Eleven Days

by Donald Harstad

  The unidentified male was in what I’ll call the master bedroom, as this house was considerably bigger than the McGuire home. He was on his back, legs secured to the bed with black cord. He had been castrated, and what appeared to be black wax had been poured into his eyes. His tongue was missing, and this time there was blood all over hell. There were also fresh lacerations on his chest and abdomen, one of them being “666” and another being what appeared to be three characters of unknown origin. There was a substance around his mouth which looked like dried superglue.

  When we were photographing that, Ms. Gorse said, “You don’t suppose they tried to glue his tongue back on, do you?”

  It was then that I knew that I was going to like this woman.

  The body of Phyllis Herkaman was in the basement, in what appeared to be the laundry area. She was curled in the southwest corner, with her head pointed, as it turned out, north. She was lying in an enormous pool of blood, which was beginning to clot. There was sort of a skin on top of the pool, which was beginning to wrinkle as it clotted. Serum had separated at the edges of the pool, so what it looked like was a very large lump of pudding surrounded by a yellowish fluid. She was nude, supine, the curl being from left to right. Her right breast had been removed, and the cause of death appeared to be centered around the vaginal area, from which protruded a long, wooden shaft. She had been handcuffed behind her back, and a long red nylon cord was strung between her arms and her back, in a loop, which was secured to a two-inch drainpipe. There was what appeared to be a hatpin thrust through her left nipple. Again, there was a considerable amount of blood around and on the victim. There were no unusual markings on the body. There was, however, a circumscribed star, the circumscription being in the form of a snake eating its own tail, dangling from an overhead pipe directly over the body.

  We also discovered a small silver jewelry box in the basement, in a wooden cabinet. It contained several silver-like items, including a small crucifix. The link for attaching the crucifix to a chain appeared to be on the wrong end.

  “I’m going to go out for a smoke, Hester. Feel the need.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “I would, too, if I still did. Quit four years ago.”

  She went up in my estimation again—at least, she had been a smoker. A redeeming trait if there ever was one.

  When we got outside, she endeared herself to me again. Reached into her purse and pulled out two Snickers bars.

  I remembered not to hurt her as I snatched one and tried not to injure myself as I unwrapped it. Very, very hungry.

  We stayed just outside the back basement door, and could see the body inside as we ate and I smoked. Had sort of a picnic with Phyllis. I was too tired and too hungry to be grossed out. And very pleased that Hester had turned out to be an eater, after all.

  I turned the film over to her and went outside to go home. Mistake. The media were finally there. They had gotten excited about the McGuire homicide, of course, but the news from the Herkaman house had them in a frenzy. Network newspeople were there. Des Moines Register reporters, two of them, and a photographer. TV teams from Waterloo and Dubuque. Some of them had traveled two hundred miles for this. They wanted a story.

  There were also about thirty civilians, mostly neighbors, parked in a harvested cornfield across the highway from the Herkaman place. They stayed well back, except for two or three neighbor ladies who were talking to Norris.

  Lamar, by the way, hates the media. Understandable, as we have had several stories screwed up by them over the years, and they have on at least two occasions failed to respect off-the-record remarks. Doesn’t sound like much, but in a small, rural Iowa county, you only have a media event about once every three years. Zapped on the last two, Lamar was understandably leery of them.

  By this time, the Herkaman house being located on the main highway, it being daylight, and a total of three bodies being found inside the house, we had also attracted a lot of other attention. There were six state troopers keeping the media back, three troopers securing the house, and a sergeant and a lieutenant in attendance. I was impressed. I walked over to Lamar and a Lieutenant Kainz.

  “Howdy … seem to be getting a lot of attention, don’t we?”

  Lamar said something about “those sons of bitches,” and Lieutenant Kainz began to laugh. Lamar is sort of cuddly when he’s pissed off. Wouldn’t think of shooting them, or anything effective like that. But he fumes in the background while he tries to think up a news release that will tell them absolutely nothing about what is going on. He’s gotten really good at that over the years.

  “Lamar, you talk to the press yet?”

  “Yep.”

  “What you tell ’em?”

