Lot’s return to Sodom

by Sandra Brannan

  The sheriff shrugged, looked cautiously around as if to make sure no one was listening, then nodded slowly. “I’m not convinced of anything, if you’re asking for the record. Off the record, you bet your sweet ass I’m convinced. I sent a guy over to the Lazy S yesterday right after we found the girl and had him shoot the shit with Eddie, the owner. I told him to pretend to be a buddy, look around, keep his eyes open. He saw three of the guys crawl out of their tents and head for the shower. One of them was Mully, who was wearing his colors. But Mully wasn’t wearing an FTW pin. I asked my deputy to check all of them and report on who was not wearing a pin. Mully was the only one not wearing the pin, as far as he could see. And we’ve never seen him without that pin. Ever. Got dozens of surveillance photos over the years to prove it too.”

  He slid a stack of photos toward Streeter. Bly peering over his shoulder, Streeter flipped through the stack and noticed the date and time stamp on every photo, spanning the last five years. He also clearly saw the FTW pin on each of Mully’s photos where the angle was right. He wished Shank’s files on the Crooked Man were as complete and as thorough as Sheriff Leonard’s on the Lucifer’s Lot.

  “When was this? When your informant noticed that Mully wasn’t wearing his pin?” Streeter asked.

  “Oh, I’d say between noon, one o’clock. Yesterday.”

  Bly asked, “Any of them with new wings, particularly purple?”

  Sheriff Leonard buckled his brow and shook his head slowly. “Don’t know. Never asked. Why?”

  “No reason, just wondering,” Bly said, cleaning his fingernails with an eight-inch buck knife.

  Shank asked, “Anything else you want to share with us?”

  Leonard leaned forward and whispered, “Just one more thing. Rumor around here is that one of the old ladies works for Pennington County in the licensing department.”

  “Old lady, you mean the equivalent of a biker’s wife? For a local Lucifer’s Lot biker?” Streeter asked.

  Leonard and Bly both nodded.

  Rubbing his sagging chin, Shank speculated, “Probably how they’re getting their stolen bikes and cars registered. Using falsified titles.”

  “That’s the story,” confirmed the Lawrence County Sheriff.

  “Anything else?”

  Sheriff Leonard leaned back, glanced over at Streeter and Bly, and squinted skeptically at them. “I don’t know who your friends are, Shank, but I don’t want any trouble. Like I told you yesterday morning, my department found nothing except for the body along Boxelder Creek. You understand me? I’ll be the first to deny anything else you say about me or about anyone from my department. Do I make myself clear?”

  He glared at all three men, pointing a warning finger at Shank. “I’m serious, now. Our investigation wasn’t even an investigation. It was your investigation. Right from the very beginning. We were just assisting, containing the crime scene until you boys got there. Who you investigate is your business, but we did not in any way suggest that Mully or anyone from the Lucifer’s Lot had anything to do with this. That’s our story.”

  Streeter met his distrustful glance and leveled his own unsettling stare at Leonard. “What about this Mully character scares you so badly?”

  Sheriff Leonard folded his arms tightly across his scrawny chest and looked down his narrow nose at Streeter. “You have any kids?”

  Streeter shook his head.

  “You?” he asked Bly, who also shook his head.

  “I do. My oldest daughter is seventeen, works as a clerk in the grocery store in Deadwood. A family-owned grocery store, just like the one where Michelle Freeburg worked. My youngest is sixteen. Works with her sister bagging groceries sometimes.” Leonard sat forward in his chair and crossed his arms on the corner of Shank’s desk. “These men are nasty. They find their sheep, their mammas, at places like the Deadwood grocery store. You know what sheep are, Agent Pierce?”

  Streeter nodded, but the sheriff explained anyway.

  “They’re the young girls the gangs pass around among each other. They’re the playthings. The old ladies are not to be passed around; they’re dedicated to one biker, like a wife, but the old ladies turn a blind eye to the sheep. These young women are eager to please these scumbags and even more eager to anger their parents with a little rebellion, turned on by the macho image of the bad boy bikers. Only problem is, once they start, they can’t get out.”

