Godspeed, Crazy Mike – Transcript

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[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois…

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Godspeed, Crazy Mike” deals with murder, speculation of suicide, divorce (including a custody battle), fraud, theft, tobacco and alcohol use, and Tourette syndrome (I only mention this because, if you’re like me and have Tourette syndrome, one of the character’s tics might set off some of your tics; in fact, I’m having a hard time sitting still as I type this). Oh, and there is—of course—swearing. (But really: not that much this time around.)

Two things before we get going:

Thing One: I want to thank everyone who’s supporting the show through Patreon. If you want a full-access peek behind the scenes for as little as a dollar a month, go to Patreon.com/cgronlund. That’s Patreon.com/c g-r-o-n-l-u-n-d.

Thing Two: I want to mention a couple great artists you should check out…

Julia Lundman is a snazzy person and one of my favorite artists. She’s been a visual development artist and art director working in animation and video games, but has turned much of her artistic attention to personal illustration and painting. You can check out her art at julialundman.com and julialundmancommercial.com.

James S. Baker is also very snazzy—and a wonderful storyteller. He’s worked in animation since 1982; in fact, he’s likely done storyboards or been a story artist on some of your favorite Pixar features. If you go to james-baker.com and click the writing link, you’ll be treated to some great stories and art.

When I heard Julia and James were listening to Not About Lumberjacks stories while working together, I was floored. Having creative people I respect see something in the stories I tell—people who have helped bring some incredible stories to life, themselves—well…it was the little nudge I needed to see if there’s more potential in what I’m doing…

So, thank you, Julia and James! I’ll be sure to link their websites in the show notes for anyone who wants to see what they’re up to.

All right—let’s get to work…

Godspeed, Crazy Mike

Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in rose pogonia and grass pink blossoms. His pale body lay in stark contrast to the bright flowers and lush grass serving as his final resting place. Were two horseflies not crawling across his face, one might think Crazy Mike decided to relax where prairie gave way to tamarack trees and buckbean; to leatherleaf, sphagnum moss, and cattails rocked by red-winged blackbirds and gentle summer breezes.

Mike’s eyes were open, looking skyward with a seeming purpose when his body was discovered by Sawyer Bog’s other grounds keeper, Wesley Moore. Wesley turned and looked up, trying to spot what Mike’s dead eyes were fixed upon. But the only things above were thick, puffy clouds that could turn into a June thunderstorm by late afternoon, or just knock the humidity up enough to make the day miserable.

“Ah, geez. Mike…”

Wesley reached into his pocket, grabbed his phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

Detective Gary Vandiver was eating a bowl of Cap’n Crunch when his phone rang.

“Vandiver—hello.” He leaned forward and grabbed a notebook and pen from his coffee table; opened it, and began writing. “Uh huh. Covered in flowers? All right. Yeah, got that. We’ll be there soon. Yeah…bye.”

He hung up and made a call.

“Good morning, Beatrice—looks like our day is starting earlier than planned. Got a body—male—out at Sawyer Bog. Nah, not in it…behind a barn, I guess. Sounds like a suicide, but he’s covered in flowers. Well, petals, I guess. Sounds like it, yeah. I’ll be by in a few. Yeah, the Miata. They need us up there, now. Station’s down and back and out of the way. Come on, it’s a great car. What do you mean, I’m a good driver…”

* * *

Gary Vandiver looked more like an eighth-grade science teacher than a homicide detective. His glasses were long out of style, if they were ever in style at all—even in the 70s when large frames were all the rage. The lines on his face were reserved for someone in their sixties, or for someone who chain-smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes, but Gary had never even tried a cigarette, and he was only forty-nine. Ever the consummate bachelor, a home-cooked dinner consisted of a leftover slice of pizza warmed in the microwave, or his favorite: Chef Boyardee Ravioli straight out of the can. Cereal was deemed a fit meal any time of the day. The one place where he broke away from the stereotyped detective seemingly reserved for television and cheap paperbacks was a love for sweepstakes.

He bought magazines he never read, believing their purchase bettered his odds at winning the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. He sat through the spiels of vacuum salesmen to see what guaranteed free prize he might win: a large screen TV, a free cruise to an exotic location, or a cheap ratchet set. Vandiver never won the TV—he still watched everything on a 19” color set he won as a teenager in a church raffle. He’d never set foot on a boat—the most exotic place he’d visited was a camp in Minnesota as a kid. But if you needed a bolt tightened or an ever-elusive 10mm socket, he was your man. People at the station teased him about his love for contests, but he had a 2004 Mazdaspeed MX-5 Miata to prove their worth.

Vandiver won the car at a movie theater when he went to see Mystic River after the crowds died down. The Miata was in the theater lobby…all he had to do was fill out a card with his contact information, drop it in the car’s barely-open window, and he was entered in the drawing. While he was rail thin, Vandiver couldn’t imagine his six-foot-eight height finding any harmony with such a small vehicle. His plan, if he won, was to sell the tiny car and pocket the cash—maybe put a little into his beloved 1989 Buick Regal, which he won fifteen years prior in a drawing at an all-you-can-eat steakhouse in Chicago. But the Buick died the day after he received notice he’d won a new car, and the Miata became his daily driver.

* * *

“It’s not that you’re a bad driver,” Vandiver’s partner, Beatrice Mule said on their way to the bog. “It’s just…this car is way too small for you. Every time you turn, you bump your knees on the steering wheel. It’s like a Shriner car—you can barely work the pedals. And these damn cup holders always open at the slightest touch, and I bang my elbows on them. I don’t see how you can be comfortable in this thing, even with the top down so you have head room.”

“This car is now a classic, Bea,” Vandiver said at a stop sign. When he turned left, his leg bumped the steering wheel, almost sending them off the road. “There are people who say this is the Miata of Miatas.”

 “I’m not saying it’s a bad car, Gare. I’m just saying it’s a bad car for you.”

From the moment of her conception, the world was placed before Beatrice Mule. Born into improbable affluence, anything she wanted growing up was hers. To her parents’ chagrin, she spent much of her time holed up in her bedroom watching cop shows on TV instead of establishing and expanding her social circles. Her father was ecstatic when she informed him she planned to attend The Law School at The University of Chicago, but disappointed to discover her intent to study criminal law and procedure—not something he deemed more prestigious and lucrative. Brilliant and beautiful, most people who met Beatrice were astonished to discover she was a homicide detective and not a model or actress. New officers and detectives at the Lake County Sheriff’s Office assumed she was paired with Vandiver because no one could imagine him making an advance on anyone, but she required protection from no one. She was paired with Vandiver because he was the only one in the office not intimidated by her presence.

As they neared the bog, Mule cleared her throat. Vandiver glanced over in time to see her crinkle her forehead enough to touch her brow to the top of her sunglasses.

“Something bothering you, Bea?”

She pursed her lips and said, “Just…you know.”

“New case?”

