Murder Book

by Weber, Frank F. ;

  Murder Book

  Murder Book

  By

  Frank F. Weber

  Copyright © 2017 Frank F. Weber

  Front cover photo © Xsperience Photography

  Back cover photo © iStock/Getty Images

  Author photo © Brenda Weber

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-68201-068-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This project was made possible by a grant provided by the Five Wings Art Council, with funds from the McKnight Foundation.

  First edition: May 2017

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Published by

  North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

  19485 Estes Road

  Clearwater, MN 55320

  www.northstarpress.com

  Dedication

  Brenda, nothing I accomplish will ever compare to the tenderness, grace, kindness, and beauty you bring to me.

  Thank you, Tiffany Lundgren, for your feedback, insight, and efforts to change a grammatically incorrect world.

  Chapter

  One

  JON FREDERICK

  5:12 P.M.

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 2014

  BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA

  THE MISSING PERSON’S REPORT, from a decade earlier, read that Mandy Baker was last seen leaving the Little Falls High School on Friday, February 6, 2004, in Little Falls, Minnesota. It was assumed she returned home after school, as there was a postmarked letter lying open on her bed. The picture stapled carelessly to the report showed Mandy with straight light blonde hair, light-blue eyes, and a rounded face with distinctive dimples. She was a slender five feet, eight inches tall. The then-sixteen-year-old had moved with her mother and her mother’s boyfriend from Fresno, California, to Minnesota at the beginning of the 2003-2004 school year. They lived near the railroad tracks on the west side of Little Falls, in a low-income neighborhood. A light-colored compact car pulled up to the home the day she went missing, at approximately 8:00 p.m. It was reported that a neighbor witnessed someone of Mandy’s shape and size leave the home and get into the car. It was dark, and the neighbor had no view of the car’s driver. Mandy Baker had not been seen or heard from since. Mandy enjoyed charcoal drawing, painting, and other creative activities. She did not own a vehicle. She did not own a cell phone. Mandy was last seen wearing a white tank top and blue jeans.

  Mandy Baker was the biggest mistake of my life. Ten years ago, I was the seventeen-year-old boy who wrote the “Dear John” letter investigators found on Mandy’s bed. This made me the prime suspect in her disappearance. It’s always the ex-boyfriend, right? But there was no evidence, beyond the letter, connecting me to her disappearance. The problem was, there was no evidence connecting anyone else to her disappearance, either. Little Falls is a rural Minnesota town of around twelve thousand people, about a ninety-minute drive north of Minneapolis. The disappearance of a young person in a small town never stops haunting its residents. People lived there because they thought it was safe. Unlike the anonymity of large cities, small-town crimes are committed by people residents typically know and interact with. When the case went cold, people simply assumed I had gotten away with it, so I didn’t stick around. I became determined to become an investigator myself. In college, I managed to secure an internship with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA). After agreeing to help out on every undesirable shift that needed an extra set of hands, I was eventually offered employment. Today, I had been promoted to investigator status. My business card would read JON FREDERICK, BCA INVESTIGATOR. This promotion was significant, as it had finally given me access to the cold case room.

  My shift had ended, and I stood in the unfinished basement of our office, where the cold case files were stored. The room was a large, cement space, filled with rows of floor-to-ceiling metal shelves housing boxes of evidence. The term “cold case room” applied well. The winter of 2014 had been one of the three coldest in the history of Minnesota, and we were slowly coming out of it. It was a balmy thirty-five degrees, and we had received six and a half inches of snow in the last two days. Throughout the winter, we had more than fifty days where the temperature dipped below zero, and numerous days where the windchill was a painful thirty to forty below. To put it in perspective, this is about seventy degrees colder than one’s freezer. At this temperature, even a heavy winter jacket feels like a plastic windbreaker. The cold case room was unheated, and felt about fifty degrees. I held Mandy Baker’s missing person’s report in my hand, carefully going through the “murder book.” The murder book is a twenty-first century term for the box holding all the evidence of a case. While Mandy’s “murder” was never confirmed, there was no evidence she ever contacted anyone after that night. The BCA handles all of the homicide and abduction cases in Minnesota, similar to the manner in which the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) handles investigations which cross state lines.

