Emmaline Parens greeted us without surprise.
She proved her grasp of our motivation — and the efficiency of the county grapevine — when she escorted us into the front room of her small, tidy house. This room’s walls were lined with Cottonwood County history and school photos, floor to ceiling.
“We came from the grazing association,” I said, mostly to relieve her of the burden of starting the topic.
“Of course.” She picked up the pointer that never failed to make Mike nervous, even though she focused on me now. “You are familiar with the history of Rock Springs, are you not?”
That came out of left field.
“Which Rock Springs?” I doubted Mrs. P would mention one outside of Wyoming, but surely others around the country made it a reasonable question while I tried to figure out what this had to do with a man being killed at the grazing association this morning.
“Rock Springs, Wyoming. It is in the southern part of the state, along I-80, and in the western third. Here.” Her pointer connected with a spot on a large wall map.
Oh, that Rock Springs.
I had nothing.
Ripping off the bandage, I shook my head. “Not familiar with its history at all.”
A faint groan came from the direction of Jennifer at this open invitation to Mrs. P.
“From its founding and beyond, Rock Springs, Wyoming, boomed with railroads and mining, as did, indeed, much of the state.”
“Rock Springs has another claim to fame,” Mike said. “Before he became a famous outlaw, Butch Cassidy worked there as a butcher — that’s how he got the nickname. Butch. Butcher. Get it?”
“Got it.”
Mrs. P corrected him. “That is possibly how he attained that nickname before becoming an infamous outlaw. More pertinent to its history as a community, Rock Springs was the site of a mob attack on Chinese miners in 1885, in which nearly thirty were killed, while their homes and businesses were looted and burned.”
“The Rock Springs Massacre.” Jennifer appeared surprised she remembered that.
Mrs. P nodded once at her former student, remaining solemn. “A deplorable example of striking out at a minority in times of stress. However, it is more recent events that prompted me to ask if you are aware of Rock Springs’ history, Elizabeth. In the late 1970s, another boom and its attendant ills took hold of the town. In this instance it was oil. Corruption and illicit activities formed the greater part of the town’s reputation in that period. In 1978, the head of law enforcement shot one of his undercover officers in the head while they were in a car with two other officers.”
“An officer was shot by his supervisor? With two more officers right there? Holy—” I bit it off. Holy moly wouldn’t do the circumstances justice and Mrs. P would object to anything stronger.
“It was all over the news,” Mike said. “Washington Post, 60 Minutes, New York Times. You should’ve seen all the coverage.”
“Now you remember all this?”
He was unabashed by my accusatory question. “It was well before my time. I did a project on it in high school.”
As if that excused him.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Parens said, “Michael produced a colorful project, albeit one that called for greater care in separating verifiable information from sensationalistic speculation. The head of law enforcement was tried for murder. His defense maintained the dead officer had been reaching for his gun and thus the defendant shot in self-defense. The jury acquitted him, perhaps on the basis that he was an extraordinarily fast draw and thus able to draw, shoot, and kill the other officer, whose hand was not on his own gun.”
Whoa. Self-defense when the other guy didn’t have a hand on a gun? Mrs. Parens’ historical references seldom slid into boring, but this might be the best yet.
Still, I tried to keep my head on the current case.
“What does this have to do with—? Was Norman Clay Lukasik involved in the case—?”
“He was not,” Mrs. Parens said even before the math in my head sorted dates and ballpark ages. “What prompted that question?”
“Association, I supposed. Sounds like the kind of case he’d defend and he was at the grazing association. Said today’s victim was his employee. Foreman.”
“I cannot provide any corroboration, though neither can I envision a reason for him to be untruthful on that point. I can, however, share with you other background if you are interested.”
Chastised for wandering from her lesson plan, I responded with a heartfelt, “Absolutely.”
“Norman Clay Lukasik was involved with a case in O’Hara Hill approximately thirty years ago that stirred comparisons, especially as to the level of sensationalism, with Rock Springs.”
“O’Hara Hill? But it’s…” Tiny. Sleepy. Boring. I decided against any of those. “So peaceful.”
“It was, indeed, peaceful before that period. And it is again. It was not at that particular time. Have you wondered why O’Hara Hill warranted a sheriff’s department substation?”
