Preying in Two Harbors

by Dennis Herschbach

  “If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it now. Otherwise, listen carefully to the following options: for benefits ­information, dial one; to inquire about services, two; for . . .” and the list went on. Finally, the recording came to the last choice, “For general information, dial zero.” She did as instructed and another recording came on. “We’re sorry,” the automated voice intoned. “All of our operators are currently busy. Your call will be answered in the order it was received. Thank you for your patience.” Canned music began to play, and Deidre began to rail at the computer.

  “Who says I’m being patient? Come on computer, let me talk to a real—”

  She was embarrassed when a voice broke into her rant. “You have reached the general information desk of the Veteran’s Administration Hospital in St. Cloud, Minnesota. My name is Lisa. How may I help you?”

  Deidre regained her composure, wondering if Lisa had heard what she had been saying to the computer voice. “Lisa, I’m the sheriff of Lake County, Minnesota, and I’m calling about a person who may have checked into your hospital yesterday. Can you help me?”

  She received the standard answer. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. What did you say your name is?”

  Deidre was becoming agitated. “I didn’t, but it’s Deidre Johnson.”

  The person on the other end of the call continued with her standard answer. “I’m sorry, Sheriff Johnson, but you must realize I can’t give out information about our patients. I can’t verify one way or the other if a person is registered at our facility.”

  Deidre was growing beyond agitated. “I’m well aware of that. I want you to connect me with the head of the hospital. On second thought, I’d settle for the director of the psych unit, even a head floor nurse would do.”

  “I’m sorry, without your going through proper channels, I’m not allowed to connect strangers to the people you request.”

  Deidre had had it. “Listen to me. This is a matter of utmost importance. I’m tired of your ‘I’m sorries.’ Connect me to someone I can talk to and get an answer, and do it now. If you hold up my investigation for one more second, Lisa,” she used the woman’s name like a club, “I’m going to call my congressperson and have her staff investigate why I can’t speak to whoever is in authority.” It was a bluff. She hardly knew the name of her congressperson, let alone how to reach her. The bluff worked.

  “I’m connecting you to our director of patient rights and quality control,” Lisa barked at Deidre. “She can tell you the same thing I just did, but perhaps she has the authority to back up my words. Thank you for your call.”

  Deidre felt a little sheepish for having lost her cool, but not much. The phone rang five times and a recording came on. “You have reached Julia Selga, Director of Patient Rights. I’m sorry, but I’m currently away from my desk right now or on another line. Please leave your name, number, and the nature of your call, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Deidre cursed into the phone, but calmed herself enough to leave a message. “This is Sheriff Deidre Johnson of Lake County, Minnesota, calling. It’s urgent that I talk to someone of authority at your facility concerning a possible patient with whom I have been in communication. I’m concerned for his mental state, and desperately need to locate him. I believe he may have registered at the hospital yesterday. If so, I feel it necessary to alert the staff to the fact that he may be of danger to them and to himself,” she lied, piling on the B.S. She gave her number and added a short closing. “I know the VA has been under congressional scrutiny as of late, and it would be a shame if something happened to this man out of neglect.”

  Deidre hit the disconnect button but kept talking. “And so, Ms. Selga, I suggest you get your ass out of the coffee room or wherever it is and return my call. Because, Ms. Selga, I’m fed up with being put on hold, talking to the operator who can only say, ‘I’m sorry,’ hearing that you are away from your desk or on another line—” Deidre’s diatribe was interrupted by her cell phone ringing. She looked at the caller ID and noticed the call was coming from a 320 area code. “Hello,” she answered. “Sheriff Johnson here.”

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff. This is Julia Selga returning your call. It sounded urgent, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to answer the phone directly. How may I help you?” The director had totally defused Deidre’s frustration by sounding as though she really cared.

  “I should be the one apologizing for being so abrupt. Too much bad has been happening in Lake County, and I’m afraid I’m becoming overly demanding.”

  Deidre had no idea why she opened herself up that way, but Julia answered, “That’s perfectly understandable with your stressful job. I’d like to help if I can.” Deidre realized she was being treated as though she were the patient. Julia’s tactical understanding worked.

  “Julia,” Deidre said, using the director’s given name. She, too, could play the psychological game. “Julia, we have a serious situation going on up here. Yesterday, we raided a compound where children were being abused. The leader has fled, and we have only an inkling of where he’s gone. We’re reasonably sure he’s been in contact with a militia group. The person I’m trying to locate, who I believe is a patient at the VA, stayed at the religious compound we raided. I’ve been told he’s seeking treatment at the VA. All I’m looking for is confirmation that he’s in your care and hasn’t run off to join the felon we’re after.” She took a deep breath, expecting to hear that Julia was really sorry.

  The line was silent for so long, Deidre thought Julia had hung up. “Let me check my computer,” the director said. Deidre could hardly believe her ears. “Sheriff, you have to agree that this conversation will go no further than this call. What I’m doing is highly irregular, but I imagine if I don’t help you now, I’ll be looking at a subpoena in a day or two. Let’s save each other the hassle.” Deidre didn’t tell her it probably wouldn’t have gone that far. “Tell me the name of the person.”

