Murder in the Dell

by Bert Entwistle

  “You want me to lie to the FBI?”

  “Not exactly lie, but I need them to keep the Crawford’s on their list of suspects. Tell them about all the time you spent working there and pretty much anything that they want to know.”

  “Got it boss. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. You and I have known know each other for years, but we had our troubles and you don’t really like me. Play that angle up good. Also, we never talked about these things beforehand, understand? And nothing about the cameras.”

  “I understand completely. The more information I give them, the more time they spend investigating and the less time they have to bother you, I’m with you. When are we going to meet this guy?”

  “He’s just pulling up now,” said Angie.

  “Felix, come on in. This is Curt Sorenson, he was a cop in this department a long time ago. Curt, this is Felix Barnhart, Special Agent for the FBI.”

  “What’s this all about Deacon? I have a lot going on right now.”

  “Curt and I have known each since we were kids. When I bumped in to him the other day I remembered he had worked for the Crawford’s for years. I asked if anyone had ever questioned him about the serial case and he said no. He also said that he would never talk to me about anything.”

  “I still ain’t talkin’ to you . . . ever,” said Sorenson.

  “Yeah, I got it,” said Deacon. “So I asked him if he would talk to the FBI and he said he had nothing to hide and that he would, provided I’m not there. So here he is, I’m leaving now,” said Deacon, closing the door behind him.

  Barnhart looked confused, wondering just what this guy might add to an already confusing case. “Mister Sorenson, what can I do for you?”

  For the next hour Curt told him every detail of his life and his time at the Crawford farm. He told him about the ponds, the fields and what he knew of the bomb shelter and the other buildings. He told the stories about bodies supposedly buried on the farm and all of the various jobs they had him do.

  Felix wasn’t sure how much help this guy could be, but he did know one of the suspects better than anyone else they interviewed, so a little more time with him was warranted.

  “Mister Sorenson, I think I’d like to talk to you some more. Would you consider coming to the office in Ashland for a more a more complete questioning?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so. But I’ll need something to eat before we talk. Then I’ll meet you wherever you want.”

  Deacon drove through town for the third time that morning. He had an area map on the seat beside him with the location of the murdered girls and the Crawford farm marked in red. He had recorded the exact mileage between the farm and each of the bodies, and had made plenty of notes immediately after the bodies were found. Pulling over to the side of the road, he opened another pack of gum and went over his notes for the hundredth time.

  The phone temporarily took his mind off of what he was doing. “Hello, who is this?”

  “Deacon, this Felix, where are you?”

  “At the park, looking at the lake, what do you want?”

  “Just five minutes of conversation.”

  “Really, you want to talk to me? That’s a twist.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes, will you wait for me?”

  “Fine, I’ll be here,” said Deacon, folding up the map and sliding it under the seat.

  Felix pulled in behind him, parked and slid in next to him. “What is it you want?”

  “I think this guy you put me with is pretty windy. I want to know if you think he can be trusted.”

  “I can tell you for sure that he was born and raised here, and that he worked for the Crawford’s for years. As far as I know, he might still be doing work for them.”

  Felix looked at his notes. “He says there have always been stories going around about criminal activities and buried bodies at the farm. You’re a local boy too, did you ever hear any of the stories?”

  “Oh yeah. You hear them at the diner or in casual conversation now and then. The Crawford farm has always been kind of a mysterious place. As far as I know they have never opened the place to the public before. So yeah, I guess I do believe there’s something to it,” said Deacon. “I take it you don’t?”

  “There could be, but unless I can get enough for a search warrant we’ll never know.”

  “Not even enough for a federal warrant?”

  Felix shook his head. “I believe there is a good possibility of a connection between these crimes, but there’s no judge, federal or state who’s ready to sign one.”

  “So what’s next then, just keep digging until you find something?”

  Felix opened the car door and slid back in, “Pretty much all we can do.”

  Deacon and Curt sat on the tailgate of the pickup truck in front of his trailer. “I appreciate you talking to the FBI guy for me, what’d you think of him?”

  “Arrogant little guy with a big chip on his shoulder. He acted like I was probably lying to him. He thought I only agreed to talk because there may be something in it for me.”

  “He’s an asshole, that’s for sure. Did he pressure you a lot?”

  “Some. But he never scared me. I got lunch out of him and a couple of sodas too, so I’m good.”

  “One more thing, you got time to pull that last camera?”

  “Sure, I’ll get it tonight.”

  “Good enough. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Boss, I kind of stumbled onto something you might want to see,” said Vince. “It’s about the Crawford’s.”

  Deacon looked at the faded image on the screen. It was a copy of a document from the old Lake Superior Psychiatric Hospital, now long closed. It had Sarah Crawford’s name on it and a date of July 20th, 1979. “How did you manage to come up with this?”

  “I guess after the hospital closed in the nineties, someone scanned the old records. I doubt they should have been posted. The records are pretty sketchy though, this is the only one I could find with her name on it.”

