A Death in Lionel's Woods

by Christine Husom

  “He was what I would call scrawny. I have heard the word sleazy, and I think that is another good word to describe him. He was of average height, perhaps five feet eight. And he was underweight, around one hundred forty. His light brown hair was thinning on the top, and he wore it very long. It was pulled back into a ponytail that hung many inches down his back. That autumn day was a fairly warm, and he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Oh, yes, and he had tattoos on both of his forearms.”

  “Do you remember what the tattoos looked like?” I said.

  Martin thought a moment then nodded. He patted his inside elbow. “On his right arm was a dragon with a long tail. It was in shades of blues, and purples, and greens. It ran from his wrist to his elbow.

  “On his left arm was a name. Norma. In capital letters. The word was a dark color with a light highlight around it. And the O was in the shape of a heart.”

  “Amazing memory, Martin. Tattoos are wonderful identifiers,” I said.

  His shoulders rose a bit and he gave an acknowledging nod.

  “And you haven’t seen this man since? He hasn’t contacted you to see if you changed your mind?” Smoke asked.

  “He has not. If he had, I would have reported him.”

  Smoke leaned forward slightly. “Why didn’t you report him last year?”

  “I was trying to mind my own business. But now I wish I had not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Do you have that photo you showed Pastor Joos? He described it to me, and shared the names on the back.”

  “No, I don’t. Not with me,” Smoke said.

  But I did. I pulled it out of my breast pocket and handed it to Martin. “Here you go.”

  He gently held the photo with the thumb and index finger of each hand. He stared for a time at the figures then turned it over and quietly uttered the names on the back. “Maisa, Lela, Sese, Georgia.” Tears were forming in Martin’s eyes when he looked up at Smoke and me. “I cannot help but think this woman may have been brought here from Georgia, and sold as a wife. And if these are her children, what has happened to them?”

  Smoke turned the ignition in his car. “I think Martin would make an astute investigator.”

  I pulled the seatbelt across myself and snapped it in place. “I thank God he was in the right place at the right time, and that Pastor Joos told Martin about the conversation Weber and I had with him. And that Martin felt led to follow up on it.”

  “Thank God is right. He’s given us one of the best leads we’ve had so far. We’ve used a lot of resources concentrating on the state of Georgia, instead of the country of.”

  “Looking back on it, if it is the country of Georgia, that seems to fit with their unusual names. But like you said the other day, we’re a melting-pot nation. And people name their kids all kinds of different and unusual names nowadays.

  “That’s true enough.”

  “There was no compelling reason to think country instead of state. It didn’t occur to me.”

  “Nor to me. Or anyone else, as it turns out,” Smoke said.

  “I had an inkling I should’ve looked up where the names Maisa, Sese, and Lela originated from when Reverend Joos said they weren’t Swiss names. But that was more out of curiosity than anything else.”

  “Good old twenty-twenty hindsight. You can look them up now, see if they are from that region.”

  “Will do.”

  “And we have a couple more names to check on, for a different reason. Fletch and Champ.”

  “Both of them have to be either nicknames or short for something, it sounds like.”

  “I’d say. I know some folks with the last name Champion. One of them went by Champ.”

  “Is he worth looking into on this deal?”

  “I don’t think so, but what the heck? Never hurts to check any possible leads. So Champ could be short for Champion, or Champlain, or other surnames that I can’t think of right now.”

  “Or it could be a title nickname, you know for some event he took first in. And Fletch is likely short for Fletcher, either as a first or last name.”

  “We’ll do a search both ways.”

  One of the things that weighed on me bubbled to the surface. “Smoke, Martin asked the same question we keep coming back to. Where are the children in the picture today? The thought of their mother being sold is downright depressing. If she is their mother, and my gut tells me she is.”

  “I’m thinking the same thing. The whole business is depressing. And it makes me mad as hell to think we might have people in our midst promoting that crap. And, according to Martin’s account of his encounter with Fletch, we do.”

  “Since Champ has a metro area code, they could be operating out of Minneapolis, but have a broad net, reaching out to more rural counties, like ours.”

  “It is possible,” Smoke said.

  “I don’t get it. We constantly see people taking advantage of others. Scamming them, stealing from them, getting them hooked on illegal drugs, on and on. Even murder. But human trafficking is taking a life in a way that seems much more painful than if they had just pulled the trigger.”

  “I’m not doubting such activities could be going on right under our noses, but aside from Martin’s story, we haven’t gotten any reports, or had any evidence surface that there are trafficking victims here. Or any solid reason to think Jane Doe was one of those women in the first place.”

  “I realize that, but it gives us a new avenue to explore.”

  “Yes, it does. And hope for possible resolve.” Smoke fiddled with the radio buttons until he found the oldies channel he liked to listen to. Paul McCartney was singing “Hey Jude.” Smoke lowered the volume then glanced at me. “So what are your plans for the weekend?”

  “Nothing too special. Some more computer research, maybe. I’ll take Queenie over to visit Gramps tomorrow, and it’s Sara’s turn to host our occasional movie and takeout tomorrow night. How about you?”

