“Something tells me you would,” said Lew, without a smile. “The question I have is whether or not Kaye has been aware of the contents of the will. That, everyone, is the problem. Come in,” she said at the sound of knocking on the door.
Ray poked his head in. He was still in his church clothes—carefully pressed khaki pants, a crisp white shirt, and a blue string tie secured at the collar with a brass walleye—and wearing his fish hat with the trout anchored firmly in place. An eager grin stretched across his face as Bruce, who was right behind him, gave Ray’s shoulder a shove that bounced Ray into the room.
“Not sure this is the best time for me to welcome a razzbonya with a fish on his head,” said Lew. “But come in and sit down, both of you.”
“Hat looks terrific,” said Mallory with an approving smile as Ray took the chair beside her. “Dad said Kaye fixed it?”
“Yep. Terrific job,” said Ray, taking his hat off and placing it with care on the conference table. “But … that’s not the best news, people … this … is.”
Everyone in the room watched as he pulled Mike Kelly’s cell phone from his shirt pocket, stood up, and walked over to set it down in front of Lew. “I thought you might want Bruce in on this, in case he needs more phone repair in the future. I am … available. As is my … box of rice.” Ray sat back down in the chair, thrust his legs out in front, crossed them at the ankles, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back.
“I can’t stand it when you look so satisfied,” said Lew. “Have you tried the phone? Is it working?”
“Yep, yep, and yep. But,” said Ray, “what I have not done … is go through the voicemails on there.” He sat up straight, the goofiness gone.” I was worried that I might inadvertently delete something.”
“Smart move,” said Bruce. “Chief Ferris, can we record the voicemails as we listen, just in case they delete automatically after they play?”
“Excuse me, Chief Ferris, do you need us to leave?” asked Mallory. Kenton gave her an annoyed look.
“Yes,” said Lew, “please wait outside. I’ll call you in when we’re finished. Allowing unauthorized people in the vicinity when we’re reviewing new evidence could compromise the chain of custody. Likely not, but I don’t want to risk it. Lawyers are great at finding loopholes.”
Osborne heard Kenton curse under his breath as they left the room. Before he closed the door behind him, he said, “Don’t forget, Chief Ferris, I’m here to report something important, too.”
“You’re on my list, guy,” said Lew. “Please close the door.”
The four of them huddled around the conference table as Bruce took the phone, which turned on at the first touch, and got ready to press the voicemail icon. Lew had the recorder going. The first few voicemails were from a woman with a Madison phone number.
“This really is working,” said Bruce, his voice low as they listened. “That must be the girlfriend.”
Another female voice identified herself as the New York Times reporter who said she had received documents he had e-mailed. She also repeated her cell phone number, and said she would be waiting for his call after his meeting with Jane Ericsson.
The next caller identified herself as Jane Ericsson, and said, “Mr. Kelly, I am finally here at my home at the end of Rolf Ericsson Drive. I know it’s late, but my flight was delayed by the storm. I’m sorry about this. I realize it’s eleven o’clock. If you’re available, I’m happy to have you drive over, as I do look forward to our meeting. If you come, I suggest you have the money with you.”
That was the last voicemail on the phone. “Is that Jane Ericsson’s voice?” Lew asked the room.
“No,” said the one person in the room who would absolutely know: the man who had been her lover sixteen years earlier. “That is not Jane Ericsson,” said Ray.
“I’d swear that is Lauren Crowell,” said Osborne.
Lew checked the digital readout on her recorder and hit a rewind button. Silence. A puzzled look crossed her face. “Doc, this should be the interview we recorded with Lauren Crowell at the Ericsson house Sunday morning. Why don’t I have anything?”
“Oh, Lew. I’m sorry,” said Osborne, “we had so much going on, I forgot to mention that Lauren picked up your recorder to see what brand it was, and accidentally erased the interview.”
“Accidental? Baloney! She did it on purpose. Okay, I’ll try this.”