“New case.”

Somewhere around third grade, Beatrice Mule couldn’t fight the urge to move. Teachers telling her to remain still in her desk only made it worse, and by fifth grade, a series of physical tics developed. Losing herself in things she loved helped hold it back, but some days she couldn’t defeat the urge to jerk her head or left shoulder until getting the perfect feeling that satisfied her enough to stop for a bit. She annoyed people in the office with a soft whistle as she sucked air in between her lips, and sometimes she could only stop the tendencies by vibrating her tongue against the back of her upper teeth. Every action had to be just right to complete the cycle, but the throat clearing was almost constant. Vandiver learned early on in their partnership that Tourette syndrome was not the explosions of “fucks” and “shits” portrayed in movies and jokes when he was battling a lingering cold. His throat clearing set off Beatrice, who explained to him there’d be times he’d just have to deal with her movements and sounds.

If nothing else, Vandiver and Mule understood personal habits and conditions—whether strange proclivities or physical tics—did not necessitate speculation in those they questioned. To succumb to rigid beliefs was not their style. In the end, only facts mattered.

* * *

It still amazed Detective Vandiver how quickly houses and shops gave way to old farms and orchards standing in defiance of northern Illinois’ development. One moment you could find yourself trapped in rampant construction designed to look like it was always there, which had the opposite effect of making it feel even more fabricated, and then reach a bend in the road where fields and trees stretched to the horizon. This was the Illinois he loved—remnants of Bradbury’s Green Town dotted across the land. Vandiver turned off the highway and enjoyed the slow ride along the winding road leading to Sawyer Bog. Detective Mule closed her eyes and savored the breeze blowing against her face.

“You know, something, Gare? This really is a good little car…”

Around another curve, the tranquil morning was interrupted by activity: cop cars filled the staff parking lot; a man in coveralls Vandiver assumed was the person who discovered the body chatted with members of the patrol division. It was hard to know if the cops were struck by Detective Mule’s beauty, or Vandiver struggling to unfold himself from the car like a wooden ruler. By the time Vandiver stretched to his full height and the blood returned to his legs, a cop walked up to him and said, “Ned Littleton.”

Vandiver shook his hand. “Detective Gary Vandiver and Detective Beatrice Mule.” The cop nodded at Mule. When he stopped looking at her, she ticced her head and shuffled her left shoulder up and down—back and forth.

“What do we have?” Vandiver said.

“Deceased male,” Officer Littleton said. “Approximately thirty-five. Found by his co-worker this morning.”

“Cause of death?” Mule said.

“Not sure. There was a note in his car. To his kids, it looks like. But he was behind the maintenance barn and garage.”

“They said there were flowers?” Vandiver said.

“Yeah. I’ll show you.”

* * *

Crazy Mike was flat on his back with his fingers intertwined, hands resting on his chest. The growing breeze had blown some of the flower blossoms into the grass beside him, but the body was covered in flowers.

“Somebody put in a bit of effort,” Mule said.

“Looks that way,” Vandiver said. He turned to Officer Littleton. “And the witness says he found him like this?’

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s go look at that note.”

* * *

Crazy Mike’s 2009 Hyundai Accent was parked in the garage next to the maintenance barn.

“Anybody look inside the car before we arrived?” Vandiver said.

“No. You can see the note on the dashboard through the windshield.”

The piece of paper seemed torn from a notebook. Vandiver craned his body forward and read to Mule.

“Everything’s all fucked up. I’m failing Jenny and Michael as a father. I’m tired of fighting for everything. Audrey won’t cut me a break. Every week, she’s pushing me more, and now she doesn’t want me seeing the kids. I can’t afford this fight, dammit. I’m so sick of this shit.”

He looked at Mule and said, “I’ll call to get Terrance out here to run surveys of the sites. Then we’ll talk with the guy who found the body.”

* * *

The man in the coveralls snubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his boot when he saw Vandiver and Mule walking his way. He put the butt in his pocket.

“Good morning,” Vandiver said.

“Morning.”

“I’m Detective Gary Vandiver. This is Detective Mule.”

“Wesley Moore.”

“Did Officer Littleton check your ID?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I understand you discovered the body and alerted us?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give us a rundown of your morning from the time you got here until the patrol division arrived?”

“Sure. I came in at my normal time—”

“What time was that?” Detective Mule readied her pen and notebook.

“I usually come in between six and seven. I guess today was right around six. I drove up and saw the garage was open and Crazy Mike’s car was inside.”

“Crazy Mike?” Mule said.

“That’s his nickname. Real name was Mike Konarski. K-O-N-A-R-S-K-I.”

“Why’d you call him Crazy Mike,” Vandiver said.

“He was always pulling pranks and bouncing around. Hyper. And always coming up with wild stories…just kinda like a big kid that never grew up. He introduced himself that way, so that’s what everyone called him.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mule said. “Just needed to get that down.”

Wesley looked at her after she reverse-whistled.

“Go on,” Vandiver said.

“I usually get here before Mike, so that was kinda weird. And his car was pulled in. We all usually park in the lot unless the weather’s bad. He always backed in, so I thought that was kinda weird, too.

“I parked right there,” Wesley said while pointing to an old pickup truck. “Got out and called his name, but nothing. Looked around the garage and barn, but didn’t see him. That’s when I went out behind the barn for a smoke and found him. Like I said, he was always pulling stuff, so I thought he came in early to mess with me. Just covering himself in flowers and acting dead. I was gonna kick him to get him up, but saw a couple flies on his face. Looked at him for a moment, and then called you. That’s it.”

“Did you see anyone else around?” Mule said.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t hear anyone?”

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Mr…” Vandiver looked at Mule’s notes. “Konarski?”

“Nah, no one.”

“The last time you saw him, did he act any differently or say anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really. He wasn’t quite his usual self in the last week or so. He’s going through a custody thing with his kids and was really down about that. He was a good guy. Could be annoying as hell at times, but I felt for him.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?” Mule said.

“Friday. We’re the main maintenance crew. Monday through Friday.”

“Did you two talk about anything out of the ordinary on Friday?” Vandiver said.

“Nah, just the usual. I asked how things were going with his kids, and he seemed a bit happier about it. Said he hoped to have some good news soon. And then the usual, ‘Seeya on Monday…’”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Moore. We’re going to get an officer to take a statement and we’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule were reviewing notes when two people—a man in his 40s and a woman with bright yellow hair who appeared roughly half his age—rushed down from the museum. The woman carried a notebook. As they approached Wesley Moore, she said, “Crazy Mike’s dead!” The man said, “And Morey’s gone.”

“I know about Mike. I found him and called the cops.” Wesley looked at the man. “What do you mean, Morey’s gone?”

“He’s not in his case. He’s missing.”

“Well, it’s not like he can just get up and walk off.”

Detectives Vandiver and Mule approached them and introduced themselves.

