“The country music deal up in Detroit Lakes?”
“Yeah. I thought, like me, he was a fan of country music, but that wasn’t the case. He just wanted to get away from his wife for a weekend. Chase some tail, you know? I hated that about him—he used me to cover for his infidelity. He didn’t even ask. He just assumed I’d be okay with that. What a dick.”
Orton looked at me, maybe seeking a sign that I agreed with him, which I did, so I nodded.
“And then, on the second night of the festival, he meets this woman, better-looking than what you’d expect from Emil. And, of course, he gives her a fake name, calls himself Joe Something-or-other. They spend the day making out and drinking, and then Emil tells me he and . . . I can’t even remember her name anymore. Anyway, they decided to drive out to the country to find some privacy. About half an hour later, I get a call. There’s been an accident. He needs me to come get him. So I go and I find him standing beside the wreck of a black car. It’s down an embankment far enough that you can’t see it from the road. The woman is unconscious—in pretty bad shape. The car’s upside down, and she’s lying on the ceiling.”
“Who was driving?”
Orton gives me a look. “Who do you think was driving? He lied at first, but when I started calling 911, he stopped me. He said he’d been behind the wheel when they crashed. He wanted to leave her there. If the cops came and saw him all banged up, they’d do a deeper investigation with DNA and stuff. They’d know he was the driver. But if they found her alone, they’d assume she was driving and close the books.”
“You went along with it?”
“Worst mistake of my life . . . well, until . . . you know.”
“Briggs was drunk?”
“Drunk enough to make it a felony.”
“Criminal vehicular injury.”
“That’s what he said. Before I got there, he had adjusted the seat and steering wheel and mirrors to fit the woman’s height. He cleaned her makeup off the passenger airbag and . . . and Briggs even smeared her face against the driver’s airbag. I can’t believe I ever went along with it.”
I could see a tug of emotion pulling at the corners of Orton’s mouth.
I asked, “Did the woman die?”
“No. I drove him about a mile away, sent him into the woods to wait while I called the ambulance. She was in pretty bad shape, but nothing permanent. The cops figured I was just a Good Samaritan passing by. When the dust all settled, the woman couldn’t remember much about the accident. She got convicted of a DWI even though she swore that some guy named Joe was driving the car.”
“And Briggs gets off scot-free,” I said.
“He cleaned the scene up pretty good, except . . .”
“Except?”
“I’ve never really trusted Briggs. As you probably know, he can be a real snake.”
“You have something?”
“When he called me from the accident scene, I didn’t hear my phone over the music, so I didn’t pull it out of my pocket fast enough. He left a message. It’s short, but it’s enough. He gives his location. It’s his voice. He admits to being in an accident.”
“And you still have that recording?”
“I saved it on my computer at home—just in case.”
“Mr. Orton, do I have your permission to go to your home and secure your hard drive?”
“Yeah. My computer is under my rolltop desk. You have my permission.”
“Dennis, if you don’t mind my asking, why are you telling me all this?”
“Truth is, Detective, I don’t like Emil Briggs. For five years, I’ve had to live with what we did. That poor woman didn’t deserve what she got. He shouldn’t have put me in that position. And it never seemed to bother him. Not in the least. I should have cut the cord a long time ago, but I thought I might need him if I ever ran for city council. I let on that we were friends, but, deep down, I wish I’d never met the man.”
“The fact that you have a conscience about all this is a good sign, Dennis. I’m not going to soft-pedal it. You’re going to have a tough go from here on out.”
“I really did love Pippa,” he said. “I would have walked through fire for her.”
I looked at his burns and bandages and wondered if he was trying to be ironic.
I stopped the interview. I had gotten what I needed on Briggs, although I violated Orton’s Miranda rights to get it. Everything he said to me would be kept out of any trial, but this wasn’t about a trial. I wasn’t there to gather evidence against Orton. His guilt was a foregone conclusion. My sole purpose for talking to Dennis Orton was to get the ammunition I needed to protect Niki. What I was doing might have been against the rules, but, in my view, it was a long way from being wrong.
I shut off the recorder and was packing up Dan Clark’s laptop when Orton asked, “You see me as a monster, don’t you?”
“That’s not my call, Dennis. I just put the cases together.”
“Doesn’t matter. I am a monster. I killed the woman I love. You ever love someone so much that the very thought of living without her makes you stop breathing? Have you ever loved someone that much, Detective?”
I didn’t answer.
“I had this great evening planned,” he said. “Flowers, dinner, a concert. Then, out of the blue, she tells me that it’s over. She’s been seeing someone else behind my back. I was blind-sided, didn’t see it coming. She said she loved him—not me.”
Orton turned his head away from me and stared at the gray sky outside of his hospital window. When he spoke again, his voice barely rose above a whisper, and I had to lean in to hear him.
“I was so angry. I . . . I grabbed her by the throat. I wanted to stop her from saying those things. I wanted her to stop loving this other man. I squeezed and squeezed. I just wanted to stop the pain. And when I stopped squeezing, Pippa was dead. I watched her life drain away. I wasn’t out of control. I could have stopped, but I didn’t. I killed her to satisfy my own selfish needs. I can’t live with that.”
“You can live with it, Dennis,” I said. “You’d be amazed what a man can live with.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he whispered. “But why would anyone want to live with that on their conscience?”
CHAPTER 24
Thanks to Dennis Orton, I now held a grenade to use in my approaching knife fight with Briggs—not forgetting, however, that a knife could kill no matter how many grenades I held. The time had come to get comfortable in that mud pit where Briggs spent his days. Like Orton said, Briggs always thought six moves ahead. I need to do the same.
Some years ago, Boady Sanden gave me a book, a small treatise on ancient Chinese battle tactics called The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. I never turn down a gift, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why Boady thought I’d have the least bit of interest in battle tactics used before the invention of gun powder. After I read it, I understood. The ideas in that book reached far beyond the battlefields. I summoned my memories of Sun Tzu as I drove back to City Hall.