A Cold Case of Killing

by Glenn Ickler

  “Daddy might not like it. He says he doesn’t want people to bother her.”

  “Is it possible to call your father at work?”

  “He sometimes gets mad when I do that.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you give me his phone number and I’ll call him. That way he’ll get mad at me and not you.”

  “He might get mad that I gave you the number,” the boy said.

  “I won’t tell him where I got it.”

  The boy thought a minute. “We-e-ell, okay. It’s . . .”

  “Just a second,” I said. I pulled out my notebook and ball-point and the kid rattled off a number so fast I had to ask for a repeat. When I was sure I had it right I said, “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” he said. Aargh! Whatever happened to “you’re welcome” with this generation?

  Chapter Six

  Eleanor Remembers

  WHEN I PUNCHED in the number the boy had given me, a recorded voice answered, “Thank you for calling Jefferson Realty.” I had forgotten to get the father’s name, so when I finally finished pressing a series of ones and twos and reached a female human I asked for Mr. Miller, hoping that he was the son of a son and not of a daughter.

  I got lucky. “May I tell him who’s calling?” she asked. I gave her my name and she put me on hold. A moment later a male voice said, “Andrew Miller. How can I help you?”

  I explained who I was and how he could help me. His response was not encouraging. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mr. Mitchell. Grandma is not very strong and her memory is not very good.”

  “Sometimes people with memory problems can do quite well with older memories,” I said. “What I want to talk to her about happened twenty-five years ago.”

  “I know, I know. She used to talk about the fuss over the missing girl a lot. Basically she felt it was, as they say, good riddance, but she felt sorry for the parents.”

  “If I can see your grandmother, I promise to be very gentle and to leave immediately if she seems to be getting tired or confused. I have a grandmother, too.” I thought it best not to mention that mine was a hard-charging religious zealot who still walked without assistance.

  Andrew Miller took a long time to answer. “If I don’t tell you where she is, I suppose you’ll find her any way,” he said.

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  “Let me call the home and see how she’s doing today. Some days are better than others. Give me your number and I’ll call you back.”

  Eight minutes later, I was on my way to a nursing home in the northern suburb of Shoreview. According to Andrew, his grandmother was in good spirits and would love to have a visitor to brighten her day. I thanked him and he said, “No problem.” So that’s where the kid learned that response. It was a parental malfunction.

  I called Don, told him where I was going, and said I hoped to have a story about Eleanor’s recollections of the disappearance of Marilee Anderson.

  “I’ll send your twin out to take her picture,” Don said. “Wait for him before you go in.” Because Al and I so often work and laugh together, Don calls us the Siamese twins. He says we are joined at the funny bone, which in our case is the skull. I’ve told him several times that the term “Siamese twins” is politically incorrect in the twenty-first century, but he says he was born in the twentieth century and “politically correct” is not in his edition of Webster’s dictionary.

  Connected or not, Al and I don’t even look alike. I’m six-foot-two and weigh 180 pounds (when I’m faithful to my exercise regimen), with a light brown moustache and light brown hair. Al is five-ten and 175 pounds (mostly muscle), with a moustache and beard that match his dark brown hair.

  The nursing home was a long, L-shaped, one-story frame building. The clapboards were painted a light yellow and the trim was a complementary shade of blue. The grass was clipped, the shrubbery was trimmed, and the blacktop parking lot was smooth and free of potholes. I was impressed with the fresh—and expensive—look of everything and hoped Andrew Miller was selling enough real estate to pay for grandma’s room and board.

  When Al appeared with his camera bag, we went in the front door, picked up a phone beside the inner doors and told a disembodied voice who we were. The inner door buzzed, and we traipsed into the lobby. We were greeted at the reception desk by a middle-aged woman with a warm smile and hair so richly red it had to have been an overzealous dye job. She said Mrs. Miller was waiting for us in one of the parlors and flagged down a passing attendant to show us the way.

