Eleven Days

by Donald Harstad

  The unknown female remained just that, all the way around. We needed to know who she was, and if it would somehow be possible that she was the unidentified female caller who first reported McGuire.

  Sirken was being looked into pretty thoroughly by Coralville and Iowa City. Coralville is a virtual suburb of Iowa City, and their respective police departments got along very well. Almost as one unit. They would come up with a lot, if there was a lot to come up with.

  Which left us with a generic suspect or suspects. Not a good place to start.

  Hester brought up my list, and I explained why I had done it that way. Lamar wasn’t pleased, as Lamar had no time for computers in any way, shape, or form. He thought that relying on them to do too much made people lazy. Maybe. But it gave us a list of suspected Satanists in the county, and we could start with interviews with them, to see what they knew about the departed.

  We went down the list and found that not one of them could be linked to the known dead. Either we had many more Satan worshipers in the county than we ever dreamed of or this group was getting their influence from outside our little part of the world.

  We went on, and decided to profile the suspect/suspects. There was nowhere else to go, and it would be pretty valuable if we could get enough information from the bodies and the scene.

  I had a primitive profiling program in my computer, but thought I’d better tell Hester later. Lamar would have a fit.

  The discussion finally got down to whether or not we thought that the perpetrator was a Satanist. I thought not, but maybe Satanically informed; Lamar and Mike thought it was a Satanist, and Art was noncommittal. Hester, the most rational of us, simply said that she didn’t have enough evidence to form an opinion.

  Theo came up with an original thought. “Well, we know they’re violent.”

  He was, of course, serious as hell. There was a stunned silence, and then, to his everlasting credit, Art said, “That’s right.” With a straight face.

  We decided to break for lunch, which meant that we got the Maitland PD to go get a bunch of hamburgers from the local restaurant. Two other agents were out at the McGuire farm and were expected shortly, so we thought we’d eat and wait for them to show.

  The meeting adjourned to the little kitchen, in the jail area of our building, which was furnished like a 1950s church basement, with brown metal folding chairs and tables.

  As far as I could tell, the stumbling block to my theory that the perp wasn’t a Satanist was the semen on Sirken’s mouth. I talked with Art about that while we ate.

  “You know, I can make all of it fit with or without a Satanic motive, with one exception.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The semen on Sirken’s face. Or mouth, I guess.”

  “Hand me the salt—thanks—that does seem to be a problem.”

  Hester was about to comment, but had her mouth full and had to chew quickly. We both grinned at her and watched her intently.

  “You gotta learn to chew your food slowly—more healthy for you.”

  “Sure. About that semen … I agree, that’s a hard point to overlook. Most of the murders I’ve worked up, I’ve only seen that in a sex crime, you know?”

  We nodded. Respectfully. Hester had probably worked a hundred murder cases … we had worked four or five. And she hadn’t been with the law nearly as long as we had.

  “And,” she continued, wiping her fingers on a piece of brown paper towel, “I haven’t seen any on male victims. I mean, if Sirken was a female, it would be explained, or explainable, but even the gay murders I’ve been on, you know that one in Cedar Falls last year, I mean they’re vicious and really nasty sometimes, but I’ve never seen that.”

  She took a long gulp from her Pepsi bottle. “But I think that’s the main clue we have anyway, for the perp, you know. I mean, he’s either gay or has a real sex hang-up, not just nasty with sexual overtones or into dominance, you know?”

  I noticed the room had become very quiet.

  “Think so?” asked Art, chewing.

  “Yes, I do.”

  I suppose he was concerned that a woman, who was essentially a technician, was leading men, who were essentially street officers, in the investigation of a murder. And he obviously hadn’t thought it through that thoroughly himself. Not yet. Probably not ever. And if he did, we’d all remember that it was Hester who was pursuing that line of thinking first.

  “Well, that’s a hell of a thing to say about somebody. I don’t think we should guess about the perp’s sex life. We don’t have the evidence …”

  Art? I thought he must be inspired by the audience. What was he afraid of, a libel suit?

  “Besides,” he said, aware of how he had sounded and quite pleased with the effect, “that makes the perp sound like a psycho. I don’t think he’s psycho.”

  Embarrassing. Art, the department analyst.

  He had moved down at the other end of the table from Hester, and I don’t think he could see her lips move. When she mouthed a silent “lots of evidence.” Or, a moment later, when her lips formed “fucking idiot.” I did. She glanced up just as she said it and saw me watching. Her face reddened, and she looked down at her Styrofoam plate.

  She just smiled and took another bite of her hamburger. It did define the relationship between the Sheriff’s Department and the DCI, though. They would always defer in public to anything the sheriff said. Swallow their professional pride and then collar the sheriff later and explain some things to him. And, being the lone DCI agent in the room, Hester had to swallow just a bit harder. But I didn’t think I wanted to be around when she and Lamar had their next meeting.

  The other two DCI agents came in while we were still eating. They were hungry, too, so we sent Maitland PD out for more. We reconvened the meeting at the kitchen tables and continued to discuss suspects.