  “Meeting my brothers tomorrow night to catch up. The three of us try to get together every couple of months.”

  “You’re lucky they’re in the area and you can do that.”

  “Yup. Want to stop for some supper before I drop you off at home?”

  It was a tempting thought. “Thanks, but I can only leave Queenie alone in the house for so long.”

  When we pulled into my driveway, the first thing I noticed was Queenie was not in the house. She was sitting on the front step. “What the heck?” I mumbled, and jumped out of the car. Queenie started barking and ran to meet me.

  Smoke got out of the car. “How’d she get out?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Queenie yipped something that seemed to give the explanation, but I had no way of interpreting doggie talk. At least not about that incident.

  “Your door was locked, right?”

  I thought back to the moment before I left and had no memory of whether I had locked it, or not. “I always do that automatically. It’s possible I forgot, I guess.” I reached for the front doorknob and got the answer. It wasn’t locked. I pushed the door open, and Queenie and Smoke followed me inside. “I’ll call my mother. She may have stopped over, let Queenie out, and in her busyness hadn’t thought about putting her back in.”

  No, my mother had not been over and wondered why I was asking. My explanation was vague and brief before I disconnected.

  “The only other people who open my door without knocking are my grandparents, and they’re gone until spring. And Sara, maybe. But I talked to her late this afternoon, and she knew I’d be gone for that interview with Martin. And she had a date, anyway.”

  Smoke examined the lock. “No sign of it being jimmied.”

  I studied it myself. “No.”

  Smoke glanced around the living room. “Nothing turned upside down in here. Have a look around the other rooms. Make sure you didn’t get burgled.”

  I walked through the entire house and garage, and found nothing out
of place. “Just as I left it. Everything, except Queenie that is.”

  “We know she didn’t let herself out.”

  “It bugs me, but, no harm, no foul. I don’t use the front door all that often myself, and it’s usually locked. I’ll be sure to double-check it from now on.”

  Smoke opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again before he did.

  It was a good time to change the subject. “Hey, as long as you’re here, how about helping me eat some of my mother’s homemade lasagna? There’s a lot of it.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows rose.

  “Yeah, she dropped it off yesterday. She called me at work and told me to look in my fridge when I got home. She worries about the nutritional balance in my diet.” I grinned at that one.

  “I wonder why.”

  I poked Smoke in the ribs. “The lasagna was tasty last night, and it’ll be even better tonight.”

  “Because I’m here?”

  I smiled sweetly when I pretended to disagree. “Because the flavors have had another day to blend.”

  Smoke stayed until eight thirty, and then I settled in at my computer to see what I could find on human trafficking. The alerts the sheriff’s department got, from time to time, were generally cases regarding trafficking for the sex trade. Most often they were underage girls, and sometimes boys. A slew of investigators in the state spent a sizable chunk of their careers devoting forty hours, or more, a week tracking down johns who paid well for sexual favors from girls younger than their daughters or granddaughters. It was a job I knew I couldn’t do for long, and applauded those who did.

  We’d had a sixteen-year-old girl from Winnebago County who’d graduated from juvenile detention right onto the streets of Minneapolis, and ended up at the mercy of a pimp, doing everything he demanded. After we’d tracked her down, Smoke was instrumental in her rescue. Sadly, she’d run away from home again, and her parents hadn’t heard from her in over a year. She could be added to the missing persons’ statistics, if she wasn’t there already.

  A number of sex trafficking rings in Minneapolis and St. Paul had been uncovered in recent years, and the guilty were arrested and prosecuted. They were generally people from Minnesota enslaving others in Minnesota. A man I had gone through college, and police skills training with was a St. Paul Police Department Officer, and served on the human trafficking task force. We talked from time to time. It was usually me picking his brain about something, asking about department policies and procedures, or congratulating him when I’d read about a successful arrest by their task force.

  He’d told me a few hair-raising stories about what the trafficked victims had gone through during their enslavements. Often the prostitutes had criminal records a mile long. Arrested, released, and back on the streets to begin the cycle all over again. But the ship was turning, and authorities were discovering the large majority of underage prostitutes were victims, not perpetrators. They weren’t turning tricks by choice.

  I considered how bringing someone in from another country for illicit purposes added another demented, and more complicated, aspect to the multi-faceted human trafficking crimes. They would first have to be smuggled into the United States.

  What the heck, I decided to give my St. Paul cop friend, Josh Adler, a call. He answered on the second ring. “Josh here. Talk loud.” The background noise was at a fever pitch.

  I spoke at close to a yell. “Josh, it’s Corky. Are you at a party?”

  “Corky, how are you? It is a party here. We’re at O’Gara’s. A buddy of mine is walking down the aisle next week, and the guys thought we’d better help him celebrate one last hurrah.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “What can I do you for? Wait, hold on a sec, I’m stepping outside.” The noise eased to a tolerable level, the party sounds replaced by moving traffic on the street.

  “Hey, I don’t want to pull you from your party. Give me a call sometime when you have a few minutes.”

  “At least give me a hint of what’s on your mind.”

