by C. M. Sutter
“Thanks, Perry. I’m going to call them right now. Goodbye.”
I headed back to the bull pen with even more determination, sat down at my desk, and called the funeral home. After that, I called Barry Nicolaus, the parole officer I spoke with yesterday, to make an appointment to see him. He told me I could come in immediately if I had time.
“Guys, I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going over to the courthouse to follow up with Barry about these guys I flagged yesterday.” I grabbed the sheets on the two guys and left.
With the courthouse right next to the sheriff’s department, I took the sidewalk and entered through the east corridor hallway. The parole officer’s office was on the second floor. I entered and told the receptionist, Nancy, I had an appointment with Barry.
“Sure, Jade, give me a second. Barry, Jade is here.”
Barry came out of his office and greeted me. He reached out and shook my hand. “Good to see you again. Come on in.”
Barry Nicolaus had been a parole officer in Washburn County for the past fourteen years. He and his wife, Lorraine, were casual friends of mine. A few years back, she and I were in the same bowling league.
I always teased Barry about his tie selection. I stared at his tie with box turtles on it and grinned.
“What?”
I laughed. “You never fail to surprise me. That tie is uglier than the one you wore last month when I was here.”
“I forgot which one that was,” he said, chuckling.
“I didn’t. It had motocross bikes on it.” I sat down and opened the two folders I’d brought with me. “I need to know more about these guys. You’re aware of the murders we’ve been dealing with, right?”
“Who wouldn’t be? The news isn’t spreading the best light on the sheriff’s department. They’re making it sound like you guys are incompetent.”
“Yeah, I really appreciate all their praise—jerks. This guy leaves no evidence, Barry. He’s like a ghost.” I pushed the folders toward him. “Look at these pictures. I’m thinking these photos are pretty old. I need to know what these two are like now. Our profile is leading us to believe the perp is pretty strong and over six feet tall. We can’t pinpoint an age range, but do your two guys still look like these photos?”
He studied the pictures. “Yeah, I see what you mean. These photos are likely from when they were put in the system. Let’s see, Adam Ross was released in 2013 after ten years in Waupun. So, that makes him thirty-seven right now. He looked a lot tougher then. Prison can age a guy quickly unless they’re always working out and watching their back. Adam has asthma pretty bad, smokes a lot, and probably goes a buck fifty now.”
“That doesn’t sound like our guy. How about Chuck Banta?”
Barry studied Chuck’s picture. “Yeah, he looks about the same. He’s a tough one and not to be trusted. He lives at the halfway house on Cedar Street. He does hold down a full-time job at Millsteel, though. The halfway house has a pretty strict curfew. Everyone has to be inside and accounted for by ten p.m. The first killing happened in the middle of the night, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, and in Milwaukee. Does Chuck have a vehicle?”
“Nope. The guys that live at the halfway house and have jobs take the shuttle to work every day. They get picked up after work too.”
“Crap. It sounds like both of them are dead ends. Can you print out their most current information for me?”
“Sure can, Jade.” He called Nancy into his office. “Nancy, pull Chuck Banta and Adam Ross’s files and print out everything for Jade, please.”
“Sure thing. It will take about ten minutes. Would you like some coffee, Jade?”
“That would be awesome, thanks.”
“So no leads yet?”
“Unfortunately not. We’re following up with anyone released in the last few years that served ten. Never heard of anyone nicknamed Dime?”
“Sorry, but no. That’s what this guy is going by?”
“Just a hunch that doesn’t seem to be panning out so far.” I thanked Nancy for the coffee and continued to wait for the files.
“I’ll ask around. I see quite a few guys every month. I could tell the other parole officers to ask if anyone knows somebody by that nickname. I have no idea if anyone will talk or not, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.”
Nancy brought in the files and handed them to me.
“Thanks, Nancy, appreciate it. I guess I better go and start hitting the streets. So far we haven’t had any luck on the phones. Thanks, Barry.”
Chapter 26
Jack and I started at the far south end of Main Street. We knew every little nook and cranny where the loners hung out, some unemployed, some a little sketchy. We planned to talk to everyone that would give us the time of day along the route and end at Settler’s Square at the north end of Main Street. On Saturdays during the summer, a large farmers' market was held downtown. Main Street was blocked off to vehicles between seven a.m. and one p.m., and only foot traffic was allowed. Bands usually played at Settler’s Square, and it was a fun, family-oriented environment. During the week, Settler’s Square was usually inhabited by truant teenagers, people that milled around waiting to meet up with someone, or old people who were just lonely. Usually the city police tried to keep anyone that looked up to no good moving along, but today, we needed to speak to as many of them as possible.
North Bend was a decent town for the most part, and not one that saw many serious crimes. Even the petty criminals had seemed to look over their shoulders lately. Our town was growing, though, and more people were moving in from larger cities. Many of those people we hadn’t met yet, had no idea where they came from, or what they were capable of.
The folks that hung out downtown knew Jack and me. Some of them had had an encounter or two with us in the past and scattered when we approached, while others waved hello.
