Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(35)

Virgil nodded. “I do.”

“Sad story, huh?”

“Shouldn’t borrow cars, Rose. At least, not from judges. By the way, do you know a guy named Clay Ford? Over in Wheatfield?”

“I know who he is.”

“He kinda likes your looks,” Virgil said.

Rose stopped and turned toward him. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From Clay. He’s consulting with me—guns, these shootings. Kind of a shy guy, though. I don’t think he’d come right out and hit on you.”

“He’s a great shot . . .” She thought it over. “Not a bad-looking guy, either, I gotta say. You’re sure he was talking about me?”

“He said Rose, a dark-haired woman who won a turkey shoot up at Madelia, living out here with the Nazis.”

“That’s me, all right,” Rose said. “Huh. I’m gonna look into this. These fuckers . . .” She waved toward Button and Good. “They were lame to start with, and they’re getting lamer by the minute, but I needed a free place to stay after I got out of Shakopee.”



* * *



—

Bakker put Garrett in the back of the patrol car, and he came over to Virgil, and said, “Good bust. That’ll keep old Zimmer off my back for a couple of weeks. He’s always talking about ‘quality arrests.’ . . . Can you find your way out?”

“Right, left, right.”

“That’s correct. Take it easy, Virgil,” Bakker said, and he got in his car and rolled away.

Virgil turned back to the group, and said, “Okay. I’m willing to believe that none of you are involved in these shootings if you send me those names of people who can confirm your alibis. If any of you do know something, you better get in touch with me. If I bust you for being an accessory . . . You know, being a Nazi in front of a Minnesota jury isn’t exactly a place you want to be . . . Email me those alibis. Names and dates.”

They all nodded, and Rose followed him down to his truck, and, when they got there, Virgil said, “Get a cup of coffee with Clay. He’s a little goofy about guns, but he’s got a decent job and seems . . . calm.”

She gave him a thumbs-up, and he backed out of the driveway.





10


As Virgil was driving to Wheatfield, Bea Sawyer called to say that she and Baldwin were on their way back to St. Paul with all the evidence collected at Andorra’s farmhouse.

“We have a curiosity,” she said. “Andorra’s prints are on file with the feds. I know that because when we were looking at the .45, I could see a partial on the trigger, and I called and got a pdf of his prints. I can’t be sure, because I was eyeballing it, but I’m fairly sure that the print is his. I can see an odd, interrupted whorl.”

“Don’t tell me you’re now thinking suicide,” Virgil said.

“No, not yet. I talked with the ME, told him what we’d found. He’s going to have a real close look at the wound, checking all the angles and powder printing and all. But . . . if the shooter pulled on a pair of gloves before he pulled the trigger, then Andorra’s prints could still be on the trigger. That would mean there was nothing spontaneous about the killing. It was planned and prepared for.”



* * *



—

Bud Dexter—the BD of the target Virgil found in the trash can—was a semiretired farmer who lived in town while his son ran the farm. He was waiting for Virgil at the Skinner & Holland store, chatting with Holland and a woman working behind the counter. Skinner, Holland said, was probably at school, although not necessarily.

“He only goes about half-time, which is okay with the teachers,” Holland said. “He can be a wiseass in class, but he aces all the tests.” Holland nodded to Dexter. “Virgil, meet Bud Dexter . . . Bud, this is Virgil Flowers.”

“Let’s go in the back,” Virgil said.

Holland: “Am I invited?”

“Of course,” Virgil said.

They settled around the card table in the back room, and Holland poured some corn chips into a wooden bowl. Dexter took some chips, and said, “I’ll tell you right from the start, I can’t help much. The last time I was out there shooting, Glen was there, and we talked for a few minutes, but we were shooting pistols in separate bays. I had my nine, and Glen had his .45. Wardell says the guy shooting people here in town is using a rifle. There were some guys over at the rifle range when I was there with Glen, but I can’t remember who they were—if I ever knew. You can’t see the rifle range from the pistol range.”

Virgil didn’t mention it, but he was more interested in Dexter than the rifle shooters because Andorra had been shot with a pistol, and the rifle was probably stolen later. “Did Glen seem depressed or confused? Any reason to think he might have killed himself?”

“Nah. He was cheerful enough. He said he was going to run over to Blue Earth when he was done shooting and pick up a showerhead. He said he had a leaky head that was really annoying.”

“You think he went?” Virgil asked.

“I dunno,” Dexter said. “He left before I did. The thing is, he was almost done shooting when I showed up. He probably left ten or fifteen minutes later; I was there for another hour. You know what I’d do?”