Swift Justice

The Bob White Birder Murder Mysteries

The Boreal Owl Murder

Murder on Warbler Weekend

A Bobwhite Killing

Falcon Finale

A Murder of CrowS

Swift Justice

Jan Dunlap

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

Saint Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright © 2014 Jan Dunlap

Print ISBN 978-0-87839-769-3

eBook ISBN: 978-0-87839-845-4

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition: September 2014

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

www.northstarpress.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Bob White’s bird list for Swift Justice

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

I started drinking coffee when I was twelve. The occasion was a pre-dawn drive to see a bird in southeastern Minnesota with Ken Kniplinger, an older fellow I’d gotten to know during bird walks at the Minnesota Valley National Wildlife Refuge in Bloomington.

Then again, everyone I met on bird walks was older than me when I was twelve, since birding was primarily the recreation of older people when I first got hooked on the hobby. Nowadays, though, I’m happy to report that birding is well on its way to overcoming age barriers; I frequently see young parents with babies in backpacks out on the birding trails in Minnesota. We still have work to do in spreading the hobby into more diverse cultural populations, but there are some awesome programs around the country that are picking up steam, along with birders of every race and cultural background.

But back to my first cup of coffee.

Since I wasn’t legal for driving a car when I was twelve years old, my dad was my wheelman and regular birding companion, and almost every Saturday morning, he drove me to birding spots around the Twin Cities so he wouldn’t have to listen to me begging to go birding all weekend. Dad and Ken, or Nip as everyone called him, really hit it off on the walks in Bloomington, and before I knew it, they were big buddies because they discovered a mutual passion for nature preserve projects around the state.

So when Nip called late on an October Friday night to invite us to chase a Mississippi Kite that had been spotted near the town of LaCrosse in Wisconsin, Dad said I could go with Nip in the morning, even though he wouldn’t be riding along. I was thrilled—it was my first birding excursion out of town with a birder other than my father; I guess you could say I figured I’d finally earned my wings as a birder in my own right.

What’ll you have, Bob? Nip asked me as he pulled his car into a Stop’N’Go gas station a few blocks from my home. It’s a drive down to LaCrosse, so I’m going to need some joe. How about you?

Sure, I said, sounds good.

True, I wasn’t quite sure what joe was, but I figured if Nip used it, it was clearly an experienced birder thing, and I needed to get on board with what other birders routinely relied on when they took off in search of rare species.

When he returned to the car with two cups of steaming hot coffee in his hands, I casually took the cup he offered me, then secretly watched him as he carefully took a sip of his own. The rich aroma of coffee filled the car, and I felt, rather than heard, my stomach launch a low growl of hunger. I’d been too excited to eat the bowl of cereal my mom had poured for me when I woke up, and now the scent of the coffee was waking my appetite up in a big way.

I raised the cup to my lips and took a swallow.

Holy buckets!

Talk about hot! For a second, I thought it was going to burn a hole right through the front of my throat as it went down. So much for making my debut as an experienced birder—I was lucky I didn’t scream like a girl when that coffee hit my tongue.

Sorry for the sexist remark. I should know better. I’m a sensitive high school counselor. I guess I could say scream like a twelve-year-old boy, but it just doesn’t have the same ring to it, you know? Girls are expected to scream; prepubescent boys, not so much.

As it was, my mouth popped open to drag in as much cool air as I could and I gasped for breath. I could feel tears in my eyes. I looked over at Nip.

A fresh pot, he apologized. A little strong, huh?

At which point, I finally tasted the coffee itself as my taste buds recovered from being nearly boiled alive. The liquid was bitter, but it felt bright and cleansing on my tongue. I carefully took another small sip and savored the flavor in my mouth.

It’s good, I told Nip, a little surprised that I did, indeed, like the taste. I’d always assumed my parents drank it simply to wake up in the morning. Based on their grimaces over their first cups, it had never occurred to me that coffee could be a pleasure.

There’s nothing better than that first hit of joe when you’ve got a bird to find, Nip said as he made the turn towards the interstate that would carry us to the Kite, but a lousy cup of coffee? That’ll kill you every time.

