by Anne Frasier
The building didn’t look as if it had been updated since the sixties. Dark wood paneling from the floor to the acoustic ceiling tile. Green linoleum that might have been there for decades. And yet it wasn’t that unusual to see such interiors. Places in both Minnesota and Wisconsin were known to pay homage to the north shore of Lake Superior. You never knew if this kind of thing was deliberate or due to lack of funds. In this case, Jude guessed lack of funds. She found the space cozy and unsettling at the same time.
A young woman behind a desk announced their arrival. Within seconds, Sheriff Todd Craig appeared at his office door and motioned them inside with an air of annoyance.
He was about forty, white in the way some small-town cops were white, and Jude immediately felt an unwelcome chill coming from him as he took a seat behind his desk and invited them to settle into the two other chairs in the room.
“I was surprised to get your call.” The sun backlit him through the window. He was dressed in a crisp tan shirt, a metal badge above one pocket, American flag above the other, stars on his collar, and a Sheriff patch on one short sleeve. His suspicion wasn’t a surprise. It happened quite a bit.
“I’m not sure why you want to talk to me about something so out of your jurisdiction.” He leaned back, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers clasped.
Uriah appeared to be willing to let Jude direct the conversation, playing it cool, taking in the room while he sipped coffee from his disposable cup. Jude had left her drink in the car, and she envied his ability to use his as a prop in this scene.
She was forced to point out the obvious to the sheriff, something she was sure wouldn’t buy her any more points. “We were hoping we could see the case files on the recent murders at Interstate State Park,” she said.
“That’s an odd request. You realize that, don’t you?”
The request might have gotten better traction if Uriah had posed it. “I do.” She attempted another tactic. “You might know we had some disturbing homicides at a theater in Minneapolis recently. Today we’re following an unlikely lead. It might be helpful if we could look at your files to see if there are any similarities in the cases.”
“I hate to have wasted your time, but after you called I talked to a few of my colleagues and we decided it wouldn’t be prudent to share information at this time. We’re still working to gather enough evidence to convict the ex-husband. You understand.”
She did, but she wasn’t sure if this was about his wanting to keep their evidence close, or not wanting outsiders involved. Or was he just another person who thought she’d gotten away with the murder of her father and brother? His instant dislike of them, especially her, was a cliché, but it was real.
Jude was out of arguments, and was about to tell Uriah they should leave, when he put his coffee on the corner of the sheriff’s desk and finally spoke. “How’s the fishing around here?”
The sheriff laughed. Ice broken? “I know what you’re doing, but that won’t work with me. You people come from the city and think we’re all a bunch of idiots.”
“I don’t think anything of the kind,” Uriah said. “I grew up in a small town in southern Minnesota. My dad was a cop there. Recently retired.” His words were the truth, but his smile was crooked, sheepish. “I guess the fishing thing was a little much,” he admitted. “I’m more of a canoe person. I’ve canoed from here to Stillwater a few times.”
The casual conversation worked. The sheriff warmed to them. Jude took the opportunity to pull a manila envelope from her messenger bag. “I respect your desire to keep the case files to yourself.” But she was going to share information with him. Hopefully it would soften him up a little more. The envelope contained eight-by-ten color photos, which she spread across his desk. “Could you please tell me if anything in your scene was at all similar?”
With a hint of petulance, he pulled the photos closer and shuffled through them, pausing and staring every so often until he’d looked at them all. Some of the photos were of dead bodies, but she’d also included images of the bloody footprints. Possibly noteworthy—the deaths had been quick, the bodies undisturbed once the deed was done.
His words were reluctant. “The wounds look almost identical to ours.”
She gave him a nod. “Thank you. And what about the bodies themselves? Can you share anything about them?”
Uriah joined in, and this time he asked about the case. “Were they nude? Were they defiled or mutilated in any way?” All things that might point to the suspected acquaintance murder.
The sheriff stacked Jude’s photos and passed them back. Then he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a brown folder, opened it, and slid several photos across the desk. She and Uriah leaned close. Two bodies, male and female. He was right. The wounds to both necks did look similar. Both victims were fully dressed, and the bodies didn’t appear to have been repositioned. There were no drag marks in the dirt, and no blood beyond the immediate area. Not your typical crime of passion.
“What about the autopsy?” she asked. “Do you have a description of the possible murder weapon?”
Still unwilling to share everything, he riffled through papers and tossed the autopsy report down. “A very sharp knife, maybe something used for hunting. I’m telling you, this is straightforward. We just need evidence or a witness’s testimony.”
He pulled out a blurry photo of a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. “Our suspect, Dwayne Hanson.” He tapped a finger on the image. “As you can see, he’s a big guy. Lifts weights.”
She wouldn’t go into her adrenaline theory.
“And he’s been known to drink and get into fights at the bar where he works. His ex-wife had a restraining order on him. Not only that, neighbors reported an argument in the front yard the day she was killed. They actually heard him threaten to kill her boyfriend. He’s also prone to alcohol-induced blackouts, so there’s a chance he might not even remember what he did. But I can tell you we’re closing in on him. It all fit. It still fits. Your crime? It’s a coincidence or a copycat.”
