Mercy Falls

“I believe so.”

  “Happily?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Does he gamble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has he ever talked about people here, what he might do when he’s not meeting with you?”

  “Not really, but…”

  “What?”

  “I have my suspicions.” She sat back. “He had a pretty high opinion of himself, and he appeared to have a libido the size of Jupiter.”

  “Yeah? Why do you say that?”

  “He hit on me every time we met.”

  Now Cork sat back. “You never told me.”

  “It wasn’t important. I dealt with it.”

  “You think he messed around?”

  “I think he was the type.”

  “He ever mention any names?”

  “Not to me. Here.” She leaned across the desk and handed him the card. It contained Jacoby’s office number, his cell phone number, the number for his home phone and a mailing address at Starlight Enterprises in Elmhurst, Illinois.

  “Mind if I keep this?”

  “No, go ahead.” She studied him with concern. “You look so tired. Any chance you can lie down for a while?”

  “I’m going to the office.”

  “At least let me fix you some breakfast.”

  He shook his head and stood up. “I’ll hit the Broiler when it opens. You go on back to bed.”

  “There’s no way I can sleep now.” She came around the desk and took him in her arms. “Marsha, you, now this. What’s going on, Cork? Didn’t we leave Chicago to get away from this kind of thing?”

  He took her in his arms and savored the feel, the only solid hold he had on anything at the moment. “Damned if I know, Jo, but I’m doing my best to find out.”

  He waited until 7:00 A.M. to make the call to Jacoby’s home phone. After five rings, the line went to voice messaging, Jacoby’s own oily voice saying he and Gabriella weren’t home, leave a message.

  Cork did, asking Ms. Jacoby to call him as soon as possible. It concerned her husband.

  He stepped out of his office. The day shift had checked in, and the deputies were waiting for him in the briefing area. He gave them the lowdown on Mercy Falls, told them about a few changes to the duty roster, and reminded them to wear their vests.

  At eight, he tried Jacoby’s number again. This time someone answered, a woman with a slight Latino accent. Puerto Rican, maybe.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak with Ms. Jacoby, please.”

  “She is not here.” Her is came out ees.

  “Do you know how I might reach her?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor. I’m calling from Aurora, Minnesota.”

  “Mrs. Jacoby is gone. She will be back tomorrow.”

  “Does she have a cell phone number?”

  “I can’t give that out.”

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m Carmelita.”

  “Carmelita, this is an emergency.”

  Carmelita breathed a couple of times before replying, “Mr. Edward?”

  “Yes. Mr. Edward.”

  “Sometheen happen?”

  “I need to speak to his wife.”

  She paused again, again considering. “Just a moment.” Her end of the line went quiet. Then: “She is on a boat on the lake. I do not know if you can reach her. Her cell phone number is…” Cork wrote it down. Then she said, “His father. You should call him.”

  “His name?”

  “Mr. Louis Jacoby. You want his telephone number?”

  “Thank you.”

  He tried the cell phone that belonged to the dead man’s wife, but it was “currently unavailable.” He punched in the number Carmelita had given him for the father. It was the same area code as Edward Jacoby’s home phone. The call was picked up on the first ring.

  “Jacoby residence.” A man’s voice, modulated and proper.

  “I’d like to speak with Louis Jacoby, please. This is Sheriff Corcoran O’Connor.”

  “Just one moment, please.” The elegance of his voice seemed to lend a formality to the silence that followed. Half a minute later: “May I ask what this is in regard to, sir?”

  “His son Edward.”

  A very proper silence again, then: “This is Lou Jacoby. What is it, Sheriff?”

  “Mr. Jacoby, I’m calling from Aurora, Minnesota. It’s about Edward.”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “It’s not that, sir. I’m sorry, but I have some very bad news. Are you alone?”

  “Just tell me, Sheriff.”

  “There’s no way for this to be easy. The body of your son was discovered this morning in a park not far from here.”