The man said, “I’m Graham Maddox. This is Melanie Stevens.”

“And who’s Morey?” Vandiver said.

Graham answered. “Our Quaking Bog Man.” Vandiver and Mule looked at each other and then back at Graham. “This bog was formed by glaciers roughly twelve-thousand years ago. A little over two-thousand years ago, Morey fell in. He was discovered in the mid-70s, when they were constructing the boardwalk trails over the water. The bog preserved him, and he was on display in the interpretive center.”

“Why Morey?” Mule said.

“This land was shaped by moraines…glaciers. Seemed as good a name as any.”

Vandiver turned to Melanie and said, “You just told Mr. Moore that Mike Konarski is deceased. How do you know that?”

“I found him this morning.”

Vandiver called Officer Littleton over to assist with isolating Graham and Wesley.

“We’ll speak with you more in a moment, Mr. Maddox. Officer Littleton will need to see your ID.”

* * *

When Graham and Wesley were moved away, Vandiver said, “Melanie Stevens, spelled like this?”

He tilted the new page in his notebook her way and she nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Stevens. We also need to see your ID.”

She retrieved her driver’s license from her purse and handed it to Vandiver. He scrutinized the photo, holding up beside her.

“Is there a problem?” she said.

“No, just looking at your face. Your hair is very blue in the photo, but it’s yellow today.”

She laughed and said, “I dye it. It was green a few weeks ago.”

Vandiver handed Melanie’s license back to her and said, “Gotcha. So, what do you do, here, at the bog, Ms. Stevens?”

“I give tours. Well, most of them—Graham works with college programs. I give field trips for schools and groups.”

“And you discovered Mr. Konarski this morning?”

Melanie nodded.

“I was under the impression Mr. Moore discovered Mr. Konarski’s body. Did you just arrive?”

“No. I came in early today. To celebrate Solstice.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“A little before sunrise.”

“And Mr. Konarski was deceased at that time?”

Melanie choked back tears and said, “Yes.”

Mule cleared her throat. “If you need a moment, we have time.”

“I’ll be okay. He was always so nice to me.”

“Where did you find him?” Mule said.

“In the garage. When I got here, the garage was closed and I heard a car running. I unlocked the big door and started lifting it, but it stunk. I stepped back to let it air out. I opened the door and saw Crazy Mike’s car. I saw someone inside, and it was him.”

She took a couple deep breaths and continued. “I reached in through the window and cut the engine. That’s when I realized he was dead. There was a note on the dashboard about his kids. It looked like he’d torn it from his notebook.” She raised it in her hand.

“That’s his notebook?” Vandiver said.

“Yes.”

“Why do you have it?”

“He wrote poetry. I wanted to read some after I found him. See if there was something fitting for Solstice.”

Detective Mule pulled a packet of gloves from her pocket, opened the seal, and put them on. “May I have that, please?”

Melanie handed over the notebook and Vandiver said, “Do you know how his body ended up behind the maintenance barn?”

“He looked so sad in the car, so I dragged him back there. He loved the view.”

“Did you place the flowers on him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?

“I wanted to help with his transition. He loved flowers and everything about this place. So I opened his eyes, put his hands on his heart, and covered him with blossoms.”

“Why did you open his eyes, Ms. Stevens?” Mule said.

“So he could see everything one last time.”

“Why didn’t you call the police right away?” Vandiver said.

“I was going to, but I wanted to give him time. And I wanted to see the sunrise. I read some poems he never shared with me. I was going to call when I got back. That’s why I went to the gift shop. I bumped into Graham—he’d just arrived and was putting his backpack down. I told him I was going to call the cops, and he said he was about to head down because he saw you all. That’s when he noticed Morey was gone, and he freaked out.”

Vandiver said, “Where is your car, Ms. Stevens?”

“I ride a bike when it’s nice out. Graham does, too. There’s a bike rack up by the interpretive center.”

“You said you were going to there to use the phone. Do you not carry a cell phone?”

“I don’t like them. They’re too distracting.”

“That’s fair. And when did you last see Mr. Konarski?”

“Friday afternoon. He always said bye to everyone when his day was done.”

“How would you describe his mood?”

“Good. He wished me a happy weekend.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens. We’ll get an officer to take your statement and Mr. Konarski’s notebook.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule approached Graham Maddox and said, “I’m sorry I cut our discussion short. We had some questions for Ms. Stevens.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’ll be okay in time. How are you?”

“Good. Or do you mean about Mike?”

Vandiver nodded.

“I just found out from Melanie. If I’m being honest, it’s not really settled in. I don’t really know what’s going on.”

Mule said, “Could you tell us about your morning, Mr. Maddox?”

“Sure. Anything specific?”

“No, just how your day’s been since waking up.”

“Well, I woke up at the usual 5:45. I showered and ate and got my wife up before leaving at 6:30. It takes about 20 minutes or so to get here. I ride my bike in the summer. I got here and unlocked the museum. The alarm was deactivated—I thought that was weird, but then I saw Melanie’s bike. And then I noticed all the cop cars through the window. I was putting things down and about to see what was up when Melanie came in. She told me she had to call the cops because she found Mike dead. I told her the cops were already here and that I was going to come down and see what was happening. That’s when I noticed Morey was gone and we came down to talk with Wes.”

“You don’t call Mr. Konarski by his nickname?” Vandiver said.

“No. I find it insulting. He’s not…well, he wasn’t crazy. Was annoying sometimes, but still—a good-hearted guy.”

Mule said, “What is it you do here, Mr. Maddox?”

“I run the interpretive center. I curate displays and preserve specimens. I’m also the liaison for programs we run with several colleges, allowing students pursuing degrees in biology and conservation access to the bog. And I guide field trips when Melanie’s off work.”

“That sounds like an interesting job,” Vandiver said.

“It is.”

Vandiver paused when the crime scene unit van arrived in the parking lot. He nodded to Mule. “There’s Terrance and Emily.” Then he returned to Graham.

 “When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?”

“Thursday.”

“Not Friday?”

“No. I work Sunday through Thursday. My wife works at a church, and that’s her schedule. I work the same days so we get our weekend together. A few kids came in at the end of the day when I was closing up. I asked them to come by today, but one of them said he needed a science book for a summer reading program he put off.”

“How old were these kids.”

“Teenagers. Fifteen…sixteen. Something like that.”

“How many?”

“Three. Two boys and a girl.”

“How’d the one pay for the book?”

“He didn’t. I’d already shut down the register, so I asked him to come back this week and pay for it. Figured if he didn’t, I’d cover it.”

Mule said, “Do you think they could have done that as a distraction. And taken Morey?”

“Morey was there when I left yesterday. But I was going to mention the three to the cops, because it seems likely it was them.”

“Do you have security cameras monitoring the building?”

“Yes. Inside, and at the door.”

“Any other cameras on the grounds? Webcams, for example?”

“No. Just here in the interpretive center.”

