“Corky, I was worried about you. Where are you?” Nick asked.
“The BCA.”
He paused for a second. “The what?”
“The Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in St. Paul. Smoke and I are here on business.”
“On your day off?” he asked.
“Yeah, I ended up working. Anyway, I won’t get home for a couple of hours.”
“Do we still have a date?” Nick asked, with concern in his voice.
“I want to see you, but I don’t think I can concentrate on a movie. Would you mind coming to my house? We can order take out,” I suggested.
“Sounds good to me. Call me when you get home.”
“Will do.”
Darin had obviously been eavesdropping. “A new boyfriend?” he asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“He doesn’t know what the BCA is.” Darin was an investigative diehard.
“Oh, well, not everyone does, I guess. Not that it’s any of your business, but we met recently and have had a few dates. You can’t really call him my boyfriend.”
Darin smiled and nodded. “If it doesn’t work out, will you keep me in mind? Elton has my numbers.”
“All right, ready to face rush-hour traffic, Corky?”
Smoke interrupted so I didn’t have to answer Darin. What would I have said?
“You’re driving.”
Smoke checked his notes. “So we’re waiting on the autopsy reports. Arthur’s should be done soon?”
Darin nodded.
“Any idea on the DNA?” he asked Darin.
“We’ll push for the first part of next week. Which reminds me, let me check with Shelly, see if she got a match on the prints.” He picked up his phone and dialed. “Shell, what ‘cha got? . . . Okay, later.” He shook his head. “The third set of prints isn’t on file. The attorneys, at least, were fingerprinted for their background checks when they got hired.”
The double-edged sword of using fingerprints to identify good guys: you only needed them if something bad happened to them.
“Damn. If his prints aren’t on file, chances are slim to none his DNA is either,” Smoke said.
“I’ll walk you out,” Darin offered.
Traffic was lighter than Smoke had predicted. He merged onto a westbound lane of Interstate 94. Friday, especially during the summer months, was an early shove day. Many offices closed by noon and a growing number of factories offered flexible work schedules to accommodate longer weekends.
“Smoke, any idea what the connection between Arthur and Marshall might be, who their mutual enemy is?”
“By connection, you mean aside from being lawyers?” he asked and I nodded. “You know we didn’t find any obvious answers going through their offices. Professionally, they were on opposite sides of the courtroom, so it’s probably not a client, unless someone had a reason to blame both sides. And what are the chances of that?”
Smoke pulled into the far left lane to get around a semi-truck going about forty-five miles an hour.
“The possible suspect’s fingerprints are not on file, so the killer hasn’t got a criminal history. When I called the sheriff from Darin’s office, I could tell he’s about ready to stroke out.” Smoke paused. “He doesn’t want to throw the people into a panic over this, but he’s a little nervous we could have a serial killer on our hands—one with no known criminal history.”
“No. Oh my gosh.”
“Exactly. Twardy’s preparing a memo for sheriff’s personnel and calling an emergency meeting for everyone in the county attorney’s and public defender’s offices tomorrow morning. Brass will be there. All deputies are invited, but not mandated.”
Saturday morning. “Isn’t Marshall’s funeral tomorrow?”
Smoke nodded. “Meeting’s at eight thirty, funeral’s at ten. Sheriff wants to brief the staff from the offices—but the lawyers, especially—to be on the lookout in case some psycho is out there gunning for ’em. We’ve never had anything even close to this before, so it’s anybody’s guess what we’re up against. Marshall was killed on the same day as Arthur’s service. Twardy doesn’t want a repeat performance.”
“I can’t believe this is happening in Winnebago County.”
My cell phone rang. The number was listed to Arthur Franz. “It’s Marion McIllvery. She must have seen my number on Caller ID. I tried her last night.”
“Okay. Tell her I want to talk to her.”
“Sergeant Aleckson,” I answered.
