Without a Whisper

"He's never been here."

"First rule of interviews Mort," Yvonne says, and snaps toward me without looking. Bitch, we didn't talk this plan through, what does a snap mean? "File." I know what's she's doing now. I open the file under my arm and pull-out Chase's receipts for the auto repair. "First rule, is if you can help it, never ask a question when you don't already know the answer."

Chase's receipts for the repair are placed in front of him. Mort's posture implodes into himself. He rapidly looks down at the evidence, and up at her eyes. He's trying to think of a way this makes sense without having to admit he remembers.

"Last chance before the bad cop takes over," Yvonne says, and points at me with her thumb over her shoulder. "You think I'm bad? I actually like the occasional dick." Is she alluding to me being a man-hating, angry lesbian, bad cop?

Mort sighs and hunches over the counter on both palms. "He came in a few days ago."

"I know he did. Where the hell is he?"

"He drove out of town after the repairs."

"I don't believe you," Yvonne says, and Mort's sigh is deeper. "Because if he just drove out of town, you'd say he drove out of town without telling me you never saw him. Now that we've established you can tell the truth occasionally, let's improve your batting average for candor. Where the fuck, is he?" Verbal escalation. She didn't start at fuck, but she let it get there organically.

"I'm just saying what I was told to say..."

"...what the hell does that mean?" I ask, and his head whips to me. His chin drops because of the height disparity. "Who told you to lie in the event someone comes asking?"

"I'm not looking for trouble."

"Neither are we. We're looking for something else entirely, but we're finding trouble," I say and step up to the counter. It's time for the man-hating, angry lesbian, bad cop. And damn that's a lot of adjectives. "Mr. Kramner hit that pothole. You, or Junior, or someone else, don't care, towed him here and fixed him up. A few short days later, he up and disappears like your balls in a pool. What was he doing while you were fixing his car, and who doesn't want me to know?"

"The Sheriff said if someone asked, don't answer questions, just send them his way. He was investigating someone, or something like that," Senior says.

"Was he investigating this girl?" Yvonne asks, and shows him a picture of Katie Grossman. I want to talk about this Sheriff more, but all color fades from his face so I let Yvonne keep going. "Chase told his wife he thinks she got stuck here too. Why would he think that?"

"Don't know," he lies. These guys are amateur liars. I scan the room and see a wall of pictures. I watch him become uncomfortable when he sees me look at it. Getting warmer.

"Customers?" I ask.

"Yeah...all satisfied customers," he says in a trembling voice.

Nothing is standing out. Granted most of them look annoyed they asked for a picture, but besides that, it's innocent advertisement. I count four complete rows of five, and two incomplete rows of four. The man loves to take pictures with girls. He seems to have a thing for brunettes. Sometimes it isn't about what's there; it's about what's missing. Whoever puts the photos on the wall is mildly compulsive. No picture overlaps with another, forming even rows with only small tilts, but nothing distracting. They removed a picture, and didn't replace it with another, leaving an eye twitch inducing gap in the collage.

"Wait a minute," I say, and scan through the files. Jenn had provided all the pictures that went to Chase's cloud. Amongst them is a photo of a photo, showing Katie Grossman posing next to a Buick Skylark with a thinner version of Senior.

"What was here?" I ask, pointing to the space. His face is panic. Pure panic.

"Umm...must of...must of fell off," he says. I look at the floor, and do not see a photo. "Probably swept up."

"What did my partner say about us not asking questions we don't know the answer to?" I ask, and then show him the picture of the picture. "Katie Grossman was here, wasn't she?" I ask. Yvonne doesn't look at me, but she doesn't need to, to back my play. She knows what I'm doing and postures to add pressure on him. "July 2009."

"I couldn't tell you the girl's name. I don't remember that far back."

"1964 Buick Skylark," Yvonne says, and he gulps. "You think I got a problem getting a warrant from a federal judge? I'm FBI. I can get one today." She can absolutely have a problem getting a warrant. He doesn't need to know that, so I dog pile.

"Better yet, let's add a few agencies. EPA gonna like your waste disposal practices? Are your business licenses up to date? You keep separate books for unneeded work and pocket the difference? IRS frowns on that," I say, and I watch each threat land like Mike Tyson swung at him. "Or you let us see your receipts."

"Alright," he says with his hands up. "She was here."

"When and why?" I ask.

"Why what?" he asks.

