Sandusky reckoning, p.4
Sandusky Reckoning, page 4
I shrugged again. “Management here claims that Mike Clemmons left the campground with his campfire burning, and it spread to his camper.”
“Do you believe that?” he asked.
“I guess. Are you here to investigate his RV being burned? Because no one from the police department seemed interested when it happened.”
“I’m looking at all the crimes that have been happening in this area. Do you know anyone who had friction with Randy Gorey and his friends?”
I paused. Hell yeah, all the people that were being blackmailed had a shitload of friction. I would bet that included this here sheriff. “Nope.”
“Any thoughts on where the RV at site 21 went or what caused the fire in the trailer park?”
“Nope.”
“How well did you know Chris Randolph?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
I shrugged again. “I was part of the crew who had to clean up the playground area the other day when he passed out and threw up on the jump pillow.”
“I heard about that. Any guesses as to why he would drive a golf cart out onto the train bridge?” he asked.
“Because he was drunk and high as hell?” I asked, shrugging.
The sheriff gave me an amused look, shaking his head. “The toxicology report on Mr. Randolph is going to be colorful, for sure. Don’t quote me on that,” he said, smiling. “Listen, any idea who did these crimes? The stolen RV, the burned Airstream, the burned double-wide; any odd or suspicious behavior around the campground leading up to those incidents?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing at all?” he asked.
“Nothin’,” I said.
My walkie-talkie squawked.
“Vaughn, are you at the booth?” asked Travis.
“No, in your office with the sheriff,” I said.
“Dammit ... she drove right in. Chris’s girlfriend, she’s heading over to the trailer. I need you to bring her over to the office to talk to the police before people at the campground get a hold of her.”
“Roger, out.”
The chair squeaked as I stood. Minelli also stood.
“You heard, gotta go,” I said.
He nodded. “We’re not done. I’m gonna need you back here to continue this discussion. Bring Randolph’s girlfriend back here. I wanna have a chat with her,” he said.
Tony 2
10:25 a.m.
Candace Malone was an attractive woman, for sure. Maybe a little too skinny for my liking. With a little makeup and a clothing upgrade, she could easily jump from a six to an eight. I did have a soft spot for gingers; my first wife was a redhead.
It could just be the context. I was probably twenty years older, so she was fresh-faced in comparison to my worn-out middle-age dating pool. But she was also a woman who shacked up with the drug addict who just killed himself in a way I struggled to wrap my mind around. You couldn’t reasonably make a case they had a happy relationship.
“Please sit down, ma’am,” I said, waving her to the guest chair. At least I didn’t have to worry about this little woman collapsing the flimsy chair.
She appeared confused and flustered. Vaughn Washington had intercepted her before she made it in her RV and escorted her into the office before high-tailing it out. He did a good job of collecting her before she got tangled up in the campground grapevine. Getting notified of her boyfriend’s death by some random imbecile out here would be unpleasant for her.
I didn’t mind that my interrogation of Vaughn Washington was cut short. It was a dead end; he wasn’t involved in anything. Gorey lamented what a waste it was that he couldn’t turn this big buck black boy. But Washington wasn’t interested in the prostitutes or drugs, so there was nothing that could be done to tempt him.
“I’m Sheriff Tony Minelli. I’m sure you’ve heard about the unusual events that have been happening around this campground over the past ten or so hours.”
“No, I haven’t heard about anything. I saw the news truck parked along the curb outside the campground and the cop cars on site but didn’t know what was happening. I figured someone’s else’s RV may have burned down, I could smell it.”
“Okay, then. What brings you to the campground this morning?”
She gave me an annoyed look. “Uh, I live here,” she said.
“So, you are coming home from work?” I asked.
“No, I don’t have a job,” she said with a shrug.
Something about her was off. Her skin looked clammy, and her eyes were bloodshot. The way she carried herself was too cautious and deliberate for someone so young, like she moved a bit gingerly. I suppressed a smile at my inside joke. Gingers should move gingerly, after all.
“Did you have a late night last night?” I asked.
She almost scowled. I took that for a yes. Party girl didn’t come home last night. Meanwhile, her Romeo played chicken with a freight train and lost.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked.
“No.”
“Don’t let yourself get dehydrated, now. So, the fact that an RV was stolen and a double-wide out in the trailer park burned down this morning has eluded your attention?”
She sat there quietly for a moment, thinking.
“In addition to those incidents, there was also a train accident a few hours ago,” I said.
She didn’t react. It looked like she stifled a shrug, then leaned back in her chair.
“When was the last time you spoke with Chris Randolph?” I asked in a more moderate tone.
“Last night.”
“What time?” I asked.
She thought about it. “I don’t know,” she replied.
“How about a guess?”
She sighed loudly. “Why don’t you cut the shit and tell me what is going on? Did Chris get into some sort of trouble? Is he in jail?”
“Slow down there, ma’am,” I said, trying to suppress my irritation. I’m running this interrogation.
