by Phil Hamman
Brrrrinng! Sandra jumped from the couch, almost tripping over her bare feet.
“Hello!” she said breathlessly.
It was Stew. “Sandra, we’re coming pretty soon, but we had to make some stops.”
Sandra nodded into the phone and bit her lower lip. “You know, my brother just got home, would you mind if he came with?” Sandra and Bill had been through so much together that they relied on each other for friendship as well as emotional support. They watched out for each other, and both included the other in their circle of friends. He was about the same age as Roger and his friends.
Thirty minutes later Stew’s battered blue van pulled into the drive. Naturally outgoing, Sandra emerged from the house exuberant to be spending the evening talking and laughing, two of her favorite things. Roger opened the door for her, and she climbed in. Bill was just about to get in the van too when his best friend pulled into the driveway. “Hey, Bill! I’m going to a party and that hot chick you like will be there.”
Bill looked at Sandra sheepishly, but she laughed and waved him off. “Go see the girl! I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Though she was totally at ease with Roger, something felt off as soon as she set foot in the van. Perhaps leaving so late at night seemed odd to Sandra. She was younger, though, and decided it probably wasn’t out of the ordinary for teenage boys to be starting their plans so late. Roger stroked her hand, and even in the bumpiness of the van, it seemed as tender as usual. But something was out of place. Sandra noticed then that it wasn’t just the four of them; there was another boy sitting in the far back.
“Who’s that?” she asked Roger quietly.
“That’s Mike. You met him before,” he said, turning around to Mike. “Hey, Mike, this is Sandra. Sandra, this is Mike.” That was another quality she adored about Roger. He was comfortable around everyone and so considerate of her. He didn’t hesitate to introduce her to another of his friends. Then she recognized Mike.
“Oh, hi, so you were the one that was in here when Stew gave me a ride home from the show, right?”
“Yeah, that was me,” Mike said, smiling. The van was mostly dark, but she could see flashes of Mike’s face every time they passed under a street light. His arms were folded in front of him, and he nodded his head slightly to the beat of the music coming from the radio in front. At that moment Mike didn’t strike Sandra as being anything other than one of Roger’s friends. She knew of him from her conversations with Roger, but there were many things she didn’t know about Mike’s background and personality. She definitely had no idea at that moment that some of the decisions he’d make that night would change her life forever.
Chapter 7
November 18, 1973 Mid-morning
Several somber investigators gathered around Sheriff Vinson, who stood just outside the bright yellow crime scene tape that sealed the entrance into Gitchie Manitou. With the job at hand falling on his shoulders, his mind focused on several scenarios at once. He helped establish a chain of command, taking one of the lead roles. His eyes scanned from the road into the park, down to the natural stone ledges that blocked any further view. He began delegating tasks to his team. On site were two veteran detectives from the Sioux Falls Police Department. Both were specially trained and would bring more foundation to the Iowa group. They conversed about the immediate evaluation of the crime scene, then began a systematic process to gather evidence.
Of special concern was the location of the fourth victim. Iowa troopers had discovered his body by rocks and a tree near the campfire. This was near the imaginary line that divides the South Dakota portion of the park from the Iowa side. It was of vital importance to know in which state this murder had occurred in order to determine where charges would be filed once the perpetrator was caught. A surveyor was called in to locate the exact boundary lines. Later that day he informed the officers that the victim had been killed just a few yards inside the Iowa line.
As the various lawmen began to do their jobs, Vinson gave them some final advice. “Gentlemen, this is a high-profile case. Make sure every step you take while continuing inside that tape works to our advantage and preserves evidence.” And Vinson was right. The sensational case soon made headlines across the nation. The experienced team was unaware that a strange twist would occur later in the day which would be their key to eventually solving the case.
Chapter 8
November 17, 1973 9:00 PM
Roger held Sandra’s hand as the van careened down the highway. Occasionally the two would find themselves just leaning against each other in comfortable silence. When the van came to an unexpected stop, Sandra realized they were nowhere near a park. They were back in Sioux Falls.
“Where are we?” she asked Roger, who didn’t seem at all bothered by this unexpected turn of events.
“Oh, Stew’s going back to get his guitar.”
That seemed reasonable, and after Stew returned with a guitar case, they drove for some time until they reached the thickly wooded area of Gitchie Manitou. Dark had nearly settled and the looming silence along with dim shadows of skeletal trees and scrubby bushes unnerved Sandra. She reached for Roger’s hand, and he pulled her close.
“Is anyone else out here?” she asked, trying to sound curious rather than frightened.
“I don’t see any cars. I don’t think so,” Stew answered. Everyone unloaded from the van except Dana, who was leaning in the side door rummaging for paper to start a campfire. While Roger surveyed the area with Sandra, Stew moved closer to the camp shelter to find a good place to build their fire. He was glad he’d worn his warmer coat and zipped it to the top, kicking away leaves with the toe of his shoe here and there to uncover small twigs for kindling. The park was filled with small night sounds, the low roar of the river beyond the campsite, an occasional scamper, and just a small rattle of wind in the mostly barren bushes.
