“The worst.” The kind of thing that chipped away at your soul. I sent a message to Weber and Zubinski, asking them to head to the Nevins’ farm as well. We’d need crowd control, especially if news of a body leaked out. I pulled over on Collins, in front of the Nevins’ farm a few minutes later.
I’d only had one case with a couple that had burned to death, and it was something I hoped I’d never see again. I left my squad car on the road and hurried over to meet Smoke and Fire Chief Corey Evans. They were standing close together on the other side of the barn. Smoke handed me a clipboard with a sheet everyone at the scene would need to sign in and out on, per department policy. Each one of us would be required to write a report. I scribbled my signature and noted the time.
“Have you located Woody Nevins yet?”I said.
Smoke shook his head. “We got his listed number from Communications, but there’s been no answer. And the trucking company he drives for is closed on Saturdays, so we can’t verify whether he’s on the road or not. One of the neighbors we talked to said he hasn’t seen Woody for a few days, but that’s not unusual. Sometimes he’s gone a week at a time. The neighbor gave us Woody’s sister’s name, said she lives in Victoria, so we’re trying to track her down. You’d think one of Woody’s neighbors would have his cell number, seeing how he’s gone so much.”
“I’m sure one of them does and maybe they’ll contact Woody when he hears about the fire. I knew his son from school. He was a few years behind me. The last I heard he was in Oregon, working for the State Game Warden,” I said.
Smoke pulled out his memo pad and pen. “What’s his name?”
“Hunter.”
He jotted that down. “Fits right in with the job. Do you know where he lives, what city?”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, I’ll have Communications do a search. He should be easy enough to find.”
I moved closer to the stone base of the barn. It was similar to the Hardings’ but not as high, a little over three feet. Looking in I had a clear view of the corpse, but it took my brain a moment to process what I was seeing. A blackened figure lay face down on the dirt floor. Why hadn’t he escaped when the barn started burning? Had he confronted the firesetter—or firesetters—and been knocked out by him—them? Being unconscious and dying of smoke inhalation was preferable to being burned alive.
Smoke appeared at my side and brushed my arm with his. “A helluva deal, all the way around.”
“I’ve been agonizing over what his last moments were like. What was he doing here? Did he have an altercation with the firesetter, or was he the firesetter? My hope is that he was overcome by smoke, fell unconscious, and died before he started on fire.”
“I share that same hope. One thing rattling around in my brain—was this the end game after all?”
“Meaning?”
“The other two fires were dress rehearsals for the real deal. This was a planned homicide, and the others were to mislead us into thinking someone was burning down old barns for shits and giggles, something like that. Then he sets this one, and if he gets caught he plans to claim ignorance: ‘I had no idea anyone was in there.’ And then he’d take a plea on a lesser charge,” he said.
“That’s feasible. Or maybe it was to cover up a murder he’d already committed. That could explain why this is the third fire in six days. He had to act quickly, especially in this heat when the decaying process really accelerates.” I braved another look at the corpse. “But if it’s Woody, I wonder who would have a bone to pick with him?”
Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know him or his habits well enough to comment.”
“I left him a voicemail on his home phone when I made that traffic stop Thursday, and he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”
“That’s not a good sign,” he said.
“I know. And that reminded me about the guy that I stopped driving Woody’s vehicle. Where is he now, is that him?” I waved my hand toward the corpse.
“We’ll find out. Meantime, we’ll try to contact him. You got his address, phone number?” he said.
“I do. In my memo book and on my copy of the ticket I issued him.”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to take a look in the garage, see if the Jeep is in there,” I said.
“I looked in the windows. I think it is. There’s a vehicle in there anyway.”
“I’ll double check.”
It was a relief to slip away from the death scene and focus on something else for a time. I spotted both Zubinski and Weber walking from the road to the farmstead, and we met between the house and the garage.
Weber waved his hand toward the barn. “Someone got caught in there, huh?”
“Yeah, and it’s a pretty gruesome sight. Dawes has a sign-in sheet, and he’ll let you know if he needs one or both of you to secure the scene when the State Fire Marshal and the ME get here.”
