by C. E. Nelson
“I’d guess.”
“OK, tell him I’ll call him when I’m ready.”
“Right, Doc. Thanks.”
The ME truck drove off, and Deavers walked up. “So, can I dump this now?”
Seton looked up at the dump truck. “Better let me take one more quick look.”
Fifteen minutes later, he watched Deavers drive off with his load and then walked over to the trailer where Close was standing. “Is he coming back today?”
“Oh yeah. We got to get this stuff out of here.”
“OK. I’m going to hang around and see what you bring up.”
“Fine by me. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you? Kind of went through all of mine standing around here today.”
“Sorry, no. I’ll check with those guys,” he replied, pointing towards the Minnetonka police. He walked over, asked about cigarettes, came up empty, and turned to Close shaking his head ‘no’. He turned back to the Minnetonka cops, told them he was sorry, but he needed them to stay while the city guys pulled up the debris and asked if they had any floodlights for when it got dark.
“Seriously? Do you know how bad the mosquitoes will be once the sun sets?”
“So, sit in your vehicle. Nothing I can do about it. So, you got lights.”
“Yeah.”
Seton said “Good,” told them he was sorry again and walked back to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat, motor running and air conditioning on high, and called Trask.
“Pike, catch anything yet?”
Seton slapped a mosquito that had landed on his neck. “Maybe malaria.”
Trask chuckled. “I don’t think we have that in Minnesota. So, what can you tell me?”
“Couldn’t see anything more down in the stream. I gave then the OK to start pulling it apart again. I’ll stay and watch, but I don’t really expect to see anything else.”
“Bolton hanging with you?”
“No. He didn’t do well in the boat and headed home.”
Trask chuckled again. “What did the ME say?”
“It’s a girl, five to ten, and she had likely been buried. And she was probably wearing a red dress or red pants.”
Trask was silent and then in a low voice. “Libby Carlson.”
“What?”
“A young girl disappeared in that area about five years ago. I worked on it for a while but we never found her or whoever took her. She wore a red dress.”
“The ME is going to call Whitey when he’s wrapped up to get samples of the material and whatever else he finds.”
“Thanks, Pete.”
Chapter 4
James “Whitey” Whiteman, BCA Lab Director, walked into Trask’s office and sat in one of the two chairs facing Trask’s desk the next morning. He had a manila folder in his lap.
“What do you know, Whitey?”
Whiteman pushed the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses back and opened the folder in his lap. “The fabric is a cotton acrylic blend. There are varying shades of red, with some black. A pattern.”
“How old?”
“Hard to say,” said Whiteman as his fingers ran through the thick white hair on his head that had given him his nickname. “Between four and ten years. Can’t get much closer.”
Trask leaned back in his chair. “Hmm.”
“But the shoe, on the other hand, is about four or five years old. It was sold at a good number of stores in Minnesota and nationwide. Manufactured in China and sold under the G and B brand.” He removed a piece of paper from the folder and handed it to Trask. “Here’s a picture.”
Trask studied the plastic shoe with a single strap, a small pink flower on the strap, and knew they had found Libby Carlson.
“I can’t imagine plastic shoes are very comfortable, but they certainly will last.”
“Yeah,” Trask responded, lost in thought of a small blonde-haired girl who had haunted him. “You have the ME report too?”
Whiteman handed it to Trask. Trask started to read.
“Um, you fishing this weekend?”
Trask looked up. He knew what the question was about. Trask and Whiteman had an agreement that if Whiteman did a little extra for Trask when he needed it, then Trask would let Whiteman use his boat. “Doesn’t look like it. You want the boat?”
“If it’s OK. Told Sam we should go after some bass out on Minnetonka.”
Trask realized he had only had his boat out once this summer, a quick trip to a lake south of town for some panfish in early May. “Could be tough after this rain, but somebody might as well use it.” He opened the drawer on his desk and removed a remote for the garage door at his condo where he stored the boat, tossing it to Whiteman. “Key for the boat is in the compartment in front of the passenger seat. Some rods in the rod locker you can use if you want. Should be full of gas.”
Whiteman stood, thanked Trask, and left. Trask watched him go, wishing he was going fishing, before returning his eyes to the ME’s report. The young female body had been underground for some time. Nothing on the body to suggest a cause of death. Trask turned in his chair, looking into the clear June sky. He was not a religious man. His parents had brought him up Lutheran, insisting that he and his identical twin brother Dave accompany them to church as long as they lived at home. After moving out he had attended church at Christmas a few times with his parents before they were murdered but had not returned since then. He could not understand how God could let his parents be murdered or an innocent girl be abducted and killed. He only hoped she was dead before someone buried her.
“Larry!”
Trask’s assistant, Larry Stoxon, entered from his outer office, iPad in hand. He wore wool houndstooth trousers, a fitted sky-blue cotton dress shirt with a linen and silk striped tie of gold and navy blue. At one time Trask had made it his goal to dress better than his assistant, and most of Trask’s clothes were custom-made, but somehow, he could never quite outdo Stoxon. And what he had yet to figure out was how the man afforded his wardrobe on what Trask paid him. “Yes, sir?”
