The I-94 Murders

by Frank F. Weber

  It was a balmy sixty-five degrees, which was warm for April in Minnesota. After we returned to Maddy’s house, Miles and I sat on the back steps in our jackets, enjoying a glass of lemonade. Maddy was inside taking care of some of her household chores. We lamented the pitching woes of the Minnesota Twins and watched the steady drops of melted snow run off the rooftop.

  Miles was clean cut. He had short, dark hair and an innocent smile. He looked like he was wrestling with an internal battle, and finally asked hesitantly, “Have you ever liked boys? I mean, liked-liked them?”

  I looked back toward the house, hoping Maddy was about to come out. When she didn’t, I suggested, “Maybe this is something you should talk to your parents about.”

  “I asked my stepmom about a month ago, and she said I should ask my dad.’”

  “Did you?”

  Embarrassed, Miles said, “No. Did you ever talk to your dad about that stuff ?”

  “No,” I chuckled softly. “I always felt I was on the verge of getting an ass kicking.”

  I turned to him, “When you’re eleven, there’s a big difference between what you think and reality.”

  Miles nodded with some understanding, then began to retie his already tied shoe laces. He asked again, “So did you like boys?” He was not looking at me, but his shoulders tensed, waiting for my response.

  I carefully considered this and decided to be honest, “I don’t remember. Some guys are attracted to girls, some are attracted to guys, some are attracted to both, and some aren’t attracted to either. You know who I feel sorry for?”

  Miles looked up in interest, “Who?”

  “The ones who aren’t attracted to either. Falling in love has made me more miserable than I ever imagined being. But I wouldn’t wish those experiences away for anything. It doesn’t make any difference who you’re attracted to, you’ll get teased in junior high regardless. Everybody goes through it.”

  He gave that some thought, but wasn’t entirely satisfied. “So, when did you know?”

  I had to think about that—it was a tough question. Finally, I said, “When I was twelve, I had this fantasy of saving this girl, who was four years older than me. When I realized all of my rescues of her involved part of her clothing being torn off, I knew the direction I was headed.”

  “So were you ever with her?” He looked at me expectantly.

  “No. After a few months I never even thought of her again—until just now.” I smiled and bumped his shoulder gently with mine. “That’s the wonderful part about adolescence. When you get older, you’ll forget about most of the stupid, embarrassing thoughts you once had. I call it moving on; a. A psychologist might call it repression.”

  I was relieved that his questions appeared to be answered, for now. I pointed out that Sam Bradford, last year’s starting quarterback for the Vikings, was of the Cherokee Nation, and we moved on to talking about how the Vikings might have the best defense in the NFL.

  Maddy called Miles in to answer a phone call from his father. When I told Maddy of our conversation, she scolded me, “You should have let his dad handle it. This is probably going to cost me some visitation.”

  I answered evenly, “I just wanted him to know that confusion is normal, and that it’ll be clear in a couple years.”

  Maddy obviously wasn’t feeling well and frantically blurted, “I don’t want his dad mad at me. I can’t give up any more time with Miles.” She ran a tired hand through her hair. “I liked it better when kids didn’t have a choice about who they were attracted to.”

  I pointed out, “They still don’t.”

  This conversation heightened my awareness that I didn’t belong there. I offered to leave, and Maddy agreed it was best.

  11:00 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 24, MINNEAPOLIS

  A SOFT KNOCK ON THE DOOR brought me to my apartment door in gym shorts and a t-shirt. Jada Anderson was waiting in a flowered blouse and jeans, holding a six-pack of 805 Beer.

  I invited her in, and she handed me the beer, explaining, “I had a friend driving back from Morrow Bay. He even purchased it at the brewery in Paso Robles.”

  I removed two bottles and poured them into pint glasses. My favorite beer, 805 Beer, could only be purchased in California until recently, as Nevada and Texas were now added to the list. It was named after an area code in California famous for low-rider cars and parties along the ocean shore. It was illegal even to ship it to Minnesota. I enjoy the flavor of this smooth lager.

