Murder in the Dell

by Bert Entwistle

  Since then, he had gone through everything else in fine detail. In the fall, the property looked like a page from a full-color travel brochure. He lit the wood stove, stoked it and adjusted the damper. Walking to the refrigerator, he opened it and reached inside. “You want a beer?”

  “Sure, let me get changed,” said Angie, “and I’ll be right back.”

  They went out for the first time a year after her divorce and that was several years ago. There was no county rule preventing coworkers from dating, but they agreed that they would keep it as low-key as possible when at the office. It was an open secret, but nobody in Bayfield County really cared.

  The big bedroom in the loft looked out onto the lake through three huge windows. A door led onto the deck where they could watch the sunrise every morning. Neither had kids and his dog was as close as they would ever come to having a child. Deacon called him Rufus. Angie called him a great big lazy ball of hair, accusing him of never doing anything but eating and sleeping — but she still liked to cuddle with him every chance she had.

  When she agreed to live with him she had only one caveat, home was for relaxing, and the office was for business. Because they worked together all day, she didn’t want him to bring any business from the office to the cabin. No files or paperwork in the cabin, particularly no crime scene stuff. He readily agreed, and they had been together for nearly five years.

  Deacon was a solid, 185 pounds and six-foot-tall, almost exactly the same as he was when he got out of high school. His most prominent feature was his thick head of graying hair, the envy of most of the men he knew and even some of the women. After his recovery from the high school tragedy, he tried to join the Army, but was unable to pass the physical because of his injuries. For a couple of years he wandered around the state doing carpentry work and a lot of fishing while trying to decide what to do with himself.

  On advice from an old friend, he applied to the Wisconsin Police Academy. After his training he took the deputy job in Bayfield County, a position that was immediately available after his graduation. Most of the other deputies he knew from the academy wanted the more populated areas, somewhere they thought they would have more action.

  Bayfield County was always his first choice, it was close to home and the lake where he could fish whenever he wanted. After several years with the county as a deputy, and weathering a big political shakeup, he accepted the job as interim sheriff.

  The first year required a lot of extra work to get the business of the office, as well as its books, back in shape. The old sheriff left with charges pending, and in the first week Deacon had to fire Curt Sorenson, the longest serving deputy in the county. The mess was compounded by several confrontations and threats from him that continued for a long time afterward.

  The building itself had been poorly maintained for so many years that he spent nearly as much time begging the supervisors for repair money as he did doing sheriff’s work. At first, a lot of residents thought he was too inexperienced, but they voted him into the office with a special election and kept voting him back in. He loved the small towns and the rural countryside. The force was small, but he could get help from the state police when he needed it.

  Never did he think when he took the job that he might have one of the worse serial killers in America working in his own backyard. He would be more than happy if this killer would start working in one of his other classmate’s areas, then they would have more action than they could handle.

  When he got back to the office, there were two people waiting for him in the conference room. “Sheriff, this is Susan and Jeff Russell,” said Angie, pointing to the room. “They came in with one of the flyers in their hand. They think the girl we just found may be their daughter . . .”

  “Thanks.” Steeling himself up for what he had to do next, he walked into the room, closed the door behind him and shook Jeff Russell’s hand. When they were done, Russell walked his sobbing wife to the car, then returned to talk with Deacon some more.

  “Sheriff, here are three names that I think you may want to look at. Two are her girlfriends, I think they may have been with her on her last day, and one is a guy that she dated for a while. She didn’t go with him very long, but I didn’t like him and I didn’t trust him. Maybe these will be a little help.”

  Walking him to the door, he shook his hand and thanked him. “Thanks, the FBI is in charge of this case, they will contact you shortly for interviews. We’ll keep you informed.”

  Deacon sat back and rubbed his eyes. “We’ll keep you informed—bullshit! I don’t ever want to have to say that to parents again. She’s Carly Elizabeth Russell, 21 years old and their only daughter. She was set to graduate college in May with a degree in agriculture. The family has a dairy farm just outside Ashland. She told them she was going to spend a three-day weekend with her friends in Washburn, that’s all we know so far.”

  “How sad, I can’t imagine how painful this must be for them.”

  He dropped the slip with the names and numbers on her desk. “As soon as Vince gets here, have him start searching for the girls. I want to know every detail of their lives and whereabouts for the last week.”

  “You got it. What about the guy’s name?”

  “Get Austin on that one. I’ll be back shortly. I’m off to do battle with my favorite Doctor.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Walking into the morgue, he could see Baker in the same position he was the last time. He looked a little like Frankenstein hunched over his creation with music playing softly in the background. This time he knocked before coming in.

  “What do you want?”

  “Doctor Baker, I just wanted to talk a little more about the girl and give you her information for the records.”

  “Come in,” said Baker, wiping off the countertop.

  Deacon walked over to him and waited for a response.

  “What do you want to show me?”

  He handed the file to him. “This is her information for your file. Carly Elizabeth Russell, 21 years old, from just outside Ashland. Parents are Jeff and Susan Russell.”

  “Fine, anything else?”

