The Bakken Blade

by Jeff Siebold

  “They did. We had a pretty good DMV photo and a picture from her mother,” said the officer. “Both girls said they thought it was her. Said she came by with the guy at about 11:45.”

  “Where did she work?” Zeke asked.

  “She had a job at the Family Dollar in New Town. She’d worked there for a few months.”

  “This place is a dump,” said Cord, coming back into the living room from the interior door. “Piles of towels on the bathroom floor, probably soaked in body fluids. Some sort of blackout curtains on the back windows. An Elvis picture on black velvet on the wall. The bed in the back’s a mess.”

  “The only way in or out is through the living room?” asked Zeke.

  Cord shook his head. “There’s a second door that leads onto a small porch in the back. From the bedroom.”

  “Did your forensic people find anything here?” asked Zeke. “It doesn’t look like anything’s been touched.”

  “It hasn’t,” said Doekiller. They’ve got it on their schedule. They’re sending a CS unit out this week, I think.”

  “A Crime Scene unit?” asked Zeke.

  “Yep. This isn’t technically a crime scene. We put the tape up and locked it to keep the lowlifes out while we’re investigating. The real crime scene is over at the tracks. That’s our next stop.”

  * * *

  They drove quietly to the railroad tracks, next to the grain silos. It was only about five blocks from the trailer. Doekiller pulled the car over to the side of the road, put it in park and looked left across 2nd Street.

  “Right there,” he said. “The second set of tracks in.”

  There was yellow crime scene tape attached to wooden posts that had been pounded into the ground, running parallel with the street.

  Cord said, “Won’t the trains disturb the crime scene?”

  “We had the railroad reroute everything onto the far track while the forensic team was here. But they’re pretty much done with this area now,” said Doekiller.

  Zeke said, “She was sitting on the second track when you arrived?”

  “She was. And Randy Cunningham, the guy who found her, was standing over there, closer to the road. Her skin was piled up close to her, just off the track. It was in small pieces, like it came off a little bit at a time,” said Doekiller. He closed his eyes and shivered slightly at the thought.

  Zeke opened his car door and crossed the road. The other two men followed him. There was a low layer of clouds and even though it was daylight, the place seemed overcast, cold and dirty.

  “These silos hold grain,” said Doekiller. “Ready for transport.”

  Zeke said, “Could someone come or go through the silos? Between them? Is it fenced off on the other side?”

  “No, no fence. There’s not much room between the silos, but someone could go around one end or the other, and head south from there, away from us.”

  Zeke nodded. He counted fourteen round silos, side by side. Each was fifty feet high and maybe thirty-five feet across. The area was industrial, and the sky was a steely blue-gray. This is a horrible place to die, he thought.

  Doekiller held the tape up as the men stepped through, then he led them over to the place where the body was found. “Right here,” he said. “Looked like she’d passed out, or was sleeping. Except she was naked. Never seen anything like it, and I’m a pretty big hunter.”

  “Was she tied up?” asked Zeke. “This seems like a crime of passion. Was there more?”

  Doekiller hesitated. “Yeah, that was odd, too. She wasn’t restrained that we could tell. The Crime Scene guys said there were no ligature marks on her, so she wasn’t tied up. She was just sitting there, next to a pile of skin.”

  “Her skin,” said Cord.

  “According to the lab tests, yes,” said Doekiller.

  “Could they tell if it was done here, or if the body was brought in after she died?” asked Zeke.

  “Definitely done here,” said Doekiller. “The investigators said there was a lot of body fluid on the ground. Said the ground was soaked with blood and oils and vomit.”

  Cord nodded.

  “But,” Doekiller continued, “think about the noise. She probably screamed her head off. Out here, it’s likely someone would have heard her. We’re pretty close to the middle of town…”

  “Did they notice anything else about the body?” asked Zeke.

  Doekiller looked at him and shook his head. “This was a horrible crime,” he said.

  Zeke nodded. Then he said to Cord, “Let’s see what the M.E. has to say.”

  “Drop me at the station,” said Doekiller. “You can take this car.”