“Maybe,” Uriah said. Jude was surprised he wasn’t so eager to give up on the lead.
“Is the crime scene still a crime scene?” she asked.
“The status was lifted a week ago.”
“We want to look at it.”
His delivery became a little more enthused now that they would soon be out of his hair. “Right off Highway Eight. Take the main road all the way to the river. Maybe two miles in. There are photos and stuffed animals and flowers there. You can’t miss it.”
“We’d also like to talk to your suspect,” Uriah said.
That didn’t make him happy. “There’s no reason for you to speak to him.”
Jude and Uriah got to their feet. “I was just extending the courtesy of letting you know,” Uriah said.
They both pulled out business cards and placed them on the desk, thanked him for his time, and left.
Back in the car, Jude’s coffee was lukewarm. She took a drink anyway, put it aside, and drove in the direction of the park.
Homicides sometimes occurred in ugly locations like littered and fetid alleys or abandoned buildings. But more often, they took place in homes that were supposed to be safe havens. Or, like this, in nature, in a secluded area where there was little chance of the killer being seen or heard.
Deep in the park, they left the car on a remote bit of gravel and hiked to cliffs overlooking the river valley, slabs of black rock twenty stories tall or more, with pine trees somehow growing crookedly from craggy cracks, and a sky so blue it didn’t look real. She heard shouts in the distance. Across the river, on the Minnesota side, rock climbers could be seen rappelling.
The camping spot was located under a cluster of trees, in an area few people probably went. It was a strange reaction, but whenever Jude visited a crime scene that took place in a beautiful area, she felt a small bit of heaviness lift from her heart, almost like visiting a cemetery. She loved cemeteries. Loved the tranquil sense
of peace they evoked. She felt that same sense of peace now as she and Uriah stood staring at the flowers and photos, the candles and words of love so many people had left at the scene. It was easy to see that two families and groups of friends were in mourning.
“It’s entirely possible the killer knew the victims and knew they were going camping.” Uriah stood with hands in his pockets, wind blowing his curly hair. His observation, especially considering the remoteness of the campsite, made sense. “The method of a knife to the throat isn’t rare or unusual. And, like the sheriff said, our killer could be a copycat. The coverage of the events here could have given our killer the idea. We see it all the time with mass shootings.”
She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be swayed by Professor Masucci’s theory. What Uriah said was true. “I’d still like more details.” But whatever was going on, this was not their case. The sheriff had been right about that.
Uriah looked across the shining water. “I really have gone canoeing here,” he said.
“Me too.”
“How long ago?”
“When I was a kid.”
“My first visit was with my wife.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” She felt a sharp pang. “Does it hurt to be here?”
“It’s strange.” A line furrowed the space between his brows, and his eyes narrowed. “It made my stomach drop earlier when I saw the river, but I’m becoming desensitized now. My heart isn’t pounding.”
That explained why he’d gone so quiet when they were driving into Taylors Falls. “Let’s see if we can find the ex-husband,” she said.
They tracked the suspect down at his place of employment on Main Street. A bar called, of all things, Main Street Tap. Upon sliding into a booth, they were offered a lunch menu by the man himself, Dwayne Hanson.
Since it was past noon and neither of them had eaten, they ordered lunch and waited until the food came to pull out their badges. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Jude said.
Hanson tucked the serving tray under his arm and glanced nervously over his shoulder. “I can’t talk here. I’m lucky to still have a job.”
“Just five minutes,” Uriah told him.
He had another plan. “Go ahead and eat. I’ll meet you in the alley.”
“I think we should talk now,” Jude said, figuring his plan was to bolt.
“Your food’ll get cold.”
“We eat cold food all the time,” Uriah told him. “Goes with the job.”
Hanson gave up, his shoulders slumping. “Come on.” He nodded his head toward a hallway with a restroom sign above it. Down the hall, he pushed the metal bar and shoved the door open with a crash. Jude shot Uriah a glance. The man had a temper that he wasn’t attempting to control. He’d known his ex had a new boyfriend, heard about the plans to camp, gone there, maybe to confront them, but things got out of hand and he ended up killing the boyfriend and silencing his ex-wife so there would be no witnesses. Open and shut. From Uriah’s grim expression, she saw he was thinking the same thing.
As if by unspoken agreement, Uriah did most of the questioning while Jude watched for signs of a tell. The guy was full of them, but his barely suppressed anger and nervousness could have had other causes.
And then he surprised them both by bursting into tears. “I loved her,” he sobbed. “That guy was no good.”
“Were you trying to protect her?” Jude asked softly.
“Well, yeah.” Then he realized what he said, and backtracked. “Not that night.”
“Sheriff Craig told us your wife had a restraining order out on you, and that you broke it. Neighbors reported an argument in the front yard. And they said you were drunk and threatened to kill her boyfriend.”
“I did go over there. That’s true. And I told her the guy was bad for her. But I didn’t kill her.”