  “His body?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Jacoby, your son is dead.”

  Cork hated delivering this kind of news and hated doing it in this way.

  “How?” Jacoby finally managed to ask.

  “At the moment, we’re treating it as a homicide.”

  “Somebody killed my son?” It was not a question but a hard reality settling in.

  A silence that was only emptiness filled the line.

  Then Jacoby rasped, “Eddie, Eddie. You stupid little shit.”

  10

  A LITTLE BEFORE ten, Cork visited Marsha at the hospital. Charlie Annala had taken time off from his job at the fish hatchery and was a constant companion. Marsha’s father, Frank, was there, too. Marsha looked better, with more color in her face, and she was sitting up. She’d heard about Mercy Falls and asked for details. Cork told her what they had. Then he had to tell her that as far as her own shooting was concerned, he knew nothing more than he did yesterday. But Rutledge was waiting for results from the BCA lab that he was sure would be helpful.

  A few minutes after noon, he met with Simon Rutledge and Ed Larson in his office.

  Larson explained that they’d completed their investigation of the crime scene at Mercy Falls after daybreak when they had more light to work with. They’d gone over the interior of the Lexus, taken hair samples from the upholstery that didn’t appear to match that of the dead man, and had found in the ashtray two cigarette butts with lipstick on them. They’d fingerprinted everything; it was a rental, so there was a shitload of prints to process, and that would take a while. The door handles, however, had been wiped clean.

  “Tom got right on the autopsy. He completed it about an hour ago. He’s working on the official report right now, but basically this is what he found,” Larson said, reading from his notepad. “There were fourteen stab wounds, all in the upper torso. Death was the direct result of a single stab wound to the heart. The mutilation came after Jacoby was deceased. The stab wounds were all delivered by a sharp, slender blade seven inches in length. The same instrument was probably used in the castration.”

  “Sounds like a fillet knife,” Cork said.

  “That’s exactly what Tom thought.”

  In addition to being a physician and the county medical examiner, Tom Conklin was an avid angler.

  “Was he robbed?” Cork asked.

  “Nearly five hundred in his wallet, along with half a dozen credit cards.”

  “What was he doing out at Mercy Falls late at night?”

  “Good question,” Larson said.

  “No indication of a struggle?”

  “No lacerations on his arms or hands that would indicate he tried to defend himself.”

  “So Jacoby was taken completely by surprise?” Cork said.

  “I’m guessing the final autopsy report will show a high blood alcohol level. There was a nearly empty bottle of tequila in the Lexus. Probably it’ll show other drugs as well. We found a stash in the glove box. Cocaine, Ecstasy, marijuana, and Rohypnol.”

  The date-rape drug. Also known as Roofies, Ruffies, Roche, and by a dozen other names.

  “It’s entirely possible that Jacoby was too high to put up a struggle,” Larson said.

/>   Rutledge picked it up from there. “Jacoby had some receipts from the Four Seasons Lodge in his wallet. While Ed and his people finished at the scene, I dropped by and spoke with the lodge staff. Jacoby was staying there. He was a big tipper, flamboyant guy, and it wasn’t unusual for him to be seen returning to his cabin at night in the company of a woman.”

  “Description?” Cork said.

  “Not any particular woman anyone could describe. But we’ll do more checking. Also we’ll try to put together a complete history of his activities prior to his death.”

  “We’ll be going over his room as soon as we leave here,” Larson said. “See what turns up there.”

  “The drugs in the SUV,” Cork said. “How’d he get those? Did he bring them with him? Risk a search of his luggage or person at airport security? Or did he buy them here?”

  Rutledge nodded thoughtfully. “The castration might point toward a drug connection. Not uncommon to see something like that in drug deals gone bad. It could be the drugs were the reason he was at Mercy Falls.”

  “Anyone around here would know we patrol the park,” Cork said.

  Larson made a note on his pad. “Still worth checking out.”

  “Jacoby worked for Starlight. Casino management, right?” Rutledge said.

