The I-94 Murders

by Frank F. Weber

  It was about fifty degrees today, which is tolerable. Kub wasn’t in any hurry as he meandered along in a black North Face jacket, jeans, and a white Twins baseball hat, with the blue and red “TC” in the front. Kub was carrying a white garbage bag, picking up litter near St. Agnes church. I paused to appreciate the white, limestone church, with its red-tiled roof and beautiful, oxidized green copper tower. The tower was picturesque, soaring 250 feet into the sky.

  As we discretely followed Kub on foot, I spoke quietly to Zeke, “This is not exactly what I would expect from a killer.”

  Zeke shrugged noncommittally, “There may be an underlying religious motivation to his behavior, based on the way this guy writes. He humiliates women, but he doesn’t kill them.”

  I considered this and countered, “The killer wants people to think he’s making the world better, but he’s just another sociopath. Regardless of what he tells himself, he killed Alan so he could sexually assault Ava.” Religious motives for murder are greatly exaggerated in books and movies. The vast majority of killers we deal with have no religious involvement.

  Kub Kuam Peb stopped and turned in our direction, studying us as we approached. He remained motionless and silent.

  I identified Zeke and myself as BCA agents, then asked, “Do you know Thea Esparza?”

  Kub feigned interest in a passing car on Thomas Avenue and unconvincingly shook his head. He asked, “Why?” Kub’s lack of eye contact could have been evasive, or it could have been cultural.

  Zeke cut straight to the point, “Someone circulated nude photos of Thea online, and we have reason to believe this is connected to another investigation. After discovering what she did to your sister, we’re going to need to look at your computer.”

  Kub nodded as if he understood he did not have a choice.

  I asked, “Did you post the naked pictures of Thea Esparza online?”

  With a knowing smile, Kub smirked, “No.”

  I continued, “But you’ve seen the pictures.”

  “Yeah, so?” He now made eye contact and challenged me, “Where were you guys when my sister got humiliated?”

  Zeke interjected, “Was this retribution for Cua?”

  Kub pointed at Zeke, “Why are you protecting Thea Esparza, when you didn’t do a damn thing for my sister?”

  I told him, “We’re not protecting Thea. I presented the information to the Ramsey County attorney, and he’s drafting charges against her. Whoever retaliated will probably never be charged for posting the pictures. I simply need to know who did it.” I didn’t bother to tell him the person wouldn’t be charged because he’d be facing Murder One and Criminal Sexual Conduct in the First Degree charges, instead.

  Kub was pleased with this and assented, “Good, but I didn’t do it. I thought about retaliating—I was even planning on it, but when Cua tried to overdose, I realized I was focusing on the wrong person.”

  Zeke commented dryly, “Yeah, it still doesn’t absolve Cua’s responsibility.”

  I interrupted because I wasn’t comfortable with where Zeke was going with this. “Cua was just a teen who thought she’d found love.”

  Kub nodded, “Yeah. She thought she was acting out of love. Thea acted out of hate. And if I retaliated, I would’ve been just like Thea. Thea probably has something she’s retaliating against, too. But I can’t say I felt bad when Thea got humiliated. It’s karma.”

  I changed course, “Have you ever heard of Fafnir?”

  Kub jerked a bit at the question, then responded, “Yeah, he’s the bad guy in SMITE—the multi online battle arena game. He drops the hammer on his enemies. He’s a playable antagonist in the game.” He looked a question at me, trying to figure out my reasons for asking.

  Zeke stood silent and dug his hands into his jean pockets.

  I continued, “Have you ever played Fafnir on SMITE?”

  Kub smiled. “I’m sure I have, but I’m more of a World of Warcraft kinda guy.”

  Zeke slid the conversation away from SMITE by asking, “Have you been in the University of Minnesota’s computer lab? The hack into Thea Esparanza’s computer came from there.”

  Kub’s head didn’t move, but his eyes shifted from Zeke to me as he responded, “Do you have any idea how many computers are in the lab? It’s a building. It wasn’t me.” He searched our faces for understanding. “I pray for Thea …”

  I asked, “Any idea where you were on Wednesday, April 12? It was about three weeks ago.”