“If you could pull the footage for us, we’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Of course.”

After Vandiver and Mule got descriptions of the three teenagers, Mule asked if there was anyone else Graham Maddox thought they should speak to.

“Carrie’s the only one you’ve not talked to.”

“Who’s that?”

“Carrie Anderson. She’s the administrator. She usually comes in at nine, but I can give her a call to come in early.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Maddox. But if you can give us her number, that would be helpful.”

* * *

After writing down Carrie’s number, Vandiver signaled for Officer Littleton.

“We have one more witness to speak to. She’ll be here in a bit. Until then, we need the witnesses we’ve spoken to isolated from each other and off their phones. But let us know if it looks like any of them get any calls.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you.”

When Officer Littleton wandered off, Vandiver called Carrie Anderson’s number.

“May I speak with Carrie Anderson, please? Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I’m Detective Gary Vandiver with the Lake County Sheriff’s office. I understand you normally come into work at nine-o’-clock, but is there any possibility you can come in sooner? Possibly nothing. We just need you here as soon as possible. I understand and appreciate it. Thank you.”

Vandiver turned to Mule and said, “She’s getting ready and said she’ll be here as soon as she can. Let’s go see how Terrence and Emily are doing.”

Terrence Powell slung his camera around his neck while Emily pulled her evidence collection kit from his van. Vandiver and Mule approached.

“Morning, Terrence. Emily.”

“Hey, Gary,” Terrance said. “Morning, Bea. How’s it been going?” From the back of the van, Emily waved.

“Good. You?”

“Staying busy, but relaxing when I can.”

“That’s the best any of us can do.”

“Yep! They said the body’s out back?”

“It is. Found in the garage, but was moved back there. We’ll need a survey of both scenes, and then when you’re done with that, a look around the interpretive center. It appears their bog man has gone missing.”

“Their what?”

“Bog man. Guy who fell into the bog thousands of years ago. I guess they had him on display up in the museum. Sounds like a few teenagers may have taken him last night.”

Terrence smiled and said, “This job never gets old…”

* * *

Terrence was surveying the garage when the medical examiner, Chara Mundi, arrived. Detectives Vandiver and Mule led her and her assistant to Crazy Mike’s body.

“Terrence is done back here, so he’s all yours.”

“What’s with all the flowers?”

“Summer Solstice. The person who found him did it. Doesn’t seem to be anything more than a harmless send-off. Terrance has samples if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Gary,” Chara said. “We’ll let you know when we have a report.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

While waiting for Carrie to arrive, and Terrence, Emily, and Chara to finish their duties, Vandiver and Mule flipped through the notebook.

Crazy Mike’s daily thoughts were peppered among poetry. Moving through to more recent dates, random musings about his days turned to the divorce and custody battle. There, the journal entries alternated between grief, anger—and more poetry. One moment, it was, “I miss Jenny and Michael so much. I need to be a better father and keep my shit together,” to, “Talked to Audrey today. I wouldn’t do it, but right now I really want to kill that bitch!” And then:

“There are few things more perfect than a stone

Skipping over the surface of a glass-smooth pond.

Veins pumped with time; eons living inside it

Driven by a heartbeat remembering the days

before we were here.”

By the time Carrie Anderson arrived, it seemed Crazy Mike was a nice-enough guy who felt like he was about to lose his kids. Vandiver and Mule turned the notebook over to Terrence and greeted Carrie.

“Carrie Anderson?”

A woman roughly Vandiver’s age in slacks and a blouse said, “Yes.”

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I’m Detective Gary Vandiver—I’m the person who called you this morning. This is Detective Beatrice Mule.”

Bea nodded and Carrie said, “Hi,” before turning back to Vandiver and saying, “What’s going on?”

“We got a call this morning that one of your employees, Michael Konarski, was found dead.”

“What?! What happened?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Mike’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“We don’t know, yet. He was found by one of your employees in the garage. And she dragged him out behind the barn.”

“Who? Why…? What?”

“Melanie Stevens,” Mule said as she cocked her head side to side and raised and lowered her left shoulder.

“If you’d be more comfortable talking in your office,” Vandiver said, “we can go there.”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

After disarming the office alarm, Carrie invited Vandiver and Mule into the administration building, a tiny one-bedroom house converted to office space. As she set her travel mug on her desk, Vandiver said, “We need to see your ID.”

“Sure.” She fished it out of her purse. Vandiver looked at it before handing it back.

“Can I get you two anything to drink?” Carrie said. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to finish this coffee.”

“No. Thank you,” Vandiver said. Mule shook her head. When Carrie stepped to the kitchen serving as a break room, she ticced her head three times in rapid succession and reverse-whistled.

Carrie returned with a bottle of water. She opened it on the way to her chair and took a sip. Once she was settled, she said, “Melanie found Mike dead?”

“Yes,” Vandiver said.

“That’s strange. She usually comes in later.”

“She said she arrived early for Summer Solstice.”

Carrie seemed to consider Vandiver’s answer before nodding and saying, “That sounds like Melanie.” She stared into the distance, eyes glossy with tears.

Mule gave her a moment and said, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?”

“Friday. At the end of his shift. He always stopped by before leaving to see if he was needed for anything else.”

“What time did his shift end?”

“Four-o’-clock. He worked seven to four.”

“Do you know why he’d come in so early today?” Vandiver said.

“No. Unless he planned to meet up with Melanie. They’re both really into being outside. If she was celebrating, I could see Mike coming in early for that. Normally, Wes is the first one here.”

“He was the one who made the call.”

Carrie took a gulp of water and exhaled. “You’ll have to excuse me, Detective…”

“Vandiver.”

“Vandiver. You said Melanie got here early and found Mike. Then you tell me Wes made the call? I’m a bit lost.”

“It’s a strange situation. We’re still making sense of it ourselves. How would you describe Mr. Konarski’s relationship to Ms. Stevens.”

“Harmless. He was like a big brother to her.”

“How about with Mr. Moore and Mr. Maddox?”

“They’re all co-workers. Graham could tire of Mike’s pranks, but they got along. Wes and Mike sometimes went out for a beer after work.”

“How did you feel about Mr. Konarski, Ms. Anderson?”

“I understand why Graham found him trying, but he and Melanie always brightened the mood around here. He had a way about him that made you want to throttle him at times, but he was so kind and charming in his own way. I like everyone, here, but I have a bit of a soft spot for Melanie and Mike.”

“Would you describe Mr. Konarski and Ms. Stevens as happy people?”

“Most of the time, yes. Mike was more reflective, so sometimes he’d seem a bit down. But it never lasted long.”

“How would you describe his mood recently?”

“Sad. His ex-wife is trying to get custody of their children.”

“Had he said anything about that?”

“Not really. I heard through Wes and asked about it. Mike said he wished he could make everything go away. I assumed he meant the custody case…not his life.”

“Do you think he took his life, Ms. Anderson?” Mule said.

