by Phil Hamman
He crept down the hallway and shut the bathroom door before turning on the light to avoid waking anyone. In the mirror, he saw a man who should have been in bed hours ago, but those who knew him would have see a man filled with the determination that would eventually be the key to cracking the case. He’d started this assignment, and he’d see it out to the end. He’d even brought with him some files to look over before going to bed. There were some names he might need to check out the next day. They still had few clues, and Vinson was well aware that the success of the entire case could likely fall on the shoulders of a thirteen-year-old girl. This small-town sheriff had been thrust into the eye of the storm, and there were some who wondered if he possessed the qualifications and experience to take the reins of such a high-profile case. In time, he and his deputy would show themselves as capable as any in rising to the occasion.
Chapter 24
November 19, 1973
On Monday morning, Sandra should have been getting ready for school, blow-drying her hair to a shine, eating a Pop-Tart, then giggling through the school hallways with friends. Instead, she was escorted back to the police station by Vinson for a meeting with a woman who would develop a composite sketch of each perpetrator based on Sandra’s descriptions.
The sketch artist immediately put Sandra at ease, asking which movies she’d seen and discovering that they shared a fondness for The Brady Bunch. Sandra was also relieved that the lady didn’t require her to relive the horrors she endured. “Just tell me everything you can remember about what each man looked like.” The work was more grueling than Sandra had anticipated. The lady pulled out some reference photos; each one had a slightly different nose or mouth, whichever feature Sandra was describing. Each trait she described brought back a spark of terror. She pored through the pictures until she found the feature that most closely resembled the monster she was describing.
“No, the face needs to be a little thinner, right there,” Sandra pointed to the cheekbones of the Boss, and the sketch artist patiently made the adjustment, “and his hair was shorter on the sides and kind of spiky or wavy on top.” The only noise was the humming of overhead lights and the scratching sound of the pencil moving quickly across paper. After multiple adjustments, a hauntingly familiar face stared out from the paper. “Yes! That looks like him, that looks like the Boss,” Sandra exclaimed, her stomach clenched.
After a night of erratic slumber and a morning spent staring into the hand-drawn faces of the killers, she wanted nothing more than to sleep. There was no time for that. The case could grow cold. Sandra was loaded into a police vehicle and brought back to Gitchie Manitou. When she first heard about this plan, she nearly vomited.
“I can’t do it! I don’t want to see that campsite again or walk past the spot where Roger was killed! I know I can show you where everything happened on a map or something,” she pleaded.
Her protests waned when the detective explained the importance of the task. Having her firsthand account filmed at the scene of the crime could eventually be the key to getting the criminals convicted in court. She had to do this. For the boys. And so she did without further complaint. The ordeal proved so traumatic that Sandra blocked the entire incident from her memory until the film was eventually brought up in court almost a year later. She was shocked to recall that she had gone back to the park so soon after the murders.
Behind the scenes, Vinson, Griesse, and the detectives worked feverishly to consolidate the information that would be released to the press. By now, the Iowa Bureau of Investigation had also been called in to assist. Vinson jotted information on a brief memo that he’d later distribute to every officer working the case. Communication was vital. So far Vinson had assessed that everyone on this case was a team player. He intended to keep it that way by being forthcoming with information, delegating responsibility, and remaining neutral about the case’s only witness.
The latter choice would be the one divisive issue among the group. Nonetheless, Vinson and another detective had already mapped out possible locations for the farm and the abandoned house where the rape had occurred. The massive “hot zone,” as they referred to it, covered hundreds of miles of roads. Along with Sandra, they would drive along a predetermined course, working their way from the edge of Sioux Falls outward. Sandra had affirmed that she would definitely remember both places if she saw them again. A search of this zone could conceivably take weeks, yet it was one of the only leads they had to follow. Some of his fellow officers tried to dissuade him from pulling man hours away from the investigation to focus on a farm and abandoned house that they didn’t believe existed. Later that day, however, Vinson and another detective began the search by car along with Sandra’s help.
First, though, there was the issue of covertly transferring Sandra and her family to a safe house, where they would stay until the murderers were apprehended. The safe house was a small trailer that sat on a sparsely populated street in Sioux Falls. The house was furnished with only the bare necessities, and this is where the family stayed while the hunt for three ruthless killers went on around them. Unmarked police cars performed regular security checks of the trailer. Yet, there was mounting concern down at the police station that Sandra was withholding information.
There were divided opinions on Sandra’s credibility. Many officers had expressed concern either directly to Vinson or among each other in private conversations that Sandra knew the men, or at least one of the men who committed the murders. It seemed unlikely that everyone except her would have been murdered. And why had only one of the men raped her? The common consensus was that it was a scorned boyfriend. Otherwise, why would he let her go and drop her off at home? But Vinson and several others had a gut feeling about Sandra’s innocence. Either way, there was mounting pressure to find the killers, who were still at large. Already there was an outcry from the community to lock up these three supposed murderers running loose and dangerous.
While the detectives meticulously followed up on their limited clues, Sandra had another concern on her mind. She wanted to see the boys at the funeral home. Whenever the officer assigned to the safe house stopped in, she used her fiercest arguments, even breaking down into tears, to persuade him into letting her see the boys.
