Murder in Winnebago County

by Christine Husom

  Every death had a story. There had to be a very good reason for yours, Arthur, but what was it?

  I wish you could speak to me.

  29: Alvie

  Alvie was throwing her uniform into the washer in the basement. She didn’t know the little sergeant was there until Rebecca called down for her. There was no way she could have pretended not to be home at that point, so she went outside. That old GTO the little sergeant drove was older than Aleckson was. Alvie thought they were popular about the time Nolan was born, maybe a year or two before.

  The last thing she expected to come out of the little sergeant’s mouth was a question about that useless public defender. Ha, he was even more useless now. Why had Kelton written Nolan’s name on his desk calendar? She had seen him at Judge Fenneman’s funeral, but she didn’t know if Kelton had even seen her. What if he had? Would that be enough to make him write Nolan’s name? It didn’t make sense, and it was giving her a headache. A bad one.

  And the little sergeant showing up at every turn, but not smart enough to figure anything out. Lucky for both of them. Maybe she’d head into town after Rebecca fell asleep and drive by the Speiss house. If the little sergeant was there, Alvie could make it look like a murder-suicide. She had a special note in her trunk for that one, just in case. One of those nights, that Speiss woman would be home.

  Or maybe it would be better to wait until Speiss went to the little sergeant’s house for a visit. Fewer people around at Aleckson’s home in the country. It was kind of hard to figure out what the little sergeant’s work schedule was. Like that night, she came in regular clothes and her own car.

  Most of the time, she was in her fancy uniform—except the first time Alvie had met her, in the hospital. She was in regular clothes then, too. So was she really working, on duty, that night or not? Alvie had followed her once. She could follow her again if she had to.

  But the most important business at hand was handling the “suicides” of Sara Speiss, Elton Dawes, and Jason Browne. Alvie didn’t know where Dawes lived yet, but she had located Jason Browne. Jason and Ann Browne lived at 1402 Second Street Northwest, Rockwell. It was great satisfaction knowing he was married. She hoped he had kids, too.

  30

  After lazing around up north for a couple of days, I woke up early Friday morning full of energy. I changed into shorts and a tank top and fought heat and humidity on a run down my road. About a mile from my house, I was going past the rows of corn when I noticed some damage to them. Maybe some deer had found a place to make a home, surrounded by plenty of feed.

  I jumped across the narrow ditch and walked to the edge of the field to have a look. Up close, it was evident a vehicle had left the roadway and driven into the corn. It appeared an attempt had been made to resurrect the downed rows nearest the road, but inside stalks were broken, some half-standing, others lying on the ground. With all the places teenagers could park to make out, it seemed an unlikely spot for that.

  Tire tracks from a vehicle were captured in the dried mud, evidently made shortly after the last rainfall. That was about a week before. Near the tire tracks, I noticed a footprint, then another, and another, in between two rows of corn, leading in the direction of the lake. Curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to follow them. There was a public access on the other side of the lake, so why would someone park in that spot, damaging a farmer’s corn crop?

  The footprints, long and narrow, had been made by one person. I read Propet, a fairly common brand, left by the impressions of the shoe soles. I continued to the edge of the field, which ended about fifty feet from the lake. It was more challenging to pick out the footprints in the weedy area between the field and the lake, so I broke off a stick from a fallen branch and parted the weeds until I found one, then another, compelled beyond reason to see where they led.

  A few feet into the weeds, I discovered a little clearing made by someone. The brush had been pulled from the soil in an area of around three feet by four feet. There were two soda cans and a pile of cigarette butts stuck in the ground. I took a closer look: Camels. It was much too far from the lake to do casting for fish. Why would anyone sit there right after it had rained, when the ground was soft and muddy-wet?

  I noticed a pathway where the weeds had been stamped down leading toward the water, then veering to the left about six feet from the shore. I continued my expedition on the north side of the lake, around bushes and through the undergrowth, with a growing sense of dread. The last print, and the first one easily visible on the path, was the one Smoke and I had found next to Arthur’s car on the day he died.

