Murder Book

by Weber, Frank F. ;

  “How long were you there?”

  Vicki rested her chin on her fist as she thought. “About an hour. We got into an argument and I took off.”

  It would have taken Jeff about twenty minutes to get home, driving fast, from where Brittany disappeared. He still could have abducted her, but he wouldn’t have had the time to submerge her body. “What was the argument about?”

  Vicki muttered, “Acceptance.”

  “Acceptance of what?”

  She scrutinized me. “Acceptance of your life. I can’t drink. I can’t do drugs. If I use, I’m picking using over living with my daughter. I’ve accepted that. If social services told me I couldn’t wear red in order to keep my daughter, I wouldn’t wear red. When you mess up, they put rules on you. Your opinion of the rules doesn’t matter. He was trying to tell me there’s nothing wrong with having a few beers on a Saturday night, and I told him, ‘You just don’t get it. You took innocence away from a fifteen-year-old girl, so the judge took things from you. Nobody gives a shit that you don’t like it. Just accept the deal you got, and go on.’”

  “That’s good.” I had miscalculated Vicki’s wisdom at first glance. “Can you tell me exactly when Jeff arrived home on Sunday?”

  “He was home when I got there.” Vicki scrunched her forehead in thought. “Why don’t you just see when he called in?”

  “The phone surveillance system wasn’t working that day.” I didn’t bother to tell Vicki this wasn’t the first time the county’s sex offender call-in system had failed. “What was Jeff’s mood like? Was he angry?”

  Vicki responded with a long, drawn out, “Noooo.” She pulled her feet up onto the swing, further narrowing the gap between the two of us. “He was trying to find an excuse for drinking, but he knew there wasn’t any, so he started saying things about his mom dying, over and over again.”

  I considered this. “Like a man who had just been involved in something traumatic?”

  “No. I’ve seen this a hundred times with guys who were hungover. Kinda sad, and still kind of drunk.”

  Vicki had given me the information we needed to keep Jeff in custody. He had violated probation by drinking alcohol. I challenged her to convince me Jeff was innocent. She suggested we visit Jeff’s trailer, as he had a place where he hid items of value inside his home. She thought viewing the items would give me a better understanding of his “good nature.”

  I warned her that the BCA had already obtained a search warrant for Jeff’s trailer, so we might have company.

  We drove together to Lemor’s. On the way, Vicki gave me an adolescent grin. “I was once with your friend Clay at a party.”

  The comment caught me by surprise. I asked her to convince me Jeff wasn’t the killer, and she brings up Clay? I looked at her in confusion, but patiently waited to see where she was going with this.

  Vickie continued. “I know you used to hang around in school with him. In junior high, you notice the cute older guys.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised me that Vicki knew Clay. Pierz is a town of only a thousand people. I remained silent, aware Vicki would fill the void.

  “I know Al and Mary Brennan, too,” she said. “When I was about fourteen, I talked to them at parties.”

  Needing to get her focused, I asked, “So, what’s at Jeff’s?”

  If she had an answer, it was lost with her sharp gasp of breath as Jeff’s trailer came into view. The molding was torn loose from the bottom, and there was a large pile of cobweb-infested straw nearby, which had been pulled from underneath the dwelling. Sherriff’s deputies were hauling items through the doorway of Lemor’s home, under Sean Reynolds’s direction.

  I stepped over the carelessly discarded Sports IllustratedSwimsuit Edition and Automobile Trader magazines as I approached.

  In a moment, Vicki’s mood changed from concern over Jeff’s trailer being trashed to her asking, “Who’s the cute black guy?”

  Sean turned and called into the trailer, “Paula, Jon brought a visitor.”

  Vicki gave him a flirtatious smile and led us to the kitchen. She opened a drawer, sharing that she believed the drawer had a false bottom.

  Paula Fineday looked like someone had dragged her down a gravel road on her back. She was obviously the one who had been under the trailer. She removed the contents of the drawer while Sean took a knife off the counter and carefully peeled back the bottom. Beneath it were about thirty pictures of Lemor’s hippielike mother and himself at various ages. Sean carefully sifted through the pictures while leaving them all in their exact location.

