The I-94 Murders

by Frank F. Weber

  Maddy stopped abruptly. “I received a tip.” She looked at me imploringly.

  I sat down and Maddy seated herself across from me. “You were on the scene before it was assigned. Who was the tip from?” I kept my expression neutral.

  She softly asked, “Where are you going with this, Jon?”

  Maddy looked up at the camera, then discreetly looked at me, at my note pad, then back at me, communicating a silent request. I slid my pen and tablet toward her. She wrote, Kent, the administrator with whom she’d had an affair. Maddy nodded toward the notepad. “He sent me an email—a murder victim had just been found at Chase Towing in Maple Grove.”

  “Did you ask how he would have known this?”

  “No.” Maddy wrote on the paper, After his wife confronted me, then spoke aloud, “I agreed to never talk to him again.” Maddy circled Kent’s name on the paper. “He has a lot of connections. I assumed an officer called him. You can find his message in my deleted emails.”

  I pressed, “Ava Mayer is claiming the scent she experienced during the assault was yours. She claimed she recognized it when you came to her home.” I recalled Ava backing away from Maddy and into me.

  Deep in thought, Maddy rubbed her eyebrows with her thumb and forefinger. She finally realized, “When you asked me about my perfume, it was because it matched the description Ava gave you about the scent.”

  “Yes—ginger.”

  Maddy closed her eyes, “Now I really feel stupid.” She was angry, but her eyes pleaded for understanding. “She wants me off this case, Jon.”

  “Ava claims you were at the Town Hall Brewery, two weeks before the assault, at the same time she was there. You were all by yourself. She believes you were already stalking her back then.”

  Maddy glowered, but after staring daggers toward the recording devices, she clenched her jaw and held it in. She looked down, resigned. “I was at the Town Hall Brewery two weeks before Ava was assaulted, but I didn’t know her at the time. I can’t recall if she was there. If Ava was there, it would explain how she knew I wore Bvlgari. That was the night I found out I had lost the final custody appeal on my son. “

  Bvlgari BLV wasn’t rare, but it also wasn’t one of the top twenty-five selling perfumes in the United States. “How much did you have to drink?”

  Maddy didn’t say anything, but wrote on the pad in front of me, Too much, and then crossed it out. Frustrated, she said, “I left the bar and was going to call a cab—I remember that. I went to my car to grab a CD my son had made for me before the cab arrived—I needed that reminder of him—and that’s all I remember.”

  Maddy ran her fingers over her lips. She appeared lost in a memory as she added, “I woke up the next day pretty confused. And when I looked in the mirror, the skin around my mouth was all red—like I had some kind of a burn. I can’t imagine where that would’ve come from.”

  She studied me, appearing to question if I believed her. “Ask your friend Jada if she saw anything. She was there that night.”

  This surprised me. I maintained my composure and asked, “What did you do after you left the bar?”

  “I got a ride home. I picked up my car the next day.”

  “Who’d you get a ride from?”

  Maddy wasn’t pleased with my prying. She wrote on the tablet, I don’t know. She then straightened up. “I feel like this is unjustified prying into my personal life,” Maddy paused for effect and then added, “bordering on harassment.”

  “Maddy, I honestly don’t know what this is. I’m just trying to sort it all out. Why didn’t you report it?”

  Frustrated, she sternly replied, “Report what? Nothing happened.” Maddy stood up. “I’m done with this. I have work to do.” She aggressively tore off the page she had scribbled on and walked out with it clenched in her fist.

  Maurice, like most people in the office, didn’t like confronting Maddy, so he told me to let it go for the time being. He commented, “Ava did say her rapist had breasts.”

  “Man-breasts,” I corrected. “She also said he had a penis.” It didn’t make sense, but I had smelled the gingery perfume.

  Maurice was frustrated. “There isn’t a damn thing we can do with Ava matching a scent. You work with Maddy every day. Keep me apprised.”

  Maddy was going to go after Ava full-barrel now, and this was going to put us at odds.