  Dear Lord.

  I jogged back to the little clearing, careful not to step on the pathway. I took a quick last look at the cleared area and knew in my heart of hearts someone had been watching us the day we had worked to process Arthur’s death scene, and that sick person had killed Arthur.

  “You know, someone else did it and made it look like suicides.” I spoke my grandmother’s words out loud. They had seemed so unlikely the previous day, a fantastic speculation. But there I was standing in the middle of the indication her words could be true.

  My heart raced as I sprinted through the cornfield to the road. I sucked hard for air, and the sweat dripping in my eyes was burning and blinding. I couldn’t get home fast enough. Why had I left my cell phone there?

  I was panting, but there was no time to waste. They were predicting rain that afternoon.“Smoke.” Big breath. “Can you come to my house?” Another breath. “Now?”

  “What’s wrong, Corky? I can hardly understand you. Shit, are you in trouble?” His voice rose and I heard his chair move.

  “No, but I found something—evidence—on my run just now, and it’s serious.”

  “What?” he asked. “I have interviews scheduled about the forgery ring I’ve been trying to crack.”

  “This is more important. It’s about Arthur. I’ll tell you when you get here. Hurry.”

  I had to cool down and get out of my clinging clothes, so I hopped into a tepid shower, soaped and rinsed in about ninety seconds. I pulled on a tee shirt, denim capris, and my running shoes, then brushed my hair into a ponytail. I grabbed two bottles of water and was waiting by my garage when Smoke pulled in a few minutes later. I hopped in the squad car before he could get out.

  “What about Arthur?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you. Head north on Brandt about a mile.” We drove to the area in question and piled out of the vehicle. “Follow me.” And he did.

  Smoke looked at the cornfield, then at me. “What does this have to do with Arthur? It looks like kids parking here to make out, or maybe meeting to pull off a drug deal.”

  “I wondered about the same thing, but there’s more. Don’t think I’m nuts, but I think Arthur’s killer parked here.”

  “What?” Smoke was incredulous, his doubt evident in that single word. “You may not be crazy, but you must have heat stroke.”

  I ignored his comment. “Let’s keep going. See the footprints? They aren’t very evident once we get out of the corn field, but you can still find them.” We trekked to the cleared area. “Stand here and tell me what you see.”

  Smoke slowly turned a complete circle, his eyes focused. “Among other things, a clear view of the public landing on the other side of the lake.” He took a step back and looked down. “And from the number of butts lying there, he must have camped here for quite some time.”

  “Exactly. Do you know when they must have been made?”

  “I’m guessing the day Arthur died.” Smoke shrugged.

  “It has to be. Remember how it rained so hard the day before, then again the morning of? Well, it hasn’t rained since.”

  Smoke rubbed his forehead. “You’re right. Any prints made the day before would have been washed away that morning.”

  I pointed to the ground. “See how the footprints are going from, and coming to, this clearing? Come on.” I led the way to the bush where the last print had been left in
the mud.

  “Damn. We talked about this, even photographed it.” He stared at the footprint for a long minute.

  “I know, so why didn’t we see the rest of this before?”

  “For one thing, we weren’t looking for it. This one print, where there are no weeds, is obvious. The rest of them, until you get to the cleared area, then again in the cornfield, are pretty hidden. There was a signed suicide note, and supposedly no one knew where Arthur had lunch. What was there to think?”

  Smoke rattled off reasons, and I didn’t have a response.

  “This looks pretty suspicious, but there still could be any number of explanations,” Smoke said.

  “And what does your gut tell you?” I asked, knowing an officer’s intuition is often the best tool to start with.

  “We should start looking for Arthur’s killer.”

  I agreed. I believed it was not a coincidence I’d noticed the damaged cornfield and felt a compulsion to check it out. The night before I had sat by this lake, wishing Arthur could talk to me. It was as if he just had.

  “And Marshall’s killer?” I asked.

  Smoke nodded. “If Arthur was murdered, we probably just found a connection between the two deaths.”

