“A sad but all-too-common story these days,” Hurley says with a frown. “Makes you afraid to have kids sometimes, you know?”
I shoot him a look, wondering if his thoughts on the matter are because of my newly discovered pregnancy. He looks over at me and smiles, reaching out to give my shoulder a squeeze. “It will be okay. I’m speaking in generalities.”
Izzy watches this little interchange with interest and after a few seconds says, “Are you two pregnant?”
I look at him in surprise, though I shouldn’t be shocked that he figured it out. Izzy is one of the smartest people I know, and he knows me better than anyone else in my life, except for maybe my sister, though Hurley is catching up. I also told Izzy I agreed to try for another child.
Hurley sputters, “How . . . the . . . Why . . . What . . .”
Izzy chuckles. “I take it the answer is yes?”
“It is,” I say. “We just found out this morning and it’s early, very early. So we don’t want to say anything to anyone yet.”
“Understood,” Izzy says. I feel reassured because Izzy can be trusted to keep a secret.
Hurley, on the other hand, is a bit more circumspect on the matter. “That means not telling anyone,” he says. “Not even Dom.”
“I got it,” Izzy says, sounding mildly insulted. “And congratulations.”
“Let him tell Dom,” I say. “He can be trusted, and, besides, if I know Dom, he’ll figure it out in no time on his own. He figured it out last time.”
Hurley capitulates with surprising ease. “Okay,” he says, shrugging. There is a hint of a smile on his face and I begin to suspect he doesn’t care who finds out. He’s happy to share the news.
“Okay,” Izzy says. “Back to bodies and such. How was Ulrich connected to this Elwood woman?”
“He went to college with her,” I say.
“She went to college?” Izzy says, his voice rife with skepticism.
“For a year, then she dropped out. She attended the UW campus in Eau Claire and she and Ulrich were in some classes together. It doesn’t sound like there’s any proof they ever interacted, and the classes were freshman pre-reqs, so there were probably lots of students in them. Plus, the classes were ten years ago.”
“Did Ulrich graduate?” Hurley asks.
I flip through the pages in the folder and scan several other reports before I find an answer. “He did,” I say. “A bachelor’s degree in history and a minor in English lit, with a teaching certificate. He was teaching history at the local high school at the time of his arrest.”
“Let’s go back to the victims before we get too involved with Ulrich,” Izzy says. “It will help me keep things straight in my head.”
“Okay,” I say, shuffling papers again. “Let’s see . . . the third victim was Darla Ann Marks. She was found by a fisherman on April 18, 2017, along the banks of the Chippewa River, on the north side of Eau Claire near the Chippewa Valley Regional Airport. The location of her body suggested that the perp had dumped it there after he killed her, and the site of her actual murder remains unknown.” I pick up another sheet of paper and add, “That’s the case with all of the victims, it seems. All of the bodies had been dumped where they were found, and the actual sites of the murders were never determined.”
“Odd,” Hurley comments, and Izzy and I both nod in agreement.
“Anyway, it was surmised that the killer gained access to the dump site by boat, since the body was found in a boggy area with narrow fingers of land that extend into the river and aren’t easily accessible from land. Darla was twenty-five years old and tested positive for cocaine and opioids, with evidence of IV drug use. She was from a small town in Minnesota and had no immediate family. She was a foster-system kid.”
“The fourth and final victim was Caroline Marie Helgeson, age twenty-nine, found on April 28th, 2017, in a wooded area alongside a road just outside of town. Unlike the other victims, she wasn’t a drug user or a transient, though she was shot up with a large dose of heroin. In fact, she and Ulrich dated for a while, so he knew her. He swears things ended amicably, that they liked one another, but didn’t have any real spark between them and decided to remain friends. But one of Caroline’s friends said that Caroline told her Ulrich wanted to keep dating her, and when she refused, he didn’t take it very well. Caroline told this friend that Ulrich stalked her for several weeks after the breakup.”
“When was the breakup?” Hurley asks.
“Just before Christmas, in 2016.”
“So the guy had a thing for Caroline, and in his frustration, he starts killing other women who look like her?” Hurley says. I can hear the skepticism in his voice.
“Just to verify,” Izzy says, “all of the victims had the same knife pattern and they all had the flower petals in one of the wounds?”
“Correct,” I say, after I pull out another sheet. “Each of the women had a series of five knife wounds that formed a V with the point being over the symphysis pubis and the top of the V located in or above the breasts. The petals were always found in the wound over the heart, which was the fatal wound in each case. There were five petals stuffed into the wounds of each woman. It doesn’t say anything about the order of the stabbing, and there’s no mention of any defensive wounds on any of them, but these aren’t autopsy reports, so I don’t know if it’s just not mentioned or they weren’t there.”
“I definitely want to examine the autopsy results on all of these women,” Izzy says.
I shift through the papers and find one with four pictures on it, each one labeled with the name of one of the victims. “Wow, the victims certainly did resemble one another,” I say, struck by the similarities. I hold up the paper so both Izzy and Hurley can see the pictures.
“The guy has a type,” Hurley says.
