by Mary Logue
They came in and Sheriff Talbert introduced them to everyone. “Agent Sean Tyrone and Agent Phil Singer.” Phil Singer was short, with frizzy blond hair and a wide face that made him look surprised. Sean Tyrone was at least six feet tall but quite slim, dark chocolate complexion and a pair of Malcolm X glasses. Claire wondered which one of them was the leader and which the follower.
Singer spoke up and said, “Sorry we’re late. Traffic was bad on Ninety. We’re mainly here tonight to hear where you’re at with this case. I will serve as the liaison to the forensic labs at DCI. Tyrone will work with your investigator coordinating the investigaton. But we’re here to help you out. Just let us know what you need.”
Sheriff Talbert filled them in on what had been happening in Pepin County since the first of July. He did it by talking and writing on the white board as he went. The two men listened and wrote and asked questions.
Talbert asked Scott Lund and Billy Peterson to summarize their interviews with the people who were at the park last night.
Scott stood up and began his report. “Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The couple of people who weren’t from the area turned out to be relatives of people we know. From what we could gather today and from the interviews last night, it appears that whoever did this was from around here. There were no strangers unaccounted for.” He resumed his seat.
The sheriff turned the meeting over to Claire, explaining, “I’ve done the overview, but Claire Watkins is in on all the particulars. She’s been out in the field all day long and I haven’t even had a chance to touch base with her. What have you learned?”
“Well, this isn’t all just from today,” Claire said as she rose to her feet, “but what I’d like to add to what Sheriff Talbert has laid out here is that we’re dealing with two separate crimes. The first happened nearly fifty years ago. Many of the people who have information about it are dead or gone. But I think in order to hope to catch whoever is doing the most recent series of crimes, we’ll have to understand what happened to the Schulers. If not solve the murders, at least understand how they impacted this community. However, there is a very good chance that our pesticide guy is also the Schuler killer.”
Tyrone raised his head and Claire nodded at him. “Why not just focus on what’s at hand and try to catch the perp like you would anyone who steals something?”
“Because I don’t think we have the time. I’m afraid that this guy is counting down to the seventh of this month, which is the fiftieth anniversary of the Schuler murders. I don’t think the forensic evidence is going to come back fast enough or that there will be anything significant if it does. He was careful. If he is the killer, he’s been planning this for a long, long time.
“Let me tell you what I know about the bones. Sheriff Talbert mentioned the bones that have been found at the scene of every crime. Although we do not yet have the forensic support to prove it, they are most probably the smallest digits from each member of the Schuler family. Therefore, whoever is doing this ended up with the bones. This probably means that he is the murderer. Although the note that he sent to the newspaper makes it sound as if he is not the murderer, since he is demanding that the truth come out and would probably not need to make this demand if he knew who had killed them.”
Claire walked up to the white board, where she wrote three names. As she began to speak, she pointed to the first one. “There are three men who have been mentioned as possible suspects in the Schuler murders. The first is Carl Wahlund. He was in love with Bertha Schuler before she married Otto Schuler. He, in turn, married her sister, which meant that when the whole Schuler family died, he, or rather his wife, inherited their farm. Which gives him two reasons to kill them all—revenge and greed. Both valid reasons. Carl Wahlund is still alive.”
Claire pointed at the next name on her list. “Then there is Theo Lindstrom, their next-door neighbor who was in a land dispute with Otto Schuler. More important, Theo never liked Schuler. Theo had fought during the war in Germany and came back with a huge grudge against all Germans. He has been described as never having gotten over the war. However, Theo Lindstrom died twenty years ago, so we will learn no more from him.”
Then she pointed at the last name. “Finally, there’s Earl Lowman. This man is still alive. He was the first person on the scene at the Schuler murders. He was a deputy sheriff for this county, but was very new to his job at the time. I don’t see him as quite as strong a contender for being the murderer. Still, one always has to look at the first person on the scene as a suspect.”
Singer lifted his pencil, eraser tip pointing at the board. “How did he happen to go there? Had he been called there? Was he there as a deputy?”
“No, he was a neighbor and had borrowed a tool from the Schulers. He had stopped by to return it when he discovered the bodies. He’s still alive—living down in Tucson. I’ve been trying to reach him today, but so far no luck.” She paused in reflection. “I suppose there is a chance he’s here in Pepin County.”
Claire sat down on the edge of the table and looked at everyone. “The problem is, these three men were certainly scrutinized at the time, and I don’t think we know anything that the sheriff’s men didn’t know then.”
The light was fading gently on the horizon. At this time of year, the sun was almost setting in the north. He didn’t think anyone could see him from the house, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Until it got dark, he would sit in the tall grass at the edge of the field and bide his time.
He liked hiding at the edge of the field. It reminded him of when he was a kid and had hidden from his father.
He had learned early on that when his father was in one of his moods, it was best to give him a wide berth. Wherever he was, when he heard a certain mean tone of voice coming from his father, he disappeared. He hid behind the woodpile, he hid in the laundry hamper, he hid behind the furnace. He had hidey-holes scattered all over the farm. After a few hours it would be safe to come out. His mother would have made dinner; his father would calm down again.
