Vilhallen silently hoped that the technician would find it trivial and only reluctantly take it for further processing. Such was not the case. If anything, the blond haired man with his white jacket and gloves appeared more fascinated than either detective. He used tweezers to lift each bag and study it in the flashlight. Then suddenly, the doctor in forensics put each piece exactly as it was, shut the case, re-bagged it with deliberate care, labeled it and prepared to exit.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
“What do you think about it?” Vilhallen asked.
“Well, it is a trophy case. I have no doubt of that. I will get you what info I can, but it is up to you guys to find the connections. I am guessing somewhere out there you have six victims of something.” He gave a grudging, tiny twitch to his mouth.
It was late, and though neither Vilhallen nor White felt hungry, eating was required. The only place open that served food was the Pub. As the men parked in back, White mentioned that Carl’s vehicle was gone. Vilhallen would have a talk with the man about his use of the County vehicle for his personal business. And White informed Vilhallen that help was coming from the Minnehaha County sheriff’s office. Four officers would be there in the morning.
The place was empty and the detectives each took a stool along the bar. Vilhallen said, “I suspect that Hauk is not so much a victim as a perpetrator.”
“This case is a Pandora’s box,” said White. “I have a feeling this investigation is not going to end well, at least not for us.”
“What does Carl know about his boss? We have to seriously confront the little weasel first thing in the morning.”
A sign on the mirror stated that the kitchen closed at 11:00 PM. They had fifteen minutes and motioned the bartender. The fry cook apparently was not thrilled with their business, but she did her job and they heard the sizzle of hamburger on the grill and fries in the grease. The only voice was Jay Leno.
The bartender plopped mustard and ketchup in front of them and filled their glasses of beer from the tap. He was obviously not the talking kind of bartender, at least not with them. He busied himself with tallying their bill.
“Quiet in here,” White said to his back.
“Yup,” he answered without turning.
“Always this quiet?” White continued.
“Nope,” the bartender answered.
Judging from the tall stack of green slips pushed down on a small spike it certainly was not always this quiet. “Where did everybody go?” Vilhallen asked
The bartender turned to face them at last. He looked them over and then decided to say, “Two rowdies left with Carl. Everybody else has work in the morning.”
Vilhallen did not give the food a glance; his eyes were on the bartender. “Where were Carl and friends headed?” Vilhallen asked, already getting up from his stool.
“Do you know the old Webster place?”
Vilhallen remained calm as he glanced at White who was standing and ready. “Better bag our order. We’ll take it to go.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Who went with Carl? What are we up against?” Vilhallen asked as the two detectives raced south out of town.
“It could not have been easy to find men to come with him. Nobody wants anything to do with it. But he is persistent if nothing else,” White said while checking his weapon.
“The bartender said two rowdies went with Carl,” Vilhallen said. “It could be highly dangerous.”
“They have a half-hour head start,” White said. “I hate gunfire, especially unpredictable, half-drunk gunfire.”
Vilhallen did not like to use his flashing light, but he did. His Ford was not intended for speed, it was intended for some comfort and to save tax payer money, but he still hit ninety on the three-mile stretch of highway 81.
On the gravel, he slowed down, turned off the flashing lights, and proceeded cautiously. At Martin’s driveway, the two detectives left their vehicle and walked up the slight curve to the house. Voices carried in the cool night air, someone angry working into passion and someone not angry at all. They mixed indistinguishable, at first and then clarified into two separate parties.
Carl’s voice, high pitched and bordering on hysteria, screamed, “You crazy nut case, you killed him, you did it!” Then an odd silence just as Vilhallen and White emerged from the lane with the protective high grass and weeds. They stepped into the clearing in front of Martin’s porch. The only light came from Carl’s headlight beams and a softer light through the closed blinds on the porch windows.
The smaller guy on the ground by the steps noticed them but did not blink an eye or move a muscle. Vilhallen and White took in the scene, accounting for all parties. Vilhallen did not know the small man in the shadow. From his positioning he had to presume he was with Martin.
