Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  Once inside the garage, they kept the lights on. Crook had to see exactly what he was doing. He handed Sandra gloves, told her to not touch or move anything, no matter what she saw, and to fetch a container with warm water and soap. Crook walked behind her, using the flashlight until he found Hauk’s bedroom. He found a clean uniform in the plastic wrap from the cleaners. He found briefs and socks. Once back in the garage, he and Sandra again struggled to remove Hauk from his car, but it was getting easier as they developed technique. They drug him to the back of the garage where a passer-by could not see them from the garage door windows.

  Crook told Sandra to walk home. Stay in the shadow, but walk as she normally would, wave at passers-by. Get a car and come back. Sandra told him that her father’s car was gone, but she had the keys for her mother’s black Mazda.

  “It’s nearly a mile from here,” Sandra said. Her house was across the highway on the east side of town.

  “Be quick then,” Crook said. “Take off the gloves as soon as you are outside. Bring back a change of clothes. Do not change at home, bring it with you.”

  “What about the blood on my clothes?” she asked.

  “Think of it as ketchup and stay in the shadow.” Crook was brusque. He knew Sandra was reaching her physical limit, and he needed her to do this one more thing.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sandra left via the side door. She considered taking the alleys between the houses, but decided it looked more suspicious to be walking the alleys alone at night than walking the streets. With her underwear still damp and no jacket, she shivered uncontrollably after two blocks. Her shoulder settled into numbness.

  The wind blew her hair forward onto her face. At first she used both hands to hold it back. She hunched her shoulders and gave up on her hair. She looked at her feet, and forced her hands through crusted blood and inside the front pockets on her sweatshirt. Her words came stronger and her legs moved faster.

  “We had hard running drills at practice. Hauk knocked my food to the floor. I haven’t eaten since sloppy-joes at school. Hauk yanked my arm right from the socket.”

  Car lights turned onto the block ahead of her and she paused. The car passed by without slowing.

  “That was before the conspiracy to commit murder which was necessary for survival, if I survive. Cover-up after the fact, toting around three hundred pounds of ugly, pushing the body through cold water in bare legs. What else? Oh yeah, come within a millimeter of major head trauma, walk a mile and bring back the car, take off my plastic dish washing gloves, freeze my ass off, and act normal.”

  Sandra crossed highway 81. She could see some headlights in the distance but not close enough to make her anything more than a shadow under the streetlights. Only Wheaton closed down on a Friday night by ten o’clock. Everyone was somewhere else.

  The stinging salt on her lip was her own tears. She used her sleeve to wipe her mouth and nose as she at last entered her kitchen. She moved as though walking through water. She could not find the keys and then found them on the hook where they belonged. She could not find a new set of clothes. Everything looked strange, out-of-place. She grabbed a shirt and jeans from her hamper, dropping the keys and again finding them. She found clean, dry socks and underwear from a drawer. It all seemed to belong to someone else.

  She picked up an apple from the counter and bit into it. It hurt to chew and swallow.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, she was inside her mother’s little Mazda and driving to Hauk’s house. She parked along the north side, not in the front. She put the gloves back on, circled the lilac bushes and entered the same way she left.

  At the rear of the garage, Hauk lay on a blanket, his arms folded across his chest. His uniform appeared pristine including holster and weapon, badge and boots. His ugly face looked asleep. Sandra floated in her body, rocking on her feet, ready to fall.

  “Good girl,” Crook said. “Can you help lift Hauk to his bed?”

  The two of them pulled the blanket through the doorway into the kitchen. With his gloved hand, Crook reached to flip off the garage light. They pulled Hauk through the kitchen and down the hall. On the count of three, they swung him onto the bed. Sandra’s stomach lurched and black dots swam in her eyes as she swung.

  Crook straightened the blanket and tidied Hauk’s hair. Then the two of them stood in the room with the light from the hallway and looked down at the body stretched out on the bed.

  “Rest in Peace,” Crook said.

