Crow Wing Dead

by Midge Bubany

  In the last month, Wynn made deliveries to companies located in Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin, Missouri, and Illinois. He could easily be using the North Cross trucks to deliver drugs. On Monday, May 12, just like his boss said, Wynn made one delivery to Estelle Candies in Prairie Falls—on the very day Hawk disappeared. The next day, he was back in the metro making deliveries to several locations. So, it was true, Wynn would have had to get the truck back to the warehouse on Monday afternoon to load for Tuesday. I compiled a list of all the companies he delivered to for the past two months, including their phone numbers and addresses.

  I’d have to wait to talk to someone at Estelle’s until Monday morning because although the plant operated twenty-four/seven, their business office hours were eight to five, Monday through Friday.

  I wrapped up what I could do, then stopped to get Chinese takeout for dinner. The young man (I believe he was the owner’s son) who took my order acted as if he didn’t notice my face had been a punching bag. When he handed me the warm, fragrant bag, he said, “What happened to you?”

  “When I took out the recycling, a deer attacked me.”

  “Oh… did you shoot him?”

  “Wish I could have.”

  He nodded and said, “See you next time.”

  None of the employees ever smiled or laughed in Chin’s Gardens.

  While I ate, I surfed the television channels until I found a Jesse Stone movie, but I found it hard to concentrate. My mind was on Shannon and the kids, Adriana, Paul Hawkinson’s problems and, of course, Hawk. Wynn had to be the mastermind behind his kidnapping. He was in town because he had a delivery in the area, and while here, he thought he’d push on Paul for his money. Hawk shows up at Paul’s driving a fancy car. Wynn decides to kidnap Hawk. But how would kidnapping Hawk get Wynn his money back?

  Chapter 20

  June 2

  Twenty-one days missing

  First thing Monday morning after signing in, I drove to the Estelle’s plant located just northwest of town. Downwind from the facility, I could smell the sugar in the air, reminiscent of cotton candy at the county fair.

  I walked into the front door and over to the counter where a young woman was sitting behind the desk. She looked up and smiled. Then her eyebrows lifted as she noticed my bruised and swollen face. I could tell she wanted to ask about it, but said politely, “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to someone regarding a delivery that was made in early May—whoever could help me confirm the time.”

  “That’d be Jim in purchasing.”

  Within a couple minutes, Jim stood before me. His face was scarred pink and shiny—he must have been badly burned. He didn’t react to my bruises like others had. He placed his hands on his hips and listened to me ask for information about a delivery from North Cross shipping. He took me to a small office down the hall where he pointed to a plastic chair in the corner of the room.

  Jim began typing on his keyboard, and I pulled the chair over. It was dusty, so I wiped it off with my hand as best I could. I had black pants on and didn’t want to walk around with a dusty butt. Jim didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “North Cross, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  As he deftly clicked the keys with two fingers, he said, “Why would one of our deliveries be of concern to the sheriff?”

  “I’m actually tracking the driver, Nevada Wynn.”

  “Okay, well, North Cross delivered a positive displacement pump on May the twelfth.”

  “Who was the manufacturer?”

  “Ahh, let me look.” He tapped on his keys. “Okay, it was ALP.”

  “Ames Lyman?”

  “Yes. You know pumps?”

  “I’ve heard of the company. Do you know Michael Hawkinson?”

  “Sure, he’s the ALP salesman.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Not for a while. I talked to him on the phone a month ago. Told him we needed a new pump ASAP. He said he’d have it by the fourteenth. It arrived early, on Monday.”

  “Did you accept the delivery?”

  “No, that’s be Darrin Bjorklund in receiving.”

  “Then I need to speak to him.”

  I parked in the lot in the back of the plant, walked behind the three trucks waiting their turn to unload at the open double doors, and rang the bell next to a steel door marked Receiving. A few minutes later, a man wearing a white uniform with Estelle’s Candies embroidered in blue on a pocket opened the door.

  “You must be Deputy Sheehan. Whoa. What happened to your face?”

  “I tripped over my dog in the dark.”

  “That happened to me once. Screwed up my elbows.” He pulled up his arms to show me an invisible injury. “Well, come on up to the office.”

  I followed him up a set of concrete stairs to a row of small offices. His was the second one in.

  Darrin looked to be in his early forties, medium height and build, had sandy-brown hair and a massive amount of freckles.

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “Do you have a record of what time North Cross Shipping delivered a pump to you on May 12?”

  “I sure should.”

  He walked to one of three four-drawer metal file cabinets, opened the top drawer and fingered the files. He pulled one out and set it on his desk. On top of the paperwork was a requisition form, stamped and initialed.

  “Looks like the shipment for the positive displacement pump was accepted on May 12 at eight oh three.”

  “Do you remember anything about the driver?”

  “Yeah, I remember the cobra tattoo on his neck. I was expecting Hal, but this guy was new. His name was Vegas or something like that.”

  “Nevada Wynn?”