  Chapter 4

  The two men took the dirty Crown Victoria for exactly thirty-two miles, first east then north on State Road 8 until they reached Stanley, the Mountrail County seat. Tillman Cord drove and Zeke sat next to him. The land was flat and agricultural the entire way, with an occasional swell, and sometimes a house or a church on the side of the road.

  “Have you worked with Dr. Adams before?” asked Zeke.

  “No,” said Cord. “We haven’t had a lot of deaths in this county. At least not deaths the FBI’s been involved with.”

  Zeke nodded.

  The scenery didn’t change much as Cord pushed the Ford along the two-lane road.

  In Stanley, the terrain didn’t change either. Mostly flat and cold with wide open spaces. You can see the enemy approaching from a mile away, thought Zeke.

  The M.E.’s office was a one-story brick building that reeked of 1930s institutional.

  “Looks as if it was built under the WPA program during the Great Depression,” said Zeke under his breath.

  Cord nodded. They opened the glass door and stepped into a small lobby area with some plastic chairs and a low table covered by used magazines. No one was in the room. Zeke approached a translucent glass partition and tapped on the glass.

  Nothing happened.

  “You called ahead?” asked Zeke.

  “I did. Told the girl we’d be coming to talk with Dr. Adams. We’re expected.”

  Zeke tapped on the glass again, with the same result.

  Cord tried a solid, wooden door that looked like it led into the building and found it unlocked. The men stepped into an administrative area with desks and file cabinets and a large copy machine. There was no one in the room.

  Zeke shrugged and they worked their way deeper into the building, stepping around furniture in the bullpen and into a narrow hallway that bisected the building, front to back.

  “Exam rooms are probably back here,” said Zeke, nodding toward the rear of the building. They moved in that direction.

  Just then a young girl with an even tan and brown hair pulled into a bun stepped into the hallway and started in their direction. She was wearing a white lab coat, and when she saw them she looked surprised.

  “How did you get back here?” she asked, concerned.

  “There was no one out front to help us,” said Cord. “I’m the FBI.” He opened his wallet and showed his badge and I.D.

  “Oh, sure, I was expecting you,” said the girl. “I guess everyone went to lunch.”

  “You’re…?” Cord said.

  “I’m Dr. Dale Adams,” said the girl. She smiled at his confused expression.

  “You’re the M.E.?” asked Cord.

  “And the G.P. And the pediatrician. And sometimes the vet.” She grinned.

  Cord and Zeke introduced themselves.

  Zeke said, “You’re not from here, Dr. Adams.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m from California. I went to medical school here on a government scholarship. My part is, after graduation, I get to work for the state for a while, wherever they need me.”

  Zeke shook his head. “How long have you been out of school?”

  “Uh-uh. Never ask a woman her age.” She looked at him with twinkling blue eyes and then giggled.

  “Consider it rhetorical,” said Zeke. “You handled the murder do
wn in New Town? The body?”

  “The body on the tracks. Yep, that was me.”

  “We’re here to see the body. But before we do, did anything strike you as odd about the killing?” asked Cord.

  “Just about everything,” said Dr. Adams. “It’s the strangest thing I’ve seen since I started here…”

  “…last year?” asked Zeke.

  “Nice try. No, we get a lot of accidental deaths. You know, car accidents, drug overdoses, occasionally someone freezes to death. But only seventeen homicides in the entire state in 2016. It’s a pretty safe place to live.”

  “What was your take on the body?” asked Zeke.

  “Pretty gruesome,” said Dr. Adams. “The worst I’ve seen. And I can’t help thinking about it, that it doesn’t make any sense.” She was serious now. Thoughtful.

  “What bothered you about it?” asked Cord.

  “Besides the obvious,” added Zeke.

  Dr. Adams said, “Let’s sit. Follow me.”

  She led them to an empty office on one side of the hallway and they sat around a gray steel desk.

  “The way she was killed was, well, horrible. I don’t know what she could have done to deserve that,” said Dr. Adams.

  Zeke and Cord nodded at her encouragingly.