“Is it possible,” Jude asked, “that you don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Do you ever have blackouts?” Uriah asked.
“I know there’s a record of that somewhere, so yeah. I do. I drink too much sometimes, but a lot of people around here do. It’s not a crime. I didn’t kill them. Either one of them. I loved her!”
Jude broke in with softer questions. “Tell us a little about her.”
“She was an angel. A beautiful angel who shouldn’t have died like that.” He wiped the back of his hand against his nose. He was no longer crying, but his eyes were red and his hand shook. “She liked to help people. She was always helping somebody. Strangers, friends, anybody. That’s why she was with me. I know that. She saw me as somebody she could help, but she couldn’t. I wasn’t good enough for her, that’s for sure. And she left.”
Back inside the bar, they asked for their meal to be put in carryout containers, paid, and left.
“What do you think now?” Uriah asked five minutes later, when they were sitting at a picnic table overlooking the river, eating the food from the bar.
“I think this is a false trail,” Jude said. “And we don’t have the luxury of wasting time.” She couldn’t get the mustard packet open. Where the hell was the little notch?
Uriah put out his hand. She passed him the packet. He opened it and gave it back. “At least we got out of the city. A mental-health lunch isn’t a bad thing.”
He held up his sandwich. She tapped hers to his. Cheers.
Jude took a bite, then said, “I have to tell you something.”
Uriah watched her, elbows on the table, waiting with expectation.
“About the house.”
He frowned. She could see him struggling, his mind probably still on the case. “What house?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
She was surprised he didn’t immediately get it. She waited for him to catch up, saw the light come into his eyes as he recalled McIntosh’s announcement in the office. He put his sandwich aside. “That house.”
She looked away, looked back, afraid of his reaction, but it was a secret she didn’t want to keep from him. “I bought it.”
To his credit, he barely blinked. But then, he was a detective who was used to masking his reactions. “I kind of understand,” he said after giving it time to sink in. “You want control of what happens to it.”
“I don’t know.” No, that was a lie. Deep down, she did know. She wanted it for herself.
“I wish you’d told me beforehand,” he said.
“So you could have stopped me?”
“I would have helped. Buying a house, even that house, couldn’t have been cheap. Maybe we could have found a way around the public sale. Maybe the bank would’ve sold it to you for a dollar.”
“It’s done now.”
“I know, but . . .” That frown again. He was wondering about her mental state. She’d certainly seen that look before.
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She was beginning to wish she hadn’t told him, but people would eventually find out. “I know it’s weird,” she added.
“It’s not that weird.” He was adjusting to the news. “You might be keeping someone from turning it into a public attraction. A freak show. I get that. I might have done the same thing. So, what now? Tear it down?”
“I’m boarding it up for the time being.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to make any big decisions right away. Or ever.” He gave it more thought. “You could always turn it into green space or a public garden.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They finished eating and put their empty containers in the recycling bin, then headed back to Minneapolis, hitting the city at rush hour. Downtown, the traffic was bad, especially near the light rail, but nobody honked. That was something visitors to Minnesota often commented on. No honking cars. And if a driver was pressed to finally try to get someone’s attention, it was typically a quick and apologetic beep.
Back at Headquarters, even though Jude had told Uriah it had been a waste of time, she couldn’t get her mind off the Wisc
onsin murders. At her computer, she looked up the boyfriend who’d been killed. Social media made such research easy. Then she checked the Facebook pages of all seven victims, Minneapolis and Wisconsin ones alike, to see if there were any friends in common.
None of the five in Minneapolis had acquaintances in common with the Wisconsin pair. She also explored Dwayne Hanson’s Facebook page. Under “Relationship,” he still had his ex listed, along with images of them together. The happy couple. She downloaded and printed out a few photos, then exited the site. In the task-force room, she added the state-park murders to the wall containing details of the other possibly connected crimes, tacking photos to the crime board where Wisconsin would be if the map included more than their county. She was careful to include a Post-it note to team members, explaining that a connection was unlikely.
Back at her desk, she went through hard-copy images, looking for possible clues, then she logged in to the database to see if more autopsy results from the theater murders had been posted. A couple of blood tests that seemed insignificant.
She was hesitant to document the Wisconsin trip for fear of underscoring a bad lead. Nonetheless, for the sake of transparency and thoroughness, she typed a report and added it to the file.
At one point, she looked up at the clock and was surprised to see it was after nine. Sometime in the past hour, Uriah had returned to his desk, the glow of the monitor illuminating his face. They weren’t alone, but the night staff was reduced. Computer keys were clicking and officers came and went, sometimes dropping files on Uriah’s desk. He was probably going over reports from the day. She knew from a recent department bulletin that a shooting had occurred at a downtown bar, and a hit-and-run had taken place on Lake Street, both resulting in death. Homicides continued even as they focused on the theater murders.
The overhead lights dimmed. It was a new policy to save on electricity, and a method of simulating day and night in hopes of keeping everyone’s circadian rhythms in better balance—another idea of Chief Ortega’s. So far only a couple of people had complained. Jude liked the dim lights.