“Hi, it’s Marion McIllvery. I got back from Duluth a little while ago and saw you called.” She spoke quietly in a monotone, no emotion in her voice.
“I did. Thank you for calling me back. How are you doing with everything?” I asked.
“Not too good, but I’m hanging in there. Is that why you called, just to check?” she said.
I wished I was speaking to her face to face. “No, actually, I’m sorry. This is difficult for you, but, you heard about Marshall Kelton?”
“The public defender for Winnebago? Arthur’s mentioned him, of course. What about him?”
Was it possible she hadn’t heard Marshall had died? “You haven’t heard the news?”
“I haven’t listened to the news or read a newspaper since Arthur died. I couldn’t stand what they were saying about him,” Marion confessed, sadness gathering around her words.
I hadn’t counted on that and tapped Smoke’s arm. “Marion, I’m here with Detective Dawes, and he’d like to talk to you.” As I handed the phone to Smoke, I whispered what Marion had told me.
“Hello, Marion, Dawes here. Sergeant Aleckson tells me you haven’t heard what happened to Marshall Kelton. The only way to tell you is straight out. He’s dead.” Smoke paused to let the words sink in. “He died the same day as Arthur’s memorial service . . . I know . . . We don’t believe it is a coincidence . . . There is no easy way to say this. Will you do me a favor and sit down? . . . Okay. . . . We believe both Arthur and Marshall Kelton were murdered. . . . Marion, are you there?” Smoke held my cell to his chest. “It sounds like she dropped the phone.”
Smoke brought the phone back to his face. “Hello? Marion, are you there? . . . I know this is all a terrible shock.”
Smoke relayed what had transpired since my discovery that morning. “I hate to ask you this right now, but it’s important. Do you know of anything Arthur and Kelton may have been involved with that would have gotten them killed? . . . Nothing? . . . Well, take some time, think about it, we’ll talk to you tomorrow. . . . Are you going to be all right? . . . Will you call your friends to come and stay with you? . . . Okay.”
“What did she say?” I asked.
“‘Thank you, I knew he didn’t kill himself. Thank you.’ Now we just gotta figure out who did.”
“She didn’t know of a connection between Arthur and Marshall?”
“Nope, not outside the courtroom, at least. Same story we’ve been getting everywhere.”
31: Alvie
Alvie sat in the library parking lot across from the sheriff’s office at the courthouse. She faced the lake, with her back to the department, watching the comings and goings though her rear view mirror. When she first pulled in, she had seen the little sergeant’s classic car parked in the small lot with the police cars. Then, about an hour later, an unmarked police car parked next to it, and who got out but that ace detective, Dawes, and the little sergeant?
She knew detectives didn’t wear police outfits, but the sergeant had on a little tee shirt and a pair of jeans. Maybe there was something more going on between them they didn’t want people to know about. Hanky panky, probably.
The little sergeant got in her car and drove away, out toward where she lived. Good, not heading to the probation officer’s house like she did way too often, as far as Alvie was concerned. The detective went inside the sheriff’s department for a little while. Then when he got back in his car, he drove west. Alvie followed him. Hopefully he was going to his house and not the
little sergeant’s. Dawes had to go home sometime, didn’t he?
Alvie was glad there was a car between her and the detective, just in case he recognized her car from that one morning outside the public defender lawyer’s house. Dawes and the little sergeant had sure stared at her long enough that day. What were they so interested in, anyway?
The green car in front of her slowed down more than the detective did going around a curve, and Alvie was afraid she’d lose him. Good, he was still in sight.
They went past the Beebe Lake road, and Alvie smiled at the fond memory of what had happened there. Then past the little sergeant’s road and on about two more miles. She saw the detective’s right turn signal flash, and all three cars slowed down as he turned north on a blacktopped driveway. Must be doing pretty well for himself if he could afford to blacktop a long driveway like that. Alvie couldn’t see how long it was, exactly, because it went into a woods, but it looked pretty long. Maybe as long as hers.