  “She had a lot of drugs in her system. Something to tranquilize her, I guess.”

  “Which would keep her quiet,” said Zeke.

  “Quiet and compliant,” said Dr. Adams.

  “What did they use to, ah, remove her skin?” asked Cord.

  “I’m not sure what the weapon was. But it was very sharp. We’re trying to match the skin to whatever they used to cut her,” Dr. Adams continued.

  “You said ‘they,’” said Zeke. “Do we know there was more than one assailant?”

  “We don’t, but she wasn’t a tiny girl. It would take a very strong person, or more likely a couple of people, to carry her to the railroad tracks,” said Dr. Adams. “We’re running tests on all of that. We should have better information when the final lab results come in.”

  * * *

  For most of the trip, the ride back to New Town was quiet, both men lost in their thoughts.

  “You heading out tomorrow?” asked Tillman Cord.

  Zeke nodded. “I have a late afternoon flight out of Williston. Heading to Florida and then to D.C. in a few days.”

  “I’ll drop you,” said Cord. “Then I’m heading back to Bismarck.”

  “I’ll take another look at the police reports and the autopsy report when it comes available, and will do some research. You keep close to the Tribal Officers, stay in touch with them and see what else comes up. Maybe they’ll remember something, or maybe something else will happen. And the killer could tip his hand.”

  Cord nodded.

  “But before we go, I’d like to talk with Sam Bearcat,” said Zeke. “Think we can arrange that? Maybe this afternoon?”

  “Should be able to,” said Cord. “After all, I’m the FBI.”

  * * *

  “There are several things that don’t add up,” said Zeke.

  Clive Greene, sitting in a club chair in his D.C. Office, waited. Zeke Traynor, still in North Dakota, was on the speakerphone with him.

  “The girl’s skin was flayed from her body. Who does that?” Zeke continued.

  “And she died as a result?” asked Clive.

  “The M.E. said she probably died of shock,” Zeke continued. “But it doesn’t look like her body had been moved after she was killed. That would have left a trail of fluids and blood.”

  “Hmm.” Clive sipped his tea. “What about noise? She was found in a pretty public place there by the railroad tracks. Certainly she would have screamed, even shrieked with the pain. At the top of her lungs, I’d guess.”

  “The M.E. thinks she was drugged,” said Zeke. “Probably a tranquilizer.”

  “Plus, think about the amount of time it would take to actually skin someone. A person. That’s got to be difficult at best,” Zeke continued.

  “These aren’t really images I care to retain,” said Clive distastefully.

  “It could have been anger,” Zeke continued as if Clive hadn’t spoken. “But that’s a lot of anger.”

  “So drugs were involved?” asked Clive, diverting the conversation.

  “More than likely,” said Zeke. “You know the odds of that are high…”

  Clive was silent, thinking.

  “The officers I interviewed were first responders. To the bar fight, as well as when the body was discovered. They said she was found in the train yard.”

  “Is that queer?” asked Clive.

  “Well, it was quite a distance away from the trailer park. Lakeside Park.”

  “Yes?” asked Clive. “Trailer park?”

  “It looked like it was being used as some kind of a brothel,” said Zeke. “A few blocks from the bar. Jenny Lakota was there earlier that night.”

  “Where is Lakeside?” asked Clive.

  “Beyond the Salty Dog. So she had to leave the trailer, walk or get a ride back past the bar, and end up on the railroad tracks with the killer,” said Zeke. “Seems like if she was with someone, it would have to be someone she knew.”

  “Yes, for her to end up there, unless she left alone and made her way…” started Clive.

  “But there’s nothing else there. I visited the site. Some old, abandoned industrial buildings, abandoned work-office trailers, and junkyards. And the rails,” he said. “No reason to be there.”

  “Indeed,” said Clive, thinking.

  “Another thing,” said Zeke. “She was most likely killed at the spot where she was found.”

  “How do we know?” asked Clive.

  “The, ah, evidence of the crime was all around the body,” said Zeke, delicately.

  “My God, man,” said Clive. “You mean her skin?”

