Murder Book

by Weber, Frank F. ;

  I studied her in silence.

  Serena squeezed my hand a little harder. “Don’t be angry. My first instinct was to protect you.”

  With my thumb, I wiped a tear off of her cheek. “You thought I had done something to Mandy,” I said sadly. “So, why are you here? Why risk being alone with me?”

  “Because I think I was wrong, and I turned my back on the best friend I’ve ever had. I told my parents about my encounter with Mandy two days later, and they said it was too late to go to the police—they’d just think I did it. ‘Let them come to you,’ they said. They never came. I didn’t know what to do. I was seventeen and freaked out. My parents kept warning me to stay away from you.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “So where did Mandy go?”

  “I wish I knew. We searched every inch of our land and couldn’t find her. I know the police searched your farm.”

  After several minutes of silence, Serena asked, “Did you get any more information from the cold-case box?”

  “There was a sex offender named Randall Davis who lived west of Little Falls. His alibi that night was from a woman he was abusive to, so I’d like to revisit him.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Let me think for a second.”

  “You didn’t write it down?”

  “I didn’t need to. I’ve used stories to remember things since I was a kid.”

  Serena softly asked, “What was going on in your life when you started doing that?”

  She was keeping me off task, but it was a question I’d never been asked. I thought about it and answered, “It started when Victor was about thirteen and struggling with auditory hallucinations. I think my parents assumed Victor stopped being crazy when he went to bed. We shared a bedroom, and it got scary when he’d talk about the devil, so I started playing number games in my head to ignore him. To completely shut him out, I’d challenge myself to find a way to remember the numbers later. Now it just happens automatically. It was a depressing time for me. “

  Serena hesitated before asking, “Is it possible your dad could have killed Mandy? Your mom made it sound like he went DEFCON One on you after Victor urinated on his military stuff.”

  “Dad was losing a farm that had been in his family for three generations. Victor was having hallucinations of the devil, my sister Theresa was out running around, and my mom responded by going into religious rants. It was crazy-making. But then, Victor’s medication began working, Theresa fell in love, and Dad finally accepted that bankruptcy didn’t mean he had completely failed as a man. Mom calmed down, and we ended up okay.” I thought a moment. “Dad’s a good man. After graduation, he asked me to stay away from the farm because he worried about me every minute I was there. I think he sensed how unhappy it made me. All that work, and we walked away with nothing.”

  “How do you forgive a brutal beating?”

  “He changed, years before Mandy came into the picture. My dad was just a child who got old. He had a big heart and a short fuse. When Mom threatened to leave, he tantrummed for a bit, but then grew up.” Serena had a way of helping me assess my circumstances that led me to insights I’d never reach on my own. I said, “When people honestly change, they stop frantically making excuses. You sense the guilt, but they’re not looking for self-pity. They’re honest and matter-of-fact. If Dad had killed Mandy, he would have confessed and gone to jail.” With all the tenderness I could muster, I said, “I should be mad at you for not telling me you were with Mandy. But your smile and those perfectly smooth bare shoulders are really unfair. Logic escapes me, and I feel the same raw emotions I had about you when we were teenagers.”

  Serena laughed. “So, at this moment, I’m dangling in your brain with all those numbers.”

  I grimaced, realizing my words were not very poetic, and offered, “You’d be a prime number.”

  Serena rested her head on my shoulder, and we sat in silence for a moment before she said, “This isn’t exactly manja.”

  I kissed the top of her head. “I have a lot to think about.”

  She kissed my cheek and in a barely audible voice, said, “Let me help you shut it off for one night. Staying fixated on a task is a poor way to problem-solve. Tomorrow, you can come back to it with fresh insight.” She rubbed her bare shoulder and, with her head down, sighed, “I’m sorry for not telling you I was with Mandy that evening. I can apologize for it all night if you’d like. It’s tormented me for a decade. But I have nothing more to tell you, so it would be a big relief to me if we could just take a break from talking about it and hold each other. I almost lost you.”

