“We can do a little business right here if you’d like Sheriff.” She grinned at him then turned away. In an instant she was buttoned up and walking back to her desk, now all business. “Why can’t he just come here like usual?”
Still a little red, Deacon put on his jacket and headed for the door. “No idea, I guess I’m about to find out.”
The Superior Diner was in the middle of Washburn’s small downtown business area. It had been run by several different operators over the years, but the current owners had developed a steady breakfast and lunch crowd. Run by a husband and wife and their two adult daughters it was successful, at least in part, because two members of the family were always there at any given time. They were liked by everyone, and everyone loved their huge meals.
Walking toward the diner, he passed a dozen snow machines, some with sleds hooked on the back. In this part of the world, it was common to see more snow machines on the streets in the winter, than cars or trucks. Deacon could see Felix in a corner booth, with the phone up to his ear. Sliding in across from him, he waited until he finished talking. “Good morning, how’s everything going?”
He shrugged and stuffed the phone into his pocket. “A lot of bureaucratic bullshit is how everything’s going. I ordered a breakfast burrito and coffee, you going to eat something?”
He waved at the waitress, the oldest daughter, “I’ll have the same as him Lucy, thank you. So what does the FBI want to talk about this morning?”
“The office has cut my manpower by five agents, they say we’re running out of leads to follow and it’s costing too much money. At the same time, they want me to tell you that this serial killer is an FBI case, and for you to stay out of the investigation unless we specifically request your assistance. They know that you’ve been investigating missing persons and talking to the friends and families.”
“What the hell — we’re the ones who find the bodies. We respond to the calls and secure the scene and question the people that discover it. It’s a little tough to stay out of things.”
“We both know how these deals work, but like my dad used to say, the boss ain’t always right — but he’s always the boss. That’s the way it is at the bureau, they’re the boss, whatever they say goes.”
The waitress brought their coffee and Felix topped it off with creamer. “You know that you have been valuable to the investigation this far, I don’t really want that to stop. But if you could just keep things a little low key about your part in this, I would appreciate it.”
“Felix, you tell your boss — the one that’s always right — that we are in the middle of our own investigation of a severed arm and a possible killer. We’ll do our best to stay out of his way, and we’ll expect the same from the bureau. Fair enough?”
Felix nodded. “Fair enough, but you know I’ll do what I can for you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. You can start by picking up breakfast. Lucy, give the bill to this guy please.”
She nodded and slid his bill over to Felix. “Sure thing Deacon, here you go mister.”
“Let me know if the bureau can’t afford it,” said Deacon. “Maybe we can do a fundraiser or something.”
The Washburn library was the same ancient, brown brick building he remembered from grade school. Very old and imposing to a small kid, but rather small and plain to an adult. The heavy, oak double doors opened up directly to a long, well-worn counter with a computer on one end and a pile of books covering the other end. The only thing missing from his school days were the massive cabinets that held the cards of the Dewy Decimal system. A victim of the modern computer age, they were tucked away somewhere in the back of the basement. At the middle of the counter sat Henrietta Baumann, the very same librarian who had scolded Deacon many times as a kid.
“Hello Miss Baumann, how’s the library business these days?”
“Deacon Davis — it’s been a long while since you were in here. Don’t tell me you have finally taken up reading?”
“Not me, you know that reading rots the mind — don’t you?” he said with a straight face.
“I see nothing has changed over the last thirty years. What can I do for you?”
“Believe it or not I want to talk with you about reading and writing.”
She put down the book and stood up. “I saw Angie the other day. She said you might be coming in. She told me you were interested in the S.T. Crawford place, is that right?”
“Yes. I’d like to learn all I can about the family and the property they own. She told me you mentioned they had a rather colorful history back in the bootlegging and gangster days?”
“Come with me Deacon, and be quiet,” she said, with a hint of a smile.
“Yes, ma’am, I remember.”
In the basement, she took him into a private reading room. There was an old fashioned microfiche machine, and several boxes of films. A pile of books and papers sat next to it. “I told her I would see what I could dig up for you. This is everything I could find on the family, plus some court papers, maps and real estate documents. My father told me once that they were in the bootlegging and moonshine business during prohibition. They were supposedly connected with some famous gangsters of the time, including Al Capone and his crew. He told me that legend has it that there are a number of bodies from those days buried out there. But who knows, anything is possible I guess.”
He sat down at the table and turned on the machine. “Thank you Miss Baumann, I really appreciate your help.”
She smiled and nodded her head. “I have to say that I didn’t think I would ever hear that from you, but you’re welcome, glad I could help. And Deacon . . .”
“Yes?”
“Please be quiet — people are trying to read.”
Chapter 9
The new batch of magazines arrived by special courier. He still had to read them, but wanted to hear what the others had to say first.
“Austin, what did you make of them? See any common threads or anything that looks like the writer might live around here?”