After twenty-three years of drinking coffee, I’d have to agree with Nip: bad coffee will kill you, figuratively. What I didn’t know, until recently, was that being the person to bring the coffee could get you killed.

Literally.

• • • • •

I’d just picked up my name tag at the registration table for the MOU’s Annual Meeting and Paper Session at the Bell Museum in Minneapolis when I heard a familiar voice call my name.

Bob White! Nip Kniplinger boomed from across the room.

I peeled off the backing of the nametag and smacked it on my shirt, then turned to greet my old birding buddy.

Nip, how have you been?

Never better, he assured me, energetically shaking my hand. Retirement’s a wonderful thing. I can chase birds at the drop of a hat, and I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to leave work early. Except for Mavis. She thinks I retired to become the full-time handyman around the house. His big laugh shook his round belly. I’m working on re-educating her. So far, I’ve botched two plumbing repairs and one cabinet re-hanging. The only thing she asked me to do around the house this week was refill our birdfeeders on the back porch, so I think I’m making progress.

His eyes darted past me. Is that our little Birdchick over there? I’ve got to go say hi and razz her about that corny com­mercial she did last week. Talk with you later, Bob.

I watched him scurry back across the entrance hall of the University of Minnesota’s Bell Museum to catch Sharon Stiteler, known to birders around the country as the Birdchick. A highly regarded birding blogger and self-professed bird nerd, Sharon had cobbled together a solid career for herself as an avian expert and advocate, a career I occasionally envied, especially when I overdosed on drama queens in my counseling day job at Savage High School. About the same height as Nip, Sharon threw her arms around my friend’s rotund shape, and the two of them squawked in delight, stamping their feet in excitement, reminding me of a couple of Greater Prairie-chickens doing their courtship dance during mating season.

You know, if I were one of those really obsessive birders you run into around here every once in a while, I’d say that behavior looks a lot like Greater Prairie-chickens, wouldn’t you, Bob? It’s the foot stomping—a dead giveaway.

Hey, Ron, I replied, turning to shake the strong hand of Ron Windingstad, the former Audubon at Home state coordinator for Minnesota. Are you trash-talking birders again?

Now retired, Ron was probably the state’s foremost authority on Chimney Swifts, given the fact that he’d coordinated the agency’s Chimney Swift Conservation Project for eleven years. On top of that, he’s given countless hours to educate the public about Chimney Swifts, and he and his teenage son, Lucas, were experts at sharing their enthusiasm for the birds. I once tried to set up a date for Ron to come out to Savage High School to teach our woodworking class to build Chimney Swift towers, but our assistant principal, Mr. Lenzen, nixed the idea. He was afraid the birds, when they started congregating in large flocks before fall migration, would cause too much excitement around the football field.

If they had, it would have been a first for Savage High, let me assure you. Ask any Savage resident, and they’d tell you that excitement is just about the very last word associated with our football field.

Bob, I want you to meet Pheej Vang, Ron said, resting his hand on the shoulder of the young Hmong man beside him. Pheej is presenting a session this morning about the Chimney Swift towers his Boy Scout troop built and installed around the Twin Cities. He’s a talented young man, and one of our up-and-coming birders here in Minnesota. Pheej, this is Bob White.

Hello, Pheej said, shaking my extended hand. I’m happy to meet you, Mr. White.

It’s a pleasure, I told him. Where do you go to school, Pheej?

Central in St. Paul, he said. I’m a junior there.

I’m a counselor at Savage High, I replied. Central’s got a topnotch math team, don’t they? In fact, if I’m recalling this right, they won state last year and came in second at nationals.

Pheej looked away and smiled shyly. We did, he said. I’m the co-captain of the team.

Congratulations, then. I nodded at Ron. You’ve got to find more Pheejs for us, Ron. The birds of Minnesota are counting on you.

That would be a switch, Pheej said, catching my eye for a second before he again looked away. Ron is the one who’s usually counting the birds.

Show Bob the photo you took last summer, Ron urged Pheej. It’s a great shot, he assured me.

Pheej pulled a picture out of the folder he was carrying and handed it to me.

That’s a Chimney Swift on Ron’s shoulder, he said. The bird had been rehabbed at the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. I took the picture just before we released it back into the wild at a roost site where hundreds of swifts were gathering for the night.

