After a time Chapman turned to us, his captive audience. “You can bring in the gurney, Doc.”
“Right,” Dr. Patrick said. She gave Helsing a “let’s go” head signal then looked at Smoke and me. “Are you ready, Detective, Sergeant?”
Smoke nodded, snapped on a pair of gloves, and turned to me as I did the same. “Okay?”
“Yep,” I said.
Mason and Carlson would be sitting out for this part of the investigation. I started to follow the doctors and Smoke into the barn when my phone rang. I pulled it out of its case to check. It was Sybil. The meeting we’d talked about had slipped my mind. “Sergeant Aleckson.”
“Hello, it’s Sybil Harding. You said to call.”
“Sure.”
“Um, well, I’m sorry, but I can’t make it after all.”
“Don’t worry about it. As it turns out, I’m in the middle of something myself. Are you available tomorrow?”
“That might work better,” she said.
“All right then, we’ll be in touch. Bye, Sybil.” I dropped the phone back in its case and joined the group gathered around leader Chapman. He pointed at the ground on the north side of the body. “I found no signs of a struggle, but you can see where he appears to have crawled a few feet.”
We studied the area. “Yes. It looks like he was on the ground, made it a short distance, and stopped. Likely overcome by the smoke,” Dr. Patrick said. “His arms are tucked in what looks like a protective act, but may be the result of muscle and tissue shrinkage, dehydration from the high heat. Pugilistic attitude. The main questions are, who is he and what was he doing here?”
“Yes they are. The victim was inside what used to be an animal stanchion. Not much left of it now, but that leads me to believe he was sleeping there. There may have been a bed of straw to lie on, but that would’ve all been consumed.” Chapman waved his hand toward the flags jutting up from the ground some feet away. “That’s the single ignition point. I didn’t find another one anywhere else in the barn. And no sign of an accelerant used.”
“Like with the other two barn fires. You think it was intentionally set?” Smoke said.
“Yes. Loose, dry straw doesn’t spontaneously combust. And if it was spontaneous, say from a wet bale, it would produce a different ignition pattern. And a much larger one besides.”
“I’ve seen that myself a time or two,” Smoke said, and the rest of us nodded. We all had.
“It could be what’s left of his wallet in his back pocket area,” Chapman said, pointing at the slightly-raised rectangle shape there.
“The chances are slim, but it’s possible forensics can capture his ID from his license,” Smoke said.
Dr. Patrick did a visual examination of the body and took some measurements. Odors of burned wood and other objects were all around us but none of them impacted and assaulted my senses like the victim’s body did. Burned human flesh was not something I could adequately describe because there was nothing else like it. Strangely sweet, nauseatingly so. And so thick it was as much a taste as a smell. Combined with the acrid stink of burned hair. Smells that held steadfast in your olfactory for days then were stored in the recesses of your mind and, from time to time, reared their ugly heads, triggered by any number of reasons.
“I don’t detect a methane odor that would indicate he had started decaying prior to the fire,” Patrick said.
“No,” Helsing agreed.
That discounted the theory that he had died days ago and the fire was set to cover his homicide. Decomposing bodies produced a much worse stench due to the bacteria inside the organs that released gases.
The doctors had the bag on the gurney open, ready to receive the body. Patrick picked up a plastic sheet from the gurney, unfolded it partway, and handed two corners to Helsing. Together they opened it and laid it on the ground next to the body. “We’ll roll the deceased over onto this and then we’ll be able to lift him more easily, do less damage,” she said.
Smoke’s phone rang, and we all stopped when he looked at the dial and said, “It’s the property owner.”
Looking at the victim on the ground in front of us and learning it wasn’t Woody Nevins filled me with a large measure of relief.
“Mr. Nevins, we’re still at your place. . . . Has someone been staying here while you’re gone? . . . No? We have a mystery on our hands then. There was a man in your barn when it started on fire. We found his body inside. . . .” Smoke mouthed the words, “Woody is flabbergasted, to say the least.” Then he returned to the call. “No idea? . . . That’d be good. We have forms for you to sign for the investigation reports.”
I raised my hand and softly asked, “Can I talk to him?”
“Woody, Sergeant Aleckson is here and needs to talk to you.”
Smoke handed me the phone. “Hi, Woody, it’s Corky.”
Woody’s voice was strained. “Well Corky, this is a helluva unbelievable deal. I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s a big shock that’s for sure, and we’ll do what we can to help you. Woody, I wanted to talk to you about something else. I left a message on your home phone Thursday, and I’m wondering if you got it.”
“No, I haven’t been home since then. I got an answering machine, but never got set up with voicemail. I figure the people that need it have my cell number if they have to get a hold of me when I’m on the road. What was it about?”
“I did a traffic stop on a man who was driving your Jeep, and I wanted to be sure he had your permission to use it,” I said.
“Someone stole my Jeep?” His voice rose higher with each word.
“It’s not gone; it’s in your garage. But someone was using it.”
“No one asked to use it. Who in the hell was it?”
“A man named Ross Warren. He said he was helping you with some chores.”