She lifted her right hand and examined her nails, which were short and unpainted.
“Again, when was the last time you saw Mr. Randolph?” I asked.
“Let’s say ten thirty last night,” she said.
“He didn’t sleep in the camper last night?”
‘I’m sure he did. I wasn’t there.”
“Why not?”
She sighed again, fidgeting in her chair, and then slouched. “Because I left.”
“And went where?”
“Why does that matter, am I under suspicion for something?”
As annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help but admire her combative attitude. She wasn’t intimidated by me in the least. “No, you aren’t. Just some standard questions,” I said as disarmingly as possible.
She sat there silently. I liked to play the waiting game and leverage the uncomfortable silence to motivate them to talk. A minute went by, and she still had nothing to say.
“Chris was involved in a train accident this morning.”
She flinched, then sat up. “Train accident? On foot? He doesn’t have a car.”
“He ... he took a golf cart and drove it out onto the tracks. A train struck him ... and he didn’t make it.”
At first, she didn’t react. Then her jaw dropped, and she shook her head. A tear streaked down her left cheek.
“What? Seriously? Are you sure it was him?”
“Yeah, he has been identified. Just so, we would like you to verify his identity, to be thorough. Also, we need to contact his next of kin.”
A quick sob escaped her, as she leaned forward and put her head down in her hands. I thought about going around the desk and trying to comfort her but decided against it.
A few minutes went by. I searched the desk drawers and found a half-empty Kleenex box, sliding it across the table. She pulled out two and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks.
“His parents live in Jackson, Michigan. Did he have his phone on him? Their information would be on his phone.”
“Not sure about that. If he had a phone on him then it is probably at the bottom of the lake. The crash happened out on the train bridge above the water. Do you know his parents’ names?”
She shook her head, looking up at me with a slight expression of embarrassment.
“Did he have any kids?” I asked.
She shook her head.
Todd 1
11:25 a.m.
I was speeding as I turned into the entrance. I hated to set a bad example while in uniform, but I was in a hurry. And I was on official police business.
I slowed down as I pulled my red Accord up to the security booth. A big, bald black guy stood and leaned out.
“Sergeant Todd Baker. I am here to see the sheriff,” I said, holding up my Gravity Junction security badge.
He glanced at it and nodded.
“Just park over there,” he mumbled.
I drove past the booth and over to the parking area. I took another drink of coffee. I was a little stressed, so I treated myself to a French vanilla latte from McDonald’s. And a blueberry muffin. And a hashbrown.
I tilted the rearview mirror over and took a look at my face. I had a foam mustache from the coffee, which I wiped off with the back of my hand. I ran my fingers through my hair to spike it up a little.
My face looked positively huge; big, round, and ruddy. I had gained more weight since the season began. Working at the park was killing me. I was surrounded by food all day. Pretzels dipped in melted cheese, funnel cakes, and chili-cheese fries were everywhere. I had too many friends at the park, with someone always offering me something.
I slid my palm along my cheek, feeling stubble. I should have shaved.
I was running late, but I was doing them a favor by dropping by. If they would have responded earlier to my 911 call, the police could have probably solved the crime already.
I glanced down at my black security uniform, making sure it was fully buttoned up and none of the crumbs from the blueberry muffin or hashbrown were on it. I grabbed my binder from the passenger seat and got out.
The freight train rolled through, a lot louder than expected. The horn blasted, and it sounded like it was right in my ear. How did people relax at the campground with that damn thing passing through every ninety minutes?
Sandusky Shores. A sad little campground located beside a slum apartment complex and a sleazy trailer park. Looking around, I saw that most of the sites were occupied, so its vicinity to the slums didn’t discourage people from staying there.
I walked into the office building and up to the service counter. A heavy teenage girl was staring at her phone. She had a hoop nose ring and bright-red streaks through her long, blonde hair. A lot of colorful tattoos. She chewed a big wad of gum, her jaw working hard.
Kind of hot. But way too young for me. A man in uniform probably wasn’t her cup of tea.
“Mornin’, Sergeant Baker here to see Sheriff Minelli,” I said with authority. She didn’t look up. I stood there politely.
“Ma’am?”
“Back there,” she said, pointing to a hallway without looking up. I nodded and walked down the hall.
I found a closed door and knocked. A few seconds later, it flung open, and Sheriff Minelli was standing there with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
I recognized him from the news. Dark, short hair. Too dark for his age, it had to be a dye job. He had a large, square chin; it was almost cartoonish how it jutted out.
“Sergeant Baker reporting,” I said, holding my hand out to shake. We shook hands and he waved me into the smoky office. Smoking wasn’t allowed inside businesses per the Ohio Smoke-Free Workplace Act of 2006, but I decided not to mention it.
“Sheriff Minelli. Have a seat. Glad you finally decided to show up. It isn’t like I had anything else important going on today aside from waiting on you, with all the thefts, arsons, and deaths piling up.”
