Although I couldn’t hear it, Paula must have offered a dissenting view, as Tony argued, “He’s interfering with the investigation. Our ability to match fibers from the blanket Brittany was wrapped in to the inside of Jeff’s trailer is gone. The gun drawer is gone. Al’s stupidity is making our case more difficult. Get that message through his thick skull.”
After Tony ended the call, he joined me watching the burning van. He said, “Paula seems to think that if we arrest Al for this, there will be an outcry of support for him, and people would be even angrier at Lemor. If we don’t arrest him, people will begin to question Al’s behavior, and this could help de-escalate the community’s anger toward Lemor.”
Paula was right. The best play would be to let the public begin to question Al’s behavior. I pointed out, “If Al planned on torching the trailer, why did he park so close to it?”
Tony wearily responded, “Okay, so he torched the van. It didn’t run most of the time, anyway. I could certainly envision him doing it out of anger because it wouldn’t start back up. And Al would revel in the opportunity to confront Lemor man to man. Maybe he’s thinking he’d do it in jail.”
AFTER TWO AND A HALF HOURS at the site, Tony and I concluded there was nothing further to see and left. Both the van and the trailer were trashed.
Paula called and said Al was refusing to talk, beyond stating, “My daughter lies there like she’s dead.” Mary suggested, “Maybe our van was stolen.” Jason said he slept through it all. They didn’t arrest Al.
Morning was now only a couple hours away. We headed back to the hotel, and I tried to find sleep.
3:45 P.M.
SHERIFF’S OFFICE, LITTLE FALLS
JEFF LEMOR AND A FIFTY-SOMETHING, gray-haired polygraph examiner sat in an investigation room at the sheriff’s office. Jeff was noticeably nervous. His dark hair was unkempt, and he was still in his orange jumpsuit. He was generally worse for wear since yesterday’s interrogation. He was unshaven and had a bruise on his cheek, which I was told was from being struck by another inmate.
Jeff was going to be asked four questions during his polygraph examination:
1. Is your name Jeff Lemor?
2. Did you shoot at Investigator Jon Frederick?
3. Did you ever sexually abuse Brittany Brennan?
4. Did you have any involvement in Brittany Brennan’s disappearance?
Polygraph examiners prefer that the respondents are anxious, as their charts will then display greater discrepancy between honesty and dishonesty. Paula had spoken to Jeff ahead of time, to make certain he was adequately primed.
Tony and I sat in an observation room watching the examination through mirrored glass. The polygraph examiner wrapped the pneumo tubes around Jeff’s chest and stomach to measure his breathing. Two small metal cups were wrapped around the tips of his fingers with Velcro. The metal measured galvanic skin response, or sweat. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around Jeff’s left arm.
Tony had positioned the examiner so we could see the charts on the computer. We patiently watched the green, yellow and red wavy lines on the computer screen as a stable pattern of breathing, blood pressure, and sweat was established. We both knew how the charts would deviate from the normal path when a person was lying. When someone claimed they passed a lie detector test with “flying colors,” it wasn’t true. They passed with consistent, unremarkable colors.
Jeff sat with his feet flat on the floor, staring at a blank wall.
The polygraph examiner glanced at Jeff over his reading glasses and told him, “I want you to focus on a number between one and ten. I’m going to ask you, ‘Is it one?’ and I want you to say ‘no.’ I am going to ask you, ‘Is it two?’ and I want you to say ‘no.’ I am going to ask you, ‘Is it three?’ and I want you to say ‘no.’ I want you to say ‘no’ to every number through ten. This will give me the opportunity to show you how this polygraph examination works.”
The examiner asked, “Are you ready?”
Jeff nervously nodded his understanding.
The examiner stated, “You will need to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
Jeff stated, “Yeah.”
The examiner reminded him, “Not yeah—yes or no.” Jeff said, “Yes.”
The examiner began the instruction. “I want you to think of a number between one and ten.” He hesitated for a moment, giving Jeff a chance to choose a number. “Is it number one?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The examiner turned the charts slightly toward Jeff to show a relatively stable pattern of breathing, blood pressure, and galvanic skin response.