“Hey, Roger!” Stew called over his shoulder with an edge of concern in his voice. “Come look at this!” Stew was crouched before a fireplace in the camp shelter nearest the road. They’d come to a shelter with a fire pit surrounded by walls made of aged quartz block criss-crossed with yellowed vines that had dropped their leaves, lending the appearance of a medieval castle. Stew’s back was to the others, and he was poking at something in the fire pit.
Roger hurried over and saw that it was an abandoned campfire. “The coals from that fire are still red, so someone must have been here,” Stew said, somewhat apprehensive. Concerned that this area had already been taken, they moved farther down until they were near the soaring bank of the river.
An autumn chill had descended, necessitating the warmth of a fire. Roger and Sandra returned from the tree line and added their armloads of dead wood onto the growing pile. Stew, using the paper Dana had found, soon had a roaring fire. The flames licked their way into the black night, and the growing fog inhaled the pleats of smoke. Roger pulled Sandra closer. She leaned her head against the warm fabric of his plaid coat.
Dana perched himself on one of the felled logs near the fire and prepared to throw on more wood, but a sinister sound in the distance stopped him. His eyes were pulled to the dark trees beyond the shelter. He stood slowly.
“Did you guys hear something?”
Chapter 9
November 17, 1973 5:00 PM
Dana Baade was a soft-spoken and well-liked eighth grade student at Patrick Henry Junior High School in Sioux Falls. He had every intention of following in his big brother Stew’s footsteps to become part of the next great American band. Both brothers loved music, and Dana would practice strumming his brother’s beloved guitar whenever it wasn’t in Stew’s hands. Dana was quiet, reserved, and good-natured. He often waited for Stew to speak up for both of them when the situation required it. Although the two brothers had their spats, they relied on each other for support and defended each other loyally when needed. Dana admired Stew for many reasons. Stew was responsible and balanced a part-time job at UPS while still in high school, managing to save enough m
oney to buy his own van. Openly generous, he readily gave rides to whoever needed one. The brothers had visions of forming a rock band with Stew playing guitar and Dana on bass, which he aspired to learn.
“Teach me another chord,” Dana would beg Stew, who usually dropped what he was doing to demonstrate the finger movements for his little brother. Neither had the opportunity to take music lessons so had to depend on others and their natural ability to learn the craft they were honing with their shared guitar.
A song with a particularly loud guitar solo came on the radio and Dana cranked it up, playing along to the music and trying to match the notes with what he actually knew how to play. In his mind, though, he was on stage wearing low-slung blue jeans and a faded T-shirt, whipping his long hair, which he washed and brushed tangle-free every day, back and forth. The song ended and Dana turned the volume down a little so he could try out some of the new chords he’d been learning. It didn’t sound half as good without the radio blaring in the background. He set the guitar back in the corner of the bedroom and went off to find his warmest coat. He’d have to ask for Stew’s help with that chord tomorrow. Tonight he was going to Gitchie Manitou with his brother and some friends.
Chapter 10
November 17, 1973 9:50 PM
Dana wasn’t the only one who’d heard the strange sound. Roger immediately turned away, preventing Sandra from seeing the concern on his face, but she heard it in his voice. “Stew, don’t play the guitar, and everyone be quiet for a minute.” His voice was serious.
Sandra thought she heard a twig snap nearby, and when she saw Roger’s head jerk in the direction of the noise, it confirmed what she already knew. Much later, she’d wonder how the human ear can be so perceptive that even in the woods on a dark night, it can discern the difference between the sound of an animal stepping on a twig as opposed to that of a human. Crunch. Pause. Crunch.
Snap! Another twig. No one could ignore it this time. The sound was much too close.
“What was that noise? Do you think someone’s out there?” Dana asked, worried that they’d intruded on someone’s camping ground who was now coming back to reclaim their spot.
“Yeah, I keep hearing leaves crunching,” Sandra said, glad that she wasn’t the only one who was concerned.
Roger pulled her closer to him. “Listen.” His eyes looked serious, which made Sandra uneasy. She’d never seen this look on his face or heard the worry she’d gleaned from the one word he’d quietly uttered. “It could be a bear.” Roger tried to lighten the situation. Stew nodded, although all of them knew there were no bears in the area.
The five of them stood wordlessly around the fire, which flickered and hissed, sending sparks of light into the silent darkness. Roger wracked his brain trying to remember where he’d heard the same snapping and cracking in the past. It has to be an animal, right? His main concern was Sandra, though. What if it wasn’t an animal? He’d defend Sandra without hesitation.
Mike’s athletic instincts kicked in at the sound of the next unexpected noise. He was competitive, and no matter what was out there, Mike wouldn’t go down without a fight. There was a hot tingle in the back of his neck, the same feeling he got when someone passed him the ball with ten seconds left and his team was down by two points. The same feeling he’d had pitching the last inning of a game when the crowd was screaming and it was up to him to make sure the batter struck out. Mike loved the competition. He didn’t rattle easily, but something didn’t feel right. He pulled the collar of his brown corduroy jacket up around his neck and stood with one foot slightly back, ready to spring into action if needed.