Johnny Davis was a regular that hung out at the triangle, a small parklike greenspace in front of Cheryl’s Bar and Grill. We sat next to him on the bench. Jack always kept two packs of cigarettes with him, menthol and non-menthol. They came in handy when we needed to talk to someone, especially a homeless person. They would sit tight and talk, hoping for more cigarettes as we asked our questions.
“Hey, Johnny, what’s new?” Jack asked.
Johnny scooted to the side when we sat and tried to hide the brown paper bag that likely contained a pint of cheap whiskey. Jack offered him a smoke. He happily chose a menthol cigarette.
Jack lit it for him. “So, nothing interesting, huh?”
“No, nope, not a thing.” He pinched the cigarette between his lips and inhaled deeply.
“Where are you sleeping these days?” I asked.
He pointed. “Over there, under the bridge. Got myself a nice little camp set up.”
“No fires, though, right?” Jack asked.
“Nope, no fires, no sir.”
“So, Johnny, have you ever heard of somebody that goes by the name of Dime? I want you to think hard before you answer.” I stared at him and waited.
“Yep, sure have. Uh-huh.”
I looked at Jack. Doubt was written across his face, and I felt the same way.
“Can I have another cigarette? I want one for later.”
“Sure, but first we have to know who Dime is,” Jack said.
Johnny pointed at the barbershop in a run-down building on the corner. The small storefront had been a barbershop for as long as I could remember, but these days, I thought it sat vacant. An alley was to the left of it, and the right side was attached to a nearly defunct plumbing store. In all the years I’d lived in North Bend, I’d never seen anyone walk in or out of the place. That entire block of buildings needed updating and new facades. I’d heard the city council’s planning committee had that area earmarked for rejuvenation later in the year.
“The barber that runs the place, his name is Dime.”
“I thought that place was empty. When was the last time you were in there, Johnny?” Jack asked.
One look at the homeless man told us he hadn’t had his hair washed or cut in ages.
“I can’t remember. I just know that’s his name. Frankie said so.”
“Your brother told you that?” I frowned in disbelief.
“Uh-huh. He takes out the trash for him and gets a pack of smokes every week for doing it. Can I have another?” He stuck out his thin, bony fingers and waited for Jack to hand him a second cigarette.
“Okay, thanks, Johnny. We’ll go check it out. You aren’t lying to us, are you? We know where you live.” I gave him a smile.
“Nope, not lying.”
“I thought that building was vacant,” I said to Jack as we crossed the street.
“So did I.” Jack pulled the squeaky screen door open and turned the knob on the wooden interior door.
We entered the old, tired-looking barbershop and saw a middle-aged man trimming another man’s hair.
“Hello, folks, be with you in a bit. Just finishing up.”
We sat and waited. Jack grabbed a fishing magazine. The cover showed people ice fishing. He frowned and looked at the date. The magazine was from January.
“Help yourself to some coffee if you like,” the barber said.
We smiled and declined.
He brushed off the customer’s neck and unfastened the cape. The man paid and walked out.
“How can I help you folks? Need a trim, sir?”
We stood and showed him our badges. I asked him to flip the open sign to closed for now. He complied.
“What’s this about? I have all my licenses.”
“May we see them?” I asked.
“Sure thing.” He opened the top drawer in the desk at the back of the shop and pulled out his paperwork. He handed the documents to me.
“Your last name is Sentz?”
“Yep, Joseph Sentz, but everyone calls me Dime.”
“Why’s that?” Jack asked.
The man laughed. “My old man’s kind of humor, I guess. I’m Dime, and my kid brother, Jimmy, is Nickel. I’m the older of the two, and we’re five years apart in age. Get it? Our last name is Sentz, like cents. Funny, right? My pop started calling me Dime when I turned ten. He said I was worth ten cents now, a dime. He started calling my brother Nickel then too. I guess the nicknames just stuck.”
I glanced at Jack. “Do you live in town, Mr. Sentz?”
“Sure do, across the street from the police station on Walnut Street.”
“Your license shows you just opened six months ago. What did you do before that?”
“I was a barber in Atlanta.”
“Why move to Wisconsin? It gets pretty cold here in the winter.”
“Yeah, I’m not too fond of that. My mom and pop are getting pretty old. They have an assisted living apartment on Meadowbrook, and Jimmy watches over them, but he isn’t in the best of health—asthma problems.”
“Okay, thanks for the information, Mr. Sentz.” I handed back the documents. “Welcome to North Bend.”
We walked out with nothing.
“That wasn’t what I was expecting.” I sighed. “At least Johnny wasn’t lying. I don’t think that Dime is our man. He doesn’t look like he could lift a bag of water softener salt over his shoulder, let alone a person.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, “I think we can write him off. Let’s grab a burger, then check on Clayton and Billings. Maybe they’re having some luck at the parks.”
We sat on the patio of a hamburger stand, each of us with a cheeseburger and fries, and watched the traffic drive by.
“So tomorrow is Morris’s funeral. Do you think it’s inappropriate to question people at the luncheon afterward?” I asked as I dipped a fry in the paper cup of ketchup.
“Let’s talk to Lindstrom and Colgate. That might be their intention, or maybe they’ve cleared most everyone already.”