  “They were killed by the same person who made them look like suicides?” I asked.

  “Seems that could be true.”

  “Exactly what my grandmother said yesterday.”

  Smoke raised his eyebrows. “No shit? She psychic?”

  “Sometimes I think so. But the question is why would anyone do something like that?”

  “To throw us off track so we don’t go looking for him. No murder, no need for a suspect,” Smoke threw out as an explanation.

  We both looked to the western sky when we heard thunder a long way off. “How would he get both Arthur and Marshall to sign the ‘suicide’ notes?” I asked.

  “God only knows—maybe a gun to the head, or another threat of some sort. May not have even known what they were signing.” My stomach churned, wondering if that was what had happened. “The sheriff needs to know about this right away.” Smoke grabbed his phone and punched in the number with urgency.

  Sheriff Twardy told Smoke he would send the mobile crime lab and some deputies to help process the scene. Smoke grabbed a pair of coveralls from his trunk and pulled them over his clothes. We got yellow crime scene tape, stakes, and a hammer from the squad car to enclose the areas in question to help define them in the photographs. The sheriff arrived ahead of the crime lab.

  “How on earth did you spot this, Sergeant?” Sheriff Twardy stood with his hands on his hips, scouting the scene.

  “I’m not sure, sir. It didn’t look right, and I was curious enough to check it out,” I told him.

  “Thank you for that. Good work.”

  The Winnebago County Sheriff’s Mobile Crime Unit, staffed with two deputies, pulled up just before the still air began to stir. Deputies Vince Weber and Mandy Zubinski got out. Weber was in his mid-thirties, with a square body and no neck. Zubinski was younger than me, with cropped auburn hair and a prominent nose. A Ford Explorer, Todd Mason’s personal vehicle, pulled up behind the crime lab. Todd and Brian Carlson jumped out, both wearing street clothes. The sheriff had called them in to help expedite the investigation.

  Darkening clouds rolled in, threatening to douse us with rain any minute. The sheriff was the chief law enforcement officer on site, but he turned the scene over to Smoke.

  “We have to work fast, ahead of the rain, so let’s divide this into three areas,” Smoke determined.

  The group was gathered on the road. Smoke jogged across the ditch and waved at the area. “Mason and Carlson, you take from the road to, and including, the parking area here.”

  We all followed Smoke, armed with evidence bags, cameras, measuring tapes, notebooks, and pens. The increasing humidity was stifling. There wasn’t a dry forehead or armpit in the group.

  “Weber and Zubinski, start here.” Smoke pointed to where the prints left the parking area. “And I want a cast taken of that print, unless you can find a better one than that.” He indicated the section with the cans and butts. “And you’ll process this cleared area.”

  “It looks like our guy was dumb enough to leave his DNA,” Deputy Mandy Zubinski observed, pointing to the cigarette butts and soda cans.

  “Unless his DNA’s not on file, or he’s arrogant enough to think we’ll never catch him on that,” Smoke said. “Okay, Corky, we’ll take the last leg. Any purchase receipts, bits of clothing, anything that hasn’t blown away by now. By the looks of how soft the soil was on the day of the death, something could easily be stuck in the mud.”

  We got down on our hands and knees and carefully examined the trail that led from the clearing to the public landing, gently moving the mix of clover, meadow hay, goldenrod, and other wild grasses. Smoke worked one side of the path, I worked the other.

  “Anything?” I asked, finding nothing on mine.

  “Not that I can see, but with the all the sweat dripping in my eyes, that isn’t saying much. I could use one of those headbands you runners wear.”

  I didn’t own one, but after that experience, I thought I might buy one.

  “When we get to the end, we’ll switch sides to double check each other.”

  We worked as quickly and carefully as possible, but came up with nothing new.

  “I can’t believe the rain held out,” I said as we walked back to join the other officers. The sheriff was nowhere in sight.

