A Winsome Murder

by James DeVita

  And now she was gone.

  And now he was gone.

  There was nothing left of whoever he had once been.

  Coose kept up a steady eighty-five miles an hour down I-90 while Mangan called the Rockford SWAT team with the suspect’s address. When they arrived at the entrance to Woodland Court, he saw that a perimeter had already been set up. They got out of the cruiser and buckled on their vests. An officer introduced himself and pointed out the incident commander who was at the back of an ambulance surrounded by a small group of EMTs. Coose and Mangan walked over and waited for the man to finish briefing the medical team.

  “We’ve got a paramedic with us,” the commander was telling the crew, “but if this goes bad, we’re going to need your help. Rule number one: get the good guys out first. Rule number two? See rule number one. That’s the only protocol you need to remember. Okay?”

  The EMTs, all of whom looked young and nervous, nodded.

  “All right,” the commander said. He dismissed them and turned to Mangan and Coose. “Detective Mangan?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Captain John Pribyl.” He snugged his vest tighter. “Little hot today, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me.”

  Pribyl led Mangan and Coose down a wide residential street lined with nearly identical looking SUVs, their glossy black fenders gleaming in the low afternoon sun. A long row of Tudor cottages and Chicago-style bungalows ran along either side of the road, nestled in among the proper allotment of maples and oaks. Manicured lawns ran uninterrupted between the lots, occasionally broken up by short runs of hedges or azalea bushes. Sprinklers spun out whispery water-circles across yards. From the columned porches, American flags hung in abundance. A blue-and-orange football lay on a driveway, a bike on a lawn. It was all clean and quiet and passive and American and not at all where you would expect to find a serial killer. Unfortunately, serial killers were never where Mangan expected them to be.

  And thus I clothe my naked villainy

  And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

  “We cleared this block and the one behind,” Pribyl said. “Perimeter’s secure, exits are covered.”

  They continued walking. As the road bent slightly to the left, Pribyl stopped and pointed out Daniel Anderson’s house. An ordinary, slightly above-middle-class home, well kept, two stories, a large front porch, a dormer perched high on the front peak of the roof. No car in the driveway, which skirted the side of the house.

  “Front, back, and side doors are covered,” Pribyl said.

  The three of them drew their weapons and took cover behind an SUV across the street. There was some glare off the upper windows of the house. It was late in the day, but the sun, at Mangan’s back, was still bright. He thumbed off the safety of his Glock and leaned across the hood of the SUV. Pribyl whispered into his walkie-talkie. The SWAT units hidden across the road and around the yards were barely visible, their sniper rifles trained on the house.

  Inside his room, Daniel Anderson made sure his police scanner was set to all channels, and then returned to his computer. He double-clicked the Internet icon and typed in the words “Detective James Mangan Chicago.” He had just read about the man in the newspaper. He tapped the enter key. A lot of entries came up on the screen. Lots of awards. The Carter/Harrison Lambert Award for Distinguished Act of Bravery, the Cook County Medal of Honor, Cook County Distinguished Service Award, and the Unit Meritorious Performance Award.

  Anderson clicked for images on the Google search and saw photos of the man at an awards ceremony, standing between other officers. He was stocky. Not very tall. He saw another photo where the man had his arm around a pretty woman in uniform. She was much younger than he was. He read the date above the photograph. It had been taken a few years earlier. He clicked the photo to enlarge it. In the teeny font of the credits below the picture he read the woman’s name: Kathleen Mangan.

  He considered this, and thought … how uncoincidental.

  That this man should have a daughter.

  This police man.

  He wrote the name down, softly mouthing the word, “Kathleen … Kathleen …” He searched her name on the Internet. A few different Kathleen Mangans came up. One was a lawyer—no, no. He added police officer to her name and searched. There were a lot of Mangans, mostly men. He scrolled to the second page—yes—there she was.

  Kathleen Mangan, 635 Stanwell Avenue, Milwaukee, WI.

