“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“It was in the book that your nurses found in her locker.”
“They didn’t say anything about that …”
“You really can’t pick it up by just reading it through. That’s what the New York detective is doing here. He’s an expert on this. We read it tonight. He picked up on the sacrifice right away. Just didn’t know who. Then we read the entry about the sacrificial victim making its appearance on the 24th of November. Rachel’s baby was born at Phyllis’s house on November 24th.”
“No.”
“Yes. And the code name they used to refer to Rachel was the one who presented the victim to them. I’m afraid it all adds up.”
“Oh, God.”
“And we think it’s linked to the four murders that happened Friday night.”
Silence.
“Now do you see why we’ve been acting a little heavy in this?”
She nodded.
“So, if you can give us a little support in this, we’d really appreciate it. Believe me.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go on back to the conference room.”
“I’ll have to tell Dr. Zimmer.”
“You’re right, but let’s clear that with the DCI later, okay? I think he’s going to have to know, too, but just don’t bring it up right away, all right?”
“All right.”
We rejoined the group in the conference room. Carrie was still hedging, apparently.
“Carrie,” said Sylvia, “could I speak with you for a moment?”
She took her out in the hall for what seemed to be a second or two. Carrie came back in alone. She walked directly to the conference table, sat down, and said, “What do you need from me?”
I never did find out what Sylvia said.
We began to question both nurses about Phyllis’s behavior over the last few months. With the way the rotation system worked among the nurses, there was really no specific group who worked together on a particular shift. But Carrie and Lori seemed to have worked with Phyllis as often as anyone.
They both thought that Phyllis was a loner, but we already knew that. Carrie thought she was frequently abrupt with patients, especially the older ones who made up the majority of the patient population. Lori said that Phyllis would advise her about her love life, and it was always the same: don’t commit yourself, try different things first. There was nothing wrong with sleeping around, so go for it.
Given what we knew about Phyllis, and the attractiveness of Lori, we were obviously interpreting things a little differently than she was. It looked like Phyllis had been subtly hitting on Lori for several months, but that the connection never occurred to her. Just as well.
Both women had noticed that Phyllis had perked up around Christmastime. Seemed to be more self-possessed, as it were—more content and self-assured than ever.
One thing of significance, and that came late in the interview. Phyllis had been picked up by a friend, after work, on several occasions in December and January. Because her car didn’t work, she said. The friend was Elizabeth Mills, and Lori remembered that Phyllis had referred to her as Dusky, twice.
“I remember her saying, one time, something about ‘You should try a dusky brunette, instead of those blond Swedes you always go out with.” She blushed.
We were all scribbling furiously when Sylvia came back into the room, carrying a brown grocery sack.
“These things,” she said, “are all that Phyllis had in her locker. I thought you might want to look at them.”
“Thank you,” said Hester.
“And could I talk to one of you for a moment?”
“Sure,” I said. I thought we’d just go out in the hall, but she took me to her little office again. This time she shut the door without being asked.
She opened a grocery sack. There was something wrapped in a small towel. She laid it on her desk and unwrapped it.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a bulb syringe. We do equipment inventories frequently, you know. I did one on October 22nd, a Sunday. The next time was on November 26th. We were missing several incidental items, nothing to speak of.”
“Like what?”
“Like several hemostats, a box of surgical gloves, sterile tape and sponges … and a bulb syringe.”
“Like this one?”
“Yes.”
“And you found this in her locker?”
“Yes.”
“What would she want with that?”
“Carl, if I was going to deliver a baby, not here, those are the items I would want to have.”
She emptied the rest of the sack, displaying the contents on the desktop. A bottle of perfume, a pair of nurse’s shoes, a white cardigan sweater, two lipstick tubes, three tampons, a small pack of Kleenex, and three pencils. And a stethoscope.
I gave her a receipt, and we went back to the conference room.
I took Hester aside and told her what Sylvia had told me. She seemed pleased. I did the same with Art.
The interviews were pretty well complete. It was after midnight.
“I’d like to thank both of you,” said Hester. “We really appreciate your cooperation.”
Sounded a little flat, considering. But what the hell, I thought, DCI doesn’t get along with nurses, anyway.
22
Sunday, April 28
01:27 hours
We were back in the office, slowly tearing our hair out. We had a lot. We had nothing. We had a lot of work to do. Sally had been relieved by Deb Finney at the radio, and had volunteered to stick around and help. She’d already made coffee once that night, so Art and I tossed for who would make the second pot. I lost.
We had Sally in the kitchen, typing the contents of Phyllis Herkaman’s book. We’d decided to look up Elizabeth Mills and her husband, and we wanted some dates and events concerning them to look over first. Helen had said Elizabeth Mills was Dusk. The way that the entries read so far in the little diary, her name was always preceded by that of “Shaman.” She was never mentioned without him being mentioned first, and never appeared in the diary alone. Neither did Shaman. Yet there were several entries when they weren’t mentioned at all. The inference was that Shaman was her husband, Kenneth. At least, that’s what we were going to go with.