The examiner asked, “Is it two?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The polygraph charts remained the same.
The examiner asked, “Is it three?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The polygraph charts remained stable.
The polygraph examiner asked, “Is it four?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The polygraph charts spiked in all three measures.
The polygraph examiner smiled toward Jeff. “The number was four, correct?”
With some surprise, Jeff responded, “Yeah.”
The examiner pointed to the graphs and told Jeff, “This is what it’s going to look like every time you lie to me. I wanted you to see this, so there won’t be any question when this polygraph examination is done. Is there anything you want to tell me before we begin?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The charts remained stable.
The examiner turned the screen directly toward us, and asked, “Is your name Jeff Lemor?”
Jeff responded, “Yes.” The polygraph charts remained stable.
The examiner asked, “Did you shoot at Investigator Jon Frederick?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The charts remained stable.
Tony matter-of-factly stated, “I’m going to drug-test him when he’s done, to make sure he didn’t get ahold of a central nervous system depressant.”
We both knew the odds of that weren’t very good. Inmates were generally taken off their medication during their incarceration unless the meds were for a health issue, like diabetes, or if they were taking an antipsychotic medication. More likely, he simply wasn’t the one who shot at me.
The examiner continued. “Did you ever sexually abuse Brittany Brennan?”
Jeff Lemor hesitated, and then said, “No.” All three of the graph lines remained stable.
The examiner asked, “Do you have information regarding Brittany Brennan’s disappearance?” The polygraph examiner paused, realizing he had asked the question incorrectly, but then added, “that you haven’t shared with investigators?”
Jeff responded, “No.” The lines spiked significantly, reflecting dishonesty.
The polygraph examiner looked at the mirrored glass toward us, realizing he had messed up. He quickly picked up a pen and wrote down his new question. In a polygraph examination, the same questions are repeated three times. The examiner was now committed to asking a question other than the one we had given him.
Tony tightened his fist and mumbled, “He asked the wrong damn question! He was supposed to ask if Jeff had any involvement in Brittany’s disappearance! So we’re still not going to know.”
“The suggestion that he didn’t sexually abuse her takes away his motive,” I said. “But he also knows something he’s not sharing.”
Tony pointed out, “It’s possible that Brittany was sexually assaulted by someone else at a different time and Jeff picked her up to abuse her, but she resisted, so he tried to kill her.”
I stared straight ahead. “The examiner recovered pretty well. I was afraid he was going to stop at, ‘Do you have any information regarding Brittany Brennan’s disappearance?’ Everybody in the state has information regarding Brittany’s disappearance. He was smart to add the part about his having information he hasn’t shared with investigators.”
WHEN JEFF WAS INFORMED he failed the polygraph examination, specifically with regard to having information on Brittany’s
disappearance that he hadn’t shared, he refused to say anything further.
It appeared that Lemor wasn’t the person who shot at me. This brought me a strange sense of satisfaction, because him shooting me wasn’t logical. Dad suggested it might have been some crazy redneck from the past who still believed I was guilty of killing Mandy, but I doubted it. If that was the case, they’d have shot me ten years ago. This was somehow all related—I just wasn’t seeing the connections yet.
I GLANCED AT MY PHONE and noticed a number of text messages from Serena and a voicemail from Jada. Jada offered to buy me lunch for giving her the Brittany Brennan story. Aware that my feelings for Serena had become so discombobulated, I concluded this was the worst time for me to talk to Jada. Jada also suggested we have an exit interview regarding our relationship, but I felt it was unnecessary. The lines had been drawn. I wanted children and she didn’t. I didn’t need to meet with her to be reminded of my misgivings. My obsessive ruminations were tormenting me at this very moment. I sent her a text saying, “I consider myself blessed to have enjoyed part of my life with you. I love your insight and genuine concern for the suffering in the world. We’re on different paths now. No time to meet—send a letter if you wish, and I will give heed to it. Best wishes.”
