The I-94 Murders

by Frank F. Weber

  “Can I see the pictures?”

  He handed me the phone, and I began scrolling through the pictures. I saw pictures of a couple partial plate numbers, as well. I knew Tony was not one to be placated, so I was careful not to make eye contact as I scrolled through his work. I wasn’t sure I could contain the sincere pity I was feeling for my friend. I had offered this work to give him a sense of purpose, not considering the depression that would ensue if he found nothing useful.

  I told him, “Thank you for doing this. I’ve got another way to go at this, so don’t lose heart.” Suddenly, I stopped at a photo that caught half of the back end of a car. It was blurry, but I could make out almost half the plate.

  I showed it to Tony and said, “You wrote 3-3-5, but we only caught half of the first number. Could that be 8-3-5?”

  Tony shrugged dejectedly, “Could be.”

  I dropped next to him on his rumpled bedding and pointed to the picture. “You see that circular tail light? Just like a Corvette. I always wanted to own a Corvette when I was younger. Instead, I’m driving a four-door Taurus with a car seat in the back.”

  Tony gave the photo a second glance and said, “That’s not a Corvette.”

  I tapped the picture excitedly, “Chevy Impalas have the same tail lights. I know this car. Would you say it’s gray?”

  Tony had now taken interest, “It’s hard to say when the picture’s in black and white. Maybe.”

  “Zikri Abbas, our BCA tech wizard, drives a gray Impala, license number FPC 835.”

  Tony looked at me, fully engaged, “I’d ask why the hell you remembered that, but I know about your thing with numbers.”

  I remembered Zeke’s car up on the curb, as well as his lack of interest in the cypher. “Zeke doesn’t live near Edina, but a lot of people go out to bars and restaurants in that area.” Arguing with myself, I added, “Still, we know this killer’s a computer hacker, and he seems to know something about investigations.”

  Tony was in. A corner of his lip twitched in semblance of a grin as he said, “Tell me about your other angle.”

  I revealed, “We have DNA from the bed where Ava Mayer was assaulted.”

  Tony interrupted, “But it has no match in CODIS.”

  I conceded, “True, but investigators aren’t the only ones evaluating DNA these days.”

  I didn’t want to share my elaborate plan of sifting down the DNA possibilities at this time, because I’d have to share that I’d been paid by the Mayers. Only Jada, the Mayers, and I knew that, and it was best to keep it that way for now. I had also implemented a back-up plan, just in case the Mayers wouldn’t fund the DNA testing, so I shared, “I sent a copy of the DNA paper profile report, as if it were my DNA, to Ancestry-dot-com, so they can track down my relatives. They locate relatives based solely on the DNA you give them.”

  Tony smiled, “And once they send you a list of the relatives they have on file, I could go on Facebook with every name until we can narrow it down to our guy. This is good! But is it even legal?”

  “It is in New York, but not in California. This may prove to be a test case for Minnesota. Once we have a better idea of who he is, we can use a variety of ways to prosecute him.”

  AFTER MY MEETING WITH TONY, I drove to Clear Lake to meet with the police officer, Dale Taylor, at the brick city hall building in Clear Lake. Like most small towns, there was no official police station. People who were arrested in this area were brought to the Sherburne County Jail in Elk River. Dale was a former farm boy like me. He was clean cut with Bobby Flay-like short, red hair. He sat in his dark-blue uniform across the fold-up table from me on an aluminum chair, telling me about the suicide of young man, Asher Perry, last weekend. Asher had struggled with abusing pain killers ever since he suffered a back injury two years earlier. He had threatened suicide one week ago, after his partner, Layla Boyd, had left him to stay with her parents until he committed to getting clean.

  I wasn’t sure what this had to do with our case, until Dale commented, “Layla kept asking where he got the gun. He had told her he stole the Colt 45 years ago. It seemed sort of irrelevant. I knew Asher fired the gun—there was gun residue on his hand, and the Colt 45 was still in his hand. I ran the serial number, and it’s got to just be a typo in the report we received, but it matches a gun you were looking for in the Volt homicide. Asher Perry’s suicide is an open and shut case, so I’m sure it’s a mistake. I called to straighten this out so I can finish my paperwork and close this case.”