“I don’t know. It just hit me when I remembered him saying that. Normally when he seemed down, he just got quiet.”

“Well, we thank you for your time,” Vandiver said, “and we’re sorry about Mr. Konarski. We’ll have an officer come in and take an official report. I have one more question. Would Mr. Konarski’s ex-wife happen to be an emergency contact?”

“Probably. Let me check.”

Carrie opened her laptop, waited a moment, and began typing when it woke up. A couple mouse-clicks later she said, “Yes, she is. Audrey Konarski.”

“Can we get her contact information, please?”

* * *

Crazy Mike’s ex-wife was waiting in a conference room at Tech City Industries when Vandiver and Mule arrived. When her manager knocked and showed the detectives in, a look of concern spread across her face.

“Ms. Konarski?” Vandiver said.

“Mitchell. Audrey Mitchell.”

“Thank you. Ms. Mitchell—”

“This is bad news, isn’t it?” she said.

“I’m sorry to say it is,” Vandiver said. “This morning, your ex-husband was discovered dead in his car.”

“What?!”

Audrey looked at the tabletop and then back at Vandiver and Mule. Her eyes filled with tears.

Mule said, “We’re very sorry. If you need a moment to yourself, we can come back. Or if there’s someone, here, you’d like to speak with, that can be arranged.”

“No,” Audrey said. “Just give me a moment.”

When Vandiver and Mule turned toward the door, Audrey said, “No, you can stay. Please.”

If you asked Detective Gary Vandiver what the hardest part of his job was, he’d tell you there is nothing worse than sitting across from somebody processing the loss of a loved one. Sometimes they got it out quickly, the gravity of the moment not fully registering until later. Other times it meant sitting still while someone wailed in grief for uneasy minutes. Audrey Mitchell got it out, took a drink of water, and finally said, “In his car?”

“Yes,” Mule said.

“He killed himself?”

“We’re looking into that,” Vandiver said. “It seems like it, but his body was moved by a coworker. We’ll have to wait to be certain.”

“Shit! Mike…”

More tears…

When she stopped, Vandiver said, “Did you have any recent contact with your ex-husband, Ms. Mitchell.”

“No. He started getting angry with me. He never hurt me, but he showed up drunk a few weeks ago. I was terrified because I know he had a gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A pistol. And he said if I went through with the divorce that I’d regret it.”

“Did he say what he meant?”

“No. I told him to leave. I thought he was going to hurt me. Or worse. He just had a look. I noticed him driving by the house a lot after that…watching the kids play when school let out. I was worried he was going to take them and run. That’s when I decided I wanted full custody…at least until he settled down.

“He…was a good guy in so many ways, but he grew to resent things.”

“What kinds of things?” Mule said.

“Life. Everything. He said he wanted more than just a job and a house in the suburbs. He was good with the kids, but I could tell he felt locked into fatherhood and a life he never imagined when they came along. But that’s not their fault or mine…that was on him. He always said he wanted kids, and I think he did. But he also talked about wanting more. His problem was he talked about wanting more, but he never did anything to make those dreams happen.”

“What dreams?”

“He wanted to write and travel. He’d talk about getting an RV and raising the kids on the road. Or travel to other countries. But all he did was blame work and society for getting in his way. It made him cynical as hell, and that got old. One day it was too much, and I had enough.”

Vandiver said, “Can you give us an account of your last twenty-four hours, Ms. Mitchell?”

“What? Sure. I woke up and hung out with Jenny and Michael. We went to Lakewood Forest Preserve and had a picnic. The rest of the day we stayed around the house, all doing our own things. I helped Michael put together a LEGO thing Mike bought him—a Star Wars ship. I made dinner, made sure the kids were ready for a science camp this week, and I fell asleep watching Beach Front Bargain Hunt. Woke up, made sure the kids had everything they needed for camp so we weren’t running around when my mother came by to get them, and I got ready for work. Now I’m here talking to you.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “Did Mr. Konarski mention anything, recently, that would make you concerned for his safety?”

“No. Nothing. Like what?”

“That he was considering hurting himself. Or that he was concerned he might be harmed.”

“No. Nothing like that. The last time I saw him was the day he told me I’d regret divorcing him. Well, that’s the last day I talked to him. Like I said, I saw him drive by the house.”

Vandiver said, “Thank you, Ms. Mitchell. We’ll stay here as long as you need.”

She looked across the room and said, “Thank you, but…shit, what am I gonna tell the kids…”

* * *

On Tuesday, Vandiver and Mule reviewed Terrance and Emily’s preliminary evidence at the station. Where Mike Konarski was concerned, everything pointed to suicide. Surveys of the garage, grounds, interpretive center, and the administrative office revealed nothing. They reviewed security camera footage showing three teenagers—two males and one female—entering on the museum Sunday before closing. In the first clip, Graham Maddox accompanied one of the young men to the gift shop, while the other took Maddox’s keys beside his backpack and ran to Morey’s case. He tried a couple keys before finding one that worked, leaving the case unlocked. He then ran to the door and jammed something in the latch strike plate. After that, he returned the keys just before his friend returned with a book, and Maddox walked the three to the door.

The second clip was captured later Sunday night. A male in a hoodie uses a screwdriver to release the door latch. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. After disarming the alarm, he opened the door for his two friends. The three moved to Morey’s case. When the two young men lifted the case, the girl put her hands up and shook her head. The young men placed the case on the ground. One pushed past the girl and spread a blanket on the floor. They placed Morey on it and put the case back on the stand. Then they wrapped Morey in the blanket. One of the young men picked him up, and they all left.

“There are a couple good shots of the three,” Vandiver said to Mule. “We’ll grab those and put them online…hope somebody recognizes them.”

* * *

On Wednesday, Gary Vandiver received a call from the medical examiner, Chara Mundi.

“Mule’s here,” he said. “I’m gonna put you on speaker.”

“Good morning, Beatrice.”

“Hey, Chara.”

“I just emailed you two the Konarski autopsy report. He didn’t die from carbon monoxide poisoning in his car. He had a lethal amount of sodium cyanide in his system.”

“Really? Is there anything that could naturally account for that?” Vandiver said.

“Not in that amount, unless he deliberately ingested it or consumed it without knowing.”

“Anything else?” Mule said.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“All right,” Vandiver said. “Thanks so much, Chara, We’ll read the report and get back to you if we have any questions. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

Vandiver disconnected the call and said, “Well, Bea, looks like we have a bit of reading to do. After that, it’s back to the bog…”

* * *

Vandiver knocked on the door jamb to Carrie Anderson’s office. Carrie looked up, stretched her arms forward with a satisfied sigh, and turned off the monitor on her desk.

“Good morning, detectives. Can I help you?”

Vandiver started speaking, but Mule cut him off.

“Did you just turn off that monitor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s county information. I always turn it off when others are in the room. I lock my system when I step away from my desk as well. It’s good practice.”

