Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery

by Christine Husom

  “I’ll find out what Sybil knows about Warren, if anything. We were supposed to meet today, but I’m seeing her tomorrow instead.”

  “Ah yes, the elusive Sybil and her hard-to-reach grandmother.” It had been a difficult day, and he was getting crabby.

  “Smoke, if you weren’t on call, I’d suggest that you imbibe a good, stiff drink right about now.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said.

  26

  Sundays were quiet in the office, but calls for service ran the gamut. In the summertime, hundreds of campers and boat-laden trailers pulled behind vehicles, passed through the county after the weekend at cabins and resorts. Once in a while, we spotted one without current tabs, or that posed a safety problem.

  Domestics were fairly common among couples who spent a day or two together drinking too much. Sunday mornings the calls started coming in. Many teenagers were bored, doing things they shouldn’t be doing, and getting into trouble. Some of them ran away for any number of reasons and frantic parents called us for help finding them.

  I spent the first hour of my shift writing reports on the fatal fire and the domestic from the day before. After filing them, I was heading for the door when Smoke walked in, looking weary but smelling fresh. “Got a minute?” he said.

  I followed him to his cubicle. “Did you get any sleep?”

  His shoulder lifted. “A couple hours. Then my day got off to a disturbing start. Someone left the unwelcome gift of a dead rabbit on my doorstep—”

  “No way—”

  “Luckily, I spotted it before I let Rex out—”

  “What’d you do with it?”

  “I took photos and bagged it. The vet clinic is closed today, so I threw some ice in a cooler and put it in there,” he said.

  “Eew. Positioned the same way as mine?”

  “Yep.”

  “What is going on? I thought Weber had kind of a wacky theory about the rabbit and the blood drop, and why he thought Darcie would’ve left it. Then I got one, and we wondered if she was responsible for that. But now you got one too. What would be the connection?”

  “Doesn’t fit with Weber’s crazy sister-in-law theory, that’s for sure.”

  “No. He actually asked Darcie about it last night, and the way she reacted pretty much convinced him she wasn’t the one who did it.”

  “Backed up by your observations of how she moved in the video Weber sent you,” he said.

  “Right. I’ve looked at it a few times now, and Darcie doesn’t move the way the one on my back property did. That person was light on his, or her, feet. More on the graceful side. Darcie walks with heavy steps. Since the beekeeper creeper was hunched over, I can’t say with a hundred percent certainty it wasn’t Darcie, but I’d give it ninety-nine percent. That one seemed more agile and had lighter steps than Darcie does.”

  “So if not Darcie, then who, and for what possible reason, as you said? I gotta say I’m surprised someone made it as far as my front steps between, say, ten o’clock last night and six this morning without riling Rex up.”

  “Unless it was during the two hours you were dead to the world and didn’t hear Rex,” I said.

  “That’s near to impossible. He’s my home security system.”

  “Okay, so now three of us have gotten dead rabbits laid on our doorsteps.”

  Smoke rubbed his chin. “That we know of.”

  His words gave me pause. “You’re saying there could be more than that, but they haven’t said anything?”

  “Sure.”

  “I guess. Weber didn’t mention it until after he found the blood drop and started wondering. I might not have thought that much of it if Weber hadn’t told me about his. And you?”

  “Might’ve, depending on the circumstances, but I doubt I’d have given it a whole lot of thought. I’m going to send out a blast email, see if other deputies have gotten one too.”

  “Not a bad idea. It makes you wonder.”

  “It does. Someone’s got a bone to pick with cops, and they’re out to stump us? I don’t know.”

  “Getting back to the bigger deal, any more on the autopsy?” I said.

  “The ME has the statutory obligation to perform it under the circumstances, the fire fatality. So far, we know Ross Warren’s closest relative is his great aunt Harding, followed by his father’s cousins. Damon Backstrom is the only one of the three around here. I don’t want to hold things up too long for Doc Patrick, so if Mr. Backstrom doesn’t get back to me real soon, I’ll give Angela Simmonds a jingle, see if she can assist me in the matter.”

  By 8:45 a.m. Angela had assisted him in the matter, and Smoke sent me a message saying he was on his way to visit Damon Backstrom in the lobby of the Country Inn and Suites, and I could join him. When I walked into the hotel I greeted the clerk at the desk then headed over to where Smoke and company—Mr. and Mrs. Backstrom—were seated. Damon cast his eyes downward when he spotted me. I had that affect on people I’d arrested, or come close to arresting.

  Kaye Backstrom looked perplexed when I sat down in one of the armchairs in their furniture grouping. She may have thought with two officers there we’d gang up on her husband. I had the disadvantage of not knowing what was said before I got there.

  “You know Sergeant Aleckson,” Smoke said.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Kaye mumbled a quiet, “Morning.” Damon said nothing. His face and neck were flushed, and if ever a person looked like he’d rather be on a space shuttle to the moon it was him.

  Smoke jumped back in like he hadn’t been interrupted. “I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about your family feud or your buried secrets if three barns that belonged to your mother and her two sisters hadn’t burned down in less than a week. Monday, Wednesday, Saturday. Three barns, six days.