“What? What chores? I got nobody helping me. Ross Warren, you say? Never heard of him. Wait a minute. When I bought my place from the Grants, I remember meeting their grandson, and I’m pretty sure his name was Ross. But if it’s the same guy, I don’t know what he’d be doing there now after all these years. And how’d he get a hold of my Jeep anyway?” Woody said.
“Do you keep your garage door locked?”
“Well, sure.”
“It wasn’t locked when we checked it earlier.”
“What in the hell?”
“And I noticed the key was in the ignition,” I said.
“You got me there. But I keep the garage locked up.”
“Have you changed the locks on the garage since you moved there?”
“Well, no, I guess I haven’t. I’m leaving here now, on my way home.”
“Okay, we’ll see you later.”
The MEs and investigators waited until the call ended then I recounted Woody’s side of the conversation.
“We need to do some digging on Ross Warren,” Smoke said.
“He’d be the first person to check on, see where he’s at, or if he’s our victim here,” Chapman said and nodded at the body. “Are we ready to move him?”
“Yes,” the doctors said in unison. They were, but I could put off turning him over and viewing the condition of the rest of his body indefinitely.
Patrick, Helsing, Smoke, and I got into position with our hands underneath the body to lift and roll it away from us. I had his calf and knee area, Patrick was next with the thighs, Smoke had the pelvic area and middle torso, and Helsing had the shoulder and head. I felt muscle and flesh on the underside of his legs.
Patrick gave the direction, “On the count of three. One, two, three.” We lifted and rolled. I was taken aback by the contrast between the charred black backside of him and the mostly unburned white front. There was a collection of audible reactions from all five of us. I think mine was a sucked-in breath, like a wheeze, and I couldn’t say what came out of the others’ mouths.
The victim’s eyes and mouth were open and his expression was much like the subject in Edvard Munch’s paint
ing, “The Scream.” Even his hands were melded to the sides of his head in a similar way. An involuntary reaction to fear in the one, and what looked like a protective act in the other. The expression on his face captured the horror he must have felt and seeing it, I felt it too. I was fairly confident I knew who he was, but he had changed dramatically since last we’d met.
By unspoken agreement we paused to give our victim a moment of silent respect. I sent up a prayer, and maybe the others did too. The clothes on the back and sides of his body had been burned into his skin, and the hair on his head was gone. The fire had extinguished when it reached the dirt floor of the barn, but there wasn’t a neat line of where it had stopped burning on the various parts of his body by any means. His lower legs were more impacted than his thighs, no doubt from his movement and ending position.
“I think this is Ross Warren,” I said.
Smoke shook his head. “If it is and Woody Nevins doesn’t know who Ross Warren is for sure, then we’ve got a helluva puzzle to put together.”
“Starting with the fact that Warren, a man Woody didn’t know, was driving his Jeep without his knowledge or permission,” I said.
“That’s true enough.”
“We can get fingerprints and DNA from the Jeep and compare them to his.” I indicated the victim.
“You think we can get fingerprints from him, Doc?” Smoke asked Bridey Patrick.
Her eyes zeroed in on the victim’s hands. “It’s possible. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Smoke turned back to me. “What’d Warren give as his address?”
“It’s in Chaska.” A city in neighboring Carver County.
He nodded. “Good to have a place to start, see if he lived with someone we can talk to. Or neighbors who can give us names of next of kin to verify his ID.”
“A loved one should not see him in this condition,” Dr. Patrick said.
“I agree. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Smoke said.
Agreed.
Chapman sucked in a small breath. “Unfortunately, I have.”
Dr. Helsing, Chapman, and Smoke snapped photos. I kept my eyes on what they were doing instead of on the victim. I’d carry his image with me until I took my dying breath. The whole scene was distressing and unreal at the same time. The unkempt man whose story I’d wondered about two days ago had left this earth in a horrific way. Who was he, really? Why had he told me Woody Nevins was his friend? And why was he helping himself to Woody’s Jeep and likely sleeping in his barn when Woody was away?
The doctors concentrated on the victim’s body and the task ahead of them.
“His organs will largely be intact and will tell us about any medical conditions, if there are drugs or alcohol in his system, and the cause of death. The manner of death? At this point we can’t rule out suicide, accidental, or homicide,” Dr. Patrick said.
“Evidence of trauma, a knife or gunshot wound, blow to the head, or poison in his system would give us reason to investigate it as a homicide,” Smoke said, verbalizing the obvious.
“Yes,” Dr. Helsing said.
“Keep us in the loop, and we’ll see where the investigation goes from here,” Chapman said.
Dr. Patrick nodded then stepped back, and the rest of us lifted the victim-laden sheet and placed it in the body bag on the gurney. Helsing took care of the tucking in and the zipping up. The finality of that got me every time no matter how many times I’d witnessed it.
Chapman stayed behind, looking for more clues and evidence while Smoke and I helped the doctors put the gurney in the back of their van.