  Kub flatly said, “No idea. I don’t know what you’re accusing me of, but I’m not wasting time I could be spending helping others, looking back at every day in my life. You go ahead, take a look at my computer and we’re done. I’ll be home in a half hour. You can get my laptop then. My address is—” Kub stopped, “I’m sure you have it.” He resumed picking up garbage.

  I reminded Kub to stay in town in case we needed to talk to him again. As we walked away, I glanced back to see him staring after us, white garbage bag still clutched in his hand. I wasn’t sure what to make of Kub’s obstinancy.

  When we neared our car, Zeke pointed out, “You know we’re not getting anything off of his computer. His willingness to give us that one piece suggests he’s been using a computer other than his own for criminal work. As a computer science major at the U, Kub would not only have access to hundreds of computers, he could also get guidance from some of the best computer minds in the world. Just sayin’.”

  12:45 P.M.,

  BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, ST. PAUL

  AFTER A THOROUGH SEARCH OF KUB’S LAPTOP, Zeke was unable to find anything incriminating. I still wasn’t sure what to do with Zeke’s denial of his car being in that videotape. It had to be his car. I needed to address this in the near future.

  My nature required me to pull out my notebook and record my statistical concerns. The recent data on serial killers in the United States strengthened the possibility of either Kub or Zeke as legitimate suspects. In spite of the information drilled into the viewer’s heads on television and movies, most serial killers in the U.S. were not white—otherwise known as Caucasians or more recently, European Americans. I jotted down some demographics from 2016 to consider:

  POPULATION

  % OF U.S. POPULATION

  % OF SERIAL KILLERS

  European Americans

  77%

  31%

  Chicano

  18%

  7%

  African American

  13%

  60%

  Asian American

  6%

  1%

  Native American

  2%

  None Reported

  I preferred to use the term Chicano over Hispanic, because no individuals of Spanish or Mexican ancestry I’ve met refer to themselves as Hispanic; this is predominantly a term adopted by Caucasians—or European Americans—as I’d recently heard was the new thing. If you were to take into account that serial killers were most likely to strike in their neighborhood, where they could walk about generally unnoticed, consider that Alan Volt’s neighborhood was mostly made up of European Americans, with the next largest racial group being Asian, the races of both Kub (Hmong) and Zeke (Malaysian).

  1:12 P.M., TUESDAY, MAY 2

  I WAS SURPRISED TO HAVE A VOICEMAIL from Serena, especially when she asked, “Would you be interested in taking a ‘time-out’ from our separation? I didn’t think you’d be able to do this, but after you asked me to help with one night’s sleep last week, I’m thinking you can. I don’t have any plans on returning, but I’d love a few hours of our old life together. You could get a decent night’s sleep. I could get a massage …”

  10:00 P.M., TUESDAY, MAY 2,

  RADISSON BLU, BLOOMINGTON

  SERENA AND I WERE LYING UNDER the covers at the Radisson Blu. Her head rested on my chest while her luxurious curls curtained down her bare back.

  Serena prodded, “Talk a little about work.”

  I smiled, “I’m not going to sa
y anything that jeopardizes nights like tonight.”

  Serena peeked up at me, “I can hear about your work during our time-out nights. If you don’t talk about it, I’ll never know if we can live together again. You obviously have a case that’s bothering you. Who are the suspects?”

  Resigned and somewhat grateful to stop keeping the case at bay in my mind, I began. “Okay, I’m chasing a killer who’s after couples who practice bondage. He finds them on the internet, and is computer savvy. He kills the man, uses an ether-soaked cloth on the woman to sedate her, and then rapes her.”

  Serena sighed against my skin, “He feels powerless.”

  “He’s intelligent,” I could feel my flesh tightening with energy as I laid out the scenario to Serena. “He tried to frame my partner, Maddy Moore, by sending an email that appeared to be from work. The email directed her to a murder scene before it was actually called in. The killer even wore Maddy’s perfume to the first murder scene.”

  Serena propped her elbow on the bed and rested her cheek on her hand, “Maddy’s the one who had the affair with an administrator, right?”