  “Jeremiah Rude,” Deidre said, and almost immediately got an answer from Julia. “No one by that name shows on our record.”

  A thought struck Deidre. “I suspected that name is an alias. Would you try Aaron Schoeneger?” In seconds, Julia came back with her answer. “Yes, Aaron was admitted yesterday, but I’m sorry, you can’t speak with him. Perhaps by next week he will be settled in and will be able to receive visitors. That’s the best I can do. Sorry.”

  Deidre heaved a sigh of relief, and for a moment had a feeling of joy that Aaron was going to be getting help. “Thank you so much for your assistance. You have no idea how relieved I am that Aaron will be treated. Please tell him that I wish him well and that I would like to visit with him soon. Thanks again.” Julia said goodbye and hung up.

  As she finished her ride home, Deidre thought, At least something good might come out of this mess. It was after six when she pulled into her driveway. She was almost too tired to think of eating.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Deidre felt as though she had been run over by a truck and left for roadkill. She and Ben had sat up until eleven thirty, discussing what Deidre’s next move would be. The women and children from The Sanctuary were being taken care of by Social Services, and Reverend Isaiah and the other men of the commune had made good their escape. Jeremiah Rude seemed to be coming to grips with reality. That left the unsolved crimes: the railroad sabotage, and of course, the murder of Justin Peters. Deidre voiced her concern to Ben that she didn’t believe things were going to calm down until she could find a link to those crimes and make an arrest.

  Now she was on her way into town, intending to spend the day in her office catching up on paperwork. Things didn’t work out that way. When she entered the sheriff’s office, two deputies were sitting at a desk with an elderly man who was obviously flustered. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes darted around the room. Before she could make out the co
nversation, she could hear that he spoke with a heavy German accent, and Deidre thought the man was near tears. One of the deputies looked up.

  “Sheriff, you’d better come listen to what Joseph has to say.” Deidre didn’t take time to even grab a cup of coffee and approached the group. “This is Joseph Feldmann. We were called to his residence at five o’clock this morning to investigate vandalism.” Deidre looked at the old man and wondered why anyone would want to single out someone like him.

  “What are we talking about?” she wanted to know. The deputy glanced at his notebook before speaking. Deidre thought he was stalling.

  Finally the deputy spoke. “We’re dealing with another hate crime. Spraypainted on his house were the words ‘Die Jew,’ and someone had drawn a swastika on his sidewalk. But that’s not the worst. A figure was hanged from a tree limb in his yard with a placard on it. In red paint was printed ‘Joseph Feldmann.’” Deidre was shocked, and felt a stab of pity for the old man sitting in the chair.

  “Joseph, will you step into my office for a minute? It’s private there, and we can talk.” she turned to the deputies. “Will you draw up your report on this? Go back to Joseph’s home and scour the area for any clues that may have been missed. After you’re reasonably sure you’ve got everything, call in a cleaning crew and have them take care of the mess on his house and in his yard. Be sure to wear gloves, cut down the effigy, and bring it into the lab so they can get a look at it.” Deidre led the way for Joseph and held the door to her office open for him. Inside, she offered him a chair, and Joseph eased his decrepit body into it. Deidre estimated him to be in his late seventies or early eighties.

  “So, Mr. Feldmann, do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  The old man shook his head, and then, speaking in his thickly accented voice, said, “I thought all this was over. Not here in America. Not here.” He continued to shake his head. Suddenly, Deidre knew what he meant.

  “Did you live in Germany?” she asked.

  The old man’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he answered. “Many, many years ago—with my parents.”

  “During the war?” Deidre asked. He looked at her through watery eyes. “Ya,” he answered, “During the var.” Without prompting, Joseph began to tell his story.

  “It was the summer of 1942, August, when German,” he pronounced it as ‘Churman,’ “soldiers broke into my parents’ home during the night. We were forced to leave in our nightclothes and go down to the street where we were herded into the back of a truck. I still remember the smell of the canvas-covered sides and top, the smell of exhaust, the smell of fear.” Deidre was engrossed in what Joseph was saying.

  “My two sisters, my father and mother, and me, all crowded into the back of this truck with twenty or so other Jews. I recognized them from our building. The road was rough and we were headed out of town. As we neared the city limits, a motorcycle pulled up alongside the truck and waved it down. The rider, dressed in an officer’s uniform, came to the back of the truck where I was leaning against the latched tailgate. He looked at me and said, ‘Get out!’ I looked at my parents and they nodded. My mother wept into her handkerchief, and Father stared straight ahead. I climbed out of the truck.” Joseph paused as though to catch his breath or to let his voice strengthen. He continued without prodding.

  “The officer drove away on his motorcycle, and I never saw him again. I have relived that moment over and over in my mind for seventy years. My only answer is he was an angel of God.” Joseph stopped talking and sat, wheezing while he stared at the floor. Finally Deidre broke the silence.

  “What happened to you?” she quietly asked.