  Sensing the depth of her remorse, I offered, “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Not maybe. I can feel you’re mad at me, even if you don’t say it. I never intended to hurt you.” Serena cautiously leaned into me and brushed her lips against mine. “Are you feeling okay?”

  No, but good enough for some manja, I thought, which came out as, “Yes.” Hell, who am I to treat anyone poorly on the basis of suspicion?

  I decided to just put it out there. “Through all this, I still desire you more than I’ve ever desired anyone, and the attempt on my life has greatly diminished my desire to postpone positive events.” If anybody could shut off my obsessive thoughts, it was Serena. Evil temptation or amazing kindness?

  She kissed me.

  I took my time and savored kissing her full lips, her neck, and her bare shoulders. She tugged at the bottom of my t-shirt, and as I removed it, she helped me carefully pull it over my bandaged arm.

  I slid her blouse down her shoulders, revealing her bare breasts.

  She timidly asked, “What are you smiling about?”

  “You’re beautiful.” Her long, dark hair flowing down to her breasts was sensuous, fine art. Loving Serena felt so right.

  With the pleasant warmth of our chests skin to skin, we held each other close and kissed. Her tenderness and affection had the intensity of tangible gravity.

  Serena whispered, “Mindfulness—focusing on the immediate moment. Isn’t it nice?”

  Concerned about the recent attempt on my life, and of keeping her safe, I suggested, “We could do this behind bolted, solid oak doors in my bedroom.”

  Serena picked up her shirt and held it in front of her chest. “Do you mean the vault your dad made for you?”

  Without saying a word, she headed to my bedroom, tossing a seductive look at me over her shoulder. I admired her lovely dark curls dangling down her bare back before silently following.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  JON FREDERICK

  EVENING

  FRIDAY, APRIL 4

  BIRMINGHAM APARTMENTS, MINNEAPOLIS

  MAURICE OFFICIALLY INSTRUCTED me on Wednesday to stay away from the investigation for a week to heal. I was frustrated, but Serena had made the last couple days the best I’d lived. I worked out in the morning, then picked up the ingredients needed to have a gourmet meal ready when she was done with her work day.

  One benefit to my obsessiveness was that, when I finally convinced myself to shut off work, it was off. So, I focused on making my environment Serena-friendly—a red wine blend she loved, fresh fruit, and a great dinner. After our meal, we went for a walk, shared back rubs, and she stayed the night to “assist with my recovery.” It was so peaceful to finally lie in bed and not have numbers churning through my head. I had never experienced that tranquility with anyone else. I still had a headache from my wound and the pain in my hand, but I slept.

  A little after 6:00 p.m., Sean Reynolds paid a brief visit to my apartment to make sure I was doing okay. The gesture felt genuinely benevolent. He had returned to the BCA headquarters in St. Paul to pick up forensic reports.

  The reports indicated Brittany hadn’t been shot. Even though it had the appearance of a bullet aperture, the wound was made with a long tool, probably an awl. The awl had been run completely through her leg from the front, then pulled back out, leaving large blood stains on both the front and
back of her sweatpants. This explained why no one heard a gunshot.

  Sean rubbed the top of his head as he constructed a new theory. “The entrance and exit wounds in Brittany’s leg would be the perfect angle if she was a passenger sitting in the front seat, and Jeff stabbed down on her leg from the driver’s seat.” Sean slowly imitated a stabbing motion that could have been taken from Psycho. He added, “She had to be struck hard.”

  I pointed out, “But there was no blood in his vehicle.”

  “Yeah, it had to happen outside,” Sean said. “Maybe in the ditch.”

  Sean’s short intrusion brought me back to thinking about work periodically throughout the evening.

  At midnight, Serena was lying prone on my couch with her bare backside presenting a pleasant, natural horizon. Her smooth skin was lit by the city lights shining from below through the open curtain. She still had a glow in her eyes from making love. I delivered a bowl of vanilla bean frozen yogurt topped off with malt, dark chocolate, and my home-roasted almonds, which I had prepared for our late-night dessert.