  “That’s right. He’s made half a dozen trips over the last six months trying to convince the Iron Lake Ojibwe to become clients. The RBC is going to vote on it pretty soon.”

  “RBC?”

  “Reservation Business Committee.”

  “But it’s been Jo who’s dealt with him mostly, right?” Larson said. “Have you talked with her, Cork?”

  “Some. About all she could offer was that he was probably a skirt chaser.” Cork rubbed his eyes, which were so tired they seemed full of sand. “Fourteen stab wounds, castration, and drugs. Cigarette butts with lipstick. Could it be we’re dealing with a woman? Considering all the drugs, maybe a woman in an altered state?”

  “What about an angry husband?” Larson threw in. “Maybe he followed them to Mercy Falls?”

  Rutledge said, “I’ve requested the phone records for his room at the Four Seasons. Also his cell phone records since he arrived in Aurora. That might tell us who he’s been seeing here for pleasure.”

  “The casino’s something we should take a hard look at, though,” Cork said. “Starlight’s not a popular notion with everyone on the rez.”

  “Unpopular enough for someone to kill Jacoby over it?”

  “Jo doesn’t think so.”

  “What about you?”

  What he thought was that, in the end, the rez was simply a community of people, and people—white, red, brown, black, yellow—were all subject to the same human weaknesses, more or less. He would like to have believed that the heritage of the Anishinaabeg, the culture and its values, made them strong enough to resist the temptations that accompanied the new wealth the casino brought, but he knew it was wishful thinking.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he finally said. “Let’s do a background check on Jacoby, make sure he didn’t simply bring trouble with him when he came.”

  “Here’s something that’s kind of interesting we found in his wallet,” Larson said.

  He handed Cork a business card. The logo was the Hollywood sign of legend, the one perched atop the Hollywood Hills. Beneath was printed Blue Smoke Productions with Edward Jacoby listed as a producer and an address on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. No telephone number.

  “Jacoby made movies?”

  “Or wanted people to think he did.”

  “Women?”

  “He certainly seemed to like them.”

  Cork handed it back. “Something more to check on.” He addressed Rutledge. “How’re we coming on the rez shooting?”

  “My guy in St. Paul went out to St. Joseph’s Hospital first thing this morning and talked with Lydell Cramer. Says Cramer was so full of shit, his eyeballs were brown. Cramer claimed that although he was happy to hear about your difficulties, he had nothing to do with them.”

  Cork nodded. “Cramer would have trouble just figuring how to put butter on bread. I don’t think he could pull off a hit like this.”

  “Let me finish,” Rutledge said. “My guy does a routine check of the visitors Cramer’s had since incarceration. Only one: A sister. Address is in Carlton County. She visited Cramer the day before the sniper attack on the rez.”

  “Could be just a coincidence,” Cork said.

  “Could be. But I think it’s worth checking out. Carlton County’s only an hour south, so I’m going down today to have a talk with her.”

  “All right. Anything from the lab on the shell casings we found?”

  “They haven’t run them yet for markings, but they’ve identified them as oversized Remingtons. Hundred and fifty grain. Could have come from almost anywhere. The shooter could even have packed the loads himself. We’ll check out the local hunting and sporting-goods stores, but unless we get very lucky, I’m not hoping for much.”

  “What about the tires?” Cork said.

  “Better luck there. They’re Goodyear Wrangler MT/Rs. High-end off-road tires, almost new. If they came from around here, we have a good chance at finding out who bought them. I’ve got one of my team on that, but I’d like to give him some help. Can you spare anyone?”

  “I’ll swing Deputy Pender your way. He can be abrasive but he’s also thorough,” Cork said.

  “Two odd occurrences in two days.” Larson raised his eyebrows. “Any way they might be related?”

  Rutledge shook his head. “I don’t see anything that would connect them. One shows a lot of planning, the other has the look of impulse. Of course, at this point, I suppose anything is possible.” He eyed Cork. “I imagine you’ve been racking your brain pretty hard. Anything rattle loose?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “All right, then.”

