“Cover your backsides,” Smoke said.
“What do you mean?” a fairly new public defender asked. I didn’t know her name.
Smoke went on, “Normal safety rules—keep your doors locked, don’t open up for strangers if you’re alone, stay away from isolated areas, pay attention to people you don’t know hanging around your neighborhoods . . .”
I didn’t hear the rest of Smoke’s words as panic gripped me. Sara. Someone had been in her home when she was away. And her neighbor had seen a stranger parked on her street earlier in the week. Was the same maniac who had killed Arthur and Marshall after one of my best friends, too? But why?
When I tuned back in, the sheriff was talking, “. . . and we need your help. If you can think of anyone who made a threat, real or implied, to Franz or Kelton, or if you know of anything they were involved with that would have gotten them killed, you aren’t doing anybody any favors by keeping it to yourselves.”
No one answered. We were still at square one.
Sheriff Twardy gave everyone a few more minutes to think, then said, “I’ll be holding a press conference this afternoon, and any leaks before then will be grounds for immediate dismissal if you’re in the sheriff’s department. I can’t order you folks in the other offices to do the same, but I’m asking you to keep this confidential ’til then. Show Marshall Kelton’s family some respect and let them get through his service then I’ll talk to them before we go public with this information.”
The sheriff consulted his watch. “The service begins in twenty minutes, so this meeting is over. Remember what I said.”
I didn’t think anyone would be forgetting anytime soon.
33: Alvie
By the time she got to the traitor’s house, the sun had set and it was dark in the house. There was one small light on in the living room, and it looked to Alvie like no one was home. The perfect set-up. She could have a good look around and make her plans.
Jason Browne lived in a rambler on a street with a bunch of other ramblers that looked about the same. Alvie had her man disguise on. She walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell, just in case someone really was home. No one answered, so she tried the door. Locked. She went around to the back door. Also locked. Okay, so it wasn’t going to be quite as easy as she had hoped. Then she noticed the kitchen window was open a crack, and the screen came off from the outside. What luck after all.
The window was about four feet by five feet, plenty big for her to crawl through with no problem. Once inside, Alvie looked around. Small, but a pretty nice place, better than the traitor Jason deserved, that’s for damn sure. It was even neat and clean.
Alvie patted her pocket, double-checking to be sure her gun was there. She had to be prepared in case someone came home. She pulled her mini flashlight out of another pocket. She couldn’t be turning on all the lights and let everyone know she was there. Alvie continued her exploration of the house and made an exciting discovery in the spare bedroom. There was a gun cabinet with seven long guns, shotguns or rifles. Alvie really didn’t know the difference. The doors were locked, but the drawer underneath them wasn’t, and what was inside but two old pistols? They looked like antiques, but they probably still worked. Where would the traitor keep the bullets?
Alvie nosed around and found a box filled with all kinds of shotgun shells and bullets under the bed in the master bedroom, of all places. A regular treasure trove, loaded with all she needed to take care of the traitor, and his wife too, if she got in the way. Alvie looked through the box and picked up the one she thought would fit in one of the revolvers. The damn thing spilled all over. Alvie had a heck of a time finding all the bullets in the thick carpet. Sometimes the latex gloves were real clumsy to work with.
She headed to the other room with the bullet and loaded it in the pistol. A perfect fit. Alvie figured the best thing to do would be to keep three or four of the bullets, so she would have them with her when she needed them. If she had to go fumbling around under the bed in the other room, it wouldn’t work. She replaced the gun in the case. They’d probably notice if it was missing.
Alvie waited a long time, but the traitor and his wife didn’t come home. Probably out having a high old time, something Nolan could never do. She decided it was better they were gone. It would give her a chance to better prepare for next time. Alvie packed the bullets next to the new murder-suicide note in the trunk of her car, ready for her next visit to the Browne household.
Suddenly, an all too familiar pain gripped her. Not that headache again! Why did she keep getting them lately? And, as if she didn’t have enough to think about, she’d have to pick up Henry’s prescription soon, and did she dare lift any more pills after the hoopla it had caused last time? It was not the kind of attention she needed at that particular time of her life.
So should she go back to the traitor’s house, maybe catch them when they were still in bed, or go to the funeral? Alvie wondered about it for a while. She had already had the satisfaction of seeing how broken up the public defender’s family had looked when they saw how he died, so why go to another funeral if she didn’t have to?
34
I tried to pay attention to what the priest was saying about Marshall Kelton, but found it nearly impossible with all that had transpired since the previous morning. I looked at Stefany Kelton and her children, then at Brock Kelton and the rest of the family members, and wondered how they would react to the news that Marshall had been murdered. How would I feel?
After the service, I headed to the squad room in the sheriff’s department and began my report on the cornfield and Beebe Lake investigation. A new deputy was running a criminal history check on a man he had just arrested. We made small talk for a few minutes. Sheriff Twardy planned to meet with the Keltons at one o’clock and wanted Smoke and me there, so I concentrated in earnest to finish my report before then.
At twelve thirty, Smoke came in and set a plate of food next to me. “You didn’t stay for the lunch, so I brought you some.”
