by Jeff Nania
“How did he get out?” Len asked.
“Well, that’s quite a story. We back-checked every place he could have gotten out near the printing office and found the spot. Where the land, a parking lot in this case, meets the lake there is a seawall twenty-five feet high made out of old creosote treated timbers. In one spot, that wall takes a slight turn enough that you couldn’t be seen from the dock area where we were searching. It looks like he swam over 100 yards to that part of the wall. The timbers are covered with tar and broken spikes are sticking out. We found some blood where he climbed up. Later the techs found some skin scraped off on the wall. They got enough of both to get a real sample. There was also some of his blood where he killed the dog. Looks like the dog got a pretty good bite in before he died. I know that the blood and skin were submitted for DNA analysis, but I don’t know the results.”
“Who submitted it?” I asked.
“The Feds,” Jim responded.
“Who called in the Feds? The city or the county?”
“No one called them. FBI Agents Chandler and Street made their way to the scene and offered to send any evidence that needed processing to the national lab. They said it would be treated as a priority because of the missing agent case they were working on. The sheriff said thanks, but no thanks. He told them he would get back to them if he needed anything.”
“How did they end up with the evidence?” I asked.
“The agents showed up at the crime lab, the new pride of Douglas County, the next morning with a court order requiring that all the evidence be turned over immediately. So that was that.”
“You didn’t hear anything on the results?”
“I haven’t heard anything, but I don’t know that the sheriff would think to let me know.”
“Probably not, just wondering,” I replied.
“Is that it, Jim? Is that all?” Len asked.
“Well, not exactly,”
No matter how complicated something appears, usually in the process of unraveling you find out it’s pretty simple, almost elemental. Those elements are easy to understand. The in-between is complicated and often changes the simple story. Years ago, I was patrolling a low rent housing area. A 2:00 a.m. call came in for an injured man on the front postage stamp lawn of one of these places. When I got there, I realized quickly that the injured man was injured to the point of being dead. I walked into the house that reeked of booze and old smoke. His significant other was sitting on the couch. Next to her on the couch was an old revolver, a WWII Victory model. She was smoking a cigarette and staring straight ahead. I grabbed the gun and opened the cylinder. All six rounds had been fired, my guess, recently.
The simple story is they get in a fight. She decides to shoot him six times. This results in his demise. We Mirandize her, cuff her, and take her downtown to central booking. Done in time for breakfast.
But what appeared at first to be the circumstances behind a homicide became much different when the details were known. It seems as though the deceased was a convicted registered sex offender who had been released from prison less than twenty-four hours before this incident. The woman who admitted to the shooting was his common-law wife. She was also the person who testified against him during his last sexual assault trial. Her testimony put him away. As he was led out of the courtroom after the verdict was announced, he looked at her and shouted, “When I get out, you are dead, bitch!” She was notified by Probation and Parole that he was to be released on a certain date, five years early. As the day approached, she sat on the couch with the TV remote, cigarettes, a bottle of Early Times, and her father’s old pistol.
He called her upon his release and said, “I’m coming for you.”
She called it in, and a less than engaged thirty-year patrolman took the call. He told her that there was nothing he could do, but if the guy showed up she should call 911, and he would be arrested. He explained to her how most of these threats were mostly hot air. She knew better.
The guy kicked the front door almost off the hinges. He laughed at her sitting on the couch. He said, “You waiting for me, baby? You waiting for me to come home?” She doesn’t answer. He goes into the kitchen and comes out with a butcher knife and announces, “Now, baby, we are gonna have some fun, just you and me.” He walks toward her smiling. She lifts her daddy’s old pistol and he laughs. She shot him six times from about three feet away. She kept pulling the trigger long after the gun was empty. He drops the knife, stumbles out to the front lawn and does the world a favor and dies. A not so simple story.
I had no doubt that the sheriff was about to share information with us that would make the simple story more complicated.
He took a deep breath and began, “I knew the guy.”
“Which guy?” Len asked.
“The guy who got his neck broken. I did not know her. I definitely knew him. They used the driver’s license found in his wallet for the ID. I told the sheriff and chief that I knew who the guy was and made a positive. They asked me how I knew him, and I told them he was an investment adviser who I had met in Musky Falls. I actually didn’t know how much else to say.”
“Okay, Jim, in law enforcement we end up knowing a lot of people. It can’t be helped. It’s too bad, but sometimes those people we know are victims of crimes.”
“This is more than that, Len. Much more.”
We waited.
