Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  With the installation of computers and phones completed and inspected, Vilhallen nodded toward White indicating he should make an effort at communicating with the local telephone man.

  “Do you live in Wheaton?” White asked.

  The rotund man who looked to be thirty something answered with obvious unwillingness. “Lived here all my life.”

  “Who were Hauk’s friends?” White asked, assuming as low key demeanor as possible. He pulled papers from his brown brief case, while hiding his interest in the young man’s obvious discomfort.

  After a few seconds, he straightened his shoulders and gave White a direct and straightforward look. “Hauk had his cronies, but I’m not one of ‘em. I can’t wish you any luck. I’m glad the sonofabitch is dead and wish well to the man who did it.” Clear enough.

  Without another glance or word, he picked up his equipment and worked his way to the door. He turned back into the large, square off-white room. “Somewhere in Hauk’s stuff you might find that he harassed my wife for over a year, driving by twenty times a day, calling during the night, stopping her on the road for any trumped up reason. I doubt he recorded that, but in case you find it and consider me a suspect I will save you taxpayer money by letting you know I have an alibi for whenever it happened. I was in Pierre all week-end at a fishing tournament.”

  Rob Thether, telephone installer, became the first entry of hundreds entered into Vilhallen’s computer. Somewhere, sooner or later, he would get some interesting matches. In a town this size, there were no secrets. Somebody in town already knew who stabbed the sheriff. Generally, the poor bastard confessed.

  Detective Vilhallen did all the grunge work, writing down and entering detail after detail until something matched. He believed in stereotypes, and that single exception to every rule. He was forty-seven years old and a professional.

  What Vilhallen lacked in intuition and brilliance, he compensated in relentless pursuit. He began to enter his notes into the computer under name, location, and motive. At the touch of a key the computer would cross-reference and bring to the screen connections he had not noticed. He entered everything, no matter how meaningless.

  Vilhallen’s partner, John White, liked to draw graphs on yellow legal pads. He worked in circles, putting the victim in the middle and working outward through motive, means and opportunity. The crime represented the finished work. From the crime he could find the criminal. He also liked to start with family. In this case any significant relationships were unknown.

  All the resources of the State of South Dakota were made available to them. Vilhallen lived in Rapid City and White lived in Pierre. For this high-profile case, they would, above all, have the assistance of Deputy Sheriff Carl Banks.

  By ten AM, Carl had still not arrived. They speculated that the Deputy had an inkling his face suffered from over-exposure. Perhaps he had a clue that the big boys were a bit peeved over their sleeping quarters.

  As they would soon discover, Vilhallen and White were wrong in both of these assessments. Carl sauntered into the temporary headquarters in the City Hall, saying, “I had those media goons eating out of my hand. I did a fine job with those boys. You can thank me later.”

  As Vilhallen and White gaped at him, Carl added, “I spent valuable time gathering furniture. Figured you wouldn’t mind arranging it.”

  “You figured wrong, Carl,” Vilhallen told him. “We need the crime report.”

  “When I’m ready,” Carl answered. “This is my case. I know who did it. I paid him a brief visit yesterday just to let him know his clock is ticking.”

  When both Vilhallen and White remained silent, Carl continued, his thumbs in his belt and rocking slightly on his heels. “When I can round up a few trustworthy helpers I’ll go get the bastard. Only one thing has changed in town, only one new arrival, only one crazy from the nut bin. Only one man ever told the Sheriff to f-off. Not exactly those words, but the same meaning. He is the perpetrator of this dastardly crime and that is Martin Webster. None of this other shit matters a lick. I’ve done your job, and the governor can pat you on the back.”

  “Who did you say did it?” White asked tightly.

  “Martin Webster,” Carl answered.

  “White kind of vehicle does Martin Webster own?” Vilhallen asked, looking up at Carl.

  “None. His friend drives him around like the whipped chauffer he is.” Carl rolled his eyes.

  “What’s a whipped chauffer?” White asked.

  Carl did not deign to answer.