  “Yes. Your lab report says that there were no drugs or alcohol in her blood stream.”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “What about food in her stomach?”

  “It’s in the report.”

  “Show me please, I don’t see it on here.”

  He snatched the report from Davis’ hand and stared at it. “Apparently it’s not on here, I will send over a corrected report as soon as I get a chance.”

  “Can you just tell me since I’m already here?”

  He immediately flushed with anger, and Deacon couldn’t suppress a small grin. “Nothing, it was empty, she hadn’t eaten for at least three hours. Like I said, I’ll send over a fresh copy.”

  He nodded and headed for the door. When he reached it, he turned and looked back at him. “Thanks Doc, much appreciated.”

  “Austin, what did you find out about our boy?”

  “Timothy Travers, white, age 28, several past arrests for drugs, drunk and disorderly, and one for punching a barmaid in the face and breaking her nose. He served 120 days for that one.”

  “A real tough guy, huh? You got an address for him?”

  “Yessir, he’s right here in our little town.”

  “What do you say we go and see exactly how tough this guy is.”

  Pulling up to the curb, they were surprised to find themselves in front of a well-kept, two-story, red brick house, probably built in the thirties. A two-car garage in matching brick was set behind the house at the back of the lot.

  Walking up to the door, they peered into the window and everything looked equally as neat inside. Pressing the doorbell, they heard a shuffling sound from inside. When the door opened they were looking at an elderly woman, pulling an oxygen cylinder.

  “Can I help you?”

  After introducing themselves, they asked if Timothy Traver
s lived there.

  “I am Teena Travers. Timothy is my grandson, but he doesn’t really live here. He does come by once and a while, usually with his mother. Is that boy in trouble again?”

  “No ma’am,” said Deacon. “We’re looking for a friend of his, a girl named Carly Russell. She’s 21 years old and very pretty, and she’s been missing for a while. Would you happen to know her?”

  “No — I don’t think so.”

  “Would you happen to know where Timothy is right now?”

  “No, but I think his mother will, just a moment and I’ll get her address for you.”

  “Thank you Ma’am.”

  “You’re very welcome. Her name is Maryanne, she should be home now.”

  Austin pulled up to the address on the paper. “This is the place?” asked Davis, stopping in front of a beautiful, modern home in the most exclusive area of town.

  “This is the address she gave us.”

  “Well, let’s check it out then.”

  The door was opened before they could even knock, by an attractive, middle aged brunette woman, wearing a dress fit for a queen’s ball and dripping in expensive looking jewelry. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Are you Maryanne Travers?”

  “I am, what can I do for you?”

  After introducing themselves, they explained that they were looking for Timothy Travers and his friend Carly Russell.

  “He’s not here, he only comes around when he wants money. If he can’t get it from me he goes to his grandmother and tries her. Do you know Teena Travers?”

  “Yes,” said Davis. “She sent us here. So you wouldn’t have any idea where he might be?”

  “Timothy has been a problem child since grade school. He’s been in and out of trouble and jail for years. I hate to say it, but I gave up on him long ago. Where he’s at right now is anybody’s guess. Sometimes he’s on the street, sometimes he’s on someone’s couch and sometimes he’s locked up. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I never heard of that girl before and I’m running late.”

  “Thank you for your help Mrs. Travers,” said Deacon. He handed her his card and turned to leave.

  “No problem, I wish I could be of more help. Hold on — you know there might be one place you could look . . .”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You know the Iron Town Bar? Down by the old docks? Sometimes they let him crash there. It’s kind of a dirty old place.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” said Deacon. “We definitely know the place. Thanks again. Deputy, I feel the need to spend a little time in a nasty, smoky, dark bar, how about you?”

  “I’m getting the same feeling boss, I was planning on showering today anyway.”

  Looking at the picture of Timothy one more time, they headed into the bar. Part biker bar and part haven for druggies and various lowlifes, it had been there since before prohibition days when the bootleggers delivered booze from Canada in the middle of the night. Cigarette smoke rolled out the door when they opened it, and it took a moment for their eyes to adjust.

  Walking through the doors, the room got quiet and everyone watched them as they sat down at the bar. “What brings two cops in here on such a miserable ass day?” asked the bartender.

  “We’re here for the atmosphere,” said Austin. “That okay with you?”

  The bartender ran his fingers through his greasy gray hair, pushing it back and fastening it with a rubber band. “Why don’t you hit the road and we can just pretend like we never met each other.”

  “I’m looking for someone — Timothy Travers. If he’s here, I want to know. If he’s been here recently, I want to know that too.”

  “Never heard of him, and it ain’t likely I’ll ever hear of him.”

  Stone slid his hand down to his pistol and unsnapped the strap. Deacon looked the bartender square in the eyes, “You’re a goddamn liar . . .”

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” said the bartender reaching under the bar for something. Deacon grabbed him by his long, stringy beard with both hands and slammed his face violently down onto the wet bar.