  He pointed at me. “Yeah, that’s it. I thought to myself I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. But we get all kinds of drivers, most of ’em, nice as pie.”

  “Did you happen to know if you were his only delivery in the area?”

  “I thought for sure we would be, the pump’s big, filled the trailer, but I saw a few cartons lined up in the back.”

  “What size were they?’

  “Maybe twelve by eighteen.”

  North Cross had listed only this one delivery. Snake could have been moving drugs in those boxes, possibly to Woody Nash.

  As I was walking across the lot to my department Explorer, my cell phone rang. It was Patrice.

  “Cal, the sheriff of Crow Wing County just called me. They have a body on a farm south of Brainerd—a male, no ID. That’s all he knows. I think we should drive over to take a look.”

  When she saw me, Patrice frowned then tried not to laugh—unsuccessfully, I might add.

  “I’m not even going to ask,” she said, putting up a hand.

  “Thank you, because I’m not talking about it.”

  She insisted on driving. I suspected she thought I’d be too upset to operate a motor vehicle after I identified the body of my friend. She hadn’t said a word for several blocks, so I filled the uncomfortable silence by updating her on what I’d found out from Darrin Bjorklund at Estelle’s.

  “So this Wynn character delivers for the company your friend works for? Seems too much of a coincidence.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “And you believe he was transporting illegal substances in the boxes.”

  “Yeah.”

  We drove on Highway 10 another several minutes without either of us speaking. When we passed through Motley, Patrice turned on country western music and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat. Never thought of her as a country music kind of gal.

  “Cal, do you think your friend could be involved in drug trafficking?”

  �
��No, not at all. I’m wondering if he figured out Wynn was and Paul was involved.”

  She nodded. “That very well could be.”

  “I originally thought they killed him because of the money Paul owed Wynn, but what sense would it make for them to kill Hawk—if they thought he was good for the money?”

  “Whoever said criminals had good sense?”

  Once in Brainerd, we turned south on 45 and until we got to 100th Street and turned east.

  “Oh, look. The media vans are lined up,” Patrice said.

  “It’s a party no one wants to miss.”

  She tossed me a frown.

  Patrice passed the vans parked along the south side of the gravel road, and drove up to a deputy stationed at the end of the driveway. He checked us in, and we continued onto the farm site. Yellow crime scene tape was strung around the exterior of the farmyard. We parked among the several vehicles from Crow Wing County and the BCA (Bureau of Criminal Apprehension).

  Crow Wing County Sheriff Tim Hudson and his investigator, Lee Sabin, met us at our vehicle. Hudson’s tan uniform was slightly small for his husky but muscular frame.

  I hoped Patrice took note that Sabin was allowed to wear street clothes, like our investigators used to under former sheriffs.

  We shook hands, and Hudson pointed to my face and said, “What’s the story?”

  Patrice put her index finger to her lips. “Shh. He’s not talking about it.”

  Hudson grinned as he told us Leslie Rouch was in the house. Leslie was an excellent investigator with the BCA I’d worked with before. As we approached the old, two-story farmhouse painted white with black trim, nothing looked awry. Leslie greeted us at the screen door.

  “My gosh, what happened to you?” she said.

  “It’s a long story.”

  She gave me a pitying look, nodded once, and said, “Okay, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive before we removed our victim from the basement. Come take a look.”

  We walked through a small porch into a small entryway. The kitchen was to the immediate left where an investigator was dabbing a swab on a drinking glass to get a DNA sample.

  The basement was set a few feet straight in from the entry. I caught a whiff of its musty smell as we tramped down the wood stairs. The gray paint was worn off in the center from years of use. They were open backed like the kind my grandparents had at the lake house. When I was a little kid, it was my job to go down the stairs to the basement at night to get the ice cream out of the freezer. I’d descend in slow motion, worried the boogeyman was waiting to grab my legs through the open slats. When I’d get to the bottom I’d hurry around the corner, grab the pail from the freezer, and run back up as fast as I could. This basement had a real boogeyman who had come and gone.

  As we approached the basement level, the musty smell gave way to the foul odor of urine and feces. One of Leslie’s co-workers was swabbing for DNA samples on the wood railing. He stepped down and away so we could pass by.

  Approximately ten feet from the stairway, near the washer and dryer, a man lay on his back on the cement floor. He was bald, except for a few wisps of hair. His arms were bent upward at the elbows as if he had his hands up before being shot in the chest. His light eyes were open and still clear. There was a small laceration and contusion above one eye. His gray shirt was stained dark red surrounding the wound, his blue jeans were wet in the crotch. This man wasn’t Hawk.

  I looked to Leslie. “Who is this?”

  “Norman Kramer, the farmer who lives here.”

  “We were told a body had been found, and we assumed it was Michael Hawkinson,” Patrice said.

  “What do you know about this man?” I asked.

  “He’s a fifty-year-old bachelor. No current romantic interest. His sister said he had cancer and had just finished chemo. She found him at nine o’clock this morning.”

  “Best guess for a time of death?”