  Rutledge stood up and Larson followed him out the door.

  Cork sat for a while, trying to muster some energy. Beyond the window of his office, the gray rain continued to fall. Across the street was a small park. All summer, the Lion’s Club had raised money for new playground equipment and had spent several days volunteering their own time to install it, heavy plastic in bright colors. The playground was deserted. Beyond the park rose the white steeple of Zion Lutheran Church, almost lost in the rain.

  Cork went out in the common area to pour himself some coffee. Two men stood on the other side of the security window that separated the waiting area from the contact desk. Deputy Pender was listening to them and nodding. When he became aware that Cork was behind him, he said, “Just a moment, folks,” and turned to Cork. “Sheriff, there are some people here to see you. They say their name is Jacoby.”

  11

  HE SEATED THE two men in his office. The elder man had white hair, a healthy shock of it that looked freshly barbered. He was tanned, in good condition, and dressed in a dark blue suit and red tie, as if he’d come to chair a board meeting. His eyes were like olive pits, hard and dark. If there was sadness in him, they didn’t show it.

  “Louis Jacoby,” he’d said in the common area when he shook Cork’s hand. “Edward’s father. We spoke on the phone.”

  He’d introduced the second man as his son Ben. Ben remained quiet as his father talked.

  “You arrived sooner than I’d expected,” Cork said when he sat at his desk.

  “I have a private jet, Sheriff O’Connor. Tell me what happened to Eddie.”

  Cork explained the events of the preceding night and where the investigation stood. “I have some questions I’d like to ask.”

  “Later,” the old man said with a wave of his hand. “I want to see my son.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Mr. Jacoby.”

  “I’m sure he’s right, Dad,” Ben Jacoby said. He appeared to be roughly Cork’s age, maybe fifty. There was a lot of his father visible in his features, but his eyes were different, not so dark or so hard.
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  “I want to see my son.” Jacoby didn’t raise his voice in the least, but his tone was cold and sharp, cutting off any objection.

  Still, Ben tried again. “Dad—”

  “I’ve told you what I want. I want to see Eddie.”

  Ben sat back and gave Cork a look that asked for help.

  “I can’t prevent you from seeing your son, but the autopsy’s only just been completed. If you could wait—”

  “Now,” the old man said.

  “I don’t understand—”

  “I’m not asking you to understand, Sheriff. I’m telling you to show me my boy.”

  Cork gave up. “All right.”

  He took the Pathfinder. They followed in a rented black DeVille driven by a man they called Tony.

  In a few minutes, Cork pulled up in front of Nelson’s Mortuary on Pine Street. It was a grand old structure with a lovely wraparound front porch. It had once been a two-story home and was still one of the nicest buildings in town. When the Jacobys met Cork in the drive, Lou Jacoby stood in the rain, looking the place over dourly.

  “I thought we were going to the morgue,” he said.

  “The morgue’s at the community hospital, and it isn’t set up for autopsies.”

  For a long time, the mortician Sigurd Nelson had been the coroner in Tamarack County. That position didn’t exist anymore. Most of Cork’s officers had become deputy medical examiners qualified to certify death. The autopsies were now contracted to be done by Dr. Tom Conklin, a pathologist who’d retired to a home on Iron Lake. For years prior, he’d been with the Ramsey County ME’s office in St. Paul. He still used Sigurd’s facility.

  Cork rang the bell and the mortician answered. He was a small man with a big belly and a bald head, in his early sixties. He greeted Cork, then glanced at the other people on the porch.

  “These are the Jacobys, Sigurd. Family of the man Tom autopsied today. They’d like to see the body.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Nelson said. “Tom’s finished the autopsy, but he hasn’t repaired the body yet.”

  “Is Tom downstairs?”

  “No. He went out for a bite to eat. He was going to finish up when he came back.”