“How’s it coming, Sally?”
“Not bad … almost done, I think.”
“You make much sense out of it?”
“A little, I’m afraid.”
I made the coffee, not wanting to slow her up. She should be getting paid overtime for this, but there was no guarantee of that, as this wasn’t “dispatching.” I didn’t want her to spend any more of her time on this than was absolutely necessary.
Hal and Hester had called their boss in Des Moines and explained to him that we thought we had another murder, one predating the quadruple one, and possibly related, in a rather obscure way. Their boss was not pleased.
Art and I had talked to Lamar and told him what we thought we’d do. He hadn’t been too happy, either, but could certainly understand the reasoning.
When we’d first got back to the office, we’d had a little discussion, which was summed up best by Hal.
“All we’re doin’ in this case is reacting. We ain’t initiating anything at all. We gotta take the initiative!”
He was right, of course. But, so far, we hadn’t had the information to really get going. Now, especially with the probable identifying of Dusk and the tentative ID of Shaman, we had something to at least begin with.
There was a further complication: too many people were getting involved, and the possibility of leaks and flight of witnesses was getting greater. The possibility of somebody getting ahold of Darkness was also greater every minute. We didn’t want that to happen.
We had called Mark Fueller, the county attorney, again, this time asking if he thought we had enough evidence to get a warrant for the arrest of Elizabeth Mills. We wanted a war
rant before we went to the house. It gave us a lot more leeway with a search.
Fueller didn’t think we had enough. We thought we did. He thought we could interview her in the morning, and if we got an admission from her, then either arrest her or go get the warrant then. He wasn’t a bad county attorney, but he was a pretty lousy cop.
We finally got him to go along with it, as we explained that we had to take a chance, because we felt that otherwise we’d blow the case. He thought we were blowing the case, anyway, but, being sleepy, he was pressurable. That had been the information we called Lamar with. We didn’t go into the details of the county attorney’s discomfort, of course.
We’d pulled Mike in off the road, to accompany Hal and Hester to the magistrate’s house. We’d had to wake him up, too, to get the warrant.
We weren’t too popular that night, and we all had the nagging feeling that we’d better come across with something, or we’d never hear the end of it.
When Hester, Hal, and Mike returned, they said that the magistrate, it turned out, was more than happy to issue an arrest warrant for Elizabeth Mills. The charge: murder in the first degree. All diary indications were that Dusk had been present at the so-called sacrifice of the baby. So had Shaman.
Sally came back to the main office, with her typed pages and the original. Copies were Xeroxed, and we all got one.
Since we were going to arrest a female, I made a suggestion.
“Hey, as long as Sally’s here, and in uniform, don’t you think we ought to have a matron along?”
“Absolutely,” said Hester.
There wasn’t a female officer in the county. Furthermore, if we used Sally as a matron, she would be paid. And paid from the time she got off her regular shift. Which meant that she’d be assured of getting paid for her typing.
“Okay,” Art sighed. Dispatcher’s base rates went up when they did matron duty.
I had another idea. “Sally, raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
She did.
“Do you solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the State of Iowa?”
“I do.”
“With particular reference to Chapter 692, regarding Criminal History and Law Enforcement Intelligence Data?”
“I do.”
“Good. You are now deputized for the duration.”
“Was that really necessary?” asked Art.
“You betcha. If we get an interview, we have to have a matron present. And if we get an interview, I don’t want any unsworn personnel present.”
“Good point.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sally, do you know Elizabeth Mills?”
“Sure.” She looked a little startled. “Runs the In Between dress shop downtown.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Oh, about thirty or so. Taller than me, dark hair.”
“Everybody’s taller than you.”
Sally was exactly five feet.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Well, she’s about five inches taller than me.”
“How about her husband?” asked Hester.
“Oh,” said Sally, “he’s about five eight or so, about 150, I guess. I can get his DL for you … blond hair, I know that.”
“I know him,” said Art. “He runs an accounting business, does taxes, things like that.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “The gray Dodge four-door that’s always parked in front of the pharmacy.”
“Yeah. They live in one of the apartments upstairs.”
“Originally from Cedar Rapids, isn’t he?” asked Mike.
“Yeah,” said Art. “Down there somewhere. Moved here about four years ago, I think.”
The next question was a tough one.
“Do we need,” asked Mike, “a Maitland officer with us on this one?”
Professional courtesy dictated that we at least inform Maitland PD and ask them to accompany us. Discretion indicated that we not do that.
“No,” said Art.
“No,” said Hal.
“No,” I chimed in.
“No,” said Hester.
“No,” said Sally.
We all looked at her.
“Hey, I’m sworn.”
Mike grinned broadly. “Well, I guess that settles that.”
