Murder in the Dell

by Bert Entwistle

  Deacon locked the jail’s front door behind him, closed the blinds and walked over to Baker sitting on the cot in the cell. “Do you want to call somebody? Maybe your brother?”

  He shook his head. “I have nobody to call.”

  “The DA will be here shortly, he will get you a public defender.”

  “I told you I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “It’s what the DA wants. I think it’s just to fill out some paperwork and that kind of thing.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You know the first question everyone wants to ask is why? What made you kill all these innocent women?”

  “Me first Davis. You want to talk to me, then we do it my way. My question is when did you first suspect me?”

  “Okay the DA is here now, and everything is being recorded. There were a lot of things that made me suspicious. On the Russell case, when you were called about the body, you hung up before you even got the location.”

  “I did?”

  Deacon nodded.

  “What else?”

  “No no, your turn, you made the rules.”

  “Fair enough. I spent almost fifty-years years doing this work and all I ever got was looked down on. I’m nothing more than a sideshow to most people. All they see is a ghoulish, gawky old man who lives alone, surrounded by dead bodies. I wanted people to remember my name and the good work that I did. Okay Davis, where else did I go wrong?”

  “I had my suspicions before that, but I was convinced I was on the right track after you told me about your Alzheimer’s diagnosis.”

  “You deduced something suspicious from that?”

  “When you got the victim’s names wrong. You called one of them the Rundle girl, you remember that?”

  Baker nodded. “Yes, unfortunately I do. I thought it might come back to bite me. I really thought my little acting job about the Alzheimer’s might work. You did buy it for a while though.”

  Deacon nodded. “I did, but throughout this whole thing, I’ve never been able to get the unidentified girl off of my mind. I was looking for the last few pieces to complete this puzzle and the name Rundle kept popping into my mind. I didn’t really think it meant anything, but I decided to run it through missing persons reports anyway. Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota had no such name of a missing female in their systems. Fortunately, our deputy thought to take a look at the lists from Canada. I guess I don’t have to tell you what we found.”

  Baker shrugged. “You found Veronica Ann Rundle, age 22, from Winnipeg, Canada. She was a truly beautiful young girl. What else do you have?”

  “Your car was recorded leaving the parking lot at Zeke’s Bar in Ashland, with Carly Russell in the passenger side on the night she disappeared. We couldn’t get the plate number, but we knew what kind of car it was.”

  “Can I have some water? All this truth is drying me up.”

  “On one case you said that a body had been there all winter — you couldn’t have known that by looking at her, only the person who put her there would know that.”

  “I don’t recall that incident. Now can I have some water?”

  “Your car was one of the last pieces I was looking for. You had a legal driver’s license, but you didn’t have a vehicle of any kind registered in your name. I’d never seen you drive anything but the county van before. I decided it might be a good idea to have your place staked out for a couple of days and nights and guess what? We got a good picture of you in a white, 2015 four door Hyundai, the very car we were looking for.”

  Baker nodded. “I have to admit, Davis, for a small-time county sheriff, you are much smarter than I thought. I need water right now, or I quit talking.”

  “Angie, will you get him a bottle of water please. It was convenient that your brother owned a car dealership in La Crosse. Once we saw the plates on the car, it was easy to find out you were the driver. You were able to use it without having anything registered in your name. That’s why we could never find you in the DMV system.”

  “That did work well, it’s a family business that he inherited. He’s kind enough to provide me with a new car every few years. What else?”

  “Once, you referred to the corpse as “her” before you even knew the call was a Black Plastic victim.”

  Baker cracked a smile at this. “I have to admit though, I thought the press did a wonderful job naming him the Black Plastic Killer . . .”

  “No, old man,” said Deacon, “they named you the Black Plastic Killer. There’s no him here — it’s you.

  “That’s Doctor Baker.”

  “Fuck you old man,” said Deacon, now getting red in the face. “You’re just a lowlife, dirt bag murderer named Robert Lee Baker.”

  “Maybe so Davis, but it took you two years to catch me, in that time a lot of innocent girls died.”

  Deacon did his best to ignore the insult. “The reason you got away with this for so long is because there were no crime scenes or witnesses to investigate.”

  Baker finished off the water and threw the bottle on the floor. “While you and the FBI were out chasing your tails trying to pin these dead girls on the Crawford’s, I was doing my thing in peace and quiet,” said Baker. “I laughed my ass off about that every time I thought about it. Sinclair Crawford had both knees replaced about a year ago, and he doesn’t get around very well. Sarah has Alzheimer’s. Her mother had it at a young age and eventually died of it. That’s why you never see her in public very often. Shit, it’s all they can do to live on their own, let alone move a body. You are one sorry bunch of investigators.”