Alvie kept driving. She’d find a hidden place to park someday soon, then hike back to the house and scope things out. As long as he didn’t have a dog, she’d be fine. If he did have a dog, she’d figure that out, too. The green car ahead of her was still driving west when Alvie took a U-turn at the next crossroad and headed back to Oak Lea.
She cruised past the Speiss house, cursing out loud when she saw the curtains were closed, a sure sign Speiss was gone. That woman was impossible. Maybe she was at the little sergeant’s house. No harm in checking. There was a field road down a ways from the little sergeant’s driveway. The place in the cornfield where she had parked for the Bebee Lake death was too far away, plus then she had to fix the row of corn she’d driven through. Too much work. Besides, with all the extra exercise she had been getting, her clothes were getting a little baggy, and she didn’t want to buy new ones.
It would soon be over. Another few weeks and three more people would have families wondering why they had killed themselves. When Alvie drove past the little sergeant’s house, she saw a car in the driveway, but it wasn’t the probation officer’s. Now what? Okay, well, she knew where the detective lived, probably. She’d find out for sure in the next few days if that was really his place.
Alvie didn’t know when that probation officer would get home, so the best thing to do was to drive to Rockwell to scope out Jason Browne’s place. His note was patiently waiting in her trunk, so he could die anytime. Is that okay with you, son, or does he have to be the last?
32
I was so happy to see Nick, I threw my arms around his neck and didn’t let go until he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I looked into his very handsome face, smiled, and shook my head.
“Okay then, wanna fool around?” He pulled me closer for a kiss.
I was beginning to discover life could be so ironic. I had begun the first serious relationship of my personal life when the most serious set of events was occurring in my professional life. I was on emotional and intellectual overload and wished the world would stop just long enough for me to process what I thought and how I felt. Important, critical things were happening. They were issues of life and death, and I didn’t want to make any mistakes.
I took Nick’s hand in mine and led him into the living room. “Nice place,” he said as he looked around the room done in navy and tan. “Couch looks comfy,” he teased.
“It is.” I gave his chest a little push. “The decorating is thanks to my mother. When I built my house, she made it her special project for two months, I swear. It seemed like every time the phone rang it was my mother asking me to meet her to check out colors, or fabrics, or fixtures.”
Nick laughed, and I reveled in the sound of it. “Hey, I wish I had a mother who cooked and decorated for me. When do I get to meet her?” he asked.
“If you’re up to it, my grandparents will be back from Nisswa next week, and my brother is coming from Colorado, so Mom is planning dinner. She’d love for you and Faith to come.”
“Sounds fun. Speaking of dinner, what do we have planned for tonight?” He followed me to the kitchen.
“Speaking of Mother, when I got home I found this note on the kitchen counter.” I handed it to him.
Nick read out loud, “‘Hello, dear, I tried a new chicken fettuccini recipe and it’s pretty good so I put a casserole in your fridge. I love you.’ Mmm, sounds better than take out.”
I scanned the contents of my refrigerator while the microwave heated the casserole. “I’ve got deli coleslaw or a bag of Caesar salad,” I said.
“Coleslaw is good.”
“Got it.” I pushed aside bottles of dressing, mustard, and plastic containers of unknown foodstuffs to look for beverages. “And to drink, I’ve got one cola, three flavors of mineral water, apple juice, or beer.”
“I’ll have a beer.”
I handed him the drink. “I suppose wine would be better with fettuccini, but I haven’t got any on hand.”
“Beer is fine, really.”
I glanced at the microwave. “There’s nine minutes left for the casserole, so let’s sit on the patio.”
We settled on the two lounge chairs my mother had found at a garage sale. “The air is sure fresh after that front moved through this morning and broke up the humidity,” Nick commented as he stretched his legs and took a sip of beer. “Tell me about your day. Someone call in sick, is that why you worked?”
