by Midge Bubany
Patrice said, “Well, until it’s official, I recommend we keep this quiet or you’ll have the press hounding you.”
“They already are,” Mr. Dawson said. “They’re sitting at the edge of our driveway.”
“If they get intrusive, let me know,” Patrice said.
“I have a shotgun,” Mr. Dawson said.
Oh, boy. I sat forward and said, “Although at times we may share your opinion about the media’s practices, it’s not a good idea to shoot them, Mr. Dawson.”
“Yes, we don’t want you to end up in prison,” Patrice chimed in. “With our two new investigators taking a fresh look at this investigation, we hope to close the case soon. Now, unless there’s something else you wanted to discuss, I need to be on my way.”
“How long will the identification process take?” Ray said.
“I’m not exactly sure. We’re assured by the BCA this case is a priority, so that’s in our favor,” she said.
Troy was sitting back in his chair with his arms folded. He said stone-faced, “Could be weeks . . . if we’re being completely honest here . . . and I think we owe you that.”
The couple looked at him grimly. Ray nodded.
“But . . . we have enough to begin our part of the investigation,” Patrice said.
Ray Dawson gave another nod and said, “Good.”
“Is there any chance we can follow you home and look through Silver’s things you kept?” Troy asked.
“That would work. Right, Franny?” Ray asked.
“Of course.”
I rode with Troy to Ray and Franny’s. He was uncharacteristically quiet on the way out, and that was fine by me, because most of time when I was with him, I just wanted him to shut the hell up.
We followed the Dawsons’ red Town and Country the five miles out to their farm. Up ahead, a TV news crew van was parked at the end of a driveway. As Ray slowed to turn in, two reporters exited their vehicles, attempting to block the road, but Ray barreled right through, causing them to jump aside.
“Whoa,” I said. “Somebody almost bit it there.”
“Serves ’em right. I’m gonna talk to them,” Troy said, slamming on the brakes.
“And say what?”
He rolled down his window and said, “Hey! Give the family some privacy, eh? The identification process is a lengthy one. You don’t need to be hounding them.”
“It’s the Dawson girl, right?” one of the reporters said.
“The remains have not been identified. You’ll be notified when they are.”
“Of course it’s her. Why else would you be here?” another said.
Troy snorted, rolled up the window, and drove forward. I shook my head and kept my thoughts to myself.
The Dawson farm was tidy, and the buildings looked to be recently painted. The Town and Country was parked in front of a garage, and Ray met us at the back door of the large farmhouse. He led us through a mudroom into an updated kitchen and dining area.
We were asked to wait at their dining table while the Dawsons retrieved Silver’s things. Glancing around the room, I noticed the display of family photos on the wall. A large family portrait, which must have been taken close to the time Silver disappeared, was in the center of several photos of two girls at various ages. Both girls resembled their mother. There were only a few photos of a young boy. I figured he must have been deceased. To have lost two children was unimaginable. There were also photos of two dark-haired girls, probably grandchildren, displayed on a bookshelf.
“I wonder if they kept her room like it was fifteen years ago,” Troy said. “Some families of missing persons do that, just in case they were kidnapped and find their way home. It happens.”
“Not this time,” I said.
I was overcome with sadness as I took another look at Silver Rae’s photos. Being in a victim’s house and seeing the rawness of what the family faced daily slammed the case to the personal level—the reality of why and what we were doing, besides collecting and piecing evidence together to solve a crime.
The Dawsons returned with two boxes. “Everything left is in these two boxes,” Franny said. “I donated her clothing long ago. But when she went missing, Ralph Martinson was up in her room a long time. He showed us what he took: photos and some cards, letters, and things like that.”
“He found a greeting card from Wesley Stillman in her drawer. That’s why Martinson went after him so hard,” Ray added.
“It was a birthday card,” Franny said.
“Stillman?” I asked. “Like in Stillman Dairy?”
Franny gave her husband a disgusted look. “Oh, Ray, that poor man went through enough.” She looked at us. “He was the milk hauler at the time and a real friendly kid. All I did was mention to the sheriff I thought he had a crush on Silver Rae and, well, all of a sudden, boom, he was guilty. The Stillman farm was searched, but they couldn’t find one piece of evidence. In my opinion, all the attention and suspicion toward him let the real killer get away.”
“Martinson did the right thing!” Ray said and brought his fist down gently on the table, creating a soft thud.
Franny rolled her eyes.
“He followed her in his pick-up,” Ray said.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Ray. Wesley was a nice young man . . . shy and a little strange, but harmless.”
“You don’t know that,” Ray said.
“Well, we’ll certainly look into Mr. Stillman again,” Troy said.
“He followed her?” I asked.
Franny said, “Oh, one day after school. Wanted to know if she wanted a ride. Ellie told me that.”
“Did she take it?”
“No, no. Then I guess he showed up at the street dance during Prairie Days and . . .”
“And watched her! People saw him,” Ray said.
