Murder in the Dell

by Bert Entwistle

  Angie met him at the door and gave him a hug and a kiss. “How was your date with Doctor Death? Enlightening?”

  “I don’t know about enlightening, but it’s never boring when you’re around him, that’s for sure. He seems to think this killer is too smart to get caught.”

  “He’s just an arrogant, cranky old man that needs someone to talk to now and then, someone to tell his war stories to.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of that for sure. One thing he isn’t though is dumb. He had Felix figured out from the first day. You know that he’s kept some information to himself that the FBI could probably use? He was so offended by Felix that he only gives him exactly what’s asked of him and nothing else. Felix apparently doesn’t know enough to ask the right questions.”

  “Like two giant ego-bound rams butting heads.”

  “That’s about right. How about supper, anything to eat around here?”

  “Fish is about all, and you get to cook it.”

  “I’ll start the grill and then take a shower, want to join me?”

  “You’ve been in the morgue all afternoon?”

  “Just an hour or two.”

  “Then that would be a big fat no.”

  “I didn’t go near any bodies, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Did you shake hands with that old pain in the ass?”

  “Yes, once when I came in and once when I left. Besides, you gave me a hug and a kiss when I came in, so you’re already contaminated.”

  “Aw crap Davis, now I need a shower too.”

  After supper they put the dishes in the sink and sat down on the deck. They watched two tom turkeys strutting around with their tails fanned out, fighting over the hens that were moving in and out of the trees.

  “They’re fun to watch, don’t you think?” asked Deacon.

  “They’re definitely typical males,” said Angie. “They all think they’re God’s gift to the women.”

  Watching them strut around each other, Deacon chuckled. “Actually, they make me think of Felix and Doc Baker. Only one of them will come out on top, but it’s sure fun to watch the fight.”

  “But it might be that neither one is tough enough to win the battle,” said Angie.

  “That could be very true. There is another possibility here. Maybe there’s a bigger, tougher tom waiting in the shadows to kick both their asses.”

  “Davis, either you’re getting goofy in your old age or you’re drifting into a conversation with yourself that doesn’t seem to include me. Another tom in the shadows?”

  “It’s probably the first one — the goofy in my old age thing. Not to worry though, I can still find my way home and con you into taking a shower with me, so I know I’m okay.”

  “That’s what you say. If you ask me, I may have to get you fitted for a powder blue jump suit and a ball cap you’d make a great Walmart greeter.”

  Deacon and Austin met Garrett Stephens in front of the Iron Town Bar at nine o’clock in the morning. “You really think they cleaned up their act this quick?” asked Austin.

  “Not likely,” said Stephens. “That’s why I wanted you guys here for this.”

  Walking in the front door the first thing they noticed was a brightly lit room and the absence of any smoke. A scaffolding was set up in the middle of the room and several workers were busy working on ductwork and pulling new electrical wire. Several new partitions had been framed up and new windows leaned against the wall.

  “Well kiss my ass, what the hell happened to the bar?” asked Deacon.

  “Sold it two days after you were here,” said a voice from behind the bar. “It’s been losing money for a long time and I’d been thinking about selling for a while. This place is all I got in the world, and it needs a ton of work that I can’t afford. I already had an offer from a couple of guys that want to make it into a bar and restaurant. They like the idea of it being on the waterfront, so I took it.”

  “Congratulations Elmore,” said Deacon. “I hope things work out for you. You leaving the area?”

  Towers nodded. “Headed south. I have an old biker buddy that has a shop down in Florida, where it’s warm all the time. Gonna go work for him. I’m just here cleaning out the last of my personal stuff.”

  “I’d like to say that Bayfield will miss the old bar, but I’d be lying.”

  “What a surprise. Sheriff, I would like to visit with you for a bit before I leave, that be okay with you?”

  “Sure, when do you want to do it?”

  “Tomorrow morning at the diner.”

  “I’ll be there, 8:00 okay?”

  “That’s good, I’m leaving town as soon as we’re done.”

  Deacon was on his second cup when he heard the pipes of the Harley pull in. Sliding into the booth, Towers signaled for the waitress. “Black coffee and a stack of pancakes.”

  “Deacon, you want anything to eat today?” asked the waitress.

  “Give me the same please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “So Elmore, what do you want to talk about?”

  “I know what people think of the bikers and the people who hung out in the bar Sheriff,” said Towers. “But I just want you to know that you may not realize it, but I actually kept most of the worst ones out. I always had at least two bouncers on busy nights. But there are a couple of guys that I want you to know about before I leave.”

  “Okay, what have you got for me?”

  Handing over an envelope with a sheet of paper inside, Towers took a long drink of coffee while Deacon read it. “The first two names are dirt bags that I threw out and banned from ever coming back in the bar. The first one is a known thief and wife abuser, and still is. His wife is always bruised when they come in, plus he brags about being involved in illegal gun sales.”

  “And the second one?”

