The I-94 Murders

by Frank F. Weber

  Mom anxiously skittered away from the dog, as if she feared my dad would now turn the gun on her. Instead, he laughed and said, “We need to get that boy to the hospital.”

  People say it’s not the dog, it’s the owner. Maybe it’s a little of both. I know a hundred redneck pricks who have a variety of dogs that are all friendly. But unless a Doberman is carefully trained and domesticated, it attacks. Look at how genetics have affected me. My mom was my primary caregiver, and yet her forgiveness simply isn’t in me. I’m a good man, but there is no doubt that killing came from my dad’s DNA. For a while, Dad was my hero—until I saw him tie Mom up and defile her. I watched through the bedroom door. Dad had punched a gaping crack in the door after a man at the store saw the way he treated Mom and asked her if she was okay. He never intended to repair the damage and wouldn’t let Mom cover it. It was a lesson delivered. Mom had that same panic-stricken expression in the bedroom as she had when she rescued me from that dog. I sometimes wonder if my dad would have shot me too, when I was attacked, if Mom hadn’t been there.

  Brock thinks because they have a reliable hunting dog, they don’t need to lock the door. Well, Duke’s sleeping now. I stick my nine-millimeter in the back of my jeans and quietly enter. I miss the Colt 45 with the silencer, but I had to give it up to sell Asher’s suicide. I’m not sure if I’ll steer the investigators to the suicide note or not. It might be fun just to shove it in their faces years from now.

  Mia’s giggling stops, and I can hear clothes rustling. Brock must be getting her bound. It’s a little risky entering when they’re both home, but no one’s close enough to hear her scream—plus, once Mia’s tied, she’s useless. Maybe I’ll tie Brock up and sedate him a little, so he can still watch before I kill him—no, I like perfect silence. I’ll just kill him, so I don’t have to think about him. After I sedate Mia, I can drag him out without her silly interference.

  Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I slowly make my way down the dark, carpeted hall. I savor the adrenaline rush in anticipation of what lies ahead. After tonight, there will be another slave-maker dead, and another pretty young woman who receives a life lesson. Even if I don’t kill Brock, there is no way they could resolve the hatred Mia would experience for him after he tied her up and she was raped. But he’d just find someone else to befoul, and I can’t let that happen. Mia may think she likes bondage at this moment, but when I’m done with her, she’ll understand humiliation, and regret she ever surrendered her freedom of movement.

  The bedroom door is open a sliver, and a fraction of soft light spills onto the hall carpet. I quietly push it open another inch and peer in. What the hell? The unmade bed is empty. As I’m registering this unexpected sight, a metal barrel presses against the back of my head.

  A voice I assume is Brock’s growls, “And you are?”

  Mia flicks the hall light on. She’s fully dressed. She stands in front of me on firmly planted feet, shoulders squared, and arms crossed in defiance. Her eyes narrow as she spits, “We’re hunters, asshole. You honestly think you’re going to creep in and watch us?”

  I raise my hands shoulder high and take a deep breath. Okay, what was the alibi? I clear my throat, “Wait—there must be some mistake. Piper Bartos invited me over.” I asked, “Can I reach in my pocket? I have the address written down. This is Loehrer Drive, isn’t it?”

  Mia gives Brock a knowing look.

  What they don’t know is I’ve read their emails, and Mia has accused Piper Bartos of cheating on her husband. So the intent of my alibi is to simply confirm her bias. Loehrer Drive was the only other St. Augusta street that came to mind. “I apologize. She told me to just let myself in, and she’d be waiting for me in the bedroom.”

  Brock grumbles, “Did you know she is married?”

  I quickly tell him, “I did not. Look, it hasn’t been easy for me to meet women, so I took the offer. I’ve never even met her. It’s all been online.”

  Brock lowers the gun and Mia asks, “What’s your name?”

  Keeping my hands palm up, I say, “Please, I don’t want any trouble. I swear, I’m getting in my car and driving back to Rogers as soon as I’m outta here, and never coming back. I have almost $200 in my billfold—I’m hoping you’ll take it for your troubles.” I reached my hand toward my billfold, “May I?”