  He handed me a sheet torn from a legal tablet. It said, “More than one body was discovered at the Herkaman residence this morning. Identities withheld pending notifying next of kin. Cause of death unknown. Incident under investigation.”

  “God, Lamar, that’s a lot for you. Ever think about a journalism career?”

  “Fuck ’em!”

  I went home and sat at the dining room table, eating about two dozen Oreo cookies and drinking milk. And thinking about the day so far. I am the department intelligence officer and for that reason had a file on Satanism. Not that we’d had a case before, but I was just curious about it, and I knew some officers in the metro areas who had dealt with it before.

  There was no doubt that the Satanic overtones were there. Overtones, hell. It was like somebody had used a how-to book for Satanic ritual killings. But this just didn’t make sense, as far as I could tell. Satanists were into ritual sacrifice, on rare occasions, but this was a massacre. Not a ceremony, at least not one that I could match with anything I’d ever heard about. We had everything except a flashing neon sign saying “Satanic Cult Homicide.”

  I knew that Satanism attracted psychopaths, but so did many things mystical or unsocial. Satanism was both, of course. It attracted its share of sociopathic personalities, as well, for that very reason. But not like this. It didn’t fit the pattern at all.

  I went to bed, slept about four hours, and managed to hit my patrol car at 22:56. I was sent directly to a car wreck, with an unruly drunk driver. I was done with him by 01:10. I was then dispatched to a domestic dispute, arriving at 01:22. That took almost three hours to sort out, and by that time I was too tired to think.

  I got home at 06:00 and prepared to enjoy my day off. I went to bed and slept till 17:00.

  My wife, Sue, was home, and was going through her usual response in these instances: concern, frustration, concern, anger, concern, anger, anger, anger. By the time we got to the fourth anger, supper was long done, my digestion had gone to hell, the office had called twice, and she had gone to bed to be by herself.

  As a result, I had plenty of time to think. Not exactly what I wanted, but better than being too tired. When you do a homicide case, it tends to bother you a lot until you figure it out. In this particular instance, we didn’t even have a suspect.

  One of the calls from the office was Art, telling me that the telephone at the McGuire residence had been out of order for three days prior to the murder and that there was no way the unknown female could have called from there. Oh, swell. He was pissed off at Sally, assuming that she had screwed up somehow. Not logical, as it was at the McGuire farm that we found the body. I told Art I wanted to talk about a possible dope connection, and he said to come up to the office in a couple of hours.

  It was a little after midnight, Monday, April 22, and as our office is in Maitland, and I live in Maitland, I wandered up to see Sally and listen to the tape of the phone conversation.

  She had already transferred the tape to a cassette, because she was outraged at the unfair suggestion that she had made a mistake. I listened to the tape. McGuire was the name, all right. I didn’t recognize the voice.

  “Okay, kiddo, what did you think about her?”

  Sally thought for a second or two. “She was telling the truth, I t
hink. She was really scared.”

  Sally is one of those rare dispatchers who have a natural way with people on the telephone. And who have an instinct for judging what they say. It would be a mistake not to use her in the investigation.

  “So where is she?”

  “If I was her, you’d never find me again … if I was alive.”

  Another problem. So far, the second female at the Herkaman residence hadn’t been identified. There was a chance that she could have been the caller. Mike’s wife also knew, or had known, Phyllis Herkaman, and had listened to the tape along with several hospital employees. The voice didn’t belong to Phyllis.

  But if the unidentified female was the caller, how did she get from McGuire’s to Herkaman’s, and why? The way she was dressed indicated that she might have been unclothed prior to her murder and had possibly dressed in anticipation of flight. Or, of course, that she was undressing and got surprised. Time of death would tell. Maybe.

  “When you undress, what order do you take your clothes off in?”

  “You’ll never know.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Oh, top, then bottom. Then underwear. Why?”

  I told her. She considered things for a second, then said, “I think she was undressing and got caught. If it had been the other way, she wouldn’t have put her bra on.”

  “But could she have slept with it on?”

  “Like a support bra, you mean?” She grinned. “Big boobs?”

  I thought for a second. “I don’t think so … no, I suppose average or smaller, I guess. It’s hard to tell, like that, but no …”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not necessary. Too uncomfortable, if you don’t really need to do it. Was it a regular bra?”