Franny shook her head and looked to us for help.
“Was this the summer she disappeared?” I asked.
“Yes!” Ray said.
Prairie Days was always the Saturday before the Fourth of July, which would have been about a month before she disappeared.
“Did he approach her?” I asked.
“Yes!” Ray said. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“They talked only briefly, then left, is the story I heard,” Franny said.
“Is there a picture of Silver Rae we could have?” Troy asked.
She got up, went to the top drawer of a side table and came back with an unframed five-by-seven photo. I recognized it as the one in the news coverage.
“She had her senior pictures taken the week before she disappeared,” Franny told us. “The photographer quick developed the pictures and gave them to us without charge.”
She was a pretty girl with a great smile.
“Beautiful girl,” Troy said, as he held the photo in his hands.
“Inside and out,” Ray said.
Ray walked over to the wall of photos and pointed to the family portrait.
“This was taken a month before Silver disappeared. The wife had to talk me into it because it was so darned expensive. Turns out it was the last family photo we had taken.” Ray sniffed and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Silver is an unusual name,” I said.
“She was our silver lining,” Franny said.
“Tell ’em the story, hon,” Ray Dawson said.
Franny nodded and said, “Our family was in a horrible car accident when I was eight months pregnant with Silver. We were on the way home from a family reunion.”
Ray interrupted, “We were T-boned on the passenger side by a sixteen-year-old kid. Just got his license. Ellie and I came out with just a few bruises, but our three-year-old son, little Ray, was killed, and Franny was seriously injured. She went into
labor and miraculously delivered a healthy baby girl.”
“She was the silver lining in our cloud and our ray of sunshine, so we called her Silver Rae,” Franny said.
Now, all they wanted was the skeletal remains to be hers. Shit.
“We haven’t had an opportunity to finish reading the old files yet, so pardon our questions you must have answered fifteen years ago,” I said.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Franny said.
“Did you know of any conflicts or situations involving your daughter prior to her disappearance? Maybe someone bothering her?” I asked.
“No, she got along with everybody,” said Franny.
“In the week or two before her disappearance, did anything out of the ordinary happen?” Troy asked.
“No. She volunteered at the hospital a couple days, but otherwise, she was home helping me. She liked to work in the garden.”
“What days was she at the hospital?” he asked.
“Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“Did she have any problems with anyone there?” I asked.
“No, she always came home cheerful.”
“We’ll need to speak with Ellie, as well,” Troy said.
“Should I have her call you?”
“Please,” Troy said.
We both took out cards and handed them to the Mrs. Dawson.
“We used to pray she’d come home to us, and I guess our prayers were answered. Not in the way we wanted, but at least . . . ” She began to cry.
“Now I pray you get that bastard. If I had my way he’d be strung up in front of the courthouse,” Ray Dawson said.
“We’re going to give it our all to find the person responsible,” Troy said.
Mr. Dawson leaned back. “I just hope your ‘all’ is good enough.”
Yeah, and I hope we get him before you do.
Troy stood and began looking through one of the boxes. “We’ll sort through these and only take items that may help. We’ll return them as soon as possible,” Troy said.
“You promise? I never did get the things back they took fifteen years ago,” she said. “These things are all I have left of her.” She began to weep again.
“Absolutely,” Troy said.
I wasn’t so sure when, and I assumed the items weren’t going to help us if Ralph hadn’t thought they were important. The couple watched us carefully as we put on plastic gloves and went through the boxes, finally deciding on only a few items to bag.
“I can get you a smaller box for those,” Franny said.
“We have a bin in the car we can put them in, but thank you,” I said.
“If you think of anything you think would help, please call me,” Troy said, pointing to his card on the table.
“Do you happen to know where Aubrey Gage and Jenny Olson are currently living?” I asked.
“Jenny lives right here in Prairie Falls. She’s married to Brian Deitz. Aubrey lives in Duluth. Her name is Farmer now.” Mrs. Dawson laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“What is?” I asked.
“Her mother kinda looked down her nose at us farmers, and now her daughter is one.” Her mouth turned up in a slight smile.
“Would you have an address for Aubrey?”
“No,” Mrs. Dawson said.
“Where is the Summers’s place from here?” Troy asked.
“Go back a half-mile. First driveway on your right,” Mr. Dawson said.
“Do you have their phone number? I’d like to stop and talk to them.”
Chapter 7
The Summers’s farmyard was bordered with old farm machinery, broken wagons, buckets, boards, piles of used barbed wire fencing, and a rusty 1973 Impala on blocks. The buildings were three years past needing a paint job, including the two-story white farmhouse. It was quite a contrast to the impeccably kept Dawson place.
A large woman opened the patio door on the deck and waved us in. A ramp up to the deck had been installed next to a set of stairs. Mrs. Summers was a round-faced blonde with an abundance of freckles. She was dressed in a black T-shirt that stretched tightly across her large bosoms, and the hems of her jeans shorts were pulled up along her inner thighs at a steep diagonal.