  I noticed an item which would be of particular interest to Vicki, so I stepped back and motioned for her to peer inside.

  Vicki’s eyes welled up at an image of her and Jeff, both in their early teens, sitting on the hood of a car together, their faces bright with the uninhibited laughter only kids share. Vicki asked, “Can I have that picture?”

  Without looking at her, Sean answered sternly, “Not at this time.”

  I politely asked Vicki to wait outside, as Sean, Paula, and I had noticed something intriguing about the way the pictures were placed in the drawer. They were pushed to the side, leaving a triangular space. An imprint where a handgun once rested, which looked very similar in size to a nine-millimeter, was etched into the felt on the bottom of the drawer. The false bottom was tight enough to press the handgun into the felt. Even though we now knew Brittany wasn’t shot, I had been. This was an incredible break, as it put a gun into Lemor’s possession.

  Sean commented, “Vicki doesn’t have a clue, does she?”

  I shook my head and added, “I feel like I’ve underestimated Jeff Lemor.”

  Sean continued to study the drawer. “This is an incredible piece of work. It had to take considerable time. Where did he get the tools?” Sean ran his finger across the groove in the drawer where the false bottom had rested. “He needed a router for this. I haven’t seen anything like that here.”

  Paula brushed some flecks of straw from her thick hair and added, “Perhaps there was an awl among those tools, too.”

  I told Sean and Paula, “I know this looks bad for Jeff, but I’m not convinced he’s the one who assaulted Brittany.”

  Paula’s dark eyebrows furrowed as she skeptically responded, “Tony told me a meth whore had contacted him about being Lemor’s alibi. Tony didn’t buy it, so now she’s here with you. We have a suspect with a criminal history, with a weapon, and witnesses who put him at the scene. Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?”

  I nodded. William Ockham was a fourteenth-century Franciscan friar who produced works in logic. Occam’s razor—spelled differently than his name, as a result of a conversion to Latin—is a theory in science that you need to shave away the long shots and focus on what’s obvious.

  Paula warned, “It’s simple. Don’t be distracted.”

  I had an argument, but couldn’t pull it to consciousness. I’d struggled with retrieving thoughts since I was shot.

  Paula went back to work, suggesting, “We’re going to want to take a picture of this drawer from the top before we remove the photos.”

  Sean nodded his approval at me. “Good work. Ask Vicki if she knows of any other hiding places, then get her out of here. We’ll need to do a very thorough examination of the inside of this trailer.”

  I asked, “Should I put some of that straw back under the trailer? If the temps dip below freezing again, his pipes might freeze and he’ll have a big mess here.”

  Sean flatly said as he walked away, “He isn’t coming back.”

  That wasn’t an acceptable answer for me. “Are you done underneath the trailer?”

  Surprised, Sean gave a bewildered nod. “Yeah. Have at it.”

  Once outside, Vicki watched as I got on the ground and, with my one good hand, began pushing the straw back underneath the trailer. I made sure I had it packed around the pipes. If the pipes froze and broke, it would be an expensive repair bill for a young man who was barely getting by.
I don’t like destroying people’s property. I know all too well how long it takes impoverished people to pay things off. When I was done, Vicki helped me push the molding back into place as best we could.

  Surprised by my efforts, Vicki stepped to me and hugged me. “Thank you. That was really nice of you.”

  I DECIDED TO SPEND THE NIGHT at the AmericInn. My head was pounding and pain pulsated through my left hand. I had pushed myself a little too hard today, and now I just wanted sleep. I was told I could observe Jeff’s interrogation tomorrow morning, if I stuck around.

