“I promise we’ll look into it.” I said, then asked, “How is Brittany this morning?”
Al looked down the hall as Jason headed off to class, responding, “Still the same—just lying there. If I find the man who did this . . . he’s dead.”
I asked Al to let us handle this and then took my leave, assuring him that I wouldn’t rest until I found out who abducted Brittany.
I CALLED TONY AND SHARED the information I received from the school and Al Brennan. Tony indicated that Eldon Meyer had an alibi for the time Brittany disappeared. After church, Eldon ate Sunday dinner at his sister’s and was on his way home when he noticed the bales in the ditch had been disturbed. “I need you to meet me at the investigation center,” Tony said. “I found an elderly couple who met Brittany walking home. This’ll take our focus in a new direction. Don’t waste any more time on the Brennans.” He sighed heavily. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
TONY WALKED INTO THE INVESTIGATIVE center with a couple who looked to be in their early seventies, wearing matching red-and-black-plaid wool coats. Tony introduced them, saying, “This is Richard and Martha Boser. They were checking on their son’s farm yesterday. Their son and his new wife were off on their honeymoon. The Boser farm is on the same road as the Brennan and Downing farms, south of both. Richard and Martha had gone for a long walk and were on their way back when they met Brittany walking toward her parents’ farm.” Tony turned to them. “What time did you say it was?”
Richard scratched his bald head and looked over to Martha.
Martha was a thin, silver-haired woman with a timid voice. She quietly said, “It must have been a little after ten thirty.”
Richard nodded in agreement.
Tony asked them, “Do you want to tell my partner, Jon Frederick, what you told me?”
Martha would have preferred to remain silent but knew her husband was expecting her to start the conversation. “About ten minutes after that little girl went walking by, we saw a blue Ford pickup speeding down the road in the same direction as Brittany. The girl had walked over the hill, so we couldn’t see her anymore. I remember Rich saying, ‘I hope that maniac doesn’t hit that poor girl.’ I never say things like that out of fear they might come true.” She gave me a knowing look.
Richard continued. “The Ford pickup was a 1993 or 1994 model. Dark blue. It said ‘FORD’ on the tailgate in silver letters, except the ‘R’ was missing.”
“That’s a pretty good memory,” I commented.
“I’m a Ford man. I take care of my trucks. That ‘R’ would have been replaced on my truck.”
“Did you get a good look at the driver?”
Richard shook his head. “No. I was looking at the truck.”
His wife said, “I was pulling Rich to the side of the road so he wouldn’t get hit. That man was going way too fast.”
Tony asked Martha, “Did you see the driver?”
Martha gave a faint look of being lost. “I don’t recall, but I must have. I believe it was a young man, but I can’t really remember what he looked like. I’m sorry. I’m getting old.”
I thanked her. “Both of you have greatly helped us by coming forward. And by the way, I drove by your son’s farm yesterday and it looks very nice. I’m a former farm boy myself, and you can tell when people do good work just by looking at the grange.”
Rich smiled with pride and said, “You know, we used to have a farmers’ union called the Grangers. You don’t hear that word used for the farmyard anymore.” Richard rubbed his head. “If there’s anything more we can do to help, let us know.”
TONY TOLD ME HE WAS GOING to the sheriff’s department to cross-reference trucks that fit Richard Boser’s description with registered sex offenders in the area. Since I wasn’t part of their agency, and they were skittish about information getting out on the Smith trial, I was asked to wait for him. Tony thought this would take about an hour, so I made a quick decision to drive Brittany’s journey from the Downings’ to the culvert.
I stopped at my hotel room and filled a large glass with ice and Dr. Pepper. I still had a bit of a headache from yesterday’s ordeal, but I was hoping caffeine would carry me through the day. The glass fit snugly into the cup holder in my car. On the way, I drove by the south field, where Al Brennan’s day started, and decided to take a look at the field. Sometimes, finding nothing is productive, as it allows you to rule out possibilities.
My eyes burned as I drove to the field. I felt a bit overheated and nauseated from yesterday’s chilling immersion, but I wanted to work. The sky was overcast, and it had started to drizzle. We were above freezing, so we wouldn’t have snow—just freezing rain. I pulled off the tar and onto the dirt approach to the field. Before getting out, I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, then looked over the wet fields and muttered to myself, “Okay, no discarded guns lying around.”