  “Yes. Maddy thinks it’s Ava Mayer, but I don’t. The killer seems familiar with investigations, and familiar with the investigators. Just between you and me, I’m sure our BCA computer expert’s car was close to the scene of the first murder, but he denies it. We also have a couple leads that point to a computer science major at the U named Kub Kuam Peb.”

  Serena considered this, then asked, “Is the number thirteen significant? In Hmong, Kuam Peb means ‘thirteen’ …”

  16

  CULHWCH

  9:30 P.M., FRIDAY, MAY 5,

  EDEN PRAIRIE

  I’VE CHANGED MY MODUS OPERANDI since being caught by Brock and Mia in St. Augusta. I always have a backup plan. They believed me because they already had formed their opinions about the unwitting Piper Bartos.

  There is a cold chill in the air tonight. I was prepared this time with a light jacket. Even glamourous and untouched Eden Prairie can feel possessed with evil on an overcast night in early May, when all the foliage is struggling to come back to life. After my failed efforts with Layla and Mia, I’m being extra careful tonight. I’ve been down these streets twice in disguise. Keeping my distance from Ava’s home, I find the telephone line and cut it.

  Tonight is carefully planned—no male in the house. All of Marcus Mayer’s success hasn’t given him the knowledge that his security cameras shut off when the phone line is cut. I miss Ava. I’m banking on the fact they changed all of her passwords, but not her parents’. Ava had shared their security code in an old email. I quickly make my way to the house and enter 1-8-1-2, and the door unlocks. There is no one inside to greet me. I enter the alarm code so I’ll be alerted if anyone returns.

  If Ava is still on her old schedule, she should be in the shower now. I’ve stayed off her computer since Alan Volt’s death. I believe the only way they can catch me is if I access her computer when they’re waiting for me, and I’m not that stupid. I don’t take chances, as there are a lot of geeks out there who know more than I do. My genius is in laying the story all out and planning for all the possibilities.

  I can feel the blood pumping in my chest, and I find it exhilarating to know Ava could be around any corner. I make my way across the luxurious carpeting. Where are you, Ava? Time for a teachable moment. The guard left twenty minutes ago. I can hear the shower running in the bathroom. I had initially planned to wait for her to come out of the room, but this is better.

  I turn the knob and find the bathroom door unlocked. This is risky. Is she setting me up? I don’t think so. I think Ava’s going to cash in on being a victim for as long as possible. My adrenaline continues to escalate as I patiently wait. Holding my nine-millimeter pistol, I decide to chance it, and step inside the bathroom.

  Ava stares at me like a deer in the headlights. I’ve caught her naked and defenseless in her pearl gray, terrazzo walk-in shower. This is the perfect killing chamber—she has no weapons and nowhere to go.

  I can see her clearly, and if I shoot her through the door, there’s no blood splatter back on me. For the first time since I’ve known her, fear renders Ava silent. The water continues to cascade down her beautiful, petite body. Culhwch completed thirty-nine tasks before he won Olwen’s love. This lesson for Ava is one more of those tasks. Is Ava my Olwen, or someone I simply need to silence after her failure to learn from her first lesson?

  Ava continues to stare blankly back at me and nervously adjusts the water. Through the glass, I see goosebumps of fear cover her typically smooth skin.

  My frozen stare is finally interrupted by the soft beep of digits being pressed into their security system—someone is about to enter the house. I need to be quick.

  17

  JON FREDERICK

  9:00 P.M., FRIDAY, MAY 5,

  REPUBLIC IN MINNEAPOLIS

  THE REPUBLIC WAS A LONG, dark, saloon-style bar. Maddy and I were side by side on cushioned bar stools, half watching the bartender work her magic. I sipped on a cold glass of Fulton Ale, while Maddy tapped the copper cup holding her Moscow Mule. Maddy had put on makeup and changed into a classic v-neck, fitted black top and designer jeans. The neckline was lower than I’d have liked, as it accentuated her cleavage, but she wore it unapologetically. I wasn’t entirely sure why she insisted we stop. She took her cellphone out and showed me Cua Kuam Peb’s Facebook page. There was Cua, long black hair and an inhibited smile, wearing a white, St. Paul Fighting Saints hockey jersey. When she suggested it was similar to Zeke’s Saints jacket, I pointed out that the St. Paul Saints, and now the defunct St. Paul Fighting Saints, were two distinct franchises in two separate sports.