"Why was Katie Grossman here?" Yvonne asks for me. He's getting whiplash from our back and forth. That's a strategy we get trained to use, and we landed on it by our mutual instinct and experience. Talking to a cop is like walking into a ring to box a pro with a 50-0 record, and there are two of us. Just don't do it. That's what lawyers are for.

"She hit that pothole, same as the other guy."

"How the fuck do they hit the same pothole, ten years apart?" I ask. I know the answer, but I want him to say it.

"Because...we...uhh..."

"You go out there with a pickaxe and shovel to bring business to town," Yvonne says. Mort slowly nods. "You fixed the cars. Then what?"

"Then they leave. Honest to God."

"What about the Sheriff?" I ask. "Did the Sheriff say send them his way, or to lie to whomever comes looking?" I ask, and he goes silent. There is a long pause, and he doesn't reply, but his face is contorting like he's trying. "Where's the Sheriff?"

"At the station."

"No shit," I say, then contain myself before I continue. "Where is the station?"

"Take main street north until it turns into Foret street. Only building for five miles, can't miss it," he says.

"We're going to go talk to the Sheriff. We will be back. When we get back, I want everything you have regarding Mr. Kramner and Ms. Grossman," Yvonne says and hands him her card. "This number calls you, you answer the phone, or some three letter agencies will be called next. You understand?" Mort's shaky hand takes the card, and he confirms he understands.

Yvonne scoops up the evidence we put on the counter and gestures for me to lead our exit. I don't enjoy how I look like her lackey and not her partner, but I get it. She's much more intimidating than me, and FBI scares people more than my badge does. Best we maintain the perceived hierarchy of authority between us.

"Woo," Yvonne says when we're at the car. She shivers her work persona off her body and gestures like she has a cigarette in her mouth. I toss her the pack and lighter. "Fuuuuuck that feels good. Been a minute since I dug a dick that deep." In practice, she's attached to the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI as a profiler. Lot of desk work and research. It's not often she's pulled for something like this.

"You're the type who actually enjoys it," I say, and light up as well. "I thought interviewing suspects was cool, until I was doing it in homicide. You get a few guys who have no shame in their actions and decide they want to explain every grisly detail just to watch you squirm."

"Not me. I love it. Better than sex," she says, then exhales a cloud of cancer. "Way to follow my lead in there."

"Hot cop, obvious lesbian," I say between puffs. "I'm not that obvious."

"You had a baby, and people went from thinking you had a dick to wondering if you like them," Yvonne says. She's not wrong. I was more androgynous before I had Shawn. Now I have something resembling boobs and my hair is to my ear lobes.

"Sheriff or hotel first?" I ask.

"It's a bed & breakfast actually..."

"...same thing..."

"...our check in isn't for a few hours, we got time." Her eyes catch something, and I follow. "Looks like the Sheriff found us," Yvonne says, and points with the hand the cigarette is in.

A forest green Ford Bronco approaches us and turns into the gravel lot two car lengths away. Decaled on the side of the truck is Sheriff Patrol and the badge for the town. A seven-point star extending out from under a circle that says Township of Whisper. A man steps out of the truck and places a brown wide brimmed sheriff's hat on a shiny bald head. He's wearing a tan, long sleeved shirt with forest green pants and tie. His badge matches the one on the truck, and his golden name plate with black lettering says Knight. The man in the uniform is well groomed and carries it with swagger, even with a cane to help him walk. If I needed to guess, I'd say late fifties.

"Nice face," Yvonne says, and the man lets out an embarrassed laugh. He has a mostly healed bruise on his face from God knows what.

"Face planted off a curb, cane missed it. Ladies," he says, tipping his hat to us. Small-town manners. I already hate this place.

"Special Agent Grimsdotter, FBI. Detective Appletree," Yvonne says to introduce us. "We're looking for the Sheriff. Could you help us?"

"You're looking at him. Sheriff Arthur Knight. I go by Art. Wondering when someone would show up," he says. He extends his hand for a shake, which Yvonne returns. Yvonne looks over her shoulder at the sign for the auto shop. "Mort is my cousin."

"Why did you tell Mort to say he never saw a man named Chase Kramner?" Yvonne asks. His face snaps into confusion.

"Mr. Kramner?" he asks, and Yvonne gestures something I can't see, so I start to walk around the car. "I didn't say that exactly. I said send them my way. Small towns like two things; spreading gossip and spreading it wrong. I wanted it coming from me, so the information wasn't diluted through a game of telephone."