  Bly nodded in agreement.

  Streeter watched the hard, angry lines around Leonard’s eyes and mouth dissolve into the softness of fatherly concern.

  “Oddly, despite the abuse these women receive, there’s never a shortage of volunteers ready to jump on the next bike that comes their way. Pretty women. Young women. Vulnerable women.”

  Sheriff Leonard lowered his head.

  Bly completed painting Leonard’s picture for Streeter. “Usually these women are victimized, abused, passed around in the gang, performing sexual acts for them in which anything goes. They often become their prostitutes or drug peddlers on the streets, bringing in extra income for the gang. These women mean nothing to the bikers. They are bought, sold, traded, and even given away like unwanted trash, becoming another biker’s treasure, at least for the moment. In a word, they’re expendable.”

  Shank sighed heavily. “Michelle Freeburg was expendable. Probably passed around the gang, doped up on drugs, used and abused, and eventually became worthless to them.”

  “Did the autopsy show up yet?”

  Shank plucked a file from the top of his pile and slid it across the desk to Streeter. He read it quickly as the other men sat quietly.

  Bly asked, “Any signs of drugs? Penetration? Sexual abuse? Multiple partners?”

  Sheriff Leonard tilted his head thoughtfully toward Streeter. Shank scowled.

  “Actually, no. These are just preliminary results. More to follow.” Streeter was scanning and finding the pertinent facts to read. “No detectable level of drugs or alcohol was in Miss Freeburg’s blood. She died from a blow to the back of her head. Body temp indicated she died about the time she was found.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Sheriff Leonard said, his face puckering with disgust. “She was alive when Tommy Jasper found her?”

  Shank grimaced.

  Knowing that someone had delivered a brutal blow to the back of Michelle Freeburg’s head and left her for dead, yet she had survived overnight in what were likely chilly temperatures, Streeter could only hope she hadn’t suffered too much. He said, “Not for long.”

  “And they are sure about this?” Bly asked.

  “As I said, these are just preliminary findings. Official autopsy to follow soon,” Streeter read, still scanning. “Dried blood was found along her neck, but mostly across her skull into and around her left ear and under her head, which meant she likely bled through the night. Hard to tell how much blood she had lost, since only a small amount pooled around her on the ground and some washed away into the creek. Early results indicate she’d been there eleven, twelve hours.”

  “All night,” Bly said.

  A long silence passed.

  Streeter didn’t want to imagine how that must have been for Michelle and hoped she was unconscious the entire time.

  Abruptly he asked, “And how does Ernif Hanson fit into all this?”

  Shank shrugged. “He may not, but what kind of a person would club an old man like that and leave him for dead in his own field?”

  Bly answered, “Probably someone who got caught with a meth lab in the woods or something.”

  Shank added, “Or someone who was as mean as a snake and killed him for no reason. As an initiation. Someone like Mully or one of the Lucifer’s Lot.”

  Sheriff Leonard rubbed his tired, saggy eyes with his spindly fingers and pushed his wavy brown hair away from his face. Streeter sensed he was sincere about his concern for his daughters, not easily intimidated by motorcyclists.

  “I’m just tired of dealing with these outlaws,” Leonard admitted. �
��Tired of dealing with all the riffraff that the gambling has brought to our sleepy little town. I preferred the gold miners.”

  “The mines have been slowing to a trickle for almost two decades,” Shank said.

  “I know. I just wish the hands of time would rewind to when we had nothing but gold miners to deal with. Those were happier times.”

  “Maybe it’s time to retire,” Streeter offered, recognizing the signs of when a man’s usefulness is spent.

  With heaviness and sincerity the sheriff replied, “Maybe so. That’s why I don’t want to have anything to do with this case. Too much at stake here. I know it doesn’t sound rational, but it just hits too close to home. I won’t take a chance with my girls. Not with someone as vile as Mully. Those people are bad to the bone and proud of it.”

  After Sheriff Leonard left, the mood remained somber.

  Bly asked, “So you still think Mully killed Michelle to earn his purple wings?”

  Bly shot Streeter a sideways glance that Shank didn’t catch. Streeter assumed that meant Bly didn’t think so.

