Burying the Lede Page 3

  “Wrong!” Doug called out as he slapped at an imaginary buzzer on the table. “Bzzzz. Go directly to jail. Do not pass ‘Go.’ You’re only scheduled to work two nights a week, but you’re in that newsroom practically every night.”

  “That’s because I spend my days in the courthouse, spying on all the cute chicks in the jail.” Tony smiled.

  Doug laughed out loud. “You’re a sick man, Tony Harrington.”

  “Well, that’s what gives my writing its unique perspective.” He drained his cup and looked at his watch. “Speaking of which, I need to get to the courthouse. Schroeder has a cow when reporters walk in after the proceedings have begun and, the last I heard, it was not a good idea to get a district court judge pissed at you.”

  “Hold on, I’m coming too.”

  “You’re kidding. You’re actually going to attend a news event you’re covering? What happened to simply reading it out of the paper? Your listeners might be disappointed if you cheat them out of my prose tomorrow morning.”

  “Very funny, Mr. Pulitzer. I figured I’d better start coming, you know, just to give you a hand. I want to make sure you know the definitions of all those fancy words you’re using.”

  “Yeah, there’ll be some tough ones in this case, like ‘sequester,’” Tony deadpanned.

  “Oh, and don’t forget ‘guilty sonofabitch.’ You’ll need that one,” Doug shot back with a grin.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Tony wasn’t grinning in return as he paused and lifted his face to stare at his friend. He wanted to continue, but stopped himself.

  “What?” Doug asked. But Tony stood up, dropped his tip on the Formica tabletop, and walked across the room to the bar where Willie was punching numbers and making change at an old brass cash register. As Doug slid out of the booth and pried his wallet from his rear pocket, he glanced at Tony’s back, wondering what was bothering his friend.

  Chapter 3

  W. Rodney Nelson shook his head at the bathroom mirror, pulled the knot from his tie, and started again.

  “Rod?” It was Lillian’s voice from the main portion of their small motel room. “Give it a rest. It would be infinitely worse to be late than to have your tie hang a quarter inch too short.”

  “Sorry honey, but I’ll only be a moment.” As Nelson spoke, he pulled the tie through its final gyration and slid the knot up to his Adam’s apple. He stepped back and examined…no, admired his image in the mirror. Tall and fit, his sculpted features were cleanshaven and capped by thick wavy hair, with just a hint of gray at the edges. Small, wire-framed glasses completed the look of intelligence, competence, and strength. Nelson couldn’t contain a smile as he slipped on his suit coat, smoothed the lapels, and took one last look at the total package.

  People often told Nelson how lucky he was or how good Mother Nature had been to him, and it irritated the hell out of him. It wasn’t Mother Nature who worked her butt off to get into law school or to graduate number three in the class. It wasn’t Mother Nature who worked seventy-plus hours a week doing grunt work as a staff lawyer in the Attorney General’s office, or orchestrated his promotion to assistant attorney general, or campaigned for two years to get elected to lead the office. For that matter, it wasn’t Mother Nature who climbed on the treadmill at sunrise every morning to keep in shape. In short, W. Rodney Nelson was proud of everything he was and everything he had accomplished. And he wasn’t about to give anyone, including Mother Nature or his beautiful wife in the next room, credit for his hard work.

  “Yes, Rod, you look great,” said Lillian as she sidled up beside him, being careful not to get her makeup on the sleeve of his Armani suit coat. “Now let’s go.”

  He glanced at his watch and smiled. “We’ll be right on time.” His confidence filled the room like the aroma of warm bread. “Remember, honey, this is Orney. It can’t take over ten minutes to get to the farthest point in town, and that’s with a flat tire and a dead battery.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about the latter,” Lillian smiled, as Nelson turned with a quizzical look. “I already started the car so it would have a chance to cool down. Can’t have you showing up in court all sweaty now, can we?”

