The I-94 Murders
Page 15
I pulled up a map of roadways running from Princeton to the stretch of I-94 where the body was found. Interstate 94 ran north and south in this part of the state. This meant the killer had only driven with the body on I-94 for a stretch of three miles. Now, we had three bodies in a fifty-mile stretch of I-94, deposited north of Minneapolis and south of St. Cloud. The killer had to be familiar with this drive. Even though Asher Perry’s body wasn’t directly on I-94, it was only a couple miles off the Clear Lake cut off people took from I-94 to St. Cloud.
Apparently, I was right about Tony being up. I received a text from him, stating the Ogham translation meant “Drang.” I called my mom and got her out of bed to define Drang. It sounded German, and my mother was of German ancestry and an avid reader. She explained Sturm and Drang was an eighteenth-century literary movement, characterized by works containing rousing action and high emotionalism. It literally meant storm and stress, and was now used as a synonym for turmoil. Mom believed it could also be used to describe motivation. Our killer had a fascination with words—perhaps an English major or someone who spoke more than one language.
I turned to Maddy. “This killer might be going on a rampage tonight …”
23
CULHWCH
4:00 A.M., THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
RURAL PRINCETON
I HAVE HIT THE JACKPOT. After I dump Bo’s body on I-94, I return to his home and load Tasers and ammunition into my car. Bo’s best gift to me is a Browning semi-automatic rifle with a thermal night vision scope. Using my new night scope, I keep my lights off as I head back on the narrow gravel road that runs by Bo’s home. The only way out is to backtrack on 112th Avenue. As I reach the turn, I can see squad car lights approaching 112th from the highway, so I simply drive through the T in the road. The gravel road I’m on, which crosses 112th, has dead ends at both ends, so I’ll have to come back after the car passes. The squad has to be headed to Bo Gere’s home.
I pull my car into a field approach grown over with weeds and walk with my rifle and scope back to the curve. I haven’t anticipated the cops would be here this quickly. I take my rifle and night vision scope and lay in the ditch to stabilize my shot. Maddy Moore’s unmarked Crown Vic is approaching. I have a male passenger in the crosshairs. It has to be Jon Frederick. I have the ideal opportunity to get him off this case. I patiently wait for the car to slow at the curve and, with a perfect head shot, pull the trigger, exploding a lethal bullet into the night. “So much for your algorithm …”
24
JON FREDERICK
4:00 A.M., THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
RURAL PRINCETON
MADDY AND I TURNED ON A GRAVEL ROAD, 112th Avenue, west of Princeton. Our headlights hit the front of sinister branches and bushes, the limbs of which swayed eerily onto the road. Thunderheads lit up the night sky as another storm approached. I couldn’t shake the feeling that a dark shadow of evil had already been down this path once tonight. Has it left?
Maddy was feeling it, too. Her voice was thick with unease as she commented, “I am not feeling good about this.”
I asked, “Do you want to wait for backup?”
Still skittish, she softly mouthed, “No.”
I had never considered not going in. It was my job. But we were in a death trap, in a vehicle all lit up on a pitch-black road.
We reached a T in the road and turned right onto a path that was even narrower. Maddy nervously reached for her cell-phone but knocked it from the console onto the floor on my side. As I had done so many times, I reached down to pick it up.
BANG! A blast rocketed through my passenger window, and our car plowed into the ditch. We hadn’t rolled, but we were now at a forty-five degree angle, low on the driver’s side. I quickly took inventory and saw that Maddy was bleeding from her neck. Her expression was confused as she put a shaking hand to her wound and then looked at the slick of blood across her palm. I quickly took her hand and placed it back against her wound, keeping my hand firmly on hers to apply pressure. With my other hand, I radioed in, “nine-nine-nine, ten thirty-three, 112th Avenue, west of Princeton,” then dropped the receiver and drew my gun. “Nine-nine-nine” was the code for officer down, and “ten thirty-three” was code for need immediate help.
Where was the shooter? Was he heading toward the car? Slouching as low as I could, I told Maddy, “Keep your head elevated, keep applying pressure. I’ll get the emergency kit from the trunk. Help is on the way.”