“I first met this guy when I was patrolling early one Friday evening. His Porsche was pulled off on the side of the road north of town. I pulled up behind him and flipped on the lights. He got out as I approached. The car had hit a piece of something in the road and shredded one of the tires. The type of tires he had were designed to be driven on even when flat, but not when shredded. The car didn’t have a spare. He had already contacted a dealer from Duluth, and they were on their way. He had called Musky Falls Tire first, but they said they couldn’t help him. He needed to wait until the dealership arrived. He was on a curvy section of the road, so I agreed to stay with him until the wrecker came. Once the dealership arrived and loaded the car, he asked me if I could give him a lift a few miles down the road where he was to be a guest for the weekend. I said sure. I drove him down to David Stone’s estate, where he was greeted like a long lost son. Stone and this guy, Lance Brolan, thanked me and asked me to stay for something to eat. A car-deer accident came in, so I took off to handle that. The following Monday, dispatch tells me to meet someone back at the Sheriff’s Department. I get there and it’s Lance. He said he wanted to stop by and thank me for my help and handed me an envelope. I looked inside. It was a one hundred dollar gift card to the Ranch Supper Club. He said, ‘Have a nice dinner on me.’
“I told him I couldn’t accept the gift but appreciated the gesture. Then he gave me his card and said if I ever needed any help with financial investments or anything along that line, he would be glad to see what he could do. His card said he was the senior partner in Diamond Investment Services. I put the card in my pocket and didn’t think much about it. Then about three weeks later I stopped at the Fisherman with Joanne for lunch. We were sitting at the outside table talking about nothing when who sat down at the next table over but Lance Brolan and Derek Anderson. Lance said hello, and I introduced my wife. We had a short but pleasant chat. I didn’t really think about it much at the time, but Anderson was definitely nervous. He seemed upset that we knew each other and asked about it. We filled him in, and he calmed down. We finished up and left, and they were still there. It was after that encounter we get into the sticky part.
“About a month later, Joanne’s elderly aunt, who she and her sister had cared for on and off for years, passed away. She left Joanne an inheritance of $20,000. We were sad to see the old gal go, but she made it to ninety-three and stayed pretty good until the end. We had several family discussions about what to do with the money. Anyway, I thought, what the heck? I gave Lance Brolan a call and asked him. He said he’d be glad to help and, by chance, was going to be in Musky Falls the
following week. I met with him and he was pretty excited. He told me that he was putting together a group of investors for a quick turnaround project. The shares were $100,000 each, but because of some unusual circumstances, there was a partial share available for $40,000. Lance was planning on covering the whole partial share himself but would be glad to split it with us. He explained that every investment has lots of risks, and that there was no guarantee, especially in something with the potential for high return. He didn’t want us investing the money unless we were one hundred percent comfortable. As a matter of fact, he told us he wouldn’t take our check until we slept on it. Joanne and I talked it over and figured that if he was investing his own cash, it had to be a pretty good risk. So we gave him the money.”
“Ah darn, Jim. Did he hornswoggle you out of your money?” asked the chief.
“Well no, Len. See, that’s the thing. He called us a couple of times after we had made the investment to check in. Then after two months, he said he was coming to town again and asked us to meet him at Derek Anderson’s office. We met him in the morning. It was kind of strange because even though it was Anderson’s office, he seemed to run the place. He even sent Derek over to Crossroads to get coffee for me and a latte for Joanne. He said that our mutual investment had come in, and while the return was not what was expected, it was still pretty good. He handed us a check for $39,000. We nearly doubled our money. We couldn’t believe it. We drank our coffee and visited. He had us sign a release, and we were out the door. That worm, Derek Anderson, barely said goodbye to us. Joanne was so nervous that she made me go to the bank and deposit the check right away.”
“Did the check clear?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Whose check was it? I mean who issued the check?”
“His company, Diamond Investments.”
“Did you invest with him again?” I asked.
“No, we didn’t. We talked about it. He even called and said he had another investment opportunity for us, but we decided we would leave well enough alone and plunk it into the kids’ college fund.”
Until then, I had no idea Jim Rawsom had kids, or a wife for that matter.
Rawsom continued, “Right after that, things started to get weird around town. Anderson was acting hinky and looked like he’d given up sleeping. I actually thought he was doing coke or some other drug. They tore down Turner’s place, and big money interests started investing around here. I had a feeling that somehow Lance was involved in all this. I never ran into him after that. In fact, the next time I saw him he had a broken neck. I was worried enough that Joanne and I drove down to Eau Claire to meet with a guy who used to be the DA here and now has a criminal defense practice. He said as long as we reported the earnings and paid the taxes, we were okay. If anyone asked us about the situation, be honest. We had nothing to hide. He had never heard of the guy. So that was that. I never felt right about it.”
“Anyone else know?” I asked.
“Our lawyer, Joanne, Lance, and now you guys. I am pretty sure that Anderson knew.”
“They never solved that homicide at the shipyard, did they, Jim?” Len asked.