  “Did you ask where he was on Friday night? That is the time of death, correct? You found the sheriff on Saturday morning?” Vilhallen forced his voice to be casual.

  “I did not ask any questions of that nature. None of it matters. We just have to go get him.” Carl gestured with his hands in front of him as though he was sick of stating the obvious.

  “Evidence matters, Carl,” White said.

  Carl rolled his eyes again. This was becoming a gesture extremely annoying to Vilhallen, who turned away, saying casually, “We’ve had some reports of Sheriff Hauk bullying people.” Vilhallen assumed that White observed Carl carefully.

  “Has nothing to do with it,” Carl said too quickly and too intensely. “Speaking of evidence, you’ve got nothing on the sheriff. Hauk has a fine reputation, untarnished. And I will assume the duties until the voters decide.”

  Carl turned to leave in a sudden, startling movement. He stopped and ordered the detectives to remain working at headquarters. “Don’t go through that scene without me,” Carl said as he paused at the door.

  Vilhallen noted an anxious look on Carl’s face as the deputy left at a run.

  White said, “He just thought of something he forgot to do.”

  Vilhallen nodded. “What would be so important as to make him run? We were talking about negative reports regarding the victim.

  A few seconds later, White said, “He forgot something in Hauk’s house. Did you see him jiggling keys in his pocket?”

  Vilhallen said, “We have files somewhere in that house.”

  “It was such a shock for Carl, finding the body, that the deputy forgot about those files.” White reached for his jacket. Vilhallen was already at the door.

  “Do we stop Carl or go to Hauk’s house?” Vilhallen asked.

  “Hauk’s house,” White said. “That’s where Carl is heading and that’s where we will find the smoking gun.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The detectives had little trouble finding Hauk’s house. Pointless as visiting the crime scene felt to be last night, Vilhallen felt a sense of expectation now. Something lurked inside that house that Carl wanted out.

  Carl had certainly behaved suspiciously. It did not take a Masters Degree in Criminal Behavior to know that Carl had secrets. He was wired tighter than a wind-up toy. Nor did it take much experience in law enforcement to know patterns of criminal behavior. If Hauk was crooked, he would have two sets of files. That was still a big if, but could not be discounted.

  Vilhallen had not recovered from the unbelievable incompetence in allowing the reporters to destroy any possible physical evidence. Everything at the scene was tainted, even the taste in his mouth, but it was possible something lay hidden that could solve this. He said, “What might we find of interest?”

  As the two men walked to the front door of Hauk’s single story ranch style house with an attached garage, White said, “One thing we need is Hauk’s case files, his most recent cases, notes, arrest reports. Carl will have to provide access to all of that. Those records are at the court house. If Hauk was on the take, those records would be here.”

  Vilhallen nodded.

  If Sheriff Hauk was on the take, he didn’t broadcast it by living well. The house was in need of paint and lacked any attempt at maintenance of the exterior or the yard. The house looked to be thirty years old, maybe a government low-income housing project. Vilhallen scribbled notes. Obviously it was too late to be taped off, pointless now: the b
rown grass was crushed flat by the hundreds of feet that trod upon it. White wondered aloud if Carl had never watched Law and Order. He had to know to tape off the scene and allow no access.

  The two detectives turned toward the sound of a siren coming toward them. “What an idiot,” White muttered as a vehicle belonging to the County Sheriff’s Department slammed to a halt, siren wailing, and lights flashing. Carl pushed the gear into park, rocking the vehicle within inches of the rear bumper on Vilhallen’s Escort wagon. Carl looked disapprovingly at them over the roof of his car. The TV screen had not done him justice. In person he was wired, strung tight and high pitched.

  Carl slapped his palm on the roof of his police car. His voice was an octave higher than earlier and strung-out, ready to crack. He said, “I will have a lot to tell the citizens at the bar after work, a lot to tell. Couldn’t you wait for my report on finding the body? You had to come here without me?” Carl was so livid with rage that his body moved in spasmodic, uncontrolled gestures.