  “I like the smell of this place,” I said to Al as we followed our leader.

  Al took two sniffs. “I don’t smell anything,” he said.

  “That’s what I like about it.”

  “Oh, yeah; my grandfather’s nursing home always smelled like stale piss.”

  “A lot of them do.”

  “Here she is,” said our guide. She led us to a tiny white-haired woman sitting in a wheelchair at a low table with a hand of Solitaire spread before her. She was wearing a mostly pink flower-print blouse and from the waist down was wrapped in a pale pink blanket. “Here’s your visitors, Eleanor,” the attendant said loudly and slowly. “Have a nice visit.”

  I thanked her and she said, “No problem.” Some of my good feelings about the place went away.

  We pulled chairs up to the other side of the table and, picking up on the attendant’s cue, loudly and slowly introduced ourselves. I started to explain our mission and Eleanor interrupted with, “Yes, yes, I know. Andrew called me a few minutes ago and said you was coming.” She peeled the six of hearts off the deck of cards in her left hand and played it on the seven of spades.

  “Do you mind if I take your picture while we talk?” Al asked.

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know,” Eleanor said. “My hair’s a mess and I don’t have any earrings on.” She played the nine of clubs on the ten of hearts.

  “Maybe we can find somebody to help you comb your hair and bring you some earrings,” I said.

  “I’d have gone to my room and got gussied up when Andrew called if he’d said you was going to take my picture. I thought we was just going to talk.”

  “It’s not Andrew’s fault,” I said. “I thought we was . . . were just going to talk, too. I didn’t know the editor was going to send a photographer.”

  Eleanor played the eight of diamonds on the nine of clubs, turned up the ace of hearts from the deck and laid it in the proper place. “Andrew said something about they’s tearing up the Andersons’ house again. Is that right?”

  “They’ve never closed the investigation of Marilee’s disappearance,” I said. “And after twenty-five years, they learned something new that has them lugging stuff out of the house and digging up the flowerbeds.”

  “I always wondered about them flowerbeds,” Eleanor said. “They didn’t have no flowerbeds until after Marilee went away. Next thing you know, old Jack is out there digging and Jill is planting rose bushes. Like I said, it made me wonder.” She flipped through the rest of the cards, looking at every third one. Finding no winners, she reshuffled the deck.

  “You wondered if Marilee was buried there?” I asked.

  “Stranger things have happened,” she said. “Ah!” She turned up the two of hearts and laid it on the ace.

  “You’re doing well,” Al said, nodding toward the cards. “I’ll go find someone to help you gussy up while Mitch talks to you.”

  “How well did you know the Andersons?” I asked.

  “Not all that well. They was okay neighbors. Didn’t bother anybody, except they yelled at each other a lot. All three of ’em.” The eight of diamonds went onto the nine of clubs.

  “What did they yell about?”

  “Mostly about what that bratty little girl wanted to do or had already done. She was a handful, I tell you. I didn’t miss her none when she was gone, but I felt sorry for Jill. She pretty much went into a shell. Quit her job and never did anything outside the house except take care of
those gardens. Seemed like she made ’em bigger every year.” The three of hearts appeared. “Oh, that’s more like it.” She put the three on the two and moved the four off one string and laid it on the three. “This hand’s been pretty much crap up to now.”

  “Solitaire can be a very frustrating game,” I said.

  “You got that right. But there ain’t much else to do here unless you want to watch TV all day. My eyes don’t last long when I try to read, and I sure can’t go for a walk.” She pointed at the blanket-wrapped lower portion of her body. “Diabetes. First they cut off my toes, and then my feet, and then the bottom half of my legs, just below the knees. Next thing you know, they’ll start chopping on this end.” She tapped herself on top of her head. “Anyways, I can’t get out on my own, I don’t get much company and most of the folks living here ain’t very talkative.” She waved in the direction of three other women who were snoozing in wheelchairs around the room.