  Jada and I retreated to the beige couch in my living room with our glasses and discussed the Alan Volt homicide. I told her, “We have a killer and a victim who both love attention, but while Ava’s putting it all out there, the killer remains dormant.”

  Jada suggested, “Maybe Ava and your killer are the same person.”

  I sat back, “I don’t think so. I also don’t believe it was our killer’s first effort. It went too smoothly—as if he’d previously had the opportunity to consider all of the risks. I think there may be at least one unreported attempt, but no one’s going to come forward with this information if we keep pointing the finger at Ava.”

  Jada smiled, “I hate to say this Jon, but right now Ava’s a better story than your killer. The BCA is sitting too tightly on the evidence. Ava is all we have to talk about.”

  I savored a swallow of 805 and told her, “I’m going to find this killer—not maybe. It’s simply a matter of time.”

  Intrigued, Jada raised an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure?”

  “I developed an algorithm that could change the way homicides are investigated. But I’m not ready for you to put this on the news.”

  Jada hummed, “You know how to tease me.” When I didn’t respond, she asked, “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes, I do. You’ve never let me down.”

  “Then tell me. I promise I’ll keep it as your mother would say, ‘Sub rosa,’ or I’d say, ‘in strict confidence,’ for now.”

  “We have a man’s DNA, other than Alan’s, on the bedsheet.”

  Jumping ahead, Jada said with excitement, “And you have a match on CODIS.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, my boss is arguing this DNA could have been from a previous encounter on that bed. But Alan was obsessive like me, and I think he would’ve washed the bedding.”

  “I give up,” Jada sighed. “How do you solve it?”

  “I ask people in the community to volunteer DNA samples, to be used to help clarify the genetic profile of the killer. The original sample helped clarify some ethnic characteristics. My next step is to go to the ethnic group identified, and get samples again.”

  Jada argued, “The killer will never volunteer his sample.”

  “He doesn’t have to. With each round, I get closer to his relatives, and reduce the number of possible suspects. It may take me a year, but I’ll get him. Hopefully, I’ll solve this through other means, first.”

  “Who’s paying for all of the DNA testing?”

  “I ran it by my supervisor, and the BCA won’t strain our budget for it at this time. So, I presented it to Marcus Mayer, pointing out we could do it through a private lab if he’ll fund it. He’s considering it.”

  Jada raised her hand and pointed an elegant finger at herself, “Well, I get the scoop if he does.”

  After a large swallow of beer, I said, “That’s all I have.”

  Jada got up and shut off the living room light, leaving the room only illuminated by street lights shining up through my fifteenth-floor window. She returned and sat cross legged on the couch with her back to me. She asked, “Would you mind giving me a neck and shoulder rub like you used to? I have a headache I haven’t been able to shake all day.”

  As I rubbed, I could feel the tension in her muscles loosen, and she undid a couple buttons on her blouse to bare her shoulders.

  Jada elicited a warm pleasant purr, and turned into me and kissed me.

  I reciprocated, and then pulled away. Whenever I’m faced with a dilemma, I try to sort out wh
at I want from what is right. I wanted Jada. She was beautiful and compassionate. But this was a decision I should make in daylight, and now that I had a child, I needed to be damn sure about it. I told Jada we needed to call it a night.

  10

  JON FREDERICK

  8:30 A.M., TUESDAY, APRIL 25, MINNEAPOLIS

  ILOVED SERENA BELL, but felt like I was falling apart and at risk for making choices I’d regret. I was tired all the time. I needed some feedback from Serena, whether she liked it or not.

  I called her, and was pleasantly surprised when she answered. After our initial greetings, I told her, “I’m not doing well. I know this isn’t your problem, but I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since you left. I’d be grateful if you would sleep with me. I’m not talking about sex—just sleep next to me. I feel if I could get a solid night’s sleep, I could make the decisions I need to make about my life with a clear head.”

  Serena asked, “Are you talking about your personal life or your work life?”

  “Both.”