  Now he had my attention. I requested to see the gun and then called our office to confirm the serial number. Once I had the confirmation, Dale opened up a manila folder that contained Asher and Layla’s shared texts, along with pictures from the crime scene. The comment that Asher had stolen the gun years ago also interested me. Had our killer committed suicide?

  As I reviewed a photocopy of their texts, I questioned, “He made a comment about her submitting in the text. Were there any bondage-like items found in the bedroom?”

  Dale’s gaze dropped to his hands, and he picked dirt from his fingernails as he told me, “No, there’s nothing like that.”

  He looked troubled. I asked, “What’s on your mind?”

  Dale leaned forward, his rugged facial features etched with concern. “Layla and Asher had been together for almost a decade. Layla’s a sweetheart and has recently had sort of a love/hate relationship with Asher. Despite Asher’s addiction, she didn’t tell anyone she’d left him. She thought they’d work it out. If this is the gun from the Volt homicide, why would Asher steal a gun two years ago from a house in Buckman? Asher was doing fine. He and Layla were close back then—as loving a couple as you’d find anywhere.”

  A sadness overcame the young officer, and it was clear he struggled with the suicide. Dale said, “I know young men are impulsive with their suicides, and we never get all the answers. But I wish I had something to tell his family. I just hate to see families in so much pain when I have no answers to give, other than drug abuse.”

  I reassured him, “Sometimes that is the only answer.”

  As I paged through the folder, I found myself glancing back and forth between the picture of Asher Perry’s body on the wood floor and the cartridge residue testing report. If Asher had placed the gun against his forehead, there would be a burn on his skin, and there wasn’t. There was no gun residue, at all, on Asher’s forehead. A shot fired at close range leaves powder residue. This suggested the gun had to have been fired from more than three feet away. Asher was only five-foot-six—his arms weren’t three feet long.

  Perplexed, Dale pointed to a picture on the bottom of the pile. “I thought this was a tattoo, but after I looked closer, I think he drew it on himself with a marker.”

  I pulled out a picture of Asher’s bare torso. It had the following lines:

  |||.||| |||||…../////

  A chill ran down my spine. Our killer wasn’t dead. I took a picture on my cell and immediately sent it to Tony Shileto.

  I calmly asked Dale, “Were there any prints on his cell phone?”

  “Just Asher’s.”

  I considered, “We need to find out which fingers the prints on his phone came from.” Most people don’t realize this, but your fingerprints can be different for every finger. The prints may give an indication of whether the phone was used by Asher, or simply wiped clean and then pressed against his fingers.

  Dale pulled out a page from the report, “He shot himself with his right hand and the gun was still in that hand. Layla confirmed he was right-handed.”

  When I saw the suicide note I asked Dale for paper and a pen. I decided to try writing out the suicide letter using the thirteen-letter code used in the previous cyphers.

  Maybe someday, Had I had the Bloody courage to Address my demons. You wouldn’t DeaL with this mess. I’m sorry. I would kill myself to Set you free love, From my life as I act it. Every Childish thing was so painful. It is evident now, had Asher been very committed to acceptance of his u
nfortunate costly obsession associated wastefully with drinking, opiates, one night abstinances and sin? Is death better? ?

  It read: Maddy like false allegations? While the killer hadn’t yet included punctuation in the code, I was assuming that two consecutive question marks meant it should be used here.

  Officer Taylor agreed to find Layla Boyd and to bring her to the scene of the crime so I could interview her. I did a quick walk-through of their small home as Dale and Layla stood like friends, maybe even past classmates, waiting for my questions. Their friendship would explain why Layla called him. If she’d have dialed nine-one-one, the Sherburne County Sheriff’s Department would have handled the case, since she lived out of city limits.

  The dark circles under Layla’s eyes indicated she hadn’t been getting much sleep. Her long, honey-colored hair was clean and went well with her three-quarter-sleeved, azure cotton blouse and jeans, which were faded to almost the same blue as her shirt. She wore a simple round charm on a brown leather cord around her neck, and fiddled with the silver disc as we discussed Asher’s suicide.

