Murder in the Dell

by Bert Entwistle

  Deacon pushed back in his chair, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. “Well, shit . . . this animal is just a man, goddamnit, like all of us. You know he’s not perfect, also like all of us. If he hasn’t made a mistake already, he will, it’s just a matter of time.”

  “The bureau is running every possible lead from the phone records and the social media sites. There hasn’t been a single financial transaction on any accounts or cards. We’re going over every missing person site in the country,” said Felix. “I need to get out of here. If anything important comes up, I’ll let you know.”

  After they left, Deacon sat alone in the room looking through all the photos again. Angie came in and sat down across from him. “Deacon, you okay? You look kind of beat.”

  “No, I’m not all okay. I’m pissed about how this is going and the way the FBI is handling things. They tell me just what they have to and nothing more. This has been going on for so long and nobody has been able to figure it out. How many more women will die before we catch this son-of-a-bitch?”

  “Give yourself a break. None of this is your fault and you know it. This is the FBI’s case. They have a lot of good cops looking for this guy, and they haven’t found him yet.”

  “Yeah, but it’s happening in my county and it’s my responsibility to keep these people safe. Look at these five pictures for a minute. Do you see anything they might have in common?”

  Five young faces, cleaned up for the photos stared up at her. “I don’t know. They’re all young and attractive. Number three here,” she said, picking up the photo. “She’s still not identified?”

  “No. the other four were relatively easy, they had people looking for them. This one doesn’t seem to have anyone. She was buried as Jane Doe.”

  “I think we should give her a name, at least for now. I think she looks like a Laura, it makes her seem a little more real, kind of more personal.”

  “That’s good” he said, staring at the picture. “Everybody needs a name, and everyone needs someone. My promise to her is that I will find out who she is and who killed her. You can take that to the bank.”

  She touched him gently on the arm. “You and I are her family now.”

  Chapter 2

  The sun was just setting as he put the package in the trunk and slammed it shut. This one seemed heavier than the others, or maybe he was just getting old. Switching on the headlights, he pulled the sedan onto the pavement. After a few miles, he turned up a narrow side road and into a small picnic ground. It was good the state kept the picnic grounds plowed for the snowmobilers and the fishermen. For most people it was too cold to be out here after dark, but it worked well for his purposes. Backing the car up close to the shoreline, he pulled the body wrapped tightly in black plastic, out of the trunk and dropped it in the snow. Giving it a kick, the plastic rolled and slid toward the lake, hitting the shore ice and sliding several feet onto the lake. Pulling back onto the main road, he turned up the radio and headed home with the sound of Shubert filling the car.

  * * *

  Sitting at the picnic bench, Deacon looked at his watch. It was 8:50 pm when he got the call. He noted that it was 9:22 pm when he arrived and started to question the young couple who found the body. They were just there for a little privacy they said, when they got out of the car they saw the black plastic immediately. “I bent down to see what it was and got scared. It looked like a mummy the way it was wrapped up so tight, so I called 911 right away.”

  Deacon knew they were probably out here to smoke a little weed, common in these isolated places, but he could care less. The body was the only important thing tonight. When they were through, he asked the couple to come by the office tomorrow for a formal statement.

  Deputy Stone sat down next to him. “I already called Doc Baker, he should be here any minute.”

  “Good. Don’t touch the body at all. The old man will have a fit if he sees that something has been moved.”

  Doctor Baker pulled the white Bayfield County van into the site and shut off the engine. Walking right by them without speaking, he went straight onto the ice to the body, and bent down for a better look. “Has anyone touched it?” he asked, never looking back at them.

  “No,” said Deacon, “we all know better.”

  “Good to see you finally learned something after all these years. Help me pull her onto the shore.”

  Putting on his gloves, he grabbed the head end of the plastic and Stone took the feet. They pulled the body out just enough to get it onto level ground. The Doctor bent down and made a small cut in the plastic along the side of the head and peeled it back. The smell of death was immediate.

  “Roll her over,” he said, motioning with his hand. Making a slit in the plastic, he then made a small incision into the back of the corpse and tried unsuccessfully to push a thermometer probe into the liver. “Okay that’s it,” he said, removing the probe, “roll her over and let’s get her into the bag.”

  They lifted the body into the truck and removed their gloves, throwing them in the medical waste bag. “Doc, is there anything you can tell us right now that might give us a starting place?”

  Baker slammed the doors shut. “Sure — she’s dead. Meet me at the morgue.”

  The funeral home was an enormous, white, two-story home with an attic and large front porch. Built in the late 19th century in a Victorian/Gothic style, the morgue, mortuary and crematorium facility in the basement were added in the fifties. The steep pitched roof had many dormers and cupolas that were popular at the turn of the century. Locals often referred to it as the Psycho House, from the old Hitchcock movie.

  Baker had lived on the top floor as long as anyone could remember. He was never married, and the locals knew very little about his personal life. He was always just Old Doc Baker, the mortician to a couple of generations of people. The kids liked to tease each other about how Old Doc Baker was going to get them, but they all stayed as far away from the house as they could.