  Clay Roberts unexpectedly sauntered in and came straight for us. He was wearing fitted, Rock Revival jeans and a tight burgundy, pullover shirt. Clay immediately spoke of the hundred-dollar jeans he purchased at the Buckle. Even though their styles are geared more toward younger men, he pulled it off and it only added to his youthful, soap-opera-star looks. It didn’t take long for me to realize Maddy had invited him. Clay’s eyes flicked approvingly to Maddy’s bosom as he hopped onto the stool on the other side of her. He nodded a greeting at me. His designer cologne was overdone, as usual.

  Without greeting Clay, I looked at Maddy skeptically and asked, “What is this about?”

  Clay and I had been through a lot together, and he had stayed by me in the worst of times. But he slept with Serena, back in the day. It shouldn’t have surprised me, as he always had terrible boundaries. I wasn’t with Serena at the time, but I was trying to be with her, and he knew it. We had severed our friendship because of that. Still, I was cordial, and careful, with Clay. I didn’t hate him. Serena was beautiful. I got it. I simply could not remain in a friendship with him after this betrayal. Even though there was a distance between us that wouldn’t be traversed in the near future, I had entrusted him to build my house.

  Maddy slid off her stool, announcing a trip to the restroom. When she was out of earshot, Clay leaned toward me, balancing a calloused hand on the seat of Maddy’s stool, and reported on his progress, “We’re off to a running start with the house. By showing a little of the Mayers’ money, I’ve got people to work us into their schedules, and I’ve got great help. And, just so you know, I have not, and will not, tell Maddy about the house.”

  I nodded, “Thanks.” I believed Clay. He was typically dishonest with women.

  Clay continued casually, “Hey, I’m not the one who should be telling you this, but Serena’s seeing another guy.”

  Always a fist to the gut with Clay. “Not you …”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Clay leaned away from me, incredulous. “I wouldn’t wish the hell she’s put you through on my worst enemy.” He innocently shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sorry, man, just being honest. That’s what you want, right? I thought you’d want to know.” He suddenly became very interested in the bartender’s mixology.

  I wanted t
o say, When I needed you to be honest with me you weren’t, but I let it pass. I nodded affirmatively and turned away.

  Maddy returned and slid back on her stool, effectively separating us like a much-needed referee.

  As I scanned the bar, trying to process Clay’s latest news of Serena, my gaze settled on a young woman standing at the end of the bar. She was thin and fit, wearing black skinny jeans and a white t-shirt under a caramel-colored leather jacket. She was about the same age as the other college students in the bar, and something about her was familiar. With brown eyes, she may have been Latina. Her long, brunette hair was straight and glossy. Though her body was “bellied up to the bar,” her head was turned, and she was staring directly at me.

  Maddy raised a penciled eyebrow and subtly tipped her head in the direction of the young woman. “It looks like somebody’s interested in you.”

  The woman didn’t hide the fact that she was studying me, like I was some sort of unusual specimen she’d discovered in the lab. And then an insight occurred to me, so I turned to Maddy, “You didn’t post something on Facebook about us meeting here, did you?”

  Maddy smiled guilefully and sipped her drink. “Some people won’t go into the police station to share information, but they will go to a bar. I wanna know if someone out there has something. Anything. We need help.” She held my gaze, daring me to challenge her.

  The bartender squeezed a lemon into a drink in front of us, giving us a brief but refreshing reprieve from the alcohol and perfume-scented saloon. Maddy’s Bvlgari and whatever cologne Clay was wearing were competing for space and, combined, they were nearly overpowering. I casually slid my eyes back in the young woman’s direction. Unlike everyone else in this place, this woman wasn’t socializing. Her eyes seemed to be pleading for help. What was her pain about?