Her mother, who looked ready to faint, rocked in her chair like she held an infant. One hand held Sandra’s hand and the other clutched her stomach. She appeared to understand at last what the box meant.
She said, “Why didn’t you let us help you?”
Her dad said, “She is telling us now. We will help now.”
“I couldn’t admit it to myself. I just wanted to get my old life back.”
Then after a minute, Sandra looked up at her parents. She said, “This will take awhile.”
“We have all the time you need,” her dad said.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The search warrant allowed a search and seizure for any physical evidence relating to the murder of Sheriff Hauk. It covered the house, the outbuildings, the property, and the persons of Martin Webster and Jeremy Sabo.
Vilhallen and White used all of their considerable expertise in organizing the search. It included three cars from the Minnehaha County Sheriff’s Department as well as their own and a CSI crew. It was not the biggest search either detective ever participated in, but it was considerable. The scheduled departure from the courthouse in Wheaton was 3:00 pm. The briefing was scheduled for 2:30.
Vilhallen and White had twenty minutes for one final interview with Mr. Carl Banks. Carl actually posted bail that morning but would not be released until after the execution of the search warrant. A far different Deputy Banks waited in the conference room than the detectives previously encountered or expected. He was not the wired, inept, arrogant Carl of the TV fame, nor was he the bag of bones, deflated Carl from the plea agreement.
Dressed in pressed khaki pants and striped shirt, tucked and belted, Carl showed neither fidgety nerves nor desperation. Carl Banks appeared completely balanced.
Vilhallen and White greeted Carl with civility if not warmth. They sat across the table from Carl and placed yellow legal pads on the table for notes, no recorder. “What we want to clarify with you, Carl, is a few points related to solving the murder of your Sheriff. It is outside of your full disclosure relating to your plea agreement,” White said.
Carl nodded, calm and agreeable.
Vilhallen studied Carl as White talked. He doubted that Carl could help them. He said, “What we need to establish is a relationship between Cassandra Peters and Martin Webster.”
Carl gaped at them.
“Think about it for a minute, Mr. Banks.”
Carl said, “Only the timing puts them together. Sandra Peters would not associate with Webster.”
White slid a photograph of Martin and Sandra standing together in the armory lobby. Carl looked at it with wide eyes. He said, “Damn.”
“Why is this so surprising?” White’s intelligent eyes burned with intensity.
“Because Cassandra Peters is a respected young lady and Martin Webster is a nut case.”
“Can you look past your own prejudice for a minute and think of any possible connection beyond their obvious interest in basketball?” White was icy calm.
Vilhallen waited, watching Carl’s brow furrow in concentration.
“The kids used to use the Webster house to party,” he said.
Vilhallen switched topics while White noted this information. “After reported missing, Cassandra Peters was never actually found. How did she get home?” Vilhallen watched Carl shift his thoughts.
“Bill Bendix brought her home on Tuesday morning. He just dropped her off at her house. Her mom was home, unable to work with her daughter missing and all,” Carl said. He appeared confused by the switch in topics from the relationship between Martin and Sandra to Bill Bendix.
“What was her story?” Vilhallen asked quickly.
“Sandra told her parents, her parents told Hauk and Hauk told me that Bill Bendix found her at the state park campsite. Odd though because the campsite was searched without finding a sign of her.”
“Did that seem odd to you that Bill Bendix, Martin’s neighbor, brought Sandra home?” White asked.
“Sure it did, but I was just relieved it was over, so I didn’t care how she got home.”
“What about Hauk? What was his reaction to Bill Bendix bringing Sandra home?” White asked and Vilhallen watched.
Carl’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Hauk was finishing his report. Read to me what he wrote and then threw his pen across the room.”
Vilhallen thought that Carl Banks possessed an amazing ability of recall. Vilhallen said, “Did you think it was a coincidence that Martin’s friend and neighbor found Cassandra?”
“Didn’t think of it at all,” Carl answered.
Vilhallen considered it an extraordinary coincidence.