“Thanks.”
The egg salad sandwiches, chips, and brownie hit the spot.
“How’s the report coming?” Smoke asked.
My mouth was full, but I said, “Just need to proof for good grammar.”
“I’ll do that. You eat.” He patted his breast pocket, located his glasses, then spent the next ten minutes reading. “No mistakes that I can see. Good synopsis, complete.”
Sheriff Twardy and Chief Bud Becker were in Stefany Kelton’s living room when Smoke and I arrived. Arthur Franz's death had occurred outside of Oak Lea, but Marshall Kelton had died within city limits, so Becker’s office would assist the sheriff’s department in any way they could. The adults gathered from the Kelton family included Stefany, Brock, his parents, and a sister. They sat quietly, shocked by the sheriff’s update on the circumstances of Marshall’s death.
“You know the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department will leave no stone unturned until we find out who is responsible for this horror. We don’t know why Arthur Franz and Marshall were targeted, so if you can think of any connection, anything Marshall mentioned, even in passing, that he and Franz were involved with outside of work . . .” the sheriff said.
Brock spoke first. “I was very close to Marshall. He was my best friend. When he talked about Arthur Franz, and that wasn’t often, it was in reference to work. He admired him professionally, but I don’t think they even had lunch together.”
Stefany shook her head. “No, I don’t think they did. Once, when we had a party, Marshall invited a few people from the county attorney’s office and included Arthur to be polite. But Marshall told me he knew Arthur wouldn’t come because he never socialized with people out here. He lived in one of the metro suburbs, Maple Grove or Plymouth, I think. Marshall thought he might be gay and didn’t want people out here to find out.”
Neither Stefany or Brock had thought of any personal connection between Marshall Kelton and Arthur Franz since we had first asked the
question the morning Kelton’s body was discovered.
“We don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’m sorry we had to meet like this right after the funeral, but . . .” Twardy looked at his watch “. . . I’m holding a press conference in an hour and wanted you to hear about it from me first.”
Sheriff Twardy stood on the front lawn outside the courthouse, the carved black letters of “Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department” visible over his head. His professional demeanor and interactions worked well with the public, and they showed their confidence in his administration by reelecting him every four years. Those who didn’t know the sheriff well might mistake his heightened facial color for a little too much sun. The rest of us worried about his blood pressure numbers.
Four major television stations from Minneapolis, one from St. Cloud, and another from Willmar had cameras and crews awaiting Twardy’s announcement. Several area radio stations were represented, including our local one. A man from Oak Lea’s government cable access channel had the best spot—front and center. There were at least twelve reporters and photographers gathered. Paul Moore, our local paper’s writer, was talking to Chief Bud Becker.
Vehicles passing by pulled over to see what was going on, and the courthouse lawn began to fill with people who detoured from wherever they were going to be part of the action.
Chief Becker and Smoke joined the two deputies who flanked the sheriff. From where I stood, Sheriff Twardy was barely visible behind the many microphones and cameras.
The sheriff began. “This will be brief. As you know, in the past ten days, two prominent attorneys in this county have died: Arthur Franz, Winnebago County Attorney, and Marshall Kelton, Chief Public Defender for the Tenth Judicial District. The initial belief in both cases was that they committed suicide. However, new evidence has emerged which leads us to believe they did not. We now consider both deaths as open homicide investigations . . .”
Electricity sparked through the air, igniting chatter so loud we could no longer hear the sheriff’s voice over the din.
Sheriff Twardy waited while the two guard-duty deputies stepped forward and held their hands up to demand quiet. After a minute, people quieted enough to hear the rest of the story.
“We have no suspect, or suspects, at this time and cannot begin to speculate why these men were killed. We have no reason to believe anyone else is at risk, but you should all be aware of this situation. If anyone has information on either death, please contact us. We will follow any and every lead to solve these heinous crimes as soon as we possibly can. Thank you. I’ll take a few questions.” The sheriff pointed to a gray-haired reporter from an area radio station.
“David Graham, KLLK Radio, Little Mountain. Sheriff Twardy, what evidence came forward that changed the two deaths from suicides to homicides?” he asked.
“I am not at liberty to give that information, as it could compromise the investigations. I will say we are in contact with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, and they’re working to process the evidence we do have.”
“Sir? Oh, Patricia Bolan, KARE-11 News. Sir, since both men killed were lawyers, do you have reason to believe other lawyers may be targeted as well?”
“We have no reason to believe that, no. But we cannot rule it out, either.”
“Sheriff Twardy, Paul Moore, Oak Lea Daily News. Then do you believe the suspect may be a serial killer?”
The sheriff’s face was beet red by then. “We cannot rule that out at this time.”
The crowd went wild with the realization there might be a serial killer in their own community. There hadn’t been a single murder in the county for three years, then there were two in ten days. Looking at the people clutching each other, animated in their distress, and reacting to sudden uncertainty, I felt a momentary helplessness.
It was my job to help keep these people safe from those who wanted to hurt them. But on that afternoon, standing with them on the courthouse lawn, it seemed like a formidable task, a challenge to the oath I had taken to protect and serve.