Chapter 11
November 18, 1973 Late morning
With a keen eye trained to detect a ghost of a tire tread or the smallest bullet fragment, the crime scene photographer stepped gingerly among the orange flags that marked potential evidence for the case. He angled his rapidly clicking camera to avoid the dappled shade cast by the gentle sway of thick branches on nearly barren trees in order to accurately capture details the detectives would use to reconstruct the crime scene.
Several yards away, a coroner was conducting a visual examination of each body, writing detailed notes that included observations of blood flow patterns and the location of each wound. Without disturbing the body that lay before him, he squatted down and leaned in, noticing that the victim’s coat had rolls and bunches consistent with having been dragged.
After the investigative team finished up their extensive search of the surroundings, they regrouped to share their findings and assessments but with much less evidence than Sheriff Vinson had hoped for. There were shotgun shell casings and an acoustic guitar that had been left leaning against a tree. A search of the bodies yielded not only some identification, but also cash as well. Other than those specific pieces of information, the evidence was lacking any sort of direction.
“Robbery doesn’t appear to be the motive at this point, but we can’t rule out anything yet. Let’s all be thinking of what motive could have been behind this,” Vinson instructed the group. Then he contemplated a part of the job that cut the deepest. It was time to inform family members of the victims that their loved ones would never return home again. He glanced at the short list of names; first on the list was the name Roger Essem. Also weighing heavily on his mind was the lack of evidence. Enormous pressure from the community to solve this case in short order would surely be expected as soon as the news broke. He’d allot himself little sleep until this case was solved.
Chapter 12
November 19, 1973 2:00 AM
Alone in the pitch-black of the night, Deputy Griesse sat tensely in his patrol car, alert to every outside rattle that in the uncertainty of darkness took on macabre tones. A murky fog was descending onto Gitchie Manitou, enveloping the park with a chilling vapor. He’d been assigned to remain overnight to protect the crime scene until investigators could return at daybreak to wrap up their final searches. Griesse would come to remember this assignment as the most frightening event of his entire law enforcement career.
He had already spent an emotionally exhausting day investigating the gruesome sight of the blood-stained scene and seeing what close-range shotgun blasts had done to maim and disfigure the four teenage boys, their bodies blued and twisted. He hoped that few people would ever see the photographs of these bodies, knowing it would leave lifelong scars on their minds. He tried to shake the macabre images from his head, but they held fast. A murky gloom had cast its hold on the campsite just yards from where the grisly murders had taken place; the specter of death bottled up within the foggy woe. Compounding the fear he felt was a lack of sleep and the fact that the murderer or murderers were still at large. Would they return to the scene again tonight as criminals often do?
His eyes jerked on the brink of exhaustion, causing his mind to play tricks on him. Through a sleepy stare he thought he caught movement at the front of the vehicle, then at the side. Griesse bolted up and flicked on the headlights, but there was only the rolling fog floating over the field where the bodies had lain earlier that day. He stretched his eyes open as far as he could a few times and took some slow, shallow breaths. He fought the temptation to leave the headlights on. That would make him a visible target. He scanned the park relentlessly. Yet again he sensed someone stalking up to the patrol car ready to fire a shotgun blast through the window.
And so the spooky, unnerving images haunted him throughout the night, the ghostly aura refusing to relinquish its grip on the park. It was the longest and most frightening assignment of his life and would cause him sleepless nights for years to come. When the sun finally broke through onto the eastern horizon and light overcame the darkness, Griesse sighed with relief. He had never been happier to see the sun.
Chapter 13
November 17, 1973 10:00 PM
Mike, Roger, and Sandra stood silently around the fire. No one moved; the only sounds piercing the suspense in the air were that of a hooting owl and a light rustle of wind blowing l
eaves along the ground. To break the tension, Stew grabbed his guitar and strummed a few chords, lightly at first then louder, until everyone soon felt some relief. Stew and Dana sang several songs before taking a break. Stew sat down in front of a hollow tree. Dana and Mike stood next to the fire. Mike’s eyes slowly scanned the tree line, but the light from the fire fell dim at that distance so he found himself facing a sea of black. Sandra laid her head on Roger’s shoulder, but she didn’t fold into his body the way she had when they’d cuddled in the back of Stew’s van on the way home from Falls Park last week. Roger’s body was rigid, and his left hand was pressed against the log as if he might bolt upright at any moment. After a few tense minutes of quiet, the group relaxed, perhaps a bit embarrassed that they’d frightened so easily.
“I know what we need,” one of the boys announced, pulling from his pocket a thin white cigarette rolled tightly at both ends. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, and passed the marijuana to Sandra. She took a small puff and blew it back out, wanting to fit in. As the joint continued circling among the friends, Sandra waited for the marijuana to lift away her fears, but it had the opposite effect instead.
“That fire’s dying down. Come with me, and we’ll get more wood,” Stew said, nudging Dana. Sandra was glad Roger was right next to her on the log. It gave her a small semblance of safety. She tried to block out the eerie sounds and concentrate on the romantic fire, its faltering flames swaying under a starry sky. She breathed in the scent of Roger’s coat and warmed herself with thoughts of telling the girls at school on Monday about another perfect date with her handsome boyfriend.
