Murder in the Capitol

By Michael Foster

Newspaper reporter Bill Razer arrives very early at the state Capitol on a below-zero winter morning. A few minutes later, he is shot dead while preparing to write a scathing column aimed at hapless Governor Phillip Newman and legislative leaders. When no helpful clues surface, Sheriff Frank Himberger enlists former ace detective Jack Rogers, who has been on a self-imposed sabbatical due to the tragic loss of his wife eight months earlier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9780996083201

Michael Foster

Michael Foster was born on June 3, 1982, on Williams Air Force Base in Chandler, Arizona. Michael comes from a family with a long history of active military service. He was raised in Arizona and New Mexico, and as a teenager was a third-degree black belt karate tournament fighter and kata sportsman. He went on to college in Orlando, Florida, and he graduated with a degree in X-Ray Technology.He returned to New Mexico to pursue a higher degree, but he felt the calling to serve his country and enlisted in the United States Army, specifically the Mortuary Affairs service, in January of 2006. Michael received his training in Mortuary Affairs at Fort Lee, Virginia, and was deployed to Iraq in May 2008. He finished his tour of duty in Iraq despite the physical injuries he incurred, as his focus was to remain to do his duty for the fallen soldiers and to their families.In December of 2008, Michael returned to Fort Lee, Virginia, with plans to become a Sergeant, but his injuries were too severe and he was medically retired from the Army in November 2009. Specifically, he has a traumatic brain injury, PTSD, and back and neck injuries. He now resides in Melbourne, Florida, with primary custody of his daughter. He is still in an ongoing treatment process for his injuries and enjoys his time as a parent.

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Chapter 1

As Bill Razer walked up to Montana’s Capitol building, he hesitated a moment and pondered his life’s journey that had started in a small town north of Helena, meandered through journalism school at the University of Montana in Missoula, and culminated with his current position of junior reporter covering the Capitol beat for the United Syndicated Press. He had taken good advantage of his writing skills, his family connections in local media, and the great opportunities that Montana generally provides for its citizens.

Yes, after his boss and mentor Cap Zimmerman retires shortly after the end of the current legislative session, Bill Razer will step into some very big shoes and in the process be set up very nicely to establish his own legacy as one of Montana’s ace veteran reporters.

As Razer inhaled a breath of beyond brisk January air in the early morning darkness, he glanced up at the Capitol’s lighted copper dome and then the snow-covered evergreens before opening the southeast door used predominantly by legislative and governor staff members. He thought of the column he was working on, smiled, and quietly commented to a nearby blanketed bush, Life is very good. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

It was also the last day of Bill Razer’s life.

As he started up the three flights of stairs to head to his office, he mused that big-time state officials were wary of his pen and often called to complain that he was unfair and negative. He had written news stories about politicians and high level bureaucrats for sixteen years and always enjoyed watching them cringe and huff as he twisted their phrases, probed their closets, and magnified mole hills. He was persistent, witty, cynical, and talented. What he lacked in good looks and good manners, he compensated with determination and hard work.

His daily stories hit hard, and his weekly column, ‘The Razer’s Edge,’ was even tougher. It was widely read and generally recognized in political circles as the place elected and high-ranking government officials didn’t want to see their names. Especially during a legislative session, Bill had plenty of material to scorch unsuspecting politicians.

He relished his role and reputation as the meanest and nastiest reporter in the Capitol. And he did it with style. As a kid, his proverbial tattletale personality led him to be the target of verbal and physical attacks during recess. As an adult, he struck back by constantly poking sharp sticks at Montana’s leaders. Little wonder he had never married.

Even though it was only the second week of the legislative session, Bill already was working on an intriguing story involving a tiff between Governor Phillip Newman and Senate President Drake Bradford. Both Republicans had made some acerbic comments in public about each other’s political acumen, and it was time for ‘The Razer’s Edge’ to have some fun with them.