  7

  JON FREDERICK

  8:45 A.M., SATURDAY, APRIL 22,

  MINNEAPOLIS

  MARCUS AND ANGELA MAYER had followed my recommendation that Ava have bodyguards for the time being. Marcus knew of a company that provided this security. Unfortunately, Ava had been evading her guards on a daily basis, so she could go out “clubbing,” which tormented her parents. Ava’s parents were suffering the consequences of failing to hold her accountable—ever.

  Alan Volt wasn’t particularly well-liked, but we hadn’t found anyone with a motive to kill him. His funeral was attended by a number of young curiosity-seeking professional men who loved to talk about themselves, but had little to say about Alan. I attended the funeral with Ava. She wore a conservative black dress and was content being in the background, which I appreciated and respected. It was a sober reminder that Ava was capable of acting like a normal, responsible adult. The worst aspects of her personality had emerged in full force after the assault.

  Alan’s family believed Volt’s murder was the result of an attempted break-in, even though nothing was taken that belonged to Alan, other than the computer tower and a black marker.

  I REQUESTED OUR FORENSIC LAB perform a VMD process on the bed sheet from Alan Volt’s basement. A VMD, or Vacuum Metal Deposition, involved placing the sheet in a chamber and heating a small amount of gold—about twenty cents worth—until it turns into a gas. The same process was repeated with zinc. The gold adhered to the fingerprints, and the zinc made them visible. I was told it would be days, even weeks, before I received the results.

  I collected security footage from every home in the neighborhood that could have had a camera aimed toward Alan Volt’s driveway and delivered them to Tony Shileto. If Ava’s story was accurate, there should be footage of two cars leaving the driveway—Alan Volt’s car, with Ava driving, and the killer’s. Ava’s car should stay out front, where it remained until her parents picked it up the following day.

  Maddy had little to say to me the last couple days, so we separately interviewed Alan Volt’s neighbors and friends, as well as Ava’s friends. No one had knowledge of their relationship. One neighbor had seen a gray Chevy in the driveway but wasn’t certain of the exact make.

  This morning, Maddy appeared at my apartment door, her expression gratified, holding up the St. Paul Pioneer Press newspaper. In her button-down and untucked plaid blouse and blue jeans, she appeared ready to reconcile and work with me, again.

  Ava Mayer had given Jack Kavanaugh another exclusive interview. The paper published photos of the purple bruises on Ava’s torso. She was quoted as saying, “Bondage is an option for adventurous couples, as long as there are rules.” There was a seductive photo of Ava with her face screwed into a mock frown, shackled in handcuffs. Ava had declared that these were the very cuffs Alan wore when he had been murdered.

  I called both Jack Kavanaugh and Jada Anderson and asked them to refrain from interviewing Ava further, for her safety. This killer took his name based on a character who had to possess a woman forbidden to him. If this was the case, there was likely an “Olwen” in his twisted fantasy, and I feared Ava was the killer’s Olwen. Jada heard me out, but made no promises. Jack admonished me, stating, “Ava is the news; I’m just a messenger feeding a public that’s starving for her story.”

  Maddy cracked wise at my frivolous efforts with the media, at least until I told her Jada might have something for us.

  12:30 P.M., MAPLE GROVE

  MADDY AND I MET JADA AT KHAN’S Mongolian Barbecue. Maddy had a bowl full of vegetables, Jada had beef and vegetables, and I had vegetables, shrimp, and
sausage.

  When we settled at our table, Maddy grimaced at my choice. “You know what they say—people who like sausage and respect the law shouldn’t watch either being made.” She busied herself stirring her steaming vegetables and chuckled.

  I volleyed, “Where I come from, when someone says she’s a vegetarian, people say, ‘Maybe you should try hunting with me.’”

  Maddy smoothly clipped vegetables with chopsticks suggesting, “Eating with traditional utensils offers the full experience.”

  I remarked, “The fork was a great improvement over the chopstick. That’s why you see farmers in the field with a fork, rather than a pool cue.”