  “Like I said, the biggest deterrent to solving this case was the lack of crime scenes. However, it turns out you had the greatest killing ground any murderer could possibly ask for.”

  “Hold on Deacon,” said Hines, who had been listening quietly and making notes. “Are you saying you found the crime scenes of all these murders?”

  “I did,” said Deacon, “every single one of them — it was really easy once I realized who was murdering them. They were all killed in the exact same place. Tell him scumbag.”

  “Give the man a cigar!” said Baker, clapping his hands and smiling. “But you go ahead and tell him Davis, I know you’re dying to.”

  “Yes, please, tell me,” said Hines. “I want to hear this.”

  “It was actually pretty easy for him,” said Deacon. “He kidnapped his victims at night, drove them back to the morgue, opened the garage door with his remote, drove in and closed it behind him. Then he put the victims, all of them unconscious at this point, on his favorite stainless-steel work table. After torturing and killing them, he packaged them up and dumped them like they were just so much garbage.”

  Hines looked confused. “You’re saying he killed them in the morgue?”

  Deacon nodded. “Every single one of them were killed on the very same table that he used to autopsy them after they were found.”

  “You don’t know for sure that I killed them there . . .” said Baker.

  “I wasn’t completely sure about that part until I looked in your supply room. I’m sure that the forensics people will be able to match the black plastic sheeting and the spool of white nylon rope I saw on the storeroom shelf to all of the victims.”

  “So you killed all these women so everyone would remember your name?” asked Hines. “What if you hadn’t been caught? Then what would you have done, keep on killing?”

  “I have a plan, I just needed a few more days to finish it.”

  “You don’t have a plan asshole,” said Deacon, “you had a plan, but now you’re in jail waiting to go to death row.”

  “Tell us about the plan,” said Hines. “What did you intend to do?”

  “I am writing a book. It covers every one of the girls, from the time I went looking for them to the time I dumped their bodies. It includes every detail of each case, from the crime itself to the clown show that the FBI and sheriff’s department have been putting on trying to catch me. Watching that was the best
part of the whole thing.”

  “And yet, here you sit in my tiny one cell jailhouse,” said Deacon, “like some mangy-ass street dog, begging for a drink of water. It must be killing you that you were caught by a small-time sheriff with the smallest force in the whole state.”

  “Keep talking Doctor, what about a book?” said Hines.

  “Don’t ever call him a doctor again — call him what he is, a piece of shit murderer,” said Deacon.

  “I planned to put all the crimes together in one book,” said Baker, ignoring Deacon’s taunts. “It documents how each woman died and what she went through in her last moments. It will help forensic pathologists and doctors in the future to recognize the symptoms and cause of death in each case. It will also show my techniques in the autopsy room, I will give tips from my fifty-years of doing it.”

  Everyone in the room was quiet, not quite believing what they were hearing. “So you killed all of those women so you could brag about your skills as a pathologist? So they could see what a great man you are? Is that it?” asked Hines.

  “I did it because everyone needs to see . . .”

  Deacon jumped up and lunged across the cot at him, reaching for his neck. “You piece of shit, I’m going to kill you right here.”

  Austin and Vince grabbed him and pulled him back. Dragging him out of the cell they stood between him and the door. “Deacon, don’t do this,” said Angie, sliding her arm through his. “Please, it’s all over now. Let the FBI and the court take care of it. Take a walk outside with me.”

  Walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the office, Angie tried to calm Deacon down. He dialed his phone and waited impatiently for an answer. “Hello, Felix? I need you at the jail right now. I don’t give a fuck what you’re doing right at this moment goddamnit, you get your ass down here now — you got it?”

  Five minutes later, Felix Barnhart slammed through the front door on a dead run. “Davis, if this isn’t life or death you’re the one going to jail today. What the hell is so important that you would interrupt my operation?”

  Deacon pointed at the cell, “There’s your killer.”

  Walking up next to Austin he stared at the prisoner on the cot. “Doctor Baker? What the hell kind of bullshit is this Davis?”

  “Baker is the Black Plastic Killer. Sinclair and Sarah Crawford aren’t guilty of anything except maybe being a little eccentric.”

  “Davis, our drones have pictures of him burying stuff on his property, we should be getting a federal warrant any time now to search the place.”