“I need the file on the investigation into the disappearance of Libby Carlson. It was about five years ago in Minnetonka. And I need a phone number for her parents.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”
“No, I guess not.” Stoxon stood to leave. “Oh, I need a map of the area around Purgatory Creek. North of Eden Prairie Road.”
“No problem, sir.”
Stoxon got to the doorway. “Do you know if Pike is in yet?” shouted Trask.
“I believe so, sir. Would you like me to call him to your office?”
“Naw. I’ll go see him. I need the exercise.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Stoxon walked out leaving Trask with a puzzled look. Trask had no shortage of sarcasm streaming from his mouth, too much according to his girlfriend Melanie, and could trade it with anyone – except Stoxon. Never sure if the guy was serious or not, he had given up trying to guess, but it always left him feeling a bit put down. Melanie, his off-again, on-again girlfriend, said it was his punishment for being too sarcastic.
“Pike.” Trask sat in the chair in front of Seton’s desk. “How long did it go last night?”
“Midnight.” Seton was pouring the coffee in, but he still looked and felt beat.
“Thanks for staying. Anything else turn up?”
“Some more material fragments that I gave to Whitey, but I don’t think they had anything to do with our body.”
“No pink dinosaur?”
“Um, no.”
Trask leaned back. “Her name is Libby Carlson, I’m sure of it now. Disappeared from Purgatory Park in Minnetonka five years ago this summer. Spent the better part of five months looking for her until things froze up, but never turned up anything.” Trask paused, his memories vivid. “Always assumed someone had abducted her, driven off with her, but now I guess she was close by the whole time. She always carried a pink dinosaur with her. Her favorite toy.”
“Sorry,
nothing, but Eden Prairie has a guy watching until they’re done with the removal. Maybe he’ll see something.”
“Yeah, maybe. Could be in the Minnesota River headed for New Orleans by now.”
“What do you want me to do, boss?”
“Look at any records of child abductions, attempted abductions, murders, complaints about men hanging around playgrounds, parks, that sort of thing. Look at the last five years in Minnesota. Larry will get you whatever you need.”
“Will do.” Trask pushed himself up from the chair like it took a great effort and Seton noticed. “You OK?”
“Yeah. Never thought this would come back up. Thought about it all night.” Trask walked to the door and turned. “I want this guy, Pike.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go exploring.”
Chapter 5
Trask pointed at the map of Purgatory Creek spread across his desk.
“You’re serious?” asked Stoxon.
“Yeah, I’m serious.” Trask was staring at Stoxon across his desk. “I’m always serious.”
“This is not possible. Besides the heat, and the humidity, and the mud, there are, of course, the bugs. Did I mention the mud?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Good, because from what I can find out about the topography of the area, it’s pretty much a swamp. Now, at the end of summer, it’s dry enough to walk close to the creek, or creek bed if it's dried out, which it usually is, but we have had ten inches of rain which has turned the entire area into a major mud pit. You cannot walk through, you cannot boat through, and I believe hoverboards may even have trouble.”
“Hoverboards?”
“Sir, if you are intent on this, may I suggest an aerial survey to at least narrow down the potential areas of investigation?”
“OK, that makes sense.”
“Good. I will see about a helicopter and let you know.” Stoxon stood, making a note on his tablet.
“Helicopter? I’m not good with helicopters.”
Stoxon looked at Trask. “Really?”
“Yeah, really!” Trask looked away. “Tell Pike he’s taking a ride. Let me know when it gets set up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaning back in his chair, Trask regarded the file box Stoxon had left on his desk. He was afraid of it, an evil spirit waiting inside. He could not rationalize his trepidation, other than he did not want to return to what the box held. Memories. For reasons he could never understand, the disappearance of Libby Carlson had shaken him. He had no children, no nieces or nephews. He had co-workers and friends with younger children, but he never felt very close to any of them, and none of them had ever come to face the horror of what had happened to Libby. But even so, it had gotten to him. He had spent weeks on the case, off hours patrolling the area where she had last been seen until his supervisor had finally ordered him to stop. But he hadn’t, at least not right away. But eventually, over time, he had given up. And maybe that was what bothered him most, that he had given up.
A picture of a young girl in a frilly pink dress, blonde hair in pigtails, holding an Easter basket in one hand and a pink dinosaur in the other was clipped to the inside of the cover of the first file he removed from the box. Five years old. Five years ago. Someone had taken her.
She had come to the park with her mother; her mother pushing her new baby brother in a stroller on a pleasant evening in July. Libby and her mother often came to the park. It was only three blocks from their home and had swings and slides and other playground toys that kept Libby busy.
And she was busy. So busy, in fact, that her parents had considered not having another child. The girl was constantly on the move, rarely napping; going from the time she was up until she would drop off at night with her dinosaur in her grasp. Libby explored everything and everywhere, escaping the house on numerous occasions, becoming friends with neighbors that her parents didn’t know. Her mother wondered if it would be legal to put a child on a leash after she became pregnant and her energy level dropped, fearful that she could not handle a baby and her hyperactive daughter. But with the birth of her brother, Libby seemed to slow down, at least a little. She took an interest in helping her mother with the baby and seemed more content to keep her activities confined to the areas where her mother could supervise.
