Murder in Winnebago County

by Christine Husom

  “Your father will be sent to Hennepin County for autopsy,” Dr. Dahlgren explained.

  “No. I don’t want him touched . . . cut up like that.” Mrs. Moy was emphatic.

  “Clarice, we really should positively determine the cause of death, see if there was some other extenuating factor,” Mr. Bradshaw argued.

  She shook her head. “No. The coroner can make a ruling without an autopsy.”

  The medical personnel and Bradshaw looked to me for support. An autopsy was standard procedure in unnatural deaths, and I would have preferred an autopsy finding to a coroner’s report, but I believed it was Mrs. Moy’s decision.

  I excused myself and went back to the emergency exit door in B-Wing. I lifted five sets of readable fingerprints from the push bar, scraped caked blood from both the push bar and the linoleum floor, and gathered the IV needle, tube, and bed sheet from the judge’s room. I retrieved plastic and paper evidence bags from my briefcase, sealed the items in, and labeled them.

  Evidence. Of what, I had no clue.

  The night crew was halfway through their shift when I carried my armload of equipment and paraphernalia to my squad car. Bradshaw followed, holding an umbrella over me. Heavy drops of rain bounced off the pavement every few inches. When everything was secured in the trunk, I turned and thanked Bradshaw. He offered his hand.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Hopefully, we can answer the remaining questions when the alarm company checks out the system later today.”

  The rain striking my windshield, and the wipers clearing the drops, was having a hypnotic effect. Slip-slap, slip-slap. By the time I got home ten minutes later, I was obsessed with the need for sleep. After thirteen hours in uniform and tromping around in the rain, I needed a shower, but couldn’t face one more task tonight.

  I dragged myself through the kitchen and living room, then up the one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve steps to my loft bedroom. I removed the portable radio from my service belt and put it in its charger, then checked my Glock service weapon and stowed it in my maple bed stand, a routine I never varied. I dropped my service belt on the floor, stripped off my uniform in seconds, and crawled into my antique brass bed in my undies.

  My body ached from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes. The last thing I remember was stretching to the music of the raindrops dancing on my roof.

  4: Alvie

  Alvie plopped down on her La-Z-Boy and pushed back to elevate her feet. She lit a cigarette and dragged a long, deep inhale. A light-headed sensation, not unpleasant, forced her eyes closed for a moment. It had been a long time since she’d smoked—going on ten years. She quit right after little Rebecca came to her. She had loved smoking, and that night it seemed like the best way to celebrate her victory.

  She could not believe how easy it had been. With only three patients in B-Wing, nurses spent the majority of their time in one of the other two wings, or at the main desk writing on charts, and talking to doctors about orders. Figuring out where the nurses would be, and when, was the first part of the plan. She had watched enough CSI and Law and Order to know she had to be clever and thorough.

  It was a treat to be able to use her brain for a change. Cleaning the nursing home day after day was tedious and did not pose much of a mental challenge. Not that she was a genius, but she was smart enough. Alvie knew, deep down, she should have attended a technical school or college, gotten a degree, and had a real career. She still could. She’d have to see about that.

  The thing that had helped her the most was a trip to the library, where she consulted a Physician’s Desk Reference. The last time she had been in a library the card catalog system was in little file drawers. This time it was on computers. Rebecca had showed her a few things on the computer at home, but she had no idea how to look anything up on it. Instead, she casually looked around until she found the reference section. There was a Physician’s Desk Reference at each nurses’ station at the nursing home where she worked, but that was too risky. The nurses might wonder why a cleaning lady was reading about drugs.

  Alvie did not want to raise questions.

  She couldn’t believe all the drugs listed in that book. It was a little confusing trying to figure the thing out, but when she came across haloperidol, she recognized the name at once. The doctors had prescribed it for her brother Henry, who suffered from a personality disorder. Before then, she hadn’t been all that interested in what he took or how it worked. The doctors had said the medication would “stabilize him,” and she couldn’t argue with that.

