“What about alibis for any of the times when these women were killed?” Hurley asks next, turning his attention back to Ulrich.
Ulrich sighs. “I’m a bachelor. I have no family in the area. I lived alone at the time. My dating life was nonexistent after Caroline and I broke up, so I was sleeping alone. The cops said all these women were killed during the night, though I understand they couldn’t provide very specific timelines for some of them. But since I was in bed alone, sleeping, every night, it didn’t matter.”
“However,” Barney jumps in, “there’s no motive, either. I know the cops tried to say that my client had an issue with the Helgeson woman that enraged him, and that he killed these other women because they looked like her and served as substitutes for his supposed rage until he finally killed the real deal. But that’s a load of bull hockey. This case is mostly circumstantial.”
“And yet here I am,” Ulrich says, proffering his cuffed hands and giving us a bitter smile.
His eyes take on that cold, dull, almost-dead look again, much like Tomas Wyzinski’s eyes had been in that courtroom. At the time, I thought that look in Wyzinski’s eyes was a sign of malice, proof of his evil nature, but I now know it was the look of utter despair. I hope I can do something to put some life back into Mason Ulrich’s eyes.
Satisfied that he’s gotten all he can out of Ulrich, Hurley brings our meeting to an end. Barney Ledbetter thanks us for our time and asks us to keep him posted. We leave the room with the two of them sitting side by side, heads bowed together, discussing who knows what.
CHAPTER 11
Once we are outside the prison and back in the truck, Hurley says, “On to Eau Claire. What do you guys think so far?”
Once again in the backseat, Izzy says, “I think there’s a good chance they got the wrong man. But there is a window of doubt here. The defense knows about those flower petals, and who knows how many other people might have learned of them? It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that some kook decided to carry out a copycat killing.”
“Or perhaps the defense did,” I say. I see Hurley shoot me a bemused look and can feel Izzy doing the same. “Well, think about it,” I say. “What better argument could Ulrich have for an appeal, or maybe a new trial, or even outright exoneration, than another murder that is identical in every way, including an obscure detail only a few people knew about? A murder where Ulrich finally has an alibi, an unassailable one, in fact. Barney said he took the case on just a week ago and—wham!—there’s another murder.” I pause, but neither of the men says anything. “And let’s face it,” I go on. “Barney seems a bit sketchy, don’t you think?”
“I think ‘sketchy’ is a kind word,” Hurley offers. “But that aside, I’m inclined to agree with Izzy. I think there’s a chance Ulrich is innocent, and, if so, that means the killer is still on the loose. Until we know for sure, we keep digging, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Izzy and I say in unison.
“When we meet with the folks in Eau Claire, let’s try to find out what things about the first cases differ from ours,” Hurley says. “We know the geographic area is different, though I’m not sure of the significance of that, given that three of the four original victims were drug users and transients.”
“Our victim was a drug user and transient, too,” I say. “Which means that the biggest difference, so far, is victim number four, Caroline Helgeson, the woman Ulrich dated. She’s the only one who doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Good point,” Hurley says, looking thoughtful. “If we take Ulrich out of the equation, the Helgeson woman doesn’t fit at all. She only makes sense if Ulrich is the killer and our victim is a copycat.”
“Unless someone is trying to frame Ulrich,” I toss out.
Silence follows. This line of paranoid thinking is a bit out there, and it only seems reasonable to me now because I know it happened to Tomas Wyzinski. My thoughts feel muddled, and my stomach growls.
“Should we grab an early lunch somewhere?” I suggest.
“Good idea,” Izzy says.
Hurley says nothing, but at the next exit, he turns on his indicator and gets off the interstate. We pull into an area that includes a gas station and a Subway restaurant. I’m proud of Izzy when he orders the salad version of one of the sandwiches. I have no such restraint, and not only order a sandwich but a bag of chips and a cookie as well. We eat in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts, though I’m sure we’re all thinking about the case.
