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  Patrick added, “Or even to collect life insurance so he could pay off the blackmailer I heard him talking to.”

  “I assume that’s Patrick, unless you have a new husband or boyfriend you want to tell me about?”

  “You got it on the first guess.”

  “Patrick, you’re absolutely sure it was a blackmailer you heard him talking to?”

  “Yes.” Then Patrick grimaced. “Ninety-nine point nine percent, anyway.”

  Susanne could hear Ronnie’s raised eyebrows in her voice. “Okay. Assuming it was a blackmailer, isn’t it just as possible, if not more likely, that the blackmailer was the killer?”

  Susanne nodded. She could see the blackmailer threatening the judge’s wife, then showing the judge he meant business by following through on it. “Possibly. But then how do you explain the judge’s snowmobile being up on Meadowlark with the shooter?”

  “I don’t, because I’m not sure that it was. There are a lot of snowmobiles around. Even big fancy new yellow ones.”

  “It would be an incredible coincidence—the judge having a snowmobile just like the person who killed his wife.”

  “And yet it could be just that. I’m not buying that the judge trusted anyone enough to have Jeannie killed with a long range shot when he was standing right next to her. He could have just as easily taken that bullet himself.”

  Patrick shook his head. “He wasn’t right next to her. He was near her, but far enough away to be safe if the shooter was any good. And his proximity draws suspicion away from him.”

  “Still, it’s a big risk. Listen, I’m not saying you guys are wrong. I’m glad you called. All of this that you’ve told me is important. I’ve written it all down, and I’ll brief the team investigating Jeannie’s murder. But the most likely scenarios are that the killer was someone trying to prevent the judge from hearing the Kemecke case, given the timing, or the blackmailer sending a message to Renkin.”

  Susanne’s voice broke. “Please, Ronnie. He lives next door to us. He’s going to find out Perry was a witness—the only witness—if he hasn’t already. Perry. Our son. If there’s even a chance that the judge is behind Jeannie’s death, we need to find out. You said you’re his next babysitter. Can you look into it for us—just a little bit?”

  “I can try to ask him a few questions, but I can’t torture a confession out of him. Honestly, we don’t even have enough to get a judge to issue a subpoena for his records.”

  Patrick spoke through gritted teeth. “But you don’t have anything else either. No other witness. No weapon. No nothing.”

  “I’m not disputing that.”

  If Ronnie had been in their kitchen, Susanne would have grabbed her by the hands. “Just find out whether Jeannie had life insurance, please. And maybe who the girlfriend is. And the blackmailer.”

  “You’re dreaming. I’ll try for the life insurance.”

  Susanne exhaled. “Thank you, Ronnie.”

  “Now, I gotta go. You guys be careful.”

  “We will.”

  Ronnie hung up. Susanne put the receiver back on the hook, and she and Patrick exchanged a worried glance.

  She said, “Trying for the life insurance is better than nothing.”

  But not much. Not much at all when the safety of their kids was at stake.

  Chapter Twenty-three: Choose

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 6:00 a.m.

  Patrick

  Rubbing his eyes with one hand, Patrick downed the last of his fourth cup of lounge coffee. This time of the morning it was still fresh, although not as good as what Susanne made at home. By mid-day, the contents of the pot would be burned and bitter. He stretched his arms over his head, sitting forward on the plush couch. The lounge was small but comfortable, with two velour recliners in addition to the sofa. All great for catnapping. Like the rest of the hospital, the decoration stopped with furniture. What money the hospital had went to function, not form.

  He slapped his cheeks, trying to shock himself into alertness. He’d been on-shift since five a.m. and he was hurting for certain after a mostly sleepless night. Until his alarm went off at four-fifteen, he’d paced the house, his eyes drilling into the darkness, looking for threats. Never mind that Henry was on patrol and that he knew he could trust him with his and his family’s lives. His brain wouldn’t let him rest. It conjured up worst case scenario after worst case scenario, each ending in a bloodbath with no survivors. He’d kept his shotgun at the ready, in hand more often than not. Leaving his family to come to work was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

  If this trial went on for a month, how would he possibly hold up? The worry was eating him alive.

  Dear God, I know I don’t visit your house of worship as often as I should, but I’d sure appreciate an easy day, where I first do no harm. Today the bar might go no higher than that. And if it did, it would still be a good day as a doctor. He’d been lucky this morning, so far. Or maybe it was the patients who’d been lucky. He’d had no cases that taxed his abilities. Strep throat. A flare-up of gout. Five simple stitches in an arm. He’d even had time to check on Marcy, where he found her well, other than her very sore throat and the stitches in her neck.

  He straightened his monogrammed white doctor’s coat and hurried back from the lounge to the duty nurse’s station, where Kim looked wide awake and unruffled in pink scrubs. A teetering stack of files was perched in front of her, and she was riffling through them.

  He smiled at her. “What do you have for me next?”

  “Live it up while you can. Your slate is clear.”

  “I’d try for a nap, but that would guarantee a rush.”

  She laughed. “Don’t you dare, then. I’m almost due for a coffee break.”

  “I’ll grab one for you. Two sugars and a cream, right?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s no problem. Back in two shakes.”