My phone buzzed.
Serena said, “ Gemutlichkeit.”
“Ga-meet-la-kite?” I sounded out the unfamiliar word.
“Gemutlichkeit is a German word that means you make me feel as comfortable as if I were at a warm, caring home. My hobby is finding words for emotions in other cultures that we don’t have the English equivalents for. It’s the word that came to mind after enjoying yesterday with you. Do you have just a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, I’m just checking out a field south of the Brennan farm.”
Her voice became softer and muffled. “Shoot, I’ve got another call,” she said. “If I can handle it quickly, I’ll call you back.”
Chapter
Six
PANTHERA
MONDAY, MARCH 31
HIGHWAY 25, EAST OF LITTLE FALLS,
NEAR THE FIELD SOUTH OF THE BRENNAN FARM
YOU NEVER SHOULD HAVE invited yourself back into my life. As soon as I saw you pull into the field I knew I’d have to dig up that damn bucket, and it’s only been a day since I buried it. I’m not Keys or Bundy or any other sick, perverted ass who gets off on taking someone’s life. I’m just exercising my right to express my sexuality in the manner I choose, and to exert the dominance I’ve reaped in my territory.
I click the nine-millimeter handgun off of safety.
I’m not racist, but that black reporter sticks out like a sore thumb. Like the Counting Crows said, “’Round here we all look the same . . . no one notices the contrast of white on white.” Still, she’s pretty—a seemingly unattainable beauty. We’ll see . . .
The rain makes it easy to pull my vehicle unobtrusively over on the opposite side of the road from Jon Frederick. Since his vehicle is down by the field, he can’t see mine.
Jon, you should have gone to prison ten years ago. I saw your letter on Mandy’s bed, buttons from your jacket on her bedroom floor, and her body by your home. They had you dead to rights, and somehow you wormed out of it.
Chapter
Seven
JON FREDERICK
MONDAY, MARCH 31
SOUTH FIELD
AFTER A MINUTE, Serena called again. In a soft, troubled voice, she told me, “I normally wouldn’t call you at work, but I need to tell you something about Mandy’s disappearance.”
The rain was picking up, and a steady beat of raindrops drummed on the roof of my car. The dirt field in front of me was getting darker, fed with the downpour. I grabbed the glass of soda, now wet with condensation, and took a sip. I held the perspiring glass to my left cheek to cool my headache, and waited for her to continue. I sensed something behind me, so I turned to look.
Serena went on, “I was the one—”
Suddenly, a concussion rocked the car, and the driver’s side window exploded into my face. I reflexively dove across the seats, then quickly scurried over and opened the passenger side door. My hand burned. Staying low, I slid out onto the cold, wet ground as three additional shots hammered into the driver’s side door. Lying on the ground, I pulled my gun from my shoulder holste
r and began firing into the air. I wanted the attacker to know I wasn’t going down easily. The left side of my face was hot and I could feel my gun kick in my hands as I fired it, but I couldn’t hear my own shots. A loud ringing stung through my ears. I positioned myself behind my passenger door, sitting on the wet, gritty earth. I suspected the shooter was on the road above me, but I couldn’t afford to be wrong. I wanted to stand up and fire in that direction, but this could cost me my life. The shooter knew exactly where I was and was waiting for me to re-emerge. Officers died being overly aggressive. My life depended on recognizing I was at a disadvantage. The intelligent choice was to make him come to me. I remained behind the door and fired two more shots in the air. The shots sounded far away, but at least I heard them this time. The painful ringing in my ear continued to pulsate through my skull.
Blood and rain ran down my shirt and, after putting my hand to my face, I could see watery blood dripping off my left hand. A bullet had apparently gone through the bottom of my left hand, and some raw tissue hung grotesquely loose. I didn’t feel anything yet. I wondered how bad my head injury was. When I reached up, I could feel shards of glass prickling out of the left side of my face. I took a deep breath and focused on survival. I needed to get to my cell phone.
