Murder in the Dell

by Bert Entwistle

  “That’s pretty much my take on it too. Why don’t you take some of those black dog hairs on your uniform and put them in an evidence bag. You never know, it could end up being important one day. Did you notice how clean it is outside the place, and the inside is very neat too,” said Deacon. “Obviously Sarah is a cleaning perfectionist, Sinclair’s a lucky man.”

  “I think it’s more than just being a good housekeeper,” said Austin. “I’ve never seen any place that clean and perfectly arranged. If you ask me, this is done by someone that’s a little over the top. Did you see the bookshelves? Every single one was arranged by height and thickness and was perfectly even in front — and they were all spotless. The cloth napkins had been ironed, perfectly folded and placed very precisely. Even the magazines on the coffee table were arranged perfectly. Hell, the whole place even smells clean.”

  “Magazines! Shit, Angie how are we doing on some samples of Crawford’s writing?”

  “I’ve got half-a dozen coming, they should be here tomorrow.”

  “Where they coming from?”

  “Good old ebay, I bought several copies, three different issues from two different magazines. That will cost you fourteen dollars, by the way.”

  “Send the bill to the old battle ax, tell her it’s part of the investigation.”

  “I’ll bet that’ll blow her skirt up.”

  Deacon laughed. “That’s probably more than Nate ever did.”

  Deacon was taking his morning shower when the door opened and Angie stepped in. “You got room for one more in here?”

  “Sure, you got someone particular in mind?”

  “Yeah,” she said, smacking him playfully on the head. “How about Supervisor Thomas?”

  “Aw, thanks for that image, you really know how to put a guy in the mood.”

  Pulling on his t-shirt, he walked down to the kitchen, Angie was already sitting at the table in one of his work shirts drinking coffee and reading the paper. “Good morning my love,” he said. “How did you sleep last night?”

  “I slept okay, but you kept touching me and waking me up.”

  “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t getting dirty, I know how much you hate that.”

  “I’m sure . . . I already made the coffee, so you can step up and make us some breakfast.”

  “Uh . . . eggs?”

  “How will you cook them?”

  “Fried?”

  “No.”

  “Scrambled?”

  “No.”

  “Soft boiled?”

  “No.”

  “Hard boiled?”

  “Hard boiled? Davis, this is not a damn Easter egg hunt.”

  “Okay, I give up — you tell me.”

  “I will have two eggs poached on a piece of buttered dark toast with a slice of cheddar cheese and a small glass of orange juice.”

  “Okay, you got it, but you have to leave a good tip.”

  “You already got your tip, just cook the eggs.”

  * * *

  Pulling the cell phones out of the water bucket, he smashed each one with a hammer until they were no more than a collection of small pieces. He always removed the card and battery as soon as he got them, smashing and flushing them right away. The phone parts he mixed in with the trash. If there was any jewelry, he separated the stones from the gold or silver. Watches, necklaces, or anything that could be identified would be destroyed.

  The variety of things he found always amazed him. Studs and rings piercing every part of their bodies always seemed like a painful, unnecessary decoration, as were the tattoos.

  Two of them had breast implants which he left untouched as they had nothing to do with his work. These were all attractive young women with their whole lives ahead of them, why they wanted to do that to themselves was a mystery to him. Every foreign object he found was smashed, ground up and flushed.

  Washing the bodies after he was done with them and redressing them in their freshly cleaned clothes was just part of the thing that drove him. Everything had to be done correctly, in the right order and done perfectly before he could move on to the next step. The bodies, after he finished, had to look perfect before he wrapped them. The plastic and the ropes also had to be perfect, and the package had to go carefully into the trunk so as not to damage the plastic.

  When he reached the disposal site, the ritual changed. No longer caring about his package, he threw it crudely out of the trunk, often dragging or kicking it down a hill. It was no longer his business, he was done with it and it was now nothing but trash.

  Returning to the office, he unlocked his desk and pulled out his most recent notebook. He would spend the next several hours recording every detail of his recent project. He recorded everything from the moment he chose the subject to when they were disposed of. The notebook for each one nearly filled a three-ring binder. The newspaper had reported that a seventh body was found. In his drawer were nine other binders — and he was writing in the binder of his tenth victim. How little they really knew about what was going on always gave him a bit of a smile.

  When he was finished he locked the binder safely in the drawer and pushed away from the desk. He knew from experience it would be a while before he started to feel what he referred to as the call for another victim — and another binder.

  * * *

  Angie dropped a stack of mail on Deacon’s desk. “Here you go boss, looks like the magazines came.”

  Deacon tore open the white postal envelope and slid out the magazines. One was titled Modern Murder Mysteries another was A Case of Murder. Flipping through the pages he was surprised to find they were high quality magazines with a minimum amount of advertising and relatively high subscription cost. They were sold only by subscription and not on the stands. Places like eBay were about the only place you could find used copies.

  Looking at the index, he found the main feature story and it was titled: Frozen Death, by S. T. Crawford. The front page art showed a dock on a frozen lake with the hazy figure of a body in the ice.