  It was decided to interview those on my list, to see if they had any connection with Phyllis. The assignment was given, of course, to Theo.

  “Okay, Theo,” said Lamar, “why don’t you interview those people … and you might want to tape the interviews.”

  “Sure.”

  The other two agents, fresh from the scenes, had a few requests, too. One of them, Hal Greeley, knew Theo from a previous series of safe burglaries.

  “Why don’t you and I do the interviews, and let’s, uh, do them here in the office. That way they can be taped on a good machine.”

  That was in reference to Theo taping a series of interviews about a year ago and not realizing that his batteries had run down.

  “And then we can get written statements, too.”

  When he’d realized his batteries were gone, he had also realized that he had no written statements to back him up.

  “Sure, yeah. Okay. As many as we can.”

  Hester looked around the room. “You night people, you might keep an eye on both crime scenes. Sometimes a perp will actually return …”

  We all said that we would.

  “And I think we should assign photographers to all four funerals. Shoot the crowd. I want to know if anybody shows up at all four … or three. We still haven’t ID’d the one female, have we?”

  We hadn’t.

  Lamar came through again. “Right. I know that McGuire is going to be buried here, the Lutheran cemetery in Maitland. Sirken has had a brother request that he be cremated, and the ashes sent to him. He lives in Tacoma, Washington, and won’t be back for the funeral, and asked us to have a ceremony wherever Phyllis is going to be buried.”

  Good. Two sets of photos for the price of one.

  “Phyllis’s kid wants her to be buried here, because he wants to live here in the house. Cheaper.”

  Better.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do with the unknown woman.”

  “Thanks, Lamar,” said Hal.

  “I do what I can for you guys. Cooperation is what we want.”

  Lamar had to run next year. Starting early.

  Hester cl
eared her throat. “I’ve checked with LEIN, General Crim, and Narcotics, plus our intelligence analysts, and we have nothing similar to this anywhere. Also went through MOCIC, and nothing there, either.”

  We really hadn’t expected anything. LEIN was the acronym for the Iowa Law Enforcement Intelligence Network, and MOCIC is the Midwest Organized Crime Information Center, a federal group.

  “We gotta solve this one,” said Lamar. “The people are getting really upset about this.”

  “I’m sure they are,” said Hester.

  On that note, the meeting started to break up. I grabbed Hester on the way out.

  “I have a suggestion. Meet me in the parking lot.”

  She looked at me quizzically, but agreed.

  I went to the lot and stood by my car for about ten minutes, when Hester finally came out.

  “Look, there are a couple of people on my list that I would like to do the interviews on. Theo can’t handle them.”

  “You’d better talk to Hal.”

  “Sure, but you’re the case officer, and I wanted you to know about it.”

  I went back in, trying to find Hal. I did, but he was talking to Theo. I left, because I was tired, and I had to work at 20:00. And because I was getting sick of the devious ways we had to use to get around Theo and his incompetence. It was always the same, and when we were working with an outside agency, it became doubly hard, because they were understandably reluctant to get involved in our interdepartmental hassles. I’d been through all this before, many times. Lamar was unapproachable on the subject of Theo, and Art just buried his head by saying that Theo was investigator, and that was that. As a direct consequence, our last homicide had been pissed down the sink. I was determined that it wouldn’t happen on this one, but how to avoid it I just didn’t know. But if Lamar thought that “the people” were getting upset now, just wait until Theo blew the case …

  I got home, but at the thought of Theo stomping through the case, I was too wound up to sleep. I sat around for a while, listening to some music and trying to think of a way around him. I had said several times that, in an ideal world, I would murder Theo, and he would be resurrected to handle the investigation. I was only half joking.

  I had about six hours to shave, shower, eat, and get eight hours’ sleep. I went upstairs to the bedroom, started to undress, and the dog threw up on the carpet. Cleaned it up, booted him out, and shaved. Let him back in and went to bed. Couldn’t sleep. Got up, bathed, went back to bed, and couldn’t sleep because I was hungry. Ate a TV dinner, refusing to share with the dog, and went back upstairs to go to bed when my wife came home from school.

  “Are you up?”

  “I’m up, Sue, but I don’t want to be … Had a meeting most of the day.” I put on some sweatpants and schlepped downstairs.

  “You don’t have to go to work tonight, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “That’s silly. You haven’t had any sleep.”

  “Yeah, but I have to go to work.”

  “Why don’t you call in sick?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Well, I think this is the most stupid thing I ever heard!”

  “Well, it’s been quite a murder, you know. We need people out at night, and besides, I want to get to an interview before Theo does and fucks it up.”

  I was standing just inside the kitchen, and Sue was pouring some Pepsi.

  “I don’t like to hear you use that language.”

  What do you say to that? She brushed by me, on her way to the living room.

  “Fred threw up on the rug.”

  “Oh, no. Poor Fred!” Fred, knowing he was the object of sympathy, but having absolutely no idea why, went to Sue and put his head on her lap. She scratched him behind his ears.