  When neither detective responded, Carl calmed himself sufficiently to walk toward the house. Carl talked while he walked, his voice getting louder and louder with each step. “If you just let me handle it the whole thing would be solved and done in days. Why can’t you leave me alone to take care of this?”

  Vilhallen glanced at White and the two men stood calmly watching Carl. Carl jiggled the keys on his key ring out in front of him. “I have the keys right here. I’ll let you see it when I finish with the Sheriff’s confidential and personal files.”

  Vilhallen grasped his notepad so tight the cardboard backing bent in his hand. He glanced at White who stood utterly motionless like a big cat ready to strike. Deputy Carl found the correct key and started to work it from the ring. He gestured for the detectives to wait where they stood.

  As soon as Carl had the door open Vilhallen and White stepped inside on Carl’s heels. Carl paused, removed his hat and shut his eyes. His lips moved in prayer. When he opened his eyes he appeared calmer, more resigned to the disrespect.

  Carl said, “I couldn’t understand why Hauk wasn’t answering his radio.” His speech had the pattern of well-rehearsed lines. Still, it was the first time the detectives heard it and they listened carefully.

  “Hauk did that sometimes if he was away from his vehicle, but generally not for more than an hour.” Carl stopped walking and turned to the two men behind him.

  “Did what, exactly?” Vilhallen asked, notepad in hand.

  Carl repeated, “Not answer his radio. My instructions were to keep trying until he did answer. We had a procedure. When Hauk was on patrol, I was to check-in every hour or so. It was our safety precaution.” He rolled his eyes to indicate that he should not have to be repeating himself.

  “On Friday night, the night in question, he did not answer his radio all night long, and that was strange, to say the least.” Carl spoke slowly so they could catch his drift. “I was on duty at the courthouse until midnight then the calls shift to my house. So, I just kept trying to raise him. When I left the courthouse, I drove passed his place. Everything looked quiet. I could see his pick-up and the patrol car in the garage, so I went home.”

  “The garage door was open?” White asked him.

  “No, I ran my search beam across the windows in the garage door and saw both vehicles,” Carl said.

  “Exactly what time did you see both vehicles?” Vilhallen asked.

  “To me that was still Friday night,” Carl said. “I drove by at 12:30 AM on Saturday morning. Then I went home. Later, I woke up with a nagging feeling about the sheriff. Hauk always checked for any calls or messages. The man was a maniac about keeping his finger on the pulse of things. So I rushed, I mean I didn’t even brush my teeth or drink my coffee, I was here before daylight on Saturday.” His words and his continence assumed a more genuine aspect.

  “Besides,” Carl continued, “I didn’t want the sheriff mad about anything, nothing worse than a bulldog that’s pissed.” Carl took a deep breath and the three men faced the kitchen, open from the living room.

  Carl started fussing with his keys, pursing his lips, and the single minute of redeeming sincerity vanished. Carl paused. “Go ahead,” he said. “The bedroom is straight back.”

  Vilhallen said, “We will do this by the book, front to back.”

  Carl turned ashen gray. His thin lips worked without sound. Finally, he nodded.

  “We need a list of every person you’ve allowed inside the house.” Vilhallen’s voice assumed authority and Carl shrugged, almost pouting. With both detectives looking at him, he finally pointed to his head and said, “Up here.”

  As the men began to step through the living room, the carpet bending stiff beneath their feet, Vilhallen asked, “So what was the cameraman’s name who climbed through that kitchen window?” He pointed into the kitchen.

  “I can call the station if you need to know that. They know me there.” Carl’s voice was taking on a rebellious edge.

  White patted Carl’s shoulder. “Show us what you saw,” he said and waved Carl ahead of them through the living room and into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. John White apparently wanted a happy Carl, a talking Carl.

  “I came in the garage door.” He pointed toward the door off the kitchen that led to the garage. Vilhallen made notes and drew a quick diagram. “I stepped into the kitchen and yelled for Hauk right from where I stood. I yelled his name two or three times. When he didn’t answer or throw anything against the wall as usual when he’s hung-over, I nearly left. It was real quiet and I hesitated to be the one to wake him up. No way, if he was hung-over or if he had company.” Carl smiled and shook his head in obvious fond memory. “The man was a mean bastard when he was hung-over.”