Chief Becker touched Sheriff Twardy on the shoulder, and the sheriff took a step back. Becker spoke into the microphone. “There is no reason to panic, folks, but keep your antennas up. This is my town, and by gum, we’ll work around the clock with the sheriff’s department to solve these cases.” He whispered something to the sheriff, and Twardy shook his head. Becker concluded, “That’s all for today. We’ll give you updates as soon as we can. Thank you.”
The two bodyguard deputies hustled the sheriff through the department door. Becker stayed behind, and people pushed in to talk to him, needing assurance, wanting more answers. Smoke caught my eyes and leaned his head slightly to the left. I followed him to his car.
“I’m going to have court administration do a search of all the court cases Franz and Kelton have had together,” he said.
“That could be in the thousands,” I said.
He shrugged. “We have to start somewhere.”
“But if the suspect doesn’t have a criminal history—” I started to argue.
“It could be a friend working in cohort with a criminal,” Smoke countered. “I found out Arthur Franz started here as an assistant county attorney eleven years ago, this month in fact. Kelton was here a few years before that. We’ll start with the most recent cases and work backward. Could be someone who was recently released from prison. Could be someone in for life who hired a killer.”
The scope of the investigation was spreading like a fire sweeping across a dry hay field.
I could almost see Smoke’s mental gears turning. “I’ll have the jail run a check to see if any of their inmates were on haloperidol while in custody, see where that leads. If we have to, we’ll get a search warrant for records from the area pharmacies.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
His eyes leveled on mine. “Do your job. And pray.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of that already.”
35: Alvie
Alvie parked two blocks away from Browne’s house. Not much happening in his neighborhood on a Saturday morning in July. She lifted a toolbox from the passenger seat and made her way to Jason’s back window. The box was empty, but she wanted to look official, in case any snoops happened to see her and wondered who she was. Alvie figured she looked like a regular fix-it guy with her coveralls, ball cap, and toolbox.
Her gun sat in her right hip pocket, ready for action, if she couldn’t get to Browne’s pistol on time.
The kitchen window was just like she had left it the past night. She put her ear to the crack and listened. Not a stir in the house. The Brownes could be sleeping, even though it was after nine. Alvie crawled in, closed the window behind her to keep any loud noises inside, and crept to the bedroom, gun in hand. She had seen on a show once where someone had shot through a pillow to cover the sound. That’s what she’d do.
Nobody home. Damn. She couldn’t keep showing up there. Someone was bound to see her one of the times. And Rebecca couldn’t stay at her friend’s house every night. She would start to wonder why her grandmother suddenly wanted her away so much, and what would Rebecca’s friend think?
No, Alvie couldn’t go back there until the next weekend. She’d have to work on the detective and probation officer in the coming week. One of them would pan out. She could sneak out during the night when Rebecca was sleeping if she had to. That was probably the only time she would find either one of those characters home.
Alvie drove about a half mile past the ace detective’s driveway and turned north on an unmarked, unpaved county road. She pulled over, her vehicle parked at an angle, half in a ditch. She crawled uphill to get out the driver’s side, then realized it would have been easier to slide out the passenger door.
The woods of mostly maple trees might have been a pasture at one time. The floor had since filled with sapling trees, ferns, and burning nettles. Alvie knew if the nettles touched her bare skin, she would go nearly crazy with the burnin
g, itching, and scratching. No need to crawl through the stuff. She could walk that leg of the journey to the detective’s house.
Alvie reached a clearing and spotted a log home all by itself, isolated from the rest of the world. It was sitting practically on top of a little lake, not much smaller than the one the county attorney had died at, but bigger than the pond the judge had died in.
Drowning. Another drowning. All the lakes and ponds in Minnesota were good for something. Alvie hadn’t known the detective would provide his own lake, complete with a dock he could fall off.
A big black dog Alvie figured was a lab came bounding around the house, in hot pursuit of a squirrel. The squirrel gave him chase for a minute, then scampered up a tree, yelling chatters to the dog below. The lab took several leaps around the base of the tree, answering the squirrel with barking threats, but the squirrel wouldn’t come down. The dog finally gave up and plopped down in the shade, his nose high in the air, sniffing.
Alvie’s heart pounded in her chest as she peered around a mature maple. A dog. Damn. Must not have picked up her scent, what with the little critters to keep it busy. She’d probably have to shoot the thing. But not then. There was no sign of the detective, anyway. Where was everybody? No Jason Browne, no Sara Speiss, no Detective Dawes.
One more try at the Speiss house, and if that didn’t work out, she’d take her headache and head home. No need to get so impatient, right, Nolan? It’s still over a month until your birthday. We can take a little extra time if we have to. Do things right.
Alvie hiked back to her car, stepping around the burning nettles. She decided to wait on Speiss. She didn’t even want to know if Speiss was home, so she stripped off her man disguise and stowed it in the hidden safety of her trunk. She would go home and clear her mind of all her problems and frustrations. She and Rebecca would play board games and forget the rest of the world was even out there.
Murder in Winnebago County Page 21