Maddy’s eyes were wide with panic and shock. They seemed to be pleading, Please don’t let me die. At the rate she was losing blood, I needed cloth to help stanch the bleeding. I was wearing a t-shirt under my button-down, so quickly shed both shirts, pressed my t-shirt under her hand, and shrugged back into my outer shirt. I was afraid if I tried exiting Maddy’s door, the shift in weight would roll the car. Even though the bullet came through my window, I needed to risk exiting my door to retrieve the survival kit from the trunk. I reached over Maddy and popped the trunk open.
I felt blindly into the backseat and found Maddy’s powerful Maglite. I pushed my door open, while shining the flashlight directly to where the shot had originated. The illumination would make it harder for the shooter to pinpoint us and would render a night scope worthless. I left the light sitting on the dirt road, facing the shooter’s direction.
I held my breath as I made a quick dash to the back of the car. I retrieved the emergency kit and returned to Maddy’s side of the vehicle. Standing in the ditch on the driver’s side, I yanked the door open and immediately dressed Maddy’s wound. I placed her hand over her neck once again and reminded her to apply pressure. My hands were sticky with blood.
I assured Maddy, “I’m going to get us the hell out of here.”
She nodded in appreciation. We both knew that her odds of surviving a gunshot were fifty-five percent better if someone at the scene drove you directly to the hospital, rather than waiting for an ambulance.
Keeping a tenuous hand on her neck, Maddy slid over the console to the passenger seat, and I climbed in behind the wheel. I steered the car out of the ditch, careful not to tip it, then cut the steering hard to the right and gunned it so I could spin the back end around on the narrow road. The rear-wheel-drive Crown Victorias made this maneuver easy. I then floored it, and with the tires spitting gravel projectiles into the night, I headed toward the Princeton hospital.
It was chilling to be sharing space with someone who was realizing death could be moments away. She couldn’t risk saying anything because any movement would increase the bleeding. I spoke to her evenly, “Keep applying pressure. Hang on, now, Maddy—you’re going to be okay.” This was bad. I was hypersensitive to every bump.
As we exited the gravel road, I swore I saw a shadowy figure cloaked in darkness. I didn’t have time to waste thinking about it. I glanced over at Maddy and her glazed eyes were fluttering shut. I urged her, “Hang in there. You can do this for Miles.” Maddy was a loving mother who dedicated her life to making certain justice was served. I silently prayed for help as we rocketed down Highway 95.
MADDY SURVIVED THE TRIP to the hospital, and was quickly wheeled from the ER drop-off into an emergency room. I was told by emergency room staff the goal was to stabilize her and then transfer her by air ambulance to Fairview in Minneapolis. This basically meant if they could keep her alive for an hour, they’d try to transport her. I contacted Maddy’s parents and gave them the grim news. I also called the Mille Lacs County Sheriff ’s Department and had them send a deputy to Bo Gere’s home. I warned the officer of the shooter and told her I understood if she wanted to wait for back up. I wasn’t immediately returning to help. I couldn’t let Maddy die alone in the sterile and empty hospital room. Like many of our brave officers, the deputy told me she was going to Gere’s home immediately, for the potential victim’s sake.
MADDY WAS UNCONSCIOUS. Her father had arrived, indicating Maddy’s mother was close behind. Knowing she was no longer alone, I arranged to have an officer posted
outside her door, and drove to Bo Gere’s home in Maddy’s bloody vehicle.
5:15 A.M., THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
PRINCETON
A LANKY FEMALE DEPUTY WAS LEANING on the hood of a Mille Lacs County Sheriff ’s car when I pulled into the dirt driveway. The house still had the original asbestos, cement-wall siding, and it must have been years since the windows were clean. My tennis shoes screeched noisily, sticking to the dirty linoleum floor as we made our way through the entry and up the stairs. The second floor held only one room, as the roof angled up from the first floor.
A pale meth addict sat on the edge of the bed looking like a plucked and famished crow in her black Ramones t-shirt. The deputy had draped a blanket over Nina Cole’s shoulders but it didn’t hide that she was tweaking, scratching her arms raw beneath it. The skin around her mouth and nose was reddened and raw, so I knew she’d been subdued in the same manner as the others.