  “It’s a copy of a page from a visitor’s log book. Great,” said Deacon, “just what we need, another mystery to go with all the others we haven’t figured out yet.”

  “Starting with that piece of information, I dug through all the ancient records I could find about the institution itself,” said Vince. “At one time it was the largest mental hospital in this part of the state. One wing was a super secure building for the criminally insane. They called it the B-Wing.”

  “You think Sarah had someone in there? That’s why she was visiting?” asked Deacon.

  “I found a death certificate for her mother. She died there and is buried in the hospital cemetery out back.”

  “Good find, keep on looking.”

  Deacon headed for the door. “Where are you going?” asked Angie.

  “To the diner, nobody made me breakfast this morning.”

  “Oh, you poor baby. I’ll come along and buy you lunch, would that make you feel better?”

  “I guess it might help.”

  After they ordered, Margret Thomas spotted them and headed for their booth. “Sheriff, Angie, I just wanted to say thank you for your action on the Iron Town Bar. Now that they are gone, we’ll be getting a nice new restaurant on the water.”

  Deacon nodded. “Thank you Supervisor, I’m glad it worked out.”

  “See, I’m not really the ogre everyone says I am. I know when to say thanks. If there is anything I can do to help you out, please let me know.”

  “Well, there is one thing I could use your support on . . .”

  “And that is?”

  “I will want an increase in my budget next year for another officer.”

  “Another officer? How much do you think that will cost?”

  “One year at entry level would be $42,313.60.”

  Thomas stood there for a minute evaluating what he said. “Sheriff, I’ll never in a million years get the board to go for that much, but you have my word I will try. What if I
could get them to agree to a part-time officer for half that cost for one year. If after one year he works out, we’ll make him full time? That way, the board will think they are getting a better deal.”

  “Sold!” said Deacon. “One officer, half-time, one year, then full time — works for me.”

  “Good. Now about this serial killer. How close are we to finding this guy?”

  “Close Supervisor Thomas, very close . . .”

  “Have a good day Davis, and you too Angie.”

  Angie couldn’t contain herself any longer. “What has my world come to when you are now pals with Doctor Baker and Margret Thomas?”

  “Welcome to the brave new world of Bayfield County politics,” said Deacon.

  “Are you crazy, why would you tell her you’re close to finding the serial killer?”

  “Maybe I am, or maybe not. Mostly I just like to mess with her. She agreed to work with me on the new officer, so I thought I’d give her a little good news.”

  “Davis, you’re getting stranger and stranger the longer this thing goes on.”

  “Austin, you got anything exciting for me today?” asked Deacon.

  “Not much. I tracked down every white, four door sedan I could find in Ashland, Superior and Bayfield County. There’s a hell of a lot of them around here, and I hope to never see another one of them again. But I never found a single person I think would even remotely resemble a suspect.”

  “This police work can be pretty glamorous at times,” said Deacon. “We’ll see if we can find something for you to do that is a little less exciting.”

  “Boss, I may have something right now,” said Vince. “I’ve been working on these names you gave me. I think I’ve located this one guy, the third one on the list, Michael Welsh. If this is the right Michael Welsh, he’s got a state record of violence and drugs, and the ATF has an open warrant on him and wants to talk to him about some stolen explosives.”

  “Well, alright,” said Deacon. “Do you know where this dirt-bag is?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think I do. He’s been holed-up at his grandmother’s house way out on the end of the old dump road. I watched for the last two nights and finally saw him through the front window.”

  “You got the warrant?” asked Austin.

  “Just now got it from the ATF. They’re on their way, but they said to pick this guy up if we got there first.”

  Austin stood up and put on his hat. “What are we waiting for? We got bad guys to catch!”

  “All right, let’s head out,” said Deacon. “Maybe this guy can add something to the mystery that could help.”

  Stopping short of the house, they pulled the two cars into the trees and put on their vests. “You want to know something ironic?” said Deacon. “These vests were paid for by Sinclair Crawford about two years ago.”

  “Well thank you very much, Mister Crawford,” said Vince, “much appreciated.”

  Walking through the trees, they reached the cabin and concealed themselves along the tree line. Within a few minutes they had the layout of the property figured out. Part frame house and part ancient log cabin, the place was small and shoddy looking, with an even worse looking camper trailer set alongside the cabin. Trash and firewood were scattered everywhere around the site.

  “There are only two doors into the cabin, this one and the one in front, and just one in the trailer. Austin, get to where you can see the front door and the trailer door, Vince and I will watch the back. When you’re ready, I’m going to call these people and tell them that I have to talk to Michael about something from the Iron Town Bar, maybe that will flush him out.”

  Deacon dialed and waited for someone to pick up. “Hello, this is Teena, who is this?”

  “Hi Teena, this is Sheriff Davis, I need to talk to Michael, is he there?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him in months.”

  “I’m not too far away, I’d like to come by and talk to you about a couple of things, would that be okay?”

  Deacon put his phone in his pocket. “She hung up, get ready.”

