“It wasn’t like that. I tried to talk to her about it once, but before I ever got to explain myself, she told me to leave her alone.”
He sighed.
“What happened with the baby?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Did she have an abortion? Or did she go full term?”
“I don’t know. Her curtains were always drawn in those last few months.”
I went through the timeline in my head, thinking that she would have started showing around six months; Thanksgiving to the end of February—the period when she had “mono”—would have been her third trimester. She almost certainly carried the baby to term. I wondered if a doctor was involved. Or a midwife. Or if Michelle gave birth to the baby by herself and left the child on someone’s doorstep. Or in a dumpster.
Then I realized the baby would be fourteen. Char’s age.
“And you think Michelle gave up all her dreams, wasted her talent, to keep an eye on Charlene because that’s her child, not her sister?”
He scowled. “Where the hell did you come up with that idea? Char’s her sister, not her child. I told you, I don’t know what happened to that baby.”
Could it be that Michelle’s mother was pregnant at the same time as Michelle? I wondered. Clearly if she wasn’t, wouldn’t someone close to Mrs. Freeburg question how she ended up with a baby if she had not appeared to be pregnant at the time? Could she have been so plump as to never appear to be pregnant?
Roy continued, “I assume Michelle had a late-term abortion, maybe even got an infection or something and lost it. Maybe she almost died herself. Or she put the thing up for adoption. Or it died at birth. Who knows? What I was saying is that Michelle could have been a doctor by now. But she decided to stick around here, take her time getting her undergraduate degree, put all her dreams on hold; she was wasting her talents just to make sure Char stayed safe. Kept watch over her like a pit bull on a pork chop.”
“Okay, then who else knew? Her parents must have known. Her brothers?”
He heaved his left shoulder toward his big left ear. “No one. I told you. She kept all that a secret. She was great at keeping secrets.”
“Roy, did you ever see her go to a doctor’s office?”
“I saw her go to the Black Hills Medical Clinic on Fifth Street a couple of times during that winter, and even afterwards that spring and summer, but I don’t know about any doctor.”
A doctor would have been involved in the mono cover-up, or, at the very least, her parents would have suspected something. Unless they truly were brain dead, as Jens suggested, but I found it hard to believe they would be so numb as not to notice a pregnant teen. But it happens.
Leaning toward him, putting on the best menacing expression I could affect, I asked, “And tell me again how you knew all this about Michelle, about her secret?”
“I … I followed her,” he admitted.
I pushed back in my chair and stomped to the door, leaving him with his mouth agape. Standing on the threshold, I turned and demanded, “Pick up that phone and give those agents a call. You still have their business cards, don’t you?” He nodded. “Tell them you forgot to share with them how you threatened Michelle, which is why Jens Bergen threatened you, and about the spying you did Sunday night at the Bergen house. Then tell them about the secret and her visits to the Black Hills Medical Clinic.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Do it, Roy. And if you do as I say, I won’t report this to headquarters and this visit never happened. No obstruction of justice charges filed against you.” Or me, I thought.
I waited by the door while he made the call. He was smart enough to preface all of this by saying he had been thinking about their visit with him and realized these memories might be useful to their investigation. I listened as Roy told Agent Blysdorf all about the threat to Michelle and why Jens returned the threat and about how Roy went to the Bergen house out of concern for Michelle. I heard him retell the story about Michelle’s secret and what he knew about the three missing months and her visits to the medical clinic.
I handed him back the list and mouthed, “Read this.” He did, adding the story about him waiting outside Jens’s house to talk with Michelle until ten forty-five, then returning home to play video games. He told them to call his Internet provider and listed all the live gamers he engaged to confirm his story.
To assure he never mentioned our visit and offered to the real federal agents to send the list of grocery items back with Agent Genevieve, I slipped out the door and down the stairs.
“WELL, THAT WAS WEIRD,” Bly said, closing his cell phone. He told Streeter about Roy Barker’s call, and just as they pulled to the curb outside the Freeburg house, his cell phone rang again. He answered, “Yo.”
Streeter could hear Shankley shouting through the phone, something about “disrespect” and “written warning.” Bly smiled and handed the phone to Streeter without saying another word.
“Yes?”
“Pierce, why don’t you join the rest of us in the twenty-first century and invest in a cell phone that works,” Shank snarled.
“My phone works. I just keep it turned off.”
Streeter tilted Bly’s phone toward him so he could share in the experience of choice words and expletives. Bly turned to him and grinned, adjusting his fedora in the rearview mirror as he waited for Shank to report his hourly update to Streeter.
“What do you have for me, Shankley? We’re kind of busy here.”
“The crime scene technicians have finished and pulled out of there already. Nothing from Sturgis PD on Jane Doe. Nothing from RCPD on Charlene Freeburg. And nothing on either autopsy yet.”
“Then we’ll talk in an hour,” Streeter said, ending the call abruptly, unable to shake the disturbing idea that a young Michelle had been raped and impregnated and had kept it a secret all these years. The suspect list grew longer.
As they walked up the narrow sidewalk to the front door, Bly chided Streeter, “Don’t know why you’re wasting so much time interviewing all these people when you know the killer is Mully. Seems like such a waste.”