The crowds of curiosity seekers dwindled after the ME was gone, but Paul Moore, lead reporter for the Oak Lea Daily News, waited patiently on the sidelines for a statement. No metro television station or newspaper reporters had gotten wind of it yet. Old barns burning down didn’t capture much beyond regional attention unless livestock perished. So we’d been able to keep the first two fires relatively quiet while we conducted our investigations. But I’d overheard a deputy telling another that people had posted videos of both fires on YouTube. People loved capturing curiosities on their cell phone video cameras.
Smoke and I went over to have a chat with Paul. “Afternoon, Officers. How much can you tell us?” Paul cut to the chase.
“Not much at this point, Paul. We got one deceased, but no identification yet,” Smoke said.
“Man, woman?”
“The unidentified victim has been taken to the Midwest Medical Examiner’s Office. That’s all I can tell you at this point. The investigation has barely begun.”
“Are you drawing a connection to the other two fires here this week?” Paul said.
“Not at this point, no. We’ll continue to look into it and hopefully will be able to answer all your questions in the not-too-distant future. But now it’s time for us to get back to work.”
“Okay, well thanks for that much anyhow.” Paul closed his notepad, but held onto his pen. I don’t think I’d ever seen him without one in his hand.
Weber walked over after Paul Moore and a few other onlookers drove away. “The gawkers have dwindled, Detective. Do you want Mandy and me to hang around a while yet?” Zubinski was standing guard by the driveway.
“No. We’re covered here. The fire investigator will be here as long as it takes, and I’ll stay to assist him. And then we’ll put our crime scene team to work,” Smoke said.
“I want to talk to Woody Nevins when he gets home, and that should be soon.” I looked at my watch: 2:52 p.m. Weber looked at me, squinted, and then nodded.
That made Smoke focus first on Weber then on me. “You two have a hot date, or what?”
Weber jerked his head back and lifted his eyebrows. “The sergeant and me? Hot date? Nah.”
“You look like you’re up to something,” Smoke said.
I shrugged. “We’re always up to something.”
Smoke shot us a dubious look. “No doubt. Well, I’ll be in the barn if you need me.”
“You usually have a better poker face than that, Vince,” I said.
“What do you want me to say? The detective’s got a way of peering at you that makes you think you should spill your guts whether you want to or not.”
I chuckled. “Yes he does. Anyway, I should clear here in an hour or so. That’ll give me plenty of time to make it to River’s Edge by five forty-five.”
“Where you’ll be hanging out in the parking lot, spying on Darcie, and watching to see how she walks?”
“That’s where. I won’t tell you what I’ll be driving and we’ll see if you can spot me.”
“Ha!” Weber tapped my arm then smiled as he walked away.
22
Belle and Birdie
Belle climbed up the boards that were nailed as steps on their favorite tree and sat down next to Birdie who was looking up at the clouds moving in the sky. It was one of the activities she seemed to love the most.
Belle moved in closer to Birdie and nudged her arm. “Birdie, we did it. We accomplished another one of our goals. I can’t believe the way it worked out. How it all just fell into our hands. We’ll keep working on the other things along the way until we’re done. How does that sound?”
Birdie moved her head in a small nod, and Belle noticed her lips curve up slightly. It warmed her heart knowing her sister was pleased with all she was doing to make things better for her. So she’d be happy again.
“You will be relieved and free when this is all over, won’t you, Birdie?”
Birdie laid her head on Belle’s shoulder and Belle imagined she heard the word, “Yes,” coming from Birdie’s mouth. If only that were true.
Nothing would bring Belle greater joy than hearing Birdie’s sweet voice again.
23
Woody Nevins’ vehicle came to an abrupt stop in front of the crime scene tape crossing the front of the driveway. He and a middle-aged woman got out and stood by the side of the truck looking at the burned remains of the barn. Woody was a
huge man, inches over six feet and carried plenty of girth. The top of his companion’s head didn’t quite touch his shoulders. She was on the chubby side with dark brown, shoulder-length hair held behind her ears by a headband.
Woody’s mouth dropped open, and he shook his head back and forth, again and again. The woman reached an arm around his waist and leaned into him. They stared for a bit longer until Woody noticed me, and I waved him over. He surprised me when he pushed his hefty body into a lumbering jog around the tape and met me by his garage. The woman followed behind him at a walking pace.
“This is unreal. I can’t get my brain to register any of it,” Woody said.
I had removed the protective clothing I’d worn in the barn and felt comfortable giving him a little hug. “No, that’ll take some time. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Corky.” When the woman stepped in beside him he turned his upper body toward her, like she’d surprised him. “Oh. Corky, this is my girlfriend, Delia. Delia, Corky Aleckson. She’s a sergeant with the sheriff’s department here.”
We shook hands, and I got the impression she was a rock-solid person, the kind Woody would need going forward. The kind I hoped Sybil had by her side. Why did my thoughts keep returning to Sybil and her well-being? “It’s good to meet you, Delia.”
She managed a little smile. “Likewise, except that it was because of this.”
“So what do I do now?” Woody asked.
I pointed at Smoke who was picking up the clipboard from the hood of his unmarked squad. “The detective has the release forms for you to sign. What you agreed to verbally, giving us permission to search.”
Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery Page 14