  Serena demurred, “You’re spoiling me.”

  She lifted her feet as I sat on the couch, then, feeling comfort in the contact, rested them in my lap. I told her, “I need to return to Little Falls tomorrow. Even if I can’t work on the case, I want to be brought up to speed.”

  Serena’s tone became serious. “How is Victor doing?”

  “Okay.” I massaged the backs of her calves with my good hand while she enjoyed a spoonful of dessert.

  Serena silently enjoyed the massage for a moment. “I always liked Victor. He introduced me once by saying, ‘She invented flowers.’”

  I started massaging a foot. “He obviously likes you. Victor associates positive events with positive people.”

  “Like you associate numbers with stories?”

  “I guess we’re both a little crazy.”

  Serena lifted her other foot to my good hand, suggesting I rub that one, too, while she playfully contradicted her unspoken request. “You don’t have to rub my feet. I feel like I’ve been spending my evenings at a love spa.”

  I kissed her foot. “Then it’s working.”

  Serena turned over, sat up, and stilled my hands with her own. “I hate to even ask this, but do you think it’s possible that Victor killed Mandy? You said he used to wander around the farm at night, and Mandy was just down the road. I think she walked to your house that night.”

  I told her, “Victor wouldn’t have killed Mandy. At that time, his meds had finally stabilized, and he was doing well. Victor never hurt anybody, even when he was struggling. He was an easy target for bullies because he didn’t have the self-preservation to stand up for himself.”

  Serena was careful to not bump my injured arm as she slid her arms around my waist. “I’m sorry I brought this up,” she said. “I want to work through this with you, so it helps me to know what you’re thinking.”

  Anticipating more questions about my family, I said, “Theresa was living out of state at the time, and my mom just wouldn’t have done it.” I hoped that put to rest any suspicions.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 5

  LITTLE FALLS

  AFTER SERENA LEFT, I found a crumpled piece of paper with what appeared to be a list of suspects she had compiled in Mandy’s disappearance. The list included my brother, my dad, Clay, Randall Davis, Whitey, and most concerning, Serena herself.

  As I drove to Little Falls, uneasiness started to stir inside me. I began to envision a scenario where an argument between Serena and Mandy resulted in Mandy getting out of the vehicle and Serena taking off. The worst part of being obsessive was that a slight discrepancy could become a disturbing snag that must be addressed. Investigators are taught to pay special attention to the last person who was with the victim. In Mandy’s case, it was Serena.

  Last night, Serena had asked me if I’d ever consider walking away from this investigation. She appeared to ask out of fear for my well-being. When I was with her, I was one-hundred percent convinced of her innocence, but now that I looked at the evidence, doubt crept back in. Despite my concerns, I was progressively falling harder for Serena. I wanted her, and there was no doubt she reciprocated my affection. It would be just my luck that the only person with whom I could get a good night’s sleep was a killer.

  AS I APPROACHED LITTLE FALLS, my phone buzzed with a text from Serena, saying, “Thank you for the last few days. Hope to see you tonight. Han-xu.” I reached out again to my friend at the BCA, who shared that han-xu is pronounced “han-she” and is Mandarin Chinese. He stated that, even though the Internet suggests it means “reserved,” in China it generally refers to when a woman loves a man, but is unable to properly express it to him. I simply texted back, “I love you,” because it was honest. I didn’t know how to proceed with the investigation of Mandy’s disappearance, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to.

  I DECIDED TO STOP at the AmericInn. Someone had tried to shoot me, and I wanted to see if my room had been disturbed.

  It was a cool, sunny morning. A hard-looking young woman paced outside the hotel smoking a cigarette with intensity, as if it would be her last. Her pale skin had a tinge of purple, and she was underweight. At first glance, I thought, A history of methamphetamine abuse, but clean now. I guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. She was tall—maybe five-foot-ten—and all angles, with bony shoulders, elbows, and knees. She wore her hair short and dyed an unnatural red. The piercing in her nose seemed to accent the knob in the middle of it, rather than to highlight any beauty. Her burgundy lipstick was out of place with her tattered jeans and gray hoodie. Yet, underneath her tough exterior, she was pretty, once.

