Backstrom shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know. They just had the one daughter, Roberta. The one that . . . that the bad things happened to.” He lifted his hands and dropped his face into them.
Smoke shot me a side look, and gave Backstrom a moment before he said, “Roberta. How old was Roberta at the time?”
“Six.”
“What bad things?”
Backstrom didn’t lift his head when he sniffled and said, “The worst things.”
“Sexual things?” Smoke said.
“Yes.” And then he cried.
“And your cousin accused you of doing those things?”
He sniffled some more. “No. It was my son.”
“Okay. When you’re ready, I need you to tell me what led to that accusation.”
Backstrom used his shirt sleeve to dry his eyes. “We were at my aunt and uncle’s place. The Hardings. It was my cousin Buzz’s birth—”
Smoke jerked slightly and interrupted with, “Buzz?”
My cousin’s name is Melvin, but he always went by Buzz.” More little zings set my heart a pounding.
Smoke stopped, and he jotted that down. I knew his thoughts were racing, and he needed a few seconds. “Melvin Harding, and he went by Buzz. I interrupted you, sorry. Go on.”
“Anyway, it was his birthday, July fourteenth.”
The same date as the first fire. Smoke managed to keep his expression noncommittal.
Backstrom went on. “Buzz had just gotten out of the service, and his parents decided to have a little celebration since it coincided with his birthday and all. I can tell you we would never have gone if we’d known what was going to happen.”
“We’ve all had twenty-twenty hindsight experiences. Please go on,” Smoke said.
“Buzz had taken Roberta, my son, Dustin, and Ross Warren, my other cousin’s son, to the barn. The rest of us hadn’t noticed, or paid much attention. Everyone else was in the house, except for Perry and me.”
“Perry?”
“My cousin, Roberta’s dad and Buzz’s brother.”
Smoke nodded. “Go on.”
“We didn’t know anything was wrong until we heard Roberta scream. We found the four of them in the barn. My cousin Buzz had molested little Roberta, but Perry saw red and thought they’d all taken part. Ross’s pants were unzipped. Dustin had a pained look on his face. He told me later that Buzz had told Ross to get ready because he was next in line to be with her.”
I swallowed slowly to calm my churning stomach.
Smoke lowered his voice. “How old were Dustin and Ross?”
“Dustin was fourteen, Ross was seventeen, I think. It was chaotic after that. First Perry hit Buzz so hard it knocked him out. Then he gave Ross a kick in the pants that sent him to the ground. Perry yelled at Ross to get up and get the hell off his property, that he’d take it up with his grandparents. Ross’s parents were dead, and he lived with them. Then he picked up his daughter. She was bleeding.”
Damon stopped and wiped his eyes again. It was a while before he spoke again. “Perry looked at me with what I’d call pure hatred and told me if my son ever had any contact with anyone in his family again he would make sure he was sent to juvenile detention for a long time. My son was just a kid. He should have run for help when Buzz was doing that to Roberta, but Buzz had him so scared that he didn’t.”
“What happened to Buzz after that?”
Backstrom shrugged. “He was still unconscious when we left the barn.”
“So you packed up your family and that was the last time any of you had contact with anyone in the Harding or Grant families?”
“Yes, that’s true. We never talked to either family and they never got a hold of us. Like I told you yesterday, I didn’t know Buzz was in Canada. I figured he would spend a long time in prison for what he did. Life, even. I never really cared for him, but I had no idea he’d do anything like that to a little girl. And his own niece. I get the sickest feeling whenever I think of it.”
As it turned out, Buzz might have preferred time in prison to what he actually got.
35
Belle and Birdie
“Things are shaping up, Birdie. And the authorities haven’t figured out what’s going on,” Belle told her.
Birdie looked up at the sky, maybe to pick out shapes in the clouds.
“And that’s just as well. We’re getting closer to the big event, and the longer they stay in the dark, the easier it will be for us.”