  True to his word, Patrick returned quickly with the milky, sugary coffee. Kim was just hanging up the phone. He handed it to her without spilling, even though his hands were trembling from sleep deprivation. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Flint.” She sipped it. “Perfect.”

  For a moment, he considered asking her about Judge Renkin and Donna Lewis. But that felt too much like prying into the private conversation Kim had with Susanne. Besides, Susanne had already asked her about it at the time. “I’ll be in my office catching up on some reading.” With my eyes resting. He turned to leave.

  Kim stalled him. “I just got a call from my daughter.”

  “Isn’t she getting ready for school?” Casey was a year behind Trish. She had been a late-in-life baby for Kim and her husband.

  “She is. She got a call from a friend with some news so juicy that she called me right away. It will be of interest to your family, too.”

  Patrick’s heart lodged in his throat. The trial? The judge? The Kemeckes? Jeannie’s murder? He forced himself to remain calm and choked out a normal-sounding reply. “What is it?”

  She put a hand next to her mouth, like she was sharing a secret. “The high school is looking for a new girls’ basketball coach.”

  His brow furrowed. The information was so completely out of left field that he was speechless.

  She laughed. “Your expression is priceless.”

  He recovered. “Since when? And why?” Trish would be dying to know, if she didn’t already. He bet someone had already called her. He wondered how breakfast was going for Susanne with their churlish and uncooperative teen. Not good, if Trish had gotten that news, he’d bet.

  “Casey’s friend overheard her English teacher talking to her math teacher in the hall yesterday, and they said that Lamkin won’t be available next school year.”

  The telephone rang. Kim answered, listened, said, “Just one moment,” then held it out to him. She whispered, “Well la-di-da. It’s the governor’s office. For you.”

  Patrick’s e
yebrows shot up, stretching his tight, tense forehead. The governor? He’d only met the man once, at Jeannie’s viewing. He took the phone, cleared his throat, and said, “This is Dr. Patrick Flint speaking.”

  He turned away from Kim, wishing he could take the call without an audience, but he was limited to the privacy he could find between where he was standing and the end of the cord. He stretched it to its max.

  “Dr. Flint, this is Shep Rawlins.”

  “Governor. You’re an early riser.”

  “There are some things I like to take care of outside normal business hours. I’m glad I caught you.”

  Patrick’s radar went up. He was something the governor needed to take care of outside normal hours, as in “without any witnesses?” That was ominous. “To what do I owe the honor of a call from you?”

  The governor’s voice sounded amused. “I’m not sure I’d call it an honor. More like a chance to do me a favor, Patrick. May I call you Patrick?”

  Patrick flinched. Something about the request made him want to say no, even though he didn’t usually stand on ceremony. “That would be fine. What’s the favor, sir?”

  “I’ve been told you’ve asked for police protection for your family. Because of the Kemecke trial.”

  That was simplifying things, but it wasn’t incorrect. “Yes, sir. I have.”

  “I also heard you’ve made . . . we’ll just call them inquiries about Harold Renkin. To the authorities.”

  Patrick got really uncomfortable, really fast. From Susanne’s lips to Ronnie’s ears last night, and, by six a.m., on to the governor? He and Susanne had wanted the information to go to the sheriff’s staff, but he hadn’t dreamed it would get to Cheyenne overnight. If the governor knew, who else did? A cold dread seeped over him. Did Renkin know? He forced his attention back to the call. “Uh, yes I have.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Harold is a good friend of mine. He’s also running for the U.S. Senate. I think he’s going to do a lot of great things for the people of Wyoming, in addition to the bang-up job he’s doing for us as a judge. This historic capital murder trial is just one example of that.” He paused, as if to let Patrick speak, if he chose to.

  Patrick didn’t choose to.

  The governor didn’t miss a beat. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you could give the old boy a chance. He didn’t have anything to do with his wife’s death, and he sure doesn’t mean any harm to your family. I give you my personal assurance on that.”

  Unless Rawlins had killed Jeannie himself, his assurance meant nothing to Patrick. Evidence. As a doctor, he was trained to collect evidence—information—and let it lead him to a conclusion—a diagnosis and a course of treatment. Nowhere in his education was he taught to let personal assurances guide him, no matter how many times a patient showed up at the hospital with a spouse who assured him that his wife hadn’t been drinking before she wrecked her car. Or a wife who assured him that her husband had never laid a hand on her before and wouldn’t ever do it again. Or with a mother who assured him that her son would never get into a bar fight. Assurances weren’t evidence. They were more like what attorneys used—arguments. Arguments, which were motivated by personal interest. In the case of attorneys, that interest was more professional, but still personal in the sense that it was put forth to advocate for a client’s position.

  Rawlins’ assurance was nothing but advocacy for Renkin.

  Patrick waited for the governor to finish.

  “Could you do that for me, Patrick? And, in return, I’d like to do something for you.”

  The quid pro quo. Patrick fought to keep the sardonic edge in his head out of his spoken words. “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to send one of the best members of my security team to Buffalo in the morning to ensure the safety of your family during this trial.”