  “It’s all theory,” Shank said waving his hands dismissively. “But, yes, I’m sure of it. Only way to confirm the theory is for you to check him out when he makes himself at home at the Lazy S Campground tonight or sometime over the next few days. He’s never had purple wings before, so if he has them now, it’s probably a pretty good indication he had something to do with this.”

  “We can’t just arrest him because he’s wearing purple wings. That’s not exactly evidence of a murder. We have no proof he killed anyone,” Streeter argued.

  “That’s right,” Shank said. “You’ll need proof.”

  “Wearing a badge of honor for performing cunnilingus on a dead woman doesn’t mean he killed the woman. It doesn’t even mean the woman was murdered at all, Shank. It just means the woman was dead and that he did the vile act in front of witnesses. Unfortunately, there’s no law against that.”

  “Defiling a corpse,” Shank argued.

  “Even if there was a law, with their code of silence, we couldn’t get any witnesses to testify,” Bly said.

  Shank said, “You saw how Sheriff Leonard reacted. That’s why you’ll need indisputable evidence. You’ll figure out how to nail the guy. You’re clever enough.”

  The pause that followed allowed Streeter to organize his thoughts. He hated to admit it, but Shank was right about following up with the strongest lead suspect, Carl Muldando. Not because Mully was likely the Crooked Man, but because regarding Michelle’s death he appeared to have had opportunity on Sunday night and possibly motive, rejection, which was left to be determined. No, the reason Streeter had to chase this lead, even if it was a dead end, was that the Lucifer’s Lot were accessible for a short time and would be leaving as soon as the rally was over. And if he didn’t pursue Mully, the handwriting was on the wall that Shank would ride his ass every inch along the way of investigating the Crooked Man cold cases until he did.

  “After your meeting, I asked your aide to ship the pin on the next flight down to Denver. I’m asking Jack Linwood from the Bureau’s Investigative Control Operations down there to work on identifying striations in the pin found in Michelle Freeburg’s palm and comparing them with those on the pin from Mully’s lapel in early photos,” Streeter said.

  Shank looked truly shocked by this news. Streeter wasn’t sure if it was because he was happy that Streeter was finally following the thread that might lead back to Mully or if it was because he was angry that the visiting legend, without telling Shank, had directed his own staff to do Streeter’s bidding for him.

  Streeter didn’t wait to find out.

  He turned to Bly. “So, what you and I are going to do is find out what this Carl Muldando is all about and chase this lead aggressively as it relates to Michelle Freeburg and possibly the unidentified female victim in Sturgis, although we’ll need the autopsy first. I don’t want us to get bogged down in the connection between the cold cases and the Freeburg murder. It will only cost us time. Time we don’t have. And the Crooked Man cases have remained cold for over a decade. We’ll let the team work the scene up there. We can get back to that case in a few days once the rally is over.”

  Although his eyes remained focused on Bly, from his peripheral vision, Streeter could see Shank’s wide grin and the obvious satisfaction with the plan.

  “Tell me,” Streeter continued, “I’ve heard that the Lucifer’s Lot believe that you can share a secret with another person only as long as that person is dead. Is that an outdated concept or a widely embraced ideology with these guys?”

  “Still true. A philosophy held by most biker clubs. Their loyalty is one of the reasons they remain untouchable by the law,” Bly answered.

  “Then dividing to conquer the Lucifer’s Lot from within is not an option.”

  “So what’s your plan of attack? With Mully?” Shank asked with excitement.

  “Bly will help me prepare for our undercover work tonight in Sturgis. I want to talk with the people at Broken Peaks and at the Lazy S today, assuming the motorcycle gang is nowhere to be seen. Once we get back into Rapid, we interview those on the short list, those who were closest to Michelle and saw her last. The grocer, the parents, the sister, and the boyfriend.”

  “The sister’s still missing,” Shank answered flatly. “And we already met with the people at Broken Peaks and at the Lazy S, so that won’t be necessary.”

  Bly cocked his head. “We never went to the Lazy S today.”

