Tears gathered in my eyes. A kid acting stupid, angering another kid with a short fuse, leaving one dead and the other facing prison time. It’d be difficult to prove intent, but Jaxson must have known his punch was forceful enough to land his opponent on the ground. I filed the report and reviewed a few more, unable to let go of the sorrow I felt over Jaxson’s case and that Sawyer’s life had ended so unnecessarily.
It was nearly five o’clock that afternoon when Smoke and I met at the first of the three addresses where deputies hadn’t gotten an answer at the day before. As I pulled in behind him, I considered how startling it likely was for a homeowner to spot two squad cars in his driveway. It invoked the old, “Who died?” reaction.
A one-story, tidy rambler sat on an older farmstead site. The original house had fallen into disrepair and was torn down. An old barn still stood. As a young teen I remembered the newer house being built, about twenty years before. When farmers retired and sold their cropland, they often retained a few acres with the homestead and other buildings and lived there until they died or moved away.
According to Communications, the homeowner’s name was Floyd Myren. I didn’t know him personally, nor had I been called to his residence. I followed Smoke to the door and stood aside as he rang the bell. The only sound we heard inside the house was the bell’s tone. We waited a moment then Smoke pushed the bell again and rapped on the door a few times.
“Doesn’t appear to be home,” I said.
“I’ll have the evening car stop by.” We started back to our vehicles. “Did you happen to see a copy of the Oak Lea Daily News this afternoon?” he said.
“I didn’t.”
“The Coyote Bog bodies’ story made the front page. Chief Deputy Randolph has been fielding dozens of calls since the paper came out an hour ago.”
“I imagine. I saw people parked by the barricade the few times I drove County Seven to Thirty-five today. Like they are now,” I said.
“Yeah. When Highway gets back to work tomorrow, starts to rock and roll with their equipment, hopefully that will help keep ˊem away.”
“You think so? I’d bet it’ll bring more in. Folks will be watching, on the lookout to see if Highway finds another body.”
“You got a point there. So on to the next neighbor?” Smoke said.
“Sure.”
“It’s a pain in the butt the road’s closed. And a nice perk we get to drive around the barricades.” Smoke worked his eyebrows up and down.
“Agreed.”
No homes sat on the south side of County Road 35 for a mile west or a half mile east.
“Let’s head west to the next house and catch the other one on the way home,” he said.
“All righty.”
We got in our vehicles and drove to the nearest neighbor, about a quarter mile from Myren’s.
A middle-aged woman opened the door, her hand clenched in a fist above her heart and her eyes as round as a full moon when she uttered, “Yes?” at barely a whisper.
Smoke poked me in the back, indicating I should take the lead.
I smiled. “Afternoon, ma’am. Ms. Borgen, is it?”
“Yes. Did something bad happen to my son?”
“No, not that I’m aware of.” I studied her a second. “Sorry if we alarmed you. We’re here on another matter.”
When she let out a sigh of relief breath, it made me wonder if her son gave her cause for concern. On the other hand, I was not a troublemaker by nature, but my job duties gave my mother plenty to worry about.
“So what is it?” she said.
“You heard about the bodies found in Coyote Bog yesterday?”
She nodded. “I was gone all day, but I heard it on the news on the way home. I can hardly believe it.”
“We’re talking with area neighbors about any suspicious activity you may have observed by the swamp. Maybe someone was parked by the side of the road on that stretch, like a van, or a truck, an SUV, and it struck you as odd. Especially if it was after dark during low-traffic times.”
She glanced up like she was trying to pull a memory out of the air. “Hmm. Nothing that I recall. When people are pulled over to the side of the road and don’t have their flashers on, you don’t think all that much of it. You think they’re making a phone call or something.”
“It could have been some time back. Years, even,” I said.
She shook her head. “No. We haven’t lived here long, just two years, but nothing comes to mind.”
I nodded and pulled my memo pad, pen, and a business card from my breast pocket. “I’ll need your name and date of birth for my report.” She flinched slightly but gave me the information. I handed her the card and noted her discomfort. “And what’s your son’s name?”
It took a moment for her to tell me.
“Thanks. If you remember something, please give me a call.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, one other thing. Do you know Mister Myren, your neighbor to the east?” I said.
“I don’t. And I think he only lives there in the summer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“About the time we moved in, one of the other neighbors mentioned that he had retired and spent most of the year in Florida. I think he has someone looking after the place,” she said.
“You don’t know who that might be?” I said.
“No. When I drive by there on my way to work, I’ve seen a woman waiting to pull out of the driveway a few times.”
“What time is that?”
“Early in the morning, six-thirty, thereabouts,” she said.
“Do you remember what she drives?”
“It’s tan, maybe silver. Smaller car.”
“Ford, Chevy, a foreign make?” I said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know my cars very well.”
“Okay, we’ll catch up with her. Thanks for your time.”
When we reached our squad cars, I opened my door and with my back to Borgen’s house, quietly said, “Kind of odd, huh? First, she thinks something happened to her son, and then she doesn’t want to give up her ID.”
