Dead of Winter

by Annelise Ryan

  “Mr. Paulsen,” I begin in a low, even voice, “I understand you’ve spent a lot of time looking for your girls.” I pause for a few seconds before continuing, studying his profile as he continues to stare out the window. “We’d be interested in knowing what you might have found.”

  This gets a reaction. His eyes, or at least the one I can see, narrow. A muscle in his cheek twitches, and to my surprise, he smiles, but it’s hard and brittle.

  “Now you want to know what I might have found?” he says bitterly. He turns and glares at Richmond. “The local cops won’t even take my calls anymore. They tell me they’re doing everything they can, and that I need to trust them to do their job.” He spits out a mirthless, sardonic laugh. “So much for trust. Look where it got me. One daughter dead and the other still missing.”

  Richmond’s hands flex on the steering wheel and he shifts nervously in his seat.

  “Mr. Paulsen,” I say quickly, “I understand why you might feel frustrated and angry.”

  Like a whirling dervish, he spins around beneath his shoulder belt and glares at me over the back of the seat. “Do you?” he snaps in a tightly controlled tone. The suddenness of his movement makes Richmond flinch, but to his credit, he maintains his grip on the wheel and keeps the car straight on the road.

  “How in the hell could you possibly understand what I’m feeling?” Paulsen continues, his voice oscillating like a sine wave. “Have you lost a child? Better yet, have you lost two children and a wife, all in the space of a year?”

  I open my mouth to say no, and to apologize, but before I can utter a word, he continues.

  “The gall of you people!” he says with such vehemence that a spray of spittle flies from his mouth, landing on the seat back. “You’re nothing but a worthless bunch of smug assholes, spewing out promising garbage, but not doing a damned thing!”

  Richmond has let off on the gas and I sense he is preparing to pull over, concerned that Paulsen is about to go ballistic. Desperate, I search for something to do or say that will calm the man, or at least break his building anger.

  “Your daughters were together,” I say quickly. “Liesel spoke of Lily.”

  Paulsen, whose mouth is opening in preparation for another blast, freezes suddenly, gaping at me. He blinks several times, and then closes his mouth with an audible clicking of his teeth. “What?” he says after a few seconds.

  “Liesel was able to speak to the staff at the hospital,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster. Richmond is letting the car coast, and he looks from the road to Paulsen and back again, ready to pull over if necessary. “She mentioned Lily, said we needed to help her because he had her, too, referring to the man who brought her to the ER. So we have good reason not only to believe that Lily is alive, but that the man who was with Liesel might provide a lead to her.”

  Paulsen’s body sags, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

  I reach up and place a hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to do everything we can to find her,” I say. “We weren’t able to save Liesel, but we’re going to find Lily.” I say this with great determination, realizing as the words leave my mouth that I’m sticking my neck out, making a promise I don’t know I can keep. But my instincts tell me it’s time to go Scarlett O’Hara on this problem and not worry about other possibilities until tomorrow. For now, this is what Paulsen needs to hear.

  Tears leak from beneath the man’s closed lids, weaving a path down his cheeks. He turns back to face the front of the car, letting his head fall back against the headrest. I feel the car pick up speed, and glance at Richmond in the mirror. He gives me a slight nod.

  Even though I can’t see his face any longer, I feel Paulsen’s shoulder heave beneath my hand and know he is crying. I give him a small squeeze and then let go, sitting back in my own seat, letting him grieve in as much privacy as we can afford within the confines of the car.

  CHAPTER 11

  The remainder of our trip goes by without incident. By the time we pull into the underground garage of my office, Mr. Paulsen has regained his composure and is once again dry-eyed and stoic. As soon as Richmond parks the car, Paulsen releases his belt and climbs out. He stands there a moment, looking around the garage. Then he heads for the elevator, intuiting that this is the way he needs to go.