  “Andrew and his family don’t visit very often?”

  “Andrew works crazy hours selling houses and his wife puts in a lot of hours on her feet at Target. And of course the kids ain’t old enough to drive and they wouldn’t come here to see an old lady who can’t always remember their names if they was.” She shuffled the remaining cards again.

  “So what did you think of the Andersons?” I asked, trying to get back on track. “Did you think they might have been capable of killing their daughter?”

  “The way they yelled at each other and called each other names sometimes, it did seem possible. But I guess the cops never found nothing that would pin it on them.”

  “Apparently not. Do you have any idea what might have happened to Marilee if she wasn’t killed by her parents?”

  “She might have just run off. She was always saying she was going to leave. She’d tell them that she knew they weren’t her real parents, and that she was going to find her real family so she’d have somebody that loved her.”

  “Was there any truth in that?”

  “I don’t think so. Jack and Jill told her she was talking crazy, and I remember Jill looking pregnant with a big belly.” She slammed the remaining cards down on the table. “This hand’s nothing but a bunch of crap.”

  “Maybe the next one will be a winner.”

  “You never know. Anyway, I’m about ready for a nap. Been nice talking to you, Mr. . . . uh . . .”

  “Mitchell. You can call me Mitch.”

  I looked around for Al and was glad to see him approaching with a young woman beside him. “Here’s Al to take your picture,” I said.

  “You’re going to take my picture?” It was almost a scream.

  “Yes, remember? Al went to get someone to comb your hair and put on your earrings.”

  “Who’s Al?”

  I pointed. “This is Al.”

  “I don’t know him,” Eleanor said.

  “He’s my buddy,” I said. “He’s very nice and he’s a very good photographer.”

  The woman, who said her name was Sara, took charge, soothing Eleanor while combing her hair and attaching a pair of clip-on gold earrings with stones that looked like diamonds.

  “I’m not dressed for taking pictures,” Eleanor said. Much of the color had been laundered out of the pink-and-blue flower print blouse, and the blanket was covering whatever she wore on the lower half of her body.

  “I’ll just take a picture of your face,” Al said. “Your clothing won’t show.”

  “Give Al a big smile,” Sara said.

  Eleanor shook her head, sat up as stiff as a table leg and stared soberly at the camera. Al took a couple of quick shots and said he was finished. Eleanor relaxed and smiled in relief, and Al got the image he wanted.

  I took Eleanor’s right hand between my palms and said, “We’ll be going now.”

  “Come see me again,” she said.

  “I might just do that. Thank you for talking to us, Eleanor.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. Thank heaven for the older generation.

  “So what did Eleanor say while I was away?” Al asked on the way to the car.

  “She suspected that Marilee’s parents killed her and buried her in one of those gardens the police are digging up.”

  “So far everything’s coming up roses for the cops.”

  “But the last rose of summer might hold a surprise.”

  * * *

  AFTER FINISHING MY STORY, rewriting a press release that Don dropped on my desk and downing a bite of lunch, I set about finding another East Geranium Street neighbor I really wanted to interview. Since Patrick O’Brian’s last known residence was the federal prison in Sandstone, where he’d been sent after being convicted of rape and murder, the Sandstone facility seemed like a good place to start my search.

  I found the prison’s administrative number and punched it into my phone. Three prompts and two live human voices later, I found myself talking to an assistant warden who said his name was “Donald Shibelski.” I asked for a spelling of his last name and he said, “P-r-z-y-b-l-s-k-i.” Glad I’d asked.

  I explained my cold-case mission and asked if Patrick O’Brian was still in custody, and if not, when he was released.

  “When did you say he came in here?” Donald asked.

  I gave him the date from the clipping and he said, “That’s twenty-two years ago.”

  “You’ve got the math right,” I said. “Now if you can find the history, I’ll give you an ‘A’ for today’s class.”