They nodded then headed toward Smoke, and I checked out the garage. It was detached from the house, two stalls wide with small windows on three sides. It was decades newer than the house and barn, likely twenty or thirty years old. I peered in a window. The Jeep was parked inside, all right, and it looked like the keys were in the ignition. I moved to the next window for a better view and confirmed it was keys I was seeing. Did Ross Warren forget to take them out after driving Woody’s Jeep? Not something you should forget.
I moved to the service door and tried the doorknob. I was a little surprised when it turned and the door opened. People didn’t normally leave town for days at a time without locking their garage, especially with the keys in their vehicle. Easy pickings for a thief. But that should have been Ross Warren’s responsibility, if he was the last one who drove the Jeep.
I didn’t have an official reason to go into the garage, so I stayed in the doorway. From my vantage point I noticed evidence that another vehicle had been parked there. I pulled my cell phone from its holder and called Communications. “Hi Robin, it’s Corky. Will you run a check on Woodrow Nevins, see what vehicles he owns? I have a plate number on his Jeep.”
“Sure, go ahead.” As I recited it, I heard her striking keys on her computer, and in seconds she had the answer. “Besides the Jeep, Woodrow Nevins also owns a Dodge Ram fifteen hundred.”
“Okay, thanks.” I hung up and looked at the deposited gravel tracks left behind by the wheels of a large vehicle. Most likely from Woody’s truck. I hoped it was a good sign, that he had taken it somewhere and was not the deceased victim in the barn. Then I wondered about Ross Warren’s personal vehicle, what he owned. So I phoned Robin back and asked. It took a while before she told me, “I’m not finding any vehicles registered to Ross Franklin Warren in Minnesota.”
“Really? Huh.”
“Any other state you want me to check?” she said.
“Not at the moment, but thanks.”
I pulled the door shut and saw Weber and Zubinski cordoning off the east side of the barn with yellow crime scene tape. I stepped under it and walked to the west side where Smoke was taking photos of the scene. “Woody Nevins owns another vehicle besides the Jeep. It’s not in his garage, so two things occurred to me: either he drove it somewhere, or the firesetter stole it after he started the fire. The garage door wasn’t locked, and the keys to the Jeep are in the ignition.”
“That’s not good.”
“And I checked on any vehicles Ross Warren might own. Are you ready for this? None. Not in Minnesota anyway.”
“So a friend dropped him off here to help Woody, or Woody picked him up somewhere?”
“We’ll have to ask Woody about that.”
“Even though Woody’s Jeep is the only vehicle on the property here, we can’t rule out Ross Warren as the possible victim,” Smoke said.
“Correct.”
“We can’t ID this body soon enough. Why can’t we reach Woody, or someone in his family?”
“Very frustrating when it seems to take forever,” I said.
“Tell me a
bout the domestic at the Simmonds’, what was that all about?” I filled him in then he said, “Family feuds can drive people to an early grave.”
I was thinking about Smoke’s words when the mobile crime unit drove into the yard and parked. Todd Mason and Brian Carlson got out wearing sunglasses, tan cargo pants, and black polo shirts with Major Crimes Unit embroidered across their backs and their last names above their right breast pockets.
When they joined us, Carlson pushed his glasses to the top of his head, and Mason stuck his in his pocket. They both squinted against the bright sunlight assaulting their eyes. “The ME and the investigator from the fire marshal’s office should be here shortly. It’s a toss-up who’ll get here first,” Mason said. He and Carlson glanced over the scene then focused all of their attention on the blackened body on the barn floor.
Smoke’s phone jingled and he pushed the talk button without looking at the dial. “Detective Dawes.” He sucked in a breath and caught my eyes when he responded, “Yes Hunter, I’m glad Communications was able to get a hold of you. We’ve got a situation at your father’s place—there was a fire in his barn—and we haven’t been able to reach him.”
Smoke listened for a while then said, “Sorry to tell you the barn is a total loss. Does your dad have anyone looking after things while he’s away? . . . No? Okay. What’s his cell phone number? We’re waiting on the fire marshal. There are release forms they like to have signed before they start poking around, but verbal consent works, too.”