Ron nodded. We watched it fly off and join the others. I know this is my own interpretation, but those Swift’s eyes looked so thankful to be free. It was one of those moments that really hit home when you’ve spent your life loving birds.

I handed the photo back to Pheej, who slipped it into his file. Nice shot, I told him. You do good camera work, Pheej.

Where’s the coffee? Nip boomed, returned from his public display with the Birdchick. Birders can’t begin an annual meeting without joe.

Joe who? Pheej asked Ron.

He means coffee, Ron explained. Don’t ask, he added when Pheej gave him a confused look. I don’t think anyone knows for sure, though lots of people have their own opinions on it. Some say it was the Secretary of the Navy who banned alcohol from ships in the early 1900s, or that ‘joe’ sounds like the word ‘hot’ in French, or that it’s from an old song from the 1800s. Whatever you call it, it’s the drink of choice of most birders.

I thought Birdchick was in charge of coffee this year, I said. Didn’t I see her on television last week hawking some local organic coffee shop?

Sharon—Birdchick—was the promotional queen of the Min­ne­sota Ornithologists’ Union. She represented so many products, I figured she probably had a list of company names written in indelible ink along the inside of her arm so she wouldn’t forget which product went with which company.

Yup. That’s the one I had to tease her about. Nip looked around my left side and then around my right side to the table behind me. She said the coffee would be set up next to the registration table, but I don’t see any. Sharon! he bellowed across the room at Birdchick.

I saw her blonde head pop up from a conversation.

The coffee isn’t here! Nip yelled again.

Sharon waved at us. I’m coming! she shouted back.

I thought birders were quiet people, Pheej softly observed.

Only when they’re birding, Ron replied. Believe me, some of them can make a whole heck of a lot of noise when they want to.

Sharon bustled up to our little group.

Hey, Bob, she greeted me. Where’s Luce?

Luce was my wife and birding partner. She was also an incredi­ble chef for a conference center on the west side of the Twin Cities. This particular morning, she was busy cooking up a gourmet chocolate fantasy brunch for a local food shelf’s annual fundraiser at the conference center. While I was waiting for my first cup of plain old joe, Luce was probably brewing five kinds of mocha espressos and icing chocolate biscotti.

I almost salivated just thinking about it.

She’s working a brunch this morning, I told Birdchick. Nip needs his coffee, Sharon, and he needs it now, or it’s going to get ugly.

Heaven forbid! Sharon clasped her hands over her plump bosom in mock horror.

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. Just tell me where the coffee is, Sharon, and I’ll go get it.

Trisha Davis picked it up and is bringing it in for me, she said. I just got a text from her. She’s parked in the lot downstairs and should be bringing it up in the elevator even as we speak.

In one trip? I asked.

Last year, there had been four large coffee urns standing on the refreshments table. I couldn’t imagine one ride in the elevator would be enough to bring it all in.

I’ll go give her a hand, I said. I turned to Ron’s protégé. I’m looking forward to your talk, Pheej. I’m sure you’ve got some great information to share with us.

I walked over to the elevator just as the doors slid open, but no one was inside. I stepped in and pushed the button for the underground parking level. A few moments later, I found myself in the dimly lit garage, looking for Trisha Davis, a short blonde woman a little older than I was. I knew Trisha from the last two years of sitting together on the Minnesota Ornithologists’ Union Records Committee, or MOURC, as I liked to call it. There were five of us on the committee, and it was our responsibility every six months to evaluate records of birds seen in the state. Using photos and any other documentation offered, we verified sightings of unusual and rare birds for the state-wide birding community.

Most of the time, birders who submitted records respectfully accepted our evaluations since all five of us were extremely experienced birders. Occasionally, though, a birder got upset when we rejected his or her identification of the bird in question and accused us of being prima donnas trying to maintain some kind of elite superiority to the rank-and-file birders in the state. The few times I’d had that experience, I told the upset birder to get a life and find something they were good at, because birding clearly wasn’t it.

Just kidding. I didn’t really say that.

I’m Mr. Sensitive, remember? I make my living helping young people deal with challenging circumstances, like failing art appreciation class twice, or not making the dance team’s first string, or having a dog who continually ate their homework assignments even though the assignments were supposed to be submitted online.