  Mia remarked in distaste, “Have you ever heard of a coffee shop? Get to know the woman first. What do you think is going on when she won’t be seen in public with you?”

  I remove all my cash, and Brock quickly seizes it from my hand. He goes to the window and says, “I wonder what that damn dog took off after this time.”

  I quickly depart.

  14

  JON FREDERICK

  6:10 P.M., THURSDAY, APRIL 27,

  CLEAR LAKE

  MADDY AND I SPENT A LONG DAY in Clear Lake, at the scene of Asher Perry’s murder. After a high of fifty-one degrees yesterday, it was a chilling thirty-two today. A cold shiver shuddered through my body as we walked across the dried brown grass extending from Layla Boyd’s home. We moved toward a lifeless woods, carpeted with decomposing leaves that had abandoned the trees which once held them in warmer times. The mushrooming darkness from the setting sun seemed to foreshadow an evil we struggled to contain.

  Maddy wiped a cold drip from her nose and responded to the latest cypher by commenting, “What the hell does this jerk want from me?”

  I asked, “Do you now agree it wasn’t Ava?”

  Maddy said, “No. I still think Ava’s involved. She’s surprisingly strong for a little twerp! I spoke to her personal trainer. She works out regularly. Think about it. Most homicidal rapists kill the woman. This killer is murdering the man, more like a woman might do.”

  The data ran through my brain. I told Maddy, “Most murderers of both women and men are men. Most rapists of women and men are men.”

  “It’s all that damn testosterone,” Maddy suggested. “Did you know that both male and female Viagra is basically testosterone? And testosterone is associated with aggression?”

  I argued, “It certainly is a factor, but most men never sexually assault anyone, so it’s a pretty damn poor excuse.”

  She teased, “I never said it was an excuse. I’m just saying you come from a band of degenerates, but there’s bound to be a couple good ones. On the cooler side of the pillow, there are women, and Ava happens to be a bad egg—if you don’t mind the ovum reference,” she laughed to herself. “By the way, the email I got about Volt’s murder didn’t come from Kent. It came from the computer lab at the University of Minnesota. Zeke hasn’t been able to pin it on any one particular individual.” We now had proof the killer was involved in getting Maddy to Volt’s body. I didn’t know if this was cause for relief or concern.

  Zikri Abbas’s gray Impala was the only Impala that matched that partial plate number. When I had casually mentioned to Zeke that we noticed his car was near Alan Volt’s crime scene, he claimed he was home all night. Still, I had nothing other than a partial plate and Zeke’s recent, lukewarm interest in his job. Maddy dismissed my suggestion of Zeke’s involvement.

  I had a thought that lingered late last night I had to share. “Maddy, I think this killer made a subtle mistake. Why would a killer who left the first victim on I-94 with “SERIAL KILLER” written on the body be content disguising the second murder? Because she or he has a bird’s eye view of this investigation.”

  We both quietly considered the ramifications of this.

  Maddy shared, “The bar I was at, when I was ethered, sits at the edge of the University of Minnesota campus. Remember, Ava was at that bar. She and her parents go to the free jazz and symphony concerts at Ted Mann Concert Hall on the university campus, which is about three blocks from that bar.”

  “I attend those concerts, too,” I added.

  Maddy stopped short, and looked at me in surprise. “Did you go there with Jada?”

  “Yes.”

  Officer Dale Taylor interrupted us with
a call to report a neighbor saw a black sedan, parked on a field approach about half a mile from Layla Boyd’s home, during the timeframe Asher was shot. The caller didn’t get the license plate, or even know the make of the car. Could it have been gray and mistaken for black? The BCA lab crew found that all the fingerprints on Asher’s phone were from Asher’s left hand. They were directly on the glass, which is an impossible position to hold a phone. This suggested the phone was wiped clean and pressed against Asher’s fingers. He was right-handed.

  10:30 A.M., FRIDAY, APRIL 28,

  ST. PAUL

  ON FRIDAY, MADDY AND I RESPONDED to a call from news reporter, Jack Kavanaugh, and met with him on the seventh floor of the Pioneer Press Building in St. Paul.

  Jack was clean shaven, and had thick, short blond hair. He was in his early forties and relatively fit. He wore loose-fitting clothing that didn’t hide his stocky physique.

