Serena scoffed, “I’m not getting in a vehicle with Clay. If it’s okay, I’ll go back to your apartment, take a long shower, and then I can come back and pick you up. I’m feeling pretty safe here—if you’re not done when I get back, I’ll lock the door, curl up and sleep.”
A police officer walked by to make certain the media was keeping their distance. It occurred to me once again that our killer came and went without notice. This was why he understood how we approached crime scenes. I realized I couldn’t trust anyone close to the investigation. It was not only possible, it was likely the killer was here, right now, undetected because of his role.
With a change of heart, I took Serena’s hand and pulled her out of the car. “Come with me. We’ll go over our statements one more time with investigators. Then I’m leaving with you.” I needed to debrief her on everything she’d just experienced, even if it meant leaving my crew to work without me.
I was relieved to see Sean Reynolds emerge from a cluster of uniformed officers. He was dressed impeccably as usual, in a black suit and tie. His clothing hung loose on his muscular, six-foot frame. I thanked him for helping out and suggested, “Can we get the police to start from about a block out and then make sure to get the names of everybody on the scene right now? Everybody—even every officer. I think it’s possible our killer is observing all of this.”
Sean agreed, “I’ve been feeling the same thing. You’ve been shot at, twice, at crime scenes. I’m good with locking everyone down. At the very least, it’ll ensure you walk out of here safe. This killer likes to watch. That’s why he can spend so much time online researching his victims.”
I asked, “Sean, would you mind if Serena stayed with you for a couple minutes?”
Sean agreed, and I walked directly to Jada.
Jada looked uncharacteristically nervous when I approached and said, “Let me see your phone.”
El intervened, “Let’s see your subpoena.”
Ignoring her, Jada handed me her phone with apprehension.
I brought up her Find my iPhone app and saw she had been tracking my cell phone. This was how she knew where to find me the night I was out walking, and how she was first to this scene tonight.
Jada was abashed. “I’m so sorry. I was worried about you—you were such a mess.” She held her hand out for her phone and added, “My intentions were good.”
I said nothing, processing the feeling of violation I was experiencing.
Jada swallowed hard and revealed, “This was the only time I used it to find a crime scene.” Jada took her phone back and, holding it up so I could see what she was doing, she deleted me from her app. “There. I promise I won’t run this as the top story tonight. Please, forgive me.”
El had been unusually nonverbal during this exchange, but now exclaimed, “What do you mean you won’t run this as the top story? You have to!”
I turned my body so my back was to El, hoping El would pick up my disinterest in the incessant comments. “You put it on my phone the night my apartment was broken into—you made it look like you were just searching my call history.”
Jada’s lips puckered and twisted as she began to chew the inside of her cheek, always a giveaway when she was experiencing distress. Wordlessly, she nodded that I was correct. This was a betrayal, and Jada knew it. For me, it effectively closed the unfinished book of Jon and Jada.
El continued to interject static. “Jada, if you back off again, Jack Kavanaugh gets the exclusive. I swear, if we don’t feature this, I’ll go to Jack personally and tell him you backed off because your love life has taken priority over your news reporting.” El’s anger was palpable. “Remember when you told me shut down my love interest and focus on our work? Now I’m telling you.”
Jada’s eyes widened as she turned, experiencing her own betrayal for having confided in El.
I pulled Jada aside, away from the noise of El. “Be careful. This killer is very judgmental, and if he feels you violated some code, he’ll come after you. El won’t keep quiet over this.”
Jada put her hand on my bicep, and then pulled it back quickly, having momentarily forgotten how our relationship had changed so dramatically in the last few minutes. She looked directly into my eyes and told me, “Please understand, I never intended to hurt you.”
I nodded because I believed her, but good intentions didn’t dismiss the betrayal. I turned my back to her and walked away. As I did, I caught a glimpse of Serena, realizing she watched the entire exchange between me and Jada. She had to have seen it wasn’t a pleasant one, but looked a question at me, which I ignored for the time being. We had enough to talk about tonight without drawing this episode into it.