  I cannot honestly say that being accused of murdering Mandy when I was in high school made me the obsessive person I am. I think the door to that room opened years earlier, and Mandy’s disappearance settled in to occupy the space. At the very least, it exacerbated my obsessiveness, leaving the contents of the room difficult to contain. My thoughts tormented me at times, but overall, I did pretty well at keeping them in check. In my work for the BCA, I’d been in a hundred homes owned by obsessive people, which were filled with trash. That would never be my scenario. My hyper-awareness of my obsessiveness prevented me from going down that road. People who don’t keep their obsessiveness in check start collecting items they feel are essential, and soon they’re weaving through piles in their homes. I keep things simple to compensate for my craziness, so my home is clean and uncluttered.

  I’m a little lanky at six feet, one inch, but clean-cut, lean, and in good shape. No crew cut, though—that’s a little too militant for me. I work out three days a week and, for the most part, eat healthy. At times, I feel like working out more frequently, but I don’t allow myself to, as I gravitate toward overdoing everything. But I do work my body hard on those three days. I’ve been told since I was young that my bright-blue eyes are inviting and friendly, which is a little embarrassing, because it basically means that it’s the rest of my personality that keeps people at a distance. In my twenty-eight years, I’ve kept my body clean of tattoos and jewelry. I don’t particularly care if others choose to paint or hang ornaments on their bodies like a Christmas tree, but it’s not for me. If I started, it would never end. Perhaps having everybody assume I was a killer since I was seventeen extinguished my need for attention.

  I reached into the cold case box and picked up the list of items discovered in Mandy’s room. As an investigator, I began to think of her clothing differently than I had when I dated her. Her Forever 21 brand clothing wasn’t surprising, but Victoria’s Secret underwear was expensive for an unemployed teenager with alcoholic parents. I remember sitting on her bed when her parents weren’t home talking about our lives. It was memorable, because I was never allowed in the bedroom of the small-town girls I dated. It’s funny when you consider what parents worry about and what teens actually do. We never had sex in her bed! When I told Mandy I picked rocks in the hot sun during the summer, for five dollars an hour, she laughed and pulled a pair of lace underwear out of the drawer and threw them on the bed. Being a naïve country boy, I was too embarrassed to even look at them for long. She told me she had bras that would have cost me more than five hours of hard labor to buy, and all she had to do was flirt with Ray’s friends—Ray was he
r mom’s boyfriend—and they’d buy them for her. I wanted to tell her that they weren’t buying lingerie for her, it was for them, but I didn’t want to make her feel bad. Maybe I should have.

  I set aside the list of Mandy’s clothing. Reaching into this box was like stepping into a time machine. I found a picture of Mandy at a 2003 New Year’s Eve party. I smiled for a moment. Mandy confidently posed, hands on her hips, revealing long legs below her short, black skirt, showcasing the rose tattoo on her ankle. There was something dangerously mesmerizing about Mandy’s ice-blue eyes. As a teenager, I had never noticed the dark roots showing beneath her blonde hair. Her pale orange tank top melded to the curves of her breasts. She reminded me of an arrow just shot free from the bow—enjoying the flight, without considering that the odds of a pleasant landing were slim. Ten years ago, Mandy exuded sexuality in the midst of rural Catholic girls, who were painfully repressed. Like every other post-pubescent boy, I was drawn to her. I blew out a long exhale and asked, “What the hell happened to you, Mandy?”