  We sat across from his desk, and he held up a manila envelope. The return address on the envelope was, simply, “The I-94 Killer.” It had been postmarked in Minneapolis.

  Jack pulled out the contents of the envelope, and as he dropped them onto his desktop, he speculated, “Whoever wrote this letter must have read my article on Ava Mayer. It came in the mail addressed to my attention today. Any idea what this means?”

  I used my index finger on the top corner of the page, so I could turn it toward me. Maddy leaned in, brows furrowed, and read it with me. The note read:

  The people who think they can unearth me, prefer at present for me to be free to pass the time as is preferred, as we are working as friends against zealouts who slay the gentle. / Culhwch

  I feigned ignorance with a casual shrug of my shoulder, “No idea. We need to take it to the lab and have it dusted for prints. We’ll probably need your prints to rule them out, based on the way you’re handling evidence right now.” I attempted to take the envelope.

  Jack slid the envelope out of my reach, and I grimaced at his carelessness in touching it. He insisted, “This person seems to think the investigators are purposely dragging their feet, because she—or he—or whatever it is, makes our city better in the long run. That’s the clear message to me.” He repeated, “We, suggesting he and law enforcement, are working as friends against zealots who slay the gentle.”

  I wanted to let him in on the fact that the note was a cypher, but I didn’t trust he’d keep it out of the news. I responded, “I assure you, we’re not dragging our feet.”

  Jack pressured, “So, no breakthroughs? Nothing? You still have nothing?”

  Despite his condescending tone, I remained polite, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything I can share.”

  Jack looked at me silently, his tongue pushing against the insides of his cheeks as he acknowledged the gravity in my tone. “You’re taking this seriously—so this letter is the real deal. What is it about the letter? Is it the name?” He was studying me intently, poised to infer all he could from my expression, and unintimidated, I held his gaze.

  Maddy sensed the intensity of our standoff, and with a karate chop-like motion between our locked stare, she intervened, “We’re taking all the information we get on this case seriously.” She placed a firm hand on my forearm, until I broke away from Jack’s stare and looked over at her. Maddy’s eyes widened as she silently told me to let it go. Without looking his way, she said, “Jack, thank you for calling us immediately.” She stood to leave.

  Mollified, I also thanked Jack. As I was turning to leave his office, I added, “I’m sorry for telling you to back off the interviews with Ava. I’m trying to keep her out of harm’s way.” It was sort of an apology but, at the same time, an attempted manipulation. I was hoping if he believed my intentions were protective, he would back off.

  Jack didn’t show any sign of concession, as he leaned back in his chair and casually expressed, “You were just doing your job, and I am just doing mine.”

  15

  JON FREDERICK

  9:30 A.M., MONDAY, MAY 1,

  “FROGTOWN,” ST. PAUL

  FULHWCH’S LATEST CYPHER revealed a name—“Thea Esparza.”“

  The people who think they can unearth me prefer at present for me to be free to pass the time as is preferred as we are working as friends against zealouts who slay the gentle. / Culhwch

  Fortunately, there weren’t many Thea Esparzas to choose from. Zeke discovered a Thea Esparza, who had been unknowingly recorded naked in her bedroom, through the use of the webcam on her laptop. Some creeper had posted the video on the internet back in February, so why was he taking credit for it now? The slander of Thea Esparza occurred months before the attack on Ava Mayer. It seemed the killer felt the need to take credit for a past crime, instead of taking the risk of committing a new one. Something had made our killer nervous and tentative. A call to Thea made it clear she wasn’t going to be cooperative, so we had to resort to using her probation status to search her electronic devices. Thea had electronic theft charges as a result of pilfering from her last two employers.

  Thea Esparza lived in a racially diverse area of north St. Paul called “Frogtown.” The story behind the name is that Arch Bishop John Ireland referred to this area as Froschberg, or “Frog City,” after hearing a chorus of frogs at night. Frogtown was the poorest area of St. Paul. Most people who lived in the area rented, rather than owned, their homes.