Libby’s mother, Janet, sat on a bench with the stroller in front of her holding Libby’s infant brother while Libby played around the playground set with other children. The park was busy that evening. The park workers who knew Libby from her frequent visits and many questions about what they were doing had gone home, but there were others from the area that Libby and her mother knew. Janet talked with Barb Worden as she sat on the bench. Worden also had a new baby, her first, happy to take advice from Janet, marveling at how she could handle two young children at once.
The playground equipment sat on a bed of sand, a joy for Libby, but an irritation for her mother who seemed to find it everywhere in their home after a visit. Libby had moved from the slide to a digging toy in the playground's corner when she spotted a young rabbit, moving away from the playground towards the maintenance shed. Libby gave chase.
The playground area and walking trails were north of the creek, on a slight bluff above the creek basin, the woods surrounding the creek running up the hill to the park where they thinned out. The maintenance shed sat closest to the creek, only fifteen feet from the bluff. The shed was not large, 24’ by 40’, wood-sided with a cedar shake roof for aesthetics, with a hanging sliding door.
As Libby rounded the corner of the shed, she saw the bunny scoot out of sight over the rise, headed for the woods. She followed, getting to the top of the hill just in time to see the rabbit enter the woods through a break in the trees, a trail used by deer, and others. She looked back towards the shed and the playground and then ran down the slope.
The dogs had picked up her scent a short distance into the woods but nothing beyond. The girl was gone. Her mother wasn’t sure how long Libby had been out of her sight. Ten minutes at the most, she had guessed. Her mother and others at the park had looked for twenty minutes before she called her husband, who called the police. The search had gone on through the night in the area and then expanded in the days that followed.
Trask had led the investigation into the disappearance. The husband, Mark Carlson, had been his early suspect. The man worked long hours and admitted barely being able to handle his daughter’s constant need for attention when he had come home from work, especially when there was more work to do. But his shock and grief at the loss of his daughter had been real, and as Trask came to know the parents, their horror and grief had gripped him, driven him, and haunted him. Seeing the little girl’s empty room, going through her things, had only increased his feelings of remorse. Each day she was unaccounted for increased his sense of failure. He had let his parents down by not finding their killers and now had done the same for this little girl. She called to him in his fitful sleep. He dragged through his days, his drinking increasing, finding difficulty in seeing anything worthwhile in his life.
Transients were seen in the park from time to time, and public speculation swirled around an unidentified man in an army jacket mentioned by several who had been at the park that summer, but Trask’s focus centered on Arnold Daniel.
Daniel had worked at a local mall as a computer technician. He was thirty-five at the time of Libby’s disappearance. The park was only half a mile from the mall, and Daniel often drove there before or after work, depending on whether he worked during the day or at night. Always well-dressed and friendly, Daniel easily struck up conversations with the mothers frequenting the park, including Janet Carlson, and took an interest in learning all about the children in the park. The women all thought he was nice until after the abduction when several noted it was a little strange how the man would sit for long periods of time just watching the children.
Daniel had not come back to the park after the abduction, but Tr
ask had tracked him down and took an instant dislike to the man. He seemed phony and was evasive, explaining that he stopped coming to the park after the abduction because he had other things to do. A background check of Daniel revealed he was divorced. Trask tracked down the ex-wife who admitted that Daniel had abused her and their daughter, requesting a restraining order against the man.
And there was more. Daniel had come from a badly broken home. His parents had split when he was very young, his mother marrying again. Daniel’s stepfather was a top-of-the-class loser. He gave up working and looking for work soon after marrying Daniel’s mother. He and his friends would lay around the house watching porn during the day, often letting Daniel watch with them, at least to begin with. His stepfather would become increasingly drunk and stoned as he watched – and then violent. The man would beat Daniel and his older brother, coming close to killing him on two occasions. Daniel’s brother had shot and killed their stepfather, possibly saving Daniel’s life.
That life was the life of a loner in high school and college. He was described as ‘creepy’ and ‘strange’ by his classmates. He was also accused of attempted rape in high school and college, neither charge sticking.
Trask followed the man relentlessly, pushed him, until Daniel complained and Trask was ordered to back off. But Trask had continued to follow and observe Daniel, checking the man’s mail daily, calling him late at night after too much whiskey. He had found nothing.
Trask did not want to wade back into the mire of the investigation. It had nearly been too much, hanging on him like his suit pockets were full of lead, taking too long to fade to a point where he had returned to some semblance of normalcy. It had consumed him, nearly to the point of no return, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough yet to go back. What was to gain? The investigation had been thorough. Nothing new would come from what had been done. But now he knew one thing he had only guessed at before. He had known Libby was dead, he had no question of that, and the body confirmed that for him. But now he knew that the killer had buried Libby close to where he had taken her. It was now more likely than ever that it had been someone in the area who had killed the girl.