She hit more buttons to get a different date, and now the voices of Lauren Crowell, Osborne, and Lewellyn Ferris could be heard.
“She didn’t know I had this running during our session yesterday,” said Lew. “It’s always out of sight when I’m interrogating here in the office.”
“That’s the woman on Mike Kelly’s voicemail,” said Bruce. “The one who identifies herself as Jane Ericsson. Sounds the same to my ear, and we can authenticate in the lab.”
“Yes, it is,” said Lew. “Doc?”
“Without question,” said Osborne. “That is Lauren Crowell on Mike Kelly’s phone.”
“You know what we’re missing?” said Lew, looking over at Bruce and Ray. “Jane’s phone. But you guys have had no luck finding it, right?”
“Nope,” said Bruce. “I took that house and her car apart, too.”
“Nothing outdoors that I could find,” said Ray.
“On the other hand,” said Bruce, “at least this phone has the number we’ve been searching for. I couldn’t find that before—not even staffers in the campaign office had it.”
“Can you put a trace on that phone, just like we did with Mike Kelly’s?” asked Lew.
“Not yet, not without Jane Ericsson’s private access code,” said Bruce. “We lucked out with Mike Kelly’s because it was an iPhone, and his girlfriend was able to give us his Apple ID.”
“Lew, before you bring Kenton back in here,” said Osborne, “you need to know what I learned after the memorial service today.”
Quickly, he laid out the accountant’s concern with the unauthorized withdrawals from the campaign account, and Chuck Winter’s comment that Lauren Crowell was not in attendance at the event for donors that he’d hosted in Madison. “Remember, she said she was there,” said Osborne.
“I recall that clearly,” said Lew. She got up from the conference table and walked over to the door. “Kenton, Mallory, come on in. Kenton, your turn, and make it fast, please.”
“I think you should know that Lauren Crowell went off on me in a very, very strange way,” said Kenton. “Absolutely bizarre. And Dr. Osborne heard it all. So I’m telling you again that I think it is absolutely mandatory to run a criminal background check on that woman.” As if he thought he wasn’t being heard, Kenton’s voice had risen to a high pitch as he spoke.
“Excellent point, Kenton,” said Lew, raising a calming hand. “Dani ran the check through the NCIC this morning. Let’s have her tell us what she found.”
Lew picked up her phone and asked the switchboard to invite Dani to join them in her office.
“What’s the NCIC?” asked Mallory.
“It’s the National Crime Information Center,” said Bruce. “Only law enforcement people are allowed access to it.” Kenton sat silently, his right leg jiggling as they waited for Dani.
“I found an address for one family member, her mother, up in Presque Isle,” said Dani, “and hospital records that indicate Lauren has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals for years. She escaped from the last one a year ago and hasn’t been seen since.
“I also did a trace on the woman she said she stays with in Madison—Phyllis Cook. I got two names and called them both. Neither one has ever heard of Lauren Crowell.”
“So, Kenton,” said Lew, “this is still confidential, but you will be happy to hear that because of your experience, Dani’s results, and several new developments over the last few hours, that I have requested a warrant for the arrest of Lauren Crowell. I have no doubt that she is a person of interest in the murder of Jane Ericsson.”
“Wait,
” said Bruce, “didn’t you tell me that Kaye Lund is the person named in the will as the heir to a chunk of Ericsson money? I understand from Ray here that she is an expert butcher of deer. Shouldn’t the Lund woman be interrogated, too?”
“Kaye may be able to butcher a dead animal,” said Ray, his voice somber, “but she isn’t strong enough to walk much further than from her car to her house. You said yourself that the early report indicates Jane Ericsson suffered a blunt trauma to her head. Kaye doesn’t have the strength—”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Bruce, interrupting. “Adrenaline works in strange ways. Think of the stories you hear of mothers lifting cars off their children after an accident—”
“We’ll argue this later,” said Lew. “Right now, I want Lauren Crowell in custody.”