After walking into his Capitol office on the third floor and flipping on the light, Bill shed his heavy coat and stretched his arms toward the ceiling before settling into a session of sitting in front of his computer. He drew a deep breath and leaned toward the screen as it came to life.

While starting to tap the keys for the first paragraph of his column, he chuckled softly to himself and then suddenly stopped when he heard a strange sound. He wasn’t used to hearing any human movements near his office this close to 6:30 a.m. He liked to get there early, long before the old man showed up to take center stage.

He swiveled his seat toward the door, opened his mouth in disbelief, and then snapped back against his chair as the impact of the bullet slammed into his forehead.

The promising career and relatively short life of Bill Razer had abruptly ended.

Chapter 2

As Governor Phillip Newman entered the back door of the Mansion, his wife called from the kitchen, Is that you, Phil?

Aloud he managed, Yes, Dear. But his face contorted into a frown and he muttered under his breath, Oh, crap! She’s up already. He nervously pulled the pistol from his pocket and in a panic quickly hid it behind some spray bottles for killing weeds on the middle shelf between the freezer and garage door.

Where have you been? When I got up this morning, you were gone without a hint of where you were headed. I figured you had either gone to the Capitol or had an early morning breakfast meeting somewhere, but I didn’t know. You really should tell me these things. What if I needed you or if something bad happened to you? As Martha finished her last sentence, her husband walked into the kitchen.

Montana’s governor had come from humble beginnings and had been the political beneficiary of term limits and a weak Democrat candidate who ran a flawed campaign. When term limits kicked in, the seasoned veteran Republican front-runners, mostly legislators, were too burned out to think about running for governor, and the remaining Republican hopefuls were either too inexperienced to make a run for the state’s highest office or were focused on filling the gaps caused by the sudden departure of long-time legislative leaders.

Newman’s roots were in the small northeastern farming town of Malta where he had been lucky enough to be a role player on his state championship high school basketball team. The Mighty Malta Mustangs were a dominant force in small-town Montana basketball, and Phil Newman rode the coattails of his talented teammates.

At a height of slightly over six feet, he was tall enough to earn a spot on the team as a sometimes starter, but was not talented enough to draw much attention from his coach, the fans, or the cheerleaders. Nonetheless, his engraved name appeared as large as anyone else’s on the championship trophy, and it didn’t take him long to figure out on the campaign trail that references to his hard work as a member of a state championship basketball team often earned a positive response from crowds of voters, especially people living along the basketball-crazy corridor along U.S. Highway 2 near the Canadian border, commonly referenced as the Hi-Line.

His parents saved enough money running their small grocery store and gift shop that they were able to send their oldest son to Northern Montana College in Havre to get an education beyond high school. In his freshman English class, Phil met a pretty young blonde named Martha Turglerson, who he was delighted to learn was a native of a tiny town named Saco, which was only a few miles down the road from Malta.

They were two small-town kids who felt very comfortable with each other. Newman wasn’t the most handsome guy on campus with his somewhat large nose and rat-brown hair that looked suspiciously like it was thinning. However, he was very friendly with everyone and had a lot more ambition to be someone important and successful than his appearance indicated.

Martha earned good grades, was attractive, and even popular though not outgoing. She loved her Phil because he was good to her and nice and not threatening like most of the football players on campus who paid her much more attention than she desired. Quite frankly, despite their good looks and manly muscles, the athletes frightened her with their loud, often obscene talk and boorish behavior.

She was shocked at the way five of the football players had laughed and bragged about taking turns having sex with Martha’s inebriated roommate after a spring beer keg party. The animals had feigned concern for the co-ed’s well-being by giving her a ride back to the dorm before her friends had realized she was gone. The wolves had found a tasty morsel who would succumb to their sick desires one way or the other.