“On the search report in Hauk’s office he listed all of the places that required searching. The list included ‘abandoned farm buildings.’ Did you search the Webster house?” White asked.
“I planned to, even before I knew about Martin. But Sandra’s friends told me she wouldn’t go to the old party haunt because of the rats. She was terrified of them. I believed them, so I crossed it off.” Carl looked at them with a slight smile. He was apparently becoming accustomed to the topic switching technique.
“Rats!” Vilhallen uttered under his breath. She stayed with the rats, and she was afraid of them. What drove this girl? Did it go to motive? Of course it did. On his pad he printed: We are here to find Hauk’s killer.
“Yes, a lot of them. That was why the kids didn’t go near there anymore.”
Carl paused then he added, “Hauk was odd these last months, scarier. With hindsight, I think he knew he should have left Sandra alone. The fact that she didn’t say a word to anyone about what he did, I mean what we know now that he did because of the trophy case, scared Hauk. I suspect he wanted to find her himself and maybe find her body.” Carl said this with trembling lips, tears in his eyes.
“You think Hauk did to Sandra what he did to Allyson?” Vilhallen tried to temper his voice.
Carl nodded.
“We call Hauk’s actions ‘escalation.’” White had gone pale.
Carl said nothing that they did not already know or suspect but to hear it from a man who allowed it to happen was shocking. Vilhallen knew Sandra had admitted no such actions on the part of Hauk. She admitted only that her hair tie was included inside his trophy box.
And you did nothing about that?” White asked.
“I said with hindsight. At the time I just thought Hauk was getting weird. When Sandra disappeared, I worried about it, but not really. It nagged me, that’s all.”
“And you felt Sandra was alive because Hauk was looking for her?”
“Yes.”
“So, Hauk did not say he visited Mr. Webster on the Friday night of his murder. You have only intuition that he drove to the farm?” White returned to his agenda.
“Any disturbance calls for Martin’s place or anything like that on Friday night?
“No.”
“Why did you mess up the scene, Carl? You are a smarter man than you wanted us to believe, so why?” White asked with ice in his eyes.
“I mistakenly thought I could get those records out of the house. If I made the scene useless to you, I thought you would not care about anything in the house,” Carl said quietly, looking at the table.
“Why didn’t you take Hauk’s extortion files out right away?”
“I wish I had, but I didn’t think of it right away. Then I couldn’t get ten minutes to myself. So, I devised the plan to ruin the scene. I wasn’t myself.” He smiled a crooked, self- effacing grin.
Vilhallen said, “It wasn’t that you spent a good deal of time furnishing our place.”
Carl chuckled but said nothing.
The detectives quickly covered the exact time Carl last saw Hauk. He told them he saw Hauk driving down Sandra’s block at 4:30 pm. And the last time he heard his voice was a half hour earlier at 4:00.
“But you suspect that Hauk would have driven to the Webster’s farm alone, maybe to check it out, maybe to impart some fear
into Martin Webster?” White clarified one more time.
“He would,” Carl answered.
That was it. No more questions. Time to go.
Chapter Thirty- Six
As it happened, Martin and Crook rose early that morning. Martin was a little behind schedule and he wanted to work. The problem they encountered was Kirby. Kirby screamed at the sound of the power sander on the wood banister in the hallway. So, the men took turns running the sander and playing with Kirby on the porch with the doors to the house closed.
Martin and Crook had lunch at 11:30 when Martin took Kirby upstairs for his nap, sometimes Martin slept too. Crook returned to his carving spot on the porch where he worked on a chess set for Dr. Duerksen. He examined his attempt at carving a knight and thought the knight looked rather queenly. As he turned the piece in his fingers, he saw through the window police vehicles parking in a semi-circle facing the porch.