“If it makes Bruce baby here happy,” said Ray, “I’ll keep an eye on Kaye Lund. I’ll take her some fish later—make sure she’s okay. I owe her for the work on my hat.”
Ray sounded so sad that Mallory reached over and took his hand. She didn’t let go. “Maybe I can help?” she asked.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The warrant for the arrest of Lauren Crowell arrived within an hour. At Lew’s request, Osborne drove with her to the Northwoods Inn.
“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist at the front desk, “but Ms. Crowell checked out at noon.”
“Why am I not surprised,” said Lew as they walked back to the cruiser. She called the switchboard. “Marlaine, I want an APB put out for the arrest of Lauren Crowell. Check with Dani for the license plate number and model of the Jeep she’s driving. And alert officers that Crowell is a person of interest in a murder. She could be armed. They must approach with caution.”
Lew turned to Osborne, “I want to get to Presque Isle ASAP. The mother lives there. She may know where we can find her daughter. If you need to be with Mallory and Kenton—”
“They’re big kids,” said Osborne. “They can take care of themselves. I’m with you.”
“I swear the trees grow taller up here,” said Lew, as she and Osborne sped north in her cruiser. When the road was straight, Lew broke the speed limit, but even then it took over an hour to reach Presque Isle. Osborne kept a close eye on the GPS screen tracking the route, which took them off the county highway on to a winding road leading back, back, and back into a densely wooded area.
The road changed from blacktop to gravel. “Someone wants privacy,” said Osborne. “I’ve never been this far out from the main area of Presque Isle.” The road looped up and down over a series of hills before ending in front of a large log home. Off to the left was a barn with a Range Rover SUV parked in front of it. Next to that was a Ford 160 pickup.
Off to one side of the large house, Osborne could see water glinting through a stand of birch trees. Aware that there were a thousand lakes in and around Presque Isle, he wondered which one this was.
“Did you call ahead?” asked Osborne as they got out of the cruiser.
“No,” said Lew. “Could be a mistake, but we’ll see.” They walked up to a wide, wooden front door decorated with a carved owl knocker. Lew rang the bell instead.
After a moment’s wait, the door swung open. An older woman of medium height with short, wavy gray hair and wearing white slacks with a short-sleeved beige shirt stood in the doorway. “Yes?” she asked, worry flashing across her face when she saw Lew in her uniform. “Something wrong?” Osborne could hear in her tone that she knew the answer to her question.
Judith Barrington held the door open for them to enter. “Follow me,” she said, “we’ll talk in the den. I’ve been expecting you. Well, not you in particular, but someone with news of Lauren.” She took a stiff-backed wooden chair next to a desk, and gestured Lew and Osborne to two upholstered chairs across from her.
“Is your husband home?” asked Osborne. “You may want him to hear Chief Ferris’s concerns.”
“I’m widowed,” said the woman. “My husband, Peter, died ten years ago. I have a caretaker who helps me with this place—but I’m afraid it’s just me.” She gave a soft smile, though her eyes remained serious.
“This may be difficult for you to hear,” said Lew, “but your daughter is a suspect in the murder of a woman for whom she was working.” She gave a quick sketch of Lauren’s role in Jane Ericsson’s campaign for the U.S. Senate, and the fact that Jane had been murdered, but stopped short of mentioning the dismemberment of her body.
Judith did not appear surprised. “She’s a time bomb,” said Judith. “I’ve been waiting all her life for something like this to happen.” She took a deep breath, then said, “I recently learned that my late husband’s older sister was committed in her teens for behaviors similar to Lauren’s. The family never told anyone, and I only found out when I went to his brother’s funeral a couple of months ago.”
“You mean there is a family history of mental illness?” asked Lew.
“That’s a benign way to put it,” said Judith. “Lauren was a difficult child. We were living in Evanston, Illinois, at the time where we could get some counseling. I can’t tell you how many types of family counseling and psychiatric testing we went through. Nothing worked. She threw terrible tantrums, broke furniture, brutalized other children. Our dogs were terrified of her. As a child she was like … a cancer. She would lie in wait, then strike.