“I’ll say,” Izzy comments. “Those women look enough alike that they could be sisters. They’re all light blondes with pale complexions, blue eyes, small noses, high cheekbones, and a broad facial structure.”
“And they’re all quite pretty,” Hurley observes.
I can’t help but smile at their descriptions. Izzy’s is about the anatomy, whereas Hurley’s is all about aesthetics. “You guys do realize that you’re describing a good portion of the female population in this area,” I say. “With all the Scandinavian blood in and around Wisconsin, there must be thousands of women who look like these four. Heck, I look like them. These girls are all tall, like me. Not as tall, and not as heavy, but still . . .”
“Your comments are meant to suggest that the killer might have simply picked victims who fit the odds, that he wasn’t choosing them based on physical parameters?” Izzy says.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” I say.
“I suppose it is,” Hurley says, “but I’d find that easier to believe if it was only two victims. Maybe even three. But four?”
“And now it might be five,” I point out.
Hurley shoots me a worried look and a shiver races down my spine as I realize that the real killer may still be out there. What’s more, I fit the description of the type of victim he’s looking for.
CHAPTER 9
The Columbia Correctional Institution is in Portage, Wisconsin. The red-and-brown brick main building with its state and national flags flying from poles situated in a well-manicured lawn across from the front door looks like any other government building in Wisconsin—my office building and the police station in Sorenson included. That is, as long as you look past, or block out, the razor wire–topped fence surrounding the sides of the building and the guard tower looming up behind it.
Hurley advises us to leave our cell phones in the truck, as well as our keys, wallets—or purse in my case—except for a picture ID. “They’ll take them away from you if you try to bring them in,” he says. “Plus, you’ll set off the metal detectors.”
The mention of metal detectors causes me a moment of panic as I recall my visit to Tomas Wyzinski in a different prison not that lon
g ago. I’d left all the aforementioned items behind in my car, but I kept setting off the metal detector anyway. As it turned out, it was my underwear that was the problem. The underwires in my bra were not only enough to set off the alarms, they were considered usable as a weapon. I was forced to remove the bra to make it past the front desk.
“Um, I need to remove some clothing,” I say to no one in particular, and then both Hurley and Izzy stare in awe at me as I remove my coat and then sneak my bra straps down over my arms one at a time, snaking them out from beneath my sleeves. Once that is done, I reach one arm behind me to undo the clasp and then reach under my blouse and pull the garment out.
“Impressive,” Izzy says. “I’ve heard about women doing that, but I’ve never seen it done.”
Hurley is staring at my chest, where my newly exposed nipples are reacting to the cold. “You can’t go in there like that,” he says with a frown. “Why did you take it off?”
“There are wires in it, metal stays that run under the cups. I discovered that they set off the metal detectors when I visited Tomas,” I explain, shrugging back into my jacket. “I’ll keep my jacket on and it will be fine.”
Hurley looks skeptical.
As we approach the main entrance, I try not to feel intimidated by the place, but its history and the razor wire enclosure make that hard. I did some research yesterday and learned that it’s where Jeffrey Dahmer was imprisoned and subsequently killed. With ten 50-cell maximum-security units, and a 150-bed minimum-security unit, all of it sitting on 110 acres of land, the place resembles a college campus, albeit one occupied by over 800 lawbreaking men. Some of the inmates are as horrifyingly scary as Dahmer, while others might be incarcerated here for lesser crimes.
As expected, the check-in requires us to go through a metal detector, and even though I’ve taken the necessary precautions, I wince as I step through, half expecting the thing to go off. Hurley frowns the entire time because I was required to remove my coat before stepping through, since the zipper would have triggered the alarm, and my headlights are on high beam. One of the interesting and occasionally annoying things about pregnancy is that, in the early months, the breasts become exquisitely sensitive and reactive. As soon as the pockets have been searched by a guard, I quickly shrug my coat back on and zip it up tight.
The three of us make it through without incident, and after showing our ID and signing in, we are escorted to a room furnished with a heavy wooden conference table and six chairs, three on either side. There is a second entrance to the room on the far wall, presumably the one the prisoner will use.
We have barely entered the room when someone else comes in behind us, bursting in like a hard gust of wind, the door flung open so wide it bangs against the wall. I jump at this flurry of noise and activity, letting everyone know how jangled my nerves are. Prison might not be a deterrent for some folks, but I know I’ll always think twice before committing any offense that could land me in a place like this.
When I turn around, I see the culprit behind these shenanigans: a man with a briefcase, making me guess that this is Ulrich’s attorney. He scurries past us and makes his way to the far side of the table. I see that his shirtfront sports a large brown stain that looks like coffee. He slams his briefcase down on top of the table and I see that it is old and battered, a faux-leather brown thing that is peeling along the edge and corners.
“Good day, folks,” he says, several decibels louder than necessary. “I’m Barney Ledbetter, Mr. Ulrich’s counsel as of last week. His prior attorney of record is no longer involved, thank goodness, since he clearly didn’t provide my client with a decent defense.”
He sits and then proceeds to snap open his briefcase. When he lifts the lid, it nearly comes off as one of the hinges falls partway off. But it clings tenaciously to its base, cockeyed and not lining up quite right.