  He went to Google Maps and typed in his destination. The police scanner on the shelf above crackled static, then voices. It always made so much noise. He turned the volume down and glanced out the window. He saw nothing. He returned to his computer and studied the blue highlighted route to Milwaukee.

  Road trip.

  Daniel Anderson!” a megaphoned voice called out. “Daniel Anderson! This is the police! Come to the front door with your hands where we can see them!”

  Mangan watched the house carefully from across the street.

  “Daniel Anderson!” Pribyl said again. “This is the police! Come to the front door with your hands where we can see them!”

  Nothing.

  He lowered the megaphone and looked to Mangan. “Guess we’re making a house call.”

  Mangan agreed, asking, “Who’s doing the knocking?”

  “Be my guest,” Pribyl said. “On my go, okay?”

  Mangan nodded.

  Pribyl radioed the rest of his team and Mangan saw them adjust their stances and steady their aims. Pribyl looked to Mangan and Coose, “You good?”

  They both nodded.

  “We’ll take the front door,” Pribyl said. “One point of entry. SWAT covers the side and back from outside.” Pribyl took one last glance around, and then said, “All right then. Let’s go.”

  They sprinted across the yard and up the front steps, Coose and Mangan ducking to either side of their door. Pribyl and his men did the same, and when they were set, Coose reached up and smacked the screen door hard.

  “Police! Open up!” he yelled, banging. “Police!”

  He opened the screen door and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  Pribyl signaled to a SWAT member across the road who started for the house at a full run—battering ram in hand—and slammed it into the door, splintering it open. “Clear! ” Mangan yelled, following the man in and moving left. Coose, was next, moving to his right, “Clear! ” Pribyl and his men poured in next, searching and clearing all the rooms—“Police! Police! Down! ”—first floor, second, attic—“Down! Down! ”—in the basement, the crawl space, the closets. “Police! Police! Down! ”

  The screaming and ransacking went on for a long time before the adrenaline settled. Pribyl, his face flushed and wet, yelled for everyone to gather in the living room. A tense silence followed. He holstered his weapon and shrugged.

  “Nobody home.”

  Captain Pribyl went outside to brief the rest of the team and see if he could track down Daniel Anderson’s wife. Mangan tugged on latex gloves and joined the CSI team flooding into the house. Coose and a few CSI techs headed up a steep set of stairs to the second floor. Mangan looked around the main area of the house. It was filthy. The living room had newspapers strewn about and dishes with half-eaten meals still on them. The TV was on, the sound muted. Half-filled drinking glasses with cigarette butts floating in them were scattered about the kitchen; the sink was filled with dirty dishes. The place looked abandoned, but there was a coffee pot on, still hot, and fresh milk in the fridge. “Hey, James,” Coose called down from the second floor. “Come on up here.”

  Mangan hurried up the stairs, a bit winded when he reached the top.

  Coose leaned out a doorway in the hallway. “In here.”

  “What do you got?” Mangan asked, joining him.

  “I think I’d call it evidence.”

  The room was a small attic space which had been turned into a den, neatly kept compared with the rest of the house. A few books on the shelves, a file ca
binet, a small couch, a coffee table with some magazines fanned out on it: CHIP, PCWorld, Wired. A desk was pushed up against the wall facing the street, beneath the dormer window. There was a computer on the desk, and Coose was hovering behind a CSI tech who was working on it.

  “Where’s this evidence you’re talking about?” Mangan asked.

  Coose, busy watching the CSI tech, nodded to a stack of magazines on the desk. “The American Forum,” he said. “Every article by Jillian McClay.”

  Neatly piled beside the computer, the magazines had been folded open to the articles. Mangan looked through them. Sentences and names had been highlighted and underlined, Post-it notes attached to some the pages, all of them well worn and dog-eared.

  “There’s more,” Coose said, stepping back. “Take a look.”

  The CSI tech was running through the search history on the computer. The dropdown file looked like a prosecutor’s dream: Michele Schaefer’s contact info, the address of the Schaefer family farm, map searches of Winsome, Wesley Faber’s address and his daughter’s wedding announcement, her address in Waukegan, searches of the American Forum website, Mara Davies’s bio, Jillian McClay’s author website, and a dozen other entries all related to the murder victims.