Mule stepped forward and said, “I’m going to need you to turn that back on.”

“What’s going on?” Carrie said.

“It doesn’t look like Mr. Konarski killed himself,” Vandiver said. “At least not by closing up the garage and turning on his car.”

Carrie turned on the monitor and shifted it so Mule could have a better look. Mule inspected the screen and said, “What am I looking at, here?”

“It’s a billing system. Aside from running payroll, the last week of the month slows down, so I run reports. See if there’s any way we can save more. I’m looking for any outstanding credits we may have missed.”

She looked at Vandiver and said, “Am I being accused of something?”

He shook his head no.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,” Mule said. She shut her eyes tightly and grimaced. When she opened them, Audrey looked confused. Mule smiled and pointed toward Carrie’s chest in an effort to ease the tension. “That’s a lovely necklace.”

“Thank you. My brother made it. This, too.” She held up her hand, showing off a gold bracelet.

Mule tensed her left shoulder and lightly whistled.

“Are you okay?” Carrie said.

Mule nodded. “I have Tourette syndrome. In case you’re wondering. I’m sorry if it’s bothering you.”

“No, no…I’m glad you told me…”

“I assume you approve work orders?” Vandiver said.

“Yes. Why?”

“Do you recall approving any orders for sodium cyanide?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Do you know if anyone working on site uses it for any reason?”

“Cyanide?”

“Yes. It’s used in labs…agriculture. Mining.”

“I suppose Wesley or Graham might, then. But I don’t recall seeing it on any orders. I usually trust what they need if it’s not too expensive and sign off on it. I can go through old invoices and purchase orders and see if I find anything. It might take a day or so, though, if it’s old.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Mule said.

“In the meantime,” Vandiver said, “we’re going to speak with your employees again…”

* * *

Graham Maddox was cleaning a wall-mounted case displaying the wildlife inhabitants of the bog when Vandiver and Mule arrived. He put down his rag and glass cleaner when he saw the detectives.

“Hello,” he said. “It was Mr. Vandriver and detective Mule?”

“Vandiver.”

“Sorry. Vandiver. Any word about Morey?”

“No. I’m sorry,” Vandiver said. “But we’ve shared photos of the three teenagers from the security footage you provided. Thank you for getting that to us so quickly.”

“You’re welcome. So, how can I help you, then?”

“Do you have any reason to use sodium cyanide in your job?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sodium cyanide. Do you use it for anything?”

Mule brought her eyebrows together and ticced her head.

“No, I don’t.”

“No lab uses for the substance?”

“I’m sure some labs have uses, but nothing we do here at the interpretive center. No.”

“Can you think of any reason any of your coworkers would use it?”

“No. What’s this about?”

“We’re still looking into that. Can you think of any reason Mr. Konarski would use sodium cyanide?”

“Nothing that I can think of. Maybe as groundskeepers, he and Wesley had some use. But I can’t think of any.”

“All right. Thank you, Mr. Maddox. Would you happen to know where we can find Ms. Stevens or Mr. Moore?”

“Melanie’s giving a day camp tour. Wesley’s probably by the garage or the barn. Or on the immediate grounds.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maddox. We’ll let you know if we hear anything about Morey.”

“I appreciate it.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule found Wesley Moore smoking a cigarette behind the maintenance barn.

“Hello, Mr. Moore,” Vandiver said.

Wesley exhaled and said, “Detectives. Do you need something?”

“Just a couple more questions. Follow up.”

Wesley pointed at his cigarette. “Would you like me to put this out?”

“No, that’s fine. Do you have any reason to use sodium cyanide in your job?”

Wesley cocked his head and said, “No.”

“Is it something that might be in some product you use? Like traps or anything else?”

“Not that I know of. We don’t use chemical traps. If something’s causing a problem, Mike and Melanie—well, just Melanie, now—catch it in a live trap and relocate it.”

“Did Mr. Konarski ever talk with you about wanting to hurt himself?”

“No. He was mad at his wife about the custody thing, but he never mentioned wanting to hurt her or himself.”

“Can you think of any reason your coworkers might require sodium cyanide in their jobs?”

“Maybe Graham? Some lab thing? But even that’s a stretch. Most stuff he does is with kids or college students.”

“You mentioned Mr.Konarski and Ms. Stevens,” Mule said. “What was their relationship like?”

“They were friends.”

“How would you describe their friendship?”

“Coworkers. I don’t think they were friends outside of work, but I don’t make other people’s business my business. He was almost like a big brother or father with her.”

“Do you ever see coworkers outside of work?”

“Mike and I went out for beers a couple times.”

“When was the last time you two did that.”

“Months ago. Early spring probably. Once things thawed out, we met up after work to talk about all we had to get ready for spring.”

“Thank you,” Mule said.

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“What do you do when you’re not working, Mr. Moore?” Vandiver said.

“I paint figurines. For war games. And make models—been doing that since I was a kid. Some of the dioramas in the interpretive center are my work.”

“That sounds like a relaxing hobby,” Vandiver said.

“It is.”

“Well, we’ll let you get back to work. Have a good day, Mr. Moore.”

“You, too…”

* * *

While Vandiver and Mule sat in their unmarked Crown Victoria waiting for Melanie to return, Vandiver’s stomach growled.

“Buona or Fratellos after this?”

Mule reached into her pocket and pulled out a quarter. She flipped it and said, “Fratellos.”

“Good.”

They were comparing notes when Melanie returned with a group of kids and two exhausted looking chaperons. “There she is,” Mule said.

As the group broke up, they approached.

“Ms. Stevens?” Vandiver said. “Do you have a moment?”

She joined them in the employee parking lot.

“What’s up?” Melanie said.

“In your job, do you have any reason to work with sodium cyanide?”

“Like…cyanide?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“How about your coworkers?”

“No. Unless there’s something I don’t know about. I don’t think any of them do.”

“And Mr. Konarski? Did he have any reason you can think of to use sodium cyanide?”

“Are you telling me he was poisoned?” Melanie said.

“We’re looking into that possibility.”

“No. No reason. Mike was poisoned?”

“We’re investigating that.”

“But that’s what you’re really saying. And it makes sense. The more I think about it, I don’t think Mike killed himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He loved his kids too much. Even if he lost custody—what I know about his ex-wife…she would have let him see them. At least in time. He was sad—even mad at times—but I just don’t get the feeling he took his own life. I don’t know anyone here who would want him dead, though. Maybe someone none of us even know did it…putting his body here hoping you’d focus on us instead of looking wider.”

Mule rolled her left shoulder and ticced her head. “If we have reason to widen our search we will.”

Vandiver said, “You mentioned you don’t get the feeling Mr. Konarski took his own life. What do you mean by feeling?”

“Just…feelings, you know. A feeling in my gut.”

“Do you get any feelings about any of your coworkers, Ms. Stevens.”