“Shit,” he said. He grabbed his carving knife from the table, retracting the blade as he ran upstairs. He burst into Martin’s room without knocking. Kirby slept on his tummy with his butt in the air. Crook, as close to panic as he had ever known, unhooked Kirby’s sleeper and slid the knife into the baby’s diaper. He adjusted the positioning of the heavy, steel knife so as not to make Kirby uncomfortable. Then while whisper-yelling at Martin he re-hooked the sleeper. Martin did not see that Crook slid the murder weapon into the baby’s diaper. Kirby rolled over wide awake. All three of them went downstairs.
Crook reached the front door just after Vilhallen knocked hard.
“Whoa,” Crook said as he swung the door open. “What’s up?” On the inside, his heart pounded, on the outside he put on his blank, distant expression like a mask.
He read slowly every word of the warrant as the detectives and company stood on the stoop, not choosing to force their way past him, at least not yet. Crook felt a surge of relief and struggled not to show it at the listing for personal search. Kirby was not named on the warrant. Good boy, Mr. Kirby, he thought, and he stepped aside.
An officer immediately placed himself at Crook’s side, and Vilhallen opened the door to the kitchen. Kirby began to wail. A female technician reached to take the baby from Martin, but Crook said, “Please don’t touch the baby.” The young woman stepped back.
Martin shifted Kirby to his shoulder and patted him into quiet. While Crook stood, composed and still, breathing quiet, Martin carried Kirby toward the changing table against the far kitchen wall. Crook froze. Slowly and carefully, he said, “Martin, give Kirby to me. You need to read the search warrant.”
With no objection, Martin handed over the baby. Crook handed Martin the search warrant. During these seconds no one else moved. Crook felt frozen in time. The cops were an audience at a play.
Now Vilhallen began directing traffic. Crook lifted the infant to his shoulder and rocked him from heel to toe. Kirby shut his eyes. Vilhallen walked a perplexed looking Martin out to the porch. Crook followed. He could not allow himself to look at his chess pieces. Anyone with a brain could see someone had been carving. But when? They could not know when he last carved. They might ask with what knife.
The blocks of wood and the shavings lay on a portable tray at the north end of the porch. No knife lay by the carving. When asked the location of the knife, Crook decided he would say nothing.
Martin walked to that end of the porch and stood in front of the tray while Vilhallen directed his crew. Vilhallen pointed here and there like a maestro leading the band. Crook moved to stand by Martin, out of the way, not daring to move his hands. The other detective, White, watched him like a hawk. Still, when two officers came to search Martin and Crook from top to bottom the shavings had disappeared from the table.
While standing against the table Martin had rubbed the wood shavings with his hands onto the back of his jeans. Shavings stuck to the back of Martin, but the pieces of wood did not seem out of place on Martin, and the chess pieces appeared to be a neglected hobby. Admiration for Martin surged in Crook’s heart. Always the small detail was the big difference.
From Martin’s clothing they extracted his pad with his list, the square completely degenerated letter from Christie, twelve two-penny nails, a finger nail clipper and a yellow, cloth type tape measure. From Crook they extracted absolutely nothing.
Another loud knock on the door and both Martin and Crook hesitated, looking at John White. The detective opened the door and a bustling, upset Tillie stepped right past him and looked at Martin.
“I’ll take Kirby home with me,” she announced, turning to glare at White. The detective had nearly as good a game face as Crook, but Tillie did not wait for assent or decline. She took the baby in his Vikings blanket and purple stretch beanie. If she felt anything unusual in his diaper, she did not indicate it. “That is, unless you believe this baby rolled into town and stabbed Hauk.” Anger oozed from her. It was wonderful for Martin and Crook to see. She knew no fear.
However when she started toward the kitchen to fetch bottles and diapers, White blocked her way. He indicated with his head for a female officer to get the things, check them and bring them to Tillie. Crook noticed that Vilhallen studied everything about Kirby that he could without touching the baby.
Vilhallen said to White, “We should have included someone from Social Services. For now, it’s best to allow the neighbor lady to take the infant.” Crook smiled at this.