I reached into the car and found my phone on the floor. My call to Serena had ended. Holding my phone in the dry car, I dialed 911. “Officer shot! South field by Brennan farm. Let Tony Shileto know immediately.” I was afraid the phone would be damaged if I held it in the rain, and it was my lifeline. I set the phone back inside on the seat, careful not to end the call so it could be traced. I quickly looked back and forth down each side of the car, ready to fire. I could feel the contrast of freezing-cold rain with the warmth of blood sluicing down my face. My left hand started to burn with the sensation that a hot poker had just been skewered through it.
Where was the shooter? Who was the shooter? The hearing loss was unnerving. I felt like I was in a dimension separate from the rest of the world. I could hear, somewhat, with my right ear, but the ringing was so loud in my left ear, it was useless. Hearing out of only one ear makes it impossible to determine the direction of a sound. I was getting tired and reminded myself, Don’t be stupid. Wait for him to come to you. The south field is along Highway 25, a fairly busy road, and this would force the shooter to run. I should clarify that a “busy road” in rural Minnesota means that a car drives by about every five minutes. After several more minutes, the sound of sirens penetrated through the ringing in my ear, which brought me some comfort.
The next thing I remembered was being loaded into an ambulance.
Chapter
Eight
SERENA BELL
9:30 P.M.
MONDAY, MARCH 31
HIGHWAY 25 BETWEEN LITTLE FALLS AND PIERZ
I WAS WORRIED SICK, and I didn’t know exactly where to find Jon. I called 911, and then drove to St. Gabriel’s Hospital in Little Falls. When I arrived, I was greeted by sheriff’s deputies who stood me up against a wall and with humiliating force, searched me for weapons. A rugged, crew-cut deputy brought me to the sheriff’s department and interrogated me. He accused me of setting Jon up. He wanted to know why I hung up and called him back, suggesting I had notified someone of Jon’s location between calls. Then, as suddenly as I was whisked to the office, the deputy was called out, and I was told I could leave. They obviously had something more pressing. Jon was an investigator, so law enforcement was anxious to respond “with the necessary force to neutralize the threat,” as they say.
Wanting to avoid being swept up in the manhunt, I hurried out the door and called Camille Frederick. She shared that they were secretly allowed to bring Jon to their home. This was good news, so why was I crying? I raced out to my car and headed to the Fredericks’ farm. I tried to keep my mind occupied by reminding myself to breathe, and by praying Jon was okay.
I PARKED IN THEIR DRIVEWAY and ran toward the house. My haste turned to panic when a red dot of light flickered across my blouse. Someone had sighted a gun on me! I dove to the ground by a busted bale of hay that had been left in the yard. I quickly crawled behind the hay and crouched, ready to spring into a run, when I heard Bill Frederick yell, “I’m sorry!”
Five minutes later, I was sitting at the kitchen table with Bill and Camille Frederick. Bill had escorted me into the house, repeatedly apologizing. My silk shirt and blue slacks were now damp and covered with itchy flecks of hay. I imagined my hair had suffered a similar fate.
Bill Frederick was a strong fifty-three-year-old man, with thinning hair and a slender frame. His skin was tanned and leathered from years of outdoor work. Bill’s style hadn’t changed in ten years, consisting of a worn flannel shirt, Wrangler jeans, and a pair of worn but sturdy brown leather boots. I remembered Jon saying his dad would spend the big money on a pair of boots once, and would simply have them resoled whenever it was needed. Bill was talking about how he and Jon had put phone books inside of Jon’s front car doors, after watching a Mythbusters episode about the practice, to protect him from gunfire, which might have saved Jon’s life.
Bill explained, “The cops say they’re closing in on the guy who shot Jon. But I’m still not taking any chances here. I’m sorry, Serena, but rest assured, I wouldn’t have killed you.”