  “You are something,” Nelson smiled as he pulled her close and planted a kiss on her neck. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’d find some other smart, personable, and devoted woman to make first lady of Iowa when you get elected governor.”

  Nelson chuckled but quickly turned serious as they walked out of the motel into the warm August sunshine. “Let’s be careful not to joke about the future, even among ourselves. One mistake…”

  “One mistake can sink the ship,” she finished for him. “Don’t worry dear. I’ll be careful, as always.”

  “Of course, you know I trust you completely,” Nelson replied, and felt almost as sincere as he sounded. He opened her car door and held it while she gracefully slid into the seat. “But remember, I’m not even going to formally announce until after this trial. When we have Mr. Wells locked up for good and all of Iowa is praising me for getting another heartless killer behind bars, then we’ll kick things off publicly.”

  Nelson shut her door firmly and walked around to the driver’s side. As he settled in behind the wheel, Lillian spoke softly, almost tentatively. “Honey, what if you…well, you know, what if you don’t win?”

  Nelson smiled broadly and brushed the side of her face with the back of his fingers. “Are you doubting your husband is the wizard he thinks he is?” His wife chuckled and shook her head as he added, “Seriously honey, I won’t lose. This hillbilly killed two people in cold blood, and then practically handed us all the evidence we need to put him away for life. They say he’s slow, but I call him just plain dumb.”

  Nelson continued, stating with confidence that the whole trial wouldn’t last much over a week, two at the most. “My God, the guy has no alibi. In fact, he has no defense of any kind that we’ve been able to discern.”

  Nelson noted the defense was not claiming temporary insanity, which he believed would have been their only chance of gaining an acquittal on the first-degree murder charge. He had to assume Wells was maintaining his story that he didn’t do it, even to his own attorney. This was more evidence of stupidity, not of innocence. Or perhaps the defense was hoping to elicit some sympathy from the jury because of Wells’ limited mental capacity. Nelson was certain that would not be enough for Wells to escape justice. He said, “Wells’ I.Q. is below average, but he’s far from incompetent. You and I both know that no jury is going to have sympathy for a guy who kills an innocent couple in their own home, particularly when two small children had to find their parents’ bodies.”

  Nelson realized he was testing threads of his potential opening arguments on his wife. After so many years together, he still worked hard to impress her with his oratory. And of course, to convince her he was right. As he described it, there was no question Wells was guilty and on his way to prison for life. He could see in Lillian’s smile that she was proud to be his wife. He smiled in return.

  As Nelson turned the car into the courthouse parking lot, he saw a crowd on the front steps. It was the crowd he had dreamed of seeing, complete with cameras, microphones, and questions. He pulled to a stop in one of the stalls marked “Reserved” and turned to his wife of 22 years. “Lillian, I’m telling you, this is the perfect case from which to launch our campaign. You know I don’t like to attribute much to luck, but this is like manna from heaven. I couldn’t have created a better case if I had done the crime myself.”

  A boyish excitement filled his face as he stepped out of the car. By the time he stepped quickly around the car and opened her door, he was grim-faced and ready to face the media. For the next week or two, no one besides her would see W. Rodney Nelson look anything but concerned, serious, and very professional.

  As they walked up the curving sidewalk, the reporters surrounded them before they even reached the wide marble steps. “Mr. Nelson! Could you ans
wer a few questions?” One of the television reporters thrust a microphone forward.

  “Well, I’ll try,” Nelson said. “But of course you understand I will refuse to make any comments that might jeopardize this trial. We’re going to make sure that every aspect of this case is handled appropriately so we can successfully send a cold-blooded murderer to prison and deliver to the people of Quincy County the justice they deserve.”

  ***

  Behind the crowd, Tony Harrington stood on the courthouse steps, leaning against the handrail, and flipped open his note pad. He hadn’t followed his peers down to greet the attorney general, and even though he could hear everything from where he stood, he hadn’t written anything down. The little he knew of W. Rodney Nelson was confirmed by the opening remarks. Another politician looking to score points with the voters. That would explain why the high-profile Iowa Attorney General was in Orney to handle a murder case that normally would be prosecuted by the local county attorney. It might even confirm the talk around the state that Nelson was considering a run for governor. A conviction in a double murder case would generate plenty of positive publicity, and not just in Quincy County.