Carl waved a rifle of all things. No other weapons were visible, though maybe the unknown party had a knife, judging by the way he held his hand. The tall man had to be Martin Webster. He stood on the bottom step from the house and held a bundle in the curve of his arm.
In the few seconds they had to assess the scene, Vilhallen noted what Carl and company did not. The little man in the shadow was coiled taut and leaned with a deceptive purpose. He was the one to watch. Martin, in his aspect and stance appeared more befuddled than dangerous.
Carl screamed, “I told you yesterday that I would be back.”
Webster said, “I had a hard day yesterday. I don’t remember that.”
“He drove around the yard honking. I couldn’t decipher his words,” said a voice like soft rain.
In a suddenness that surprised the detectives, the heavy rowdy on Carl’s right lunged for the little guy. Barely changing his stance, the little guy put out his elbow and the big guy ran into it. It was a carefully aimed blow all the same, in a spot on his jaw to knock his assailant flat but not kill him. The man fell like fluid to the ground as Carl swung his rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot went high.
Vilhallen and White bolted forward. Carl had lost his mind, swinging his cocked rifle toward Martin.
Martin turned his back to the rifle, protecting his bundle. Martin’s friend did not move, but yelled the words, “Hurry-up, he’s going to shoot.”
In a flash, the young hooligan to Carl’s left took off running into the grass.
In seconds, Vilhallen and White grabbed Carl from each side, removed the rifle from his hand. The detectives scanned about them for any more signs of trouble. Vilhallen’s heart pounded. Only Carl’s erratic shot saved them from a murder scene. As he breathed slowly for several seconds, Vilhallen noted the small man’s motion of hand to pocket. Everything else was utterly still.
Vilhallen heard White telling Carl that he was a lucky man. Only then did Vilhallen look at the former deputy. Carl stayed on his feet between them, his body wired like an over-heated engine. His eyes were huge and glistening. Not even a breeze cooled their faces, and the overcast night sky held the threat of rain.
“To add insult to injury, you used your county vehicle.” White sounded cool and calm.
Vilhallen watched the lithe motion of the unknown man as he climbed the porch steps and took the infant from Martin Webster. They both turned to watch, but neither of them said a word. Vilhallen wondered why neither man was screaming angry. Why were they so calm?
Vilhallen called for an ambulance for the motionless form on the ground and for back-up. A highway patrolman responded within minutes. Carl sat in the back seat of the patrol car, his sullen attitude like a visible black cloud around him.
The medics had Carl’s crony up and walking, holding his jaw and cursing. He declined a ride to the emergency room. A county deputy from Davidson County pulled into the yard just as the medics left. He would take Carl and friend to the county lock-up in Wheaton.
The deputy registered shock when he saw Carl in custody. Carl greeted the man by name through the vehicle window.
“Do your job, deputy,” Vilhallen told him.
&nbs
p; So it was that Vilhallen and White met Martin and Crook and Kirby. Before a word could be exchanged, pickup truck lights appeared in the small curve to the house. A gray-haired farmer leaped from the truck and looked around. Only after the man was satisfied that no one was hurt did he turn to Vilhallen and say, “I’m Bill Bendix from down the road.”
It was twenty-seven minutes since Vilhallen and White left the pub. Vilhallen wondered if his food was cold.
Martin gestured for the detectives to come inside. They sat at the kitchen table while the unknown man brought mugs of coffee. Now in the warm kitchen light White recognized Martin from a long ago State B basketball tournament and they discussed that briefly.
White then noted Martin’s name and address and Kirby’s name. Then White turned his attention to the small bald guy.
“Name?” White said.
The man appeared to hesitate so Martin said, “This is Jeremy Sabo. We call him Crook but he is not a real crook. He was framed.”