  Jada looked amusedly back and forth at the bickering between Maddy and me, then moved her sizzling bowl aside to cool. She quickly got to the business at hand, and reached into her black leather satchel. As she gently unfolded a piece of white paper, she said, “I received this letter in the mail at WCCO. The name ‘I-94 Killer’ was written in the corner of the envelope, but there was no return address below it. I kept the envelope.” She carefully set the page out on the table, turning it so we could read it:

  Time to educate the ignorant seekers of fantasy, through actual life experience, and with serious action. I have sat by pleading for men playing God, to probably come to understanding that 1 in of maybe only 3 million really desire being loved by someone who accept personal derision. / Culhwch

  As I studied the letter, Jada pulled the envelope out of her bag and placed it next to the note. She asked, “Is this guy stark raving mad?”

  My immediate thought was there are only two numbers in the code, and if he wanted them to form “13,” there would need to be thirteen letters between each significant letter. As I studied the note, I asked Jada, “Did El have anything to do with your first asking me about this case?”

  Jada said nothing, but cocked her signature what the hell? eyebrow at me. She had such an expressive face. I sometimes wondered why she bothered with words at all. Her message was, Don’t be a xenophobe.

  Ava’s small-penis comment had triggered my curiosity about El, so I had done some research. Epicene obviously wasn’t her birth name. The odds of a transgendered person being born with a last name that means “transgender” are astronomical. I discovered that El Epicene was born Del Elliot. El had Klinefelter syndrome, which is an XXY chromosome pattern rather than XX or XY on the twenty-third pair. Individuals experiencing Klinefelter syndrome were physically male, but they didn’t develop facial hair or a masculine build unless they took hormones after puberty. El apparently opted not to. They also had the same rate of breast cancer women have, which is much higher than XY men. There was a similar syndrome called Turner syndrome, for females who only had one chromosome, the X chromosome, at the twenty-third pair. They also had to take hormones at puberty for further sexual development.

  I told Jada, “I’m just ruling out possibilities.”

  Jada nodded her understanding.

  Maddy’s eyes narrowed. “The St. Paul Pioneer Press has had a great reputation for their writers. I know that they’re only working with a skeleton crew now, but the pictures of Ava seem desperate.” She stabbed her chopsticks in my direction, “And by the way, if I find out you have something going with Ava, I swear to God I’m coming after you.”

  With an almost imperceptible twitch of her mouth, Jada reminded me Maddy was present and I needed to avoid discussing anything that would hint toward my financial arrangement with the Mayers. I wasn’t at risk of saying anything, but I did appreciate Jada’s effort to protect me.

  Jada made an attempt to diffuse the tension at the table. “Jon doesn’t do blondes—bad experience as a teen. Ava has no boundaries.” She threw me an offhand look, and added, “Kind of like your friend, Clay.”

  Maddy cut in, “Jon hasn’t told me about Clay.” She looked with interest at each of us.

  Jada dismissed Maddy’s curiosity with an inward groan and wave of her hand, “Don’t waste your time.” She turned to me, “Is it that easy to find men who tie women up?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Our cybercrimes unit reports that on B-D-S and M sites, there are four ‘master’ men for every submissive one, and there are four submissive women for every dominatrix.”

  Jada’s lips compressed as she pushed her food away. “It makes my stomach roil. Part of me feels like it mocks the brutality of slavery.”

  I sighed heavily, appreciating her point. “I hear you, but we both know these folks aren’t thinking that deeply.”

  Her next bite balancing precariously on chopsticks, Maddy stopped midway to her mouth. She asked, “What exactly is your type?”

  Uncomfortable with our conversation, Jada stood up and squeezed my shoulder. “I should take my meal to go.” She whispered in my ear, “Call me later.” Jada addressed both of us with an afterthought, “Is it safe to leave you two, or should I take the utensils with me?” When neither of us responded, she picked up her bowl and went to the counter for her to-go box, then made her way out the door. She left Culhwch’s note and the envelope on the table, and I carefully dropped them into a plastic bag I’d taken from my pocket. Whenever I was working a case, I kept evidence bags handy.

  Maddy watched after Jada with a smirk on her face, “She still has feelings for you.”

  I took in a frustrated breath and gave in, “Intelligent is my type.”

  Maddy chided, “I told you not to hit on me.” I smiled as she continued, “Like Jada?”

