Murder in Winnebago County

by Christine Husom

  I had caught a glimpse of Marshall Kelton at Arthur’s memorial service, so I knew he was alive the previous afternoon. So Marshall had left the service, went home and killed himself? That was very, very peculiar. Was suicide something he had been thinking about for a while, and that night he’d snapped and done it? Maybe his life of partying and carrying on had taken a depressing turn, or gotten him into some trouble he couldn’t face.

  As I pulled into the driveway, I saw a man I guessed was Marshall’s brother sitting in a lawn chair with his head in his hands. A silver Suzuki sport utility vehicle screeched to a stop on the street, and Stefany, Marshall’s ex-wife, ran over to the man. He stood up, and they embraced and sobbed. Neither one seemed to notice me as I made my way to the house.

  Officer Dey was standing guard inside the front door. Oak Lea officers worked twelve-hour shifts, from either seven a.m. to seven p.m. or vice versa. Since he was the one securing the scene, he would be working until we cleared. Dey nodded at me and handed me a clipboard. I signed in. “Detective Dawes is waiting for you in the living room.”

  I pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

  “Winnebago County, Three forty?” Communications was calling.

  “Three forty,” Smoke answered.

  “The coroner is on his way from another call, ETA, zero seven thirty.”

  A closet on the right partnered with the opposite wall to provide an entryway for the townhouse. I walked the short distance past it to the open area and saw Smoke taking pictures of the body of Marshall Kelton. Kelton was in a sitting position on a couch, his head resting on his chest, drained of all color. His right hand was on his leg, a razor blade lying beside it. His left arm was dangling with dark, dried blood on his wrist and hand. The front of the couch and carpet were stained with the same.

  He had been dead for a while. Rigor mortis had come and gone.

  Smoke looked at me and shook his head. “Two lawyer suicides in less than a week? The prosecutor, and now the defender? You know how you can think of the dumbest things sometimes? I have spent the last few minutes feeling a little guilty for all the dead lawyer jokes I’ve told in my career.”

  I nodded and walked closer to Smoke, careful not to step on a book and a beer can lying on the floor by the end table. I noticed another can on the table next to a typed piece of paper. The television was turned on to a sports channel.

  “Think he was drunk?” I asked.

  “Not on two beers, and I don’t see any other empties lying around. They’ll do a blood alcohol with the other tests.”

  I walked around, taking in the scene. “He came home from the memorial service, drank beer, and sometime in the middle of watching a sports event on TV, cut his wrist and bled to death? Where was his brother when this happened?” I asked.

  Smoke glanced my way. “Spent the night at his girlfriend’s, came home to get ready for work, and found Marshall. He’s been outside since I got here. Big blow to him. Officer Dey had Communications call a chaplain to talk to him,” he said.

  “His ex-wife is out there, too. She got here right after me and seems as upset as Marshall’s brother.”

  “Did you talk to her?” I shook my head. Smoke set the camera next to his briefcase on the floor. “Okay. We’ll interview them when we finish up. Doc Melberg will be here any time now.”

  “I am here,” Melberg said as he entered the room. “You two again,” he offered in greeting.

  “I can’t say we’re too happy to see you, either, Doc,” Smoke said.

  “I get that a lot.” He moved to Marshall’s body and performed a brief exam and rigidity tests. “So, last week the prosecutor, and this week the public defender?” He leaned over to read the note on the end table, then moved his head back and forth several times, lost in thought.

  “They question the meaning of their lives, and we question the meaning of their deaths. We’ll send him to Hennepin for autopsy, check for contributing factors, but it appears he cut his own wrist,” Dr. Melberg concluded.

  “Doc, this is the first time I’ve seen a man kill himself by slashing his wrist,” Smoke said.

  “Very rare. I had one case a few years ago. The guy was in jail and took his safety razor apart during morning hygiene. When the officer came back to collect the used razors, they found him in his cell.”

  “Not in our jail?” I asked, thinking I’d remember that.