  “Well, it was lacy, and pink.”

  “Then she was undressing.”

  No hesitation. Mild, friendly contempt, for having to state the obvious to someone of lesser wit.

  “Thanks. Don’t tell Art I asked.”

  “Of course not.”

  Art hated Sally, ever since she had refused to inform on one of her friends. He had been trying to get rid of her ever since, without success. He didn’t trust her, and would have had a fit if he knew I discussed any part of the case with her. She was also the best-looking dispatcher we had, by far. He hated that, too, as he always thought that she would tempt us or something. Not that she couldn’t. Just that she wouldn’t. Our loss.

  Art came back into the office, and we went into the back room.

  “Do you think there’s dope involved here?”

  He looked at me for a long moment. He absolutely hates discussing anything to do with his dope cases unless he is forced to do it.

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s got to be something other than what it looks like.”

  “Why don’t you let DCI get on with it? They’ll handle the case. Just don’t let it bother you. It’s been turned over to State. Let them handle it.”

  Art is like that. Any opportunity to get out from under responsibility for something difficult or complex, and he will jump at the chance. Even if it means that the case is screwed up as a result. After all, it won’t be his fault. He has turned it over to proper authorities.

  “Look, Art, there’s a lot that DCI doesn’t know, and never will. They don’t live here. And if there’s not a break in the case in a week or two, they move on to something else. Besides, they don’t ‘take over’ a case. They assist us. You know that. This is going to be our baby.”

  “What makes you think there’s not going to be a break?”

  “Just the way it’s shaping up.”

  “Well, don’t be too sure.”

  Art gets cryptic like that for two reasons: either he has some information that he won’t give me, or he doesn’t know at all.

  I went home, couldn’t sleep, of course, and ended up riding around Maitland with Dan. We talked about the homicides. He wanted details, as he had not seen any of the bodies. I told him a little, not much. Dan was a good guy, friendly, personable. A little too personable, in fact. Maitland was a small town. Dan was well liked, and loved to sip free coffee. Buy him a cup, he would entertain you for it. Like a medieval minstrel. Buy him a sandwich, he would outdo himself. And if you were curious about a homicide scene, you would begin to get details that shouldn’t be public knowledge. If you bought him dessert, it was a case of “film at eleven.” Get him really relaxed and happy, and if he didn’t know the answer, you could get him to speculate. Unfortunately he wasn’t always too specific about when the speculation line was crossed.

  “Got any suspects, Carl?”

  “No.”

  “God, who could do something like that? You know, guy? Really, who could do that?”

  “Beats me, I just know somebody did.”

  I was forty then, and Dan was twenty-eight. I felt that I had to play the role of the cool, older cop with him. Wasn’t always hard, but it had left Dan with the unfortunate impression that I was always sure of myself. Making him think he had to be sure of himself, too. Since he seldom was, he tended to feel a little inadequate. Eager, therefore, to impress and provide information. That was never my intention. It did prove helpful, though.

  “You know,” said Dan, “I don’t think it could be local. Honest, nobody around here could do that.”

  Local meant Maitland to Dan. He was originally from Cedar Rapids, but had adapted so well to Maitland that he had considered it home from the first week he was here.

  “I’m not so sure, Dan.”

  “Yeah, but, well shit, Carl, there just isn’t anybody …”

  “Well, nobody leaps to mind, Dan. That’s for sure.”

  As we had been riding around the two square miles of Maitland, I had noticed that most of the homes had lights on. Unusual.

  “Lot of houses lit up tonight.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that earlier.”

  “Natives are a little nervous.”

  There were about 250 residences in Maitland, not counting about thirty apartments above Main Street stores. I had noticed that several homes were dark—maybe ten or so.

  “Do me a favor, Dan. Make a list of the houses that are dark, would you?”

  “Why?”

  “I want a list of the people who aren’t nervous.”

  “Okay, guy.”

  He let me off at my house. It wasn’t dark, either.