That was where Mike’s Aunt Gee reigned as head dispatcher, with deputies rotating through on temporary assignment from the main office in Sherman, both to learn this part of the county and to be schooled by Gisella Decker.
She ruled the substation so absolutely, I’d never given the reason for its existence a thought. It was like gravity. It operated smoothly without needing to think about it.
“Because it’s the second largest town in the county?”
“That might be the explanation people now would like to present.” A glance in the direction of Aunt Gee’s house intimated one of the people she referred to. “However, at the time the substation was established, it was because O’Hara Hill was known as the Rock Springs of Northern Wyoming. Also, our town temporarily had a larger population than Sherman. It shrank after the promised oil was found to be both less plentiful and less accessible than early speculators believed.”
“There’s oil near O’Hara Hill?”
“West of town,” Mike said.
Since west of town essentially meant the Absaroka Range of the Rocky Mountains, I understood the accessibility issue.
“As you study Wyoming history since its formation as a territory—” Mrs. Parens’ gaze moved across each of her former students before resting on me. “—you will recognize a pattern of boom and bust that has endured into the present. The cycle affects cattle ranching, although not as dramatically as it does mining and oil production, including the sharp decline in coal leading to near ghost towns in parts of our state.
“O’Hara Hill is fortunate to have avoided that fate. It was not clear at all that it would. The boom brought on by oil speculation swept over us with the force of a tsunami. As with a tsunami, the immediate effects are dramatic, however, the aftereffects can be more enduring and detrimental. When the boom busted — or in my tsunami metaphor, the waters receded — debris, destruction, and devastation remained for years.
“However, I recognize from your restlessness—” Unfair. I’d moved on the chair. No fidgeting at all. “—that you are eager to connect these happenings to the current matter drawing your attention.”
On the other hand, her unfair accusation opened an opportunity to hurry this along… “Tamantha is staying with me — well, with the Undlins right now — while Tom talks to Sergeant Shelton.”
Grimness slid into Mrs. P’s expression. “Is Sergeant Shelton talking with Thomas as the equivalent of the earlier phrase used by the British that a person was helping the authorities with their enquiries?”
Jennifer sat up. “What does that mean? They say that in old movies when it’s clear they suspect the heck out of the guy. It wasn’t at all the way we help the sheriff’s department with their investigations.”
“They wouldn’t say we help,” Diana muttered.
“It’s a euphemism,” Mike told Jennifer. “They used it when they were questioning somebody, but weren’t ready to arrest him yet.”
Jennifer swiveled to me. “They’re going to arrest Tom?”
“No.” I said it with absolute certainty, built on a foundation of doubt and fear.
Irrational doubt and fear.
Pretty sure it was irrational.
Just because the previous hierarchy of the Cottonwood County Sheriff’s Department had demonstrated its ability to have its head where it did not anatomically belong for extended periods of time did not mean this one would.
I hoped.
I glanced at Diana, probably for reassurance that Sheriff Russ Conrad would never do such a thing, since she knew him so much better than the rest of us.
She didn’t meet my look.
Not reassuring.
“Thomas shall not be arrested,” Mrs. P proclaimed. I wished Shelton and Conrad were subject to her declarations. Throw in the county attorney, too. “However, I now have a clearer understanding of your impatience.”
She straightened her already erect posture and went into teaching mode … which wasn’t all that different from her other modes.
“Under the influence of rampant oil speculation, O’Hara Hill erupted into a landscape of rapidly constructed buildings best called shanties. Their redeeming quality was that when the bust followed, they proved relatively easy to dismantle and nature has largely covered their scars. These shanties housed offices, shops, restaurants, bars, and other establishments. Workers drawn by the lure of employment took accommodations in their vehicles, tents, at times on the streets, though that, most often, was as a result of their consumption of alcohol or drugs.
“As you likely can imagine, most of this influx of population was male. In addition, a number of females arrived who provided entertainment of various sorts, some public and some private. A much smaller number of females came as office employees of the more stable companies drawn by the speculation. This last group had the most difficulty acquiring suitable housing. While their bosses could afford the exorbitant rents being charged by our townspeople, these office workers’ pay was insufficient for that. Some rented as far away as Sherman or even Red Lodge, then joined together for the drive here each day, with all the inconveniences such a car-pooling arrangement can inflict for those expected to work as long as their bosses considered necessary.