  “Oh, that’s right, we didn’t. Sheriff Leonard and I went over there yesterday. You’d just be wasting time. You should focus on finding Mully and on proof to nail him with these two murders. Besides, you might blow your covers if you go to the Lazy S where the Lucifer’s Lot are camping. Right?”

  Streeter could see this was going nowhere fast. He had a method of investigating crimes and Shank had another. Shank would greatly impede progress unless he could get out from under his watchful eye. And the only way to do that was to agree with him.

  “You’re right. Time is wasting. Bly and I should be focused on preparing to go undercover and on finding the Lucifer’s Lot bikers.”

  Bly cut his eyes at Streeter, not understanding that Streeter was merely trying to get Shank redirected and out of their way. “I’m going to need your help, Shank. It’s imperative that we have a source here in the office working the phones, coordinating the information that comes in from all the departments and especially our people. I need you to get hourly updates on findings from the crime scene technicians out at Broken Peaks. Call us with those reports. Keep us abreast of what’s happening out there and keep good records on the Crooked Man case from the murder on the property near Rochford, too, only don’t call us about that. Just keep really good notes on everything about Ernif Hanson. I don’t want to be distracted,” Streeter lied, happy to earn a wider smile on Shank’s contented face.

  The truth was Streeter wanted to turn this case over to Bly while he focused on the Crooked Man. “Check occasionally with the Sturgis PD at least a few times a day on the unidentified young lady and see if there is anyone reported missing. Call me immediately if you get the official autopsy report on either Michelle Freeburg or the Sturgis vic. Get updates on the missing sister from whichever department is following up on this. The Rapid City Police Department, Pennington County Sheriff’s Department, Highway Patrol, whoever is responsible for looking for her. Stay by this phone and coordinate everything that’s coming in, including our reports from the field.”

  Shank nodded, jotting down the last of Streeter’s instructions. “Got it.”

  “If we need to later, we can always talk to all those other guys, like the grocer, the parents, the boyfriend … what’re their names again?”

  “Roy Barker is the grocery store manager who filed the missing persons report on Michelle Freeburg. Frank and Arlene Freeburg are the parents. Charlene, Char, is the missing sister. Jens Bergen is the boyfriend,” Shank enumerated
.

  “Who? Bergen, did you say?” Streeter asked, barely able to form the words. His throat was suddenly dry, probably from being overcrowded by his heart, which had just leapt into it.

  “The boyfriend. Jens Bergen,” Shank repeated.

  Streeter couldn’t believe his ears. He had heard Shank correctly. What were the chances this would be the same family as Liv Bergen from Fort Collins? He cleared his throat and asked, “Bergen? As in the mining family Bergen?”

  I DON’T THINK I’VE ever driven so fast in all my life. And considering my impressive string of speeding tickets earned from here to southern Colorado, that’s saying a lot. I kept checking my rearview mirrors and sure as hell, Mully and his buddies were still following me. With this highway so curvy and narrow, I was convinced either one of them or I would end up in a ditch soon enough. And I was bound and determined not to let it be me. On the other hand, if one of them took a spill, I was convinced Mully would show no mercy.

  Why hadn’t I told someone about what I had seen yesterday? I would have to find my jeans and root through the pockets to find my notes.

  If I had told someone, at least they’d know to look for Mully and the Lucifer’s Lot if I ended up dead somewhere. If I flip this truck, I thought, they’ll write my death off to speeding or a deer in the road or just a string of bad luck for me. Worse, at this rate and with my luck, they’d somehow blame this all on Jens, making his life doubly troubled. Damn if I didn’t think about how this might affect him. And Mom and Dad. The whole Bergen family. I’d never be able to nuzzle my nephew Noah’s cheek again, a horrible thought.

  I had to do something.

  I was coming up fast on a lumbering camper. Like most highways that meandered through the National Forest known as the Black Hills, most of this highway was striped with solid double yellow lines. Summers in this area meant tourists taking in the spectacular sights, driving significantly under the speed limit to soak in the breathtaking views, the wildlife that dotted the rocky hillsides and green meadows. I had been lucky so far not to get behind one of these tourists and my luck had just run out.