  “Listen to me Felix, the Crawford’s are innocent of anything to do with these dead girls. He doesn’t have trash service out there, so he buries it.”

  “That’s it? What else do you have on this guy?”

  Deacon took him to the war room and closed the door. For the next twenty minutes they went over all the evidence together. Barnhart listened to the confession and shook his head. “I can’t believe that he could do something like this.”

  “He’s confessed to everything, and we have it all on video and audio, including reading him his rights. He waved his right to a lawyer and the DA has observed the whole thing.”

  Felix Barnhart looked tired, and even smaller than usual. “Jesus Christ Almighty, okay, let’s go talk with him.”

  Austin opened the cell and let Barnhart in the cell. “Finally, the FBI shows up — after Barney Fife does his job for him,” said Baker.

  “Doctor Baker, I’ve been told that you’ve been read your rights, is that correct?”

  “Do not call that piece of shit a Doctor again . . .” said Deacon.

  “You know I have,” said Baker, ignoring the comment.

  “You have waved your right to have an attorney, is that correct?”

  “You know that too.”

  “Based on that and your confession to the murders of seven women, I am placing you under arrest and taking you into federal custody.”

  “Woo Woo! I can see the headlines now: The FBI finally captures the Black Plastic Killer!” said Baker. “Of course the sheriff of the smallest police force in the world had to catch him for you . . .”

  “Maybe so,” said Felix, “but you’re still the one headed for death row.”

  “Not gonna happen mister special agent, Wisconsin doesn’t have the death penalty.”

  “Wisconsin?” said Felix. “Who said anything about Wisconsin? This is a federal case, the United States still has the death penalty and you’re gonna get electrocuted in Leavenworth prison.”

  “Davis, how many girls do you say I killed?”

  “You confessed to seven.”

  “Well mister special agent, what if I told you there were more girls? I may be able to clear up a couple of old missing persons cases for you. I think the federal boys may be willing to make a deal here.”

  Deacon looked at him and shook his head. “Sorry asshole, we already tore your place apart and found all your binders. I have to say, you do keep detailed records. Including maps to all your dump sites. I take it all this was for your book? That’s too bad, because you and the book are gonna die together. Felix, the sooner you get this garbage out of my jail the better.”

  “I don’t know what to say Deacon, except that I’m sorry for all the crap I put you through.”

  “Don’t sweat it, at least he won’t kill again, that’s the important thing.”

  Felix put his hand out to him. “You know, there’s still the open case of the severed arm, we never found out where that came from.”

  “That’s right,” said Deacon, “I forgot all about that. But that’s not my case now, is it.”

  Acknowledgements

  All the books I have written have one big thing in common. I would never have been able to write them without help, particularly without help from my test readers. They never fail to set me straight when I’m headed up the wrong mountain trail or down the wrong dark ally, which is quite often. To all of them I give a giant heartfelt thank you . . .!

  It’s not impossible that I may have forgotten someone here, as I just had my seventieth birthday and have been told by my pals that I’m now an official member of the ‘old guys’ club. If I have, I apologize in advance. Please let me know if I missed you and I will get it corrected in the next printing. Bert

  Nancy Entwistle, my bride of fifty years who still puts up with me, I am a lucky man. She proofreads, advises me and takes better care of me than I likely deserve.

  Greg Wood, my old friend and traveling pal, for all his time, enthusiasm and the great feedback he gives me on my manuscripts.

  Bob Baker, old friend and long-time reader of my ramblings. I decided to name my undertaker after him, because I’m sure that’s what he always wanted to be.

  Wes Marshall, old friend from our high school days in Illinois. A very detailed reader and reviewer and invaluable source of help.

  Steve Butler, new friend, reader and Alaska fishing pal. Your feedback was important to me—and the steelheads are in the river just waiting for us!

  Bruce Flourquist, a fellow history buff and book guy that is always willing to tackle my next project with solid feedback. I hope we get a chance for a cup of coffee one of these days.

  Lenetta and Gary Haynes, old friends that are always willing to provide valuable feedback from both male and female points of view, I always look forward to your help.

  Mike Welsh, a new friend and avid reader who volunteered to read the manuscript without knowing much about my work. His input was excellent and he’s fun on road trips . . .

  Linda Tolin, my blood taker with all the needles . . . a great test reader and new friend. I should stop bleeding soon—right?

  Sheldon Jones, friend, neighbor and science fiction writer who was kind enough to give me great feedback

 

 

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