  Despite having found additional evidence to add to Jeff’s prosecution, I had a problem that complicated this case. The sequence of events didn’t make sense if you knew the geography of the area. Consider the BCA’s theory: Jeff Lemor first drove by the Brennans’ south field, and then headed north down the gravel road, where he found Brittany. He then continued north for a half a mile further, sexually assaulted her, and buried her in a culvert. The Bosers stated that after the truck went by, it never returned. So, why would he shoot at me for looking for evidence in the south field? Nothing in the south field could connect Jeff to Brittany, because he drove by that field before he encountered her. And another problem? Vicki honestly believed Jeff didn’t assault Brittany, and I believed Vicki. Even though she was rough cut, Vicki wasn’t wearing love-struck blinders. She viewed Jeff with pensive eyes.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  SERENA BELL

  MORNING

  SUNDAY, APRIL 6

  PIERZ

  JON STAYED IN LITTLE FALLS last night, so I got up early and drove to Pierz. Jon needed to find some balance. When he was with me, he was completely present and so attentive. It was wonderful. But when he was gone, he was completely gone, leaving a void. I knew it would be better if we were married, but I had to believe God was okay with two lonely single people loving each other.

  I had volunteered to help his mother with her painting, so this was the perfect day to follow through. I even went to church with Bill and Camille in the morning.

  Camille Frederick was a slender, strong woman. It was obvious where Jon got his handsomeness and lean frame. Even dressed casually, she was still a classic beauty.

  Camille and I spent about two hours looking over new colors for her kitchen. She had first suggested burnt orange and, after considering a variety of oranges and greens, we came back to a light orange.

  After Camille and I had finished, Victor wandered into the room, giggling at his own private joke, and asked if I wanted to go for a walk with him. Victor had inherited his mother’s lean frame, too, and stood at about five-foot-ten. Unlike the rest of the family, Victor had long, disheveled blond hair. His brown moustache suggested his hair was dyed. Victor had bright-blue eyes like Jon, but his thoughts were so random that he seemed a polar opposite of his brother. Their commonality made sense, if you understood how the frontal lobe worked. Victor and Jon both struggled with the same issue—regulating focus. Victor struggled with remaining focused, while Jon struggled with letting go.

  I pulled my coat tight around my neck as the cool air crept in. I breathed in the musty dampness of the barren field as we walked alongside it.

  Victor wore an insulated jean jacket and a white bomber hat with ear flaps and a visor. The hat looked a little goofy, but his obliviousness to it warmed my heart.

  I asked, “How are you, Victor?”

  He stopped and sadly dropped his head down. “Dang it.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Last night, I made a list of questions that people might ask me today. I had that one written down, but then I thought, no, and crossed it out. So I don’t have an answer.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  Troubled, he looked back up at me. “Why did you even ask that?”

  Before I could respond, he smiled with a sudden insight.

  “Wait a minute. You were just trying to break the ice, weren’t you?”

  I grinned. “Yes, I was.”

  “Okay.” Feeling reassured, he started walking again. Victor said, “Jon likes you.”

  “He does?”

  “Uh-huh. Did you know Alfred Hitchcock once used a three-foot teacup in a scene in Notorious, so he could hold both the cup and Audrey Hepburn in focus on camera at the same time? On film, it looked like the cup was sitting way out in front of her. That’s crazy.”

  “I didn’t know that. That is crazy.”

  “I’m crazy. Did you know that?”

  “I always thought you were nice.”

  Victor smiled. “Well, I’m crazy.” He started laughing, pointing toward his temple and making loops with his finger. “Crazy as a loon.”

  I had to ask. “Do you still walk at night?”

  “Yeah. We have a barn owl and a screech owl. Some people think they’re the same thing, but they’re not. They don’t even look anything alike. Barn owls look like their edges were smoothed on a lathe and screech owls look like they were torn out of cloth.”

  I smiled and said, “That’s a creative description.” I hadn’t come here to interrogate Victor, but I had an opportunity to clear my lingering concerns that he had a role in Mandy’s disappearance, so I asked, “Did you ever see Mandy Baker when you were out walking at night?”

  He initially didn’t respond, but he did seem to be considering the question. After a few more steps, he cautiously looked around, and as if he was revealing a great conspiracy, softly confided, “You can only see Mandy Baker when it rains.”