  “I think it’ll hold up,” Coose said.

  Mangan nodded. “We have to find him first.”

  A glimmer of light caught Mangan’s eye, just a flicker, and it drew his gaze to the window. It must have been open slightly because its gauzy white curtain fluttered gently. Something was dangling behind it. Mangan stepped closer and pushed a corner of the curtain aside. A thin monofilament fishing line was tied to the window lock. On the end of it hung a circular piece of metal. It twirled lazily, flashing the tiniest glints of sun. It was a single, large hoop earring. Identical to the one found at the Waukegan murder site.

  “Detective Mangan?” Pribyl called from the first floor.

  “Yes,” Mangan said, stepping out of the room.

  Pribyl took two steps up the stairs and leaned on the banister, looking up. “It’s the wife. I’ve got her in the kitchen.”

  Elizabeth Anderson was sitting at the kitchen table. A frail woman with a panicked look in her eyes, she sat sideways in the chair as if trying to hide within it. She was unkempt in body and clothes. Her gray roots had spread widely down the center of her once-dyed hair. No makeup. She was struggling to open a pack of cigarettes, her hands shaking. She had the appearance of a thing that had been broken.

  “This is Mrs. Anderson,” Captain Pribyl said. “She was at the store. We found her watching from the perimeter line. A neighbor pointed her out.”

  Mangan sat opposite her at the table. She flinched slightly and scooted a little farther back into the chair, reminding Mangan of his parakeet, Phoebe. The woman was still trying to get a cigarette out of her pack. Mangan reached out.

  “Can I help you with that?” he asked.

  “Why are you in my house?” Her voice was thin and weak, but pointed. “Why are you here?”

  Pribyl said, “I tried to explain to her—”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” she said. “Haven’t you?”

  Mangan spoke easily, “Mrs. Anderson—”

  “Get them out of my house,” she said. “All of them. I want them out of my house.”

  “Please, Mrs. Anderson, if you’d just—”

  “Get them out of my house! ” she screamed. She stood, kicking the chair away, and crushed herself into the corner of the kitchen. “Get out of my house! Get out! Get out! ”

  “All right,” Mangan said, getting up and backing away.

  “Get out! Get out! ”

  “All right.”

  Quietly, calmly, she kept whispering, “Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out.”

  Mangan called Pribyl over as he stepped out of the kitchen. “Give me a little time with her, okay? Let’s get everyone out for now, we’ll bring them back in a bit.”

  Pribyl called for his team and the CSI unit to clear the house. Coose left too. The whole time there was a soft murmuring from the kitchen, “Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out.”

  Mangan knew the woman was in some other place. A place of madness. Not clinically mad, worse: Melvillian mad. That wild madness that’s only calm to comprehend itself. If she were mad, she might perhaps forget what had happened to her family, her daughter, her life. But no, Mangan could tell that she was vividly, outrageously, aware of her own life. The story of it was carved into her face.

  He waited till the home was completely cleared. He waited a little longer and let some silence settle into the house. Then he ventured toward the kitchen again. Mrs. Anderson had managed to get her pack of cigarettes open. She still hovered in a corner of the room. She looked thinner standing up, as if her body had been drained of something and the skin now hung loose and resigned. His wife came into his mind. Those terrible last days. My wife, my wife. What wife? I have no wife.

  The strike of a match focused Mangan again.

  Elizabeth Anderson lit her cigarette, staring at Mangan, her eyes dilated with anger. Life had dealt her a shit hand, Mangan thought, and she had no idea how to play it. He peeled off his latex gloves and sat.

  “Can I have one of those?” he asked, gesturing to her cigarettes.

  She hesitated for a moment, guarded. Then threw the pack on the table. He took one out and looked at her. She tossed over the matches.

  “Thanks,” he said, and lit up. He hadn’t had a cigarette in almost three years. My god, it felt good. It tasted like defiance. “Mrs. Anderson,” he said, “I am so sorry. So sorry for what happened to your daughter. I have a daughter. I … I can’t imagine.”