  Patrick felt like he’d just taken a big bite of boiled okra. He needed to answer the governor, but his mouth felt slimy even thinking about it. His family’s safety came before anything. But his ethics were important, too. If he refused the governor, which felt like the honorable thing to do, he had the posse. And he knew that Ronnie was always in the background, ready to help in case of emergency.

  “Patrick?”

  But if he said yes to the governor, he’d get the security guard, who would protect his family from any and every source of danger, even if it turned out to be the judge. The Flints had already made their concerns about Renkin known to the sheriff’s department. It wasn’t like Patrick would be turning a blind eye on Renkin by taking the governor’s offer.

  Dang it. He’d be a fool not to take the protection, even if it felt slimy.

  “All right,” he choked out.

  “Wonderful. Shall I have Juan Morales report to you at the hospital tomorrow?”

  “The trial starts tomorrow.”

  “All right. Let’s say the courthouse then.”

  “The courthouse. Yes.”

  “This call has been a real pleasure, Patrick. If you’d ever consider a move to Cheyenne, let me know. I’ll be looking for someone to head up the Board of Health for my next term.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Assuming the people choose to re-elect me.” But his tone of voice didn’t sound like he doubted they would.

  The bull pucky was getting so deep, Patrick felt like he needed to clean his boots.

  The young receptionist poked her head around the corner. “Got a possible heart attack in the waiting room. Fifty-five-year-old male with chest pains.”

  Patrick and Kim exchanged a look. He nodded and said, “I’m sorry, Governor. We have an emergency. I have to hang up now.”

  “Duty calls here, too.”

  The governor was just starting to say goodbye as Patrick hung up the phone.

  Kim touched the stethoscope hanging from her neck as she stood. “Put him in a wheelchair and get him into exam room one.”

  The receptionist nodded and disappeared back around the corner.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Patrick told Kim. He needed a minute to recover from the unsettling call.

  Two minutes later, Patrick went to join Kim and the patient. He looked up as he entered the exam room and stopped short. A pale, broad-shouldered man with a starter belly reclined on the exam table. It was the man who may have killed his own wife. The judge who had dismissed Patrick’s concerns about the welfare of his wife and daughter. The neighbor who might be on the hunt for Patrick’s son. And the subject of the smarmy call he’d just had with the governor of Wyoming.

  Harold Renkin.

  The judge’s first words were, “You’ve got to help me, Dr. Flint. I think I’ve been poisoned.”

  Chapter Twenty-four: Doctor

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 11:30 a.m.

  Patrick

  Hours later, Patrick knocked on the door of the room where Judge Renkin was resting, as was his regular practice. Patients deserved respect for privacy, even when the expectation of it was very low. It was these little things, in his opinion, that made people feel human. Feeling human was important to their mental status and overall well-being. To healing. So, he waited for Renkin to re-invite him, even though he’d been in and out of the door ten times already.

  Renkin grunted. That was good enough, and Patrick slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. Renkin had color back in his cheeks and was sitting up straight on the bed, a white sheet washed repeatedly to a dingy color pulled up to his waist, and wearing a frayed blue gown open to the back. The room was small, with white walls, sheet vinyl flooring, and no furniture except for a plastic chair with metal legs for visitors, although he’d had none, and a black-seated rolling stool for the doctor. Along one wall was a countertop with medical supplies and equipment in cannisters—cotton balls, swabs, and bandages. Below it was cabinets and drawers.

  Under Patrick’s first, do no harm mantra for the day, it seemed he’d succeeded with the judge. It hadn’t been easy, given his reservation
s about the man, as well as the odd timing. He couldn’t help wondering if Renkin’s ER visit and Rawlins’ call were related. It was too big a coincidence not to question it. He had to shake it off, though, and focus on his patient. This patient. No matter who he was.

  He held up a stack of papers. “I have your repeat electrocardiogram and your second round of blood work back. It shows no change from your initial EKG and blood work—no evidence of a heart attack or heart damage.”

  Renkin had exhibited increasing displeasure with the staff while resting under observation between the initial round of tests and the second round four hours later. But now he lifted his face heavenward. In a throaty voice, he whispered, “Thank you, God.” Then he locked eyes with Patrick. “What about signs of poison?”

  Patrick pulled the stool toward the table and sat. Although Renkin had been worried about poisoning when he’d arrived, the symptoms he’d described had sounded more like intestinal upset, an episode of anxiety, or a potential heart attack. Patrick hadn’t ruled out poisoning, but he’d proceeded with that hypothesis in parallel to the more likely causes of Renkin’s distress. “We won’t get a tox screen back for a week to ten days. But if you’d ingested a type of poison capable of causing a heart attack, you’d have already had one by now. And you haven’t. I don’t see any other symptoms that point to poison, either. How’s your chest pain?”

  Renkin palpated his chest and shoulder. “It’s still sore, but mostly better.”

  Patrick slow nodded several times. “You’re under a lot of pressure. Your wife’s death. The capital murder trial. And . . . other things.” The judge shot Patrick a glare, but Patrick didn’t give him a chance to interject. “I think it’s most likely that this was an episode of acute anxiety.”