Melt Point

By Walter Reutiman

When a new judge disappears, everyone assumes he’s simply ran away. Only one person knows differently: his killer. With the body dumped where no one can ever find it, the killer can relax. Is this the perfect crime? Only Tim Olson seems to be curious about the whereabouts of the judge. It doesn’t seem right that a loving family man, recently appointed to the bench—something he wanted—would up and run away. As he narrows in on the suspect, Tim realizes it’s hard to find a killer without a body, harder still when he himself might become the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Jun 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780878399222

Walter Reutiman

Wally worked in a foundry for his working life. He retired and started writing. This is his fourth book.

Book preview

56302

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the more than 225,000 men and women of the United States foundry industry.

Acknowledgements

To reach this point in my writing career, I have received the help and support of my many friends. To you I am grateful. I could not have succeeded without you.

I am grateful to my editor, Corinne Dwyer, who saw something in me many books ago and helped me reach this point.

A special thank you to Tiffany Cork, who has steered me back on course when I’ve lost my way; and to Teri Reutiman, who was willing to search out my many errors. Any that may remain are my responsibility alone.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

1. Farewell

2. A Nasty Shock

3. Prep Time

4. Dead Weight

5. Charging the Furnace

6. A Bath

7. The River

8. A Missing Neighbor

9. The Investigation Begins

10. A Hot Story

11. Plan of Action

12. The Firm

13. First Suspect

14. The Bicycle

15. More Information

16. Moving Forward

17. A Pattern

18. Review

19. The River

20. Backpack

21. Lab Work

22. Foundry Tour

23. Tim Learns More

24. Penny Speaks

25. Self-Doubt

26. Reflection

27. An Invitation

28. Tower of Terror

Epilogue

1. Farewell

Randolph Scott sat deep in thought, when suddenly he exhaled. The sound of his own breath startled him, causing a moment of rapid blinking. Dark eyes, now fully adjusted to the dim light of the parking ramp, focused through the windshield on an endless row of parked cars. He was totally alone.

Removed now from his work environment, Randolph felt tension seep from his body. For the first time in months, he began to unwind.

The auto’s air conditioning was off, allowing perspiration to dot Randolph’s broad forehead, while islands of moisture began appearing in random areas on his monogrammed shirt. The normally fastidious man absentmindedly took a folded handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his face. Then he did the same to the palms of his hands.

How long have I been sitting here? he wondered. Sitting here in this heat is foolish.

Then he shook off his reverie, started the motor, and adjusted a dashboard air vent to blow directly toward his face. Randolph remained motionless, enjoying the relief of the cooling air blasting against moist skin.

It’s too damn hot for Minnesota, he commiserated to himself in a mumbled tone.

Cold air was snaking its way inside his shirt now, causing Randolph to throw his tie onto his shoulder, then open a button and pull the shirtfront away from his chest to create a more hospitable avenue. While enjoying the cooling affect, he reflected back to his youth when the heat and humidity really were oppressive and no air conditioning was available.

Quit complaining, he admonished himself.

While tightly gripping the steering wheel, the middle-aged man stretched his neck upward. He heard a crack, and then felt the muscles in his shoulder blades stretch in satisfied release. He sighed and turned his face once again directly into the stream of cold air.

Satisfied with a modicum of relief, Randolph engaged the transmission and pulled his auto out of its assigned space, crawling between rows of inert steel toward the exit ramp. Then he cranked the wheel sharply to the left, and the blue BMW spiraled downward out of the ramp.

Finally reaching street level, he passed the ramp’s automated pay booth for the last time. Randolph’s tenure at the Minneapolis law firm, where he had spent nearly fifteen years, was officially over.

Randolph briefly had considered skipping this last, all but ceremonial, day with the firm, but at the last moment had decided his departure would be more problematic for the remaining members of the firm than it would be for him.

I’m moving up. They’re staying put, he had rationalized.

By arriving at the office for the meaningless day, he only had to feign indifference, while the partners had to pretend gratitude and fondness for him.

Let them squirm, he had thought with a smile. I’ll miss most of the staff, though. They were all pretty decent to me. Sure they had to treat me with respect as a partner, but I could tell that most of them were sincere. I gave them little cause to complain.

In reality, Randolph had treated the hourly staff much better than many of the other partners did. Having pulled himself up by his bootstraps, he remembered what it was like to labor for a living. The people he was associated with appeared to appreciate his equalitarian attitude and had responded by acceding to his requests without complaint, regardless of any inconvenience it may have caused them.

As the attorney’s car left the parking ramp and approached the sidewalk, he slowed, then honked once before proceeding through the pedestrian zone. The late afternoon sun blanketed the windshield with unexpected brilliance. Reaching up, Randolph flipped down the window visor before putting on his sunglasses.

Randolph’s dark eyes, now concealed, attested to the serious nature of the man. More than once they had moved men to silence with a single stare. Although Randolph was a handsome man, slightly built and fit, his intense gaze often left friend and foe alike feeling as though he had delved into their very soul. His ever-present smile often went unnoticed. Randolph generally was liked by those with whom he interacted.