“I understand what you’re asking. But you have to know that our top priority is keeping you safe,” he explained sympathetically.
“I WILL be safe. You’ll be there, right?” she countered.
“It’s more complicated than that. There are too many people milling around the funeral home. If the killers are determined to eliminate you as a witness, that would be a prime opportunity for them. They could even be staking out the funeral home in hopes of following you back here.”
In the end, it was one argument that Sandra lost.
In spite of not being allowed a visit to the funeral home, Sandra was unrelenting in her requests to attend Roger’s funeral. She hounded her mother, then the officers assigned to the safe house, and finally to Sheriff Vinson. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll walk there by myself,” she said, determined to see Roger one last time.
The officers and Vinson tried to remain steadfast. There were three killers at large who were likely focused on disposing of the only remaining eyewitness. The public was already clamoring for arrests to be made, so they couldn’t chance losing another child. Sandra was persuasive, and in the end, Vinson couldn’t ignore her heartfelt pleas. He made arrangements that he thought were suitable to everyone. She would be allowed to attend the funeral but would sit in a small overflow room adjacent to the chapel. A heavy curtain that divided the two rooms would be shut, and a plainclothes officer would be nearby. As soon as the funeral was over, she’d have to leave. The detectives had a meeting to troubleshoot any potential problems that could occur. Everyone agreed that the plan seemed safe. So Vinson finalized all the details. All the details he could predict at that time.
Chapter 25
November 19, 1973
As medical exam
iners, Dr. Gessford and Dr. Schultz had performed their share of autopsies due to unusual causes of death. Yet conducting the autopsies of four grisly murders remained a difficult task. Their work involved setting aside emotions in order to collect facts, and both were experts at this methodical process. Even with extensive experience and training, Gessford and Schultz had to steel themselves for the examination of four teenage boys who’d been gunned down in their youth.
The day was emotionally exhausting, and at the end they reviewed the four separate reports they’d prepared. The doctors anticipated eventually being summoned to court and called on to explain and defend these reports in a challenging cross-examination. Both proceeded carefully, as always, double checking each notation.
Roger Essem, male, 17 years old. Multiple wounds to the head, face, upper chest, and arms. Seven exit wounds. Skull fractures. Brain wounds.
Stewart Baade, male, 18 years old. Wounds to the chest, abdomen, and right upper leg. Extensive wounds to the left hand. Large, gaping wound to middle of back and buttocks.
Mike Hadrath, male, 15 years old. Wounds to the upper left chest, left upper arm, left side of face, left hand, and wrist. Also shots to the back, buttocks, and legs. One of the pathologists reviewed the notes where he determined this had happened after the initial wounds and while the victim was likely lying face down on the ground.
Dana Baade, male, 14 years old. Wounds to the right chest, heart, and back.
The pathologists also removed what was later determined by ballistics experts to be #4 and double-ought buckshot from the bodies of Stew and Mike, #4 buckshot from Roger, and double-ought buckshot from Dana.
Chapter 26
Sandra thought that attending the funeral would provide some relief, some sense of closure. Instead, the pain intensified. A strangely unsettling woe tore at her insides. She’d never been a worrier; however, she both dreaded and yearned for the time of the funeral to arrive knowing it would be the last time she’d see Roger.
She rummaged through the clothes her mom had hastily packed. Fortunately there was an adequate amount of black clothing to choose from, and Sandra tugged and fussed with the fabric of her outfit in front of a cloudy mirror pocked with dark spots. She tried to put her hair up in an elegant bun, but she’d never worn her hair that way and the result was disastrous. She brushed her hair out again, choosing to wear it straight, the only way Roger had ever seen her.
An officer arrived at the safe house in an unmarked car with dark windows and instructed her to sit in the back. Arriving to the funeral at the same time as the other mourners, he drove around to an inconspicuous entrance. She’d barely exited the vehicle, when the side door opened, and she was hurried into a small, empty room with the curtain closed for her own protection. She wrinkled her nose at the sickly-sweet smell of funeral flowers.
Roger and the other boys had been popular. The funeral was packed to capacity with standing room only and mourners lined up out the door. Sandra couldn’t see anyone but could hear muffled conversations in hushed voices and occasional loud sobs. She stared into her lap and imagined people on the other side politely taking turns gazing mournfully at Roger before commenting to whoever was next to them about the beautiful flowers, then finding empty pews where they could dab at their eyes with wadded up tissues. Feeling as though she couldn’t bear the sadness or pain another minute, she ached for the service to start. Loneliness descended on her, and she forced herself to momentarily silence her trembling sobs. I can’t take this anymore! She wanted to feel the warmth of comforting arms, but bore the sorrow alone.
Sandra was unaware that not all the conversations were muffled. Beyond the decorum of the chapel, a relative of one of the slain boys loudly expressed disapproval of Sandra’s presence at the funeral. This person had the same misgivings as many in the police department that Sandra was lying about what had happened that ghastly night at Gitchie. Why would a cold-blooded killer drive her home and drop her off? Who was the real killer? Perhaps a jealous boyfriend?