The deputy joined me as I stood before Nina. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen Nina like this. She’s called the police about Bo before, but never follows through with charges. So I set her free from her restraints and told her to dress while I waited for your arrival. She’s still pretty out of it.”
I attempted to interview Nina, but she couldn’t explain what had happened—she had no memory of it.
Nina finally slurred, “Is Bo okay?”
I gently informed her of our discovery, and after I gave her time to process this, asked, “Do you feel like you’ve been assaulted?”
Nina shivered out, “Yeah.” She touched her bruised neck while I studied the hand print on her throat.
I kept my tone low and kind as I spoke to Nina, “We’re going to have an ambulance pick you up so they can treat your injuries at the hospital.” I didn’t bother to tell her that they’d probably place her in detox as well, because it wasn’t my call. As a result of her drugged-out state, she was going to give us little of value.
Resigned to cooperating, Nina nodded, “I’m so cold …”
I STAYED AND PROCESSED THE SCENE until daylight. As I was preparing to leave, a long-haired hillbilly-type character pulled into the yard in an old Chevy truck. After seeing me, he was about to back away when I ran to him and yanked open the driver’s side door. I flashed my investigator’s badge and introduced myself.
He had a whiney Southern drawl when he spoke, and his age-creased lips sank inward, no longer supported by front teeth. “I’m Bo’s dad, Harley. I heard the news about Bo, so I thought I’d pick up some stuff I’d left here.” With this, he spat a gob of dark-brown tobacco juice onto the ground, closer to my feet than I’d have liked. I took a casual step backwards.
I nodded slightly, then said, “While you’re here, we should get your fingerprints if you’ve been in the home, so we can separate them from our killer.” Honestly, I wanted as much information as I could get on this character.
Harley swore under his breath and said, “I have a couple of past assault charges. Just drunken bar fights.” His lips worked perpetually as he moved his chew around his gums. “You know how they say the lights are on, but no one’s home—that’s not Bo. Bo’s home, he just ain’t answering the door. That boy was cantankerous from the day he was born. I never knew who or how, but it’d be a lie to say I didn’t see this coming.”
AFTER HARLEY WAS PRINTED, he led me into the home. There was no honor among criminals. Harley had come to his son’s home to take possession of his weapons. When he saw the safe was empty, Harley grumbled in an accent so thick I could have cut it with a butter knife. “Ah shit!” With his twang, one could have mistaken it for “Aww sheet.”
“Bo had a Browning semi-automatic rifle with a thermal night vision scope, a nine-millimeter with a built-in suppressor, ammo, and Tasers.” Bent down and showing more of his back end than anybody needed to see, he studied the safe further. “Hell, his hockey mask is even missing.” Harley straightened up slowly, wincing at the effort, and turned to me, “Your killer is now loaded for bear, son.”
AFTER BEING INFORMED THAT MADDY was airlifted to Fairview in Minneapolis, I contacted her parents again, and her father assured me her brothers, sister, and son were now all there for her. Maddy had lost a lot of blood, but the bullet had missed both her carotid artery and her windpipe.
As I drove back to Minneapolis, I decided not to call Serena and tell her someone had tried to kill me. Serena was already hesitant about being around me. I called Jada, but after some cursory comfort, she told me, “I’ve got to get to work,” and she was gone. So I called the person I should have called immediately after family—Clay.
25
JON FREDERICK
2:30 P.M., THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
FAIRVIEW HOSPITAL, MINNEAPOLIS
IRECEIVED A CALL FROM FAIRVIEW HOSPITAL in Minneapolis, requesting I come in. I had only been asleep for a few hours, but, expecting the worst, I didn’t hesitate.
Various family members stood in the hall conversing when I arrived. I greeted Maddy’s father briefly. Then a thin, gray-haired woman approached me and introduced herself as Maddy’s mother. When I replied with a handshake and told her my name, she squeezed my hand with surprising strength, and said, “She’s asking for you. We’ve been told to let her rest, but she’s insisting she needs to talk to you before she falls back to sleep.”
As I made my way toward the room, I caught sight of Miles, sitting away from the rest of the family. He looked up forlornly, and I gave him a slight nod, trying to convey strength.