  Joseph’s head jolted up. He had been so deep in thought, it was as if he had forgotten Deidre was in the room. “What happened to me?” he asked, echoing her words. “What happened to me? I walked back to my community and went to a Gentile neighbor’s apartment, a middle-aged couple with three children of their own. When Mrs. Bachman answered the door she said, ‘Mein Gott, es ist Joseph.’ My God, it’s Joseph. She took me in, and I became a part of their family, a fourth child. I know now what a risk it was for them. I don’t know how they kept the other children from giving away our secret. I was ten years old and small for my age. I looked very young and stayed home all of the time. I didn’t go outside for more than a year, and then for only a few minutes at a time.

  “After the war, I was sent to a displaced person’s camp, and was labeled a DP. I didn’t get out until 1948, when I was fourteen years old. I had no job, no skills, other than I could read and write well. I never heard from my mother, father, or sisters again. In the camp, I learned English, and made a few pennies translating letters from America for those who didn’t or couldn’t learn a new language. I began to write answering letters. In time, I became a very good writer.

  “When I was able to leave the camp, I had corresponded with a newspaperman in Superior, Wisconsin. You know, just across the bridge from Duluth. He operated a Jewish paper, printed in both Hebrew and English. He sponsored me and I came to America, thinking I was leaving all of the hatred behind.

  “But now this. I am an old man, too old to raise a finger, too old to care anymore.” Deidre looked at his sad face and knew that wasn’t true. All those memories Joseph had locked away for decades had been let out, and he was hurting. She groped for words.

  “Joseph, I’m so sorry. There are evil people in this world, always have been, probably always will be. But there are countless wonderful people, too. Remember the family that took you in? Remember the newspaperman who gave you your job? Remember all of your friends here in Two Harbors? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  He looked at her, his eyes blank and his voice thin. “Will you give me a ride home?” They rode in silence to his house, which was located just outside the city limits. It seemed like part of the city, but was in the jurisdiction of the county.

  “Mein Gott, was dast ist!” Joseph slipped back into his native tongue. The street was lined with parked cars. Two people were scrubbing the sidewalk, and three or four with power sanders were tackling the hate painted on Joseph’s house. Three tent awnings had been set up on his lawn, which looked as though it had been recently mowed. Under the canopies, tables had been set up, on each a bouquet of flowers. A gruff-looking man, a neighbor who Joseph had spoken to only a handful of times, came to the sheriff’s car and opened the passenger-side door.

  “Come on, Joseph. We’re having a party.” He helped Joseph from the car and steadied him as they walked to the yard. Joseph was confused by all the fuss, but Deidre had tears in her eyes as she drove away. In her rearview mirror, she saw a knot of neighbors gather around the tottering old man. He held his cap in his gnarled fingers and she could see a light breeze riffle his thin, gray hair.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Deidre tried not to be held in her own world of thought, but it didn’t work. During supper, her smiles had been forced, her conversation stilted, and her food tasteless. She couldn’t get out of her mind the vision of Joseph’s house so sadly defaced by painted ethnic slurs or the idea of him being hung in effigy in his own yard. On the other hand, the image of his neighbors cleaning up the mess and gathering around him made her throat constrict so she had difficulty swallowing. After dinner, Ben asked if there was anything he could do to help. Did she want to talk? Deidre shook her head, then made a decision.

  “I think I want to walk down by the river to our picnic spot. I need time to sit and think, to try to fit the pieces together. I’ve thought for quite some time that all of these crimes have been linked, although Reverend Isaiah’s group is not involved in them. That case is separate. Now I’m certain we are dealing with one group, a hate group. If you don’t mind, I need some time alone to sit in the peace and quiet of the woods and see if some kind of inspiration comes to me. Ben, dear, I’m just plain weary.”

 
Ben held his wife close, rocking her from side to side, comforting her. “I’ll make sure the girls tidy up the house before you get back. You go relax, but please, come back before dark. I don’t want you tripping over a rock or a root and spraining your ankle or doing a face plant.” He grinned. “Go unwind.”

  Deidre started down the path that led to their favorite spot by the river. She had a small tablet of paper in her hand and her cell phone, although she had contemplated leaving that at home. The electronic device had become too much a part of her to do that, and she tucked it into her pants pocket. The early evening air was still, and she spotted the leaves of a red maple beginning to change color. It was mid-August, but in the evening, the smell of autumn was beginning to creep in. The thought crossed her mind that the girls would be starting school with all of its activities in two weeks, and she wondered how the family would juggle the hectic schedule now that she was back at work. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so eager to get out of the house and rejoin the work force. Well, too late for that, she thought.

  She reached the picnic spot, found her favorite resting place under a sloping cedar tree, and sat down. The river was only feet away and she listened to its gurgling and splashing over the many exposed rocks. She closed her eyes and let nature calm her spirit. Eventually, Deidre came back to earth, and she opened her eyes to her surroundings, took out the notebook and a pencil and began to doodle. First, she listed the crimes and incidents in chronological order:

  1. Jason Peters’s murder.

  2. Jimmy O’Brian arrested for murder and drunken driving

  3. Reverend Isaiah preaches hate

  4. Jeremiah Rude comes to the area

  5. Train derailment

  6. Catholic Church defaced