  I was at that New Year’s Eve party with Mandy. The party was in the small, Catholic farming community of Pierz, Minnesota, just east of Little Falls (also in Morrison County), my hometown. It was a place where people still went out of their way to help each other with a physical task. The idea of seeking emotional help was still pretty foreign, however, as it was assumed that hard work would basically solve everything. It was an area where people worked with dangerous farm equipment, but if someone got hurt, it was just an accident, not a lawsuit. People were expected to reap the rewards, and suffer the consequences, of their choices. Men often wore baseball hats, although I didn’t, unless I was playing baseball. The “good old boys,” with their curved visors and the “wannabes,” with their flat visors, both wore hats for no logical reason. Comfort was always the fashion in Pierz. People wore jeans, t-shirts or hooded sweatshirts, and sensible shoes without heels. Contrary to movies about Minnesota, people didn’t typically wear vests unless they were hunting. There simply weren’t times where one’s torso was cold and one’s arms were hot. Pierz folk did say “Yep” a lot, so I made it a point to always say “Yes.” The old Germans in town also started a lot of words with the letter “D.” For example, every Sunday, the church lector would end the reading with, “Dis is da word of da Lord.” This man wasn’t ignorant; he was bilingual. He spoke primarily German as a child, and there is no “th” sound in the German language. Much of life is not as it appears. Hell, “Germany” doesn’t even exist, in Germany. The country we call Germany, Germans refer to as Deutschland. I apologize for that obsessive tangent. It’s how I’m wired. You’ll need to bear with me.

  As midnight approached that New Year’s Eve, Mandy slid onto my lap in worn, warm jeans, and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” I was just seventeen years old at the time, and the heat coming off her body was beyond anything I had ever experienced.

  In the dark of midnight, I drove us through a light snowfall to a secluded dirt road, until I found a remote place to park. The surrounding woods were thick with pine trees, branches tiredly swaying with snow. Mandy dreaded the darkness of the rural Minnesota nights, so she clung tight. Once parked, Mandy quickly shed her jacket, and with hormones cascading through me, I clumsily followed suit. Neither the cool air nor the cloying floral smell of her perfume was going to dissuade me. Her not-so-subtle hints had promised that tonight was going to be my “first time.” My urgent desire made her touch feel like a warm blanket on a bone-chilling night. Still, I fought my eagerness, to make certain she was okay with each step, while she graciously led me along. Mandy suggested we move into the backseat, to avoid the steering column, and I said something like, “Of course,” pretending I’d been in this predicament before. We simultaneously peeled out the front doors and into the back. She insisted I lock the doors, so I complied. With a smile, Mandy then felt safe enough to proceed. I wasn’t convinced a locked door would dissuade a psychopathic killer standing outside my car in the dark, secluded wilderness, miles away from where anyone could hear a scream, but if it eased her mind, so be it.

  Mandy helped me pull off my shirt, and I returned the favor. She started undoing my belt, and when I took over, she shed her jeans and underwear with one quick swoop. It was at this point our behavior stopped feeling natural and quickly became awkward. With my length of six-one, and Mandy at five-eight, our long limbs weren’t ideally suited for getting horizontal in a sedan. Mandy battled the stickiness of the vinyl seats against her bare skin as she squeaked into position beneath me. I was propped with my head pressed against one door, and my pants tangled around my feet. Still, the warmth of her bare skin on mine, now lubricated with tiny whispers of sweat, made immediate body contact crucial, so we wrestled into the missionary position. Mandy assured me I wouldn’t need a condom, because she was using a foam form of birth control. I remember thinking, They land planes on foam when they can’t get the landing gear to drop. Probably not the same stuff, but this would explain its lubricating qualities. Unfortunately, my burning passion was followed by a torrential deluge that felt amazing for a moment, and then quickly put the fire out. Well, so much for that. I apologized and slowly sat up.

  I leaned against the door, pants still down, and after a ragged breath considered that the experience wasn’t exactly like I imagined it would be. I sort of expected her to be mad at me, and wouldn’t have been surprised if she would have slapped me. Mandy wasn’t one to hide her frustration.

  Instead, Mandy gave me an understanding smile. Still naked, she snuggled against me, kissed me on the cheek, and seductively comforted me, whispering, “That’s how it’s supposed to be the first time.”