I felt my face flush as I sat in the guest chair. It strained under my weight, and for a minute, I thought it might collapse. But it held.
“Sorry. I work the night shift at Gravity Junction. I’m usually asleep at this time.”
He opened a notebook and studied it, furrowing his brow. He resembled a bewildered caveman staring at his reflection in a pond. He took a drag off his cigarette.
“So, you called 911 this morning at around 1:10 a.m. You reported an RV being dragged behind a train.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I waited around for an hour, and you never sent a car.”
He looked up at me, irritated. He closed his notebook.
“You ever been a cop?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I haven’t done good on the exams. And I have a few health problems. So, it has mostly been private security.”
I was aware of how pathetic I appeared. An overweight rent-a-cop practically bursting out of his uniform. But I couldn’t afford to buy a larger size.
“We get all kinds of crazy 911 calls during the summer in Sandusky. People from all over the country visit here and party it up, some getting so carried away that they feel compelled to call the police. Occasionally they make shit up just for laughs. The job of the dispatcher and the night-duty cops is to triage these calls and assess their validity. Your call sounded ridiculous, so a car was never sent. In retrospect, that was a mistake, so I apologize on behalf of the department for that.”
“No problem. I just want to help,” I said proudly.
“So, why don’t you recount what you saw.”
“Sure. I was on my way home from work, from Gravity Junction. I am the shift security supervisor. I got stopped at the railroad crossing at Pipe Street. The train was heading west. I kept hearing these weird noises, like screeching sounds. Then I noticed sparks coming from behind the ... caboose. Do trains still have cabooses?”
Minelli shrugged, then gestured impatiently with his cigarette hand for me to continue.
“As it got closer, I saw that the train was dragging something. As it passed by, it became clear it was dragging an RV.”
“Dragging it how?” he asked.
“With chains, huge chains.”
“So, the trailer wasn’t on its wheels, it tipped over on its side?” he asked.
“Roger, on its side. Sparks were shooting from certain parts of it. It was a really big RV, like a park model. I could point out a similar one if there are those types at the campground.”
Sheriff Minelli opened a folder on the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, sliding it across the desk. I leaned over and grabbed it. It was a printed color picture of a large gray RV. I studied it. “Yup, that’s it, sir.”
“You’re sure? It was dark, and the train was passing by at a high rate of speed,” he said.
“I’m positive it was that model,” I said confidently.
“Good. Anything else?”
“Actually, I have a video of it.”
The sheriff smiled a big, fake smile, probably to mask his irritation with me.
“Well, that could have saved us a lot of time,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I told you that on the 911 call.”
“You told me that? Did I get demoted from sheriff to answering the phones at fucking dispatch?” he barked.
I felt my face redden. Was it my fault his dispatcher didn’t communicate with him? But I didn’t want to risk making him angrier.
“Sorry. Let’s have a look,” he said.
I fumbled through my video app until I found it. I pushed play and handed it to the sheriff. He watched it, squinting, then handed the phone back to me.
“Would you mind sending me a copy of this?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.”
The sheriff pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. I forwarded the video to the email address listed.
“Don’t erase that video and don’t forward it to anyone else,” he said.
I nodded.
“There was debris coming off the RV. I’m surprised that trains haven’t been delayed clearing it,” I said.
“They did temporarily delay a few trains. Several trains made it through without any issues before they discovered the debris. The railroad company did a full inspection and blessed it. Any theory as to what happened?” he asked.
That stumped me. I had been asking myself how such a thing could happen all morning, it caused me to toss and turn, and likely why I overslept.
“Either a practical joke or a malicious prank. I have no idea how you execute that, though.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“What’s the difference between a practical joke and a malicious prank?”
I didn’t have an answer. I felt embarrassed.
“I dunno,” I said, feeling my face turn red. I tried to change the subject. “Any leads on what happened? Any word on the trailer fire or the train accident, are these all related?”
Minelli shook his head. “I can’t comment on ongoing investigations. Thanks for coming in, Baker. We will be in touch if we need any additional information.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. Would you mind if I left a resume with you? In case the department is hiring. Maybe you could recommend me, given the useful intel I provided?”
Minelli had a blank look on his face for a few seconds, then smiled. “Why, sure!” he said.
I opened my binder and took out my resume. I handed it to him, and he nodded, putting it on the desk.
Tony 3
3:10 p.m.
“Have a seat, Henry,” I said. He limped over and sat, plopping down awkwardly in Travis’s guest chair.
Henry was quite the sight. A big, fat kid, slouchy, dark greasy hair poking out from underneath a dirty yellow campground employee hat. Big Coke-bottle-bottom glasses.
We used to call those “birth control” glasses in the navy. With or without them, Henry “Data” Hallux looked like a guy who was having no trouble preserving his virginity.
So, this was the guy that made all of Gorey’s high-tech IT shit happen? That was Travis’s guess, anyways. Apparently, he spent a lot of time in that trailer.