“Yeah — and this guy gives me the creeps. How does he come up with all this weird crap anyway? There’s a lot of common stuff about the places. The right climate, terrain, trees, lakes and streams and appropriate agriculture like potatoes and wheat. He also mentioned cranberries, but I can’t say specifically it’s right here though.”
“Vince, what did you think of the writers work?”
“Well, Austin’s right about one thing, this guy’s work is definitely creepy. If you like reading this stuff, then you’re a little creepy too. Anyway, pretty much everything could point to Bayfield County, but nothing rock solid. I went on line and found three more pieces from an older, defunct magazine,” he said, giving each of them a copy. “One of them mentioned berry farms, but what I thought was really telling was a story about a small-time commercial fisherman committing a murder by drowning a woman in his gill nets. He was a herring fisherman, he even called them ciscos.”
“Cranberries, potatoes, berries, all the water features and ciscos?”
“One of them mentions apple orchards too,” said Angie.
Deacon looked over the new stories. “I’m convinced the stories Crawford writes are based around here. That’s not a surprise obviously, nor does it prove anything, but it may lead us to some new areas to investigate. Vince, start a chart that lists the fictional magazine crimes by chronology, how they were done, seasons, weapons etc. Then go to the chart of our real victims and crosscheck it for similarities. If anyone asks what we are working on, tell them we are following leads on the severed arm case.”
When the door opened, they all looked up to see Margret Thomas heading straight toward them. “Davis, I haven’t heard from you. I told you that I wanted a report on the Carly Russell case.”
“Supervisor, I really don’t have anything new to report. Like I’ve told you more than once, that is really an FBI case. We are officially out of that loop now.”
“I’m getting tired of this
Davis. Tell me who I talk to at the FBI.”
“Okay, Mrs. Thomas, you win — I’ll give you his name. I was trying to keep people from bothering him while he worked the case.”
“Just give me the name.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded and handed her a piece of paper. “His name is Felix Barnhart, here’s his contact information. One more thing Supervisor, isn’t the Iron Town Bar in your district?”
“You mean that dump down by the old docks?”
“That’s the one. We have information that there is a lot of criminal activity there, but not enough for a warrant. A lot of the citizens living around there have been complaining about drug sales and other criminal activities around there.”
“Just what do you think I can do about it?”
“Don’t you have a connection in the building department? Maybe it’s time for a thorough inspection. I’m sure there are plenty of violations that could shut them down. Those are your constituents living there.”
She turned and stormed out just like she had come in, slamming the door behind her. Everyone broke out laughing as soon as it closed. Angie laughed the hardest. “Damn Deacon, that was just plain mean.”
“Felix told me to get off the case because it belonged to the bureau. Supervisor Thomas comes with the case — I’m sure he’ll enjoy talking with her.”
“How many people have complained about the bar?”
“None that I can remember,” said Deacon.
When the laughter died down, Vince asked what was next for him. “I think you should use your impressive computer skills to dig more into Crawford’s history as a writer,” said Deacon, putting on his coat. “Maybe you can find some more work we can add to our list. Maybe dig around a little about his wife, Sarah. Angie, look up state and county records and see if these two are really married. See if you can find anyone who has done work for them and how they were treated.”
“You leaving?”
“Yep, I have a date with my favorite 100 year-old librarian and a room full of history. Did you know that Al Capone’s men did some of their nefarious bootlegging business around here?”
She nodded. “Yes. I thought everyone learned about that as a school kid.”
“Really? I guess I should have paid closer attention. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
After an hour, Deacon had the library material separated into piles. The first pile was the history of the Crawford farm and was definitely interesting. The earliest record of the Crawford name was in May of 1916 for the purchase of a quarter section of raw land by Samuel Lee Crawford. Within a year he had acquired another adjacent quarter section. Two years later he bought the two remaining quarters.
He found very few references to the family until 1921. Prohibition had been in effect for over a year and the hunt was on for moonshiners and bootleggers. What he found was a microfiche of a newspaper article about federal agents looking for illegal alcohol in the area. The story mentioned a raid on the Crawford farm, but there was no follow-up on the results.
Over the next few years they were mentioned several times a year for various reasons. Several more raids by the alcohol cops, occasional sales of potatoes or fruit, and three raids by the FBI looking for prohibition era gangsters. Names like Machine Gun Kelly and Al Capone had been mentioned in more than one of the articles, but they never recorded any court cases about them.
Henrietta Baumann walked in and sat across from him. “Deacon, are you finding anything helpful in all this stuff?”
“It’s interesting for sure. It looks like there was a lot of illegal stuff going on with moonshiners and gangsters, but I don’t see where anyone was ever arrested or convicted for anything.”
“My grandfather used to say the Crawford’s were a criminal family that never got caught because they were catering to the gangsters of the day. Grandpa said that they paid off the cops and federal agents in cash and booze, that’s why they never went to jail.”
“That would explain why there aren’t any articles about trials in the old newspaper accounts. All this is fun reading, but I need something a little more current. I need to find someone who knows them and has spent time on the property. You know anyone like that?”