  In fact, Tony had never seen media representatives in the county from so many places. He had spotted TV crews from Des Moines, Waterloo, Mason City, and Ames. The Des Moines Register reporter was here, which he expected, but so were reporters from four or five other dailies and several of the area weekly papers. The guy in the tan blazer might even be from the Associated Press. This many reporters hadn’t shown up even when a natural gas leak had ignited inside Smithers’ Greenhouse. The resulting explosion had leveled the building and burned down two neighboring houses, killing three people. It was the biggest news story in Orney’s 125-year history, until today apparently.

  For some reason he couldn’t begin to understand, Tony found this irritating. He listened to a few more of Nelson’s answers, and determined they were more meaningless fluff, perfect for the sound bites the television and radio reporters needed for their noon broadcasts but with no meaningful insights into the trial. He turned and walked up the steps, deciding it was more important to get a front row seat in the courtroom.

  I don’t care who you are or even are how determined you are, Tony thought. I want to see you in action, and I want to know the facts of this case. Now let’s get on with it.

  Chapter 4

  It was day six of the proceedings. The first two days had been devoted to jury selection, not an easy task when trying to find fourteen people – twelve jurors and two alternates – who hadn’t heard about and formed opinions on a case as sensational as this one. Day three was confined to opening statements by the lead attorneys representing the prosecution and the defense, W. Rodney Nelson and Lawrence Pike respectively. Days four and five had been filled with testimony from the Division of Criminal Investigation agents and sheriff’s deputies regarding the events surrounding the murder – the response to the 9-1-1 call, the preservation of the crime scene, the processes used to collect and gather evidence, and the routine investigation that had led them to Ralph Wells.

  Wells had not been a suspect. In fact, his name had not come up in any context as investigators looked deep into the lives of the two victims. However, when all the usual steps had been exhausted, and fears were growing that the case would go “cold,” investigators decided they needed to expand their interviews to a broader range of people. “Any ideas?” Daniel Bodke, the deputy sheriff in charge of the investigation, had asked the team one morning during the daily briefing in the sheriff’s conference room. One deputy then volunteered that he had known a lot of guys in high school with .22 rifles. In fact, the deputy had noted, some of those guys still lived in the area.

  “Maybe we should start gathering up .22s and doing ballistics tests on as many as we can find.” The suggestion had drawn groans from the deputies and state DCI agents gathered in the room. They knew this would be an enormous amount of work and would draw the ire of the ballistics team in the State Crime Laboratory. It also had almost no chance of producing a meaningful lead.

  However, Bodke had surprised them. “Hang on folks. Unless someone has a better idea, I think we might want to give this a try.” He held his hands out to quell the protests, “We’ll keep this reasonable. We’ll only go to people who lived within a twenty-mile radius of the Ennis house, and only those in the age range of, say, 18 to 45. No kids and no elderly guys. That should keep the rifles we ask for at a reasonable number.”

  One of the deputies asked, “What if someone refuses to hand over his rifle?”

  “That’s his right,” Bodke said. “You simply thank him and leave. And then you call me immediately so we can put him under the microscope.”

  This simple suggestion had led two DCI agents to the trailer house of young Ralph Wells and his even younger wife. The state’s witnesses had described how and why Wells had quickly become a suspect and eventually why they decided to arrest him and charge him with two counts of first-degree murder.

  Throughout it all, Lawrence Pike had asked very few questions. He made sure to get each witness on the record noting that Wells had never said anything incriminating and had never admitted to knowing or harming the Ennises. Each witness acknowledged Wells had steadfastly maintained his innocence, although at least two had managed to make the point that this was to be expected, as it was common for all criminals to do likewise. Pike was careful to object during the state’s direct examination only when a witness began to stray beyond the facts into supposition or opinion. But all in all, Pike seemed content to let the state lay out all the evidence it had assembled.