When we get back in the truck, the sun beating down through the windshield and my full tummy combine to make my eyelids feel heavy. Moments after we are back on the road, I drift off. It seems like only seconds later that Hurley is gently shaking my shoulder and saying, “Mattie, we’re here.”
I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. We are parked in front of a sprawling white concrete building that looks like a prison façade. Instead, it is a municipal building that serves as home to the Eau Claire Police Department, as well as several other governmental entities.
After checking in at a glassed-in reception area, a uniformed cop meets us and buzzes us through a door and down labyrinthine hallways into a conference room. Standing inside the room, leaning against a large conference table, is a heavyset fellow wearing a white shirt, a plain blue tie, and a pair of navy dress pants with a sheen that suggests they’ve seen better days. He looks to be in his mid-forties, with a broad chest and a bit of a paunch over a pair of long, skinny legs. His dark, thinning hair is combed straight back from his forehead, which, like the rest of his face, is heavily lined. That, combined with a subtle scent emanating from him, tells me he’s a smoker.
“Hello there,” he says, pushing away from the table and extending a hand to Hurley. “You must be Steve Hurley. I’m Rick Stetson, like the hat.”
Now that we’re closer, I can see that Detective Stetson has lazy, hooded eyes in an odd shade of pale brown that is almost yellow. They remind me of a snake’s eyes. I suspect the man does very well when questioning anyone, because his gaze is disconcertingly uncomfortable.
After shaking Hurley’s hands, Stetson turns his attention to us.
“Detective Stetson was in charge of the Ulrich investigation,” Hurley explains before doing the introductions. “This is Dr. Izthak Rybarceski, our medical examiner in Sorenson, and this is Mattie . . . um . . . Winston, one of the medicolegal investigators in the ME’s office.”
Hurley’s verbal stumble makes me wince inwardly. The fact that I haven’t changed my last name to his, or at least reverted to my maiden name of Fjell, is something of a sore subject with him. However, even he admits it’s handy to have two different names in situations where we have to work together, but don’t necessarily want other folks to know that we’re married.
When we first met, Hurley called me Winston all the time. Nowadays I never hear that name from him. It’s always either Mattie or Squatch.
I don’t want to take on Hurley as my last name, at least not yet. The two of us work together so much, it’s bound to raise eyebrows and questions if we introduce ourselves with the same last name. Barney Ledbetter’s knowledge of our relationship, and his reaction to it, is exactly the type of situation we don’t want.
Hurley and I take great pains to avoid any circumstances that might create a conflict of interest, though sometimes they can’t be helped. If people don’t know to look for one, then so much the better.
“Please have a seat anywhere you like,” Stetson says after the greetings are done. “Help yourselves to some coffee or water, if you like.”
There are plastic urns at the center of the table, along with a half-dozen plastic water cups and an equal number of plastic coffee cups. Both urns have masking tape labels on them, one with COFFEE written on it, while the other says WATER. Next to the coffee urn and cups is a dish with about a dozen small containers of artificial creamer, and a two-sided plastic caddy of sugar and sugar-substitute packets.
Stetson heads around to the opposite
side of the table, so the three of us settle into seats on our side, me in between Izzy and Hurley. I reach for the water first, and after getting nods from both Hurley and Izzy, I pour each of us a glass. When I’m done with that, I grab the coffee urn and give the two men questioning looks again. This time they pass. I pour myself a small cup, dump two of the creamers into it, and give it a sip. That’s enough to tell me that the men were wiser than I.
I set the cup down a ways away from me. I should have known better. There isn’t a cop house anywhere that’s known for its coffee. Besides, Hurley is giving me raised eyebrows and I remember that I’m pregnant.
Stetson laces his fingers together, smiling at us as he watches the beverage action. “I trust you received the reports I faxed to you yesterday?” he says to Hurley.