  Alvie knew her brother was nuts. He was okay as a little boy, but by the time he was a teenager, the abuse finally got to him, and he snapped. He couldn’t put his mind in another place when it happened. Not like she could. It probably wasn’t so much the beating, or all the yelling her father did at them when he was drinking. It was the sex stuff their uncle did that was the hardest on both of them.

  As big a loser as her father was when he was alive, the worst thing he did was die and leave Alvie and Henry with Uncle who didn’t deserve to have a name.

  Alvie figured from his crying those nights that it hurt Henry more than it hurt her. She wanted to run away and take Henry with her, but she was young and really scared. She started hiding Henry the nights Uncle was around. At least she could escape to the pleasant palace of her dreams and concentrate on the beautiful things there. When she was there she couldn’t feel or hear—she only saw splendid sights.

  After Uncle died, she never went back to that place. Not once.

  Henry spent most of his adult life in state mental hospitals. They seemed to take good care of him and kept him as mentally stable as possible. The doctors tried a lot of different medicines and doses before they settled on haloperidol. Henry complained about the way he felt when he took it. He played little games, like hiding the pill under his tongue so he could spit it out later, or pretending to put it in his mouth while keeping it in his cupped palm, but the nurses were too smart for him. They had a whole hospital full of Henrys and knew all their tricks. They made sure Henry swallowed his pills.

  When most of the state hospitals closed in Minnesota, Alvie had to find a new home for Henry. He lived at a group home in Oak Lea. He seemed content there. The group home staff was as good as the hospital staff had been about making certain Henry took his medicine.

  Alvie picked up his prescription, along with any hygiene items he needed, at Butler Drug every month. He and Rebecca were the only living relatives Alvie knew about, and it was the least she could do. Alvie had to get stronger as Henry got weaker, and she still loved the little boy he had been once upon a time.

  The day before, when she’d picked up Henry’s prescription, she had simply removed an even number of ten tablets from the bottle before she delivered them to the group home. What a payoff for her monthly trips to the drugstore for Henry. It became the easiest part of the plan. Yes, she had gotten a phone call from the group home when they discovered there were only twenty tablets instead of thirty in the bottle, but after eight years of faithful delivery without a problem, why would they suspect she’d stolen the pills?

  Alvie got a call from the pharmacy, but they had no proof she had taken them. Yes, she was sure she hadn’t opened the bottle and spilled any, or given the bottle to someone else to deliver for her. They were quite positive they had not made such a gross error, and were very sorry if they had. They personally delivered ten more tablets to the group home, without charge.

  Deciding how to give the drug to the judge was the most difficult problem for Alvie. At first she considered posing as a nurse and giving him a tablet or two to swallow. But it seemed it would be easier, and safer, to crush and dissolve two tablets and add them to his IV bottle.

  The first night Rebecca was in the hospital, Alvie watched as one of the nurses punched in a series of numbers on a panel attached to the B-Wing emergency exit door, so she could step outside and have a cigarette without setting off the alarm.
The night after the judge was admitted, Alvie was prepared. She’d bought a pack of cigarettes and watched from her granddaughter’s room for the same nurse. When she saw her sometime later, Alvie stepped out of the room and told the nurse she was “dying for a smoke.” The nurse, helpful to a fault, asked Alvie to join her for one.

  Alvie watched the nurse punch in the code and memorized it by repeating four-six-one-eight-six to herself the entire time she pretended to smoke and listen to the nurse talk about nothing special. She jotted the numbers down on a piece of paper the minute she returned to Rebecca’s room. She didn’t think she would ever forget those precious numbers, but she couldn’t chance it, of course.

  That night, everything had fallen into place. Alvie had put together a large, somewhat complex jigsaw puzzle, designed by her for her son and granddaughter. Maybe she was a genius after all. She had crushed two haloperidol tablets at home, poured the contents into an empty pill bottle, and dropped it in her pants pocket. She checked in the mirror and there wasn’t a bulge. She kept a box of disposable latex gloves in her bathroom cupboard. Alvie figured she needed at least two pair, so she picked out eight gloves, just to be safe. Always err on the side of caution, one of her teachers had always said. Finally, Alvie knew what he meant. Be careful and plan well.