  For this, Tony was grateful. It meant the trial was moving quickly.

  ***

  “The state calls Dr. Lance Torgeson.”

  Tony had to refrain from rolling his eyes as he heard Nelson call out the coroner’s name. Torgeson’s only role could be to present the forensic evidence, and Tony had covered just enough trials to know how incredibly boring he would almost certainly be. A fastidious little man with wire rim glasses and curly gray hair, Torgeson looked the part of a pathologist, more comfortable with corpses and lab specimens than with people. He had spent plenty of time on the stand over the years, usually testifying about blood alcohol levels in OWI and accident cases and physical evidence in the occasional rape case. This afternoon he looked especially uneasy. Clearly, a double murder was outside the scope of his normal practice.

  As Nelson launched into his questions about the blood on the sheets and the headboard, Tony knew he should pay attention. Guilt or innocence could be hiding in the details of a splatter pattern or the position of an exit wound. Despite understanding this, Tony found his mind wandering. It was irritating to listen to the self-aggrandizing Nelson, and tedious to listen to Torgeson’s long, meticulous responses.

  Tony found himself staring at the defendant. From where he sat, Tony could see the back of his head and upper torso. If Wells turned toward the judge, Tony could catch just a glimpse of his left profile, part of a bushy eyebrow and fleshy nose. What kind of guy was he, really? Examining Wells’ thick and somewhat disheveled hair and the suit coat that didn’t quite fit, Tony realized he knew almost nothing about him. He had reported the basic facts about Wells; a farm laborer, husband, and native of nearby Oak Grove. However, he had never really looked into the person. Tony’s heart sank to his gut and settled there as he realized he had dropped the ball. One of the first lessons that Ben Smalley, the editor of the Town Crier, had taught him was that if he found himself wondering something, then other people undoubtedly had the same questions. In this case, everyone he knew was curious about the quiet guy who had been charged with this horrible crime. I should have written the profile, Tony almost said aloud, amazed that he hadn’t taken the initiative in the months leading up to the trial. Just as quickly, Tony vowed that he would do the in-depth personality piece, even if he had to travel to the State Penitentiary at Fort Madison to do it. He flipped to the last page o
f his reporter’s spiral notebook and started jotting notes about what he knew about Wells so far. Starting at the beginning, Tony’s mind went back to the night of Wells’ arrest the previous spring.

  ***

  The phone by the bed clanged like a fire bell. Tony kept the setting all the way to “loud” because he knew nothing less could wake him in the middle of the night. When the calls came at 2 or 3 a.m., Tony didn’t mind. The obnoxious ring tone usually meant a banner headline the next day: “Pinchet Mansion Burns,” or “Explosion Levels Smithers’ Greenhouse,” or “Couple Found Shot to Death in Rural Orney Home.”

  As Tony forced himself awake, he rolled onto his side and grabbed the phone. It bothered him that the sound of it triggered memories of the double murder, even from a deep sleep. My God, it’s been three months. Am I obsessed with this case? he wondered, even as he forced his dry throat to respond, “Harrington.”

  “We’re going for the collar,” a familiar voice said with a tinge of excitement. “You interested?”

  “That depends,” Tony said, sitting upright and looking at a glowing 2:37 on the face of his clock radio. “I mean, it depends on what collar. It would have to be darn good to get me out at this hour.” Tony knew the voice on the other end belonged to Rich Davis, a bright young investigator with the State DCI. Davis was officed at the Sheriff’s Department in Quincy County, and often assisted local officials in their work. Considering the hour, and the respect he held for Davis, Tony knew he should be getting excited at whatever was coming.

  “You dumb shit,” Davis said, with uncharacteristic bluntness. “I’m talking about the collar. We’re on our way to grab the man who killed Jerry and Anne Ennis.”