  After the van backed up to the large double doors, Deacon and Austin helped Baker roll the gurney into the elevator. After they placed her on the table, he put on his gown and mask and picked up a scalpel. “You sure you want to be here for this?”

  “I’m sure,” said Davis.

  “Well I’m not so sure,” said Stone, as he headed for the door. “I need some air, I’m outta here.”

  Baker shrugged and slit the plastic from head to toe. “Come on Davis, help me get her out of here.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure Doc,” he said, reaching out to grab the plastic.

  “Goddamnit — get some gloves on! I guess you haven’t learned anything after all.”

  After he pulled on the gloves, he tightened up his mask. The odor was nearly unbearable. “Jesus Doc, how do you do this every day?”

  “I am a professional, and this is part of the job. Even though most of the world couldn’t spell coroner or mortician, they’ll all meet one someday.”

  Removing the plastic, they put it in a large evidence bag and sealed it. Baker began to remove her clothes. A thin print dress, gray leggings, black panties and bra were all that she had on. No shoes, purse, jewelry or any other form of identification were with her. Everything else was sealed up in another evidence bag. Not completely frozen, like some of the others, decomposition was bad. Even after he washed her face it was hard to make out the features. A good photo was going to be difficult. Deacon snapped several and hoped that a local artist may be able to make a good drawing out of it.

  “Doc, I’m heading out, I want to get this photo flyer done so we can start working on her ID.”

  “Whatever . . .”

  By 7:00 am he was back at the crime scene watching the FBI Forensics Team do their work. “Hello Felix. Turn up anything yet?”

  “Nothing yet. I suspect she was dumped when there was still fresh snow on the ground. There are no real tire tracks, foot prints, or anything else for that matter.”

  “I gave the plastic that covered the b
ody, and the clothing to your evidence guy, and he signed for it. It wasn’t out of my possession since me and Doc Baker took it off of her at the morgue. He said it hadn’t been here long enough to be completely frozen.”

  “It’ll be at the lab before the end of the day.”

  “Sounds good.” His cell phone startled him, it was the ring from the office. “Did you forget that the kids who found the body were coming in?” asked Angie.

  “Aw crap. Okay, ask them if they’ll wait for a bit, I should be there in a few minutes.”

  “They say that’s fine, they’ll be here whenever you get in.”

  Walking through the front door, he offered his hand to the young man. “Sorry I’m running so late, thanks for waiting,”

  “No problem, anything we can do to help.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No we’re good, your office manager already fixed us up.”

  Both of them were about sixteen or seventeen and local high school students. Neither had any kind of record and were from good families. After a half-hour of conversation Davis concluded the interview and showed them to the door.

  “Did you learn anything that might help?” asked Angie.

  “Not really, they’re just two kids that were looking for a spot to make out and maybe smoke some weed. They just stumbled onto the body. I’m sure it’s something they’ll never forget.”

  “Oh, by the way, Pete Peterson dropped off the tow company record of his service call that day.”

  “Good, throw it in my basket please, I’ll read it later. I’m headed over to see Doc Baker, maybe he’s turned up something already.”

  “Good luck with that, better you than me.”

  The morgue was dimly lit except for the large fluorescent fixture over the work table. Music played softly in the background and Baker was bent over the body of the recent victim, concentrating on his work. Watching from the doorway for a minute, Deacon decided he looked a bit like Doctor Frankenstein working on his monster.

  “Doc, how’s it coming along? Anything you can give me yet?”

  “Come over here where I can hear you.”

  Walking in, he could see that the autopsy was well under way. The chest cavity and abdomen were open and empty, and the brain was on the scale. “Any cause of death yet Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well? You gonna leave me wondering?”

  “Sheriff Davis, we need to get a couple of things straight first. I don’t really care much for you, and I don’t like to be called Doc. You can call me Doctor Baker, or just Doctor, or even Robert if you wish, but not Doc. I am a highly trained professional and will be addressed and treated like one.” Pausing for effect, he continued. “I don’t like your flip attitude when you are here. You will treat me and these victims with respect—am I clear Sheriff?”

  He nodded his head. “Yes, Doctor Baker, you are quite clear. We are both highly trained professionals, and we both deserve to be treated with respect.”

  The old man stared at him for a long moment then picked up his clipboard. “Very well. Our victim is white, female, middle twenties, brown hair and was relatively healthy. She has nothing under her nails and practiced good hygiene. She had been dead twenty hours when she was found. Cause of death is a broken neck and manner of death is homicide,” said Baker, flipping to the next page. “She had a flower tattoo on the back of her neck, two frogs on her right shoulder and the word power over her right breast. Her right ankle had a ribbon design around it. I found no sign that she had ever been pregnant or had any recent sexual activity. The lab work should be ready in three days and I sent in a sample for DNA testing.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Will you please send a copy to the office as soon as you get a chance?”