  Zeke nodded.

  Clive seemed to withdraw in thought. “I’m thinking, ‘Who would have done something like that?’”

  “It certainly feels like a very personal attack. And not very practical,” said Zeke.

  “Indeed,” said Clive. “So we should assume that it was done by someone she knew. Someone who was mad at her?”

  “It could have been rage,” said Zeke. “But it also seemed, in a sense, well, ritualistic…yet incomplete.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Clive.

  “Around the year 1400, the Aztec’s used to sacrifice their prisoners of war to Xipe Totec,” said Zeke. “His name means ‘Flayed One’. But back then they expanded the ritual by removing the prisoner’s heart, then flaying him and wearing the skin, and dabbing his blood on statues.”

  “Grisly,” said Clive. “Like stuff from the Silence of the Lambs.”

  “And it went on for twenty days or so, after the prisoner was dead,” said Zeke.

  “Well, this was more…immediate,” said Clive.

  “Yes,” said Zeke. “Before that, the Assyrians did it. And the Chinese Ming Dynasty started and ended with a flaying.”

  Tongue in cheek, Clive asked, “Did you see any Chinese while you were up there?”

  “No, but there are a lot of Native Americans in this part of the country. Native Americans used flaying, too.”

  “Ritual?” asked Clive.

  “Not so much that, but as an excruciating punishment,” said Zeke. “You might say they did it for revenge.”

  Clive was silent for a moment. Then Zeke could feel him shake himself.

  “What’s next, then?” Clive asked.

  “I need to talk with Jenny Lakota’s boyfriend. A fellow named Sam Bearcat. Seems that he was involved in a bar skirmish with Jenny just before she disappeared.”

  * * *

  Zeke crossed the threshold of the small interrogation room and was immediately accosted by the odor of bad breath and stale beer. Officer Bruce Doekiller and Officer Tom Running Bear sat at a table on either side of a thick, bearded man with an ugly scar on his left cheek,
who wore chrome handcuffs on his wide wrists. The handcuffs were attached to a D-ring that was welded to the metal tabletop. The man’s face was a permanent scowl.

  “Sam Bearcat?” asked Zeke with a disarming smile. “Hi, I’m Zeke Traynor.”

  The man glanced at Zeke with red anger in his eyes. He said nothing.

  “Just need to talk with you for a few minutes,” Zeke continued. “It’s about Jenny Lakota.”

  Sam Bearcat looked away, as if he’d been slapped. He said, “You had to roust me for that? You could’ve come to my apartment if you wanted to talk.”

  Zeke offered a half-smile and sat across from the large man. His hair was unkempt, as if he’d just gotten out of bed, and he was dressed in a brown flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. Zeke judged him to be a size XXL. Maybe an XXXL, all shoulders and neck and meaty biceps.

  “That probably wouldn’t have been the best environment for a constructive conversation,” Zeke said. “This is better.”

  Bearcat said, “I didn’t have anything to do with Jenny’s death.” His voice was deep and he spoke slowly. “I told the cops that before.”

  “Tell us about the night she died,” said Zeke.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, start with the bar fight. What caused it?”

  “It was a couple of those oil guys. We threw axes. They lost, but they didn’t want to pay up.”

  “Why not?” asked Zeke.

  “Said they weren’t going to pay anything to Indian-scum. Said I cheated.”

  “Did you?” asked Zeke.

  “What does that have to do with Jenny?” said Bearcat.

  “She was in the bar when the fight started, right?” asked Zeke. “She was your girl?”

  “Yeah. We were on and off. She was mad right then because I wasn’t paying attention to her. And ‘cuz I didn’t get that money from the oil guys. She got drunk and was flirting with some guy at the bar.”

  “Someone you know?” asked Zeke.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him around, last few months. Don’t know his name or anything. Hey, can you take these bracelets off?”

  Zeke nodded to Running Bear, who stood up. Then he reached in his breast pocket, took out a small key and unlocked the handcuffs. Bruce Doekiller then backed away from the big man and stood against the wall.