It was decided to take one marked car, Mike’s, which would contain Mike, me, and Sally, the three uniformed personnel present. One unmarked, Art’s. With him, Hal, and Hester. We would transport Elizabeth Mills in the marked car. If we arrested Kenneth Mills, he would go in the unmarked. If he was violent, we would summon the Maitland PD car.
Art picked up the phone and called dispatch on the comm line.
“Deb, look, all of us are going to be busy in downtown Maitland for a little while. Very 10–6. No radio traffic, but we will have a portable or two, if you absolutely need to contact us.”
He paused. “Yes, her too.” Another pause. “No, no traffic. And nobody is to know where we are, so if Maitland asks, just say you will contact one of us. Got that? Good.”
He stood up. “Let’s go.”
It was about seven blocks to the pharmacy. Sally, who was in the backseat of our car, stuck her head through the plastic security screen and asked me what we were going to do.
“Arrest Elizabeth Mills. And, possibly, Kenneth too.”
“I know that,” she said petulantly. “What for?”
“Murder.”
She withdrew her head into the backseat.
We parked in the alley behind the pharmacy, while the unmarked pulled up in one of the designated parking stalls in front. Mike and I got out, and I opened the back door for Sally. There are no inside door handles on the back doors.
Mike stayed in the alley to secure the back of the building. I went up the front stairs with Art, followed by the two DCI agents and then Sally. There were two doors at the top, of course. But we got lucky. The one on the left had a wooden plaque hanging on the front that announced to the world, “Mills Mill.” Cute.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, louder. No answer. I knocked the third time, really hard. Knocked the plaque off, which fell onto the wooden landing with a loud clatter. Then we could hear footsteps stumbling around inside the apartment.
“What!” came from inside. Male voice.
“Open the door, police!”
At that point, the door on the right flew open, and a man in a T-shirt and boxer shorts emerged. It was pretty dark, and the first person he saw was Art. Who was not in uniform.
“What the fuck do you want, asshole?” he said to Art.
I emerged from the shadow by the Mills door. I had my gun drawn, per department procedure when effecting a felony arrest. I was holding it pointing upward, about shoulder level.
“Get back in your apartment, buddy. Now!”
He slammed the door.
The little distraction had caused us to lose track of the noises in the Mills apartment. I listened … nothing.
I knocked once more.
“Open the door, police!”
There was a muffled thunk as a bolt slammed home in the door frame. Great.
I looked at Art. “Shall I?”
“Go for it.” He drew his gun.
One kick. That’s all it took. Old door. The door slammed open, and whitish fragments from the frame flew into the room. Art’s flashlight beamed past me, and I could see a man turning around in the living room, holding something in his hand.
“Freeze! Police.” God, I love to do that.
He froze. He appeared to have a cardboard tube in his right hand. He was wearing tiger-striped jockey shorts.
Art flew by me, further into the apartment. A woman screamed, “Don’t shoot him!” and Art yelled, “Freeze!”
I couldn’t see her, but her voice had come from what appeared to be the bedroom.
Hal flew by as I was pushing the male subject against the wall, and headed for the bedroom. Hester cuffed my man, while I held him at gunpoint.
As soon as t
he cuffs were on, I heard Art’s voice.
“She’s secure.”
I turned toward the door and could see Sally’s head peering around the corner.
“Hey, Sally? Wanna see if you can find the light switch?”
A second later, the overhead light came on.
“Are you Kenneth Mills?” I asked my prisoner.
“Yes.”
Whew. I mean, it’s always nice to know you’re at the right place.
Art and Hal came around the corner, accompanied by a woman I prayed was Elizabeth Mills. She was wearing a red and white T-shirt, with the slogan “Best Head” in yellow letters. Probably not referring to her intellect. She was cuffed in front. She looked sleepy, and pissed off.
Art had a small, transparent sealable bag in his hand, with some white powdery stuff in it. He held it up for me to see and grinned all over himself.
“Look what she was trying to hide,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Crystal.”
Methamphetamine. Good deal.
“Is this Elizabeth Mills?” I asked of nobody in particular.
“You bet your ass, stupid,” said Elizabeth Mills. “You better have a fuckin’ warrant!”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “we do.” I pulled it from my hip pocket. “Elizabeth Mills, I have here a warrant for your arrest on a charge of Murder in the First Degree, pursuant to Chapter 707 of the Code of Iowa. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a criminal prosecution, you have the right to have an attorney present during questioning, if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you by the court. Do you understand those rights?”
Silence.
“With those rights in mind, do you wish to give us a statement at this time?”
“Yeah, asshole. Fuck off!”
“Thanks, ma’am.” I smiled down at her. “I, too, find courtesy always helps in a tight situation.”
“Piss off.” Sullen. Good. She would be talking in a few minutes.
By this time, Kenneth Mills was getting his act more or less together and had taken a cue from his wife. He also was getting a little braver, because his name hadn’t been on the warrant.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife!” He seemed proud of himself.
“Shut up,” said Hester.
Eleven Days Page 17