  After expressing my condolences I asked, “Did you actually speak to Asher on the phone last Friday? Did you hear his voice?”

  Layla grimaced, “No. We texted. I should have just come home. I’ve played this over in my head a thousand times.” She looked at me imploringly, “We didn’t typically have guns in the house—I was scared.”

  “Calling the police was exactly what you should have done,” I reassured her. “I’m not convinced Asher committed suicide, so it’s essential you’re honest with me.”

  Layla’s expression changed to alarm. “Why would anyone kill Asher? People were worried about him, but not angry with him.” Her eyes swam with tears; she was incredibly sad.

  I softly asked, “What did you think of his suicide letter?”

  Layla pondered this. “It didn’t sound like him, but he was all drugged up. Ash made fun of people who referred to themselves in third person, so that part surprised me. Even the texts were a little weird, but I wrote it off to his being in a messed-up state.”

  I turned to Dale, “Has anyone removed anything from this scene?”

  “No, sir.”

  I instructed him, “Okay, wait here. Layla, come with me into the bedroom.”

  Dale stood ramrod straight, and Layla nervously looked back at him before following.

  I squatted down by her low queen bed, and pointed to a slight amount of wear on the bedposts, just above the frame. “Layla, I need you to be honest with me. This is an important piece in this murder investigation. Did you remove anything from the bed?”

  Embarrassed and ashamed, Layla looked away, rubbing her necklace charm like a worry stone. Avoiding the question, she asked meekly, “Do you really think it’s murder?” I patiently waited for her to answer my question until she said with indignation, “I took some rope off the bed. It’s nobody’s business.”

  “Did Officer Taylor okay this?”

  “No. Dale was in the other room at the time. Clear Lake is a small town—it would have been all over town once the cops started taking pictures. This is a town where people who don’t have a life sit around talking about people who do.” Layla rationalized, “Even if Asher was killed, the killer didn’t use the rope, so what difference does it make?”

  “The rope is why the killer was here.” I straightened up, and looked at her directly. “There is no reason for this information to go beyond the investigators. Do you trust Dale to keep it quiet?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Layla admitted. “If the rope was why he was here, why didn’t he take it with him when he left?”

  “The same gun that killed Asher was used in Minneapolis, by a killer who let himself into the home of a couple that was into bondage. He killed the man, then tied up and raped the woman, asking her if she’d learned her lesson about bondage when he was done.”

  Layla looked panicked, “But how could he know we were into bondage? We didn’t tell anybody about it and we didn’t do it that often.”

  “Did Asher store any pictures online?”

  Layla’s cheeks flushed crimson. “He promised he wouldn’t show anyone. He wouldn’t do that to me. It was just for us.”

  “Asher didn’t have to share it. This guy may have hacked into your computer and found it, so we’ll need to look at any electronics you use to access the Internet.” I yelled down the hallway, “Officer Taylor!” and he quickly joined us.

  I turned to Layla, “Where’s the rope?”

  “It’s in the garbage at my parents’ house.”

  “You’re going to go get it,” I said, and turned to a now confused Dale. “And Dale, you’re going to file in your report that Layla removed rope from the crime scene, but once you found out, you had her return it. And, under no circumstances, do you ever let anyone remove items from a crime scene again. This is why cases are not investigated by friends.”

  Dale started to say, “I didn’t see her take—”

  I interrupted, “Are you going to tell me you didn’t see rope tied around the bedposts when you did your initial walk-through?”

  He looked away without answering, the muscles in his jaw flexing in consternation.

  “Look, I have no desire to get anyone in trouble,” I softened. “Your heart’s in the right place. But we have a killer who’s targeting couples who are into bondage, and he’s finding them by hacking into their computers. My gut feeling is he’s tracing people who access BDSM sites.”

  Layla began to fully grasp the scenario, and she could barely force her words out. “The texts weren’t from Asher? He was waiting here for me? He was talking about tying me up—to rape me.” She stepped toward Dale for comfort, “Do you think he’s still coming after me?” Her nervous hands fluttered back to her necklace.

  “I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “Do you have a safe place to stay?”

