Whitefish, Montana
The Whitefish Police Department consisted of ten patrol officers, a few sergeants and lieutenants, the assistant chief and the chief of police, Buddy Grimes, a gruff old guy with a beard who had spent most of his time in Army military police and as a Montana State Trooper before ‘retiring’ to sleepy Whitefish, where nothing much happened.
During the past dozen or so hours, Professor James Tramil had heard nearly every story the police chief could summon from his many years in law enforcement. Tramil thought the guy had a special place in his heart for his time in the Army. It took Tramil a couple of hours to convince Chief Grimes that he wasn’t a dirtbag. That he wasn’t trying to have sex with another man in the Amtrak bathroom. That the man had held a knife to his throat and had actually drawn a little blood. And that this same man had killed his friend and colleague back in Corvallis, Oregon. Once the chief confirmed his story, sort of, with the Oregon State University campus police and the Corvallis police, the man had calmed down some and started in with the story telling.
Part of Tramil wished he was still inside the small holding cell like the first few hours in custody. Somehow he’d felt safer in there. Also, the chief wouldn’t be recycling some of the same stories.
Now, ten p.m. quickly approaching, Tramil sat at a small table in the main area of the small police department building.
The police chief was on the phone again with Amtrak authorities. They had searched the train many times for the mysterious man, first as it sat at the Whitefish terminal, and then a few more times as it traveled east toward Minnesota.
Chief Grimes set the phone back down and said, “Still haven’t found the man. He’s like a ghost. One of the passengers admitted to taking a picture of the man. We should get that by e-mail in a short while. You mentioned he looked like a 50s throwback, with a buzz cut and horned rimmed glasses. You want some more coffee? I could make a fresh pot.”
“No, thanks,” Tramil said. “I’ll be up all night as it is.” In fact, he wasn’t even sure where he would stay this night.
The chief of police shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go. Your story checks out. We’ve got no reason to hold you.”
Tramil didn’t think he was really being held. He was there more for his own protection from the killer. “Where do I go from here?”
“I don’t know. Back to Oregon.”
A young patrol officer approached cautiously, like a coyote sneaking up on a bear over an elk kill. “Sir, you have a call on line one.”
“Thanks, Johnny.” The chief picked up the phone and listened, his posture changing from somewhat slouched to nearly military attention. “We have no reason to hold him.” His eyes shifted toward Tramil. “Yes, ma’am. Will do. Is there anything else I can do for you?” He tightened his jaw, said goodbye, and then hung up the phone. Then he scratched his beard, a confused look on his weathered face.
“Everything all right?” Tramil asked.
“Don’t know. Our congresswoman from Montana will be here in the morning. She wants to talk with you about something. Very strange. What have you done?”
“Nothing,” Tramil said. “What does she want with me?”
“I have no clue. I told her we have no reason to hold you. She said to put you up in a hotel. It’s too late for you to go anywhere tonight anyway. You have no car. There are no more flights out of Kalispell this evening. And the next Amtrak train to come by will be tomorrow’s eastbound Empire Builder.” He checked his watch. “The westbound train just left about a half hour ago. There’s a nice old western historic hotel a couple blocks from here. They also make a great breakfast.”
Tramil didn’t really have a choice. He could decide in the morning where he would go next. “All right,” he agreed.
Just as Tramil stood to leave, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, a man came through the front door of the small police department office. Before Tramil could speak any warning, the man pulled a gun and shot the young patrol officer. Police Chief Grimes barely got his gun out of its holster when a shot blew through his shoulder and sent blood spray onto Tramil. Both police officers crashed to the floor as the man with the gun, the same man who had threatened Tramil on the train and killed his friend, moved around the police officer and picked up their guns and extra magazines, shoving them into his jacket pockets.
The man pointed the gun right at Tramil’s head and said, “My patience is really starting to run out with you. If they didn’t want you alive, you’d be bleeding out like these two. Let’s go.” He grasped Tramil by the collar and hauled him out the door into the cold Montana night.