Really—I had a student once who swore his dog ate his online homework assignment. Obviously, he wasn’t the class valedictorian.

Or salutorian, either.

Actually, he may have been in the bottom twentieth percentile.

He did manage to graduate, though, even if it was a year later than the average Savage student. Last I heard, he was in Los Angeles and well on his way to making his second million as a record producer.

Go figure.

Trisha? I called into the rows of cars parked beneath the Bell Museum. I listened for a response.

Nothing.

Had I missed her when I came down in the elevator?

Not possible. There was only the one elevator in use this morning, and there was no way Trisha had hauled one of those big coffee urns up a flight of stairs.

I closed my eyes and listened again.

I could hear something dripping.

Since the roads had been unseasonably dry for the last week, I knew that the noise wasn’t the result of ice melting off someone’s car. I walked toward the sound and saw a car door ajar, but the inside light wasn’t on.

It was Sharon’s car, though. I knew her license plates as well as my own.

BRDCHK1.

As I got closer, I could see a body slumped back in the driver’s seat, and what looked like a big cardboard box wedged between the body and the car steering wheel.

I sprinted the rest of the way to the car and jerked the driver’s door wide open.

The huge take-out carton of coffee slipped to the cement floor of the parking garage into the growing puddle of joe beside the driver’s door. Trisha’s motionless eyes stared past me and up at the garage ceiling. Just below her ribcage I saw the handle of a knife protruding from Trisha’s wind jacket.

I took a sharp breath in through my teeth.

Memo to me, I whispered. Say ‘no’ if anyone asks you to pick up the coffee.

My eyes returned to the knife handle.

In fact, say ‘hell, no.’

Chapter 2

I assume this would be properly termed a rarity, Pheej said when I sat down next to him at the table outside the Bell Museum’s gift shop. It’s not a common occurrence to have an MOU member found dead at the Annual Meeting, is it?"

Definitely a rarity, I agreed.

I looked around the entry hallway where about forty birders stood silently, or spoke quietly in small groups. Periodically, police would usher a few people at a time into the adjacent lecture hall for private questioning as they tried to assemble any information that might prove useful for the investigation into Trisha’s murder. All the morning sessions and speakers had been cancelled, and it was still up in the air as to whether any afternoon sessions would be held. As the only general membership meeting of the year, the MOU’s annual Paper Session was a big event that many Minnesota birders eagerly anticipated and arranged to attend even if it meant several hours of driving to Minneapolis. With the plug suddenly pulled on the day’s schedule, no one was quite sure how to proceed.

Do you think we’ll have our MOURC meeting tomorrow afternoon? Nip asked me.

He and Ron sat at the opposite side of the table from me and Pheej. I noticed he had a paper cup of coffee in front of him.

The police brought up the other two cartons of coffee that were in the backseat of . . . the car, he explained when he caught the direction of my gaze. He tried an apologetic smile. They told us to help ourselves, and I figured it was going to be a long day . . . his voice trailed off.

I lifted one eyebrow at him.

I didn’t want to waste good coffee, he added, taking another sip. You know me and my joe, Bob.

What are you going to do about MOURC? Ron picked up the conversation that had abruptly died. Especially since there are just the three of you now. Can you meet with only three members?

Shoot. I’d forgotten that one of the things supposed to happen in the morning session was to ask for a new member for the records committee to take the place of Sonny Delite, a well-known birder who had died suddenly back in October. Now, with Trisha gone, the committee was two members short, and I wasn’t sure if the MOU bylaws would allow the committee to function with only three birders in attendance: me, Nip, and Harry Harrison.

Harry would know, I said. He’s been in the MOU for over fifty years, and sat on the records committee for the last twenty. I’ll go find him and ask.

I stood up to go look for Harry and almost tripped over the Birdchick.

Geez, Bob, Sharon said, look where you’re going. Just because you’re a giant doesn’t mean you get to step on us little people.

Her voice seemed to lack her usual bright confidence, but I guessed that knowing she’d been under the same roof at the same time as a murder was occurring had shaken her badly. Unfortu­nately, I had experience when it came to being involved in murder scenes and investigations. Of all the birders at the Bell Museum that morning, I