  “No, Meeker’s,” Melberg said, referring to our neighbor on the west. Melberg was the coroner for two other counties that neighbored Winnebago.

  “Contact me if you need anything,” Dr. Melberg said.

  Smoke nodded as he picked up his camera, and Melberg left without a goodbye.

  “You got any evidence bags on you?” Smoke asked.

  “One.”

  “Will you read me the note?” He pointed to the table.

  “‘This is the end of a big problem. Marshall Kelton.’ He makes it sound like Marshall Kelton is a big problem and his death ends it. One liner, typed, except the signature, like Arthur’s was.”

  “And makes about as much sense. Two lawyers, both used to doing a lot of talking, explaining, arguing, and they both leave one-line suicide notes that say nothing.”

  I slipped the note into an evidence bag. “Oooh.”

  “What is it?” Smoke looked around.

  “That awful feeling I’ve had with every death lately.”

  “The evil presence?”

  I nodded.

  Smoke shrugged. “I don’t feel it. Are you due for a vacation?” He looked at me with concern.

  I shook my head.

  “Days off?”

  “I have one more day, then off for three.”

  “Good.”

  “Smoke, look at this.”

  I pointed to the beer can on the end table. There was a white residue around the opening.

  Smoke found his glasses in his breast pocket and slipped them on. “Damn. Either this is one big coincidence, or there is something way beyond that going on here.”

  “You don’t mean like a suicide pact between Arthur and Marshall?”

  “I can’t speculate on anything, especially something that sounds so crazy when you say it out loud.”

  “Dawes, Aleckson.” We both turned at the sound of Sheriff Twardy’s voice. “Oh, for godsakes,” he said to Marshall’s body. “What in the Sam Hill is going on here?” he asked as if we could give him an answer. “Bud is outside talking to the brother and ex-wife. You talk to them yet?”

  “No, but we will shortly. We’re about done here,” Smoke relayed.

  “Anybody call Kelton’s office, tell them what happened?”

  Smoke looked at his watch. “No. Someone should be there about now if you want to send an officer to tell them.”

  Sheriff Twardy pulled out his cell phone and walked away as he dialed a number.

  Chief Bud Becker filled the room with his presence and his girth. “I saw Marshall Kelton yesterday at the service. Just goes to show you never know. His wife wants to see him before they pick him up.”

  The sheriff returned a minute later. “The chief deputy will walk over and give them the bad news, and tell them to keep it quiet for a while. They’ll have to figure out court—Monday is a busy day there. I don’t have to tell you that. You can talk to the folks at his office later. See if anyone knows what brought this on.”

  Smoke pulled an evidence bag from his jacket pocket and picked up the beer can. “Sheriff, see this?”

  The sheriff leaned forward and frowned at the can. “What is that? Same stuff as on Arthur’s soda can?”

  Smoke raised his eyebrows. “Lab tests will give us the answer to that. We don’t know what the residue on Arthur’s can was—no results back yet.”

  “What are you folks talking about?” Chief Becker asked, and Smoke told him we had found a similar looking residue on the can in Arthur’s vehicle on the day he died.

  “You think there’s a connection between the two suicides?” Beck
er asked.

  “I wouldn’t even want to say possibly at this point,” Smoke said.

  “For godsakes,” was all the sheriff added.

  Stefany Kelton came in clutching her ex-brother-in-law’s arm. I knew of them through casual conversations with Marshall, but had never met either one. Stefany was pretty, round, and maternal looking. Brock Kelton looked like he was related to Marshall, but was much younger and more physically fit. Marshall had kidded about the boring life his brother led, eating nutritious food, playing racquetball and tennis, and going to bed early almost every night.

  Stefany wailed at the sight of Marshall, and Brock gasped when she did. “Why would he do this when things were getting so much better?” Stefany asked.

  The sheriff directed us into the kitchen, away from the body and scene of the death.

  “You said things were better. How so?” Smoke asked Stefany.

