What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel David Housewright (shoe dog free ebook TXT) 📖

Sohm of Ogden, Iowa, and Cynthia and Rob Johnson of Madison, WI. He has seven grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

Marshall was born on Oct. 25, 1941. He married Mary Ann on Sept. 8, 1972. Marshall served in the U. S. Navy, became a farmer, and raised cattle, hogs, and sheep. He was a 4-H leader, a Ham radio operator, and volunteer firefighter. He is currently retired but still raises sheep and continues to donate blood. He has donated almost 27 gallons over the years.

My inner voice screamed at the computer—Mary Ann who? Is she a King? Is she still alive? Is Marshall, Sr. still alive? He was seventy-five when the article was printed. That was eight years ago.

I went to the website of the Spooner Advocate. It had a section devoted solely to obituaries. I searched for Marshall Sohm, Sr. and found the same photograph that appeared with his birthday announcement and the following:

Marshall Sohm, Sr., 78, died on Monday, April 23. He was born on October 25, 1941, in St. Paul, MN. He served in the U. S. Navy for 20 years. After retiring from the service, he studied agriculture at the University of Minnesota. He bought his own farm in Washburn County, raising cattle, hogs, and sheep. In retirement, he joined the Shell Lake Fire Department and was active in 4-H. He was welcomed to heaven by wife Mary Ann, parents Paul and Colleen Sohm, brother Peter and sister Roberta. Marshall will be missed by all who knew him, especially his children, Marshall, Jr. (Krystal), Jerome (Tonya) and Cynthia (Rob); grandchildren Steven, Linda, Martin, Elliot, Robert, Olivia, and Debra; great-grandchild Claire. A memorial service will be held at Northern Wisconsin Veterans Memorial Cemetery. Memorials are preferred to Shell Lake Fire Department.

“Oh for God’s sake,” I said aloud. “Aren’t you supposed to list the wife’s maiden name in obituaries?”

I quickly searched for Mary Ann King and came up empty.

“Dammit.”

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes.

Why is this so hard? my inner voice wanted to know. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not like we’re searching for the Lost Ark of the Covenant.

I surfed some more for the name Marshall Sohm, this time adding “Junior” to the parameters. There was more about Elliot online than there was about her father, but then he didn’t have a Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or Pinterest account. I did find a small piece that appeared in the St. Paul Pioneer Press business section last fall:

St. Paul–based AgEc, Inc., a global provider of food safety technologies and services for agriculture firms, announced that Marshall Sohm, Jr. has been promoted to executive vice president.

“Looks like you didn’t stray too far from the old man’s farm in Shell Lake, Wisconsin,” I told Marshall from St. Paul, even though he wasn’t there to hear me.

So now what, I asked myself.

When in doubt, my inner voice said, agitate.

I went back to Deese’s DNA website and sent two messages. The first was addressed to Elliot.

Baseball and hockey. In fact, I still play hockey despite my advanced years. Unfortunately, I suck at both. I hope to see you again, too.

The second message was sent to Marshall.

Mr. Sohm, as I stated in my earlier message, I want nothing from you or the rest of the King family including recognition. I certainly don’t mean to add to the problems that Charles, Porter, and Jenna seem to be experiencing these days. Hell, I actually own stock in KTech. I am asking only for answers to a few simple personal questions. I wish merely to know where I came from. I was very sorry to learn that your mother had passed. If Mary Ann were still alive, I might have been able to ask her; apparently she was my aunt. I was saddened to hear about your father Marshall, Sr. as well. He seemed like a very good man. Growing up on a farm in Wisconsin must have been quite an adventure for you and something that I simply cannot relate to.

I purposely included Marshall’s name and information about him and the Kings so he would know that I already knew more than he wanted to tell me. I had hoped that would convince Marshall to answer my questions and send me on my way. I miscalculated. Twenty minutes later he replied with this message:

Don’t fuck with us!

To which I replied:

Do you kiss your daughter with that mouth?

Detective Shipman shook her head as she added even more notes to her yellow legal pad. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, McKenzie,” she said to herself. “What a fucktard.”

NINE

The police sergeant sitting behind the bulletproof partition at the entrance to the James S. Griffin Building worked a lever that opened a metal drawer.

“Identification please,” he said.

The State of Minnesota requires that licensed private investigators carry an identification card with them at all times that clearly states the license holder’s name, company logo if any, address, and the PI’s photograph and physical description. Greg Schroeder had that, of course, plus the word PRIVATE printed across the top and INVESTIGATOR printed across the bottom, both in block letters reversed out of black. That was on one side of his wallet. On the other side was a gold coplike badge with Private Detective embossed across it. The Private Detective and Protective Agent Services Board doesn’t require a badge. In fact, I think it frowns on it. Schroeder, however, liked to carry one for dramatic effect.

Schroeder slid his wallet into a metal drawer. The drawer was retracted so that it could be accessed on the other side of the glass. The sergeant opened the wallet, perused the contents carefully, put it back into the drawer, and returned it to Schroeder. He didn’t seem impressed.

Afterward, he made two phone calls before passing the detective up to the second floor where Major Crimes was located. Schroeder stepped off the elevator and was confronted by a large desk that effectively blocked his path. The woman sitting behind it smiled brightly as