“No. If you mean do I think any of them did something to Mike. I’m not saying we’re like a big happy family, but we all like each other. So, no—I don’t feel like anyone, here, did something to Mike.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens,” Mule said. “If we have any other questions, we’ll be in touch.”

* * *

On Thursday, detectives Vandiver and Mule reviewed the Konarski case.

“Where are you on this being a suicide?” Mule said.

“Obviously, we can’t rule it out, but his ex-wife said he had a gun. Seems like if you’re choosing a way out, you’d do that instead of poisoning yourself. I could buy closing himself up in a garage, too, but we know that’s not how he died. Once we get DNA back and Terrence and Emily’s full report we’ll hopefully have more to go by. I’m good stepping back from this one today and reviewing other cases.”

* * *

Things picked up Friday morning when Vandiver received a phone call.

“Hello? Oh, hello, Ms. Anderson. You did? Wonderful. Really? Yes, email is fine. I appreciate that. Yes, goodbye. And thank you.”

Vandiver disconnected the call. “That was Carrie Anderson. She said she dug around and found a purchase order to a supplier Mr. Moore and Mr. Konarski used. She said it was for two and a half gallons of maganese carbonate and 125 grams of sodium cyanide. She’s emailing a copy.”

Vandiver and Mule were researching uses for the two chemicals when the purchase order arrived. Vandiver called the company, O-Chem Industries, and asked for the accounts payable department. After several minutes of discussion, he ended the call.

“I need to fax some documents their way so they can research the order. If they have a record for it, we’ll pay another visit to Mr. Moore.”

Later, while Vandiver and Mule were discussing where to get lunch, another detective knocked on the open door to their office.

”Hey, Gare…Beatrice. We just got a call about your bog man. One of the kids’ moms got a big surprise when she went to pull some steaks out of the deep freezer in their garage.”

He handed Detective Vandiver a piece of paper and said, “Can’t wait to hear more about this one.”

Vandiver looked at the note and said, “Thanks, Pete.” Then he looked at Vandiver and said, “Let’s see if Terrence and Emily are around so we can go meet this Morey fella.”

* * *

Vandiver took a deep breath through his nose. “I expected him to smell more.”

“He’s been preserved for thousands of years,” Terrance said. “And I’m sure more was done so he could be on display.”

“Yeah. Guess so. Still, I’m betting Mr. Maddox will not be too pleased about this. I can’t see being put in a deep freezer being good for ol’ Morey. You and Emily need anything more from us?”

“Nope, we’re good.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Vandiver and Mule turned away from the freezer in the garage and returned to the kitchen. Veronica Thomason and her son, Declan, sat at the table.

Vandiver took a seat across from Declan and said, “Mr. Thomason, can you tell me why there’s a bog man in your family’s deep freeze?”

“Some friends and I took him.”

“Why?”

“We were dared.”

“Do you do everything people dare you to do?”

“No…”

“Who dared you to do such a thing?”

“Some friends. We were camping on Saturday night.”

“Where were you camping?”

“A friend’s backyard. We were playing truth or dare, and I took a dare.”

“To steal Morey?”

“Yeah.”

“And what about the friends who helped you?”

“I knew I couldn’t do it alone. My best friend, Steve, agreed to help. Once he did, Tracy said she’d come with us and keep an eye out.”

“What are Steve’s and Tracy’s last names?” Mule said.

“Steve Peyton and Tracy Sommers.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “Please tell me how Morey came to be in your possession.”

Declan looked at his mother and then back at Vandiver.

“We went to the museum at the bog. I said I needed a book for a reading program. When I went to the gift store with the guy who runs the museum, Steve unlocked the case.”

“Morey’s case, correct?”

“Yeah. He crammed some paper in the door, where the part that latches goes. Enough that it would catch, but be easy to open. Steve said as long as the alarm made the connection, we’d be good.

“The guy in the museum didn’t want to open the register, so he told me to come back later to pay for the book.”

“Did you return to the interpretive center this week to do so?”

Declan looked down at the table. “No.”

“All right. Go on.”

“When we left, we hid where we could see the guy set the alarm. Steve’s house has an alarm, so he knew what to do. Later that night, we went back. Steve jammed a screwdriver into the door and opened the latch. He turned the alarm off, and we took the bog man.”

“What were you going to do with him?” Mule said.

“Show him to my friends and then put him back. But we heard someone died out there and figured we’d get caught.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you went back to steal Morey?” Vandiver said. “Any lights on or people?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you see?”

“We saw a lady dragging something by the garage.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Mule said.

“We thought we’d get blamed for the dead guy.”

Mule shook her head and rubbed her temples. Vandiver continued.

“Could you tell what the woman was dragging?”

“I thought it was garbage. Tracy said it looked like a body, and we got out of there.”

“How could you tell it was a woman?” Mule said.

“The lights in that little building by the garage and barn were on. She moved past a window.”

“What color was her hair?”

“I couldn’t tell. It was dark and we were up by the museum.”

“But you saw the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Was her hair yellow?”

“No, that would have stood out. If you’re talking about the lady who does school trips, I can tell you it wasn’t her.”

“How do you know who she is.”

“I’ve seen her there. She’s kinda…”

“Kind of what?”

“Hot.”

“I see…”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Yes,” Declan’s mother said. “Lots of trouble.”

“We really were going to bring the bog man back and leave money for the book.”

“We’ll have to see,” Vandiver said. “Stealing the book is a misdemeanor, but breaking into the interpretive center and stealing Morey is a felony. Given the circumstances, if it’s your first offense, juvenile court will likely be forgiving. It’s not my call. Right now, I’m releasing you to your mother’s custody.

“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Thomason. We’ll need contact information for your friends. Other than that, we’re done here for now.”

* * *

Detective Vandiver cleared his throat as he and Mule entered Carrie Anderson’s office.

She looked up and said, “Oh, hello. Is this about the purchase order?”

“We’re still looking into that,” Mule said. She met Carrie’s eye. “We have a call into the company’s accounts payable group to see if they have a record of it.”

Carrie nodded and said, “Yes, of course. Then, how can I help you? Do you need to speak with Wesley again?”

“We need to speak with you,” Vandiver said. He stepped to the side of her desk.

“I learned something new today, Ms. Anderson. Some jewelers use sodium cyanide to clean precious metals.” He pointed to her necklace. “You mentioned your brother makes jewelry. Have you visited your brother lately, Ms. Anderson?

“I’m not saying another thing unless I have a lawyer present.”

“We understand. That’s your right. We’ll arrange for legal counsel at the station…”

* * *

Carrie Anderson sat beside her lawyer in the interrogation room of the Lake County Sheriff’s Office. Vandiver and Mule were seated on the other side of the table.

“Ms. Anderson,” Vandiver said. “Did you poison your employee, Michael Konarski, at the Sawyer Bog Interpretive Center?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was blackmailing me.”

“Why was he blackmailing you?”