“Yeah, okay, good idea. Let’s hit Settler’s Square after we finish eating.” I made a quick call to Clayton as we ate. “How’s it going on your end?”
“No luck, Sergeant. We’re striking out with everyone, or they’re just not in the mood to talk to us.”
“All right. We’re going to spend an hour or so at Settler’s Square, then go back to the station after that. We’ll regroup later and see what we do or don’t have.”
We drove the five blocks back to the downtown area and parked in a public lot. From there, it was only two blocks across a footbridge over the Milwaukee River that meandered through town and back to Main Street. It was already after two o’clock. Only four people sat in the square, each looking off in different directions, watching people go by.
Old man Lewis sat on a bench across from three young men with skateboards. I approached him and sat down. The others left.
“Hi, Bob, how are you?”
“Okay.”
“Getting enough to eat?”
“Yep, the Lutheran church on Sixth Street offers lunch three times a week for us.”
“That’s nice. Anything new on the streets? Are you staying safe?”
“Got to with that killer out there. That’s what I heard anyway.”
“Been watching TV, have you?” Jack asked.
“Nope, don’t have a TV. That guy told me.”
“What guy is that?” I looked around.
“Him.” Bob pointed to a man walking down the street a few blocks to our north. “He was sitting here earlier talking to all of us. He said to be careful because there’s a killer on the loose.”
“He was warning you?” I asked.
“Yep. Nice guy.”
“Thanks, Bob. Take care.” I motioned to Jack with a nod. “Let’s catch up with that guy and see what he has to say.”
It didn’t take a lot to catch up with the man ahead of us. He looked to be close to seventy.
“Excuse me, sir.”
The man turned around. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes.” We showed him our badges. “Do you have a minute? We have a few questions for you.”
“Me? What for?”
“Our friend Bob back there”—I pointed to Settler’s Square—“said you talked to him about the news broadcast about our local killer.”
“Sure did. You can never be too careful. That’s why I don’t go out after dark. This is my exercise. I come into town, do my errands, and go for walks during the day. I stop, have a beer, play a little video poker, and go home after that. That’s my life.”
“Where’s home?” I asked.
“East of town about five miles. Just past Eddy’s Tap. You know the place?”
“I’ve heard of it. Can’t say I’ve ever been inside.”
“It’s decent and usually quiet. Strange fella in there Tuesday, though.”
Jack frowned. “Strange, how?”
“Mikey, the bartender, and I were in there alone. I was playing video poker when this fella walked in. Never seen the man before. The local news came on about the murders, and the guy started laughing. Strangest thing. Mikey got mad and said something to him. The guy got up and left. Couldn’t have been in there more than fifteen minutes.”
“Do you remember what this guy looked like?”
“Nah—he had on one of those sweatshirts with the hood pulled up. Just seemed like an odd duck, you know?”
“Could you tell his age or his height?” I asked.
“Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t look at him closely. After the news, I went back to my video poker and didn’t look up again until I heard the front door slam. That’s when I noticed he was gone.”
“Do you know what days Mikey works?”
“Hmm… what’s today?”
“Thursday,” Jack said.
“Yep, he doesn’t work again until Saturday.”
“Would you happen to know Mikey’s last name?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Okay, we’ll need your name and phone number, please.” I pulled my notepad and a pen out of my pocket and flipped to an empty page. He gave me his inform
ation. Jack and I handed him our cards and asked him to call either one of us if he remembered anything more about this man.
Chapter 27
We headed back to the station. I asked the boss if we could have a group powwow—he agreed. The four of us gathered in Lieutenant Clark’s office.
“Okay, let’s hear what you guys have. Clayton, Billings, you two took the parks, right?”
“That’s right, boss. We talked to, what”—Clayton looked at Billings, his eyebrows raised—“fifteen people?”
“That’s about right.”
“And?” The lieutenant scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“And nothing. Nobody had any leads for us. One guy started talking about somebody that went by the name Dime, but his buddy corrected him.”
“How so?” the lieutenant asked.
“Well, he said he heard of a poker dealer that went by that name. Apparently, this dealer had his fifteen minutes of fame last year. He dealt the winning hand for somebody who won over a million bucks in a poker tournament in Vegas. The winning hand was a royal flush, all diamonds. Anyway, the lead went nowhere. His buddy corrected him and told us the dealer went by the name Diamond, not Dime.”
We groaned. I got up and started the coffeepot on the credenza in the lieutenant’s office.
“Okay, Jade, Jack, any leads?”
“Go ahead,” Jack said.
“We did interview somebody that goes by Dime, but he isn’t our guy. He’s a barber in town, and his dad had been calling him that name since he was a kid. The family surname is Sentz, pronounced like cents. The dad called the brother Nickel.”
I shrugged and listened to more groans. “There is someone I think we should question, though. Apparently, a bartender at Eddy’s Tap on the outskirts of town had a strange patron in there two days ago. This patron laughed when the news segment came on TV about the murders.”
“That’s unusual. So what did the bartender tell you?”
“That’s the problem, sir. We talked to an older guy downtown. He told us about the incident, not the bartender. The old man doesn’t know the bartender’s last name, and he isn’t scheduled to work again until Saturday.”