We showed her our badges and introduced ourselves. She said to call her Patty and explained her husband, Jim, was out in the field. We followed her into the kitchen, where the aroma of simmering meat filled the air. The lid bounced on a crock-pot, allowing puffs of steam to escape.
The outdoor clutter was mirrored inside. The kitchen counters were so chock-full of shit, the only workspace was near the sink, where potatoes, carrots and onions lay.
“Are we interrupting a meal preparation?” I asked.
“No problem. Dinner’s not for a while.”
I remembered that on the farm, dinner was the noon meal and supper was in the evening.
“Franny just called to tell me you found Silver’s jewelry on the body.”
Jesus. “Did she ask you not to tell others?” I asked.
“No. Was she supposed to?”
“Yes, ma’am. It won’t be official until the remains are identified with dental records and DNA testing,” said Troy.
“But Franny says it’s her.”
Troy said, “It would be better if you didn’t talk to the media. I’m surprised they didn’t follow us over. They’re camped out at the end of the Dawsons’s driveway.”
“Yeah, she warned me. I don’t think it’ll be as bad as fifteen years ago because now they know the body isn’t buried on our land. What a nightmare that was! You pray they find her . . . but not on your place. You know?”
“Does your house have the same layout as in ’97?” Troy asked.
She chuckled. “Unfortunately, yes. We can’t afford to remodel like Franny and Ray did. But I wouldn’t trade lives with them for anything. Such heartache.” She pointed to the patio door. “Oh, but we didn’t have the patio door and deck then. We had to enter through the back porch.”
We followed her to small square porch housing a chest freezer, a sink, and a board with coat hooks from which dirty outdoor garments hung.
“Could someone have come in the other porch in front?” I asked.
“Maybe, but back at the time it was the toy room. Filled with Legos, trucks, and what not. They would’ve had a hard time navigating through. I use it for storage now.”
“Was there anything out of place when you came home? Any sign of forced entry?” Troy asked.
“Nothing we could see. But nobody locked doors back then.”
“Did you happen to find an earring here?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Did you miss anything—like, say, a bed sheet?”
“No, I’m sure not.”
Troy gave me a puzzled look.
“Can we have a look at the layout of your house?” Troy asked.
“Sure.”
As we followed Mrs. Summers through the kitchen, I glanced at the front porch. It was stacked with boxes three feet high. A hefty young man was sitting in a wheelchair watching television in the living room. I fought the urge to go pick up the pop cans and food wrappers littering the floor by his chair.
He looked up and smiled. “Hello,” he said. He had his mother’s hair and freckles.
“This is our oldest son, Neal. He was wounded in Iraq,” Patty said.
He turned down the volume and turned his chair toward us. We shook hands.
“National Guard?” Troy asked.
“No, regular army,” he said. He patted his legs. “Took it in the spine, but coulda been worse. Two of my buddies died.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
“We’re grateful he came home to us,” Mrs. Summers said. “We made chang
es for Neal. We fixed up the downstairs bedroom for him and had a bathroom installed, and we moved upstairs.”
“Was your living room furniture in the same spots?” Troy asked.
“No, we moved everything so Neal can get through easier. The couch used to be perpendicular to the wall and the TV was in the other corner. ”
“So your bedroom was here at that point?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“When Silver Rae sat for you, did she stay awake until you got home?” I asked.
“We always told her to sleep on our bed, but she never did, even if it was late.”
“If you don’t mind, could we see the upstairs?” Troy said.
“Sure.” We followed her through a door off the living room and up a set of dark wooden steps.
“There are three bedrooms up there. At that time the two younger boys slept in the bedroom at the top of the stairs on the left, and Neal had his own room down the hall, above the living room here. Not a thing was disturbed anywhere,” she said.
We did a quick walk through. None of the beds were made, clothes were strewn about, and the rooms all smelled like dirty socks. How would anyone know if anything had been disturbed with housekeeping like this? Clutter was the natural state.
We returned to the living room.
“Neal, I understand Parker Gage was with Silver Rae when she picked you up from the reception?” Troy asked.
“Yeah, all I remember about him was that he tried to be funny, but he wasn’t.”
“So, did he help Silver Rae get you ready for bed?” he asked.
“Nah, he just watched TV while she tried to get us down, which was no easy task, I guess.”
I asked, “After you were in bed, did you hear any sounds coming from downstairs?”
“I didn’t, but you should talk to Matt. When’s he gonna get back from town, Ma?”
“Any time now. He went to pick up a part for the combine.” She looked out the living room window and said, “Oh, here he is now.”
Troy and I followed Mrs. Summers into the kitchen to wait for Matt. Neal wheeled in behind us.
“What about your other son? Where does he live? “ I asked.
“Dallas. Rick doesn’t know any more than Neal. Once they were down, both those boys slept like rocks,” she said.