I needed to take some time before I responded to Serena, as I felt like I had been rubbed raw, and my nerves were hyper-reactive. But I wasn’t a vengeful person, and I wasn’t going to disrespect Serena by talking about this with Jada. For God’s sake, I had blamed Serena for everything that happens in small towns, when the truth was she really hadn’t done anything wrong. The problem was my incessant ruminations. I couldn’t let go of the thought of her being with Clay, in every way imaginable, and if I couldn’t let go of it, I shouldn’t be with her. It wouldn’t be fair to continue to punish her because of my obsessiveness. Right now, I needed to work. If I couldn’t work on Brittany’s case, I’d work on Mandy’s. I called the sheriff’s office for Randall Davis’s address. I decided to visit the most violent offender identified in Mandy Baker’s murder book.
I QUICKLY DROVE WEST through Little Falls to Flensburg, a rural town of about one hundred people. From the middle of town, I could see the edge of town in every direction. I didn’t even know if it was fair to call Flensburg a town. It was more like a few houses close together. I knew making this visit without backup was a bad idea, but I convinced myself it was somehow necessary. Someone had tried to kill me, and I no longer had any friends I trusted. I felt I didn’t have anything to lose. The address took me to a small, dilapidated one-story house, its white paint crackled with age and neglect, its windows boarded up rather than replaced.
Randall Davis answered the door wearing tight jeans and a clean white “wife-beater” undershirt. His angular face had hawklike features. He had a thick, dark crew cut and thick eyebrows that seemed a little too close to his dark eyes. Randall was a weight trainer with a solid five-foot-eight frame. A blue tattoo of a dragon was inked on his right bicep, while “Fight or Die” was tattooed on his left. Randall looked like a man spoiling for a fight. Standing in the background of the small, dark home was a heavyset woman with straight, raven-black hair. Her enflamed, battered face was obviously the result of recent bruising. She seemed to fade into the darkness of the home in her deep-red blouse and dark jeans. This was a crisis situation, and I decided right then I wasn’t leaving without her.
The woman in the background timidly inched closer.
Over his shoulder, I asked the woman, “Are you Anna Hutchins?”
Randall spit out, “I haven’t had anything to do with that dumb bitch for years.” He yelled to the woman, “Misty, you called the cops again, didn’t you?” Misty quickly cowered and slunk away.
“Actually, she didn’t,” I interjected. “She’s not why I’m here. I’m working a cold case, and I need a few questions answered about your relationship with Mandy Baker.”
“I don’t even know who the hell you’re talking about.” Randall’s meaty fists were bunched tight with suppressed rage.
“Mandy Baker disappeared about a decade ago, and you were dragged in and interrogated by Investigator Tony Shileto. I imagine you remember.”
His jaw clenched and unclenched as he processed what I had said. “Oh, I remember. That asshole Shileto kept me handcuffed to a chair for close to two hours, even though he had no cause. And I’ll tell you the same thing today: I never met the girl. Every time something happens in Little Falls, they drag me back in. I’m sick of it. It’s bullshit.” He raised his arms and gripped the doorframe on both sides, effectively blocking my way into the home. “You need to leave.”
I cracked my neck and stood straighter. “That’s not going to happen, Randall.” The horrific amount of violence perpetrated by abusive men against women infuriated me.
Randall pounded his fist into his hand, like a schoolyard bully. “I should probably tell you, I’m training to be an ultimate fighter.”
“With Misty?”
“Go to hell.” He took a step toward me.
I considered telling him the “go to hell” suggestion was what brought me to Flensburg, but as angry as I was, I decided to take it down a notch. I have to admit, the idea of a brawl to vent my frustration had appeal. But, my job is to de-escalate these situations, regardless of my personal feelings. Putting my hands up defensively, I said, “As much as I enjoy standing here arguing with you, we’re not going to fight.”
Randall smiled. “I think your decision to leave is a good choice.”
