The Devil's bed

chapter
fifteen

The fax came through a little before 9:00P.M. Deputy Williams from the Washington County Sheriff’s Department had moved quickly on Bo’s request. Luther Gallagher had no criminal record. He was employed as an attendant at the Minnesota State Security Hospital in St. Peter, and the photograph on his hospital ID card was included. Bo only had to glance at the photo to see that it wasn’t Max Ableman. Gallagher had a large square face and a bald head that reminded Bo of a professional wrestler. The presence of Gallagher’s pickup truck at the motor court probably had nothing to do with Ableman.

Camera eight, mounted on the north side of the main house, went dead as Bo was studying the fax. He left the Op Center to check it out. A squirrel lay on the ground directly beneath the camera, stunned but not dead. It had happened before. For God knew what reason, the squirrels liked to chew on the camera cables. When they bit through the insulation, they shorted out the connection and zapped themselves in the process. He’d suggested to the Jorgensons that something be done to get rid of the squirrels, but they rejected the idea. The squirrels, Annie pointed out, were there long before the Jorgensons. Bo radioed to the Op Center and said he’d fix the cable himself. He spent half an hour installing new wire. In the meantime, the squirrel staggered to its feet and stumbled off into the orchard.

Bo had just finished and was folding up the ladder when Diana Ishimaru drove up and parked in front of the guesthouse. Jake Russell followed in his own car. Bo hung the ladder in the barn, then headed to the Op Center, where he found his boss, Manning, and Russell in conference.

“A change of plan, Bo,” Ishimaru said when he joined them. “I’m pulling you off Wildwood. Agent Russell will be assuming responsibility for the Op Center.”

“Why?” Bo asked.

“I’m reassigning you.”

“To what?”

“Investigating Tom Jorgenson’s accident.”

Bo glanced at Manning, who gave no sign of how he felt about this turn of events. “I thought we’d agreed that wasn’t our jurisdiction.”

Ishimaru replied, “When the director of the United States Secret Service calls us personally and gives an order, we find a way to make it our jurisdiction.”

Bo thought about Annie’s final comment as he left the main house late that afternoon: You don’t know Kate. It was true. He didn’t know Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon. But he was beginning to.

“While the First Lady is at Wildwood, any concern regarding Tom Jorgenson’s safety is to be viewed as a concern that involves the First Lady’s safety as well.”

“When do I start?” Bo asked.

“Immediately.”

Russell offered his hand. “Good luck, Bo.”

“Thanks.” Bo flashed Manning a brief smile. “Looks like you got your wish, Chris. I’m out of here.”

“Looks like you got yours, too,” Manning said.

Bo gathered his things. Diana Ishimaru accompanied him to his car.

“Are you okay with this, Bo?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be working with Sheriff Quinn-Gruber. He’s been notified. If any jurisdictional disputes arise, direct them to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It was almost dark. The yard light was on. Ishimaru stood near Bo, and she shook her head. “I don’t like this feeling that I’m authorizing a wild goose chase.”

“Things don’t add up, Diana. Somebody should be finding out why.”

She took a deep breath of resignation. “Keep me posted,” she said as she turned to her car.

Bo went directly from Wildwood to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center. It was 10:30P.M., and a security guard was locking the front doors. Bo flashed his Secret Service ID and was allowed to enter. The guard relocked the doors behind him.

“The First Lady’s not coming tonight, is she?” the guard asked. His name badge read: H. BLOCK.

“No. I’m checking on another matter. Mind if I head down to the laundry?”

“Be my guest. I’m closing up shop here and going down to the E.R. station. If you need me, that’s where I’ll be. My partner’s finishing his rounds.”

Bo took the elevator to the basement and followed the tunnel to the laundry building. The lights were on, but the laundry was deserted. Bo remembered that Ableman made a final trip to gather soiled linen near the end of the shift, so he waited. The laundry seemed a harsh place. The machines were huge, and the fluorescent lights glinted off the metal with a sterile gleam. The linen-folding tables were empty. They reminded Bo of rows of autopsy tables. The ceilings were high and full of pipes. The whole place had a cold industrial feel.