As nice as that was to hear, I found it particularly interesting that he didn’t say he wouldn’t have shot me. I was just glad to hear that Jon was going to be okay and was sound asleep upstairs. Camille continually apologized and fussed about, offering me food and a variety of beverages as I told her about having been aggressively searched, interrogated, and then almost shot before landing at her kitchen table. Bill suggested I take a drink of something hard to settle my nerves, but I agreed to Camille’s offer of decaffeinated tea instead. I asked to take a peek in at Jon, and sensing my concern, Bill finally agreed. He escorted me to the upstairs bedroom and then stood in the doorway, observing as I went to Jon’s bedside. Seeing Jon’s battered face brought tears to my eyes, and I bent down and kissed the top of his head. His day had been worse than mine. I found some comfort in watching him sleep.
When I turned away, Bill surprised me by saying, “Jon still has some clothes here. Why don’t you grab a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants out of his dresser and go shower. That hay will make you itch like crazy.”
I felt too rattled to leave. I wiped away my tears and went to his dresser. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I will.”
Jon suddenly awoke from his deep sleep and looked directly at me, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Serena, what are you doing here?”
I felt like a criminal caught red-handed, standing by his dresser holding a t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants. I smiled and said, “You were talking to me when you were shot, remember? I had to see that you’re okay.”
He patted the bed and wearily said, “Come sleep with me.”
I blushed and wasn’t sure what to say. He obviously didn’t see his dad, and probably wasn’t even aware that he was in his parents’ home. Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond as he fell back into a deep sleep within five seconds.
Bill was smiling when I tip-toed out of the room. He said, “We have an extra bedroom if you want to spend the night.”
Grateful for the offer, I said, “That’s okay. I’m staying at my parents’ old place. But I’d like to stay for a couple hours, if it’s all right.”
After showering, I sat at the kitchen table with Camille drinking another mug of tea while Bill stalked in and out of the house like a special ops soldier. Camille’s slender frame was wrapped in a thick pink robe. Her auburn, shoulder-length hair was probably dyed, but looked good on her. Camille had entered her fifties in good health, as a result of eating a lot of home-grown vegetables. She had smooth and kind facial features. Camille was a combination of empathic mother and hardcore Christian, which is perhaps the best type of Christian.
Camille spoke conspiratorially. “I told that militant hillbilly husb
and of mine it was you out there, but his response was, ‘I don’t care if it’s Moses. Everyone’s getting searched.’ Bill is always trying to do things for Jon to make up for . . . well, I’m sure you know.” Camille looked back to make sure Bill was outside, before asking, “Can I tell you something sub rosa?”
“I’m not familiar with that term. Is it Latin?”
Camille nodded. “The rose was a symbol of secrecy in ancient times, so a statement sub rosa, or ‘under the rose,’ was a phrase meaning you could not repeat what you were told.”
I took a slow sip of tea, leaned in, and listened attentively.
Camille said, “It wasn’t easy when Victor was young. He was ill and didn’t understand what he was doing. Sometimes when we were both working, after Theresa left home, Jon was left in charge of Victor. When I look back, it seems ludicrous that we left a nine-year-old boy to take care of a schizophrenic twelve-year-old boy. But Jon was always so responsible. One day, when we were gone, Victor found Bill’s old military items and urinated all over them. Victor didn’t know what he was doing. Let’s just say it was a bad night in our home; Jon took the brunt of Bill’s punishment. He had bruises on his butt, legs, and arms. I told Bill that if he ever hit Jon again, he was not only losing the farm, but losing his family, too. He knew I was as serious as sin, and it wasn’t negotiable. Bill never struck Jon again.”
It made me sad and made perfect sense at the same time. Victor was paranoid, and an easy target for bullies at school. Jon would always defend him, but because Jon was three years younger, and the bullies were older, they’d usually get the better of him. He would end up with destroyed school projects, get his face washed with snow, or would take some hard punches. I admired Jon’s loyalty to his brother but, like everyone else, was too afraid to get involved. It finally ended in junior high, when Jon got the better of the worst bully and beat him bloody. When I told Jon I understood his harsh reaction, he told me it was a sin of “false pride,” and that decent Christians had handled more severe situations better. Now I realized Jon couldn’t tell his parents Victor was being ostracized in school. He was already in trouble for not taking care of him at home. My heart hurt for him, and I just wanted to go snuggle with him in bed. It also made me think more seriously about the possibility that Bill or Victor had contributed to Mandy’s disappearance.
Murder Book Page 6