As I take one of the seats, I see that Barney doesn’t quite line up right, either. This is due in part to the fact that his shirt is buttoned wrong and tucked into his pants, so his button line makes a diagonal run across his torso toward the right. The left lapel of his suit jacket is curled under, making it appear shorter than the right one. On his head, Barney is sporting what appears to be a very cheap toupee, which has slid to one side and rotated slightly. The overall effect of all this misalignment is quite disconcerting—it’s like looking at a Picasso painting—and I can’t help but wonder if Barney looks this way intentionally for that very reason.
He reminds me a lot of Lucien, my brother-in-law, whose crass language, ballsy tactics, and slovenly appearance are an act designed to disarm and mislead his court opponents. In Lucien’s case, it’s all very effective. He is quite successful and rarely loses a case. I hope for Mason Ulrich’s sake that Barney will be the same.
Barney removes a stack of papers from his tattered briefcase and slaps it down on the table. Then he scoots his chair up to the table in an awkward dragging manner, which makes a screeching noise like fingernails on a blackboard.
When he’s done, he looks at Hurley, then at me, with a big, cheesy smile on his face. “Aren’t you two adorable?” he says, wrinkling his nose into a cutesy face like one might use on a baby. “How nice it must be for the two of you to be able to work together, given that you’re married. Though time apart is important in a relationship. Do you ever feel like you have too much together time?”
Barney has put us on notice that he’s done his homework. Hurley, without hesitation but with a hint of irritation in his voice, says, “No, not at all. And we don’t work together all the time. Just on some cases.”
Barney chuffs a laugh and waves away Hurley’s answer. “What do I know?” he says with exaggerated self-deprecation. “I’ve been married and divorced four times, so I think it’s safe to say that relationships aren’t my strong suit. Now, then . . .” He looks at Izzy, narrowing his eyes. “Sorry, I’m not sure who you are?”
“Dr. Izthak Rybarceski. I’m the medical examiner in Sorenson.” Izzy doesn’t offer his hand. In fact, his arms are folded over his chest.
Barney flashes a smile and then looks down at the papers in front of him, flipping through them. The three of us take the seats on our side of the table and wait.
“You said that you want to talk to Mr. Ulrich about the women he’s accused of killing, is that right?” Barney says after a minute or two.
“It is,” Hurley says.
“And will you be recording this little Q-and-A session?”
“We will not.”
“Can you give me an idea of the nature of the questions you’re intending to ask?”
“We’re mainly interested in hearing his explanation for the evidence that was used against him. And we also want to ask him about the flower petals.”
Barney raises his eyebrows at that. “You know about the flower petals.” It isn’t a question. “How?”
“We have our ways,” Hurley says cryptically.
If he’s hoping to annoy Barney with this nonanswer, he’s disappointed. The man simply shrugs and says, “They tried to bury that evidence beneath a pile of other crap during the trial. My predecessor should have used the petals as part of the defense, because the inability to connect my client to those flowers creates reasonable doubt. I’m sure the judge reviewing our appeal will agree.”
“Why didn’t your predecessor bring up the flower petals?” I ask. “Did he miss them?”
Barney rolls his eyes. “He knew about them, but didn’t want to use them. Some jibberty-jab about how it could lead to a lot of psychiatric voodoo that the prosecution could use. He figured by the time all the cuckoo-crazy crap was presented, the jury wouldn’t care that no one could figure out how my client came by the flower petals.” He sighs and shakes his head woefully. It makes his toupee slide a little more, but he reaches up and tugs it back into place. Sort of.
“What is your interest in the flower petals?” he asks. “Have you guys managed to connect them to my client, when no one else could?”
There is a hint of worry in Barney’s voice when he asks this. Clearly, he’s hoping those petals are going to be his client’s ticket to a new trial or an overturning of his conviction.
“We have not,” I say.
Barney sags ever so slightly, visibly relieved. “Then why are you interested in the flowers?”
Even though Barney is looking at Hurley and me when he asks this, it’s Izzy who answers.
“I have a murder victim in my morgue who has the same pattern of stab wounds as all of Ulrich’s supposed victims, and I found flower petals in the same wound they were in on all the other women.”
Barney’s eyes narrow as he turns his laser focus on Izzy. “When was your victim killed?”
“Two days ago.”
“What kind of flower?”
“Carnation, according to my lab tech.”
“Color?”
“Yellow.”
“How many petals?”
“Five.”
Barney’s eyes roam between us and there is a new shine to them as he leans back in his chair. “Well, now, this is interesting,” he says. He licks his lips and I can feel his excitement growing. He looks at Hurley. “Do you think it’s a copycat of some sort?”
“Unlikely,” Hurley says, “given that the flower petal information wasn’t widely known or released to the public.”
Barney eyes all of us again, a look of suspicion on his face. “This is for real?” he says finally, like he thinks we’re punking him.
“For real,” Hurley says. “If it puts your mind at ease, let me state up front that we are exploring the possibility of your client’s innocence.”
Barney shifts nervously in his seat. His fingers are fiddling with the stack of papers, several of which I now see look to be blank. His little stack is a prop, I realize, and the knowledge makes me smile.
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