  Her lips tightened and she stood up a little straighter. “She was a good girl, you know. A good girl. For a long time.”

  Mangan nodded.

  “It was the drugs,” she said. “It wasn’t her. It was the drugs.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment. She ashed her cigarette on the tiled floor. “Why are you here?” she asked. “What is all this?”

  “Mrs. Anderson,” he said, “we’re here about your husband.”

  “He’s not here.” She took a long, deep drag of her cigarette. “He’s hardly ever here.”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “We have reason to believe,” Mangan said, “that your husband may have been involved in some very serious crimes.”

  Mrs. Anderson’s face crooked slightly and she seemed to truly see Mangan for the first time. “Daniel? What are you talking about?”

  “We just need to talk to him,” Mangan said.

  “What crimes? What do you mean?”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “What crimes?”

  “There … there have been some crimes against women, young women.”

  “What kind of crimes?”

  Mangan didn’t want to say it. “Have you read about the recent murders in Chicago and Wisconsin?”

  A second of silence, and then, “Daniel?” she said. “No. No, you’re wrong.” Her eyes were deeply confused and pained. “He would, he would never do anything like that. He couldn’t. That’s, that’s crazy. He can’t do anything. He can’t work, he can’t eat, he can’t be around me—he can’t even look at me. That’s, that’s why he’s gone all the time, why he leaves.”

  “He’s gone all the time?”

  “Yes. He can’t be here long, in the house. He has to leave after a while. He’ll come home, mow the lawn, do some work on the computer, but then he starts wandering around the house and he has to leave again. He’s away for days sometimes.”

  “Where does he go?”

  “He just, he fishes, or hunts. It helps keep his mind off things.”

  “But where? Do you know where he fishes?”

  “At the cabin.”

  “What cabin?”

  “We have a cabin over in Lena. On the lake.”

  They pulled up quie
tly, no lights or sirens, some fifty yards from Daniel Anderson’s cabin. A silver pickup truck was parked on the side, partially obscured in the trees. Captain Pribyl positioned his SWAT team and again sealed off a perimeter. Mangan and Coose surveyed the layout. A lake was behind the cabin, and a thin expanse of trees to either side.

  Coose conferred with Mangan and Pribyl and asked, “How about no introductions this time?”

  “Fine with me,” Pribyl said.

  Mangan agreed.

  Coose nodded and took off at a run, not stopping until he’d cracked in the front door. Mangan entered behind him, sweeping the barrel of his Glock across the main room. Pribyl followed close, clearing the bedroom and kitchen. Mangan moved quickly along the living room wall and kicked open a bathroom door—left, right—nothing. He backed out, scanning the main room. There was a sliding door, half open, that led to a porch off the back of the cabin. He signaled to Coose to cover right and sidestepped through the open glass doors.

  It was empty. The cabin was empty.

  “Shit,” Mangan said. “Get CSI in here.”

  One step behind, he thought, we’re one step behind the guy.

  He holstered his gun and looked around. The screened-in porch ran along the back side of the cabin, facing the lake. He walked the length of it, taking a moment to look out at the water. A few hundred yards from the shoreline was a small island that seemed overrun with trees, a floating forest nearly. The sun, beginning to dip low behind the island, skipped wooded shadows across the surface of the water, flat and calm and wide. Far out on the lake, he could make out the silhouette of a small boat puttering toward the tree-lined island, the sound of its outboard a soft, muted murmur. He watched it slip silently behind the island.

  He did a quick search of the porch. Nothing. A window there looked into the cabin, into a bedroom. He glanced in. A CSI tech was at a table working on a laptop. Mangan started to go inside, but stopped to look out at the lake once more. He wasn’t around this kind of nature all that often, away from the cement and stench and blood of the city. Lake Michigan wasn’t anything like this lake; no, Lake Michigan was a city lake, cold and rough, like everything else in Chicago. He lingered a moment longer, enjoying the—