  She got to the hospital at six that evening. About eight thirty, she heard the nurse tell the judge in the room next door that she had a medication to help him sleep. Perfect. A little haloperidol mixed with a sleeping pill would make him putty in her hands.

  Alvie waited about twenty minutes, checked to make sure the coast was clear, slipped into the judge’s room, and quietly told him she needed to check his IV fluids. She stayed by the head of his bed so he couldn’t get a good look at her. But he was groggy anyway. In a matter of seconds, she unscrewed the cover and dumped in the drug. She gave the bottle a few quick swirls to mix it in and replaced the bottle in its holder.

  After the nurse completed the patient check just before ten o’clock, Alvie donned another pair of gloves, walked to the emergency exit door, and disarmed the alarm. She put a thin piece of wood in the door jamb so the door would not completely close. It was still raining, sometimes pouring down, so she got a large towel from her granddaughter’s room and put it on the protected landing outside the door. She put on the same turquoise hooded raincoat she had worn to the hospital. To protect her white work shoes, she pulled on heavy-duty plastic bags and secured them with rubber bands around her ankles.

  When Alvie saw no one was around, she returned to Judge Fenneman’s room, shook his arm to wake him, and simply told him to follow her. He didn’t even ask why. She helped him sit up and get off the end of the bed. His IV stand started to tip over, but Alvie caught it just in time. She removed the tape holding the needle in place, then pulled it out. She almost stopped what she was doing when the judge dropped his arm to his side and blood spilled from his vein and started dripping to the floor. It took a few seconds for Alvie to regain her composure.

  She gently, but firmly grasped the judge’s other arm. They walked the twenty or so feet to the door. She pushed it open and the judge grabbed the push bar for support when Alvie let go of his arm.

  Fenneman made some small sounds of protest as they tromped through the rain, but they got to the bottom of the hill without real incident. At the water’s edge, Alvie gave the old guy a push. It was over in no time.

  Alvie jogged up the hill with effort and stopped outside the back door. She slipped off the shoe bags, turned them inside out, and stashed them in her pocket. She wiped the raincoat down to remove most of the moisture and shrugged it off. She held her breath as she pulled the door open slightly. Still no one around. Alvie pulled out the door prop, reset the alarm, and sucked in a calming inhalation. She quickly and quietly made her way to Rebecca’s room. Rebecca was sound asleep, the gentle little puffs of her breathing creating the only stir in the otherwise silent room.

  Alvie willed her own breathing into pace with her granddaughter’s as she hung the coat back in the closet, removed her rubber gloves, and stuck them in the pocket with the bags. She disposed of the wet towel in the linen hamper in the hallway. Finally, she eased her large body onto a chair beside the bed and whispered that everything was getting better. At last, Rebecca’s father could begin to rest in peace. Final justice for the Justice.

  Alvie wondered if she should wait until they discovered the judge was gone or not. When her breathing finally slowed to normal, she reasoned it was best to fly the coop right away. With the raincoat flung over her arm, she walked casually to the main entrance. She was forced to say “goodnight” when the girl at the front desk looked at her. Alvie slipped on her coat and hurried to her car to the separate beats of the raindrops and her pounding heart.

  What a night. A glorious, glorious night. She was glad she had bought that pack of cigarettes the day before. She would put them to good use when she got home.

  5

  I was walking around, up and down winding hallways, trying to find the source of the alarm so I could shut it off. It would ring for a few seconds, then stop for a few. Ring, ring, ring, silence. When I finally stepped into near-consciousness, I realized my telephone had taken over my dream and irritated me out of my sleep.

  “Yes?” My voice was hoarse.

  “Are you still in bed, dear? It’s after nine.” My mother’s voice did nothing to cheer me after so little rest.

  “I worked late last night,” I croaked, my eyes closed, wanting to hold onto sleep.