39
JON FREDERICK
10:00 P.M., SUNDAY, JULY 16,
BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, ST. PAUL
SERENA AND I SPENT MUCH OF THE NIGHT talking through the events of the day before, so we never got to her reason for asking to speak in the first place.
I explained the cypher to her: “Sylvester Graham was a nineteenth-century Presbyterian minister who believed lustful desires were harmful and could be controlled with a bland diet. The graham cracker was named after him. The victim you tended to in the car was named Sly Graham. He was mostly white, but not completely. That would explain the “barely cracker” part. Plus, it was a word play with the double meaning of cracker.”
Serena tried not to smile as she commented, “So, next time I can’t stop thinking of you, I should just eat a graham cracker.”
I responded with mock seriousness, “No more s’mores when we’re together,” and she seemed to appreciate the reply.
Out of respect for Serena, I also shared the entire conversation I had with Jada. I had her drive me to the BCA office, and let her take my car back to Pierz. I would use a car from work, as I planned on working the rest of the day, and would retrieve my car when it became convenient. I met with Sean Reynolds to review what was uncovered at Sly Graham’s home. Both Harper and Sly were at Fairview Hospital, still alive, and recovering. It bothered me that, before the homicide, Sly and Harper were at Azul, the very bar Jada had taken me.
10:45 A.M., SUNDAY, JULY 16,
FULTON NEIGHBORHOOD IN MINNEAPOLIS
I HAD A PRETTY GOOD IDEA WHERE I’d find Jada today. The murder of Sly Graham wasn’t the lead story. Unrelated to our case, Justine Dammon, a forty-year-old Australian woman, was shot and killed by police officer, Mohamed Noor, age thirty-one, in Minneapolis after calling to report a sexual assault. When the squad car had arrived, Justine ran to it, slapping the back end, and from the passenger seat, a startled Mohamed shot her through the abdomen, killing her. The riots that follow the killing of innocents compound the problem. Since the Ferguson riots, enrollment in law enforcement programs was down sixty percent, which meant less-skilled officers were pushed more quickly into work in dangerous neighborhoods. Mohamed Noor was one of those police officers put on the street after only seven months of training, when two to four years was the past expectation.
Jada and El Epicene were somewhere between Washburn and Xerxes Avenue in Minneapolis, interviewing people close to the scene of Justine Damon’s shooting. I managed to catch Jada standing next to the WCCO news van. She was dressed professionally, in a charcoal gray jacket and skirt, talking to a camera man next to the van.
Jada looked troubled, but she set aside what she was doing to speak to me. Downcast, she said, “Justine was a yoga instructor, just trying to help someone out.” Her professional demeanor softened with her deflating posture, and when she leaned in for a hug, I complied.
As we parted, I told her, “Sly and Harper were at Azul last night. Were you there?”
“No,” Jada responded defensively. Her eyes darted across my face, trying to read my expression.
I took a step back and sank my hands into my pockets, needing physical distance between us. “Why did you take me there?”
“El asked me to meet her there—ask her.” As Jada gestured t
oward El and began moving in that direction, she quietly apologized again for tracking me.
I truly believed Jada’s worry for me was genuine. But I couldn’t let go of the notion of a secondary work motive. Jada steered me to El, who was sitting on a nearby park bench in an oversized, crisp white dress shirt, white slacks, and red tennis shoes.
As we approached, my curiosity got the better of me; I had to ask, “Why the bright white?” The neighborhood was mourning.
El responded, “She was pure …” I let El rant on. The harangue ended with El telling me she was changing her name to the letter L.
I finally interrupted, “Look, I don’t care if you’re a letter or a number, or simply the person formerly known as El. You were born Del Elliott and you had a difficult childhood. You’re transforming—I get it. We all are, in one way or another. I need to know why you invited Jada to Azul.”
El dismissed my response as irrelevant. Her face twisted into a sneer as she got to her feet. “Did it look like the first time Jada was to Azul?”
“But why that night?” Her attitude was not a deterrent, and I needed an answer.
“I got a tip that something big was going down. But nothing happened, other than some guy insulting you and your wimping out.”