“Ya gotta wonder. With a little digging, we may uncover something about the two of them.”
“I’ll run her, check for warrants, before I leave here.”
“Sure. She gave us a lead about Myren, anyway. He’s the listed property owner and a woman seems to be looking after the place when he’s gone,” Smoke said.
“I’ll see if he has a listed phone number and try to get a hold of him that way,” I said.
“Good plan. Let’s check out that last place and call it a night.”
“Meet you there in a bit.” I climbed into my squad car, accessed the state system on my mobile data terminal, and typed in Mae Borgen’s name. She came back clean and clear. Not even a moving violation on her record.
The young couple at the newer two-story house reported they had not noticed any unusual activity by Coyote Bog in the three years they’d lived there. We recorded their information, thanked them, and took our leave.
On the walk back to our vehicles, Smoke said, “See you at home.” Home.
When I opened the kennel door to the backyard, Queenie and Rex begged for attention from Smoke and me, and then took off running and exploring. Smoke followed me to the deck where I plopped down on a chair to watch our dogs. He leaned over the deck’s railing, stretched, and pulled out his phone.
“I need to give Kenner a call, assure him that he and his family have our support. That’s about all we can give them right now.” He rolled through his contact list, hit the call button, and started pacing while he waited for Kenner to pick up.
That made it tough for me to sit. I moved to the side railing and found myself rocking back and forth, moving my weight from one leg to the next. My heart sank for the Kenners. Jaxson’s life had taken a nosedive into deep, dark waters and I wondered if he’d make it safely to the surface.
Smoke stopped abruptly and straightened his posture, like he was
standing at attention. “Mike? . . . Yeah, I’m here with Corky and we wanted to check in, see if you need anything. . . . Oh, you did? Okay, well, that’s good, good. . . . How’s your son holding up?. . . And what about the rest of you, your wife, other kids?” Smoke was silent for some time, shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again. “I’ll let you go. You know we’re here for you, anytime, whatever we can do.”
My phone rang as Smoke ended his call. “Hello, Mother.”
“Corinne, I can’t believe what happened. Jaxson Kenner got into a fight at school. The other boy hit his head on the pavement and died.”
“It’s awful. Smoke was just talking to the sheriff, offering the family our support.”
“Kenner bailed him out of jail,” Smoke said.
“Oh. Mother, did you hear Smoke?”
“I did. And I’m glad, for Jaxson’s sake. Denny told me, more than once, that he was worried about him, the way he’d get into little scrapes. Maybe because Denny thought it could lead to something like this.” Dennis Twardy, former sheriff.
“Sadly, it can. And does. As bad as I feel for Jaxson and his family, I feel way worse for the boy who died, and what his poor family must be going through.”
“Me too, dear. Like you said, especially for Sawyer Harris and his family,” she said.
I unbuttoned the top few buttons of my shirt to let in a little air. “Mom, sorry to cut you off, but I gotta get out of my uniform and figure out something for supper.”
“You don’t have to worry about supper. I have a big bowl of pasta salad—you know I always make too much. I’ll run some over, along with a meatloaf I’m about to take out of the oven.”
“You really don’t—”
“Of course I do. I made two meatloaves. You go get cleaned up and I’ll be over in ten minutes or so.”
“I guess if it will make you feel better,” I kidded.
She chuckled then disconnected. I turned to Smoke and shrugged. “Mother wants to feed us.”
“Thanks for not protesting too much.” Smoke’s lips lifted in a small grin then a shadow crossed his face, and his eyebrows drew together.
“So what did our sheriff say?” I said.
“It was hard for him to even talk. Or focus. He kind of rambled on about how he wishes he could fix things, start yesterday over again, bring the boy Sawyer back to life. I gotta say I’m pretty damn worried about him.”
“With good reason. You’d expect him to feel that way, say those things. When tragedy strikes, people will do just about anything to make it go away.”
“Yeah, we’ve seen that enough. I guess it was the defeat in his voice that unnerved me. I’ve never heard that before,” Smoke said.
“Jaxson’s in a bad place and Sheriff knows the drill. That makes it much worse.”
“No doubt. Good thing his wife is a rock,” Smoke said.
“For sure. What about Jaxson? How’s he doing?”
“He won’t come out of his room.”
“Did Sheriff say anything about Sawyer?” I said.
“No, and I decided not to ask at this point.”
I glanced at the dogs, in pursuit of a squirrel. “Mother will be here in a minute and she told me to get cleaned up.”
“And we know you always do what she says,” he quipped.
Oh, the paradox. “Ha, ha. I try to, but when it comes to my job it’s my duty to follow what my boss tells me to do—not my mother.”
“The point of my comment.”
I ran upstairs and shed my uniform with a sigh of relief. My Kevlar vest was damp, so I hung it up to air dry. I stepped into the shower, wishing the distressing cares and concerns could be washed away as easily as the grime that clung to my skin. I towel-dried, dressed, and made it back downstairs seconds before Mother arrived.
When we heard her car in the driveway, Smoke went out through the garage and carried in the box she’d brought. “Kristen, this is a welcomed treat. Thank you.”