  “He’s the big dog in the Bayfield County drug business, nothin’ happens in this part of the drug world unless it goes through him. I always knew he sold drugs, but I just found out he was the top guy about two weeks ago — he’s a real bad ass with a hair trigger. The third name is some kind of dark character that deals in the underground sales of explosives, fake prescription meds and medical supplies. A couple of the guys claim he’s done a couple of contract murders. He’s a really scary guy, and if the guys that came into this place think he’s scary, you can put money on it. It’s probably just bullshit, but they say he even buys and sells bodies and weird shit like that.”

  “I appreciate this. I suppose there’s something you’re wanting in return here?”

  “Yes. These three are the worst of the worst. A lot of rough people have done business in the Iron Town in the twenty years I’ve had it, but nobody wants these three guys around. If they find out that I ratted on them, I’m dead. What I want, is that as far as anyone around here knows, you chased me out of the state. Everyone already knows that we’re enemies because you roughed me up before. I already put out the word that you threatened me and shot the Travers kid, and that I had enough and was moving on. What I want is to keep them thinking that way.”

  “So why are you ratting them out?”

  Towers lifted his shirt and pointed to a long, jagged scar just below his ribs. “This is from name number one, and these two small scars here are from number two’s pistol. I was lucky it was just a .22. Nothing yet from number three, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Deacon stuck out his hand to him. “Good luck and stay safe.”

  “You too Sheriff,” said Towers as he shook his hand. Dropping a few dollars on the table, he stood up and walked out of the diner.

  Deacon handed Vince the paper with the names on it. “I need you to start a fresh file on each of these guys. They may not be connected to what we’re working on, but all three are dirt-bags currently working in Bayfield County. Dig up everything you can on them, you might even find an open warrant or two. If you find anything that needs further investigation, it’s your case.”

  “
Absolutely, thanks boss.”

  “Anything new on the cadaver companies?”

  “Nothing new as far as the cadaver companies go. Not one of them reports any missing tissue or body parts. If they can be believed, they’re in perfect compliance with all the regs.”

  “All perfect upstanding companies, I’m sure. Start on these names right away. The third name on the list might have some involvement in the black market cadaver business.”

  Vince clicked on the computer. “Sounds like a good place to start, let’s see what I can find on this loser.”

  Angie transferred the first call of the day to Deacon’s desk. “Sheriff Davis, this is Special Agent Bill Anders. I have a couple of questions for you, are you ready?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess so . . .”

  “One, was the arm frozen completely solid when you finally recovered it?”

  “Yes. We had to chisel it out of the rip-rap.”

  “Did the pathologist come up with a time of death for the subject?”

  “No. There was no way to tell how long it had been frozen.”

  “Are there more photos of the arm than are in this file?”

  “Uh maybe, I’ll have to look. I think they would be just more of the same ones.”

  “I need them as soon as possible, bring them over right away. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  Deacon sat looking at the phone in his hand, it was already dead. “Jesus Christ, this guy is way more arrogant than Felix.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Beats me. I’m off to keep the appointment with my favorite pathologist, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

  “You guys are getting pretty tight lately. What exactly do you two do in these meetings anyway?”

  “He’s telling me about his adventures in the exciting world of forensic pathology. Did you know that he had to refreeze the last body so he could thaw it out exactly the way he wanted it?”

  “Fascinating stuff Davis, but when you get home, go directly to the shower without passing go or touching me first, got it?”

  “You just ain’t no fun anymore.”

  The lab was clean and the table was empty when he got there. Deacon could smell the coffee as he came through the door. Filling his mug he sat down across from Baker. Waiting for him to finish what he was doing, he scanned the wall behind the desk. Volumes of Edgar Allan Poe and Sherlock Holmes were prominently displayed on the cabinets behind him. An antique leather bound set of the complete works of Theodore Roosevelt were held together by heavy brass bookends in the likeness of an Indian. Filing away the paperwork, Baker finally looked up.

  “Sorry, I needed to finish this up while I still had it firmly in my mind. All that stuff you hear about old people’s golden years – it’s nothing but bullshit.”

  Deacon suppressed a smile. “Not feeling so good today?”

  “Pretty much the same as usual for the last couple years, everything hurts these days. Now, where were we?”

  “We were brainstorming on a new profile for our serial killer.”

  “Right,” said Baker, pulling out a file folder. “I’ve been over the files in fine detail and in a wider, more abstract view. You questioned whether the killer was trying to make a statement or not?”

  “It seemed like a possibility at the time.”

  “I don’t see it as a statement so much as someone doing it for some kind of research.”

  “Research? You mean someone is doing this to watch how people react to their impending death?”

  “Maybe. It would appear to me that someone is observing and recording the killing and using the information for some purpose. We know there has never been any sign of sexual assault on any of the victims, and that is the number one reason young women are murdered today.”

  “So it’s kind of a Marquis de Sade type thing?”

  “No, he was more into writing about literary violence and sex.”

  “Writing? What about a writer? Like someone that writes murder mysteries for example?”