Yvonne played that wrong. She made him aware of what Mort told us he told him, allowing him to walk it back without making it look like he was hiding something. Assuming Mort was being honest regarding what he was told, which is certainly in question.

"Where is he?" I ask. He offers me a handshake once I'm in arms reach.

"As far as I know, he drove out of town, let's say, a few days ago. Said he was moving on to New York," Art says after a moment of thought. I don't know if it's the uniform, but Art comes off less deceptive than his cousins. When I say less deceptive, I just mean a more rehearsed liar.

"Let me get this straight. You told Mort, to tell anyone who came looking for Mr. Kramner, to talk to you first?" Yvonne asked.

"That's right," Art says. "Mr. Kramner was looking for a girl who went missing some years ago. Some people in town remembered her, I helped him ask around. He left for New York, and a few days later I'm getting calls he's up and vanished too. I did my part of the looking and was told the Feds may send someone. I told Mort if someone came, send them to me."

Yvonne pauses, and I try to figure out my next question as well. He appears on the level, and his answers are making sense.

"Three days ago, his phone went dark," Yvonne says. No, Chase went missing four days ago. Yvonne usually has a plan, so I'll assume she did that on purpose for reason I haven't caught onto yet.

"I think Mr. Kramner left on...I want to say the tenth. So, he called a day after he left, but this is the last place you know he was?" Art asks. Yvonne looks flustered.

"I'll have to double check my timeline, only had the chance to read it on the drive. Hasn't fully absorbed yet," Yvonne says to salvage. "Could we rely on you to fill in the missing pieces?"

"Sure can. Happy to help," Art says with a grin. "I'd recommend starting at the local coffee place. I know Mr. Kramner talked to the owners."

"Lead the way," Yvonne says.

--

Wednesday -- April 8, 2020: Two Days Before

-Chase Kramner-

The Morts refuse to give me a ride to the Sheriff, so I take my backpack with my one change of clothes, files, and notes, and I limp down the road cursing. My concealed carry is chaffing my leg something fierce. A good hour later, Sheriff Arthur Knight looks at me from his desk after I'm directed to him by a deputy named Randall. The Sheriff is an older man with a shiny bald head but can still play with the young bucks. Trophies from his youth suggest he was an accomplished wrestler in college up to the collegiate level. Also a hunter when I see other pictures with game kills.

"Can I help you?" he asks. Arthur interlocks his fingers and puts his elbows down on the desktop. I must look like a sweaty and disgruntled pile of shit at this point.

"Chase Kramner, private investigator," I say. He notices my struggle to get to his desk for the handshake.

"Iraq or Afghanistan," he asks when he sees the leg.

"Neither. Lost it during my time as a police officer," I say. He holds up his cane, letting me know he likewise has mobility issues.

"One of my old deputies accidently discharged into my leg cleaning his weapon. He's not employed anymore. Not important. Glad to help a former officer regardless," he says. "Why's a PI in my township?"

"I came to town to talk with Mort about a stolen car and its driver from ten years ago. Now I'm stranded," I say.

"Let me guess; you hit that pothole at exit four?" he asks, and I nod. "Motherfuckers. I know Morton and his son keep digging the hole, I just can't catch them. I've set up cameras, everything. Elusive little shits. Sorry about that." I had a feeling that's what was going on.

"I was on my way to upstate New York to interview the father of the driver who went missing over ten years ago. I know she got stranded in town because the car she took was reported stolen by the Good Knight," I say. At that moment, the name clicks. Sheriff Knight. "Related?"

"Unfortunately. They're my cousins."

"Sorry to hear that," I joke, and he smiles. "This girl was here, so this is officially her last known whereabouts. He wouldn't let me keep the photo, but I took a picture on my phone," I say, pulling my phone from my pocket and opening the picture. I also place down the picture of her I already had to show it's the same person. "Katie Grossman. Disappeared July 2009."

"Cute girl," he says.

"Cute enough to remember?" I ask.

"I was still married in o'nine."

"They don't stop being pretty just because you're married," I say, and he laughs. "My wife is plenty gorgeous, and I still get slapped for looking now and again."

"I believe you. So was mine. Too pretty for me though," he says. "Irish redhead with a black ass. Always wanted to take my stepdaughter hunting, but never got the chance before we got divorced. Real shame."