  There was a pregnant pause before Serena asked, “Would you want to make love?”

  “It isn’t why I called but,” I honestly admitted, “yes, I suppose I would.”

  Serena laughed, “It does seem foolish for the two of us to sleep together and not do the one thing we always did well together.”

  I should have made this phone call months ago. “Okay, when?”

  Serena assented with an “Mmm—how about tonight—under conditions. You need to get a hotel room. I’m not moving back. You need to understand this is just one night. And we will confine our conversations to making love or Nora.”

  I smiled, “I can do that. Any particular hotel?”

  Serena suggested, “If we go to the Radisson Blu, I could shop at the Mall of America tomorrow morning before I head back.”

  “Radisson Blu it is …”

  11

  MADDY MOORE

  9:30 P.M., TUESDAY, APRIL 25,

  MINNEAPOLIS

  ISAT OUTSIDE JON FREDERICK’S APARTMENT, vacillating on whether to pay him a visit. It would be nice to start over with a clean slate. Yesterday, after Jon left, I spoke to Miles about their conversation. I was not sure I would have handled it better. Jon was conflicted, but kind, and he had always been respectful to me. He tried to mask his deep sadness with an obsession over his work, but his expressive blue eyes sold him out every time. Watching Jon joke around with my son gave me a new appreciation of him. Despite his flaws, he loved to make people smile.

  Jon suddenly walked out of his apartment building, dressed in crisp burgundy dress shirt and black jeans—interesting attire for a man who claimed to be living like a cleric. Where’s he going? I decided to trail him at a distance, and surreptitiously followed him into the Radisson Blu Hotel. If he is meeting Ava Mayer, I will personally kick his ass.

  From behind an ornate pillar, I watched him meet a radiant beauty in a simple, straight black dress. She had long dark, naturally curly hair, tanned skin, and that smile? A smile so contagious, I had to smile—before I realized what he was doing. How does a man go from single one day to having a woman throw herself at him? Jon specifically said yesterday he had no current dating interests. I took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself. A side effect of being a vice investigator was expecting the worst in people. I just had a sense that Marcus Mayer had made some sort of deal with Jon, and I was tortured with the thought that Marcus might have set Jon up with a high-priced hooker.

  The investigator in me had to see how this was going to play out, so I went to the desk clerk, flashed my badge, and got his room number.

  12

  JON FREDERICK

  8:00 A.M., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26,

  BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, ST. PAUL

  ISTOOD IN THE HALL, READING the results of the VMD test. The testing showed that the only fingerprints on the bedsheet were from Alan Volt and Ava Mayer. When I called Ava about this, she claimed she had forgotten to mention that it felt like the killer was, as I suspected, wearing thin gloves.

  Whenever I had a free minute, I continued to check in on Ava to make sure she was safe. Her public advocating of bondage in the paper had me worried our killer would return.

  With righteous indignation, Maddy Moore marched right at me, dug her fingernails into my bicep and roughly pulled me into her office. She closed the door behind me. “I followed you last night. I saw the woman you met at Radisson Blu. She’s certainly not the type of escort you could afford on your salary. So that’s the deal you made with Marcus Mayer?”

  Incredulous, I stepped back, “Are you out of your mind?” I had no desire to explain my personal life to her.

  She gripped my arm tight, demanding, “Answer the question.”

  “Back off.” I jerked my arm free. “First of all, would you go out with anyone Marcus Mayer set up for you? Second, they don’t make a wetsuit thick enough for me to sleep with a hooker, no matter how much she costs. As my dad would say, ‘Hookers are like manhole covers. All the slime that runs about the city eventually runs into them.’ I called a friend because I have a hard time falling asleep at night alone, and I desperately needed sleep.”

  Maddy’s jaw dropped, and she mockingly shook her head back and forth, “Wow, that’s a pretty smooth story. I got your room number from the clerk and stood outside the door for a bit. What you asked her to do can’t be taken out of context.”

  I decided not to respond for the moment.

  “I pity what that poor young woman had to endure for you.”

