Somebody's Secrets

Prologue

Prologue

(Sitka, Alaska, present day)

“We’ve got a problem,” Police Chief Duke Campbell said without even so much as a good morning.

Bar owner Ben Daniels stifled a sigh. In the 30 plus years — could that be right? He did the math and winced — in the nearly 40 years he’d known the man, he didn’t think they had ever had a conversation that didn’t start out, “We’ve got a problem.” All too often, the truth was Campbell had a problem, and now it was going to become his as well.

He forced himself to listen to his phone call.

“So, this girl and that Kitka boy come waltzing into the courthouse and fill out a public records request for all the documents pertaining to death of Kitka’s father, and to the deaths in the jail between the years 1975 and 1982.”

OK, this was a problem thought Campbell.

“Back up. Who’s the girl?”

“I told you.” Campbell was impatient. “Her name’s Karin Wallace. She’s a biology professor, doing some kind of research with Fish and Game for the season. Apparently, her father may have been one of the men who died.”

Not a girl, Daniels thought. She’d have to be in her 30s. And a professor. She wasn’t stupid, then, although he’d found that professors were often narrowly focused. And of course, a Kitka would be involved. You didn’t need ghosts to be haunted by a dead man — his children did the job just fine.

“Jonas Kitka?” he asked. Please let it be Jonas, not Paul. Jonas could be handled. Paul would be another matter. He thanked God that Paul stayed away from Sitka. Away from the past.

“Yeah, yeah, Jonas Kitka. So I ask the city attorney to tell them no, they can’t have the records. Jesus, they’re 30 years old. Even Luke’s death is nearly 20 years ago. But he says if we have the records, we need to turn them over, because we’re talking about possible wrongful deaths.”

Ben frowned. “I thought the coroner ruled Luke’s death justified in the inquest.”

“It was. But we still have files, maybe. Maybe they’ll not be findable.” He sounded sly, or as if he were trying to be sly. Daniels stifled another sigh.

“Chief, I just don’t see this as a big problem.” Maybe he was just tired. Or maybe he’d learned patience. Most problems burned themselves out without any need for intervention, he’d learned. He wished he’d learned it earlier. Back in the day, he thought he had to solve the problems or risk everything. Which is why this problem never seemed to go away.

“Yeah, well I do. And furthermore, I think Hank Petras is becoming a problem too.”

“Hank?” Hank had become the defacto enforcer 20 years ago when he’d shown up on the police force and demonstrated his willingness to do whatever was asked of him.

“Rumor has it, he’s got a safety net squirreled away, and he’s planning to use it for a cushy retirement.” The chief was still belligerent. “After all the money we’ve funneled his way.”

Money he’d earned the hard way, Daniels thought. “Chief he can’t out us without outing himself.”

“He could if he cut a deal with the other Kitka.”

OK, he conceded, Campbell might have a point there. But still. Nothing needed to be done now. He said as much to the Chief.

“I disagree. But I can handle it. If you want to sit at your bar and fantasize about Florida and an old folks home, that’s fine. But I’m not ready to go out of here yet, and I most certainly don’t plan to leave here in cuffs.” He hung up without giving Daniels a chance to reply.

Daniels hung up the phone slowly. This bar, appropriately called The Club, faced the road and was dark and cave-like, but his office in the back of the building had a large plate glass window that looked over the bay. He’d been in Sitka nearly 40 years and he never got tired of the views or the beauty of the water surrounded by tree-covered mountains that sloped steeply down to the shores. Sitka ran along the edge of Baranof Island, stretching from the old pulp mill site to the east of him, into the town proper, and then out to the ferry terminal. It spilled across the bridge to a separate island where Mount Edgecombe’s snow-covered peak dominated the views to the west. Beautiful country.

He’d come in here in 1964 as an 18-year-old who’d enlisted in the Coast Guard to avoid the draft, and he’d never left. Mustered out here in ‘68, used his savings to buy a bar, and started building it. He reinvested his money in real estate, much to the jeers of Chief Campbell, and even of Swede. Swede Johannsen was born and raised in Sitka, and his family had controlled the Sitka Fish Processing Plant — SFPP — since God was a pup. Swede understood the value of owning something, but he didn’t have the drive to own a third of the town. He smiled a bit. Well, he probably didn’t own quite that much, but he owned a lot. He’d married, raised a family. He’d become a power in Sitka and was in large part responsible for Sitka’s growth and success. He was proud, goddamit, and he deserved to be part of what they built.

There had been some hard things, hard choices along the way. He’d always known that the steps they took to protect Sitka during the ‘70s upheavals and to protect the SFPP from the unions were going to come back to bite them. And if one of them hadn’t been the chief of police at the time, they would never have gotten away with it.

Maybe it would have been better if they hadn’t. Especially when it meant they’d had to take further action.... He turned away from that thought.

So, was Duke right? Did this require additional action? Did they really have a problem that would prevent his retirement? He was beginning to feel the creakiness in his knees, and he’d like to try his hand at golf on a real course. He had been one of the backers for the Sitka golf course five years ago, but all they could fit in was nine holes, and while the scenery was beautiful, finding an overshot ball could be a real b***h.

He caught his reflection in the window as he turned back to his desk. Pretty good for 67, he thought. His hair was cut short, which de-emphasized the receding hairline and the gray, and emphasized his strong features. He was six-foot, still strong as an ox — had to be to run bars for fishermen, Coasties and loggers — and had managed to avoid much of a gut. He was healthy, still in his prime, and he was damn going to enjoy his retirement. His sons were poised to take over — they would have a good income coming in — and he could come visit his grandchildren during fishing season every year.

Really, he thought, the problem wasn’t Jonas Kitka or what’s her name, something Wallace. The problem was Duke Campbell. He was hotheaded, impetuous, didn’t like to be challenged, and it had only gotten worse as he’d aged. He’d been the police chief for 30-some years, and he had grown arrogant with it. No one had the right to challenge him, and his reactions got more extreme every year.

He thought about that, and then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Swede,” he said to the owner of the fish packing sheds. “We’ve got a problem.”