  “We can thank the Man Upstairs for that. Are you about wrapping up here?” Smoke asked the four deputies who had gathered by the parking area near the edge of the cornfield. “I think our luck with the storm front is about to run out.”

  Rain clouds, low in the dark gray sky, were almost overhead. Thunderheads rumbled, warning us to find shelter. A blast of air sent dust, bits of dry hay, and weed seeds swirling around us, first in one direction, then in another a nanosecond later. Carlson’s Minnesota Vikings ball cap blew off, and he scampered to retrieve it.

  Todd Mason nodded then raised his voice over the sound of the howling wind. “Everything is secure in the mobile unit. We’ll send the butts and cans to the BCA for analysis.”

  “Where’d Twardy go?” Smoke asked.

  “Back to the office. He said call, don’t radio, if you need anything,” Brian Carlson answered, securing his cap back on his head.

  Smoke nodded. “I’m going to check to see if one of you can drive the evidence down to St. Paul, save some time. Any takers?”

  All four nodded. Carlson said, “Yeah.”

  “Okay. And I’m sure the sheriff told you to keep this under your hats for a while. It will be up to him to make a statement when we figure out what in the hell we got going on here.”

  “So, if someone killed Arthur Franz, what about Marshall Kelton?” Zubinski asked.

  “We don’t know, but we’re going to find out a-sap. That’s why I want the results on the residue from the cans found with Franz and Kelton. We can compare them with the autopsy reports to see if the same chemical, or drug, is in both their systems.”

  Quarter-sized raindrops finally let loose from the clouds, pouring down, immediately drenching our clothes and bouncing off the vehicles. None of us were wearing rain gear, and we were all quickly soaked to the bone.

  “Let’s all meet in the sheriff’s office in thirty minutes for further instructions,” Smoke yelled as we ran for shelter.

  I hopped in the passenger seat of Smoke’s squad car.

  “You’re a mess,” Smoke said looking at me.

  Dry soil and brush had clung to my clothes and skin when we crawled around on the ground and the rain turned the dirt to mud. Smoke reached in the backseat and grabbed a towel.

  “Here.”

  I wiped my bare skin, cleaning up somewhat.

  “We’ll swing by your house so you can change before our meeting.”

  We made a mad dash for the house. I jumpe
d in the shower for the second time that morning, and Smoke used the half bath off the kitchen to get out of his coveralls and clean up.

  I found Smoke leaning against a counter in the kitchen, staring at nothing.

  “I talked to the sheriff—he’s expecting us. Hope you didn’t have any special plans for your day off.”

  I filled two glasses with water and handed one to Smoke. “No. This discovery pretty much puts everything else on the back burner. All I can think of is Arthur and Marshall. If they were murdered, who did it?”

  “And why?” Smoke added. “The only link we’ve found so far is they were both lawyers.” He looked out the window and downed his drink in one long gulp. “Seems like it let up a little, but I should have grabbed my raincoat out of my trunk.”

  “I have an umbrella my mother gave me. I’ve never used it,” I offered.

  “Nah, I’ll run.” He probably imagined it having a bright floral pattern.

  “Meet ’cha there,” I said and hopped in my GTO.

  Deputies Carlson and Mason were waiting in the corridor outside the sheriff’s office, pouring sodas down their throats. The heat and humidity had dehydrated us all. Smoke moved in front of the door to let the sheriff know we were there. Sheriff Twardy was pacing behind his desk and waved us in.

  “Where are Zubinski and Weber?” Sheriff Twardy asked.

  “Probably securing the crime lab in the garage. Should be here—”

  They walked in before Smoke could finish.

  “Close the door,” Twardy directed at Weber.

  The sheriff leaned over his desk and spoke in a hushed voice. “There are seven of us who know why the crime lab was out today. You are all trusted members of this department, and I don’t want even a whisper of this in anyone else’s ear until we know what in the hell happened. One day we got two suicides, the next day it looks like we got two murders. For godsakes, we don’t need a bunch of reporters crawling down our necks, or the public to be in a panic.” The sheriff’s voice was quiet and forceful.