Streeter grinned, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Your boss’s goal is to get me out of here as fast as humanly possible, back to Denver where I belong.”
“Far, far away,” Bly added. “But only after you take care of his Carl Muldando problem, which is why he asked you to come up here.”
The door opened. The woman who peered anxiously through the screen was short and pudgy, wearing high, perfectly coiffed, and unnaturally yellow hair. Her fleshy smile was tentative as she suggested they come in.
When she pushed the screen door open, Streeter entered first, introducing the two of them. “I’m Special Agent Streeter Pierce.”
“Yes.”
“This is Special Agent Stewart Blysdorf. Please, allow us to offer our condolences about your daughter, Michelle.”
“Sure,” she said, dismissing the gesture, and instead regarded Blysdorf cautiously at first, then her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh, I’ve seen you before at Ken Vincent’s mayoral inauguration party when you first arrived to Rapid City. It was quite an event.”
Streeter was amazed at how emotionless she seemed to be about her daughter being murdered. Upon his mention of Michelle’s death, she seemed to be too easily distracted in connecting dots from Bly to all the names she could drop.
“Nice to meet you,” Bly said, frowning and extending his hand to her.
She shook it and folded her hands across her wide belly. “Pleased to meet you. You know I already talked with Bob Shankley. Did he send you over here?”
“Not exactly,” Streeter said.
“Well, any friend of Bob’s is a friend of mine. You see, we’re all great friends with Ken.”
Streeter wasn’t making the connection.
“Ken and Bob play poker together. We see them up at Deadwood in the casinos from time to time.” She motioned them toward the floral patterned c
ouch. Streeter and Bly exchanged glances.
“Poker buddies, huh?” Bly asked. He leaned into Streeter and whispered, “The mayor, the coach, the sheriff, and the SAC. All they need to round out the party is a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker.”
“Why, yes. I understand from Ken they’re very good friends.”
Streeter was annoyed to learn Shank was friendly with the mayor, but he wasn’t sure how or even if the information was pertinent to the case. But he was sure that Shank intentionally forgot to mention being friends with Eddie Schilling, and this made Streeter even more aware that every unknown tidbit he learned might come in useful.
Before easing herself into the worn recliner, once a match for some of the roses all over the couch, she asked, “Would either of you gentlemen like some iced tea or water? Frank isn’t home yet. I expected him ten minutes ago, but he must be running late. You see, his boss at the post office is somewhat of a tyrant, and Frank really doesn’t get along well with him. It could be that—”
Her unwarranted explanation was interrupted by the sound of the garage door opening.
“There he is now.” She sat back, more at ease in her chair, knowing he would soon join them.
“Tea would be great,” Bly told Arlene Freeburg.
She pushed herself from the recliner, attempting to hide her embarrassment that she had made the offer only to forget it seconds later. “And for you, Agent … uh, what was it again?”
“Pierce,” Streeter said with a tender smile. “Water, please.”
The door from the garage to the kitchen closed with a creak and heavy footsteps pounded across the linoleum. The house was small, and Streeter imagined that every sound could be heard from anywhere in the house, even with the thin doors shut.
Arlene didn’t seem to remember this as she whispered, “We have company, Frank. In the living room.”
Frank did not respond, choosing instead to pad his way directly toward the room. Both men rose from the couch and extended their hands.
“Agent Pierce. And this is Agent Blysdorf,” Streeter said, gripping hands with the spectacled man.
“Frank Freeburg. Arlene, bring me tea.” To Bly, he added, “I think I saw you earlier this morning at the morgue, didn’t I? With Shank?”
Bly nodded.
She handed the tea intended for Bly to Frank and the water to Streeter. Retreating to the kitchen, she returned with two more teas and handed one to Bly.
Settling into their recliners, the Freeburgs regarded the agents cautiously. Streeter sensed their reluctance and decided to play off of it from the beginning.
“Look, I’m sure you have just about had it with all the questions, the probing, the insensitive nature of investigations. I’m sure you would both like to get on with your lives and grieve in peace for your daughter’s tragic death. I’m sure there is nothing positive you can see coming from another round of questions posed by us.” Streeter leaned forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and twirling the glass of water between his hands. Looking directly at Michelle’s father, who sat rigidly in the recliner, he added, “We appreciate your being willing to take the time.”
“Agent Blysdorf and I are the primary investigators assigned to this case.”
“Bob told us he was the primary investigator,” Arlene said.
Streeter looked at Bly.
Bly offered, “He was. But he made Agent Pierce the agent in charge today and turned over the field investigation to us. We are responsible for finding Michelle’s killer and bringing him or her to justice. We will do absolutely everything we can to do that, but we’ll need your help.”
Streeter stared earnestly from Arlene to Frank, making sure he had their attention. “We have read everything in the files about conversations you had with Bob Shankley earlier, and we thank you for being so helpful up to this point. Agent Blysdorf and I want to make sure we aren’t missing anything. No stone unturned.”
He let his words sink in as they sat silently, the only sound the overhead fan beating its unbalanced rhythmic hum above them.
“Will you help us?”