The carload had made a fateful stop along the way that would give the jerks a story to laugh about at all their class reunions for decades to come and would indelibly stain the reputation and self-esteem of an otherwise nice young lady. Of course, no rape charges were filed because Martha’s roommate was too ashamed of the incident to make it a public matter, and the truth was she really didn’t remember much about it anyway since she had passed out five minutes after staggering into the all-conference linebacker’s back seat.

No, Martha much preferred her seemingly ordinary Phil who steadily worked toward a degree and showed almost undetectable signs that he had potential to do something special in his life. Not even Martha, however, suspected that he would someday be governor.

They were inseparable by the end of their freshman year at NMC and were wed the summer between their junior and senior years. They both earned teaching degrees and after graduation began the circuit of teaching together in the small central Montana towns of Stanford, Grass Range, and Denton.

When they were both 39 years old, Phil’s mother called to break the news that her husband had had a stroke. Three weeks later it was apparent Phil’s father would survive and recover pretty well, but he could no longer run the store.

Coincidentally, a 4th grade teaching job was available in the Malta Elementary School and thus began a new and important chapter in the lives of Phillip and Martha Newman. Phil bought his parents’ business and Martha was hired by the school district. Their children – two sons – would now graduate from Malta High School as Mighty Mustangs, which made Phil very proud, and Martha would easily be able to visit her own family in Saco.

As a businessman, Phil was exposed to adults from a totally different perspective than as the parents of high school students taking his U.S. history course. He eventually spent almost every early morning having coffee with a group of farmers, ranchers, and businessmen. Instead of homework assignments and test scores, they talked about tax reform and political races.

Over the course of a few years, Phil transformed from a dedicated teacher focused on educating students to a community leader concerned about the political direction of his hometown, his state, and even his nation. In a relatively short time, he was attending Republican Lincoln Day Dinners and becoming a Republican Central Committee member.

He got to know his area state legislators, and became the county finance chair for Montana’s Republican U.S. Senator. His local political prominence rose quickly, and his connections with Republican elected officials strengthened over the years.

Phil enjoyed the world of politics very much and liked the sense of power he felt whenever he rubbed elbows with local legislators or statewide elected officials who were passing through Malta to make contact with some grass roots supporters.

Eventually, Phil started believing their thinly veiled patronizing encouragement that he should someday run for office. Of course, they were mostly interested in Phil’s ability to host fundraisers and put up campaign yard-signs in strategic places, but he interpreted their fawning as an endorsement of his own candidacy for some unspecified office.

In his mind, Phil decided his big chance for glory had arrived when popular Governor Darryl Moore surprised the entire state by announcing he would not seek re-election to a second term. The next day, Phil called the big-name politicians who had off-handedly encouraged him to be a candidate for some office in the nebulous future and excitedly announced to them that he had decided to follow their advice and would run for governor.

They were startled, of course, and were silently cursing themselves for playing the old political game of blowing smoke up Phil’s skirt. But they reacted in a typically gutless political fashion by biting their tongues and responding to Phil that they were thrilled he would be willing to step forward to help the Party. Phil was responsible for a considerable amount of money in their campaign war-chests, and not one politico was willing to take a chance on cutting off a dependable source of funds by being honest and admitting that Phil was ill-equipped to become the CEO of Montana government.

The rest is history. The only person who tried to talk realistically to Phil was his lovely bride, Martha, but he ignored her pleas to consider the needs of his family and his obvious lack of experience. He had caught the political bug badly and dismissed her completely. Destiny and fire-in-the-belly were pushing him to become the top elected official in Montana.

That was then.

Now they were both standing in the kitchen of the Governor’s Residence in Helena. A surprised look crossed her face and she blurted, What are you doing wearing sweatpants? Were you walking around in this cold weather?

Well, Martha, the Governor explained in a very matter-of-fact voice, This morning I decided to start getting some more exercise. So, I went for a little walk and eventually in a couple of weeks I’ll even start jogging. He continued in his serious tones, I remember how stressful a legislative session can be, and I need to be in better physical shape.