  She was trying to goad me into talking about it, but I wasn’t giving in. “You’re a hypocrite.”

  Maddy defensively questioned, “Because I had an affair with a man I thought I loved?”

  “Stop.” I interrupted. “I’ve never brought that up once, and you keep throwing it out there like you deserve a purple heart for it. I have never engaged in nonconsensual contact with a partner. I know because I make it clear. You obviously didn’t hear our entire conversation. Let’s leave it at that.”

  I was about to exit her office when she had the audacity to add, “I can only imagine what you did with all the lotion.”

  I grimaced and rubbed my eyes. I had asked room service to send up some extra bottles of lotion. “This isn’t any of your damn business, but to set your mind at ease, I massaged her feet.”

  She sat back and said sourly, “So you have a foot fetish.”

  For God’s sake, will she never shut up? I’m the one who should be angry. “No. I massaged her feet as a symbol of respect. It was a common practice in biblical times, and she greatly appreciated the warm lotion massage.” I wanted Maddy to believe in me. She was my partner, and my life would eventually be in her hands. So, I decided to be more specific, since investigators needed details to be convinced. “For future reference, you only have to heat the lotion for seconds in a microwave before it’s hot. After I was done with her feet, I massaged her legs and ran hot water over a towel and laid it across her legs. I scratched her back, then rubbed her muscles smooth with the hot lotion. When I was finished, I laid hot towels across her back. I removed them when they cooled, and dried her off. There, are you happy?”

  Maddy mouthed Wow, but still prodded, “If you’re not ashamed, how come you won’t tell me who it was?”

  “Because it’s none of your damn business.” I turned to leave, but then stopped and considered the stupidity of maintaining this argument. I needed to work with Maddy, so the best move would be to make a concession. I turned back, “If you must know, it was Serena—my daughter’s mother.”

  Maddy blushed red, “Wha—I am so sorry. I didn’t even consider—I mean, just two days ago, you said she wasn’t talking to you.”

  “We spoke yesterday and agreed to meet. She does help me sleep at night.”

  Maddy said, “I imagine.” She chuckled, “That was a good argument that you’d never go out with someone Marcus Mayer set you up with. It would be like having Donald
Trump for a pimp.” She tried to imitate Trump’s voice, “She’s the best—ever! She’s fantastic! Tremendous!”

  I smiled in spite of myself.

  In apparent surrender, she momentarily put her hand on my shoulder, “I am sorry, Jon. I came to your house to apologize for being a jerk and instead doubled down with my stupidity. So are you and Serena back together?”

  “No. Before I left, she told me, ‘I hope you understand that this doesn’t change anything.’ So, I guess it was just a mission of mercy.”

  Trying to be positive, Maddy suggested, “It’s better than where you were a week ago. And Serena’s a damn fool to walk away. If you ever need to practice rubbing feet, I’m here. I’m not the most pleasant to talk to, so I promise to shut up when you rub.”

  I appreciated her concession, so I told her, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m going to talk to Tony Shileto,” and was about to exit once again when she stopped me.

  “Hey, I know you don’t owe me any favors, but there’s a police officer in Clear Lake who asked to speak to an investigator on the Alan Volt homicide. He said it wasn’t urgent—he’s dealing with a suicide of a drug addict and wanted to clear up a typo in a report. I’ve been putting it off, but I thought as long as you’re headed that way, would you mind talking to him?”

  I reluctantly took the note and said, “I’ll stop in and talk to him on my way back.”

  I drove to Country Manor to see if Tony had anything for me. He was still in bed and unshaven when I arrived. He barely gave me a second glance when I entered. I asked, “Are you not feeling well?”

  Tony angrily snatched a notebook off his nightstand. “You know I’ve tried to avoid talking to Paula since this,” he waved the notebook over his useless legs. “But I broke down and called her. I had every plate run, and I don’t think it’s going to give you a damn thing! I took pictures of each car on my phone.” His sigh was laden with frustration at his impotence. “It’s just a monumental waste of time.”