“I did,” Hurley says with a nod. “Thank you. I haven’t had time to go through all of them yet, but got through enough to give me a good idea of the facts of the case. Though I’d be interested in anything else you might have.”
“Of course,” Stetson says, blinking lazily. He gestures toward a couple of boxes at the other end of the table. “I’ve pulled together as much of the file on Ulrich as I could find. You’re welcome to look through it all, though I’m not sure how you think it’s going to help you with your case.”
Hurley takes a drink of water, stalling. “As I said on the phone,” he says finally, setting his glass down, “we have a homicide victim in Sorenson whose wounds and manner of death appear to fit Ulrich’s MO.”
“A copycat,” Stetson says in a tone that makes it clear he’s stating the obvious.
Hurley rakes a hand through his hair. “That was my first thought, but Dr. Rybarceski found some evidence that suggests otherwise.”
The door behind us opens and we all turn to look. A tall man dressed in a black suit and white shirt enters the room. He has dark eyes, brown hair slicked straight back from his face, a smile that looks plastic and forced, and a definite air of authority.
“Ah, this is our county DA, Pete Hamilton,” Stetson says.
As Stetson relays our names and occupations to the newcomer, Hamilton walks to the head of the table and pulls out the chair there, barely acknowledging our presence. “Yes, yes, welcome,” he says in an impatient tone. He doesn’t look at us as he says this. Instead, he reaches for the carafe of water and one of the cups, then pours himself a drink.
I study his tie during this interlude, a slash of bright red against the white shirt that looks like a big, bloody wound. There are ladybugs printed on it, and I gather the design is to suggest a bit of whimsy, which I’m betting the man doesn’t possess.
He settles into his chair after he’s done pouring his drink and then takes a sip of the water. His movements are slow and deliberate, and I realize he’s performing for us, much like he might in front of a jury. He runs a hand down that tie, smoothing it.
“I understand you folks might have a copycat killer?” he says, smiling at Hurley.
It’s Izzy who answers him. “I’m not sure it’s a copycat,” he says. “I think there’s a possibility Ulrich could be innocent.”
Hamilton scoffs at this, giving Izzy a skeptical look. “And you think this why, exactly?”
“Because of some evidence we found on the body of our victim,” Izzy says.
“I see,” Hamilton says in a placating tone. “And what would this evidence be?”
“Debris I found in one of the stab wounds, the one over the heart. Plus, the pattern of the stab wounds matches those of the victims you had in the Ulrich case.”
We have Hamilton’s attention now. “This debris you found, it was what, may I ask?”
“Parts of a flower,” Izzy says. “Five yellow carnation petals.”
Stetson leans back in his chair, his hands dropping into his lap. He turns and stares at Hamilton, his body stiff as if he’s bracing himself for a blow.
“That does match findings we had on all of our victims,” Hamilton says.
“And yet, it wasn’t mentioned during the trial,” Hurley says.
Hamilton’s smile is gone now. “We decided not to use that evidence because we couldn’t figure out where Ulrich got the petals from. Mentioning them might have complicated the case by creating possible doubt about his guilt. Of course the defense had access to the autopsy reports, and I assume they knew about the petals. They could have brought them up, but I think the psychiatric experts we had lined up ready to testify about the meaning behind those particular flowers convinced them otherwise.” He leans back and looks up toward the ceiling. “Though I must admit, they may have been smarter than I give them credit for.”
“How so?” I ask.
He lowers his head and looks at me with an expression that is a mixture of condescension and patient tolerance. I get the sense that he’s someone used to being in charge and getting his way. “Come now, Ms. Winston. Surely, you can see how this dead woman of yours casts doubt on Ulrich’s guilt, opening the door for all kinds of appeals and motions.”
“What are you suggesting?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m not suggesting anything. Draw your own conclusions.” He says this with an inflection that suggests an inevitable outcome is obvious.
I try again to pin him down. “Do you think Ulrich might be innocent?”