Martha’s look of surprise had shifted to a frown, and she retorted as she put her hands on her hips, Let me get this straight. It’s about 10 degrees below zero outside and dark except for street lights, and you decided that a smart way to improve your health is to give yourself pneumonia. And let me guess, you didn’t tell Denny about your brilliant idea either, which means if anything would have happened to you, nobody would even have known where to look for you. Truly brilliant, and you’re in charge of our state! If it wasn’t so early, I’d think this crazy behavior means you were meeting some floozy.

Don’t be silly, Martha, and you don’t have to be so critical. Nothing bad is going to happen to me anyway. You might as well get used to it, responded Montana’s chief executive, because I think I might make this part of my morning routine. He was noticeably agitated by his wife’s rebuke and was looking for a quick exit.

He glanced at the clock on the wall commemorating Montana’s gold exhibit at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York City and hurriedly said, It’s nearly seven o’clock, and I’ve got to get going. I did a lot of thinking on my walk, and now I need to meet with some legislators.

As the Governor disappeared around the corner, his wife of 28 years commented shaking a spatula in his general direction, If you’re going to insist on being crazy in the morning, then at least let me know where you’re going so I know where to send Denny to drag you out of a snow bank.

She hesitated a moment, shook her head, and continued, I’ll have breakfast ready for you; so, hurry with your shower.

Her husband didn’t respond, but the doorbell rang breaking the silence. Martha hurried to the door and opened it to find Officer Dennis Hankler standing pensively before her. She quickly smiled and reached out to welcome this bright light in her life with a warm embrace.

Officer Hankler had been assigned to the governor’s security duty shortly after Phil took office two years earlier. Prior to that transfer the young member of the Montana Highway Patrol had cruised the paved roads of northeastern Montana. He loved being a law official and proudly wore the uniform of the Patrol.

Being from Hamilton in southwest Montana, Hankler was fond of jagged mountains and trout-filled streams. Northeast Montana, where he had been assigned, had none of that to offer; so, when a security position in the governor’s office opened up, he eagerly applied for the transfer. Since most members of the Patrol cynically viewed that assignment as glorified babysitting, Officer Hankler had virtually no competition for the assignment. Dennis didn’t know much about the newly elected governor and wasn’t even sure if he had voted for him, but none of that mattered because Helena was much closer to home and had plenty of mountains and rivers and even a big lake nearby.

During the two years of providing security for Governor Newman, Officer Hankler had grown very fond of the First Lady, and she had likewise found it easy to treat him like a surrogate son, while her own two sons were making a living with their young families in Bigfork and Lewistown.

The relationship between the governor and his security officer wasn’t as noticeably close, but it was solid nonetheless. More than a few times his staff’s eyebrows had risen when the governor had remarked that he had bounced a few ideas off of his trusted security officer helping to firm up his plan of action.

But this morning was obviously different. Hankler wasn’t smiling and didn’t reciprocate the First Lady’s outstretched arms. Instead, the officer moved quickly by her into the doorway. Denny, what is it? You’re here awfully early. What’s wrong? asked Martha with a worried look.

Excuse me, Martha, but I need to see the Governor immediately, he said in an official voice that she had not heard since the night of the Inaugural Ball nearly two years ago. That special night of pageantry and celebration was nearly marred when an inebriated campaign supporter fell into the First Couple on the dance floor of Helena’s Civic Center and nearly knocked down the celebrated guests of honor. The incident might have been brushed off immediately as nothing more than a clumsy accident, but when the overweight offender regained his balance it appeared that he was holding a suspiciously shaped, black, shiny, metal object aimed at the Newmans.