It had served him well, this ability to disappear.
He had spelled it out in his latest letter. He wanted the sheriff’s deputies to know that he would never forget that they had not done their job. But he felt it wasn’t enough. It had to do with the numbers. Seven people had died, but it had never seemed right to him. Eight was a better number—it was even, and he had always equated evenness with good. An odd number was a hungry number, waiting for one more.
He kept track of everyone who died. He had since he was young. Every year he wrote down the total of the people who had died in the county. Last year, twenty-eight people had died. It was a high year, but nowadays more people lived in the county. You had to keep that in mind.
One summer he tried to count the stars. No one had told him you couldn’t do it. He worked on it for nights, mapping out the sky, working on a section at a time, but the sky moved. He never told anyone what he was doing. Finally, after a couple of months, he gave up.
The next year, in high school, he learned that it was impossible. The teacher told them about the layers of stars on stars, the possibility of the universe being shaped like a saddle, the concept of infinity, and he had felt like he was looking down a well that had no bottom.
The light had leaked from the sky. It was time for him to make his delivery. He stood up in the field and walked down to the house. The new people who had the house had worked hard on it. He hoped it would be their house someday. They deserved it. The house was not bad. It was just what happened in it.
He had brought the bones back to where they had been severed from their bodies.
As he walked up to the house, he saw a little girl sitting on the front steps with a kitty in her arms. The kitty was sprawled against her and she was waving its tail back and forth under her nose. They both seemed quite happy.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Jilly.”
She didn’t seem afraid of him. He was surprised she wasn’t in bed yet. Her lig
ht brown hair hung to her shoulders in a cloud of soft curls. How easy it would be to take her by the hand and walk away with her. But that wasn’t in his plans. He would let her be. She could be his messenger.
He handed her the tin.
“For me?” She smiled at him. “Can I open it?”
“Sure,” he said.
He watched as she attempted to pry open the tin. It was pretty stuck together, but she seemed determined. He was sure she would get it open. At least it would keep her busy for a while. Before anyone else came out and found him standing there, he slipped away into the starlit night.
Sitting on the front steps of her house, Claire could feel a light breeze picking up. It felt like good sleeping weather. She was exhausted. She had to get up early to beat the boys from Madison into work. She felt that old competitive edge creeping into her life. The one she really needed to beat was the man behind all this.
When the phone rang, she wished she didn’t have to answer it. She had talked to Meg a few minutes earlier and there was no one else she wanted to talk to. It was probably work.
Claire answered, “Watkins.”
“He was here,” a woman’s voice shouted at her over the phone.
“Who is this?” Claire asked, not recognizing the voice, not knowing what the woman was talking about.
“You need to come up here. This is Celia Daniels. He was here, I don’t know how long ago. He handed—in person—handed Jilly a tin full of bones. I found her outside playing with them.”
Claire turned and hit the door with her hand. “Who was it? Did she recognize him?”
“All Jilly can tell me was that it was a man and he was wearing a hat. She’s so little. I’m trying not to scare her.”
“Have you called the sheriff?”
“No, I called you first.”
“I’ll be right there. Is your husband home?”
“Yes, he was already sleeping. I just woke him up.”
“Lock the doors. Stay put until we arrive. Don’t try to find him. He might still be there and he might be dangerous.”
After calling the sheriff and asking him to meet her at the Danielses’, Claire decided not to waste the time putting her uniform on. She knew it was against the regulations, but time was of the essence. She grabbed her keys, slung her gun and holster over her shoulder, jumped into her car, and sped up the hill. She made it to the Danielses’ in nine minutes.
When she got out of the car, she stood quietly for a moment or two. She listened. He could still be close by. He could be watching to see what would happen. She had her hand on her gun.
An owl hooted from the edge of the field. She could make out a bat or two flying in the light on the barn, feeding on the insects that circled there.
Celia Daniels stuck her head out the door. “Thanks for coming so fast.”
“You’re welcome.” Claire walked toward her. “Jilly still up?”
“Yes, but she’s getting ready for bed.”
Claire wanted to talk to Jilly before the little girl went to sleep and forgot everything she might have noticed about the man. Celia presented her to Claire. The little girl’s face was scrubbed to a soft pink and she was wearing dinosaur pajamas.
“Nice pajamas,” Claire said.
“My best pajamas,” Jilly told her.
“She’ll hardly wear anything else,” Celia said, patting her daughter on the head.
Claire sat down on the floor so she was the same height as the little girl. “Jilly, I’d like to ask you some questions about the man who was here.”
“Mom already did.”
“I know. But could you answer a few more for me?”
“Sure.” She rubbed her nose.
“Did you know this man?”
Jilly scrunched up her face. “Not really.”
“Have you ever seen him before?” Claire dared hope she might get something.
“I don’t think so.”