  Stone pulled his gun and spun to face the customers. “Everyone just relax, and we’ll be out of here before you know it. My friend will finish his conversation with the gentleman tending bar in just a moment, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Keeping a tight grip on the beard, he let him up slightly. “Now, where is Timothy Travis?”

  “Okay, let go of me! The boat shed out back, he’s been staying there for a while.”

  “Thank you — uh, what was your name again?”

  “Elmore, goddamn you, let me go!”

  He let him up slightly then slammed him down again. “Thank you Elmore, is that your first or last name?”

  “It’s my first name! You’re killing me here!”

  “Elmore, what is your last name? Just for my records.”

  “Towers, Elmore Towers.”

  Letting go of the beard, he pointed his pistol at him. “Here’s the deal everyone. If anyone leaves this bar in the next thirty minutes, me or my partner here will put a bullet in you. Any questions?” The room stayed silent. “I didn’t think so.”

  Davis and Stone left through the back door and cautiously approached the small boat shed with their guns drawn. There were several sets of tracks in the snow leading back and forth to the shed. As they closed the distance, a single figure walked out the side door and right toward them. When he looked up, he was only a few feet from the two men. “Stop right there and put your hands up,” said Stone.

  Reaching in his coat pocket, the man started to pull out a pistol and Deacon fired once, hitting him in the right knee.

  Rolling around in pain, screaming at the top of his lungs, Stone was on top of him quickly, cuffing him. Reaching in Traver’s pocket, he pulled out a cheap, small frame .22 pistol. As he searched the rest of his clothes, he found several packets of meth, two knives and eleven dollars.

  Davis called for an ambulance while Stone temporarily stopped the bleeding. “You dumb ass, what the hell were you thinking? All you had to do was stop and put your hands in the air? Now you got a screwed-up knee.”

  “I was scared. I got meth in my pocket. Why are you even here?” asked Travers. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  Laying back in his hospital bed, while the nurse finished wrapping his bandage, Travers looked up at the two officers. “You shot me in the leg and I’m shackled to the bed — I can’t get away. Now can you tell me why I’m here?”

  “Look at this picture. Carly Russell, age 21, a very pretty girl. As I understand it, she was your girlfriend. But I gotta say, looking at you she had pretty crappy taste in boyfriends. When is the last time you saw her?”

  “We were together for a while, but I ain’t seen her in a couple of weeks. Why? Is she in jail or something? Did she say I gave her drugs? She and her girlfriends wanted them. I just sold her what they wanted.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two weeks ago, just some weed is all.”

  Grabbing his collar, he bent in close. “I’ll ask you this just once, did you kill Carly?”

  “Kill Carly? What the hell you talking about? She’s dead?”

  “Yeah, asshole, she’s dead, and I think you might be the one that did it.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody! Honest I didn’t! Goddamn,” said Travers, now crying, “she was my friend, all I did was sell her a little weed once in a while I would never hurt her.”

  Chapter 4

  The office door opened and Margret Thomas walked in with her husband Nate in tow. “Where is he?” she asked, to anyone within hearing range.

  “Hello Missus Thomas, Mister Thomas,” said Angie. “How are you today?”

  “We’re fine—where is he?”

  Angie knew exactly who she was looking for, but loved to aggravate the arrogant old woman whenever she had a chance. Margret Thomas was a long-time member of the Bayfield County Board of Supervisors.

  “Who is it you’re lo
oking for ma’am?”

  “You know very well who I’m looking for,” she said, now red in the face. “Sheriff Davis. I want to see him — right now.”

  “Supervisor Thomas, he’s out working on a case at the moment. Would you like me to give him a message?”

  By now she was standing alongside her desk. “Susan and Jeff Russell are my dear friends and constituents, and Susan is a close personal friend. I want to know what he’s been doing about finding Carly’s killer.”

  “Everything possible is being done to solve this, and we’re working closely with the FBI to find the killer.”

  “He damn well better be. Tell him I came by to talk to him and tell him I will be back.”

  She walked with her to the door. “I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be disappointed to find out he missed you, goodbye.” Walking back to the war room, she stuck her head in. “You can come out now you big coward, she’s gone. Big tough sheriff scared of a 65 year-old woman.”

  “I admit it, she scares me. I’d sure hate to be married to that old battle ax.”

  “Careful, there you go again, old battle ax isn’t very PC of you.”

  “Old battle ax is what I started calling her after you scolded me the last time when I used to call her the old . . .”

  “I remember,” interrupting him before he could finish. “Old battle ax is definitely an improvement.”

  Walking out of the room to his desk, he picked up a piece of paper. “Schedule a press conference for tomorrow at noon and send a copy of this memo to Felix about our meeting tomorrow.”

  “You got it boss. Want me to invite Supervisor Thomas to the meeting too?”

  “Not unless you want to spend the night sleeping on the deck with Rufus.”

  “That would never happen, ‘cause then you’d have nobody to keep you warm, now would you.”

  The press conference was held in the Washburn school gym. Deacon and Vince were there along with Felix. A dozen different news teams were there from Wisconsin and Minnesota, and there were enough locals to nearly fill the gym.