“His ex-wife was planning to argue for full custody of their children. He didn’t have money to fight it. He thought he could get it from me and stop the case…or at least have a chance to fight for shared custody in court.”

“Why did he choose you?”

“He found out…”

“What did he find out, Ms. Anderson?

“He knew I was moving county and state funds to accounts I set up.”

“What kinds of funds?”

“Sometimes vendors are owed small credits…just a few dollars most places never notice, or won’t research or fight. I’d find the credits and send them to accounts I set up. And then I set up a fake company and created invoices to the interpretive center. I paid those to another account.”

“How much do you suppose you’ve made doing such a thing?”

“Maybe an extra twenty-five thousand a year. I don’t make much running the interpretive center.”

“And how long have you been doing this?”

“About five years.”

“And Mr. Konarski found out you were doing this?”

“Yes. He was looking for an order he made, needing to update it before I processed it. He went into my office while I was at lunch. He found one of the invoices I made and kept digging until finding notes I kept about the credits. He kept it to himself, until his ex-wife decided to fight for full custody of their kids.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “I want to be sure I have this right. You’ve been moving county and state funds owed to vendors to accounts you set up. You went as far as creating fake invoices to the Sawyer Bog Interpretive Center that you paid to an account you set up for such a purpose. Mr. Konarski found out. He needed money to contest his ex-wife in court for full custody of his children. He lacked the funds, so he blackmailed you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he do that?”

“He kept quiet about it when he found out what I was doing. But once his wife filed for divorce, he came to my office and told me he knew about the funds. He showed me photos on his phone that he took of the invoice and notes. I was so mad that he’d do such a thing to me.”

“You were stealing,” Mule said.

“That’s different. I never did things directly to people. Agencies waste money all the time…”

“Go on,” Vandiver said.

“He kept pushing me—threatening to report me if I didn’t give him money for a lawyer. So I told him I’d do it. I told him I needed time to transfer the funds. Friday, I told him I’d have the check after closing on Saturday, but he said he was busy. So we met on Sunday night.”

“I still don’t understand why you poisoned him.”

“He said he knew who to come to anytime he needed money. I was mad that he was pressuring me, but in a way, I didn’t mind helping with the custody case. But when I knew he was going to hold things over my head if he ever needed anything, I knew it wasn’t going to ever end.

“He talked about how much life hurt him—how he sometimes wished he’d never been born. I guess between that and knowing he was never going to stop blackmailing me, I did what I did.”

“Why did you choose sodium cyanide?”

“I read that it disappears in someone’s system with time. I figured by the time an autopsy was done, it wouldn’t show up.”

“How did you administer the cyanide, Ms. Anderson?”

“He loved scotch. So, I bought a bottle and toasted our agreement. I don’t like hard alcohol, so I raised a glass of coffee his way.”

“And the scotch you gave Mr. Konarski contained sodium cyanide you stole from your brother?”

“Yes. He slammed the scotch and…”

“And what?” Vandiver said.

Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “He started convulsing. I ran from the office and waited outside. When I came back, he was dead.”

“What did you do after that, Ms. Anderson.”

“I took his keys from his pocket and pulled his car into the garage. He kept a notebook on his workbench. I thumbed through it and found something he wrote about being a bad father and failing his kids. I tore that out and put it on the dashboard. Then I went back to my office and dragged him to his car. I started it and closed the doors.”

“Did you see or hear anything while you were moving Mr. Konarski’s body, Ms. Anderson?”

She thought about it a moment and said, “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I thought I saw a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Yes. I heard something up by the interpretive center. When I looked up that way, I swear I saw the shape of a body floating into the trees. Why?”

“Just wondering. Detective Mule and I are going to step outside for a moment. Please remember, anything you and your counsel say is being recorded.”

As Vandiver and Mule made their way to the door, Carrie Anderson said, “I’m not a bad person.”

Vandiver turned back. “Pardon?”

“I’m not a bad person. Mike said he hated the world…said he wasn’t wired for it.”

“It’s not our place to judge,” Vandiver said. “But don’t kid yourself into thinking you did Mr. Konarski any favors.”

He closed the door behind him as he left the room.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Wesley Moore, Melanie Stevens, and Graham Maddox stood at the end of the boardwalk over the bog with a bottle of Ardbeg 10 scotch.

Wesley was the first to speak.

“Mike, there were days you drove me so mad I wanted to smack you, but you brought a life to this place. You’ll always be here as far as I’m concerned. I’m gonna miss ya.”

Graham said, “I know we didn’t talk as much as you and Wesley and you and Melanie, but I always appreciated how you checked up with all of us to see if there was anything you could do to help out. I’ll always remember the day you came up to the interpretive center and asked for a full tour. That was a great afternoon, just showing you around and walking out here. When we were done, you told me I have the neatest job in the world. I’m glad we had that time together.”

When Graham was done, Melanie said, “Mike, there’s so much I want to say, but I know I won’t be able to get through it without crying. So, I’ll see if I can get through a couple poems…”

She first read Crazy Mike’s favorite poem: “Peonies” by Mary Oliver. When Melanie was done, she read one of Mike’s originals.

Like soft-tipped spears,

Crocuses break through a crust of snow

And herald the coming of spring

When the world becomes mud

The ground oozes, plants grow,

And we welcome the return of the sun

Summer’s arrival is heard in

The buzzing of bees over fields of clover

And the laughter of running children

Lakes teem with life

From their surfaces to deep below

And we return to the waters that gave us life

When October arrives

Leaves glow like bonfires in treetops

And crisp breezes drive us home

As the season decays

We burn its remains, give thanks,

And prepare ourselves for darker days

Beneath a white blanket of silence

The previous seasons are hidden

And we huddle together for warmth

The icy hand of colder nights

Beats upon the front door

And we bow our heads and pray for light.

When my time comes

Lay me down in a field beside a pond

So I can give the earth all my memories

Let the ground devour me

So my body becomes the place

Where the first crocuses rise once again

Wesley and Graham each put a hand on one of Melanie’s shoulders, allowing her time to grieve. When she was done and had wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingers, Wesley opened the bottle of scotch and poured a splash into three paper cups. He held his skyward and said, “Godspeed, Crazy Mike!”

Melanie and Graham joined him. “Godspeed, Crazy Mike!”

They paused a moment after drinking in their friend’s honor—and then turned back, away from the bog.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Moorland Sounds, Medite, Deskant, Christoffer Moe Ditvelsen, Magnus Ludvigsson, Horna Spelman, and Sandra Marteleur. And…several tunes with no listed artist other than “Traditional.” All licensed through Epidemic Sound.

All story music was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

I’m not sure what September’s story will be. November’s anniversary episode is decided, and the Christmas episode is always a bit of this and that and comes together almost on its own. So, we’ll see what happens in September. If you go to patreon.com/cgronlund and pledge as little as a dollar a month, you’ll know as soon as I do.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!