  “Go to hell,” Sandra said.

  “Sandra.”

  “Okay,” she amended. “Go where you deserve to be with the mercy of God.”

  “Good,” Crook told her, “well said. Now let’s get out of here.”

  They retraced their steps. In the garage Crook lifted Kirby’s seat from Hauk’s vehicle, but he grabbed hold of the handle off-center and the seat pivoted, nearly spilling the baby. He carried Martin’s coat in a ball under one arm and held onto Kirby’s seat with his other hand.

  The two of them fought the bitter wind to Sandra’s car. Again Crook held Kirby, seat and all on his lap inside the cramped front seat. “He needs to be changed and have his 10:00PM bottle. Do you want to spend the night?”

  Sandra declined. “I’ll make it to my own bed. My parents have worried enough.” She paused for a second and swallowed through a sore throat. “Thank you, Crook. You saved my life, again.”

  Once at the house, Crook told her, “You have to change before you go home and give me the sweat suit.” Crook set Kirby, sleeping in his seat, in the bathroom while Sandra showered. He tossed in a garbage bag and called, “I’m going to shut off the pump.”

  Sandra did as she was told, numb now with fatigue. She managed the drive home but everything looked different. The fence lines seemed new and the curve in the road was new. The streets and buildings looked like the fake fronts of a movie set.

  Her parents were not home yet. After parking her mother’s car in the same spot she followed the same path she used five hours earlier, the same food, the same steps, the same bedroom, but everything was completely different. She barely recognized her room. But tonight she was too tired and sore to think about it. She slept for twelve hours without fear.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  On Tuesday evening, twenty hours after Carl’s visit to the farm, Martin, Kirby, Bill and Tillie, entered the lobby of the Armory where the high school teams played their games. The sounds lifted Martin’s spirit, putting a smile on his face and a lilt in his step. He considered it great while the balls bounced on the court in warm-up drills, and the band played a marching song he did not recognize. The wonderfulness came simultaneously with the pain. He could not remember one without the other, but for now he allowed only the excitement in a visceral wave of pleasure.

  He paid his two dollars; the price had gone up. In the program he found Sandra’s name. He held the program in front of his face to hide his ridiculous tears. Then he ducked into the bathroom.

  “They should put a changing table in here,” Martin said to a young stranger standing at the sink. The young man chuckled a bit and hurriedly left. “I guess a changing table is nothing to cry about,” Martin told Kirby before a flush told him he was not alone.

  A high school kid appeared beside Martin at the sink and offered to hold Kirby, reaching for the seat. Martin handed Kirby to the young man, then bent his head and splashed water on his face. Glancing at his reflection, he had to wonder if he would ever be normal. He thanked the teenager and took the handle of Kirby’s seat. The young man held the door for him. Bill and Tillie waited for him in the lobby.

  He wondered if the excitement would be like this when his daughter played ball. He hoped with all his heart that for Christie it would come with much less struggle than it came for Sandra, at least this year. It was being here at all that lit the fire of his pride in Sandra. Joe did not make it to have that “SR” behind his name, but Sandra did.

  As the group loitered in the lobby
, Tillie spotted the two detectives standing at the other end. They stood at the door traditionally used for the visiting team. She elbowed Bill and pointed for confirmation in their identity. He nodded.

  The talk of the crowd milling around them was, of course, that Carl was in jail. On this topic even Martin paid attention to the rumors flowing like hot syrup over pancakes. No one seemed upset with that event. In fact, the opposite was true.

  The band stopped playing and the bouncing balls receded into the locker rooms. It was time to find their seat. Martin waved for Tillie and Bill to go ahead and save him a place. He held back, wanting to calm himself. He bent at the water fountain and stood up to find Sandra standing at his elbow.

  “I have to go right now,” she talked fast, “but I saw you, and I wanted to say hello and to tell you that I won’t get to start tonight because I wasn’t up to speed at practice. So don’t be disappointed.” Her face, flushed with adrenalin, looked so pretty that Martin smiled at her despite the disappointment.