  With her forgiveness, I decided there was no point in pretending I knew what I was doing anymore. It wasn’t a relaxing embrace. Imagine someone you don’t know, hugging you—naked. I found myself counting in my head as I considered the appropriate length of time a person should wait after sex before suggesting it was time to go home. Mandy seemed to be enjoying the warm security of lying against me, and I felt I owed her this comfort. So I silently counted on. Two hundred thirteen, two hundred fourteen, two hundred fifteen . . .

  Mandy’s smile turned devilish as she finally looked up and said, “Let me show you something.”

  Before I could respond, she dropped her head into my lap and started doing something sinfully pleasurable. I pondered whether that foam was safe to consume orally. When it became apparent there wasn’t going to be an immediate, tragic effect, I wondered, Is this a sin? Probably not a mortal sin. Maybe a venial sin. The type of sin you might get slapped for, but they’d probably still let you into heaven, anyway. No doubt worth it.

  Once Mandy achieved the desired result, she lay back and guided me back on top of her. This time I was able to relax and enjoy sex with her. She positioned me by guiding my buttocks with her hands, until she finally breathed, “There.”

  For a moment, I felt like the luckiest guy on earth.

  I TOSSED THE PICTURE BACK into the cold case box. Looking back through the eyes of a twenty-eight-year-old, her behavior was disturbing. She was only sixteen. My decision to be involved with Mandy placed me at center stage in an unfolding tragedy. My life probably would have played out better if my first experience would have been with someone just as naïve as I was, if indeed that person existed.

  THE REALITY OF MANDY’S LIFE became obvious when I pulled up to her home to drop her off. Her mother was screaming in a jealous rage inside, followed by the sound of glass breaking. I envisioned glasses shattering and cascading down a wall. Mandy had no reaction to it, suggesting this was a relatively common occurrence. She caught me flinching and asked if she would ever see me again. I wanted to get the hell out of there and never come back, and I admonished myself for thinking this.

  I was starting to seriously question if she had used birth control, so I blurted, “Do you still have the box for the spermicide?”

  Mandy warily responded, “No. I made sure it was tu
cked away in the garbage before we left.” Defensively, she asked, “Do you think I lied about that?”

  I didn’t want to say “Yes,” so I responded with, “I just wanted to know how effective it is.”

  Mandy was keenly aware that this wasn’t a loving conversation. It was the kind of conversation we should have had before having sex. Dejected, she said, “You don’t need to worry. It works. I did read about it. I think it said seventy-nine percent of the time, which means a pretty low chance of getting pregnant.”

  My interpretation of “seventy-nine percent effective” was different. The odds of getting pregnant, using it once, weren’t very good, but the reality was if you had sex three times, the odds were against you. And we’d had sex twice. I hastily explained that I had no free time until Saturday. I hated myself for the sadness in her eyes as the words left my mouth.

  Crestfallen, Mandy nodded. She was about to exit my car when I reached out, grabbed her wrist and asked, “So, would you be interested in eating at Charlie’s Pizza next Saturday?”

  Her eyes immediately glistened with renewed life. She smiled and kissed me, gently placing her hand on my cheek as she breathed, “You’re everything Serena said you’d be.”

  MY DRIVE HOME THAT NIGHT took me to a depth of despair I hadn’t known existed. As an adolescent, I couldn’t comprehend that even terrible situations are finite, and life eventually goes on. It had stopped snowing, and had become dark and bitterly cold. My contact with Mandy left my clothing and skin with an unpleasant, residual smell of a bathroom deodorizer. My mom might give me the “You’re headed to hell” lecture if she got a whiff of it. More likely, I’d spend some time in purgatory with all those guys who ate meat on Fridays before the rules changed. Regardless, this was the least of my worries. I had released sixteen million sperm into a girl I now realized I didn’t want to date, and I wasn’t prepared to take care of one of them. I prayed to God she wasn’t pregnant, and swore I’d never put myself in that predicament again. My older sister, Theresa, referred to this as “The Prayer of the Teen Catholic.”