  When I stepped out of my car, she marched up to me and nervously asked, “Are you Jon Frederick?”

  I hesitated, then nodded. “I am.”

  Throwing her cigarette on the ground and crushing it under her Converse tennis shoe, she spoke quickly. “If you want to find out about Jeff Lemor, follow me.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, just jumped into a dented and dusty, gray Grand Am, and lit another cigarette as she started her car. I was curious enough that I dropped back into my car to see what this was about. I called the sheriff’s dispatcher and asked her to run the license plate, while I followed the young woman east on Highway 25, toward Pierz. For my own protection, I left Maurice a message indicating where I was headed.

  The dispatcher called back soon after with information. The Grand Am belonged to a Vicki Ament, whose criminal history included a charge for possession of a controlled substance, meth-amphetamine, two years ago. Her physical description on the arrest report matched the woman I was following, adding that she had a tattoo of a hummingbird on her shoulder, and tattoos of a pair of hands on her buttocks. The dispatcher added in a low voice, “Now, how do you suppose those hands stick out of a bikini bottom? Oh, here it is, like someone’s holding her from behind. Now, isn’t that Godly?” She added with disdain, “Her grandparents must be very proud of her.”

  I FOLLOWED VICKI TO A FARM in the Pierz area, grimacing as I watched her discard cigarette butts out the window along the way.

  When I exited my car, the air felt pleasant and calm. “Halcyon” would be the perfect word for it. The farm had a long, narrow gravel driveway splitting large, black banner-like fields. I saw an old barn with aged gray wood showing beneath chipped white paint. Not far from the barn was a faded white, two-story box-like farmhouse, with a few narrow windows. A dim light glowed inside, giving it a sense of warmth. A large, dark, barren oak tree shadowed the farmhouse with its long, twisting branches. Beneath it sat a small child’s swing and a larger wooden swing, which looked big enough for two adults to share. A small flurry of wind set the swings in motion. The chains rattled, and there was an eerie screech of metal scraping against metal. In a matter of seconds, the feeling changed from tranquility to a scene reminiscent of a Stephen King movie. Being shot heightened my awareness of sounds and movement around me. I unbuttoned my jacket
enough to allow easy access to my gun in its shoulder harness beneath.

  Vicki ran a package of diapers into the house, and then came back outside to greet me. She motioned toward the wooden swing, and I followed.

  Vicki patted the space next to her on the swing. “Have a seat.”

  The wooden seat was small enough that our legs were close to touching. I was uncomfortable with the close proximity, but reasoned that if she was okay with sitting this close to me, she wasn’t setting me up to be shot.

  Vicki showed no discomfort with the closeness. She gave me a strained smile, and said in a voice bruised from smoking cigarettes and, most likely, hard use of meth, “I wanted to talk to you because my grandparents know your parents, and they trust you. They told me that the only reason people accused you when Mandy Baker disappeared was because your family is poor. It’s easy to accuse poor people, because nobody’s gonna help them.”

  I appreciated her sincerity, but I had no desire to probe into my past with her. “Tell me about Jeff.”

  She looked out at the fields. “If you check my record, you’ll see I have drug charges. I want you to know I’ve been clean and sober for two years. I got pregnant, and I didn’t want to be a pump and dump mom.”

  “Pump and dump?”

  “You know, one of those breastfeeding mothers who goes out and gets wasted, and then has to pump and dump all of her milk the next day so she doesn’t totally mess up her kid. My sperm donor liked the idea of having a kid, but when I started getting fat, he just moved on.”

  “What can you tell me about Jeff Lemor?”

  Vicki pushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I was with Jeff at his trailer at one o’clock last Sunday, on the day Brittany Brennan disappeared. I know everybody wants him locked up because he’s a so-called ‘sex offender,’ but he didn’t have anything to do with Brittany.”