  “That’s way before my time here and I don’t remember anybody by that name being here when I started. I’ll have to go through the records and get back to you.”

  I gave him my office, cell, and home phone numbers and said, “Call me anytime.”

  As I put down the phone a shadow came over my desk. Twisting and looking behind me, I saw the shadow was cast by Don O’Rourke.

  “Grab your twin and get over to East Geranium,” Don said. “The cops have found human remains.”

  “A body?” I said.

  “Whatever’s left of a body after twenty-five years.”

  “My guess is that it would be nothing but bones.”

  “So stop guessing and get your ass out there.”

  Chapter Seven

  Blockade II

  TWO YELLOW SAWHORSES supporting a weathered wooden sign that said ROAD CLOSED – POLICE in black stenciled letters stood across the middle of the street, stopping us two blocks from our destination. Looking down the block beyond the barrier, we could see so many flashing blue and red lights that it looked like Christmas in July.

  Our Ford Focus joined three TV mobile units and half a dozen cars with press stickers. Inside the blockade we found an assortment of marked and unmarked police vehicles with lights flashing, an ambulance also with lights flashing, and a black hearse with its warning lights pulsing.

  “Why would they call an ambulance if they found a skeleton?” Al asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we should bone up on police body recovery procedures.”

  “There might be skullduggery afoot,” he said.

  We joined a crowd of men and women bearing cameras, notebooks, cell phones, and microphones milling about in front of the line of yellow tape. The perimeter of the off-limits area had been expanded, so that now the Miller and Waldner homes flanking the Anderson property were included within the forbidden circle. This prevented any of us snoopy media types from seeing what was happening in the Andersons’ backyard.

  Al and I reached the tape just as Trish Valentine was signing off with her customary, “Trish Valentine reporting live.”

  “What did you report, oh lively one?” I asked.

  “Not a hell of a lot,” Trish said. “All we’ve been told is that the diggers found some human skeletal remains.”

  “If the remains are skeletal, why the ambulance?”

  “Who knows? Maybe they’re afraid somebody will pass out looking at the bones.”

  “Do they think it’s Mar
ilee Anderson’s bones?”

  “They won’t say what they think, and they won’t let us peek at what they’re doing. We’re sending a helicopter to fly over and get a look at the backyard.”

  “What we need is a drone,” Al said. “I could mount a camera on it and fly it right over where they’re working.”

  We didn’t have to wait long for the sound of approaching rotors. This was quickly followed by the whooshing of another set of rotors. A minute later these two were joined by the racket from a third set of rotors. All three major Twin Cities TV stations had launched their eyes in the skies.

  “My God, they’ll have a mid-air collision,” I said.

  “I hope not,” Al said. “Remember what we learned about mid-air collisions in Navy flight school?”

  “Yes. A mid-air collision can ruin your whole day.” This axiom, recited to us by a tongue-in-cheek Navy instructor, had actually been the answer to a question on a test.

  Soon we had to shout in order to be heard above the clatter of the three choppers as they formed a tight nose-to-tail ring and took turns passing directly over the house. We were all covering our ears and looking up, and even the police officers who’d been watching us from inside the tape turned their attention to the skies.

  Our focus returned to the ground when a scarlet-faced Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown came trotting around the house and storming toward us. Waving his right arm in a circle and pointing at each TV reporter in turn, he yelled, “Tell your people to get those goddamn choppers out of here or I’ll give an order to shoot them down.”

  Brownie stood watching until he was certain that Trish Valentine, Barry Ziebart of Channel Five, and Chris Collins of Channel Eleven were all on their cell phones. By the time Brownie was again out of sight behind the house, all three elements of the airborne armada were gaining altitude and veering away from the Anderson abode.

  Trish broke the blessed silence that followed their departure. “Do you think he’d have really shot them down?”

  “No, but he could have had them fined for flight violations,” Barry said. “They were way too low and way too close together.”