“No, it’s still open, but I don’t know much else,” Jim replied.
“Well, the guy who killed those two people sounds maybe like the same guy who shot my jeep. I have some pretty good quality pictures of him. I bet the woman at the printing shop would give us a positive ID.”
“Well, heck. Let’s get going and try to catch her before she leaves for the day. That will be a big help in getting this thing figured out. You still have your camera with you, John? We can make the prints right now,” Len said.
The sheriff and chief both looked at me, and I gave them a response they didn’t expect. “I don’t think we should do that yet,” I said.
“Why not?” Len responded.
“If we take those pictures up to Superior and show that woman, my guess is that she is going to tell us what we already think we know. The guy we are looking at and the guy who took her car are the same guy. We could ask her to keep it quiet, but there is little chance she would. She’d be understandably excited making an ID on a murder suspect. She would sure share with a friend who would share it with a friend who would share with a friend. Next thing we know, Agents Chandler and Street are knocking on our door. As far as we know, this guy is long gone. But maybe not. He might still be around. If we can figure out where he is, then if the woman gives us a positive ID, we could get a judge to sign a warrant. And maybe, just maybe, we could take the guy down doing everything as fast as possible on a need to know basis.”
Big city law enforcement is tied by necessity to policies, procedures, and protocol. Sufficient quantities of highly trained officers are available to deal with such a situation. Not the case in small rural police and sheriff departments where staffing is always limited and multitasking is essential. Chief Len Bork and Sheriff Jim Rawsom have risen to the top of law enforcement in their respective jurisdictions. Now they were faced with great personal risk, taking on a huge task and heading down a road already paved with violence with certainty that more violence was sure to come.
People who decide that their responsibility to the community they serve is more important than their personal welfare are often said to be “Serving above and beyond the call of duty.” The importance of recalling such events at some after-the-fact award ceremony to recognize these people and their actions is inspiring. To see two such heroes in front of me making such a decision was powerful enough to take my breath away. The looks on their faces had been shared by generations of people who have delivered to mankind unbridled commitment to do what’s right. Most are thrust into a situation not of their own making—a soldier landing at Normandy, a firefighter running into a burning house to save someone, a mother walking her child to school every day through an urban warzone. Equal parts of fear and courage drive them on. Fear for themselves, sure; but mostly fear of what will happen if they don’t have the courage to act. The bullshit bravado of fakers has no place here. I was proud to be with these two men.
“If we are going after this guy, we’re going to need more help,” I said.
“Need more help? My Lord, John, I believe you are exactly right. You truly are a master detective.” Len said with a laugh.
We all broke out in a fit of uncontrollable laughter, a frequent stress release when faced with the most difficult situations. After the laughter subsided, we planned.
The next morning Len would pick up the photos, and we’d meet at PD, 9:00 a.m. sharp. Hopefully, after a good night’s sleep (if that was possible), our heads would be clear, and we could decide what exactly we were going to do and how we were going to do it. I asked Len and Jim if they wanted to join me for dinner at the Fisherman. Both said that they wanted to go home to their families. I drove the lonely road home to my cabin on Spider Lake.
11
The next morning I was awake at five. The sun, barely making its presence known, cast a mysterious haze over the lake. Shadows mixed with the morning mist created what looked like life forms moving across the water. In childhood I had heard many local stories about spirits that show up on water at night beckoning the foolish to follow. I could see those spirits in the mist, but they would have to wait for another day. I try to limit myself to one foolish thing at a time.
I had coffee on the dock and watched fish rising around a half-sunken log. I thought about things in my life, the choices I had made, Julie Carlson moving on, and what the future might hold. Maybe a date with Shelley DuBois was what I needed.
I walked down to the storage shed to look at the jeep. It was on jack stands with the hood open. Doc had removed a couple of parts and set them on the fenders. It was plain to see that the jeep had sustained major damage from the rifle rounds. Even with Doc’s mechanical talent, it looked like it would be some time before the jeep would be up and running.
The morning quiet was suddenly disturbed by tires crunching on the gravel. A v
ehicle of some sort was slowing coming up the driveway, headlights off. This was someone who didn’t want to be spotted.
My pistol and rifle were in the cabin. As quickly and quietly as I could, I cut through the woods to the back door. As I reached the door, the vehicle stopped its forward progress. I slipped in, grabbed the Walther off the table, and silently crept outside, making my way along the backside of my house until I had a clear view of the vehicle while remaining concealed. A white van with some lettering or sign on the side was in the drive. The driver’s door opened, and the dome light illuminated Charlie Newlin, a local wildlife biologist and an associate professor researching the Kirtland’s warbler. I released my breath, tucked the Walther into my pants, and approached him.