I almost smiled, remembering the insult was directed at both of us. “El, where did the tip come from?”
El turned on a heel and began walking back toward the news van, then said over her shoulder, “I don’t have a need to share all my sources with you, like Jada seems to.”
I countered, “Jada benefits from it.”
El dismissed this, “Not like you do …”
40
SERENA BELL
10:30 A.M., SUNDAY, JULY 16,
EDINA
ON A WHIM, I DECIDED to stop at Clay Roberts’s home, before heading back to Pierz. Clay answered the door in jeans and a tight black t-shit. As he invited me in, he commented wryly, “Jon’s gone cold and now you’re back.”
I put a hand up to stop his nasty words, “I didn’t come here to argue.”
Clay cocked his fists on his narrow hips and sneered, “I don’t imagine you did. After Jon spent months waiting for you, I had to be the one to tell him about that pretty boy you were banging.”
“I wasn’t ‘banging’ him,” I retorted in disgust. “I wish I’d never left Jon. There was a lot going on—I struggled with depression. I was being harassed online by some psychopath and I later found out my thyroid wasn’t functioning right. I will make it right with Jon.”
Clay laughed, “Good luck with that. If you were my woman and you pulled that crap, there would be no way I’d ever speak to you again.”
I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “If I was your woman that would be the best possible outcome.”
Unfazed by the insult, Clay suggested, “You turned Jon into me—another guy who doesn’t care. But it’s been a good lesson for me. If any woman cared for me the way Jon’s suffered for you, I’ve really been a jerk. So why don’t you take that taut rump of yours back to Pierz.”
Surprised by his correct use of the word, I was sidetracked for a moment. “Taut’s a good word for you, Clay, even if I prefer you didn’t use it to refer to me as a tight ass.”
He then had to add, “I thought it meant taught by a lot of guys.”
I stared at him blankly, just managing to stifle a laugh at his nescience. Changing the subject, I shared, “John, thinks this guy’s going to kill Ava, but I don’t think he is. I think this guy’s enamored of Ava, which essentially puts your life at risk. I couldn’t leave without warning you.” I turned to leave but couldn’t without first trying to alter the way we interacted. I appealled to his sense of justice by sharing, “I’m trying to repair my life. Look, I’m sorry I came over that night. I don’t want to have to feel sick about it every time we interact. When you and Jon have a conversation, he walks away with a smile—when you and I have a conversation, I walk away angry or hurt.”
Clay remarked, “You think Jon and I don’t insult each other?”
I swallowed hard and struggled to make eye contact with him. “But it’s different. Every time we speak, you imply that I’m here to have sex with you. Do you have any idea how shaming that is? I have no interest in making that mistake again.” I held my thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart. “And it makes me feel this big. Can I just say, ‘I’m sorry,’ and be done with it?”
Clay turned his back to me and ran his hand through his long hair. “You think everything can be fixed. Some things just break, so you throw it away and move on.”
“I can’t—not without doing everything in my power to fix my relationship with Jon first. And that includes ending my antagonistic relationship with his best friend.”
With his back to me, he said, “You’ve abandoned your religion?”
“No.” It took me a minute before I realized his mistake. “Not ‘agnostic’—‘antagonistic’ means hostile or difficult.”
As I reached for the door handle, he turned and said, “Wait. I’m not great at explaining myself, so bear with me. Seeing you makes me angry—at me. Jon’s my one friend. The one person, who has always wanted better for me. I’ve had a dozens of women like you. Why did I have to have you too? I wasn’t feeling anything special—just curiosity.”
“I feel this is on me. If I wouldn’t have come over—”
Clay shouted, “Stop! You had no idea if Jon would ever be interested in you again.” He took a deep breath, “But I did. I knew he wanted to find you and talk to you, but I didn’t say a damn thing because I wanted to sleep with you.”
It was difficult, but I asked, “Can we just move on, and not let our shame hang over every conversation?”
Appearing to have found some relief in unburdening his soul, Clay nodded, “I would be fine with that.”
Now I could leave.
