUV. The gun in his hands looked like a Magnum. It sounded like a Magnum. When the chunk of the b
uilding just above my head exploded, raining shards and slivers of wood on my head and against my face, that sealed it.

  I swung into a Weaver stance just as I had been trained to do—my feet shoulder-width apart, my right foot back from my left foot, knees locked, right arm extended at shoulder level with a slight bend in the elbow, my left hand supporting my right hand, my left arm bent at the elbow, the elbow close to my body, my body turned at a forty-five-degree angle, my head bent slightly to align the gun sights on the center of Jeff’s chest. I squeezed the trigger slowly.

  Click.

  What the hell?

  I scurried back around the corner of the building just as Jeff threw another shot at me, this one sailing wide.

  I pulled back the slide.

  Are you kidding me?

  Sheriff Balk had been carrying his Glock without a round in the chamber.

  You gotta be kidding me. Who are you, Barney Fife?

  Maybe that’s why he told me to wait, I told myself.

  Geez, McKenzie, running around without first checking to see that the gun was loaded—could you be more careless?

  I chambered a round and edged back along the corner of the building, keeping low. I took a quick peek and pulled my head back before Jeff could use it for target practice. He was in the SUV. I looked again, taking my time. He was starting the engine. I rose up, using the corner for cover, and went into the Weaver stance again. I pumped five of the Glock’s seventeen rounds into the engine.

  Jeff poked his Magnum out of the window. He was point shooting, shooting one-handed from the shoulder, and he was using his left hand. I figured the odds of him breaking his wrist with the recoil were considerably greater than they were of him hitting me. I hopped back around the corner just the same. I might be careless, but I’m not an idiot.

  I heard the shot; I had no idea where the bullet landed. I also heard Jeff shout, “Dammit.”