  “Angie, you read a lot, did you ever hear of these magazines before?”

  “No, they’re not my cup of tea. Those are short stories, right?”

  “Looks that way. I guess I’ll be doing a little reading tonight, although I seem to have more murder mysteries right here than I ever bargained for.”

  Vince and Austin walked into the office together. “Morning Angie, Deacon. What’s on the agenda today? I think we’re running out of interviews to do.”

  “Book reports,” said Deacon, as he handed each one of them a copy of the different magazines. “I want both of you to read the stories by S.T. Crawford in these and make some notes on them. See if there is anything you might be able to pick up about the writer himself. Do you see anything similar to anyone or anything around this part of the country? Do these have anything in common with any cases you’ve ever heard of? We can switch around with each other until each of us has read them all.”

  “What about me?” asked Angie, “I’d like to read them too.”

  “You’re in the loop, the more people reading them the better. Vince has gathered the files from the different missing persons departments of Wisconsin, Minnesota and Michigan for the last three years. He is going to make a master file of each one, by state, name, description and location they were last seen. For those who were found dead, a short description of the condition of the body and cause of death along with the autopsy report. He’s got a big job ahead of him, so help him in any way you can.”

  “You do remember that the FBI is the lead on the serial killer case?” asked Angie.

  “Piss on them, they ain’t exactly having a lot of success now, are they,” said Deacon, thumbing through the magazine. “If anyone asks, this is about the severed arm — that’s the official party line from now on.”

  Deacon and Angie sat in front of the fireplace with their feet up, each reading an S.T. Crawford story. Deacon was reading Frozen Death and hers was called Death by Day
light. After they finished, they switched magazines and started over.

  “What do you think? Does anything seem familiar to you?”

  “Not much, except that the one story takes place in and around a frozen lake during a bad winter blizzard. The killer disables his victim with a drug, strips her and puts her in a hole in the ice and records her as she freezes to death. The only common thing I see is the trees, a blizzard and a frozen lake.”

  “That’s about all I got from that one too. What about the other one?”

  “Still not all that much. It’s the peak of summer, hot day, killer incapacitates girl, strips her, dumps her out in an opening in the brush and tapes her eyes open. The blazing sun, the insects and the birds do the rest.”

  “The writer doesn’t connect any of these like they were committed by a common killer,” said Deacon. “They seem to be stand-alone murders, at least in the two I read.

  “These are two different publications, maybe they’re two different series. All of us need to read them and see if we can find any local connections.”

  Walking into the morgue, Baker was nowhere in sight. “Doctor Baker, you here? It’s Sheriff Davis.”

  Stepping out of his office, he pulled the door shut and locked it. “Yes Davis, I’m here, now what do you want?”

  “I have a question about your report on the severed arm, have you got a minute?”

  “It’s all in the report Davis, there isn’t anything else.”

  Ignoring the remark, he continued. “In your notes you state that you cleaned the arm and found only a small amount of environmental dirt and several animal hairs. Did you save that material?”

  “What? Save the dirt? I washed it so I could perform my examination. No — I did not save the dirt.”

  “What about the hairs?”

  “No! I did not save the hairs. They were washed away with the dirt.”

  “You didn’t think they might be important—so you just washed them away?”

  Now red in the face with the prominent vein on his forehead throbbing wildly, he could hardly contain himself. “Goddamnit Davis, yes, I washed them away because they weren’t important. The arm had been lying outside, it could be any kind of animal hair. Didn’t you use a dog to find it? It could have been that dog or even a coyote . . .”

  Deacon brushed his hair back and shook his head. “Not like you Doc, you’re usually more careful than that. I’m just surprised you didn’t keep that material, that’s all. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a regrettable mistake.”

  “I don’t make mistakes, regrettable or otherwise. Everything I do meets strict standard coroner/autopsy protocol. I guarantee every bit of work on these murder victims was absolutely perfect.”

  “You guarantee it?” Deacon shrugged. “Nothing like having an abundance of confidence I guess, but we were talking about the severed arm. You give the same guarantee on that too?”

  “We’re through here Davis, get the hell out of my morgue.”

  “I’m going, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. I don’t think this guy is through killing yet.”

  Angie poured them all fresh coffee then cleaned off one of the white boards. Austin and Vince opened their notebooks and took a sip. “Where’s the boss?” asked Vince, “He’s not usually late.”

  “He’s on his way, he just had an early morning meeting with Doctor Baker.”

  “Now there’s a great way to start your morning,” said Austin, pouring a shot of milk in his mug.

  Deacon came into the station, hung up his coat and walked into the war room. “What? No sweets?”

  “Just waiting for you boss,” said Angie, pulling out a box fresh of cinnamon rolls out of the drawer. “Another go-around with the good Doctor?”

  “Yeah. He is one arrogant asshole, but I managed to score a point or two myself. Okay, I will assume we all read the homework assignment, read all the issues and took notes. Let’s hear your thoughts — did you get any feeling about this guy, or maybe found that there were possible references to local places? Vince, what about you?”