I stepped into the room to find a pale-looking Maddy, half-awake, with tubes hanging from an IV stand by her bed.
Maddy didn’t waste a moment. Through a pained, raspy voice, she croaked with intensity, “I remember him. In the parking ramp—he put a rag over my nose and mouth. He told me, ‘You gave away a stable home for your son, for sex. We’ll see how important sex is to you after tonight.’ And then everything went black.”
I silently thanked Jada for interrupting what could have been a much worse experience for Maddy. I sat in a cushioned chair next to her bed, “It was a man?”
Maddy closed her eyes for a moment, searching for the memory, “I think so. I didn’t see him. It’s weird. I remembered this coming out of anesthesia. I know it wasn’t a dream, but why would I remember it then?”
“It’s called state dependent memory. The tracers to that memory occurred in an aestheticized state, so when you returned to that state, the memory came back. It’s the same reason some people tell the same story every time they’re drunk. That state brings back the memory.”
Maddy closed her eyes and leaned her head back into her pillow, her burst of energy having drained her. “That’s all I have.”
“Do you want me to go?”
After a bit, Maddy opened her eyes and with a painful smile, shared, “You know why he shot me, don’t you?”
I played along, “Why?”
“’Cause I’m funnier than you are. Watch any horror movie—they always go after the funny one. What’s that you always say?”
I shared, “The world hates comedians. What’s the first thing a mugger says? ‘Don’t try anything funny.’”
She reached her hand toward me, and I took it. She softly told me, “You’re all right, Jon.”
I suggested, “Just relax. We’ll have plenty of time to give each other grief when you return.”
With her eyes still closed, she shook her head.
I’d thought Maddy drifted into a light sleep, but then she peeked one eye open and asked, “Do you think Clay’s cheating on me?”
My first thought was, probably, but I honestly told her, “Not that I know of.”
She sighed painfully, “It’s okay. I haven’t dated in a while, and I just want to know where we stand. I bet you and Clay were studs back in that small town.”
I laughed, “Did Clay tell you that?”
“No, he just talks about how smart you are.”
I told her, “Neither of us graduated in the top ten in a
class of ninety. Neither of us made the top ten king candidates, out of about forty guys. We both drove cars that were so crappy they didn’t heat up enough to melt the snow on the floor in the winter. We both came out of poverty. Mine was financial, his was emotional. We both had angry dads, but my mom was around, and I had an older sister to balance it.”
Maddy commented drowsily, “Clay needs a better wingman.”
With a smile, I cautioned her, “I’m not done. Clay is a self-made man. He’s made himself one of the best builders I know. He owns a beautiful home and a new extended cab, four-wheel drive truck. My point is, he became who he is without a lot of help.”
Maddy’s last words before she drifted off to sleep were, “Just like our killer.”
I was about to tell Maddy that we know this killer. He writes on the murder victim’s bodies, and sends cyphers to the press. He leaves bodies along I-94. It all screams, “Give me attention!” At some point, this killer has spoken to us face-to-face. We just didn’t see the killer inside.
I found myself revisiting the term “eroticized rage.” I’d bet our killer witnessed sexual violence when he was younger, and even though he perceives himself as saving these women, he’s too aroused by the abuse to walk away without reenacting it. Therapists refer to it as a trauma bond. My extensive reading on trauma therapy, since Serena left, has taught me something.
11:30 P.M., THURSDAY, JUNE 22,
MINNEAPOLIS
AFTER A LONG DAY OF WORK, I stood in front of my living room window, looking down at the streets of Minneapolis, fifteen stories below. The dazzling beauty of a lit-up Minneapolis was lost on me tonight. The ghost out there who’d killed three men, and attempted to kill our only coherent witness, had now put an investigator out of commission. Sean Reynolds did me a favor last night. While I was waiting at the hospital, I asked Sean to find Kub Kuam Peb. He did. Kub was working in the computer lab at the University of Minnesota. There were witnesses. Kub had a solid alibi. I was wrong when I theorized the number thirteen had something to do with me. It was all about trying to set Kub up. Our killer loved manipulating the investigators, which gave me the impression the killer was close enough to observe our struggles.