  His comment caught me by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Victor wiped the mucus off his nose, and then reached out and took my hand.

  I cringed inwardly, but not wanting to hurt his feelings, I took his hand as he led me to the edge of a field. Scattered rocks protruded here and there in the charcoal-black dirt, and I could see a couple of large rock piles on the other side of the field.

  Victor pointed across the field and said, “There.”

  I looked around, “What? All I see is rocks.”

  “That’s my point.”

  Confused, I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  Victor started singing, “Blue eyes cryin’ in the rain . . .” and then drifted into word salad. People who suffer from schizophrenia often speak in “word salad,” which involves sentences that make sense independently, but don’t combine to form coherent paragraphs. Personality testing on schizophrenics looks the same as if they were randomly responding, due to their disjointed thoughts. I never managed to get him back to talking about Mandy Baker.

  ON MY WAY BACK TO ST. PAUL, I reviewed my list of suspects in Mandy’s disappearance:

  Victor Frederick

  Bill Frederick

  Randall Davis

  Clay Roberts

  Whitey

  me

  I had a feeling this would all come back to me. It honestly should.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  JON FREDERICK

  MORNING

  SUNDAY, APRIL 6

  LITTLE FALLS

  TONY AND I SAT ON the other side of the mirrored glass and watched the interrogation of Jeff Lemor. Incarceration has a way of making men look guilty, and Lemor looked like your typical redneck criminal, with his unshaven face and scraggly, unwashed hair. He was adorned in bright orange jail attire with green cloth slippers. His handcuffs and leg shackles had been removed. He attempted to sit in a laidback manner on his molded plastic chair.

  Sean had started the conversation unobtrusively, and the plan was for Paula to jump in like a bucking bronco to get Jeff to reveal more than he planned in the heat of their argument. Sean casually sat at the end of the table, commenting, “So, I hear you’ve found Jesus.” Jeff gave him a thousand-yard stare, so Sean shrugged. “Well he’s bound to be somewhere. I guess this is as good of a place as any.”

  Jeff calmly said, “I know a lot of guys say they’ve found religion in here. But it’s dif
ferent for me.”

  Sean casually mused, “Jailhouse Christians.” He scratched his cheek. “Do you feel that Jesus will forgive you for your sins?”

  “I have accepted Jesus in my heart. I can’t keep living the way I was—like everyone should just make me instantly happy. Vicki was right. I don’t have to like the rules. I just have to live by them.” After a pause, he continued. “I’d like to believe people can be forgiven for their sins as long as they don’t repeat them.”

  Sean agreed with a simple, “Okay.”

  Paula leaned over the table toward Jeff as she snarled, “Can you be forgiven for sins that you lie about every time you’re questioned on them.”

  Jeff thought long and hard before replying to Paula. “I think you have to be honest about things that hurt people. I don’t think I’m going to hell for possession.” Jeff stopped himself.

  Sean tilted his head to one side, sizing Jeff up. “So you’re just sort of a Christian. Because if you can’t be honest, you’re only a Christian when it doesn’t involve any persecution or pain.”

  Jeff seemed lost in his own head for a minute, but finally he responded with an edge. “I am honest—about everything that matters. I could have lawyered up, but here I am, answering your questions. Jesus didn’t ask for an attorney.”

  Tony leaned toward me in the observation room and muttered, “Jesus could have used an attorney.”

  Paula sneered at Lemor. “I think you won’t tell us who you were drinking with because you spent the night thinking about a young girl walking down the road all alone. Brittany made that walk every Sunday, and this wasn’t the first Sunday morning you made that drive home.”

  Jeff stared straight ahead at the wall and calmly responded, “I didn’t abduct that girl. Vicki said there was a dead skunk in my mailbox when she drove out to check my mail. I still had to go through my bills and get them paid. The guys in here tell me that if they ever catch me alone, I’m dead. They call me ‘chomo,’ which in here means child molester. Don’t tell me I’m avoiding persecution.” Jeff’s bravado was fading fast as he added, “But, if they don’t kill me, I’m coming out stronger.”