  Thea was a bitter, overweight woman in her forties, who had obviously lived a hard life. She wore black spandex leggings so tight I expected to hear the squeak of rubbing a balloon when she leaned against the doorway. I don’t like seeing all the curves and dimples on anyone’s body, regardless of weight. She had short, dark hair, dark eyes, and a scar extending from the side of her mouth across her cheek ending just shy of her earlobe. Maddy had stayed home with her son, who was suffering from the flu, so Zeke Abbas and I went to the Esparza apartment to retrieve Thea’s laptop. Zeke stood next to me in his black St. Paul Saints jacket. I couldn’t help thinking his jacket should read St. Paul “Wali,” the Muslim word for saint, but didn’t say anything because I knew I was just being my obsessive self.

  After handing Thea the search warrant for her laptop, I asked conversationally, “How’d you get the scar?”

  Thea stared hard at me, vibrating with anger. “Go to hell,” she spat and skulked off to retrieve her laptop.

  I attempted kindness in response. “I’m sorry you had to go through this. We want to figure out who violated you like this.”

  Thea cut me off and snarled, “Listen pretty boy, I don’t give a damn. I swear, you pervs just like looking at this shit.” She aggressively shoved the laptop against my chest, her fleshy chest rising and falling with each indignant inhale through her nostrils. We left her standing there, fists on hips, staring daggers after us.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, ZEKE CALLED me into his office. He stepped behind his desk, but remained standing. Zeke ran his nail-bitten fingertips through his thin moustache in anxious frustration as he prepared to confront me. He finally blurted, “Maddy told me you think I’m dragging my feet. You know how investigations are. You go a long time with nothing, and then it pours in. Today, it poured in.”

  So basically, Maddy jacked him up and threw me under the bus in the process. I tried to appease him. “Look, I’m struggling myself, so I shouldn’t criticize anyone. I’m sorry.” I asked, “What do you have?” I sat on a chair facing his desk, trying to encourage him to calm down.

  Zeke slowly sat as he continued, “Thea Esparza was cat-fishing on the internet. She was pretending to be an eighteen-year-old college freshman. Sometimes she pretended to be a woman, sometimes a man. When she got her targets to send a nude photo, she’d then request $200, or threaten to send the photo to all of their relatives. See this girl,” Zeke turned his monitor toward me and pointed to a headshot of a teenaged Asian girl on his computer, “Cua Kuam Peb couldn’t produce the blackmail money, so our friend, Thea, forwarded the naked pictures of her to all of Cua’s email cont
acts. Unable to live with the shame of her exposure, Cua attempted suicide.”

  I leaned in closer and looked at a photo featuring Cua’s expression, pre-Thea, full of light and innocence before she came into contact with corruption. I imagined her wholesome features would now be forever changed because of Thea.

  Zeke was unaffected by the girl’s victimization. He continued impersonally, “You may find it interesting that her brother, Kub Kuam Peb, is a computer science major at the University of Minnesota.” With an air of vindication, he smirked under his wispy mustache. He handed me a file with hard copies of everything he’d just shown me.

  “That’s great work Zeke.” We needed to locate Kub Kuam Peb and find out where he was when the email was sent to Maddy.

  10:30 A.M., TUESDAY, MAY 2,

  ST. AGNES CHURCH, ST. PAUL

  MADDY’S INTERVIEW WITH CUA KUAM PEB this morning revealed that Cua was a sweet, sixteen-year-old girl who was naïve and trusting. Her brother, Kub, was livid over the shame the photos brought to their Hmong family, but Cua told Maddy that her suicide attempt had abruptly stopped Kub’s daily, incessant rants.

  Zeke and I couldn’t find Kub Kuam Peb yesterday, but managed to track him down in Frogtown this morning. Thea’s blackmailing of young people who were looking for love was loathsome. When I realized she likely knew Cua from her neighborhood, it seemed even worse. St. Paul has the largest Hmong population of all cities in the United States. The Hmong had fought as U.S. allies in the Vietnam War, and many came to Minnesota to avoid persecution when the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam. Kub was a community activist; he worked with volunteers who were trying to create a community garden on one of the vacant lots in the neighborhood. Kub was shorter than average, and husky in stature. He had round facial features, and his thick, black hair was shaved short on the sides.