  “Human trafficking and smuggling.”

  “Damn, you know I can talk about that all day, and all night. Is this more of your research, or are you investigating similar activities out there in Winnebago County?”

  “It’s possible we’ve got similar activities. Really, I don’t want to keep you, so give me a call whenever.”

  “I’m wondering how tomorrow looks for you. Have you got anything going on?” Josh said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m craving one of those juicy meatloaf sandwiches they have at The Sandwich Shop in your good old city of Oak Lea. Wanna meet for lunch?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to meet you, if you seriously will drive all the way out here for a sandwich.”

  “Besides the great sandwich, I wouldn’t mind catching up with you, and your life. It’s been a while.”

  I laughed. “Yes, it has. What’s good for you? Noon, one?”

  “Noon works. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I really appreciate this, Josh. Thanks. And have fun tonight.”

  “We’re working pretty hard at that, all right. I think fun is going to continue to happen.”

  I hung up smiling, happy I’d be seeing an old friend again. And one that had a lot of inside information we needed. I looked at the computer and realized I was too weary after the traumatic week to do any more research. A hot bath, pajamas, and a good book were more desirable choices on a dark and cloudy Friday night in November.

  7

  I suspected Gramps Brandt was at least as happy to see Queenie, as he was to see me, when we stopped by Saturday morning. I liked leaving Queenie at his house because it lifted his spirits. Gramps was doing less physical activity, and sitting more and more, disheartening for me, and aging for him. He was living proof of the “use it or lose it” adage. Gramps was a retired farmer who had thrived on hard physical labor most of his life.

  After my grandmother died a few years before, he’d lost interest in the things they’d enjoyed doing together, like swimming in an area lake in the summer, or the health club pool in the winter, or gardening, or agate hunting.

  I turned up the volume on the old-time music station he was listening to on the radio, and offered him my hands. “Come on, Gramps, let’s dance. I haven’t done a waltz since Mother’s party two months ago.”

  He smiled at Queenie, and told her, “My granddaughter has been trying to protect my feelings since she was a toddler. And I don’t think she has been able to pull the wool over my eyes even once.”

  I didn’t correct Gramps about pulling the wool over his eyes because he was right about the first part—I had always felt the need to protect his feelings. He was that kind of a man. One with deep, sensitive feelings.

  He locked his hands on mine in a strong grip. What he lacked in leg strength, he made up for in arm strength. “One, two, three,” I said then tugged. Gramps almost made it, but plopped back down before I had a good hold. “Okay, again. Ready, one, two, three.” He teetered a bit, but made it to standing that time.

  “It doesn’t seem like so long ago that you were a little girl and I was the one helping you.”

  “Gramps, you’ll always be the one helping me. Come on now, this is one of my favorite songs.” I put my hands on his waist, and he rested his on my shoulders. It was the position that gave me the most secure hold on him.

  Smoke had taught me to waltz several years before at one of my mother’s annual Labor Day parties. I had never been interested to learn until he pulled me off the sidelines, and into his arms. As time went on, and my feelings for Smoke deepened, that memory grew more precious. All too often, I’d let myself indulge in remembering the most intimate waltz we had shared the year before. The one that had raised eyebrows for all three of my grandparents, and made them question if there was something going on between the two of us, after all. There was, but Smoke had decided there shouldn’t be, which kept a potentially more intimate rela
tionship on the back burner. And in my daydreams.

  “My legs don’t work the way they used to. They’re all played out,” Gramps repeated the lament he uttered from time to time.

  I gave him an extra squeeze. “You’re doing fine. Your legs still have some play left in them.” We shuffled slowly around the living room through three songs with Queenie jumping around, thinking she was part of a fun game. It was a decent workout for Gramps’ legs, and for my biceps. Almost as good as fifty pushups.

  I locked my arm in his and guided him back to his chair. “Gramps, I was wondering if it’d be okay to leave Queenie here a while. I’m meeting one of my college friends for lunch.”

  “That’d be just fine.”

  “Can I make you a sandwich before I go?”

  “No, no. I had a big breakfast, thanks to your mother. She brought over bacon, eggs, and pancakes this morning. I won’t need to eat until supper. We’re mighty lucky she’s such a good cook.” Yes we were.

  Josh Adler was waiting by the door inside The Sandwich Shop when I got there. We embraced for a quick hug then he took a step back and studied my face. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.” He’d stopped to see me a few weeks after Eric died to offer his support.

  My right shoulder hitched up a bit. “Thanks. It’s still a struggle just getting out of bed some mornings.”

  “I’ve never had to go through anything like you did. so it’s hard to imagine. Granted, losing my wife to another guy was tough enough, but in a totally different way.”

  I nodded then grabbed his hand, and squeezed. “Let’s get our food.”

  We placed our order with Melanie, the teenager who worked there on weekends. She had trouble keeping her eyes off tall and muscular Josh long enough to write down what we told her. Then we grabbed bottles of water from the standing cooler, and found seats near the back of the room. There were patrons at three other tables. The deli did the bulk of its business during the week, so it was a relief not to have to wrestle for a table.