The laundry elevator began to climb from the basement. Bo waited. But it wasn’t Ableman pushing the cart that emerged. This man was older and heavier. He stooped in his labor, and he eyed Bo with a sour look. “Who’re you? What’re you doing here?”

Bo offered his ID. “I’m looking for Max Ableman.”

“Makes two of us.” The man pushed the cart past Bo.

“I thought he worked evenings,” Bo said, following.

“I thought so, too. Guess maybe he thinks different. Didn’t show, didn’t call. If I didn’t need him so bad, I’d fire his ass.” He positioned the cart between two big washers.

“Did you try calling him?”

“Hell, yes. No answer.” He was wearing yellow rubber gloves, and he began to reach into the cart and sort out linen into different machines. Some of it was blue surgical linen heavily bloodstained and still wet. Some of it was bedding, badly soiled. The strong smell of blood and human waste rose from the cart, and Bo could understand why the job was a hard one to hire for and to keep filled.

“Has he pulled this kind of stunt before?” Bo asked.

“He was good for the first month. Lately, he’s called in sick a lot. And tonight he didn’t call at all.” He looked with disgust at the linen in his hands. “Christ, I hate covering for these worthless jokers.”

Bo left the hospital and headed to the Bayport Court. Several cars were parked in the lot, but the old Chevy pickup wasn’t there. Room ten was dark. Bo knocked on the door and got no answer. He walked to the office. The hour was late, but the desk was still occupied. He was surprised by the desk clerk he found on duty. The kid looked to be no more than eighteen, and wore a white Stillwater High football jersey, number 7. There was innocence in his blue eyes and the natural blush of youth and health in his cheeks. He’d been watching a rerun ofSaturday Night Liveon Comedy Central, but he stood up as soon as Bo walked in, and he stepped attentively to the desk.

“You in charge?” Bo asked.

“Yes, sir. Need a room?”

“No thanks.” Bo looked him over, then impressed the kid with his Secret Service ID. “You work here?”

“Not really. My uncle owns it. During the summer, he likes to spend time at his cabin up in Wisconsin, so I help out. I get a little extra money toward tuition, and a hell of an education.” The kid smiled wide, white teeth in a face that could have done milk commercials.

“I’m interested in the man renting number ten. Have you seen him this evening?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Sure. See him head off to work in the afternoon. Don’t see him very often when he comes back. It’s usually pretty late. Times I’ve seen him he’s been covered with dirt. I figure he must work construction somewhere. Maybe roadwork they got going at night, you know.”

“You haven’t seen him today?”

“No, sir.”

Bo glanced back at the lighted walkway that ran in front of the rooms the length of the court. “I’d like to see his room.”

“I don’t know-” the kid began.

“I can have a warrant in a couple of hours, but I’d prefer to see the room sooner. It may well be an issue of national security, son.”

The kid caved easily. He reached into a drawer and drew out a key. “It’ll open every door.”

“Thanks.” Bo started away but turned back and asked, “What does he drive?”

“An old pickup. Green, I think.”

“Hang on a minute,” Bo said. He went to his car, got the faxed photo of Luther Gallagher, and brought it back into the office. “Have you ever seen this man before?”

“No.”

“Never in the company of the man in number ten?”

“No. But then, I’m not here that much.”

Bo unlocked the door of Max Ableman’s room, stepped in, and turned on the light. It looked as if no one had ever been there. The bed was neatly made. Through the opened doorway to the bathroom, Bo saw that the towels hung perfectly folded. He walked to the closet. Empty. He went to his car and punched in Diana Ishimaru’s home phone number. She answered, sounding groggy from sleep.

“Diana, this is Bo. I need a fingerprint technician. Now.”