Now into the traffic flow, the man rotated his shoulders a couple of more times and once again stretched his neck. Quickly traffic clotted, moving slowly forward. When he noticed heat vapor radiating upward from the street surface, he mechanically reached for the temperature control on the dashboard and set it lower.

Randolph proceeded over crowded city streets onto the Interstate 394 entrance, which pointed him west and directly into the late afternoon sun. Though it was a hot and humid July afternoon, he paid scant attention to the weather, his mind being otherwise occupied. He was on an emotional high, and he felt so good that he wanted to talk to someone. The only question was who to phone. He realized that calling friends of his was not logical, since most would be at his house party later in the evening. It would be redundant to bother them now. He ruminated on this as he drove west in the HOV lane until he nearly reached Ridgedale. Then he called his wife.

When she answered, Randolph said, Babe, I’m on my way home.

Golly, Randy, Charlene said. I’m busy getting things ready. What do you need?

Nothing. I’m feeling so good, I just wanted to share it with you.

Thanks. Look, Killer, I’ve got a lot to do. The guests will be here in . . . she looked at the clock. Oh, my god, less than two hours, and I’ve still got hors d’oeuvres to make. Hurry home so you can help. Congrats. Then as an afterthought, she said, Since you’re feeling so good, I’ll give you the news now. Your mom is coming to town for the swearing-in ceremony. Jewel’s bringing her.

Mom’s coming? Tears watered Randolph’s eyes. Sis, too?

You think she’d miss her baby becoming a judge? Charlene asked. Not on your life. See you soon. I’ve got to get crackin’.

Need me to pick up anything? he asked.

No. Just get home so we can get everything ready. And I need you to talk to your son.

What’s wrong?

Nothing serious. You just need to explain things to him, she instructed.

Randolph shook his head. Okay, babe. See you soon.

The phone hummed, and Randolph clicked off. He laughed as he said to himself, Charlene, you sure can keep a man on an even keel. Mom’s coming. I guess she does care enough to withstand the rigors of the journey, even with her failing health. I never thought she’d make the trip. I wish Dad were here. I wonder if she’s flying? Of course she would. How else?

Randolph’s thoughts drifted to his childhood and the squalid life he and the family endured growing up in rural Arkansas. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he nearly missed his exit. Switching quickly across two lanes of traffic, he left I-394 and headed south on I-494, toward Highway Seven.

Randolph flicked on the radio, set to his favorite sports show. He enjoyed the shrill banter that took place every evening. It took his mind off what normally was a forty-five minute drive. These were not his regular talk jocks, because he was early. It gave him a chance to hear someone new. Tonight’s discussion was on the Twins starting pitcher and the team’s inability to provide quality starts.

Callers can be unforgiving, he thought. But then, if I were making five to ten million a year, I think I could take the criticism.

Despite the background noise, Randolph’s thoughts went back to the law. He wasn’t a fool, and he prided himself on always knowing the score. Originally, he had been hired to salve the firm’s conscience on affirmative action. He had been made partner for the same reason.

He was able to rationalize those facts because he knew he was qualified. Despite that, he also knew a lot of qualified attorneys often get overlooked. To succeed in any field, a person needed a little luck and an edge, something that set them apart. He didn’t feel ashamed that his edge was being African American.

When Randolph weighed his career successes against his shortcomings, he realized there were limitations to how far the race advantage could take him. Race had not been enough to get him into the prestigious Minneapolis Club. Nor had he and his wife succeeded in socializing with most of the partners outside business circles. Many of the partners came from a closed society not about to let him enter. He dismissed those slights as trivial, since he no longer cared. He considered himself superior to many of his associates, anyway. Any grievances were minor irritations on the road of life, his road to success.

That brought him to his current position. Who among the partners had been appointed to the bench? he asked himself with a smile. A judge. I still find it hard to believe. Sure people will say its because I’m black. Let them piss and moan. I’ll do my job. The whiners can go to hell.

Nothing as insignificant as detractors was going to diminish the feeling of accomplishment Randolph exalted in today. On the remainder of the drive home, he second-guessed the advantage of having a slick infielder that hit only .225.

As Randolph left Highway Seven and wound his way through the local neighborhood, he considered his life in the white-bread community when he’d lived the past five years. Moving in there had not been easy for him or his family. Discrimination was pervasive, even if it was subtle.

There had been more than one confrontation with neighbors, and one such event had caused him to nearly lose control of his temper in settling the issue. He was glad the incident had been swept under the rug, or it might have cost him the upcoming appointment.

That guy had been pretty decent about the whole thing, but then, why shouldn’t he have been? After all, it was his kid who started the whole thing. I have to stick up for me and mine. So I got a little heated. So what? Everyone does at one time or another. He owed me, anyway.