  “My mom and stepdad are good. I can stay with them.”

  Dale put a reassuring arm around her shoulders, and added, “I can help keep an eye on their house.”

  “Good. Dale, you could really help by talking to all of Layla’s neighbors. Find out if they saw a car parked within thirty minutes’ walking distance of here.” I turned to the frightened young woman, “And Layla, for now, you need to stay off any social media that would allow the killer to track your location, just in case he has unfinished business with you.”

  AFTER WE WENT OUR SEPARATE WAYS, I called Maddy to update her on all I had discovered. I received a text from Tony indicating, “The lines in Asher’s body translate as ‘Fafnir.’ What the hell is Fafnir? Double-checked it.”

  In a few minutes, I received an email from Tony saying, “I did a little research. In Norse mythology, Fafnir is the son of a dwarf king. He was cursed, turned into a dragon and was slain.”

  It had me thinking about how “chasing the dragon” was a term used by opiate addicts. It referred to trying to recapture the first high they experienced when their brains were still clean. It’s simply unachievable. Oxycodone, the drug Asher overdosed on, is an opiate.

  13

  CULHWCH

  9:45 P.M., WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26

  ASHER PERRY’S DEATH WAS UNSATISFACTORY. There was a brief note about his death in the St. Cloud news, “Foul play not suspected,” indicating I’d fooled those imbecile investigators once again. Asher was a feeble, rather than formidable, foe. So, with a voracious hunger, I quickly prepared for my next adventure. I’m changing my M/O tonight to guarantee both the man and woman are present.

  For April, it has been an unusually warm day, so I left in short sleeves and without a jacket. As night falls, the temperature is dropping and I’m regretting being bamboozled by Minnesota—I should know better after all these years. I am forced to turn the heat on in my car as I exit off of I-94 and take Highway 7 to St. Augusta, Minnesota.

  Ava Mayer is the most beautiful woman I’ve been with. Everything went perfect. Sigh! She’s asking for a refresher course,
with her comments about bondage in the paper, but right now she’s too well-guarded. Even though Ava Mayer’s case is national news, men are still tying women up, and it pisses me off. No doubt there’s arousal in challenging the hands of fate. We’ll see how comfortable men are with posting photos of bondage after a few more die.

  Mia Krunesh is the bait for this predator tonight. Mia is a massage therapist at a mini-mall, and she’s living with Brock, her mechanic boyfriend, in an old house at the edge of St. Augusta. The massage you get in St. Augusta is nothing like the massage you get in downtown Brainerd, where the workers wear high heels and miniskirts and smoke cigarettes during their breaks. I slowly cruise the main drag of St. Augusta past the St. Mary Help of Christians Church (With a few more words in that church title, it could be a complete paragraph), toward Gaelic Road.

  Mia and Brock play the bondage game in the master bedroom, at the end of their one-story rambler; I know this from my diligent reconnaissance. They get at it during the middle of the week, when things are slow at the parlor. They have no close neighbors, so my car sits unnoticed on a gravel side road. I toss an Ambien-laced round steak to their golden retriever, and he devours it without barking. You can train dogs all day long, but all it takes is a juicy piece of meat to derail loyalty to their people—at least for the time it takes to scarf down their snack. I maintain my distance, for now, to keep him silent. Duke’s getting the “number one sleep aid,” but it’s not without side effects. There’s a plethora of online stories of people engaging in bizarre behavior under Ambien’s influence. Who knows, maybe Duke will wake up with his arm around a skunk.

  I’m leery of dogs, ever since I was tore up by a Doberman pinscher when I was five. I had wandered into the neighbor’s yard to pet their dog, and it attacked me. Its jaws clenched down on my neck, and tossed my body about like a limp rag doll. But my mom was quickly there, pulling its jaws apart, enough for me to get free. I will never forget the horror on her face as she fought to save me. She loved me. The dog managed to bite into the muscle on my chest, and it still droops some from not healing right, requiring me to wear a shirt when I’m in public. The whole ordeal ended with the thunderclap of a bullet being fired from Dad’s revolver. With one perfect shot, the dog was dead.