  It was 01:30. I was wide awake, there was nothing on TV, and I hadn’t been able to find a good book the last time I’d looked, either at the bookstores in Dubuque or in the local library. I made some coffee and went into my little office area, turned on my PC, and called up the database program that contained everybody we had ever arrested for possession or sale of dope. Or had good reason to suspect of same. I had no specific search criteria, of course, so merely browsed the list.

  In a county of some 22,000 people, I had amassed some four hundred names over a period of a year and a half since I had begun the project. I had been really restrictive in establishing the criteria for inclusion in the list, and sort of wished I had been a little more liberal.

  I cross-indexed the names, after looking at the whole list, and came up with those who had been involved in violent acts. Reduced the list to about three hundred. Dumped the index and did one for those involved in burglary. About seventy-five. Made a new index and did those suspected of occult involvement. Went down to about forty. Cheap database program, could only open one index at a time. Had to buy it myself, along with the computer and all the other software. Office bought me some printer ribbons. Once.

  So now I had a list. Of suspects? Why not, you had to start somewhere. I hadn’t printed the lists out, so went back and did each index again, dumping them to the printer. Nine pin dot matrix. Loud. Woke up my wife, could hear her stomping into the upstairs bathroom. Damn, I hated it when I did that. She was a light sleeper, and I was a little less than quiet, especially when I was trying to be. This time,
for example, I had put a blanket over the printer, to deaden the sound. I made a mental note to either find a thicker blanket or get some foam.

  My printer is a little slow, as well as a little loud. She woke up halfway through the first list. I drank coffee and waited about half an hour before printing out the second list, to let her get back to sleep. I looked for another blanket and couldn’t find one without going into the bedroom, so I put two seat cushions from the couch around it. Printed the second list, the one with the burglars. Couch cushions interfered with the paper feed—had to do it three times before I got a complete list. Occult was last, so I waited with some anticipation, until I was sure she was still sleeping, then printed that one out.

  So now I had three lists. I had to go through them manually, making marks by the names that came up on all the lists. Thirteen. Much better. Thirteen possible whos, no possible whys. Had to start somewhere.

  It was now 04:45, and I went to bed. Too much coffee, and I couldn’t sleep. Got back up, watched CNN, and saw myself leaving the Herkaman residence. Must have been a slow day for news. I observed that I didn’t look all that impressive on TV. Looked a little overweight. I’m six three, weighed about 250 at the time. I consoled myself with the well-established “fact” that TV put on ten pounds.

  Went to bed about 05:30. Slept poorly.

  4

  Tuesday, April 23

  09:45 hours

  The phone woke me. Special Agent Gorse wanted to see me. They sleep at night. I brushed my teeth, drank one cup of coffee, grabbed my lists, and drove to the office. In my personal car, not the patrol car. That way, Lamar couldn’t send me out on some dipshit call. No uniform, either. Same reason. I did wear a gun, but that was department regulations.

  We do have, by the way, our own investigator on the department. Name of Theodore Zieman. Likes to be called Ted, we call him Theo. Theo originally came to us from out of state, I believe Ohio or Indiana, or somewhere like that, maybe Illinois now that I think about it. He probably had a case of burnout from a larger department, although I didn’t do the confidential profile, so I couldn’t know for sure. Anyway, he had ended up in Maitland, working for the PD for a couple of years. He was hired by the Sheriff’s Department and made investigator because Lamar wanted somebody with energy and stamina, who could run all over the county doing interviews and taking pictures. And who didn’t have the independence or the imagination to want to do the cases by himself. A lot of rural sheriff’s departments didn’t have people assigned specifically to investigations, because of the size of the departments, and it showed. We had one, and it showed, too. Same way. But Lamar had his gofer, and that counted for a lot. Especially with Lamar. All Lamar wanted Theo for was to keep people off his back by showing up at every petty theft and burglary and throwing fingerprint dust at everything. That he does. Unfortunately Theo tends to fail to make that leap from evidence to arrest—and is almost dyslexic besides. Honest. He’s usually about three months behind on his reports, so he keeps the folders with his scratched notes in his car, so nobody can look at them and discover how far behind he is. Also tends to claim he has sent the file to the county attorney, and the CA is sitting on it for some obscure and mystical reason.