The City of Greenwood, located on the south shore of Lake Minnetonka, was home to many lakeside castles, though not every home was quite ao grand. Many older homes, designed with common sense in mind, sat nearby, some dating from the forties and fifties, others from well before that. The Scott home fell in the latter category. Though not on the lake, the property still suffered from its proximity to the water and from being located in an upscale neighborhood. Taxes were high.

Randolph ignored issues like taxes, and other normal domestic expenses, since they always had been the province of Charlene Scott. Since she handled the household checkbook, she knew only too well what a reduction in pay the judgeship would offer, compared to her husband’s current earnings. Though a potential problem, she had decided to keep those thoughts in the background for the present. She didn’t want to rain on her husband’s parade. Her only concern for this night was to hold an appropriate celebration for her man. Soon she would be the wife of a district court judge.

While Charlene, casually dressed in jeans and a tank top, prepared for Randolph’s arrival. She finished the preparations by putting completed goodies into the refrigerator. Feeling relief, she wiped her brow with the back of a hand and looked at the kitchen clock. She decided she was on schedule. Randy should be home momentarily. I’ll take a quick shower and get dressed. He can help me finish up. Most of this stuff just has to be popped into the oven when the time comes.

The Scott home, located in a wooded neighborhood, was a short two blocks from the lake. A narrow lane ran past their property, and generally was used only by those who lived there. Bikers and walkers often outnumbered automobiles.

The Scott garage was detached from the house by fifty feet of well-maintained lawn. Spurning current building codes, the building stood just inches from the right-of-way. A new building, if one were desired, would have to be placed further from the road, eating up a lot of the backyard. That fact alone had made Randolph comfortable with the relic.

Even when exercising caution, the winter plow had many times barricaded the overhead door shut with compacted snow. Randolph had long ago quit complaining about it and resigned himself to shoveling. A generous gift to the plow driver at Christmas had mitigated the problem somewhat.

With trees in full leaf in July, a drive down the lane was a journey into twilight, even at high noon. Drivers had to be careful, since sightlines were short, and children often careless. Randolph drove slowly this evening as he approached the aged building. As he mounted a small rise, he pressed a button above his head for the door.

The modern door lent respectability to a building as old as the house. The left garage door began opening to welcome the master home, as it had done countless times before. The ritual was routine. Randolph slowed his car to time his approach into the garage with the door’s motion. A single forty-watt bulb located in the opener was not adequate to light the dingy space, and the BMW’s lights automatically lit, casting a bright reflection off the back wall.

A laser beam mounted on an overhead joist shone onto the windshield and told the driver when to stop, and he did so on its command. Then he turned off the ignition and reached for his briefcase. When Randolph activated the remote for the door, it began its descent, but then, surprisingly, it stopped and ran back up. Thinking he had not pulled his vehicle in far enough, Randolph restarted the engine and pulled forward another six inches.

My laser must have gotten bumped, he thought.

With the engine once again turned off, the Randolph reached for the car door and pushed it open. Collecting his things, he turned slightly. When he did so, his body went into shock.

2. A Nasty Shock

Earlier on that same Friday afternoon, a lone hiker had approached the Scott garage from the east. Seemingly walking aimlessly, the hiker stopped near the building in the shade of a large maple tree, knelt down and played with a shoelace. Then, with eyes slowly rising, the individual surreptitiously scanned the area.

Clad in jogging shorts, t-shirt, baseball cap, and tennis shoes, the hiker looked like any other exercise enthusiast from the nearby recreational trail. The only feature setting this one apart from the multitudes was a red backpack.

After seeing no activity nearby, the hiker now carefully listened, first for sounds in the yard beyond the garage, and then from the road over the knoll and around the bend. Hearing nothing unusual, the observer stood, satisfied at being alone. Glancing about and feeling secure, the hiker quietly slipped next to the wood frame building, out of sight behind a row of overgrown shrubs.

Today’s humidity was high. Even a cooling lake breeze, after wending its way through neighboring yards, had lost much of its effect. Yet, moving air combined with damp clothes created some relief from the warmth.

Few clouds marred the afternoon sky, allowing the sun to beat down with its full fury. Fortunately, this chosen hiding location to the east of the building provided a bit of shade. Nonetheless, temperatures were approaching ninety, and humidity near the lake was higher. Consequently, perspiration had painted a four-inch-wide stain down the back of the hiker’s t-shirt, while the sweatband of the loose-fitting cap was laden with moisture. Underwear had become a damp reminder of weary discomfort.

Snatching a water bottle from the backpack, the hiker drank in large gulps. When a car approached, the figure slipped further along the side of the garage to ensure obscurity. Overgrown shrubbery guarded snagged at the interloper, leaving red welts on exposed arms and legs.

Christ, don’t they ever trim their shit? was the hiker’s thought.

Pushing open a small space between bushes, the trespasser quietly went to work, pulling a light-colored jumpsuit from the backpack. Shaking it out, the hiker climbed in and zipped it up to the neck. It was not the outfit an already overheated person would desire