Arlene glanced over at Frank. She said, “I will.”
Frank nodded once, his eyes appearing sad and tired, his mouth relaxing as he lifted the glass to his lips.
“Thank you. We’ll make this as quick and painless as possible and try hard not to make you repeat yourself.”
Without taking his eyes from theirs, Streeter could see peripherally the picture of the Freeburg family hanging on one wall, a crucifix on another.
“Did Michelle live here with you?”
The mother was the first to answer. “In the basement.”
“Mind if we take a look?”
Without another word, she led them downstairs. The contents of the room could only be described as scant: A twin bed. No pictures on the walls. One tiny window. One small dresser with four drawers, only two of which held items of clothing. A small closet with less than a dozen items hanging on neatly spaced hangers—two skirts, four blouses, three pairs of jeans, one pair of slacks, and a coat. Nothing in the pockets. Nothing under the bed, pillow, or mattress. Few toiletries in the tiny half bath. Absolutely nothing that would suggest Michelle lived any other life than the one everyone had observed.
When they returned to the living room, Streeter nodded at Frank and took a seat on the couch.
As if by way of explanation, Arlene said, “She didn’t spend much on clothes. She was trying to save her money for school.”
“What was she going to go to school for?”
“Nursing,” Arlene beamed proudly, settling back in her recliner and drinking her tea. “She wanted to help others. She was a good girl that way.”
Streeter was glad he had managed to loosen her up a bit so quickly. He sipped his water.
“Nursing is a great profession,” he added casually.
“And Michelle would have been good at it. She was a quiet girl, a worrier, always caring about everyone else.” Arlene’s mouth turned down a bit at this thought.
“To the point of self-neglect?” Streeter asked.
Arlene regarded him curiously as if it had never occurred to her until now. “Yes, I suppose. I guess I never really thought of it that way, though.”
“She was a lovely girl, but from the photos, she seemed to put little effort into her appearance.”
Arlene primped her hairdo with brightly colored fingernails. “I never understood that girl. She could have been so lovely if she just tried even the slightest. It was as if she was embarrassed by her looks. She was always the most delightful, spirited child, popular with everyone. A bit of a tomboy, but not to the point of concern.”
The mother settled her weight deeper into the recliner as her thoughts drifted to earlier times. “She would try so hard to keep up with her older brothers, playing football with them, basketball, even wrestled with them. She liked to win.”
With a heavy sigh, she added, “We both so hoped she would grow out of all that.”
Frank nodded in agreement when she looked over at him. He lifted the glass of tea to his lips and drank, swallowing hard.
Streeter had observed a wide variety of grieving loved ones. Grief had not yet settled in with these two yet, but it would. And when it did, the devastation would be profound. He sensed they were uncomfortable about something, choosing their words a bit too carefully, but he wanted to be gentle with them, considering their fragile emotional state.
“Did she? Grow out of it?” Streeter continued.
“Very suddenly,” she said, looking again at Frank for confirmation. “I don’t recall exactly when, but it was sometime around eighth, maybe ninth grade. She was in all the sports she could be in and did quite well. Then, she dropped out of basketball, volleyball, and track. She continued with softball, but only because it had nothing to do with the school. It was a city league. She refused to participate in any extracurricular activities at school after that year.”
Frank n
odded in agreement again and looked at Streeter with confidence. He was beginning to get more comfortable, too, although content to let Arlene do all the talking.
“She had been involved in so many different things. Could have earned a scholarship if she’d continued with track. But she dropped out.”
“Did you ever ask her why?”
“Countless times,” Arlene said defensively. “Of course we asked her. But she just clammed up, saying she was simply no longer interested. Frank and I speculated that maybe someone at school had teased her about being a tomboy or made fun of her somehow. Who knows why teenagers do the things they do?”
Frank finally contributed his first word to the conversation. “Puberty.”
Streeter nodded in understanding. “Was it then that she started to … work hard at looking plain?”
“That’s a very kind way of putting it, Agent Pierce,” Arlene said, offering a grateful smile. “I tried everything to get her interested in makeup, curlers, dresses, but the more I tried, the worse she got. Baggy clothes, bad haircuts, aversion to makeup. For some time, we were concerned she might be … well, a lesbian.” She quickly covered her lips as if she had never spoken the word aloud. Then she just as quickly discounted the thought by adding, “Until she … well, we knew she wasn’t gay. She couldn’t be.”
“Until she what?” Streeter asked.
Arlene looked at Frank, whose lips were unmistakably drawn into a warning. She answered, “Until she started dating and such. You know how teenage girls are.”
Frank seemed pleased with her answer. He sipped his tea.
“Did she ever have any serious boyfriends?” Streeter asked, drinking from his water.
“Not really,” Arlene said, looking at Frank. “Maybe her latest one was the closest thing to being serious, but she was never really serious about anybody. She was pretty independent.”
“The latest one being Jens Bergen?”
“Yes.”
“Hadn’t they dated for a year or so?”
Arlene hiked her shoulders and looked at Frank, who also shrugged. “I don’t think so, but maybe. We didn’t know much about the Bergen boy until this spring. We only called him this morning because we thought he might want to know.”
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 16