She nodded. “I do, but you might not want to know who it is.”
“Really? Henrietta I’m searching for a serial killer, I need to hear anything and everything that could help.”
“Well — it’s Curt Sorenson. He worked for Sinclair all the time when he was young. I don’t know about recently though.”
“Sorenson? How do you know that?”
“Do you forget what a small place this is? I’ve known him and his family forever.”
Standing up, he gave her a hug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to question you like that. I appreciate your help, I really do.”
“That’s okay. See what you can learn by spending a little time in the library?”
“Thank you. Can I leave this material here for now?”
“No problem, I’ll lock the door, no one will bother it.”
Deacon turned off the pavement onto a slushy, poorly maintained two track road that wandered through the trees. He slipped and slid around until he reached a small opening with a tired looking green and white trailer house set against the trees. A pickup with a load of firewood sat in front. Stopping alongside the truck, he stepped out and slammed the door hard enough to be heard by anyone inside.
“Deacon, what the hell you doin’ on my property?” Sorenson pushed the door open with a rifle barrel and stepped out. “I want you gone — you hear me?”
“Goddamnit Curt, put the rifle down before I shoot your sorry ass!”
“This is my property, did you come to take it away too? Well it ain’t gonna happen. You’re an easy target from here, now get out or get shot.”
Walking straight up to the door, Deacon pushed the rifle barrel aside and shoved him inside. Taking the rifle from him, he checked the chamber and set it on the kitchen counter.
“Aw shit, Deacon, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pointed a gun at you, I know better.”
“Forget it. We both know it’s not loaded, but we’re going to settle whatever’s going on between us, right here, right now, you got it?”
The trailer was a mess of beer cans, smelling of food trash and cigarette butts and hadn’t been cleaned up for weeks. “Curt, where’s Heidi?”
“Gone. Just took the kids and left me here alone.”
“How long?”
He shrugged. “Maybe a month or so. She says I’m drunk and a loser. You think I’m a loser too?”
“I think you need help. Are you willing to come with me and get some help right now?”
“Sure Deacon, but I got one more beer left, can I . . .?”
“Get in the goddamn car or I’ll shoot you right now.”
Deacon walked him into the jail and locked him in the small cell. “What the hell is goin’ on? Dammit to hell Deacon, you didn’t tell me that I was gonna be under arrest, let me out of here, I didn’t do nuthin’.”
“You want to be charged with threatening a police officer with a firearm?”
“It didn’t even have bullets in it . . .”
“Don’t matter,” said Deacon. “It’s either that, or sleep it off right here and we’ll talk about it in the morning — your choice.”
Dropping down on the cot, he pulled off his boots and lay down. “Well shit, goodnight then.”
“What the hell is that all about? He tried to shoot you?” asked Angie.
“No. I found out he’s spent a lot of time working for the Crawford’s and he knows the place well. When I went out to talk to him, this is what I found. When he’s sober in the morning, let’s get him something to eat and then I can talk to him.”
“Okay, I’ll get Vince and Austin to split up the night shift.”
“Did you know that Heidi left him?”
“That was the talk down at the salon. Just took the kids and went back to her p
arents’ house in St. Paul is what I heard.”
After breakfast at the diner, Angie and Deacon relieved Austin at the station. “How did our prisoner do last night?”
“He’s okay. He puked a couple of times and then went back to sleep. He’s been whining all morning about how hungry he is. I gave him a couple of candy bars and several bottles of water.”
Deacon walked back to the cells and looked at his prisoner sprawled out flat on the cot. Slightly younger than Deacon, Curt was a member of the Sorenson family that had been in Bayfield County for at least as long as the Crawford’s and they all worked in some area of the construction business. At six-feet and barrel-chested, he had thinning black hair and wore a full beard. Close-set dark eyes, now very sunken, gave him a sad, broken look.
“Thanks Austin. The diner will bring him some breakfast shortly. Go on home and get a little sleep.”
“Will do, see you tomorrow.”
Deacon pulled up a chair in front of the cell. “Good morning, Curt, feeling any better this morning?”
“I feel like shit, I think I’m gonna puke again and I’m starving. How do you think I feel?”
“Breakfast is on the way, we’ll talk after you eat. How long has it been since you showered? You smell like a barnyard.”
“Who knows? Maybe a week or two, maybe more.”
Deacon shook his head at the sad looking mess in the cell. “Or maybe much more?”
Angie put several aspirin and two Alka-Seltzers on the tray with the breakfast and took it to Sorenson, now sitting up on the cot.
“Thank you, much appreciated.”
“You’re welcome. Curt, how are Heidi and the kids?”
“Okay I guess. They’ve been in St Paul with her mom. I haven’t seen them in weeks.”
“I know it’s not my business, but can you tell me why she left?”
“No big secret, she just didn’t want to live with such a loser.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. When you finish breakfast, Deacon will want to talk with you for a while.”
“Whatever he needs, I’ll be ready. Thanks again.”
Murder in the Dell Page 8