  “How is your arm?” Martin said.

  “What arm?” Sandra said. “I’ll get to play, probably a lot. My shot is better than last year. I’ve worked my left-handed put back. You’ll like it. But it really isn’t fair for me to start when I didn’t practice the whole time like everybody else.” She was trying to comfort him, and he felt better.

  “Focus,” Martin advised with intensity in his face. “Make adversity your right hand man. Focus through it.” His final words bounced off Sandy’s retreating figure as she jogged to join her team. Martin knew she broke protocol to run to the lobby. She better be in line for the Anthem.

  The seating in the armory ran along the west wall while the teams sat along the east wall and the baskets were placed at the north and south ends. Tillie nudged Bill who nudged Martin as Vilhallen and White climbed the packed bleachers and sat four rows above them.

  Martin held Kirby through the entire game. Sometimes Kirby looked out over Martin’s shoulder and sometimes he sat on Martin’s lap and watched the game. Martin was a calm parent. Kirby felt like an extension of Martin’s own body. Kirby was not a handsome baby. He was, however, a very unique baby. Kirby’s wise little face with his clear, intelligent eyes brought almost as much entertainment to the people sitting behind Martin as did the ball game.

  Martin watched Sandra play. He focused on the game. He did not talk. Martin did not yell or cheer because he did not want to alarm Kirby. Instead he made mental notes to tell Sandra for next time.

  This was a big game because the opponents were the one adversary that could beat Wheaton in their district. With three minutes remaining, the score was tied. Martin noted exhaustion in Sandra. Her legs looked like Jell-O. He glanced to the bench to see if the coach was preparing to send in the player who actually started the game at post. He could see no intention of benching Sandra for a minute of rest.

  He saw Sandra’s face take on that hard edge of concentration. “That’s right,” he mumbled. “Work through it.” On court, Sandra received a nice feed from her teammate and missed a three-foot shot. Martin winced. “One minute of rest might have paid off,” he said aloud, but no one cared, the whole gym was focused on the game, even Kirby.

  With eight seconds left, the team had one more chance to win the game. Everyone stood, including Martin which made it difficult for those behind him to see. “Go left, Sandra,” Martin yelled and his voice caught a higher decibel than the crowd. He saw Sandra’s quick nod. Kirby cried and Martin patted the baby into quiet.

  “Get the ball inside, get the ball inside.” Martin whispered. The man behind and to his right yelled for the outside shot. Time out.

  The high inbound pass went from point guard to Sandra. She executed her pivot, exchanged the ball to her left hand, went up and banked it home. It brought the house down. Now Martin said nothing, remembering his determination to be calm. Sandra looked white. He noted the fatigue around her mouth as though she were only inches away from him. The final second ticked away to cheers.

  “Nothing new for Sandra in making the winning shot,” Bill said. Martin nodded but he knew she had not been quite in this place before. Until now her talent and the fun of it carried her. This time, her game was more. This time she reached inside and found strength, found the will.

  Martin watched Sandra join the line to slap hands with the opposing players and then jog off the court. The crowd began to file out. Bill continued to talk about the game but Martin didn’t hear him until Tillie said, “Remember, it’s only a game.” To this Bill answered, “Bullshit.” And Martin nodded agreement.

  As Martin and group maneuvered their way down the bleachers they reached Sandra’s parents who remained sitting. Tillie saw and recognized the couple and stopped to congratulate them on Sandra’s game. While Martin waited patiently for Tillie to move along, he studied the couple. He thought, “What you don’t know can hurt you.”

  He could say nothing, not about their daughter nor their grandson. He would push Sandra to talk to her parents. He could see that they loved her. As Martin stood on the bleachers, Vilhallen and White stepped down to where he stood.

  Vilhallen said, “Hello, Mr. Webster. This must bring back memories.”

  “It does,” Martin said.