“God, no,” Hamilton scoffs. “That man is as guilty as the day is long. But I’m sure the defense will jump on this right away. How convenient for them.” He smiles at me, his brows arched ever so slightly, waiting for me to get the inference in case I missed his first one.
I know exactly what he’s thinking and implying—I’d had the same thought myself earlier in the truck. The idea that a defense attorney would have someone killed to try and prove his client’s innocence is an outlandish theory, and it’s also not the first one I would expect someone in Hamilton’s position to jump to.
I give him a look of disbelief. “Are you suggesting that the defense team somehow arranged for a murder to match the others purely as a strategy for an appeal, or to submit a motion for retrial?”
“Murder is a strong word,” Hamilton says, making a face like he just tasted something awful. “Perhaps they took advantage of some poor vagrant girl with a drug problem who overdosed. It would be easy to create the wounds and stuff some flower petals in one of them.”
“That didn’t happen,” Izzy says emphatically. “The wounds were definitely made perimortem, and the one over her heart was the one that killed her.”
“Do you have her drug screens back yet?” Hamilton asks, looking a bit smug.
“We have some of them,” Izzy says.
“Do you have the opiates test back?” Hamilton asks, and Izzy nods. “And were they present in your victim?”
“Yes,” Izzy admits.
“Enough to have killed her?”
“I don’t know yet,” Izzy says. “But I do know that she was alive when she was stabbed,” he says determinedly.
“Okay, if you insist,” Hamilton says dismissively. “It doesn’t mean your death wasn’t committed by a copycat killer.” He is wearing that plastic smile again and the room falls silent. Glances are exchanged, and the tension in the room is so thick, one could cut it with a knife. This gives me an idea.
“We have imprints around the wounds that appear to have been made by the hilt. Did your victims have similar markings? And did you match them up to the murder weapon?”
Hamilton and Stetson exchange looks.
“We never found the actual knife,” Stetson says. “We know Ulrich bought a fishing knife the year before that fits with the type of wounds three of the victims had, though Ulrich claimed he lost it. He could have tossed it into the Chippewa River in any number of places and we’d never find it. But we have records of the purchase and know what the knife looked like. We bought one just like it, and the docs said the specs and dimensions of that particular knife fit with the victims’ wounds.”
“Three of the victims?” I repeat, z
eroing in on that. “Are you saying a different weapon was used on one of them?”
Hamilton nods. “The first one. She was stabbed in a similar manner as all the others—same locations for the wounds, same depth, same flower petals—but the overall size of the wounds was different. The knife used on her was bigger, and likely had a longer blade, because there were no hilt marks on her body.”
“And you didn’t find either weapon?” I ask.
Hamilton shakes his head. “My guess is the first knife is at the bottom of the Chippewa River somewhere. It was his first kill and he likely got nervous and wanted to get rid of the thing. Then when he killed again, he used a different knife, but hung on to it this time, feeling more confident after getting away with the first murder.”
“So you have no murder weapon, no witnesses,” Hurley says, looking deep in thought. “Any other evidence? Or, rather, any evidence at all?”
Hamilton bristles; Stetson’s face colors.
“Of course,” Hamilton says. “And if you know about the flower petal evidence, I’m betting you have some source of information and know full well what other evidence we had.”
Score a point for Hamilton, though things aren’t as straightforward as he might think.
Hurley smiles. “I do have some information,” he admits. “I know you found Ulrich’s fishing license by one of the victims, and that Ulrich had connections to two of the victims.”
Hamilton scoffs. “More than a connection in the case of the last victim,” he says. “He dated Caroline Helgeson until she dumped him, and then he stalked her for weeks afterward. It’s no coincidence that the murders started shortly after that, or that the first three victims all bear a physical resemblance to Helgeson.”
“All circumstantial,” Hurley says. “Given the violence of these crimes and the fact that it appears that all of the bodies were dumped, you’d think the killer would have transferred something to the victims or the sites. And yet there’s nothing?”
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