  “We’ve been seeing a marriage counselor. Marshall was really pushing to get back together, and I wanted that, too, I just wasn’t quite ready,” Stefany choked out, her voice broken by sobs.

  Brock agreed. “He did a one eighty a few weeks ago and realized how much he had lost, you know, Stefany and the kids. I think he had a midlife crisis, myself, when he started all that running around.” Brock rubbed the back of his neck. “This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  That was becoming an all too familiar theme.

  “And the beer cans? He never—and I mean never—has more than one beer, or any other alcoholic drink. Even during his party hardy days, he usually stuck to colas.” I had assumed, like most people did, his colas were mixed drinks.

  “Was Marshall on any prescription medications?” I asked.

  “No,” Stefany and Brock answered together.

  “How about over-the-counter drugs for headaches, stomach aches”

  Stefany looked at Brock. “Not that I know of,” he said. “We can check the medicine cabinet, see if there’s anything new in there. But he didn’t complain of anything.”

  “To me, either,” Stefany said.

  “Chief Becker,” Officer Dey called from the entry.

  “Yeah?” the chief asked.

  “The chaplain, Pastor Boyd, is here.”

  “Ask him to wait outside in the front yard. We’ll be through here in a few minutes.”

  Smoke got back to the interview. “Was there a particular problem either of you were aware of that Marshall was dealing with? Any trouble he had gotten into recently?”

  “No, I already told you things were going the best they had in years,” Stefany said.

  “Take a look at this note.” Smoke reached toward me, and I handed over the evidence bag with the note.

  Stefany made no move to take the note. Brock’s hand was shaking as he slowly removed it from Smoke’s grasp. Stefany let go of another loud cry, an unnerving sound to our ears.

  “I don’t believe Marshall wrote this, and I don’t believe he killed himself. He told me everything, and if he had a problem, big or little, I would know about it. He may have made some dumb choices the past few years, but he wasn’t depressed. And if he had a problem—even a horrible one—he would face it, not commit suicide over it,” Brock said emphatically.

  “Chief,” Officer Dey called out again.

  “Yeah?” Chief Becker answered.

  “Anderson’s is here.”

  “Are you close to wrapping this up?” the chief asked Smoke.

  Smoke nodded. “One more question.”

  “Dey, you can send the Andersons in,” Becker said as he walked toward the living room.

  “Was Marshall close to Arthur Franz?” Smoke asked.

  “The prosecutor who just died?” Stefany spoke. “Close, as in friends?” She shook her head. “They’ve been on opposite sides of the courtroom for years. They got along fine, but I don’t think they ever saw each other outside of work.”

  Brock agreed. “No, Marshall was, you know, shocked Franz had killed himself, and felt terrible about it, but not in the same way he would for, you know, a close friend. He went to his memorial service yesterday—at least was planning to. I left around one and didn’t talk to him after that.” The impact of his own words hit him hard. He pulled his tee shirt up, covering his eyes, and sobbed.

  “Let’s go find the chaplain,” Sheriff Twardy said, once again leading us, this time to the back patio. Smoke appeared with Pastor Boyd a minute later.

  “What do we do next?” Brock wondered, looking at Chief Becker and Sheriff Twardy.

  “We’ll need an autopsy, then you can talk to Anderson’s, or whoever you choose, to make the arrangements,” the sheriff said, his voice low and steady.

  Chief Becker took over. “For now, spend some time with Pastor Boyd here. And call if you have any questions, or think of something else.”

  Chief Becker, Sheriff Twardy, and I followed Smoke to the side of the townhouse, where he stopped and turned to face us. “When I went to get the chaplain, guess who was talking to him and the Anderson brothers? Paul Moore. He’s pushing the line between reporter and fire chaser. And there must be another dozen people watching from the yard across the street.”

  “Nothing like a few squad cars and a hearse to get an audience. Paul’s a decent guy. I’ll find out what he’s up to,” Chief Becker said.

  When we reached the front yard, I glanced at the neighbors across the street then focused on Moore. Chief Becker marched over to him.

  “Geez, Paul, what are you doing here?”