Smoke indicated I should get out my pad and pen. He repeated out loud what Hunter said, and I recorded it. “Thank you. Is the number you’re calling from a good one to reach you at? . . . Good. We’ll be in touch.”
Smoke disconnected and shook his head. “I didn’t want to tell Hunter about the fatality, since it’s not his property, and it’s probably not Woody Nevins’ body in there. According to Hunter, he talked to his dad Thursday. Woody had gotten back to Minnesota from a four-day truck run and was heading to his girlfriend’s place for the weekend. They had tickets for the Twins game this afternoon.” Smoke looked at his watch. “And they should be there about now. The game starts at one thirty if I’m not mistaken.”
I nodded. “And I’m sure Gramps will be enjoying it from the comfort of his living room. So Woody didn’t have anyone checking on the place, is that what Hunter said?”
“No one special, according to Hunter. He has neighbors, friends, what have you, keeping an eye on things when he’s away.” He pushed the talk button, asked me to repeat Woody’s number, and as he punched it in, he said, “Sorry, Woody, but this trumps the Twins winning streak.” After what seemed like forever, he left a voicemail and hung up. “He wouldn’t know my number and probably thought I was a telemarketer trying to sell him a timeshare or something. Hope he listens to my message sooner rather than later.”
The Midwest Medical Examiner’s van got our attention when it rolled into the farmyard. I recognized both occupants. Dr. Calvin Helsing got out of the driver’s seat and Dr. Bridey Patrick got out of the passenger’s side. She had a clipboard tucked under one arm and held a phone to her ear with the opposite hand.
Helsing was of American Indian descent with striking good looks: a Roman nose, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. Patrick was the no-nonsense chief examiner at the office, a short, stocky woman with spiked gray hair and piercing brown eyes. She gave the impression that every step she took and every action she performed had a specific purpose.
Dr. Patrick ended the call then stuck her phone in her pants pocket and waited as Dr. Helsing rolled a gurney out of the back of the van. Patrick marched ahead of him and announced, “Bridey Patrick and Calvin Helsing,” to the group.
Dr. Helsing singled me out with an eye blink then nodded at the others in general. Dr. Patrick directed her attention to Smoke. “Detective, this is your scene?”
“Until the investigator from the State Fire Marshal’s Office gets here, it is,” he said.
Patrick narrowed her eyes. “Any idea what happened?”
“We’re leaning toward arson, but we’ll see what the evidence tells us. This is the third barn fire of the week but the first body. From what we know, none of them had housed any animals for a long time. At this point we are completely in the dark. Especially so with this one, after finding the victim.”
“Do you have a possible ID on the decedent?” Patrick said.
“Not yet. We’ve been trying to reach the property owner. He’s supposedly at the Twins game but hasn’t answered his cell, so we can’t confirm that.”
Both doctors shook their heads slightly as they did a visual inspection of the area inside the barn and then honed in on the body. “However this turns out, I pray to God he was dead before the fire started,” Dr. Patrick said.
Despite the sun’s early afternoon intensity, her words sent shivers up my arms, around my neck, and down my spine.
Dr. Patrick looked at the victim. “And none of your officers have been inside, is that correct?”
“That’s correct. As you know, Minnesota statute gives us clear guidelines to follow on that. Aside from shooting some pictures, we’re waiting for the fire investigator,” Smoke said. The body couldn’t be removed until he said so.
“Good. Got his ETA?” Dr. Patrick pulled the clipboard from under her arm and handed it to Dr. Helsing.
“Any time now,” Mason said.
Dr. Patrick asked Smoke a number of questions, and Dr. Helsing noted the answers while aptly balancing the clipboard on his arm. The rest of us either listened in or milled around waiting for the next step. The old hurry up and wait routine.