  The back door slammed open and Michael Welsh bolted out and headed into the trees. When he reached the trees Vince stepped out and put a gun in his face. “Freeze! Hands on your head! Now goddamnit!” he said.

  After he was cuffed, Austin came around the corner with Welsh’s grandmother, Teena. “Look here guys, she came out the front with a bag of goodies and a shotgun. I guess she figured while we were dealing with the grandson, she’d just quietly slip away.”

  “Wow, a real genuine crime family,” said Deacon. “We ought to get a raise for this. Take him back to the station and read him his rights. Vince and I will clear the place and have a chat with grandma.”

  “Mister Welsh, you’re in a bit of trouble here, you know that don’t you?”

  “I got nothing to say to you. I want a lawyer and I want him now.”

  “Angie, call Jack Hines and tell him we need a public defender, we’re sitting on a dirt bag with a federal warrant from the ATF. Okay, Mister Welsh, we’re calling a lawyer right now. But here’s something for you to consider until he gets here. The ATF is on their way right now to take you into their house. Seems they want to talk to you about stolen explosives?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no stolen explosives.”

  “Okay, whatever you say. But if you answer a few questions for us right now, maybe we can be easy on the state charges. Once the district attorney gets involved, there’s not much we can do for you — it’s your call.”

  “Well shit, how the hell did you know where to find me? In fact how the hell did you even know about me? I ain’t never had any arrests in this county before.”

  “You’re just another lowlife we’ve been following for a while. Your name came up in connection a serial killer investigation. With a little good police work we were able to dig you out of the shadows. When we found you, it turned out that the ATF had a warrant out for you.”

  Welsh, now loud and animated jumped up and started screaming. “That’s a goddamn lie! I don’t know anything about that deal — and I damn sure ain’t any serial killer!”

  “That’s what you say, but if I can connect you to any of those dead girls I think the ATF would wait their turn.”

  “I didn’t kill any girls goddamnit,” said Welsh, now back in his chair. “What do you really want from me?”

  “It’s simple. I want to know everything you know about Sinclair Crawford, his wife Sarah and their farm.”

  “What? Sinclair is the killer?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I want to know everything you know about them — everything, every detail.”

  Welsh sat back down. “Well shit. I want a Coke and a cigarette and a trip to the pisser. Then you can ask me again.”

  Deacon nodded at Vince. “Take him to the restroom. I’ll get the other stuff.”

  Jackson Hines walked into the station just as Welsh was brought back into the room. “Deacon, what have you got here, a real bad guy?”

  “Yep, a genuine criminal, right here in little old Bayfield.”

  “And he wants a lawyer I assume?”

  “Of course, he’s seen enough Law and Order to know what’s up.”

  “You did give him his rights?”

  Deacon nodded, “I’ve seen Law and Order too.”

  “I’ll have to get someone from the public defender’s office, probably from Superior. This may take a couple of hours,” said Hines.

  “That’s fine. Why don’t you hang around for a while, we have a few more questions for him, let’s see where they take us.”

  “You comfortable Mister Welsh?”

  “For the moment,” he said, taking a long drag on the cigarette.

  “Are you ready to talk about Crawford now?” asked Deacon.

  Welsh shrugged. “What’s in it for me?”

  “You give me what I want to know and I won’t find something to charge you with, like the guns we found at your good old grandma’s
house, or the pound of weed we found hidden in the trailer.”

  “One thing right off,” said Welsh. “Whatever we do here, my grandmother never gets charged with anything — and that has to be in concrete or no deal.”

  “Fine, granny’s off the hook, but you’re not.”

  “Then ask me whatever you want.”

  “How do you know Sinclair and Sarah Crawford?”

  “Sarah is my Grandpa Welsh’s youngest sister.”

  Deacon shook his head. “Nothing like living in a small town, everyone either knows everyone else or is related to them. How close are you?”

  “We were fairly close when I was a little kid, but after grandpa died, not too much.”

  “How well did you know Sinclair?”

  “He was just the old guy on the farm, never really very friendly to us kids. I think he’s some kind of writer or something. Sarah was always nice and was a great cook for sure, but she got really mad if we got the house dirty.”

  “Tell me about the farm, what do you remember about the property?”

  “A potato field, trees, a couple of ponds and half a dozen buildings I guess, and the vault.”

  “Vault? What vault are you talking about?”

  “There’s a big metal cover sticking out of the ground, and it was always locked. We never got inside but we always called it the vault.”

  “Sounds like the bomb shelter,” said Austin.

  “Keep talking,” said Deacon.

  “I don’t know what else to tell you, I was a kid and it’s a farm. We just played in the pond and in the trees.”

  “Did you ever see the big pond empty?”

  “Yeah sure. One time it was drained and they were doing some digging in it. Grandpa said they were doing some repair work, that’s all I remember about it.”

  “Is there anything unusual that you can remember, about the farm or Sarah or Sinclair?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Did you ever see or hear any talk about dead bodies or body parts or anything like that around the farm?”

  Welsh hesitated for a long minute before answering, crushing out the cigarette. “You mean the old stories about the dead gangsters?”