Without hesitation, Officer Hankler swooped onto the dance floor seemingly from nowhere, stepped between the assailant and his unsuspecting celebrity victims, wrestled the metal object from the perpetrator’s hand causing it to land harmlessly onto the floor, and in the same motion slammed the suspect to the wooden slats beneath them. Hankler twisted the formerly weapon-toting hand high behind the man’s back while emphatically lodging a knee between his shoulder blades. At that moment, Officer Hankler turned quickly to his security assignment and barked at the shocked honorees, Stay close to me until the other officer gets here!

Within moments, the other security officer arrived on the scene and whisked away the newly inaugurated Governor and Mrs. Newman to a safe area quickly being formed by other security officers. Officer Hankler now had time to assess the situation, and he sternly warned the drunken dancer under his knee not to move. He searched for and found the threatening object in question and proceeded to examine it.

The good news was that the object wasn’t a weapon after all. The bad news was that this contoured, shiny, black reading glasses case belonging to the assailant’s wife was now irreparably damaged. Hankler helped the confused and increasingly sober man with a sore arm to his feet, handed him the exonerated object, smiled, and said, I guess you know what to buy her for Valentine’s Day. The officer patted him on the back, thanked him for coming, and urged him to enjoy the rest of the evening. Hankler then turned to the crowd, smiled even bigger, and announced that all was well and they should continue dancing in celebration of Montana’s new governor.

That single incident proved to be monumental not only in the life of Dennis Hankler, but also in melting away the skeptics of the security program and in endearing a young patrolman to the hearts of a new governor and his devoted wife. It also quietly earned Officer Hankler a commendation for his swift and efficient response to a potentially dangerous situation.

This morning, his countenance once again reflected the potential presence of danger. As Martha hurried toward the Mansion’s master bedroom, she looked back at Hankler’s unsmiling face and said, I’ll hurry. The officer barely nodded.

The governor looked startled when Martha burst into the bedroom. What’s your big rush? he chided as he slipped off a white athletic sock.

Phil, Denny’s here and he says he needs to see you immediately. I think something must be wrong, she offered with a strain of anxiousness in her voice.

Without saying anything, Phil moved quickly past Martha out of the bedroom toward the entryway. Neither man seemed to care that Phil was standing in his underwear wearing one sock.

Sir, reported Hankler, I heard on the police radio that there has been a shooting in the Capitol and one man is dead. I came here immediately to make sure you’re okay and to secure the area.

Oh my God, Denny! Who is it? Who was shot? the governor inquired with a shocked look on his face.

Martha arrived just in time to hear the words shooting, Capitol, and dead. She gasped and brought her hands to her face as a sick feeling hit her belly. She immediately started trembling in nervous anticipation of hearing the officer’s answer to her husband’s question.

Hankler still sounded official in replying, The reporter, Bill Razer, is the victim. The police on the radio said they do not have any suspects or a weapon at this point. He continued, Have either of you seen or heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary this morning?

Martha gasped again. Phil, you fool! she exclaimed as tears instantly welled up in her eyes. There’s a murderer loose in the Capitol, and you’re out wandering around like an idiot. Don’t you dare do such a stupid thing again. That could have been you!

They obviously weren’t after me or they would have come here, the governor quickly reasoned. Now, please calm down, Dear, so Denny and I can discuss this.

Martha found the nearest chair and sat down heavily while reaching for a facial tissue in her robe pocket. As her chin quivered, tears ran down both cheeks.

What else do you know, Denny? the governor asked.

Not much, the officer replied. I guess the President of the Senate found him. Bradford’s office is close to Razer’s, and I suppose he saw the body as he walked by."

So, Razer was shot while in his office?

Yeah, I guess.

Was anyone else hurt?

No, or at least I haven’t heard of anyone else.

Any witnesses?

I don’t know – too early to tell.

Martha jumped in, Maybe the security cameras will help.

Hopefully, said Hankler, but you never know. A lot of people go in and out of the Capitol.

Not early in the morning, offered the governor.

Phil, implored the officer, "Martha mentioned that you were out early this morning. What’s that about? You didn’t mention anything to me about going out in the