The past day’s events were a movie running over and over in my mind, squeezing at my heart. It was possible word was leaking out about what we had discovered in the cornfield and by the lake that morning, but it wouldn’t be from me. As much as I wanted to talk to Nick, to tell him what we’d found and everything I’d learned at the BCA, I couldn’t. Not until the sheriff held his press conference.
I had to weigh my words carefully. “Some things happened in an investigation that I assisted with. I promise to tell you every detail as soon as I can.”
Nick reached over and put his hand over mine. “You look so burdened, that’s all. I wish I could help.”
“Your being here is a huge help.” The microwave beeped. “Let’s eat.”
The sheriff had arranged for a large conference room in the courthouse for the Saturday morning meeting. Everyone had orders to tell no one outside their offices about the gathering, and surprisingly, it seemed no one had. Smoke had worried reporters would be camped outside, trying to gain access to the closed meeting, but there were none.
I wasn’t scheduled to work until the afternoon shift, but I dressed in my full uniform for Marshall Kelton’s funeral. I walked into the conference room, amazed at the large number of people who filled the space to near capacity. Scanning the sea of faces, I saw Chief Bud Becker, Oak Lea police officers, most every staff member from both the public defender’s and the county attorney’s offices, plus nearly every deputy, detective, sergeant, lieutenant, captain and secretary in the sheriff’s department.
What had the sheriff put in the memo to get such a turnout? I hadn’t checked my e-mail. Smoke saw me in the back of the room and motioned for me to join him and the sheriff at the front table. The sheriff looked solemn, bordering on ill. He gave me a slight nod.
“Let’s get started,” Sheriff Twardy addressed the group. People around the room murmured, “shhh,” “quiet down,” “we’re starting.” Within seconds, the room was still.
“Thank you all for showing up on short notice. This has been a tough week for the county. We lost two very fine men, Arthur Franz and Marshall Kelton. We all tried to understand why in the hell they would kill themselves, and now we know they didn’t.” The sheriff got right to the point of the meeting.
Audible gasps were heard, along with whispers of “what?” The sheriff held up his hands to signal everyone to be quiet so he could go on. “Sergeant Aleckson is here to tell you what she found yesterday. Then she and Detective Dawes will fill in the gaps, and I’ll take it from there.”
The sheriff could have warned me. I wasn’t p
repared to speak. I hadn’t even written my report. But every detail of the previous day’s events had played so many times in my mind I believed they would be in my memory until the day I died. I pulled out the memo pad with my notes to reference, in case speaking in front of the group got the better of me. Speech had not been my favorite subject in high school. When I started talking, the words spilled from my mouth, beginning with spotting the downed cornstalks and ending with the findings at the BCA. I heard a gasp, sharp little intakes of breath here and there, but no one chatted while I spoke.
Smoke held his comments until I finished. “Now you know why you’re all here. Someone killed Arthur Franz and Marshall Kelton, and we need all the help we can get to find who that is. And because we don’t know who it is, or what his motive might be, we don’t know if anyone else is at risk.”
“Oh my God.” Barbara from the public defender’s office jumped up, stunned. “Are you saying someone will try to kill one of us?” Tears ran down her cheeks.
Sheriff Twardy raised his arms again, but people couldn’t stop talking among themselves. “Listen up!” he called. “This is exactly what we don’t need, to have you running around half-cocked, in a panic. You are all intelligent people or you wouldn’t have the jobs you do.”
“How can we help but be scared when you tell us something like this?” asked Julie Grimes—pale and tight-faced—from the county attorney’s office.
The sheriff didn’t answer for a moment. “It is natural to be concerned, of course. That’s why I want all of you in the loop, so you will be more aware of unusual circumstances or suspicious people. We have no reason to believe any of you are in danger, but until we find this nut, I will rest easier knowing you aren’t oblivious to the situation.”
“So what can we do?” Ray Collinwood, assistant county attorney, asked, his belly straining against his shirt.
Murder in Winnebago County Page 20