  “Rigor mortis is just setting in his jaw and head, so five or six hours ago. ” She looked at her watch. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock so somewhere between five or six o’clock this morning.”

  “No firearm near the body, not suicide,” I said.

  “No,” Leslie said. “My initial guess from the size of the room and the visual of the wound he was shot from a range of about twelve feet. We’ll have our blood-spatter expert do his digital work with virtual strings for the trajectory.”

  “Twelve feet?” I backed up and almost stepped on a grubby floral lawn chair cushion. A gold woolen blanket, and a decorative pillow were beside it.

  One end of yellow polypropylene rope was tossed across the mat, the other looped around the bottom step. A bike lock lay open on the floor next to used pieces of duct tape. The edges were uneven like having been torn. The putrid odor was not coming so much from the corpse, as the contents of the plastic ice cream pail placed a reach away from the foam pad—it had been someone’s toilet.

  “Was the farmer tied up down here?” Patrice asked.

  “I don’t think so. He has no ligature marks on his wrists or ankles. But the bucket samples will tell us for sure who was.”

  “You think Michael Hawkinson was held captive here?”

  Leslie nodded and said, “It’s a possibility, isn’t it? DNA testing will tell us for sure.”

  “Why would this sick farmer hold him captive?” Patrice asked. “And where is Hawkinson now?”

  “Good questions and unfortunately Mr. Kramer can’t give us the answers,” Leslie said.

  “With words anyway,” I said.

  Leslie nodded. “He may have been forced to,” she added. “We called a cadaver dog in, and we may find something upstairs that can tell the tale. One more thing.” She pointed to the wall. “See the bullet hole? The bullet must have ricocheted off and landed across the room where that marker is.” She pointed to the other side of the room.

  “Didn’t pass through the body?”

  “Not that one, we have the slug that did. You should also know we found a shoebox filled with marijuana on a top shelf of a bedroom closet. His sister said he smoked it when he was a teenager, and she believes he smoked it now to help the nausea from chemo.”

  I glanced around the room to see if I could spot anything out of the ordinary. “Jesus, what’s that purple shit growing on the cement wall?” I asked.

  “It’s some kind of some kind of mold I’ve never seen before. See that opening above it? There’s a cistern behind the wall,” Leslie said.

  “Perhaps you should be wearing masks. Could be carcinogenic,” Patrice said.

  “Anything in the cistern beside water?” I asked.

  “No, we checked with a camera.”

  I made my way past the furnace sitting just beyond the stairs to the room on the opposite side of the basement. It was partially filled with boxes of junk and stacks of old furniture, warped and musty from the damp conditions. Multiple spider webs draped from the small window set high on the wall to the back corner of the room and the junk piles.

  Leslie had followed me in. “This area looks undisturbed.”

  “Hey! We have another body in a field!” someone yelled down the stairs.

  None of us wasted any time climbing the basement stairs. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the stench.

  We all silently followed the deputy across the yard, past the buildings, and through a path cut in the grove. We stepped over underbrush and over fallen limps, snapping twigs with each step. Crows cawed in the distance. Once we came out of the grove the scene was visible. Several yards into the field, three deputies waved away several persistent crows from a body that lay facedown across rows of young corn plants. The canine and his handler were standing off to the side.

  When I was close enough to see the body build of the victim, I knew it was Hawk. He’d
been shot twice, once square in the back, and once in the back of the head. I fought back tears, as I stared at the wounds apparently pecked by the crows. My stomach turned, my throat constricted. I fought the urge to wretch.

  “We found a Remington shotgun over there,” a deputy said as he pointed to the yellow numbered evidence marker.

  Patrice and I shared glances.

  “We have a cabin burglary with a missing Remington,” she said.

  Patrice said, “We can stay as long as you want.”

  I nodded, and we stepped back away from the scene and toward the tree line to watch the crime lab investigators photograph the body from every angle and make molds of shoe prints in the soil. Leslie pulled a wallet from the back pocket of the victim and looked at the identification, then at me. She replaced the card and threw the wallet in a brown evidence bag. When they rolled the body over to transfer him to the body bag, I moved in closer to see the face, although now unrecognizable because of the exit wound. But I did recognize the goatee.

  “Whose name was on the ID?” I asked.

  “Paul Hawkinson,” Leslie said.

  “Not Michael?” Patrice asked.

  “No.”

  She put her hand on my arm and tilted her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing to say.”

  Sadness crept in through its familiar channel beginning in my stomach, traveling quickly through my chest and into my throat.

  Paul? This was bad—very bad. The Hawkinsons could very well have lost both their sons.

  Chapter 21

  Sheriff Hudson wanted to notify the Hawkinson family—it was his county after all. Patrice mentioned I was a friend of the family, so we were invited to join him. Several vehicles were parked along the street near the Hawkinson residence. Sheriff Hudson pulled up behind Cat’s Lexus sedan parked in the driveway, and Patrice parked behind a black BMW 7 series next to it.