investments…but the Gleasons didn’t have anything to do with the Jerusalem artichoke scam. Everyone would have known—it all came out in the lawsuits…”
He leaned toward her again, pitching his voice down: “I’ll tell you what, Joanie. Jim and I and Larry Jensen, we all think that the Gleason murders and the Judd murder are tied together. Three murders in three weeks, all by somebody who knew what he was doing; where to go and when to go. Even did it under the same conditions, in the rain, in the dark. And that’s after you haven’t had any murders in twenty-two years.”
“What about George Feur? The preacher?”
“I heard of him…”
“He’s somebody to look at—I even asked Jim about him,” she said. “Jim says he’s got an alibi. There was a prayer meeting that Friday night, and a lot of people stayed the weekend. There’s somebody who’ll say that Feur was there every minute of that time. Jim and Larry decided that it would have been hard for him to sneak away…”
“How long would he have to be gone?”
“Well, if he…” She looked up at the ceiling, her lips moving as she figured. “Well, if he drove in and out, half an hour? Probably longer than that, if he walked part of it, or if they talked. But that’s not very long, really.”
“It’s not long if there are lots of people around, and everybody thinks you’re talking with somebody else, and you’re seen here and there…you might get away for half an hour.”
“And maybe one of his goofy converts would have been willing to do him a favor. But: if you think the same person killed the Gleasons and Bill Judd…I understand that Feur was trying to save Judd’s soul, and that they got along. So that doesn’t seem to fit.”
“It’s a connection, though.”
“It is…” she said. “Feur’s a violent man. He was violent when he was a boy—his old man abused him—and he’d go around robbing stores and maybe even banks, when he was in his twenties. Jim tracked him down after a robbery up in Little America. Arrested him out at his aunt’s place. He went to prison, got Jesus and all the other crap, too—the white supremacy, and that. Went out west, someplace, studied for the ministry, got a license in Idaho. When his aunt died, he came back here and took over the farm. We’d thought we’d seen the last of him.”
“He ever shoot anybody? Ever suspected of it?” Virgil asked.
“Not as far as I know. I do know he used a gun in the robberies.”
O N THE WAY BACK to Bluestem, out on I-90, Joan said, “You are very talkative for a cop. I’ve known every cop in Bluestem and a few from Worthington; some of them were pretty old friends, and none of them have been as talkative as you—telling me all about the case, and so on.”
“A PERSONALITY FAULT, ” Virgil offered.
“Really? I started to wonder, ‘Did this man take me out to a fancy Tex-Mex restaurant, and tell me all of this, because he figures I’ll blab it all over the place, and that’ll stir everything up?’”
“I’m shocked that you’d even think that,” Virgil said.
“You don’t sound shocked,” she said.
“Well, you know,” he said. He glanced at her in the dark, and said, “One thing—you’re a little smarter than I was prepared for.”
She laughed and they went on down the highway.
L ATE THAT NIGHT, Virgil turned on his laptop, flexed his fingers, and began writing his story, a little fact, and a lot of fiction. Fiction was different than outdoor writing. Different because you had to think about it, make it up, rather than simply report an experience. He stared at the computer screen for a moment, and began:
The killer climbed out of the river valley, stumbling in the dark, slipping on the wet grass; paused at the edge of the yard, then crossed quickly to the sliding glass door at the back of the house. He’d seen the Gleasons arrive, their headlights carving up the hillside through the night; you could see them
He leaned toward her again, pitching his voice down: “I’ll tell you what, Joanie. Jim and I and Larry Jensen, we all think that the Gleason murders and the Judd murder are tied together. Three murders in three weeks, all by somebody who knew what he was doing; where to go and when to go. Even did it under the same conditions, in the rain, in the dark. And that’s after you haven’t had any murders in twenty-two years.”
“What about George Feur? The preacher?”
“I heard of him…”
“He’s somebody to look at—I even asked Jim about him,” she said. “Jim says he’s got an alibi. There was a prayer meeting that Friday night, and a lot of people stayed the weekend. There’s somebody who’ll say that Feur was there every minute of that time. Jim and Larry decided that it would have been hard for him to sneak away…”
“How long would he have to be gone?”
“Well, if he…” She looked up at the ceiling, her lips moving as she figured. “Well, if he drove in and out, half an hour? Probably longer than that, if he walked part of it, or if they talked. But that’s not very long, really.”
“It’s not long if there are lots of people around, and everybody thinks you’re talking with somebody else, and you’re seen here and there…you might get away for half an hour.”
“And maybe one of his goofy converts would have been willing to do him a favor. But: if you think the same person killed the Gleasons and Bill Judd…I understand that Feur was trying to save Judd’s soul, and that they got along. So that doesn’t seem to fit.”
“It’s a connection, though.”
“It is…” she said. “Feur’s a violent man. He was violent when he was a boy—his old man abused him—and he’d go around robbing stores and maybe even banks, when he was in his twenties. Jim tracked him down after a robbery up in Little America. Arrested him out at his aunt’s place. He went to prison, got Jesus and all the other crap, too—the white supremacy, and that. Went out west, someplace, studied for the ministry, got a license in Idaho. When his aunt died, he came back here and took over the farm. We’d thought we’d seen the last of him.”
“He ever shoot anybody? Ever suspected of it?” Virgil asked.
“Not as far as I know. I do know he used a gun in the robberies.”
O N THE WAY BACK to Bluestem, out on I-90, Joan said, “You are very talkative for a cop. I’ve known every cop in Bluestem and a few from Worthington; some of them were pretty old friends, and none of them have been as talkative as you—telling me all about the case, and so on.”
“A PERSONALITY FAULT, ” Virgil offered.
“Really? I started to wonder, ‘Did this man take me out to a fancy Tex-Mex restaurant, and tell me all of this, because he figures I’ll blab it all over the place, and that’ll stir everything up?’”
“I’m shocked that you’d even think that,” Virgil said.
“You don’t sound shocked,” she said.
“Well, you know,” he said. He glanced at her in the dark, and said, “One thing—you’re a little smarter than I was prepared for.”
She laughed and they went on down the highway.
L ATE THAT NIGHT, Virgil turned on his laptop, flexed his fingers, and began writing his story, a little fact, and a lot of fiction. Fiction was different than outdoor writing. Different because you had to think about it, make it up, rather than simply report an experience. He stared at the computer screen for a moment, and began:
The killer climbed out of the river valley, stumbling in the dark, slipping on the wet grass; paused at the edge of the yard, then crossed quickly to the sliding glass door at the back of the house. He’d seen the Gleasons arrive, their headlights carving up the hillside through the night; you could see them
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