  Baker shrugged. “You’re thinking of Sinclair Crawford? I don’t believe he would ever be involved in anything like this. I’ve known him and Sarah for at least forty years. I’ve buried most of their families over that time. I have read a few of his stories, and I don’t care much for them. Too many technical errors and procedural mistakes to be realistic. It is hard to imagine someone would do this just for a story.”

  “You’re probably right. I just want to explore every direction I can. Doctor, when you did your exam on these victims, were there any body parts or tissue missing?”

  “No. The bodies had everything they should. You’re still thinking the severed arm could be related to the killings?”

  “Again, just trying to check every possible connection.”

  “I guarantee you there was no connection between them,” said Baker.

  “I wish you could give me that kind of guarantee that I’ll catch the killer.”

  “That I can’t do. But like I said before, I don’t ever see anyone catching this guy, he’s too good at this.”

  “I think I’m pretty good at what I do too, and I think we’ll catch this guy, and sooner rather than later.”

  Baker closed the file, unlocked the drawer and slid it inside. Locking it back up he looked at his watch. “Davis, you’ve worn me out, I’m going to call it a day.”

  “Thanks again, Doctor Baker, can I call you if I have any more questions?”

  Baker rolled his eyes. “I suppose, if you have to.”

  “I’ll probably have a few more before I get the cuffs on this guy.”

  “Well, I wish you luck with that, but I think you may be wasting your time. I doubt if this guy will ever see the inside of a jail.”

  “Maybe not, but it gives me something to do. Like my dad used to say, it’s something to keep me out of the bars at night.”

  “Goodbye Davis.”

  Chapter 17

  Pulling up to the trailer, Deacon could see that he’d put a lot of work in it. Stepping out of the car, Curt Sorenson met him at the door. “Deacon, good to see you. What brings you out here, you have a little work for me?”

  “Maybe, got any coffee on?”

  “It’ll only take a minute, come on in.”

  Deacon was surprised. The old trailer definitely looked better than last time he was here, he’d even hung new curtains. “The place is looking pretty good Curt.”

  “Thanks. Heidi said she would bring the kids for a visit if it looked good enough.”

  “I’m glad for you. No more beer around here?”

  “No sir, not since that night. I’m sober now.”

  Deacon sat down while the coffee brewed. “Curt, I’d like to talk little more about the old Crawford farm that okay with you?”

  “Yeah sure, what’s on your mind?”

  “You and your family have been around here a long time, right?”

  “Yeah, several generations at least.”

  “I want to talk about some of the stories I’ve heard about the old days.”

  “Which stories are those?”

  “Henrietta Bauman told me that during the depression, Sinclair’s father and grandfather were involved in running a still and bootlegging for the Chicago mob. You ever hear any of those old tales?”

  “Oh sure. As little kids we were told never to go there, because ghosts lived there. They said they were the spirits of long dead gangsters from the old days, and if we walked on their graves they would get us. Of course we eventually realized that they just wanted us to stay away from there. But I clearly remember my dad and grandpa talking about how they would never deal with them again. They said the Crawford’s were just as crooked as the gangsters they helped bury.”

  “Wow,” said Deacon, “I gotta say that’s quite a tale for sure. Did you ever know anyone from that time period that said they were there?”

  Curt nodded and poured each of them a cup. “Sure. You remember old man Murray, the wei
rd old trash collector when we were kids? He was a great big man with wild looking red hair and always wore the dirty green coveralls?

  “Yeah, I remember him,” said Deacon. “He’s been dead for a good twenty-five or thirty years.”

  “At least, he was in his nineties when he died. When I was in middle school he used to tell a story about having a job when he was a teenager, hauling Canadian booze in the middle of the night from the boats to the wagons, and then to the farm. Back in those days they used the farm as a kind of a warehouse I guess. He swears that he witnessed Frank Capone having an argument with one of the Canadian suppliers then shooting him in the head.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Deacon.

  “When one of the crew asked what to do with him, he told him to take him out back of the Crawford place and bury him with the others.”

  “That’s a great story for sure, did you believe him?”

  Curt nodded. “I did. I heard him tell the story several times over the years and it never changed. My grandpa and great uncle both said they believed it.”

  “Okay Curt, I could use a little help if you’re up for it.”

  “Just tell me what I can do.”

  “Right now the FBI is investigating the serial killings and the severed arm. They don’t know you yet, but I think it’s time to correct that. I’ll set up a meeting and give you a call when it’s ready.”

  “The FBI? Is this something about what I did?”

  “Not at all, this is totally unrelated. Meet me at the office at eight o’clock. I’ll fill you in then.”

  “You know I’ll be there.”

  Deacon filled in Curt about the case, and that he was doing his own independent investigation and the FBI didn’t know it. “That’s the deal, Curt. Are you all right with it?”

  “So you want me to cooperate with the FBI and tell them everything I know about the Crawford’s?”

  “Exactly. But when it comes to the buried bodies, just say that they’re stories you’ve heard over the years. No need to tell them that they were from the prohibition days, they can figure that out for themselves . . . eventually.”