Birdie put her hand on Belle’s arm, giving her the strength to carry on.
“It’ll make us both happier when it’s all said and done, right?” Belle took Birdie’s hand in hers and kissed it.
36
Smoke and I were cruising down I-94 on our way out of St. Paul, each of us respecting the other’s need for some quiet time to reflect. A multitude of thoughts were vying for my consideration, and needed processing. As we passed the Minneapolis city limits sign, Smoke hit the steering wheel. “I don’t have to tell you that’s the worst for me. I’ve had to walk out of an interview with a suspect so I didn’t reach across the table and ring his neck. Or worse.”
Crimes against children were despicable on every level. “They are the worst. No question.”
“We need to pull the records on Melvin Harding, find out about his disposition, how much time he served,” he said.
“We also need to find out where Roberta is. According to Backstrom, she’d be twenty-six now, and that doesn’t make sense. Sybil said she didn’t have any siblings, and her license says she’s twenty-six.”
“It makes no sense, unless she changed her name from Roberta to Sybil.”
“That might be the case, and it’s yet another question to ask. What an awful thing she went through, if it was her. It could explain a lot of things,” I said.
“Not to mention that sexual abuse is a top reason females set fires.”
“We’ve got to track her down. Like right now.”
“Not we. Me. It’s your day off,” he said.
“Last night I drove by her grandparents’ house, and there was a light on in the attic. I planned to talk to her about it today, so I’ll give her a call, and you can follow up with her later. Is that all right?”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
But Sybil did not answer my call, as per usual. When it went to voicemail, I said, “Hi Sybil, Sergeant Aleckson calling. I drove by your grandparents’ house last night, and I noticed there was a light on in the attic. It’s been so hot, and I was concerned with no one living there that it may pose a hazard. Please give me a call. Thank you.” I disconnected. “Smoke, how about we stop by her place in Golden Valley? She might be home. And to be frank, I think I should be there when you talk to her. Girls who have been abused would rather talk to another girl.”
“You got that right. What’s the address?” he said.
I found it in my memo book then punched it into the map app on my phone. “Head west on Highway Fifty-five, then turn north on Winnetka.” Smoke followed my directions, but it led to a dead end. The address was not a home or an apartment building. It was a restaurant.
“You don’t say.” Smoke pulled over to the side of the street and pulled the mobile data terminal in closer. “Do you have her full name and DOB?” He accessed the state motor vehicle records. I read the information I’d recorded on Sybil, and he typed it in. A few seconds later it came back with the same information. “Her mailing address is a restaurant?” Smoke opened his door. “I’ll be right back.” He got out, jogged into the store, and was out again in minutes shaking his head. “They have no idea who she is. And she does not get her mail there,” he said as he climbed behind the wheel.
“I don’t get it. I know it’s easy enough to get a fake license, but the state issued this one. It’s in the system.”
“Looks like she got a bad address past them, and that tells me she doesn’t want the authorities to know where she really lives. Unless the state screwed up th
e address, and she didn’t correct it. Either way, it’s on her,” he said.
“Is Sybil really Roberta? If she’s the firesetter, it’s scary to think what she’ll do next, what she’s capable of. My impression is she got lost in the shuffle of life, that she could use some help. I didn’t peg her as a cunning conniving criminal.”
He chuckled. “That was a mouthful. And you’re right about her needing help. If she is the firesetter she needs big-time help.”
“Our next step?”
“For starters, I’ll let the DMV know about the bad address. Then it’s tracking down Melvin Harding and his criminal history. And Perry Harding to verify Backstrom’s story and tell us where his daughter Roberta is. Sybil said she’s an only child but that might be a lie too,” he said.
“I agree. We need to set up surveillance on the Hardings’ house. Sybil is bound to show up there sooner or later.”
“True. But you gotta be more creative hiding out in the country when there aren’t houses and other buildings around to conceal you.”
“Our firesetter’s been successfully doing that for over a week,” I said.
“You got me on that one.”