  I chose not to respond. Eventually Maddy realized I wasn’t going to give her any more. She emptied her bowl and said, “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard all the rumors about me. I’m into sleeping my way to the top. And what a catch our administrators are.” She tossed her chopsticks into the empty bowl and mused, “I think Maurice Strock should be next on my list. I could live off his pension after he retires next month. Instead of the silver fox, I could call him the gray ferret.” Maddy’s cynicism slipped ever so slightly, and I saw a flash of pain across her eyes.

  I tried to ease her mind by offering, “Sinclair Lewis once said, ‘The town gossip is embarrassed that he’s the only one in town with nothing to be ashamed of.’”

  Maddy softened, her shoulders rounding as her guard came down. “I like that.” She appeared to come to a decision and flattened her palms on the table top. “Okay—do you want to know the real story? I was married to a nice guy, and I blew it.” She shrugged, “We had a child, and we became two people who loved and took care of the same child, but we forgot about us. I’d like to say Kent initiated the affair, but honestly, I don’t know. The bottom line is, I didn’t stop it—so maybe I’m a little over the top with putting a stop to any suggestion of impropriety at work, now. The flirting turned into more, and Kent’s wife, Chloe, finally called him out on it.” She grimaced at the memory of her infidelity being discovered. “And then Chloe called our supervisor, and HR, and Craig—my husband. I’d gambled everything and lost, for nothing more than a little attention. I loved Craig, but he couldn’t come back from the betrayal.” She sighed and started smoothing her napkin in front of her.

  I stayed silent, respecting that this was difficult for her.

  “And then, like a storm, Craig came after our son. I won initially, but he’s an attorney. He kept taking me to court, over and over, until he broke me and got custody.” Maddy’s posture straightened with renewed tension, and she said flippantly, “So now I hate him, and I hate his almost pubescent young wife, and the fact that I have to beg them to be able to spend a special occasion with my son. And work sucked, because I was still working with Kent, trying not to talk to him, or even feel for him. So finally, I asked if I could go back to being an investigator. I liked being an investigator.”

  I had finished eating. “You’re good at it.”

  She smiled gratefully and nodded in agreement, “I am.”

  I appreciated Maddy confiding in me, so in turn, told her, “I see some of the same pain and anxiety in Ava’s eyes that
I saw in Serena’s. I didn’t realize, back then, that it was about Serena’s trauma. I thought it was about me, so I kept trying harder. I didn’t know how to help, and I didn’t encourage her to get help. I tried not to show my frustration, but she had to sense it.” I swallowed hard and then stood up and said, “I’m going to wash my hands, and then I’m good to go.”

  Maddy compassionately let the conversation end.

  The power of a look in shaming a person is intriguing. My mother had always been a master at this. I should point out this was my issue since, more often than not, I didn’t consider the full impact of my behavior until I got that look. Jada’s piercing glance reminded me I had no evidence to suggest El Epicene was involved, in any way, with Alan’s death or the assault on Ava. I was being a xenophobe. Transgendered individuals, like El, were more likely to be assaulted than to assault, and were far more likely to commit suicide than murder. If El was struggling with transsexualism, the statistics didn’t change significantly. Transsexuals converting from female to male had higher rates of criminal convictions than their sex of origin. However, transsexuals converting from male to female (hypothesizing that El could be in this category) did not. Until I come across some specific information implicating El, I would let go of the notion of El as a suspect.

  8:10 P.M., SATURDAY, APRIL 22,

  OFFICE OF BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, ST. PAUL

  WHEN I RETURNED TO THE OFFICE Saturday night, I found Maddy in a faded black t-shirt and blue jeans that looked like they’d been fitted just for her. She was going through the information we had retrieved from Ava’s computer. There we were, spending our Saturday evening working this case. I pulled out my clunky office chair, cursing at the caster that never seemed to roll, and settled at my pristinely organized desk.

  Maddy leaned back and put bare feet up on her cluttered desktop, pushing a pile of binder clips aside with her heel. I registered her chipped burgundy toenail polish. She saw my glance and said with a wave of her hand, “Shut up. It’s not sandal season yet.”