41
YESONIA HARTMAN
9:20 A.M., MONDAY, JULY 17,
RURAL PIERZ
BILL AND CAMILLE FREDERICKS were in Genola, helping clean up after Freedom Fest. Vic and I had a blast listening to the horns of Brothers Tone and the Big Groove. This was the perfect time for me to go to the Fredericks’ house and borrow Bill’s Model 70 Winchester. He gave me the safe combination, so I could use Camille’s rifle to practice hunting. Bill hid that rifle last week, commenting that I’d been “a little dark lately,” so now I was taking his rifle.
I grabbed Bill’s navy-blue camouflage jacket and loaded it with some Winchester brand 30.06, 165 grain bullets. I admit, I was feeling a little powerful and a lot scared. As I left the house, I was met by a man standing right in front of the door wearing a black t-shirt that read in white letters, “JUST SAY NOPE.”
Victor brushed some of his scraggly blond hair to the side and asked, “What are you doing?”
Not wanting to lie to Victor, I said nothing.
Victor’s blue eyes saw right through me, and, as he registered my intentions, he spoke urgently. “I love you Sonia. I will always love you. But if you hunt this guy down and kill him, I don’t think I could ever live with you. You know I’m already a little paranoid.”
Tears formed, but I stood resolute in my cause, brandishing the rifle.
Victor’s family never gave him enough credit for his wisdom, but God bless him, he wasn’t bitter about it. He told me they still saw his past craziness when they looked at him. He loved me because I didn’t. Victor pointed out that, regardless of their patronizing manner, his family never excluded him, and introduced him at functions with a pride you’d expect to be reserved for a prince. You had to be patient to appreciate Victor. I told him, “I’m doing this. I made this decision before I ever met you.”
His response was, “Three frogs are on a log and two decide to jump in the pond. How many frogs are still on the log?”
Confused at the purpose of his story, I said, “One.”
Victor corrected me, waving three fingers in front of my face. “Three. Decid
ing to do something isn’t the same as actually doing it.”
42
JON FREDERICK
9:30 A.M., MONDAY, JULY 17,
BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, ST. PAUL
TONY SHILETO HAD HELPED PUT ME on Colleen McGrath’s trail. Colleen didn’t have a legal history, which made her much harder to track down. She had joined the Peace Corps after high school and was now volunteering at a food shelf in Los Angeles.
Once I secured her phone number, I immediately called her. When she answered with a bright greeting, I simply said, “Colleen.”
“Yes,” she slowly responded, her voice lilting into a question.
“This is Jon Frederick. I’m a homicide investigator for the BCA, and I’m looking for a relative of yours. We have DNA evidence indicating you’re a half-sibling to someone implicated in a serious crime, and we need your help to ensure no one else is hurt.”
After listening to the long version of the “trials of Colleen” she finally revealed, “I was adopted at birth in a closed adoption.” She added hastily, “My adoptive parents are amazing.”
Frustrated, I crumpled up a training brochure on my desk and tossed it into the garbage can. Are you kidding me? Now I’m looking at trying to get a judge to open up a closed adoption, and even if I find one of her parents, there’s a fifty percent chance it’s the wrong one. And then Colleen gave me a gem.
“My birth mother contacted me a few years ago. Her name is Hillary Connelly. She’s dried out now, so you might be able to have a conversation with her. She wanted to see if I’d ever come into money.” Her sigh whirred noisily through the phone, but she added with some pride, “So, I got my opportunity to turn her away. It wasn’t as gratifying as I had anticipated. I kept her number if you want it. Last I heard, she was still living in North Minneapolis.”
The DNA of Colleen’s mother, Hillary Connelly, was on file for a Manufacturing a Controlled Substance charge (methamphetamine), which landed her in prison. Our forensics staff was working closely with me now, as we all knew we were on the verge of identifying the killer. They were quick to inform me Hillary didn’t have DNA in common with the I-94 killer. This meant Colleen and our killer shared the same father. A review of Hillary’s past probation reports revealed a sordid history of addiction, abusive boyfriends, and children recklessly jettisoned into poverty along the trail of her life.
The I-94 Murders Page 22