“Through attendance at our local churches, a few found rooms with families who would not otherwise have considered opening their homes to strangers, even with the inducement of rent.”
“Aunt Gee,” Mike said, frowning. “I remember hearing something…”
“Yes. At that time, Gisella had recently been widowed. She rented a room to a fine young woman in a mutually beneficial arrangement. Leah Pedroke provided Gisella with company, for they were quite compatible, as well as extra income as she prepared to provide for herself.”
Uncharacteristically, Mrs. P paused, appearing caught in memories the rest of us did not share.
“On a Saturday in late August, Leah called to tell Gisella that she had to work late and would miss supper. When she had not returned home by midnight, Gisella called the office. No one answered. Gisella knew where the supervisor of that office rented a room and called there. He said they had dinner brought in and worked steadily until Leah left at ten-thirty, shortly before he did. Now deeply concerned, Gisella called the sheriff’s department in Sherman.
“She also contacted several of us in the area. We all hurriedly dressed and searched the route Leah normally walked to and from the office. We were joined by the supervisor, Mr. Erwin, and others among the companies’ managers. We found no sign of her.
“By the time the sheriff’s department vehicle arrived, it was nearly dawn. The bars were officially required to close hours before that, however, with no law enforcement on hand, they frequently shifted to what they termed private parties, generally in the back rooms of the same establishments.
“The largest of such circumventions of the law was concluding, with the inebriated participants exiting into an area we were searching. Expressing their willingness to help and ignoring all pleas not to, they trampled any effort at organization, as well as any potential evidence.”
She drew in a breath.
“An hour later, Leah Pedroke was found in high weeds between the back of that establishment and another. She had been raped and strangled.”
It wasn’t a complete surprise. From Mrs. P’s demeanor and tone, this story had been destined for an unhappy ending.
It clearly still hit Emmaline Parens hard.
Hard to imagine Aunt Gee’s reaction.
Mrs. P drew in a breath, then released it slowly.
“Her murder became a cause célèbre. It provided media outlets obvious and colorful angles for their reportage. It was during this period, to facilitate the investigation, that the sheriff’s department opened the substation.” She couldn’t resist slipping in that fact of county history.
“Last one to see her,” Mike murmured. “Story about working late.”
“Indeed, they investigated her supervisor quite carefully. However, two other young women had seen Leah leave, waving to them as she passed by the open door of their office next door. Shortly after, these same young women gave that supervisor, Mr. Erwin, a ride to the most popular bar as they left for their housing in Sherman. Numerous witnesses stated the supervisor had one drink, then left in the company of two other men renting rooms in the same house. As those three entered the rental, they encountered the owner of the house next door, searching for an errant dog. That homeowner had lived his whole live in O’Hara Hill, had no connection with the supervisor or with the oil companies. He attested to the supervisor’s whereabouts until shortly before Gisella’s phone call to him.”
“The investigation stalled?”
“Not at all. The sheriff’s department found their suspect quickly. A young man originally from Texas who had come here seeking employment in oil. He had been in that bar drinking much of the day. He left shortly before the time Leah left her office. He returned some time after eleven o’clock and before midnight. He rapidly drank himself to near insensibility. Multiple witnesses described him on his return to the bar as disheveled, buttons missing from his shirt, and marks on his face.
“A button of the same size, color, and form as those on his shirt was found near Leah’s body. The marks on his face matched a ring she wore. In addition, two witnesses said he had worn a belt with his jeans before his absence from the bar. He did not have one on after.”
“DNA?”
Mrs. P’s mouth pursed slightly. “It was not as prevalent at that time. Further, the sheriff’s department did not preserve the crime scene, nor did it collect evidence as it should have.” The lines in her face deepened. “After the trial, I understand the department destroyed what evidence it did gather.”
I interrupted in surprise. “They can’t do that. They have to wait for the appeals.”
“The issue of appeals did not apply in this case. The defendant was found not guilty. That defendant was Furman York.”