“Was he as big as your daddy?” Claire glanced over to where Jeff Daniels was standing. He looked to be about six feet tall and probably carried about one hundred and ninety pounds.
“No.”
“Was he old or young?”
“Pretty old.”
“Older than your daddy?”
“I think so.”
“He was wearing a hat?”
Jilly nodded.
“What kind of hat?”
“Like Thomas wears.”
Claire looked at Celia. “A baseball cap,” she said.
“Was he fat or skinny?”
Jilly turned her hands out. “Not fat, not skinny.”
“In between?”
“Yup.”
“What color of hair?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Could you see his eyes?”
“They were black.”
“Did he wear glasses?”
“Huh-uh.” Jilly shook her head.
She answered no to Claire’s questions about a beard and a mustache.
“Anything else you can remember?”
“He seemed nice.”
Celia wrapped her arms around her daughter. “I think it’s time she went to bed.”
Claire nodded and wished she could go with Jilly. Bed was where she wanted to be right now, but as she stood up she saw a squad car pull in behind her car. She had a long night ahead of her.
CHAPTER 18
The light was on at the Sands Hotel just outside of Wichita, Kansas. The sign overhead advertised rooms at thirty-nine dollars a night. When Earl Lowman tried to stand up from his car seat to check into the motel, he thought his legs were going to go out from under him. He was bone-tired, had to pee so bad he could taste it, eyes were dry in the sockets, and he was hungry to the pit of his stomach. He should have stopped four hours ago, but now he could make it to Wisconsin in a day’s time.
Things like that were important to him. He figured out how long it would take him to get someplace and then he wanted to get there on time. As if time were a special commodity. As if being on time was the same as being holy. If it were, he’d be a saint.
He held on to the car and steadied himself. It was a typical Kansas summer night, hot and muggy, weather only mosquitoes liked. Enough water in the air to lay a slick on your body.
It had been a sweltering day like this when he had gone over to the Schulers’.
All the long day driving he had been remembering what had happened that day, nearly fifty years ago. If he could have that moment back and live it over again, he would do it differently. He had been so young.
He pushed himself out of the car and headed toward the motel registration. Walking up to the desk, he saw a dark-haired young woman bent over something behind the desk. When he got closer, he saw that she had a baby with her. It was sleeping in a carrier and it looked pretty close to a year old. Same age as the youngest Schuler had been.
“Evening,” Earl said.
“Can I help you?” The woman snapped to attention, swinging back her long black hair and looking at him with dark brown eyes like a doe. She looked exotic in Wichita. Probably from India. He had heard that Indians had bought up all the small motels in middle America. Fine by him as long as they ran them clean. He hated a dirty room.
“Do you have a room?”
“Sure.”
“Do you give a discount for seniors?”
“Absolutely.” She gave him the once-over. “Would you qualify?”
“Don’t get smart on me.” He laughed. Here he was in the middle of Kansas on an adventure and a young woman was teasing him. Things could be worse. Then he remembered where Andy was and remembered why he was traveling and realized they were worse.
He gave her his credit card. After sliding it through a machine, she handed it back to him and gave him a map, drawing a big circle around his room. His room was on the far side of the motel.
He parked right in front of it and took out his bag and walked in. Nothing fancy, but it was clean. The king-sized bed lo
oked great to him. He sat down on the edge of it and called the hospital. The number that Marie had given him rang and rang.
Finally he hung up and decided to call Andy’s house. Maybe Marie would be home from the hospital and she might have some good news.
Their boy, Ted, answered.
“This is your grandfather,” Earl explained.
“Who?”
“Your dad’s dad.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I haven’t seen you since you were two.”
“I’m twelve now.”
“That sounds about right. How’s he doing, your dad?”
“Not great. He’s in the hospital.”
Not very forthcoming, this kid. “I know. Is your mother home?”
“No, she’s still down there. She called and said to go to bed. I think she’s sleeping there tonight.”
“Has he come out of the coma yet?”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry.”
The boy didn’t say anything. Earl wondered if he was crying. He didn’t know what to do about that, so he kept talking. “Listen, I want you to let your mom know that I’m on my way there. To Wisconsin. I should get in sometime tomorrow night.”
“Are you coming here?”
“I’ll probably go right to the hospital. Can you tell her that?”
“You’re Dad’s dad and you’re coming to Wisconsin?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Thanks, I’ll see you.”
“I’ll see you, Grandpa.”
Grandpa—that did him in. Earl sat on the edge of the bed and hung on to the bedspread. He hoped he would get there in time.
The phone rang and he jerked up and answered it. “Durand Daily.”
“Harold, do you know what time it is?”
He propped himself up and tried to focus on his wristwatch. “Agnes, it appears to be nearly eleven o’clock.”
“Wouldn’t you say that’s time to come home?”
“I was on my way when I stopped to look up one more article. I must have dozed off.” Harold looked at the bottle of brandy that was sitting next to a glass by his hand. Maybe once a month, he’d have a snort or two. Tonight had felt like one of those nights.