  “So what changed your mind?” White questioned, gently.

  “Too quiet, something not right in the smell. So, I walked real careful across the kitchen and down this hall.”

  “Did you call for him from here?” White asked.

  “No, I was suspicious of something, so I was real quiet,” Carl answered, nearly whispering now. Then he said, “I’ve been in law enforcement a long time and I can tell the difference between quiet and too quiet.”

  “Comes from all those years in law enforcement.” Larry Vilhallen’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact, covering his sarcasm.

  “Darn right.” Carl nodded emphatically, still wary of Vilhallen.

  Again John encouraged him to continue. Carl wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “So, I walked on tiptoe down this hall to Hauk’s bedroom door.” The Deputy slunk along.

  White and Vilhallen followed Carl down the short hallway to the master bedroom. “I knocked real light on his door. But, of course, he didn’t answer. If he had, you fellas wouldn’t be in town.” Carl smiled and looked to see if they caught his joke. John White smiled back. Vilhallen glared.

  Carl licked his lips and continued. “I opened the door and saw him stretched out on his bed, clothes and all, even his shoes. First, I quick shut the door.” Carl looked into the bedroom and quick shut the door exactly as he had done on Saturday morning.

  “If it was that bad of a night for the Sheriff, I didn’t even want to be on the property when he opened his eyes. I went two or three steps back this way and caught myself.” Carl pointed to show his route. “I realized he wasn’t snoring. I went back and tiptoed to the bed and looked at him real close. He was cold and dead. So, I called it in.”

  Carl actually ran screaming from the house, but that wasn’t a detail that needed description as both Vilhallen and White had listened to the 911 call while waiting on Carl. The detectives studied Deputy Carl. He was full of details right up to finding the body and then case closed.

  “How did you get into the garage?” Vilhallen asked.

  “I bent down and opened the door,” Carl answered with a roll of his eyes.

  “Did you see blood, or a weapon or anything that struck you as odd?” White asked, still being careful not to step on Carl’
s toes, playing the good cop.

  “Nothing,” Carl answered, suddenly stiff and defensive. “No blood anywhere, not a drop. I had to turn him a little to see the wound in the back of his neck, right above his shoulder blade. That gave me a jolt, I can tell you. Before that I considered it a heart attack.” Carl swallowed down a lump in his throat.

  The bedroom stank, and Larry covered his face with his handkerchief. The smell was dirty socks and old vomit and spilled booze and death. John White pulled on his surgical gloves and began to take pictures of everything in the room. Among the dozens of fingerprints in this room, his would not be one of them.

  Neither detective could be certain if the pulled out drawers and clothes in stacks were original to the scene or the work of curious, unsupervised reporters. Inside the closet White found three police uniforms in the plastic wrap from the cleaners.

  The detectives visually examined the kitchen, dining area, living room, hallway, and the second bedroom, and bath. The second bedroom appeared fairly intact. White photographed a locked storage cupboard and a locked desk. The detectives touched nothing and said nothing.

  They returned with Carl to the kitchen. The sink and the counter were littered with tidbits of sandwiches and French-fries from the local pub. It looked familiar. The TV cameras did not lie: on the counter lay the infamous folder. Scrawled across the tab in black magic marker was the name Cassandra Peters.

  Vilhallen, his own gloves on, bagged and tagged the folder. He could use it for his own information though it was worthless as evidence. Nothing they found inside or outside the house would ever be clean evidence, except possibly, inside the second bedroom.

  “Do you have more keys for anything inside that second bedroom?” Vilhallen asked.

  Carl took his time in answering. He toyed with a salt shaker from the counter. He looked out the kitchen window onto Hauk’s bleak backyard.

  “Carl?” John White managed a pleasing tone. “We don’t want to be forced to break them open.”