  “He probably did it on purpose.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Oh, Fred, you wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you?”

  “Yes, he would.” I turned toward the stairs. “Look, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

  “Do you want to get up for supper?”

  “No, I have to go in at eight, so I’ll just grab something after I get up.”

  “Well, I don’t think there’s going to be much. I’ll just fix a couple of eggs for myself.”

  “Okay, get me up about seven, will you?”

  “I might forget. Set the alarm.”

  “Yeah.” I went back upstairs. She was upset, I was upset. As usual. I kept thinking that it wasn’t me she was mad at, just the situation. Unfortunately I was the target. I lay down again and finally slept. Woke at seven-fifteen. I had forgot to set the alarm, and Sue hadn’t remembered to wake me.

  6

  Tuesday, April 23

  20:00 hours

  Since I started at 20:00 hours, half my shift was on the 23rd and half was on the 24th. It was routine most of the night, which meant that I simply drove through six towns and stared at empty stores, dark residences, and sparsely populated taverns. We always had to do one round right away, to check on the status of the various potential burglary targets, such as convenience stores, implement dealers, etc. Then maybe a break at the office, and a second round. There are very few eating places in the county that are open after 22:00, and those that are happen to be taverns. Nothing wrong with taverns, except I hate to eat with somebody who’s slightly intoxicated trying to explain to me why his second cousin shouldn’t have gotten a ticket for speeding in another county. And especially now, with the sensational case we had, there would be a lot of questions. Always eat either in the car or at the office.

  I hit the office at about 00:45, where I met Mike and Dan. We went to the kitchen and opened our sandwiches. Conference time.

  It was accepted among the three of us that we were going to have to try to solve this case in spite of Theo’s efforts. Since we had been the first officers at the McGuire home, we sort of felt that we had a special interest.

  I was the only one of the three of us who had been at the Herkaman residence, so I started off by filling them in on what I had seen. We agreed that the Herkaman house victims were probably involved in Satanism. We also agreed that it looked like Satanism had been a motive in the killings. Somehow. But they agreed with me that it seemed a little too obvious and heavy. Something was wrong, but we didn’t know what.

  The department was putting on heavy pressure to identify the unknown woman at the Herkaman residence, and all the officers in the county had been contacted, given a physical description, and asked to nose it around. Nothing. Photographs of her face would be available by noon on the 24th, and they would be passed around, too.

  Dan, of course, thought he had seen her somewhere. This is a fairly typical police officer’s response, particularly when you haven’t actually seen the victim. What it means is that you are trying to visualize the person, and are comparing him or her to several people you know, to complete your visual picture. In the process, you are subconsciously identifying several people, none of whom are the one in question. So you “think I’ve seen her, but I can’t remember where.”

  The Herkaman house was in the zone Mike normally covered, and he was trying to think of any activities in that area that had really caught his attention. He finally scored.

  “Wait a minute. Do you remember, oh, six months or so ago, that 10–50 out on C 23? The one where the gal tried to miss a deer and got the cluster of mailboxes?”

  We didn’t.

  “That was Phyllis Herkaman!”

  “Okay.”

  “No, no, there was a passenger in the car—a female, with a little cut on the bridge of her nose! She was with Phyllis. I know she was, and I bet it was the unknown woman.”

  We checked. The first step was to go to Sally and have her run Phyllis Herkaman’s driving record. This had already been done, of course, to obtain her date of birth. But the copy had been given to Theo, so we’d probably never see it again. It was a chance to get the date of the accident, to help us find the accident report i
n the files. We are, thanks to repeated efforts of Lamar Ridgeway, decidedly low-tech. We were going to have to go through a stack of some six hundred accident reports, covering that period, which were rather loosely organized. Which means that they are put in as they are received, but even that order is disturbed when they are sifted by somebody who needs a copy of one of them. We needed a date.

  Mike couldn’t remember if there had been more than five hundred dollars’ damage, which meant that if there hadn’t been, the state wouldn’t have gotten a copy of the report, which meant, in turn, that there would be no record of the event in the state computer.

  We three had rushed out to Sally, who had caught the excitement. An actual lead, for God’s sake. The adrenaline rush came to an abrupt end.

  “The state computer is down.”

  A collective “Shit.”

  Sally was encouraging, though. “It’ll probably be back up in an hour or so.”

  We went to the main office and grabbed all the accident reports, divided them into four nearly equal stacks, gave one to Sally, and started to go through them.

  Thirty minutes later, we had nothing.

  “Mike, you sure you didn’t give Phyllis a ticket?”

  The ticket stack was considerably smaller than the accident stack.

  “No, there was a little deer hair on the car. No violation.”

  We average about five hundred car vs. deer accidents a year. Nothing unusual about it, and tickets are never issued, because the deer have a tendency to try to hit the car, not vice versa.

  We exchanged stacks and tried again. Still nothing.

  Mike was getting even more frustrated than the rest of

  us.

  “Damn it, I know that it was in November or early December, when the deer are so thick.”