Mother was about to celebrate her fifty-third birthday but looked a decade younger. At least. She had stayed trim all her life and a mere sprinkle of wrinkles appeared when she smiled. It was a wonder she didn’t have deep frown lines with the way she fretted over me and my brother. And everyone else she loved.
She gave me a quick hug. “Enjoy.”
“You know we will,” I said.
Smoke touched her shoulder. “We surely will. Thanks again, Kristen.”
Mother smiled and scooted out the door.
Smoke took my hand and guided me to the food that sat on the counter. “We’re bound to feel better enjoying a delicious meal together.”
And we did. As we finished the last bites, Smoke said, “You should get your mother’s meatloaf recipe.”
“She doesn’t have one. She just throws things in and mixes it up.”
“Any idea what she throws in?” He leaned in closer, like he was coaxing a confession out of me.
“Sure, I’ve watched her a bunch of times. Ground beef, of course, an egg, oatmeal, milk, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, some herbs, like oregano and basil.”
Smoke chuckled. “Sounds like you know the recipe by heart.”
“The ingredients, yes. But I have no clue what the amounts are.” My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the display. “It’s Edberg.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Unusual for him to call after work.”
“Hey, Bob. What’s up?”
“Sergeant, hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“Not at all.”
“I wanted you to know the alarm clock cameras are set up in my mother’s bedroom, the kitchen, and living room. I did a photo inventory of her jewelry and valuables, and planted money in a few places. We’re good to go on the monitoring. If more stuff goes missing, we’ll see if Mom is moving it or one of the caregivers is taking it.”
“A good way to find out,” I said.
“With Mom’s health being what it is, it’s the only way. She got downright anxious when I asked if she was sure she hadn’t put her things somewhere else.”
“You know what? If it turns out she’s the one after all, you won’t need to tell her. When you see where she put them you can put them back where they belong.”
“Dementia’s the pits.”
Smoke and I chatted about Bob’s situation and things in my family as we cleaned up the dishes. We saved further discussions on the bog bodies’ investigation and the trouble Jaxson was in for another time. After he hung the dish towel on its hook, Smoke drew me into his arms. “I’m going to take Rex home for the night. With me being gone so much, no sense making it any easier for bad guys to break in and cart away all my belongings.”
I didn’t hide my disappointment. “It seems to me Rex thinks this is his second home. You can always install a security system, you know.”
He moved his hands to my shoulders and pulled back for a better look. “No doubt. And that’s part of the in-depth discussion we need to have another time.”
My heart did a flip-flop. “As in?”
“Our engagement, our future together.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I love you more than life itself.”
“Smoke, I—”
He put his finger to my lips. “I know, and it’ll be okay.” His endearing kiss dissipated my doubts and my fears, until it ended. He pecked the tip of my nose. “I’ll call you before I go to bed . . . unless you call me first.”
I nodded slightly. Queenie settled herself against my leg as we watched Smoke and Rex take their leave. “Is this the way it’s going to be, Queenie? Sometimes we stay together, sometimes we don’t? And then I act like a big, fat baby about it.”
When Queenie whined, I reached down and scratched her head. “Smoke says it’ll be okay and I have to believe him, right?” But the more I thought about the “in-depth discussion” Smoke wasn’t ready to have, the more keyed up I got. “Man alive, I need to go for a run, shake some of this tension loose.�
�� Queenie stuck her snoot in my thigh. “You’re off the hook tonight. And I’ll make it snappy.”
I slipped on my running shoes then headed to the office den where I stowed my off-duty Smith and Wesson in a safe. It was ready to go in its pancake holster and I attached it to the waistband of my shorts. After suffering a critical incident on a run, Smoke insisted I arm myself. And it was the smart thing to do. I’d been in danger any number of times and being armed gave me a measure of assurance.
Queenie whined and shook her head back and forth hopeful I’d change my mind. “Sorry, girl, not this time.”
I walked the tenth-of-a-mile length of driveway, turned right on the township road, broke into a brisk jogging pace, and breathed in the cool evening air as the sun dropped lower in the sky. I needed to keep my outlook positive. My life in general, and my life with Smoke in particular, was very good.
Granted, Smoke was still working through issues, like a failed past relationship that left him scarred and scared. And things about our commitment caused him unease: he’d been a friend of my parents in high school, I was twenty years younger, and we both served with the Winnebago County Sheriff and handled many cases together. But there was no canoodling on the job.
Although making detective was viewed by many as a promotion, Smoke and I technically held the same rank. He’d been a supervising sergeant prior to his assignment to the investigative unit some years back.
I ran past my mother’s old farmhouse—the same one that she, and her father before her, then John Carl and me after her, had all grown up in. She’d been gifted it when Gramps and Gram Brandt built a smaller rambler down the road. Gram had died several years before and as I passed their house, I prayed Gramps would make it safely through another night.
I reached the next crossroad and turned around for the return trip, sprinted a short distance, and then slowed down to what I estimated was an eight-minute-mile. I was home in record time.
Remains In Coyote Bog Page 8