37
Smoke pulled up next to my car in the sheriff’s lot and parked.
“No sheriff again today,” I said noticing his empty spot.
“Some folks at the office are getting kinda frustrated. He’s been going through his office, packing up stuff, but he won’t say whether he’s hanging it up, or not.”
“Elections aren’t until next year.”
“It’s not a good situation, all the way around.” We got out of the car then he said, “Your job—for what’s left of today—is to try to forget about your job.”
Like that was possible. “Can I make a request?”
“What’s that?”
“That you’ll call me if we get any lab results back,” I said.
He sucked in a breath. “All right, will do.” He headed to the office, and I climbed into the GTO. As I started the engine, I noticed a silver Honda Civic drive slowly down the street in front of me. The woman in the driver’s seat turned her head my way as she passed by. Her sunglasses covered half her face, but I had little doubt it was Darcie. Vince Weber lived three or four blocks away. I pulled out my phone and called him. “Yo, Sergeant, what’s up?” he said.
“Are you home?”
“No, I’m actually grocery shopping.”
I got straight to the point. “I think I just saw Darcie.”
“Ah, geez. Where are you?”
“Sheriff’s parking lot. She was heading south on First then turned left on Thirty-five toward downtown. I didn’t get her plate.”
“Yeah well, she stopped by my house yesterday when I was gone. I alerted a couple of my neighbors about her, asked them to let me know if they ever saw her. And one of ’em told me he saw her knocking on my door,” he said.
“Did she call, send a text?”
“No. But if she’s trying to catch me at home to surprise me or something, that makes my skin crawl. I’ll call her, see if there’s something specific she’s itching to tell me. I was hopin’ our last meeting was going to be our last meeting.”
“After your warning, she’s probably afraid to call or text, realizing you’ll have a record of it.”
“I’ll give her this one last chance to tell me whatever it is. After that, I’ll tell her to have her parents relay any messages,” he said.
“If you end up filing a no-contact order, she won’t even be able to do that.”
“Yeah, so we’ll see where the discussion—ahem—leads.”
“Take care,” I said.
“You, too.”
I pushed the end button and considered whether to swing by Weber’s house in case Darcie showed up again. But owning the only 1967 red GTO in Oak Lea put me at a disadvantage for blending in, surveillance-wise. That’s where Gramps’ old Buick came in handy. But on a different day. Today I needed to spend my investigative scouting time on the lookout for someone else. Someone who had lied about her address.
Smoke’s heart-to-heart with Damon Backstrom had raised questions we needed answers for. Smoke would be running checks on Melvin, Perry, and Roberta at the office, where he’d have computer access to criminal histories. I’d leave him to Melvin, but I was too curious to wait on Perry and Roberta. When I got home, I let Queenie out and then headed to my office den for a little Internet browsing.
I logged in then searched for Perry Harding in Minnesota and New Mexico. I found his past and current addresses plus his phone number in minutes. But after typing in Roberta’s name, the wind was knocked out of my sails. The first thing that popped up was her obituary. Eight years earlier. I clicked to open it and read the frustratingly few words about her. She was born to Perry and Vienne Harding. She was survived by her parents and sister, Sybil. The dates of birth and death were listed, but not where she was born, nor where she had died. Or the cause of her untimely death at age eighteen. Natural, accidental, unexpected, what? The service was private: family only. Roberta’s date of birth jumped out at me. I fished my memo book from my back pocket and paged back to the date of birth Sybil had given me. Yep, it was exactly the same.
I sat for another minute re-reading the obituary and wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me, if the eight was really a three. Or maybe there was a typographical error. If Sybil and Roberta were twins, Damon Backstrom would have known that. So would Angela. She remembered having a cousin, she’d certainly know if there had been two. Plus the obituary would read Roberta was survived by her twin sister, Sybil. Twins always got that recognition.