  Our group stood like an army around the chief, the offense to anything Moore might say in defense.

  Paul held up his arms in surrender. “Hey, officers, no scare tactics, please. I’m not the only one.” He nodded his head and waved his hands toward the neighbors. “I live two blocks down. On my way to work, natural curiosity had me wondering what was going on. So, Chief Becker, are you ready to make a statement?” Paul asked, his pen poised above his pad.

  “Not yet, Paul. You know the ropes. There are people who need to be notified ahead of the press.”

  “Okay, somebody died here. So are you talking about next-of-kin? I know Marshall Kelton, the public defender, lives here with his brother. Is it one of them, or a visitor?”

  “Geez, Paul, shut up and quit fishin’. You’ll know soon enough,” Becker said.

  “In time for the evening edition?” Moore persisted.

  Chief Becker gave him a stern look in place of an answer and walked to the front door. The rest of us watched the Andersons roll their gurney, with Marshall Kelton’s enclosed body, to their transport van.

  “How late you want to work, Sergeant?” the sheriff asked, pulling me aside.

  “Not a double, sir, if I don’t have to.”

  Sheriff Twardy nodded. “I’ll have the chief deputy work on the schedule.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to talk to Bud. I’ll see you back at the department later on.” The sheriff shook his keys, fingering the one to his Crown Victoria.

  Smoke and I walked to our vehicles. “You have the feeling we’re being watched?” he chided.

  “We are being watched,” I countered.

  “And knowing you’re being watched is different from feeling you’re being watched?”

  “I guess. I don’t think I can analyze that right now, so give it a rest.” I sounded crabby, but didn’t apologize.

  “Look at that old blue Impala.” Smoke pointed to a car sitting a little over a block away on the opposite side of the street. “You don’t see many of those around, anymore. I had one like it about fifteen years ago, different color. Mine was brown.”

  “You didn’t get enough driving brown squad cars?” I asked.

  He smirked. “I got a good deal on it.”

  “That looks like the same car that was parked next to mine at the hospital the day I talked to Rebecca Eisner.” I noticed it because it was the second oldest car in the lot after mine. “It’s a strange place for someone to be sit
ting in their car reading the newspaper.”

  “Probably picking someone up. A lot of people in these townhouses are elderly and don’t drive. Or it could be another curious onlooker. Not many dramatic incidents in this town,” Smoke reminded me.

  “Until a few weeks ago. Oak Lea will be in competition with Wellspring if we don’t watch out.” Wellspring was a community on the western edge of the county and a magnet for lawless people.

  “I can’t say I look forward to that area of assignment.”

  The county was divided into six areas of service, and the detectives were rotated every three months.

  “But the untimely deaths here are not in the same category as the downright criminal behavior there.”

  “True.” I pointed to the Impala. “That car is backing into a driveway and turning around. Probably was just someone checking what was going on.”

  “Not much to watch, now Anderson’s is gone,” Smoke said. “Hey, I got this call before breakfast. You hungry?”

  I nodded. “More importantly, I haven’t had my morning coffee.”

  “Let’s grab a bite before we go to the public defender’s office. We might be there awhile.”

  We got into our separate vehicles, and I followed Smoke to Brookings, a local mom and pop restaurant. I thought back to the first death call I had had as a rookie. It was pretty gruesome, and I couldn’t eat for two days. Death calls continued to be difficult for me—especially when I knew the person—but they were a regular part of my job, and I had learned I needed to eat well to stay healthy.

  22: Alvie

  The detective and the little sergeant seemed to come out of nowhere, then stood and stared right at her for way too long. Alvie was parked a whole block and a half away. How had they even spotted her? Alvie was dripping wet with sweat thinking they would walk over to her car and talk to her. What if her mustache came unglued from all the perspiration running down her face and fell off? The little sergeant would probably have recognized her, even with the ball cap and sunglasses on. How would she have explained what she was doing sitting in her car, in that neighborhood, at that time of the day, dressed like a man?