Meetings… all day.
CHAPTER 4
Since I had promised to be in meetings ‘all day,’ and it was only 11:15, I had some serious meeting to do. My first meeting was with a sandwich at Smokey Row Café. They baked the best breads in Red Wing. It didn’t really matter what you put between two slices. It was all good.
Today I was motivated by the turkey club on toasted sunflower bread. I sat in a booth by the window and ate my sandwich, washing it down with a cup of Sumatran Dark Roast, black. As I ate, I checked out the local daily newspaper, which hadn’t been available online, to see if it contained any additional info on the obvious murder. It came as no surprise that the paper knew even less than I did.
Fifteen minutes and one delicious sandwich later I was back in the Pilot, headed for the University Ag Lab — the place with the bloody parking lot.
It was about a forty minute drive to Rosland, the entirely rural township which was home to the University of Minnesota Agricultural Research Facility. When I arrived at the Facility, a tan and white Ottawa County Sheriff’s cruiser guarded the driveway entrance, facing outward and ready to greet visitors. Two uniformed deputies occupied the front seat. I recognized their faces from around the cop shop in Red Wing. But we weren’t close.
Turning the Pilot into the Facility drive, I pulled slowly alongside the cruiser — our driver’s side windows adjacent to one another. His window was already down. I lowered mine.
"Can I help you, Mr. Becker?" he asked, stifling a yawn.
He was thirtyish with brown hair, cut close in military fashion. His left arm, from elbow to hand, rested on the cruiser door. His partner leaned forward, looking my way… checking out the action. Probably the most they’d seen all day.
"I am doing some private legal consultation for the University about the other day’s… ah… unfortunate business," I lied.
I smiled. Highly engaging.
The driver gave me a quick look up and down. I don’t think he figured me for a threat.
"We’ve got a chunk of the parking area, the main entrance, and one of the labs taped off."
A full yawn this time.
"Stay away from those spots and you should be okay."
"Thank you very much, Deputy. I’ll make sure to avoid the taped area and stick strictly to my business with the U," I lied again.
I flashed another smile, then reached my right hand across my body to wave at the cops. Both had already returned to whatever they had been doing before. Without looking my way, the driver did manage to lift a finger from the car door as acknowledgment of my departure.
It was a short driveway. Almost immediately, I could see the boundaries marked with yellow ‘Crime Scene’ tape. Besides the deputies, the exterior of the Lab Facility property was nearly deserted. In fact, the only other person I could see outside was a man wearing a tan groundskeeper’s uniform and a dirty-white panama hat. He was on his hands and knees, spreading wood mulch around shrubs near the building.
I was careful to park the Pilot between the largest blood stain and the cruiser — but not too close to the yellow tape. Maneuvering outside my vehicle, I leaned through the back door, appearing to rummage for some papers. Once below the cops’ line of sight, I turned around, contortionist fashion, and snapped a few quick pics of the parking lot blood and the crime tape. There wasn’t much to see. But one never knows when a photo might come in handy.
Returning to a normal body position, I withdrew from the back seat. Damn. The groundskeeper was looking my way. He was pushing his wheelbarrow across the parking lot, presumably in pursuit of more mulch for the bushes. I wondered how much of my photography performance he had seen. His face wore a strange expression.
When our eyes met, I smiled and gave him a friendly wave. He looked away, then picked up his pace across the lot.
With the groundskeeper gone, I returned to my planned activities. Reaching back into the Pilot, I withdrew my trial case — essentially the result of mating a briefcase with a steamer trunk. I smiled and waved respectfully at the cruiser as I traversed the space to the Lab’s only unblocked entrance.
Just a friendly guy doing his job.
Once inside the Lab building, I located a wall sign identifying the Facility’s Administrative Director as one Charles Downing, PhD. I found the main reception area and entered.
The cute co-ed receptionist looked up from her computer. "May I help you, sir?"
"Please let Dr. Downing know that Attorney Becker is here to see him. He is expecting me."
"Very well, sir." She punched a button on her telephone console and announced, "Dr. Downing, Attorney Becker to see you. He says you’re expecting him."
There were a few moments of silence during which I examined the aerial photos hanging on the reception area walls. Without exception, they depicted farm fields, all of which looked strikingly similar to one another — at least as far as my untrained eye could discern.
"Yes, sir. I’ll tell him," the receptionist said into her phone.
Then, turning to me, "Dr. Downing will be out to see you shortly."
"Thank you very much."
More thoughtful examination of crop photos.
A minute or two later there was a voice behind me.
"Mr. Becker is it?" The voice belonged to a man.
"Yes," I said, turning away from the pictorial tillage to face the professor.
Dr. Downing looked just like an administrative PhD should look. Tall, slim, with brilliantly white hair, and a distinguished posture. He wore navy blue dress pants, with an open collar on his light blue, broadcloth dress shirt. No sport coat.
We approached each other.
"James Becker. Pleased to make your acquaintance," I said warmly, switching my trial case to my left hand, while extending my right in greeting.
Dr. Downing accepted my large hand in his even larger, calloused one. He had a firm handshake. Despite his academic credentials, the man clearly had not spent his life in an office.
"I must apologize, Mr. Becker, but no one notified me that you would be coming today."
I gave him the perplexed brow, shifted my weight to my left foot and put my right hand on my hip. "I don’t understand," I said. "The University President called me just this morning and asked that I meet you here at 12:30."
I looked at my watch. Right on the dot. I shook my head.
When in doubt, it’s frequently smartest to say nothing. I continued to shake my head and shift my weight back and forth from one foot to the other.
I remained ‘seriously perplexed.’
"Well," Downing said, after considering the situation, "these sorts of things happen all the time in large institutions when the chiefs act outside normal channels. I apologize. May I see your credentials?"
I showed him the laminated card from the Minnesota Supreme Court identifying me as an ‘Attorney-at-Law’ and backed it up with the photo on my driver’s license. He seemed satisfied.
"Fortunately, I have some time. Shall we meet in my office?"
"Perfect." I smiled.
The doctor ushered me through a door, down a white-walled institutional hallway, and into his private office.
"Please have a seat," he offered, as he rounded the side of his desk.
I did. And he did as well.
"Now… how may I help you, Mr. Becker?" He rolled his metal office chair closer to the drab-green-topped metal desk.
"Beck, please," I said.
"Very well, Beck. Please call me Chuck."
"Okay. Chuck it is."
I had been holding the trial case on my lap. I leaned over and placed it on the floor on my side of the desk. As I opened the case, I flipped the switch on a small digital audio recorder. There’s no substitute for verbatim recollection.
A second later, I popped back up into Chuck’s view with a yellow pad. Removing a pen from my shirt pocket, I established a ready position.