White gaped at Martin while Vilhallen took new interest in the man called Crook. Vilhallen had never met anyone quite like Crook, but he knew there was more to the man than met the eye. Outside he had behaved like a trained combat professional. Here in the kitchen he held his mug and sat quietly like a harmless almost sad, little fellow.
Bill provided his name and address with the calm confidence of a man who owns land and knows his place. Vilhallen liked the farmer.
Vilhallen said, “You are Martin’s only transportation?”
“Yes,” Bill said.
“Did you take Martin anywhere on Friday night?”
“Yes. We went into Sioux Falls for last minute birthday party stuff. I dropped him off at home about eleven PM.” Bill answered calmly but Vilhallen noted that he glanced often at his friends, possibly looking for reassurance.
“And you, Mr. Sabo? Where were you on Friday night?” White asked.
“I was here with Kirby,” Crook said.
Vilhallen said, “Why are you called Crook?”
“Because I am not one,” Crook said.
Of course, everyone at the table knew the detectives would be checking on that.
Vilhallen clarified all means of transportation: no car, no truck, no tractor, no lawn mower, only Bill Bendix.
Crook provided the description of what happened earlier with the siren and lights and pounding on the door. Carl screamed for them to come outside, making his accusations.
That was it. Vilhallen and White stood to leave. “One more thing.” Vilhallen turned around to ask, “Is your little fellow there missing a bottle?”
Martin shrugged, perplexed at the question. Crook answered, “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“We found a baby bottle under the seat of Hauk’s vehicle,” Vilhallen told them, watching them carefully, hoping for some telltale reaction. He was disappointed. The men gathered in the kitchen, looked back at him with complete puzzlement. Maybe Crook blinked, but Vilhallen was not sure. He had gambled with the question and now feared he had divulged evidence and got nothing for it.
Vilhallen and White hashed it all over long into the morning hours. One point of interest clung to both detectives: Martin’s baby. The baby bottle under the seat took on renewed significance. After dealing with Carl, they would check the last time that vehicle was cleaned and who sat inside. The lab report was due tomorrow. The murder of Sheriff Hauk appeared planned, but may not have been initially. The clean-up was the work of a real pro.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Early the next morning, Vilhallen and White drove the few blocks to the county court house located on a full block of lawn between Highway 81 and Main Street. Inside his cell Carl Banks appeared a different man. He was a bag of bones inside a loose sack of skin.
“Good morning, Mr. Banks,” Vilhallen said. “Deputies from Minnehaha County are bringing over boxes of Hauk’s files and contents from his desk, as well as the case files located right here. We are going to an interview room and you are going to tell us everything you know about your former boss. Does that work for you?”
The only response from the man sitting on the cot was a slight nod.
“Mr. Webster is declining to press charges despite the endangerment to his infant son. That doesn’t mean you will not do jail time, Mr. Banks, but it does mean we can work through this with your cooperation.” Vilhallen stood stiffly along the jail bars and spoke through them.
“No jail time,” Carl said. It was the last vestige of a cocky little fool.
The tape recorder did not make any noise at all as it recorded the words of Carl and Vilhallen and White. A stenographer took notes and four assistants from the Minnehaha District Attorney’s office moved in and out of the conference room as the stack of folders counted down. Each file had to be examined. Hauk kept impeccable records of his illicit dealings. There were forty seven individual cases of extortion.
By noon a story of corruption emerged that astounded the detectives. Vilhallen shook his head again and again, and White stopped talking except for sparse, intermittent clarifications.
Sheriff Hauk garnered about four thousand a month in cash from protection money, pay-offs, gambling, and harassment. It was not vast sums but this was a farming county of forty-five hundred people not a city. Always careful in his victims, he kept each thing small and separate. He made it easier to pay than to fight, especially when the victims believed they were alone. Carl described one instance in which he had a major role. Carl shot two head of prime beef cattle. After that, the owner paid Hauk three hundred a month for protection.
White asked, “How did this start, Carl?”