  Since Vilhallen continued to stand there, Martin felt obligated to say something. “Carl isn’t in jail for his visit to me, is he?”

  “Which visit?” Vilhallen said. “Are your referring to the visit to extort or the visit to arrest you?”

  “I was referring to the second visit,” Martin said. “I assume he will not be filing paperwork with social services. Is that right?” Martin could not help the lurch of his heart.

  “The first visit could be a motive for wanting the previous sheriff dead,” Vilhallen said.

  “Yes,” Martin said, “Yes, it could.” He could not agree more.

  Vilhallen smiled. “Carl Banks is in jail for other activities of an illegal nature not related to you. Did you change your mind about pressing charges?”

  Martin shook his head. He could guess the nature of the illegal activities. He waited for the crowd to move along. He adjusted the handle of Kirby’s infant seat in his hand. When he looked up the detectives had moved ahead several feet. He could see only the back of Vilhallen’s beige jacket. He had a funny feeling that the detectives were watching him. He thought, Good. The more they watch me the less they watch Sandra or Crook.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As Larry Vilhallen and John White stood to the side of the crowd milling through the gymnasium entrance, they watched the conversation between Martin Webster and Sandra Peters with undisguised fascination. Vilhallen insisted the two detectives attend the game because he wanted to see Cassandra Peters. It was an added bonus to see Martin Webster, and not only to see him, but to see him talking to Sandra. He was not sure what it meant.

  Back at his office, three files sat on his desk. The file of Hauk’s last case was Cassandra Peters. The second folder was Jeremy Sabo. A Dr. Duerkson forwarded a large folder of Crook’s years in the Hospital and the proceedings that put him there. The third file was thin and flat with one sheet inside. That was Martin’s folder. A note in Hauk’s hand on the inside cover of the file stated, “Check this out.”

  The list of persons of interest was long indeed. However experience and intuition put these three files on their desk while the long list was assigned to their helpers on the case. White snapped a continuous flow of pictures from his inconspicuous camera that looked like a phone.

  Neither detective believed that Martin was guilty of murder, but both believed he knew something about it. Both detectives seriously considered Crook as a man capable of a professional hit like this crime appeared to be. Sandra was that last case worked and a likely victim of Hauk’s predatory ways. Experience told them that motive almost always came sooner rather than later. The missing link, the connections to Hauk did not exist and for that reason there was no case, no cause for a search warrant. Carl’s r
anting did not constitute evidence.

  White said, “Cassandra Peters could be our link.”

  The detectives knew they were missing something, some link that would tie it all together. Thus the two detectives watched the brief conversation between Martin and Sandra with keen interest. This was the first indication of a connection. While Martin gently swung the infant seat containing his son, Sandra gave only nominal attention to the baby. Of course, the connection could be basketball, but both detectives knew it ran deeper than that.

  Vilhallen wanted to tail both Sandra and Martin but had only one vehicle and decided to follow Martin. This they did.

  White said, “Martin is a care-giver, a protector. I can’t see him for murder.”

  Vilhallen said, “We are missing the link that ties it all together. They’ll trip up. Somebody who knows something will give it all away. They always do.”

  They discreetly followed Bill’s big Lincoln right to Martin’s driveway. The hope was for some interaction between their suspects. Vilhallen wished that Martin would take care of his yard. Once the Lincoln pulled past the mild curve to the front of Martin’s house, they could not see a thing above the rampant grass and weeds stretching twenty yards to the road.

  They continued on the gravel road, turned around and waited in the grass driveway to a field for Bill’s car to emerge. About an hour later, Bill and his wife exited Martin’s driveway and went home. They watched the taillights disappear over the hill. They stayed put for another two hours but no figure emerged from the parting in the weeds to walk down the road. Vilhallen did not know what he expected to see. He thought perhaps Jeremy Sabo would emerge, or Cassandra Peters would visit.

  White said, “Martin Webster leads a quiet life.”

  “On the surface,” Vilhallen said.