  Richmond and I exchange looks of relief and I hurry to catch up to Paulsen, walking alongside him. I summon the elevator and, once it arrives, we all step inside and I use my ID badge to access the first floor. I sent a text message to Izzy to let him know we were close when we were a few minutes out, so I know things will be ready for us.

  Our office doesn’t have drawers for the bodies. Instead, we have a large, walk-in refrigerator that will hold a half-dozen stretchers if necessary. We rarely have more than two or three bodies in there at one time. It isn’t an ideal spot for a family member to view a body, given the cold, the starkness of the interior, and the potential presence of other bodies. Nor is the autopsy suite, with all its equipment and smells. For moments such as this one, we have a small room that was originally designated to be a storage closet located just past the entrance to the library. Izzy had part of the wall knocked out and a viewing window put in years ago, and a curtain hangs on the inside of that window. Depending on the situation, a family member has the option of viewing the deceased from outside the room through the window, or entering the room and seeing the body up close. There is a chair just inside the door, and if a loved one is going to enter the room, we make sure the stretcher is wheeled in so that the head is near this chair and the door, in case a quick escape is needed or desired.

  Identification of a body in this manner is certainly not ideal, and we try to avoid it whenever possible. But in the case of Liesel Paulsen, all we have to go on is a driver’s license picture.

  I steer Mr. Paulsen with a light touch on his elbow to the viewing room, and we stop outside the closed door. Richmond hangs in the hallway several feet from us, within hearing distance but far enough away to give us a sense of privacy.

  “Mr. Paulsen,” I say, stepping between him and the door to the room, “we have several options. I texted our medical examiner regarding the moles you mentioned, and he confirmed their presence. He said that if you don’t want to look at Liesel, he’s comfortable enough making an identification based on that information and her DMV photo.”

  “I want to see her.” He was back in robotic mode.

  “Okay, then we still have a couple of options. You can look through the glass in this window”—I point toward the glass—“or at pictures we took. Or if you want, you can go into the room.”

  He looks back at me, surprisingly clear-eyed. “I want to go in,” he says without hesitation.

  “Then there are some things I would like to tell you before we go in. Dr. Rybarceski has performed an autopsy on Liesel, and because of that she has some incisions in her body.”

  “I know what gets done,” he says in a tight voice. “I’m a farmer, and we raised livestock.”

  “Yes, but this isn’t a cow or a pig. It’s your daughter. If you want to lower the sheets enough to see her body I won’t stop you. But I don’t recommend it.”

  He nods, but says nothing.

  “Also, I want to prepare you for the way her face looks. She has some bruising.”

  His breath hitches for a second and he squeezes his eyes closed. Then he opens them, looks at me, and says, “Let’s do this.”

  I turn and open the door. The room is equipped with a fluorescent fixture in the ceiling, and the harsh light from it is reflected off the white covering draped over the body on the stretcher. Once again, I steer Mr. Paulsen with a touch on his arm, and we stop at the head of the stretcher.

  “There is a chair behind you,” I say to him, taking hold of one corner of the covering. “If at any point you feel you need to, please sit down.”

  He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. His eyes are glued to the covering, and I sense that he has braced himself for
what’s to come.

  I grab the top edge of the cover and pull it back, revealing Liesel’s head and the tops of her bare shoulders. I position the drape just above her collarbone, not wanting to go lower and reveal the autopsy incision.

  The transformation on Paulsen’s face is stunning. In an instant, the craggy lines soften, the hard muscles relax, and his eyes widen, shining with both love and sadness. He tilts his head to one side and stares at his daughter, his lips quivering. “Oh, little Liesel,” he says with a sob. “How did this happen?” Tears flood his eyes and course down his face, dripping off his chin. I stand beside him, letting him look for as long as he wants.

  His cry is short-lived. The stoic farmer returns. “Can I touch her?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  Izzy has taken great care to hide as much of the scalp incision as possible, and despite the fact that I know Liesel’s facial skin was peeled off her skull to expose the bone so that Izzy could open it and remove her brain, she doesn’t look all that different from the way she did before the autopsy. Izzy has done some of his best work here, but despite it, Liesel Paulsen still looks dead. And I know she will also feel dead. I kind of hope Mr. Paulsen won’t touch his daughter. That cold, rubbery feel of dead skin can be devastating.