  Baker nodded, still looking at his paperwork. “There is one more thing, her neck was intentionally broken by someone twisting it.”

  Deacon looked surprised at this. “You can tell that?”

  “Obviously,” said Baker, still not looking up.

  Deacon was back in the war room burying himself in the files again, looking at the pictures and rereading the autopsy reports. “Angie, come in here please.”

  She walked in and stood next to him with her note pad.

  “I just got my ass chewed off by the good Doctor Baker — but at least he has the autopsy done.”

  “So why did he chew on you?”

  “Damned if I know, maybe it’s male menopause or he’s passing a stone or something, who knows. Bring in Vince and Austin, I want to run something by all of you.”

  Vince Wolff was Bayfield County’s newest recruit, just two months out of the Wisconsin Police Academy, ambitious and anxious to get his career going. When they were all in the room, Deacon told them to open their updated file folders. On the white board he had written the victims’ names and case numbers under the photos provided by the families — except for the third victim. “I want you guys to look at the cause of death on these five victims. Do you see anything in common?”

  “Boss, I know we’ve looked at these a thousand times before and didn’t see anything in common then. I don’t really see anything different now,” said Stone.

  “Vince, what about you? I know you’ve been studying these cases for a while now, what do you see?”

  “Aside from their age and gender, it appears that they don’t have anything else in common. That is, every cause of death is completely different from every other one. I think there could be a couple of possibilities: one, there are multiple killers working this area, or there is one killer who intentionally wants this to look like multiple killers, but it’s obvious the same person is wrapping and dumping them.”

  “Yes — very good. That’s the only thing I’ve come up with after all this time. For some reason the killer has done everything from beating them to death, poisoning them, dismemberment, strangulation and now, breaking their neck.”

  “Don’t forget the one that was shot four times,” said Angie.

  “Yeah, number two, shot four times with a .22,” said Deacon. “I think that’s the common link here — the same killer is using different methods each time for some reason we don’t understand. What else has anyone noticed?”

  “I’ve studied these over and over,” said Austin. “One thing I noticed from the reports is that all the bodies have been very clean.”

  “A good point, anything else?”

  “I was wondering about the black plastic they’re wrapped in,” said Angie.

  “It looks like it’s the most common brand on the market today,” said Deacon. “That’s all been sent back to the FBI lab, they’re processing all the crime scene stuff. They’ll let us know if they find anything on it.”

  “I don’t mean just the material itself, but what about the way each body was wrapped and tied. The plastic was pulled tight and neatly folded, and it looks like it was shrunk around the body. Each one had the same thin cord around the neck, waist and ankles.”

  “Another good point. The killer is a perfectionist, probably even OCD about these things.”

  “Did the FBI provide a profile on this guy?” asked Wolff.

  Deacon nodded. “They did, but that was three bodies ago. I asked them for a fresh one after this last body — I’m still waiting for it. The first one sounded like every one you see on all the TV crime shows: White male, 20 to 40 years old, loner, no close family, little education beyond high school and a menial job. That could be half the population around here.”

  “Anything new on the severed arm?”

  “I wish there was Vince, but so far, all we have is half an arm with well done fingernails and nothing else. That reminds me, Angie, can you give Amy a copy of the painted nails on our arm? She might have some input on the design.”

  “Already did, she’s going to pass it around to other shops for us. Somehow, the severed arm seems out of character for the guy killing all these women. The arm is not clean or wrapped neatly in black plastic.�
�

  “I agree,” said Deacon, “it’s entirely different.”

  The door opened and Angie got up and greeted the man from the print shop. “Here are the flyers you asked for. My guy did the best he could on the drawing of her face, I hope it’s accurate enough.”

  “Thanks, Tom, much appreciated. We’ll start passing these out right away.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  “I will, stay warm out there.” Closing the door behind him, she set the box of flyers on the war room table.

  “Considering how bad she looked the first time I saw her, I think this is a really good job,” said Deacon, passing out the flyers to the others. “Okay, you guys know what’s next. Start canvassing the area with flyers and showing them to everyone you come in contact with. Someone has to know this girl.”

  Chapter 3

  He sat back in the chair looking through the newest file. Angie stood up and snapped the light off. “Come on Deacon, it’s cold, dark and late, let’s go home.”

  He closed the file. “We gotta find this monster soon — he ain’t gonna stop killing on his own.”

  “You’re right, and you will get him, but not tonight, let’s go.”

  Turning off the pavement, he navigated the last hundred yards to his cabin. It was large as hundred-year-old cabins went, and was built so the backyard faced the lake. A new dock ran out into the water for 20 feet. His boat was on the trailer next to the shed, covered for the winter.

  It was a solid, tight cabin, with good bones, originally made from the old growth pines on the property. The cabin had been owned by an old friend of his father’s. When he passed away, Deacon bought it. It sat on fourteen acres of thick pines and spruces shot through with oaks and maples. Birches and willows grew along the shoreline. He started to remodel it as soon as he bought it. New windows, doors and metal roof had been his immediate priorities.