I turned toward my car and dialed 911 and muted my phone. I hesitated, turned back and asked, “What drug is Misty on?”
“I never said she was using.”
I smiled. “There’s a reason she doesn’t have family or friends out here. She’s alienated the people who once came to her rescue. It’s not meth.”
Randall nodded in agreement. “She’s too fat. Cocaine.”
I had meant that she didn’t have the facial skin damage you see in meth addicts, but not wanting to argue, I asked, “Why don’t you just leave her?”
“I ask myself that all the time. Look at me,” he said, gesturing to his steroid-pumped physique. “I can do better.” Randall went on about his talents and accomplishments.
I needed to keep him engaged for a few more minutes, as I knew I would soon have backup. I decided to try to placate him with some drug trivia. “Cocaine is a beast. They did a study with monkeys, and a monkey will push a bar over ten thousand times for one hit of cocaine. This means pushing the bar over and over again for hours, nonstop, until its arms are so sore he can barely move them.”
“No shit?” I had his attention.
“If animals are given access to cocaine whenever they want it, over ninety percent are dead within thirty days. Misty’s going to need some detox.”
Randall dismissed it. “Ain’t nothing they can do that I can’t do right here.”
The problem was, Randall might kill her in the process, because he couldn’t regulate his own emotions. I could hear the sirens closing in.
Randall was initially surprised and, as his face darkened, he seethed, “She called the cops.”
I quickly corrected him. “I did. I can’t leave here without making sure Misty’s okay. It’s just something about the way I was raised.” The reality was that Randall would likely only be in jail for the night, if Misty refused to press charges against him. But in that time, the police would get an advocate to talk to her and she would receive medical attention. She was given an exit, but it was up to her whether she’d take it.
Randall glared and was about to strike me, but held back as a squad car sped into the yard. He pointed a finger directly at me and said, “You’ll get yours.”
“I know Misty needs help, Randall, but so do you. You need an anger management program and maybe a shot of Inderal.” I once helped on a case where a violent man’s anger had finally come under control after he was placed on Inderal, which was actually a heart medicatio
n. It was ironic when you realized that women were with Randall because they were on drugs, while Randall was with them because he wasn’t. The horns in his head fit perfectly into the holes in theirs.
WHEN I RETURNED to the investigative center, Maurice gave me an intense lecture over the stupidity of confronting a dangerous man without backup. Dangerousness was relative. People living in the south Halsted neighborhood in Chicago last year had a one in seven chance of being a victim of a violent crime before the year ended. Most small towns only have one cop, so they’re out there alone every day. Still, I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut and apologize. I didn’t regret intervening, for Misty’s sake, but I should have followed BCA protocol.
MAURICE HAD BASKED in the glory of Jeff Lemor’s arrest, but was now being questioned as to why Lemor hadn’t been formally charged. We were holding Jeff on a probation violation—drinking alcohol. The BCA had a major problem in its efforts to convict him. We couldn’t prove the gun found in the woods belonged to him. The gun apparently had been stolen from a home in Hillman four years earlier, and there were no fingerprints on it. Jeff knew what he was doing when he ran that gun to the property line and threw it. No one clearly saw him carrying a gun, and his attorney would point out that the gun was not even found on his land. The imprint in the drawer in the trailer was now burned up, and we couldn’t use his failed polygraph examination in court. For whatever it’s worth, Sean did discover where the drawer had been modified. Along with milking cows, Jeff performed a variety of construction chores for his employer, and his employer sang praises of Jeff’s handiwork. Jeff had access to all sorts of tools on the farm, as the farmer he worked for was a former cabinetmaker.
Brittany’s doctors were saying her brain was active, and she should be talking, but she wasn’t. They felt that her failure to talk was trauma-related.
I returned to the hotel. I had a series of messages from Serena in my email inbox. She said she was driving back to Pierz again tonight, so it would be convenient for me to visit her at her parents’ old home. The last email warned that, if I didn’t respond, I would need to grant her some latitude, as she would resolve this in her own way.
Murder Book Page 12