  “Now I’m concerned there might be another sibling with a barn in Blackwood Township—or somewhere else in Winnebago County—that’s going to go up in flames, maybe tomorrow.”

  Backstrom’s color deepened. “There were no other siblings, just the three sisters.”

  Smoke leaned in closer. “And why would they be targeted in this way? What’s the history?”

  “I don’t know. If there’s any connection between the fires, I’d look at Ross Warren.”

  “Ross Warren?” Smoke lifted his driver’s license photo from the table, held it up, and rattled it back and forth. “You told me you haven’t had any contact with him for twenty years.”

  “I haven’t. But he was one of those kids who liked to stir up things. Made me wonder what path he’d take in life, the right one or the wrong one.”

  Smoke leaned back again. “Give me an example of how he stirred things up.”

  Backstrom shook his head like he didn’t have one then said, “One time when he collected eggs for his grandparents he threw them all like baseballs against a tree, wasting the whole bunch and making a mess.”

  “Sounds like an impulse problem. And vandalism. No other suspects you can think of besides Ross?”

  “No. And I don’t see how the fight between my cousin and me would’ve had anything to do with the fires.”

  Smoke stood and handed Backstrom his card. “We’ll let you know what the autopsy reveals, and in the meantime I want you to think long and hard about telling us what caused your feud. A man may have perished because of it.”

  If that was true, it would take both good police work and being in the right place at the right time to prove it.

  Smoke and I walked toward our vehicles, and then he stopped at mine. “Before I got there you talked to the Backstroms about Ross Warren, that we suspect it’s his body in the morgue?” I said.

  “I did. And making notification to his next of kin. He said Ross had a maternal aunt, his mother’s sister, and gave me her name, but doesn’t know her current status. I’ll run a search. Otherwise, his great-aunt, Mamie Harding, would be Ross’s closest relative.”

  “I’ll talk to Sybil, tell her we need to contact
her.”

  “Backstrom was surprised to hear the Hardings were with their son in Canada. He didn’t know his cousin lived there. But then why should he since the family doesn’t speak?”

  “Sometimes I just want to give people the ‘life is too short’ lecture.”

  “If it’d do any good, I would do just that.” He released a long breath of air, like he was clearing out his lungs. “These fires are getting to be a thorn in my side. Were the three barns randomly chosen? I don’t think so, given who they belonged to. There are no more siblings left to target, but are there others in the county our firesetter had a beef with? How in the hell do we figure out who he is and why he’s doing this?”

  “Without a crystal ball, or some good intelligence, or catching him in the act, I don’t know. I’ve had my area cars beef up patrol on Blackwood Township roads, and I’ll see if the sheriff will ask other area cars to swing through a few times tomorrow morning, seeing how all the fires were set in the morning,” I said.

  “Set by someone hiding in plain sight. I’ll be there myself cruising around in one of the impound vehicles.”

  I smiled. “Incognito, huh?”

  “Oh boy. But today I’m scheduled to witness the autopsy.”

  “It’s set then?”

  “I talked to Doc Patrick earlier and asked that she hold off until after noon, give us time to make a reasonable attempt to contact family. The family of the man we believe it to be, anyway,” Smoke said.

  “If Ross Warren shows up now we’ll all be a little spooked.”

  “That we will. You want to witness it with me?”

  “No thanks. You are far better at that than I am.”

  “You’re not as grizzled as I am, but you can hold your own. You’ll let me know what Sybil has to say?” he said.

  “Yes, I’ll phone her now.”

  Smoke took off, and I got into my car and dialed Sybil’s number. She answered after the second ring. “Hello, Sergeant. Are you calling about a time to meet?” she said.

  “Sure. What’s good for you?”

  “Um, I’m in Oak Lea now.”

  “Good. How about we meet at the sheriff’s office in ten minutes? Will that work?” I said.

  “Oh, okay. Ten minutes.”

  “The sheriff’s office is on the south side of the government center. I’ll wait for you on the veranda.” I disconnected, pleased that she’d actually answered her phone and agreed to meet without pressing me for the reasons why. I’d delivered enough bad news over the phone of late.

  Sybil was waiting by the steps at the bottom of the veranda, holding onto a bicycle, when I pulled into the parking lot. She was dressed in light gray biker shorts and a white t-shirt with a fanny pack around her waist. Her helmet was strapped to the handlebars.

  I told Communications I was 10-19—at the office—then got out of the car. “Hello, Sybil. I’m glad this worked out. You rode your bike, but not all the way from Golden Valley, I hope?”

  “No, I keep one at my grandparents’ house.”

  And it was a nice one, too. Titanium frame, in the $500 range, at least. One of the deputies had spent over $3,000 for his racing bike, so Sybil’s might have cost more than $500. I thought the $200 I’d paid for my mountain bike was plenty. “You want to bring it up the steps and leave it by the office entrance?”

  “Okay.” Before I could offer to help her, she lifted it with ease and rolled it up the steps with minimal effort. Stronger than she looked.

  “I need to ask you if you’re carrying a jackknife or other item that could be used as a weapon before we go in,” I said.