The Backstroms didn’t know Sybil, yet Sybil shared Roberta’s birthday. She’d told me she was an only child. Her driver’s license said she was twenty-six. Then again, her address was incorrectly listed on it. So what was true? It seemed that all roads of unanswered questions led back to Sybil.
I was trying to decide what to do next when Smoke phoned. “I heard back from forensics on your beekeeper creeper,” he said.
“What’d they find out?”
“Not enough, sorry to say. All they could do was give an estimate of the person’s height and weight. They think she is around five five, and weighs one fifteen to one thirty. They couldn’t pull out any kind of image of the face, even a partial.”
“You said ‘she.’”
“Forensics isn’t positive about that, but given their experience looking at tons of videos over the years, they’re basing that on the person’s size and how she moved,” he said.
“Backs up what we thought.”
“It does. And I reported Sybil’s incorrect address to DMV, and they said they’d look into it.”
“Good.”
“Well, that’s all for now.”
“Actually, I have something, too,” I said.
“Do tell.”
“Roberta Harding died eight years ago when she was just eighteen.”
“Ah, that’s sad to hear. I’ve been thinking about her and that incident with her uncle and cousins. Something was seriously wrong with Melvin—Buzz. To abuse his little niece while his cousins watched—not to mention that the rest of the family was nearby—tells me two things: he was either mentally ill, or evil, and it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. I’m about to search the records on him,” Smoke said.
“Ross Warren was wearing his uncle’s shirt, or at least one with his uncle’s nickname on it. Does it make sense that he’d have his lighter, too? And was it Ross who lost it on my property last week?”
“Could very well be.”
“According to the obituary, Roberta has the exact same DOB as Sybil,” I said.
“That makes zero sense.”
I filled him in on the few details given in the tribute then said, “Backstrom said she wasn’t even born when the family broke up. Sybil’s gotta be using her sister’s birthday, but why? Everything keeps circling back to her, yet she claims to know virtually not
hing about her family. I did find her parents’ address in New Mexico, though.”
“So that part is true anyway. What is it?” After I gave him the contact info, Smoke said, “When we get more sorted out, I’m going to talk to Marcella, see what her take on the family is based on what we know. Psychologically-speaking.”
Marcella. The woman who interrupted my dinner plans with Smoke. Technically, I guess it was the other way around. I was curious about what she wanted to talk to him about, but it wasn’t the time to ask. “She’s been a good resource the last few years,” I said.
“That she has. All right, I’ll get back on track here and run down the leads.”
After we disconnected, I sat for a minute longer contemplating my next course of action, knowing I had to find Sybil and talk to her in person. It was mid-afternoon when I drove over to Gramps’ house with Queenie. He graciously lent me the use of his car, and said he’d watch Queenie for the time I was away. The Hardings’ place was just over a mile west of my house, as the crow flies. Part of my Gramps’ acres spanned almost the whole distance, minus the two township roads. I lived on the east side of mine and the Hardings were on the west side of theirs.
Leroy also rented those fields from Gramps, and had half the acres in corn and half in soybeans. There was a vehicle path that ran between them. I drove south on Brandt Avenue to where the path started then turned into the right of way. After traveling eight feet or so, I was in the fields with crops on either side of me. They were rolling hills, and I parked in a lower area not visible from Collins Avenue. I put on a sunhat, not as a disguise, but as shade from the heat of the sun. Then I collected the small backpack I’d filled with water, binoculars, and a book to read. I got out of the car and stepped to the south side of the cornfield, using the crops as cover as I made my way toward Collins.
There was a small clump of trees on the west side of the field, and I figured it was a good place to hunker down and keep watch. I’d planned to sit on the ground among the trees, but when I got there another opportunity presented itself instead. There were two-foot-long boards nailed to the backside of an old oak that provided steps up to its massive branches. It looked like they’d been there for years, but they seemed sturdy enough. I cautiously checked each one as I climbed up. Two branches that grew in opposite directions at the same height provided an ideal crook to sit in.
Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery Page 24