“DUI’s first. Then it moved to the truckers, hairdressers, businesses, extra-marital affairs.”
“I don’t see a file for the local telephone man,” Vilhallen said.
“Messing with the women don’t pay so they don’t get a file.”
“What about Cassandra Peters? She has a legal file but no extortion file.” White was talking more to himself than to Carl but Carl rolled his eyes.
“Sandra Peters was a missing person,” Carl said. “She had nothing to do with Hauk.”
“So why,” Vilhallen asked, “did Hauk have her file in his kitchen..”
Carl shrugged.
It was time to break for lunch. The two detectives sitting at the table closed their notepads and the final folder and sat back. Carl hunched at the table, his elbows on the table and his hands holding up his head. Vilhallen studied Carl for a few seconds and said, “Misery, thy name is Carl.”
White appeared to find no understanding for the greedy little man. “Why, Carl, with all this in Hauk’s life did you suspect Mr. Webster, the one person without a single connection?”
“He has a connection. Hauk was going to send social services to take that baby he has. He didn’t write it down because that loony-toon told Hauk to get out,” Carl said.
“When was this?” Vilhallen made exact notes. He thought it strange that Martin had not mentioned this last night.
“A few weeks ago,” Carl said. “Martin Webster refused to pay. But that’s not the reason I know he did it. Martin Webster is the only thing that’s changed in this town in all the years Hauk was sheriff. Nothing changed for six or seven years, why would it now? It has to be him. Hauk’s backed away from any new clients. It’s all status quo but for the nut job.” Carl remained convinced.
That afternoon a delivery arrived from the lab in Sioux Falls. White carried the evidence box and the written report into the conference room and set it on the table.
Vilhallen said, “Before we examine the lab report, I have one other question. Where is the money?” Vilhallen had Hauk’s ledger open on his desk. “The funds from the desk drawer are a small fraction of Hauk’s bottom line.”
When Carl returned to the conference room, the detectives decided to finish with the money first and then the contents of the trophy box. Carl stated simply that Hauk knew nothing was noticed faster or caused grea
ter suspicion than money he shouldn’t have. Carl’s take was twenty-five percent and he put that in a bank account in Sioux Falls. Hauk’s money was Hauk’s private concern and he never told Carl anything about it.
White nodded and looked at his partner. Vilhallen set the ledger aside and heaved a big sigh. “What we have to talk about now, Mr. Banks, is ugly, real ugly. It makes me sick.”
Detective White put the tin box in the center of the table and opened it. Both detectives watched the color drain from Carl’s face as though he had a spigot on his neck.
“What do you recognize in here, Carl?” White asked. He had moved his chair slightly away from the table as though he had to make some distance.
Carl could not speak. His eyes bulged and he swallowed several times before he could point to the homemade hoop ear rings. “Those belonged to Allyson Darby,” Carl said.
Speaking to the recorder, Vilhallen said, “Mr. Banks is referring to the earrings numbered four on the evidence bag.”
Vilhallen checked through the investigator reports. “Allyson Darby is the teenager found dead along a fence line in April two years ago.”
Carl said, “Allyson wore those on Safety Day at school. I only noticed because they looked ridiculous. I still remember them. Her death was ruled a suicide by exposure. The suicide part was never released to the public.”
Carl did not recognize the other five souvenirs, but his hands shook and he could not look at the box or its contents. “Tell us what you know, Carl. Tell it all,” White told him with a cold tone that surprised Vilhallen.
“Hauk liked girls. That’s all I know.” Carl showed new signs of excitement in his expression, and animation in his body. “I worried about Allyson because she lived down the block from me and I saw her walking to school or the pool or whatever. I took it personal when she disappeared. And I didn’t like it when Hauk buried the case. He didn’t even try to find her. But Cassandra Peters disappears and Hauk is like gangbusters looking for her. That’s how I knew . . . “ Carl stopped himself, closing his lips tight.
Martin, Crook, & Bill Page 18
