only non-violent thing he could think of to stop the situation. He stepped closer to Weber, draping his right arm over the back of Weber’s neck and wrapped it around, his forearm and bicep on either side of Weber’s neck and squeezed. Weber released the man and started making a gurgling almost immediately. Lockhart let his own choke hold go and Weber fell, vomiting, to his hands and knees. The choke was meant to get Weber to let go, perhaps put him to sleep by cutting off the blood to his brain for just a moment, not nearly as dangerous as it seemed. The fact that Weber was throwing up was a good indication of how drunk he was.
The crowd grew quiet, but no one left. They rippled like a flag in the wind, restless. Lockhart looked around the wall of hard-drinking Northern Minnesota men and women. There was anger, fear and confusion. Fueled by alcohol, it was only a matter of time until something broke. Lockhart was glad it was just two men, but Weber being one of those men didn’t make things easier.
“Go home,” Lockhart said. No one moved.
“Agent Lockhart said to go home,” the Police Chief echoed, in a far more commanding voice than Lockhart would have thought from him. Some shifted, yet still, no one left.
Lockhart leaned closer to Donaldson and asked, “Do you have a city hall?”
“School gymnasium.”
Lockhart gave the police chief a double-take to make sure he heard him right before he turned and addressed the shifting, swaying mob of drunks. “Tomorrow at ten a.m. in the K-12 school gym, there will be a town meeting for anyone who wants to attend or ask questions. I will address what’s going on with the investigation into the death of Mikey Weber. Until then, go home, sober up, and be with your families.”
At first, no one moved, as no one wanted to be the first one to back down to authority, but after Chief Donaldson said a few words to certain individuals around the street, people slowly began to disperse. Lockhart looped an arm under Weber and pulled him up to his feet. “Come on, Mr. Weber. Let’s have a chat.”
As the two men walked down the street, Lockhart doing his best to keep the nearly-unresponsive man on his feet, Lockhart had the sudden feeling that he was being followed. He turned his head and for a moment, thought that he caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye, but there was no one there. It was just him and the gurgling Mr. Weber, who promptly swayed and vomited once again.
Chapter 14
Weber’s eyes were nearly shut as Lockhart stared at him from across the table. The man wore an old trucker hat low on his face and a thick beard covered most of what was visible. The room they were in was only about ten by ten feet, without any window or two-way glass. Joy told him it had been used primarily as a storage closet until recently, and before that, it was a laundry room. At that moment, it was serving as an interrogation room. Chief Donaldson waited outside at Lockhart’s request.
Lockhart insisted that Weber take off his greasy-looking hat and asked, “What was the fight about, Mr. Weber?”
Weber’s eyes stayed nearly shut and shifted away from Lockhart. They were dark brown and unfocused. Lockhart’s grandfather would have said it was a sign that he was too full of crap, but Lockhart refrained from sharing that tidbit of grandfatherly wisdom.
“Did that man say something about you? Your family?”
Weber sneered but didn’t lift his eyes.
Lockhart stayed seated and stared at him. There was something going on with Weber, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had only seen the man wearing two expressions: annoyed or angry. His training had made him aware that anger is never a primary emotion, but a reaction to another one. Was it guilt? Lockhart wondered if the man had done something that led to Mikey’s death. Could it have been worse? Could the man have killed his own son?
“Am I under arrest?” Weber asked.
“Do you mean for
The crowd grew quiet, but no one left. They rippled like a flag in the wind, restless. Lockhart looked around the wall of hard-drinking Northern Minnesota men and women. There was anger, fear and confusion. Fueled by alcohol, it was only a matter of time until something broke. Lockhart was glad it was just two men, but Weber being one of those men didn’t make things easier.
“Go home,” Lockhart said. No one moved.
“Agent Lockhart said to go home,” the Police Chief echoed, in a far more commanding voice than Lockhart would have thought from him. Some shifted, yet still, no one left.
Lockhart leaned closer to Donaldson and asked, “Do you have a city hall?”
“School gymnasium.”
Lockhart gave the police chief a double-take to make sure he heard him right before he turned and addressed the shifting, swaying mob of drunks. “Tomorrow at ten a.m. in the K-12 school gym, there will be a town meeting for anyone who wants to attend or ask questions. I will address what’s going on with the investigation into the death of Mikey Weber. Until then, go home, sober up, and be with your families.”
At first, no one moved, as no one wanted to be the first one to back down to authority, but after Chief Donaldson said a few words to certain individuals around the street, people slowly began to disperse. Lockhart looped an arm under Weber and pulled him up to his feet. “Come on, Mr. Weber. Let’s have a chat.”
As the two men walked down the street, Lockhart doing his best to keep the nearly-unresponsive man on his feet, Lockhart had the sudden feeling that he was being followed. He turned his head and for a moment, thought that he caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye, but there was no one there. It was just him and the gurgling Mr. Weber, who promptly swayed and vomited once again.
Chapter 14
Weber’s eyes were nearly shut as Lockhart stared at him from across the table. The man wore an old trucker hat low on his face and a thick beard covered most of what was visible. The room they were in was only about ten by ten feet, without any window or two-way glass. Joy told him it had been used primarily as a storage closet until recently, and before that, it was a laundry room. At that moment, it was serving as an interrogation room. Chief Donaldson waited outside at Lockhart’s request.
Lockhart insisted that Weber take off his greasy-looking hat and asked, “What was the fight about, Mr. Weber?”
Weber’s eyes stayed nearly shut and shifted away from Lockhart. They were dark brown and unfocused. Lockhart’s grandfather would have said it was a sign that he was too full of crap, but Lockhart refrained from sharing that tidbit of grandfatherly wisdom.
“Did that man say something about you? Your family?”
Weber sneered but didn’t lift his eyes.
Lockhart stayed seated and stared at him. There was something going on with Weber, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had only seen the man wearing two expressions: annoyed or angry. His training had made him aware that anger is never a primary emotion, but a reaction to another one. Was it guilt? Lockhart wondered if the man had done something that led to Mikey’s death. Could it have been worse? Could the man have killed his own son?
“Am I under arrest?” Weber asked.
“Do you mean for
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