  Holding my breath, I watch as he reaches toward her with a tentative hand. He stops just short of her cheek, the hand hovering there for several seconds. Then he moves his hand a little to the side, caressing her hair where it lies on the cart beneath her. His eyes well up again, and he looks down the length of the covering, his fingers gently stroking through her hair, combing it. After a moment he sucks in a harsh breath, coughs, and quickly withdraws his hand. He swallows audibly, turns, and leaves the room.

  I follow him out into the hall, where he is doing his best to compose himself. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Paulsen,” I say.

  He nods, a spastic gesture, and sucks in a ragged breath. He lets it out slowly, and when he has fully exhaled, he looks at me. “Thank you,” he says.

  I almost blurt out “You’re welcome,” out of habit, but stop myself, realizing it would seem inappropriate. So I simply nod and say, “I really am so sorry for your loss.” There is a hitch in my voice, my own emotions roiling just below the surface as I struggle to maintain control. I can’t control it all, however, and tears well in my eyes. Mr. Paulsen sees this and manages half a smile.

  The moment is broken when my phone rings. I glance at the screen and see that it’s Hurley, but even though I’m dying to talk with him, I can’t bring myself to dismiss Mr. Paulsen so readily, so I swipe the screen to silence the ring and ignore the call. I glance down the hall at Richmond, who is still standing several feet away, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. He catches my eye and I give a sideways nod toward Mr. Paulsen. He catches my meaning right away, pushes away from the wall, and comes toward us.

  “Mr. Paulsen,” Richmond says in a soft voice, “if you’re up to it, I’d like to go over some things about the case with you. I know you feel let down by the police up until now, and that’s understandable, given what has happened. But I promise you that I’m devoting all of my time and energy to finding out who did this to Liesel, and finding your other daughter, Lily. Will you talk to me, tell me what you know?”

  Paulsen has the tired, cynical look of a man who’s been lied to, or, at the least, led on, one too many times. He studies Richmond’s face, weighing his sincerity. Richmond holds the man’s gaze unflinching, stalwart in his commitment. Apparently, Paulsen likes what he sees, because after a bit, he nods, smiles, and says, “Yes, I would like that.”

  “You can use the library,” I say, and Richmond nods. Then he cups Mr. Paulsen’s elbow and steers him in that direction.

  * * *

  As soon as they are out of earshot, I take out my phone and call Hurley.

  He answers with, “Are you back yet?” forgoing any formal greeting.

  “We are. We just finished with the identification. Richmond took Mr. Paulsen into the library to talk with him before he sends him back home.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “As much as I can be. Though I have a strong urge to go home and hug our kids right now.”

  Hurley makes a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. After a brief silence, he says, “I don’t know if it will help, but I have some good news.”

  “I could use it. We all could.”

  “I got lucky with the street cams and I found our guy. A camera caught him getting on I-90 westbound at the Deforest exit. It’s a great shot. I can not only see the guy driving, but I can see Liesel sitting next to him.”

  This is good news. “If he got onto the interstate there, the store where they got the candy bar might be somewhere near that exit,” I say. “Are there any little mom-and-pop convenience stores nearby?”

  “There is. I just called them and the woman who answered said they use the kind of stickers we found on that candy bar.”

  “I don’t suppose they have any security cameras,” I say, figuring that if they’re old-school when it comes to pricing and scanning, the odds of this are small.

  “As luck would have it, they do,” Hurley says, and I feel my heart give a little leap of hope. “They just had it installed. The owner told me her grandkids have been trying to shame her into upgrading her technology, and the security cameras were the first thing she agreed to. I’m about to head there now to take a look. Unless Richmond wants to do it.”