The distraught relative caught word that Sandra was behind the curtain, and with emotions running high, went to find her. “You get the hell out of here! You know more than you’re telling the cops! I want her out of here!” the heart-broken relative screamed.
With her cover blown, Sandra had no choice but to leave Roger’s funeral without ever saying her final goodbye. It can’t get any worse! she thought. But it did.
For days details of the Gitchie murders topped headlines across the Midwest. Actual headlines read:
NO MOTIVE FOUND FOR 4 SLAYINGS; DESCRIPTIONS OF SUSPECTS RELEASED
FOUR AREA TEENS FOUND SLAIN IN PARK
This was followed by a description detailing the limited information the police had to share with the public. There wasn’t much to go on. Vinson had neither suspects nor any conclusive physical evidence that provided a trail to the murderers. The focus was on the three sketches, which would turn out to be remarkably accurate portrayals. Also, the police were asking for information about a Chevy fleet-side pickup, red and white in color with a white, wooden stock rack in the box, and a gun rack in the rear window. The windshield was cracked from left to the right center. As much as Sandra wanted to forget the horrible events that had occurred within, she had astonishingly remembered minute details, including the color of the inspection sticker in the lower corner of the windshield. And then there was the gas tank, standard farm equipment, but this one was red. In the tri-state area, an all-points bulletin was put out to law enforcement agencies. The artist’s renderings of the three murderers hit the newspapers, and this set the public on edge. Yet, after several days of grueling work, hardly a clue or lead had surfaced. Doubts about Sandra’s story mushroomed. She wasn’t allowed to return to school or leave the safe house unattended, and accusatory whispers spread among her classmates.
The scant information available indicated that the investigation should focus on Sandra. Homicides of this nature by strangers are rare in themselves, but in the small towns surrounding Gitchie Manitou where doors often remained unlocked even at night, the thought was preposterous. One detective returned from a long day of finding nothing but false leads and sat Sandra down. His bloodshot eyes revealed the strain of the investigation.
“Enough of this! You need to tell us what you really know.” His livid voice cut Sandra, adding to her feelings of helplessness. She’d told them everything she knew and had pushed herself to conjure up the horrible memories again and again and again, hoping to recall something to help the investigation. She’d endured pain beyond description, been removed from her home, her friends, her classmates, and now was being accused of covering up a violent crime. Her spirit was crushed. She wanted to stay in bed all day, still and silent with the covers pulled tight above her head to block out the light. A glimmer of hope came from knowing that Vinson believed in her.
The seasoned Lyon County Sheriff had a gut instinct that the girl was telling the truth about the unbelievable tale. He had built a reputation as a stern, headstrong sheriff who wasn’t afraid to demand or go against the grain in order to get the job done. He knew that being in charge sometimes involved making decisions or having opinions that wouldn’t make everyone happy. He had his focus, though, and was prepared to do everything in his power to solve this case. Every morning he and a detective picked Sandra up at the safe house and together they systematically wove their way down seemingly endless roads based on the map Vinson kept at his side. Each day more gravel, more tar roads to traverse. Since it had been dark and foggy the night of the murders and Sandra had never been to the area before, Vinson and another detective had developed a map that covered an immense area of potential locations for the farm and abandoned house.
Vinson refused to give up searching for the farm with a red gas tank. While they searched, he tried to keep Sandra’s spirits up by asking about her favorite foods, family, and fun memories while growing up. The conversations were a welcome diversion from the strain of the burden she was carr
ying and helped forge a bond between Sandra and the sheriff. For her own protection, she was not allowed to return to school or leave the safe house unless on official police business until the killers were in custody. So daily drives along miles of remote roads, past the dried remains of last summer’s cornfields and countless two-story white farm houses, gave Sandra a sense of purpose. She preferred it to sitting idly at the safe house with nothing to think about apart from the horrible night. What Vinson didn’t know was that this methodical search was laying the groundwork to unravel a bizarre tale of murder straight out of a horror movie.
On this day a detective from Sioux Falls rode with them as he occasionally did. Vinson was a careful observer of his surroundings, a necessary quality for anyone conducting an investigation and part of what made him a successful sheriff. He was also blessed with the ability to bestow deep compassion or to remain professionally detached, depending on the situation. His interactions with Sandra required the former. “Are you getting tired? Do you need to rest your eyes?” She shook her head no.
As they approached another farm, Vinson slowed the car and looked over at Sandra to get a read of her face. Her hopes soared every time a glimpse of an abandoned structure or a two-story white house came into view. She couldn’t believe how many of them dotted the countryside and had lost count days ago. She continued staring out the side window and shook her head. She slumped back in her seat and sighed. Giving up had never crossed her mind. The boys deserved her help, and she was the only eyewitness. It was up to her to identify the places the Boss had taken her that night. She was so unfamiliar with the area that she needed to stay focused on identifying recognizable buildings. They’d covered so much territory; shouldn’t they have found the place by now? After nearly two weeks of the search, hope for finding the farm was fading quickly.