  “So you probably heard that Judge Fenneman died? Drowned, of all things. I just can’t believe it.”

  “I know.”

  Falling back asleep would be impossible. I pushed myself into a sitting position, glanced at the blind covering my window, and saw sunlight poking through the slats. The rain had ended sometime in the past few hours.

  “It’s just so shocking. I mean, how could it have happened? I’ve got a casserole in the oven to take over to the Moy’s before I go to the shop.” Good ole Mom, slightly neurotic with a heart of gold.

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

  “Clarice Moy was so kind to us when your grandma died. I want to help a little now.”

  “You will. You did the same for her when her mother died,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, gosh, that’s right, her mother, too. It can’t be more than two years or so.” Mother was silent for a moment. “It’s your day off, isn’t it, dear? Gramps said you might go fishing.”

  “That was the plan, but I need to do an interview and file my reports first. I took the call on Judge Fenneman just before shift change and worked until about four this morning. I have to finish up.”

  I always hesitated talking to my mother about my job. Cop talk made her anxious.

  “Oh, you didn’t get enough sleep. I worry about you, dear. So how did Judge Fenneman get outside the hospital and drown?”

  I heard clanging noises in the background and envisioned her scampering around her old farmhouse pantry. My mother was perpetually doing at least two things at once.

  “That’s the question of the day. It’s a mystery.” I gave her a summary of the call and what the doctors surmised had happened.

  “How is poor Clarice Moy holding up?” she asked.

  “Distraught, but doing pretty well, considering.”

  “So you met Nicholas Bradshaw. Is he really as handsome as Clarice says?”

  Handsome? Had I met Nicholas Bradshaw under different circumstances, I probably would have stopped, dead in my tracks, and stared at him with my jaw resting on my chest. Long, lean, and muscular, somewhere in his thirties, with a tan earned doing some outdoor sport or activity was my guess. His large, warm hands gave just the right touch of comfort and support when needed. Chestnut brown hair, strong chin, straight nose, not too long, high forehead, and brown eyes that held intensity, suggesting he could see into your very soul.

  Handsome, Mother?

  I hoped my sig
h wasn’t audible. “He’s all right, I guess.”

  “Corinne, you set your standards way too high. You’ll never find a husband that way.” She hit the replay button where she had the same message stored and had played for me many times before.

  “He’s probably married—”

  “No, widowed,” she interrupted.

  “Oh.” Oh? Oh. Time to toss the ball back to her. “Anyway, Mother, I could say the same thing about your standards. Smoke asks about you all the time.”

  “You know he’s an old friend of your father’s and mine. He’s just being polite.”

  “Right, Mom.” It was impossible to win that argument with her.

  “I’d better get moving so I can be at the shop . . . oh, no. I’m supposed to open in forty-five minutes. Stop by for lunch if you can. Bye, dear.”

  “Later, Mom.”

  My mother owned a dress and accessory shop in Oak Lea, her home away from home. She would be fifty on her next birthday, and with all the worrying she did, she should have had deep creases in her face. Instead, she only had a little crinkle of crow’s feet by her eyes and was often mistaken for my sister. We didn’t look much alike, but we shared the same coloring and basic figure. Mom had begun to frost her ash blonde hair to “disguise the gray ones that have started to appear,” and kept her wavy hair chin-length and usually tucked behind her ears.

  I had highlighted my own hair for a few years, because it looked better. It was dishwater blonde and a little mousy without the lighter streaks. I did not inherit my mother’s natural curls and most often pulled my straight, shoulder-length bob into a ponytail or bun, especially when I was on duty.

  My mother was shapely without being matronly. She didn’t need to exercise to stay thin because she was in perpetual motion most waking hours. I preferred maintaining a balance between being busy and crashing someplace comfortable to read, watch a good movie or meditate. But it was important for me to stay strong and fit to do my job well, so I worked out in the department’s gym, did kickboxing, ran, and took ballet lessons—which I had managed to keep secret from the other Winnebago County deputies.