“Maybe we did the wrong thing, but when she was twelve and … and I couldn’t deal with her any longer, we sent her to school in Switzerland. A psychiatrist there was specializing in treating children like Lauren, so we thought maybe …”
“Was she schizophrenic?” asked Lew.
Judith didn’t respond. With her right hand, she picked at a thread on her knee. “They diagnosed her as psychotic,” she said after a long pause. “But the doctors at the school seemed to think she could be helped, so we kept her there for five years. Then she came back here, and was accepted into a good college out East. She’s a very smart woman. It’s just that she is disturbed.”
As he listened, Osborne could hear in her resigned tone that she had prepared for this conversation for a long, long time. It was as if she was ready for death.
“College lasted three months. One day she was in a minor accident on her bike and was hospitalized in the college infirmary with a concussion. One of the school deans went to get her things from her room, and discovered that Lauren had been stealing from other girls in the dorm. Underwear. Panties, specifically. She had dozens and dozens of pairs of panties. Sounds weird, I know. But that has been one of her patterns: stealing personal items from others.
“It’s like …” Judith glanced around the room, as if searching there for an answer. “It’s like she has always tried to find ways to take on another person’s persona. Do you know what I mean? The dean also found disturbing letters that she had been writing to girls in the dorm, threatening letters. And there was promiscuous behavior with several boys that the other girls were dating.
“Needless to say, she was asked to leave. She came home—we were still living in Evanston—and got married to this poor guy, Fred Crowell. He didn’t believe me when I tried so hard to warn him off. But they got married, which is where she got her last name. Again, just a few months into that and she went berserk one day. Fred came home and found that she had taken all his personal items and chopped them into tiny, tiny pieces. Socks, shirts, pants, books, his wallet, sports equipment—everything.
“That is when I had her committed to the first of a series of hospitals. But Lauren is crafty. She would bide her time, behaving perfectly until she could escape.”
“Would she always come home?” asked Osborne.
“After a while. I never knew exactly when I might see her face in a window—but it was always when she needed money. Meanwhile, shortly before he retired, my husband and I built this place.”
“You are really off the beaten track,” said Osborne. “This is remote country.”
“Maybe we were trying to hide,�
� said Judith. Again the sad smile with serious eyes. “Just before Peter died, I thought we finally had some good news. Lauren was in a psychiatric community in California, where she fell in love with cooking. She became an expert chef, got into organic gardening, artisanal butchering—”
“Butchering?” asked Lew.
“Yes. She has always had a fascination with knives and cutting. I’m afraid poor Fred will vouch for that. By the way, he changed his name after their divorcé. He lives in fear that she’ll come after him again.”
“But you feel safe up here alone in the woods?” asked Lew.
“Oh, no,” said Judith. “You can’t see it but I have a security system that covers this house and a four-acre circumference of my property. My caretaker keeps a close eye on the surrounding acres as well. Lauren once set up a tent far enough away that the security system didn’t pick it up, so he watches closely, especially since we haven’t any idea where she’s been for the last year. Once she escaped from that hospital, I cut off the money, too. I’ve had no idea how she’s been surviving.”
“Have you asked authorities to search for her?” asked Lew.
“That has never worked. It’s one thing to walk away from a psychiatric hospital, quite another to commit a crime. Like I said, Lauren is crafty. After spending close to half a million on private detectives and all, I gave up.”
“When was the last time she was home?”
“Several years ago. But a friend told me she thought she saw her just a couple months ago in Manitowish Waters. Browsing galleries. I told her she must have thought she saw Lauren, that it was someone else.” Judith paused. “If it was Lauren … that frightens me. Why would she show up around here if she doesn’t want to be caught and hospitalized again? It doesn’t make sense, but then nothing about my daughter has ever made sense.”
“Have you an opinion on what might have set her off?” asked Lew. “She seemed to be very effective in her work as the campaign manager for a woman who trusted her, who gave her a room in her own home.”
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