  “I suspect he might,” I say. “He’s definitely squirming with Mr. Paulsen.” I glance at my watch and see that it’s nearly three in the afternoon. “Let me go and talk to Richmond to see what he wants to do. I’ll call you right back.”

  “Okay.” With no further ado, he disconnects the call.

  * * *

  I find Richmond and Mr. Paulsen seated at the conference table in the library. I crook a finger at Richmond from the doorway, and he excuses himself for a moment, gets up, and joins me in the hall.

  “Hurley has some news about the case,” I say in a low voice. “He found the store where the candy bar came from and they have security cameras. He wants to know if he should go there, or if you want to.”

  Richmond looks like a man who’s just been given a death sentence reprieve. “I’ll go,” he says, sounding eager to escape. “Just as soon as I arrange for a uniformed officer to drive Mr. Paulsen home.”

  We enter the room together, and Richmond announces his plan for getting Paulsen home.

  “Actually,” Mr. Paulsen says, “I think I’ll stay here in town for the night. I’d like to be close by, in case . . .” He drifts off, leaving the obvious unstated.

  “I’ll have someone drive you to a motel, if you like,” Richmond says.

  Paulsen nods, his brow furrowed in thought. “I should have brought my car,” he mutters.

  “The local cab service will drive you anywhere you want in town for two-fifty,” I tell him. “And I’m sure that when you’re ready to go home, the police department will arrange transportation for you.” I give Richmond a questioning look.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “Let me make some calls.”

  “Will you call Hurley back?” I say, and he nods. He exits the room, leaving me alone with Mr. Paulsen. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Paulsen? A cup of coffee or a soda?”

  He shakes his head. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” He sighs, and then says, “What will happen to Liesel now?”

  I settle into a chair catty-corner from him. “You will need to make some funeral arrangements,” I say. “There are a couple of funeral homes here in town I can put you in touch with. They can make the necessary arrangements for you.”

  He nods, wincing a bit at the thought. He looks wretched and miserable, and it tears at my heart. I can only imagine the pain he is feeling, and I reach over to lay a comforting hand atop one of his.

  “Mr. Paulsen, I wish I had some magic words for you, something I could say that would make all this m
ore tolerable, or less painful for you. But I don’t. I can’t begin to fathom what you’re feeling, but even though the loss of Liesel must be ripping you apart inside, I want you to stay strong for Lily. There is hope for her still, and we aren’t giving up on her. In fact, we’re going to do everything in our power to find her.”

  To my surprise, he manages a wan smile. If he is aware that these comments are a slight backtracking from the confidence of my earlier ones, he doesn’t let on. “Thank you,” he says. “I don’t suppose . . .” He stops and looks away, swallowing hard. When he looks at me again, the sadness in his eyes has been replaced by a hard glint. “I mean, is there any chance that if they find this man who brought Liesel to the ER I could have a few minutes alone with him?”

  My hand is still on his and I pull it back slowly, licking my lips, stalling. While I understand where this emotion is coming from, the tone in his voice and the fierce look on his face are disturbing. Something primal and ugly is still roiling just beneath the surface in this man.

  “No, that isn’t going to happen,” I say carefully, trying not to sound judgmental. “Though I certainly understand the sentiment behind it.”

  He doesn’t look at all dissuaded by my comments.

  “You have to understand that the man in question may not have had anything to do with Liesel’s disappearance initially, or even with her condition when she arrived in the ER. He has some role in what happened to her, no doubt, but we suspect your daughters were both victims of a human-trafficking ring that is much bigger and more involved than this one man. He might be nothing more than an errand boy, someone’s lackey. So while I certainly understand your desire to see this man punished, it’s important to keep focused on the bigger issue.”

  Paulsen’s eyes narrow as I speak and he stares off into space, giving me the distinct impression that he is mentally exercising his revenge on some nondescript man. But when I’m done, he refocuses and his eyes soften. His shoulders sag, and I know that the moment has passed . . . for now.