21
Minnesota State Fire Marshal Investigator Emmet Chapman’s area included six Minnesota counties, including Winnebago. He arrived at Woody’s farm at 1:33 p.m. in his specially-equipped vehicle with the department’s logo painted on the sides. He stepped out with a backpack and pulled the straps of it over his shoulders. The other responders stepped back, creating a natural pathway for Chapman to follow to the death scene. The backpack contained some of the tools of his trade, and I knew there were more in his vehicle. I’d seen Chapman work a few scenes over the years and his focused style was impressive indeed.
Chapman was around fifty, fit, and had likely spent much of his time in the great outdoors, given the deep creases in his face. The twinkle in his eyes and his unruffled demeanor made me think off-duty Emmet Chapman would be a fun guy to hang out with in a casual setting, sharing an after-work bottle of beer, or shooting a game of pool. But when he was on the job and went into professional investigative mode, he was all business. He didn’t want chitchatting or joke-telling distractions, like many of the investigators I knew.
Smoke nodded as Chapman approached him. “Afternoon, Investigator.”
“Detective.” Then he greeted the rest of us and had a few words with Dr. Patrick before he turned back to Smoke. “Have you got an ID on the victim?”
“Not yet. We’re waiting for a phone call from the property owner to confirm it’s not him.”
“Check. Has your team processed anything, collected any evidence so far?” Chapman said.
“We did a perimeter check, looking for signs of a person or a vehicle entering the farm from any area other than the driveway. No vehicle tracks of any kind. Or horse prints. If someone was here on foot they didn’t leave any discernible tracks behind. But with the ground being as hard as rock that’s not a surprise,” Smoke said.
“No, it’s not. What about on the driveway?”
“The two fire rigs were the only official vehicles that rolled in on the driveway this afternoon—before Major Crimes and the ME got here, that is. There was a set of tire impressions that must have been made shortly after the last rain, given the deeper impressions. So that was over a week ago, maybe ten days now. Aside from very faint ones from a vehicle that drove into the garage in the last day or so, there’s no indication that other vehicles have been here,” Smoke said.
&nbs
p; “Check.” Chapman walked over to the partial stone wall and stood for a moment. He moved his head slowly from left to right as he took in the scene. Then he pulled a large memo pad and pen from a leg pocket in his cargo pants and began sketching and writing. After some minutes, he turned and singled out Dr. Bridey Patrick. “I’ll get my part done so we can get the body released to you.”
The single nod she gave sent the clear message that every passing minute was one too many. They should have had the victim’s body back at her office—preparing for the exam—by now.
Chapman stuck the writing materials back in one pocket and pulled out a pair of disposable shoe protectors from another. With practiced ease he lifted first one foot to his knee, and then the other, and slipped them on. Disposable gloves were next and they slid on fine, despite the heat of the day. He entered what remained of the structure through the door opening and took a left, moving slowly along the perimeter as he studied the stones of the base and the dirt floor a few feet out from it. He snapped photos along the way.
When Chapman completed his first circuit, he set out on a second one, about six feet out then stopped after walking eight feet. He squatted down and took photos of an area on the ground. When he stood up again, he slid the backpack onto one arm, pulled out some small thin-staked marking flags, plastic evidence bags, and a stainless steel spoon. Then he moved the pack back into place.
Chapman stuck six flags in the dirt around the area then collected samples of the blackened dirt from several spots, sealed them in the bags, and marked them. He shifted the backpack down his arm again, put the bags inside, and slipped it back in place. Next he pulled two tape measures from a pants pocket, stretched them out, positioned them on the ground near the flags, and photographed them.
The third round brought Chapman close to the body that was lying about twelve feet from the west wall. He took photos from all angles then finished his round and returned to where the body lay. The doctors, Smoke, and I all slipped into coveralls and boot covers while Chapman took notes, marked the area, snapped more photos, and collected samples of the dirt floor. He bent over, picked up a frosted white booze bottle, held it up for us to see then put it in an evidence bag. Then he pointed to a largely burned camper’s pack. The side metal pieces were intact as were two small cooking pots and a metal cup. Any clothing or other personal items that might have been inside were toast. He photographed, marked, and bagged them.
Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery Page 13