"Mine's half Asian," I say.

"Damn. I bet that pussy tastes like pineapple," he says. That veered into a level of awkward I wasn't ready for. "This girl was in town but must have been behaved because I don't remember her. Ten years ago. Not a whole lot to work with."

"More than I had a few hours ago," I say, and he nods in understanding. "Mort Senior is sitting on records I could use to answer a few questions. If she drove out of town, it means they fixed her car. That means receipts."

"Depends on the business practices, I doubt he keeps receipts that far. Something tells me a guy who is willing to dig holes to bring business, is also doing some fishy shit with his receipts. Mort doesn't keep any loaners on purpose. Forces people to stay in town at the bed & breakfast which just so happens to be owned by his sister."

"The coincidences are astounding," I say sarcastically. Arthur seems to be genuinely annoyed at his cousin, and I might be able to use that. "Can you help?"

"I'll take a shot at Mort. Not the first time I've had to. What's her name again?" he asks.

"Katie Grossman. Driving a Buick Skylark. She'd have been here in July 2009," I say.

"I'll see what I can get out of him. I'd recommend going to the B&B, rest up. Head down this street, take a left on Lac...you don't have a car," he says, and calls a deputy named Lionel into the office. "Get a car ready. The B&B is called Whisper Lake Lodge, named because it's near Lake Mur. Shocking, I know. It's one of the oldest buildings in the town. You'll be looking for Morgan or her boy Lance. They run the place. Get settled in, we can reconvene in the morning."

"Sounds like a plan," I say.

"For my own SA, are you strapped?" he asks, SA meaning situational awareness.

"Want to see my CC?" Conceal carry license. "It has state reciprocity."

"Nah. You'd look out of place not armed around here. You ain't supposed to bring it in a police station but seeing how you don't have a car to put it in, I'll let it slide," he says, not even asking to see if I can legally carry my gun. I guess he figures I wouldn't be that stupid.

I don't know if I can trust him to do anything for me, but I don't really have a choice. Considering how easily he dimed out his cousin on the pothole matter, I imagine there isn't much love lost between the two men. For now, Sheriff Knight will handle the Morts, and I'll head down to the B&B.

--

Deputy Lionel is my personal driver for the time being. He's young, quiet, and appears annoyed to be a babysitter. Slick black hair with long bangs almost touching his chin. Structurally impressive with biceps so large it looks somewhat difficult for him to steer the car. Maybe he took up wrestling like the Sheriff.

Lac street is over two miles long and dead ends at the Whisper Lake Lodge. I have noticed many of the names in the town are French. Foret being forest or woods, Lac being lake. Even mur is likely short for murmur, which is rooted in French for whisper. Lake Whisper in the Whisper Woods.

Lionel pulls us to a gravel parking lot at the dead end. Signage directs foot traffic down a paved path to the lodge. Only one vehicle is parked when we arrive: an older SUV with handicap plates.

"Lance had an accident years ago. Lower spine injury. He's confined to a wheelchair," Lionel says when he spots me checking out the plate on the SUV. "Feel free to ask him, he's a good sport."

Lionel says he'll pick me up in the morning, and I walk up the path to the lodge alone with my bag. It's a good quarter mile before the lodge is even visible. The path crests at a hill and on the other side is the lake and the lodge. Once I get up the hill, I have to stretch my right leg because I was compensating for my lack of a left leg. While I loosen my muscle, I gaze down at the lodge.

Historically for me, a lodge is a ski resort in Vermont or New Hampshire. It has lifts to the mountain peak, a massive lodge with a log cabin aesthetic and private bungalows that can comfortably house five people. That is not this place. While nice to look at, it's a humble lodge that can maybe shelter ten guests at a time. I can see a few houses with private docks at different points around the lake, but it doesn't seem like the Lodge has its own in walking distance. The trees are a combination of deciduous and evergreen, lush and green. The wildlife is loud in every direction; birds, bugs, and whatever is making the bushes rattle.

"Not bad," I say, and continue to down the hill.

The front of the lodge is two heavy wooden doors. I readjust my footing to pull it open. I take a step inside and almost immediately flinch back when I look to my left and see a stuffed black bear. More taxidermy decorates the space, including the mounted head of a seven-point buck and a boar. Part of the hallway on the second floor is a balcony overlooking the atrium.