The female officer returned with the diaper bag, bottles and cereal and handed it to Tillie who disappeared as quick as she came, carrying Kirby, the diaper bag and Crook’s carving knife. No one on the porch said a word. The two male officers asked for Martin’s and Crook’s shoes and socks. The officers handed them to a lab technician who sprayed them with something. She shook her head in the negative to White who nodded. The lab technician handed the shoes and socks back to the Officers who then handed them to Martin and Crook.
Crook saw Martin fighting laughter. It was too deadly a game for laughter.
“These Officers will wait outside with you,” White told Martin and Crook.
“It’s cold out,” Martin said.
White had the lab tech fetch two jackets from the van. Within another minute, Martin and Crook sat on the front steps with two highly alert Officers of the Minnehaha County Sheriff’s Department leaning on the railing behind them. No one said a word as the afternoon wore on and the chill air picked up a breeze. Crook watched a few clouds gathering along the eastern horizon beyond the yellow and orange grove.
He thought, I’ve survived this long by adapting to change, but this is different. If there is a god, I ask him to reach through those clouds and save me. Don’t let them go to the barn and find that coat.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
At 3:10 pm, Bill stood in his farmyard, cap over gray hair, and watched the caravan go by. No sirens or lights were necessary to convey the power of the law. As he strode to the house, tasting the road dust in his teeth, his muscles were strangely stiff. He fought his way the ten yards from his work area to his kitchen door.
Inside, Maureen and Tillie sat at the kitchen table. Maureen had white soap on her face and Tillie painted Maureen’s nails. For the first second, they looked charming and sweet to Bill, but only for that second. He lumbered to the table and sat heavy in the kitchen chair. “Did you see?” he asked, a slight tremble in his fingers as they lay flat on the table.
“What?” Alarm sounded in Tillie’s voice.
He described the caravan of six vehicles headed down the hill to Martin’s. “Cop cars,” he said. “Coming for Martin and Crook.”
Maureen emitted a little scream and Tillie tightened the caps on the polish.
“Tell me everything, Maureen, everything that Crook told you. No secrets,” Bill said. And Maureen did. She knew the exact location of the coat that Crook could not burn and the location of the blood stains under the basketball hoop on the wide hay-mound boards.
“The cops will find it,” Bill said. “It doesn’t seem fa
ir. When the law goes bad, we have to do the same.” It was not easy for a man, sixty-five years old, who never broke the law in his life and never considered doing so, to contemplate a crime. Yes, he complained about taxes and he complained about conspiracies to keep farm prices down, but he never considered thievery of any kind or anything else for that matter.
“Okay,” he said to Tillie. “You take the Lincoln and go get Kirby out of there. I have a plan of my own regarding that damn coat.”
Bill went to his garage and plugged in his portable twenty volt heat lamp for the battery to charge. The gauge was right in the middle, a good battery, and would take a half hour, forty-five minutes to have a full charge. He returned to the house and found black clothes to wear. He knew black would hardly conceal him in the day, but it was his trip back in the night he was thinking about.
He watched Tillie put sandwiches, chips, an apple, and a coffee thermos in a knap sack. Then she sliced a wedge of pie and put it into a pie piece-shaped Tupperware and slid the container and a fork into the sack.
Maureen prepared to come with him, but he shook his head no and meant it.
“I can help you.”
“No, you can’t,” Bill said.
He slid on his black parka, and he left for the garage, his face pale and his shoulders bent. He mumbled, “How does a Korean Veteran of the U.S. Army Corp of Engineers reach this point of law breaking?”
He stood aside as Tillie backed the Lincoln out of the garage. She lifted dust as she turned in the driveway.
The portable heater looked like a desk lamp. The head was long and narrow inside a teepee-shaped core. The pole bent easily with a strong grip. The contraption was powered by the battery. Bill used the lamp for countless animals born too early or too late in the year, even a litter of farm kittens. Well, Tillie used it for the kittens.
Bill found that his perception was strangely magnified which again reminded him of his days in Korea. He did not have time to think about it. He had time only to move along, faster if possible.
Martin, Crook, & Bill Page 24