  Her eyebrows lifted and she patted her fanny pack. “Why no, I just have my wallet and sunglasses.”

  She parked her bike by the stone wall of the building. I swiped my access card across the reader then pulled the door open, and we went inside. I lifted my hand toward the corridor straight ahead. “This way.”

  Sybil hesitated a bit then walked with me to the squad room. With no one else in there, it was a good place to talk. Less intimidating than the interview rooms. She looked around at the row of mailboxes on one wall, the cubbyholes filled with forms on another, the computers and copy machine around the edges. Then she focused on the large conference table in the center when I said, “Have a seat.”

  I sat kitty-corner to her right and took a second to study her. She seemed more at ease, less vulnerable, a little more confident than the first time we’d met. Granted, that had been under dire circumstances. She looked over her left shoulder like something was there.

  “Is everything all right, Sybil?”

  She turned back to me and blinked. “Um yes, fine.”

  “I’ve got some important things to tell you and some questions to ask. All right?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ve heard about the other barn fires in Blackwood Township?”

  “Yes.”

  “It turns out someone you’re related to recently bought the one over on Ames Avenue.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  I shared the story Angela Simmonds had told me about the fight between the families, how they had moved away, and how she and her husband had gotten the farm after her grandmother died.

  She shook her head during the account. “I didn’t know I had a cousin named Angela.”

  “You would have been young when it all happened, twenty years ago. Angela didn’t remember your name either.”

  Sybil looked down, hugged herself, and rocked gently back and forth.

  “She’d like to meet you, but her father seems to have a problem with whatever it was he and your father fought about back then.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Okay? “So your father never told you about it, what the fight was about?”

  “My father? No, he didn’t.”

  “You might want to ask him. Angela doesn’t know the reason either, and her father won’t share that. It seems to me it must have been pretty serious.”

  “It must have been. But if Angela’s father won’t tell her, mine probably won’t either.” She didn’t seem all that curious. I would surely want to know.

  “Here’s the other thing. The barn that burned down on Saturday? Did you know that it belonged to your grandmother’s sister, before she and her husband moved into town?”

  “My grandma never told me that.”

  “Tragically there was someone inside, and he perished in the fire,” I said.

  She looked down and hugged herself a little tighter.

  “We think it might be another relative of yours.”

  She braved another look at me. “A relative? Of mine?”

  I stood up and retrieved a copy of Ross Warren’s driver’s license from my mailbox cubby and handed it to her. She looked at it, shook her head, and handed it back.

  “His name is Ross Warren, the grandson of your great aunt. So he’d be your second cousin.” I felt like I’d filled in the names of the leaves on Sybil’s family tree for her.

  “No, my grandma never talked about him either,” she said.

  “Sybil, even though your family was estranged, we need to inform your grandmother. We have a body at the medical examiner’s office that we believe is Ross Warren’s. We haven’t made a positive identification yet, but they’re still working on that. The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon.”

  “Okay. I can let my grandma know. But there’s nothing she could do about it anyway.”

  “Well, tell her about it, and we’ll take it from there,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “How did your grandparents handle the news about their fire?”

  “Okay, I guess. I think they’ll ask me to sell their farm. I don’t think they’re coming back.”

  “Really, why’s that?”

  She shrugged. “I guess they like it where they are. With my uncle.”

  After I’d escorted Sybil out, I watched her carry her bike down the steps, strap on her helmet, and climb on he
r bike. Then she rode away like the wind, like she’d been born to ride. When she headed west on County 35, I jogged to my car, let Communications know I was “Clearing ten-nineteen,” and headed west on 35 myself. I drove a good distance behind Sybil so she wouldn’t think I was following her, but of course I was. She was a speedy rider and deftly climbed the hills and rounded the two big curves without slowing down much at all.

  The more contact I had with her the more curious I got. Part of the reason was her elusiveness. Part of it was her secretive nature. It was a chore trying to pull out information about her life, her activities, and her family. Was Sybil guarding family secrets, as well? She said her grandmother hadn’t told her that she had two sisters who lived on farms close by. Was that the truth?

  My own family hadn’t been all that forthcoming with certain bits of information over the years, but that was often to protect another’s feelings, or for other good reasons. That may have been true with Sybil’s family too. My brother and I had our little spats over the years, but I couldn’t imagine them growing into rifts. We loved and trusted each other and wouldn’t let that happen.

  Sybil turned left on Collins Avenue, and I waited until she was out of sight then I turned and followed her. When she went up the hill that then dipped by her grandparents’ house, I stopped, turned around, drove a ways down the road, then pulled over to call Smoke. “Greetings, Sergeant. What’s up?”

  “I met with Sybil Harding, and I cannot figure her out. It’s like she’s sitting in front of me, but she’s not there.”

  “I agree that she is different,” he said.

  “She didn’t have much of anything to say that helped. What it boils down to is nobody told her she had relatives here, or about the feud, and that her grandparents will probably stay in Canada with her uncle and have her sell their house.”

  “Well that’s that then. I’ll be heading over to the ME’s office in Ramsey for the autopsy. Sure you don’t want to come? Patrol has been pretty quiet so far today.”