  “Well, I found that I didn’t like his writing, too much first person stuff for me. The things that I noticed throughout the different stories are that it may be summer or winter but they all still had trees, large lakes, ponds and rivers. Winters are bad, with a lot of snow and blowing cold, and summer can be hot and buggy, could be our neighborhood.”

  Angie made four columns on the board, one for each of them. Underneath the name she began to list the common points. “I’ll go next. I noticed in several issues that the author is probably at least middle-aged or older person, and occasionally makes reference to a partner, possibly a wife or some kind of partner that’s usually in the background of the story.”

  “I noticed the use of a snowmobile in the winter ones, that would take away the warm states,” said Austin. “In the summer, he talked boats and four-wheelers, as well as cars.”

  “On that same line, I didn’t notice any mention of a pickup truck, I think a younger killer might choose a pickup for this work,” said Vince.

  Deacon nodded. “Good point. Let’s do this — Angie, were there a lot of these magazines for sale on eBay?”

  “I think so, but I only looked at the first page or two.”

  “Go back on and buy a bunch of different ones, in fact buy all the different issues you can find. It’s common for fiction writers to write about the places they know. I have a feeling about this guy, I think he’s writing about the places he knows the best. When they get here, make a timeline by the publication dates of the magazines. We’ll continue this after we read the rest of them.”

  Angie sat on the deck with a glass of wine, watching Deacon pull the cover off his boat. “Getting a little excited about the new fishing season, are we?”

  “Yeah, another week or two and we should be ready to get on the water.”

  “Well, you and Jason will be in hog heaven, fish, beer and boats, the triple crown of summer fun.”

  “You and Amy are more than welcome to come with us . . .”

  “Maybe when it gets a little warmer. By the way, I just talked to Amy and she was passing the picture of the purple nails around to different salons. She said the white on purple design was kind of amateur looking, like maybe something a young girl might have done. She also says that the way the brush strokes look, someone other than the victim did the work.”

  “What’s this? I can’t believe it, you’re talking about work in our home again — what’s got into you?”

  “Well crap. Now I’m just getting too involved with this case. Sorry about that.”

  Deacon put on his most devilish grin and looked at her. “Oh no, sorry is not gonna cut it. You know what that means?”

  “No Davis, I do not know what that means — enlighten me.”

  “Tonight I shall have my way with you,” he said, rubbing his hands together and grinning even larger.

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Oh I know so my love, remember, you’re the one that made the rules.”

  “Well if that’s the case, then fire up the grill, I’ll need a thick steak and more wine before you get the goods.”

  Walking down to the kitchen in one of his old tee-shirts, she smelled the coffee and bacon. Steam swirled from her cup and a plate with eggs and bacon sat beside it. “Davis, did you forget the maple creamer again?”

  “Already in the coffee, my love — I didn’t forget anything.”

  “So what’s going on here? You’re trying to get on my good side for something.”

  “Just trying to be nice to you, like you were to me last night.”

  “In case you forgot, that was under duress, it won’t happen again.”

  “Well if that’s the case, then I will hold out against all of your advances from now on, and we’ll see how you like it.”

  “Now that’s funny Davis — you couldn’t hold out for five minutes, let alone several days.”

  “You just
watch me.”

  She shrugged and left the kitchen, walking toward the deck. Deacon cleaned up the kitchen and made another cup of coffee with extra sweetener for her and went out to the deck. Walking up behind her he set the coffee down on the table. “It’s kind of cold out here. I brought something to warm you up.”

  “Thank you Davis, is there anything I can do for you before I get ready for work?”

  Turning around to look at her, he stopped in his tracks. She was lying on the lounge chair, naked as the day she was born. He stared at her for a minute, her tall, slim body covered by the soft morning light. She rubbed her thighs then cupped her breasts, smiling at him, waiting for his answer.

  He nodded and grinned like a high school boy seeing his first naked woman. “Why yes my love, there is something you can do for me — in fact, you can do it right here, right now.”

  Picking up her watch from the table she checked the time. “Aw, sorry Davis, it’s time to go to work now, I don’t want to be late.” She stood up, stretched her arms out and walked away, leaving him to wonder what just hit him.

  His office line had several messages waiting when he got in. He skipped ahead to the message from Felix, left about an hour before. The message was short. “Just touching bases here, let me know when you have a minute to get together, I have something I want to talk to you about.”

  He called him back and agreed to meet at the local diner. “Angie, see if everyone has done their reading. If so, have them in the war room about 3:00. I’m going out to meet Felix, and then I’m going to the library for a while.”

  “Yes boss — I’ll have them there. Is there anything else I can do for you? That is — before I start work? Anything at all, you just name it.” Her shirt was slightly unbuttoned and she leaned way over his desk as she said it, almost nose to nose with him.

  He didn’t embarrass easily, but he felt his face flush and he pushed back from the desk. “All right, enough already, this is a place of business.”