Buried in Wolf Lake

by Christine Husom

  She had gone home with him to his top floor warehouse apartment. He hadn’t originally planned to keep her for three days; he just couldn’t let her go. He’d held her one more day and indulged himself until the end was inevitable. The greater her suffering, the more fulfilled he felt. Langley was in complete control of his concubine, invigorated, alive. Everything about his time with the one he called “Eve” had been perfect.

  Langley slipped a disc into his DVD player, settled on a chair close to the screen, and pushed “play.” Every nerve, muscle, and brain cell jumped with anticipation. The hours he had spent with his concubine were recorded for posterity and his personal viewing pleasure.

  Whether she was gagged and tied to the chair or lying on the bed with her legs and arms cuffed to the four corners, Langley had complete dominion over her. She was evil, and it was up to him to take her power away. His video camera had captured each panicked expression, every futile, pleading look and grimace of pain. By the second day her pain, her suffering, her fear was reaching the climax. By the third day, when he clutched his teeth into her thigh, it was complete. Her eyes revealed her surrender. She had given up; she was nothing.

  It was time.

  Her struggle for air as his fingers dug into her neck had prompted Langley to plunge them deeper still, until life fled from her eyes and her body stilled. And then, the ultimate release: he’d used his power saw to divide her into six pieces of less than nothing.

  The final triumph.

  The Levite in the book of Judges had divided his concubine into twelve pieces and sent them into areas of Israel as a message, but Langley didn’t want to send out a public message. The six pieces were for his grandmother, grandfather, mother, father, sister, and himself. His stepfather didn’t count. Three pieces to be delivered to places that had haunted him since childhood, the places he had suffered private torture. Two pieces for the ones who had left him by dying. Those five pieces were unknown and unseen offerings for the people who had neglected and berated him, or deserted him. And the best piece was for himself, to keep and to savor.

  It was personal. Very, very personal.

  He had placed the concubine’s torso in a garbage bag, and the garbage bag into a large gym bag. Her arms and legs went in another. Sixty pounds or so in each hand wasn’t too much for him to tote. Her head went into his freezer so he could have a look whenever he desired.

  It was nearly midnight when Langley had driven with the remains to his mother and stepfather’s farm. No one used the private lake on their property—a perfect burial site. No one would ever find what was left of Langley’s first concubine.

  8

  Zubinski finished her interview with Mrs. Engen before I was through interviewing Mr. Engen. She leaned against the sheriff’s car, jotting notes in her memo pad.

  “Anything?” I asked, momentarily taken by the way her coppery hair became fingers of fire in the sun. I reluctantly admitted she had very striking hair.

  Zubinski looked up. “Nah. Tara said they bought the place from an older couple just over a year ago. They moved out from the Twin Cities—liked the setting, old farmhouse, outbuildings. Hope to get horses, chickens, et cetera, soon. They’ve been working on the house, light remodeling. Wanted to get that done first. They haven’t met many of the neighbors.

  “Said she works part time as a hospice nurse. Her husband commutes to Plymouth. She didn’t see or hear anything unusual. She’s never been in the lake. No swimming or lake sports. I’d say she never will be either, after this.” Zubinski nodded at the leg and scrunched up her face.

  I took another peek at the leg under its tent. “Well, their stories corroborate. Dean Engen is a financial planner. They like the setting of the lake, and he’s done a little casting from shore, but he says the bass in there are muddy tasting, not very edible.”

  I looked at Zubinski and shrugged. “That seems to be the extent of their lake activities.” I jotted Engen’s full name and date of birth on a memo sheet and handed it to her. “Here’s his info. Run a check on them. Since they’ve both been backgrounded for their jobs, I have a feeling there won’t be anything, but never say never, right?”

  Mandy nodded and headed to her squad car.

  Dr. Gordon Melberg pulled into the driveway. He got out of his car, stretched his legs, then jogged over to the tent-protected leg. I followed close behind.

  “My, my, my. Not a good way to start the week at all.” The creases by his eyes deepened in a squint.

  “Or end it,” I said.

  “That would be more accurate, certainly, as far as our victim was concerned.” Melberg pulled on two pairs of latex gloves and squatted by the leg. His muscular legs and arms strained against his clothes. “Very clean cut. Post-mortem. It couldn’t have been in the water long. No adipocere—”

  “No what?”

  He glanced up at me and pronounced it more distinctly. “Adipocere.”

  “Oh, grave wax?” I said.

  Melberg’s attention went back to the leg. “Correct. It’s a water-insoluble material consisting mostly of saturated fatty acids. It’s formed by the slow hydrolysis of fats in the decomposing body by anaerobic bacteria. A cold and humid environment without oxygen speeds up the formation of adipocere. The inches of muddy sediment at the bottom of this lake would be ideal to form the matter.”

  “Doc.” Sheriff Twardy and Smoke joined us at the tent.

  “Sheriff, Detective.”

  “Divers got in the water a few minutes ago. Least it’s a small lake,” the sheriff said.

  “Not much more than a pond,” Smoke added.

  The sheriff frowned, taking another look at the leg. “Any idea how long she’s been in the water?”

  “I was just telling the sergeant—not long. Skin’s intact, no adipocere. If we find the rest of her, her vital organs will give us more accurate information.” Melberg pressed slightly on the thigh then quickly released his fingers.

  Smoke pointed to a mark. “That bite before or after she died?”

  “Before.”

  “Oh, for godsakes,” the sheriff muttered.

  Weber popped up from underwater, pulled off his oxygen mask, and yelled, “Sheriff. We got something.”

  The four of us jogged to the shoreline, and deputies filled in around us. The other two divers surfaced about eight feet out.

  “Something’s in here.” Weber hoisted a garbage bag to the surface, and Carlson put his hands under the load to help Weber walk it to the shore. The bag was made of heavy duty plastic, and the open end was tied together. When Weber and Carlson lifted it out of the lake, water ran from multiple small holes. An upside down water fountain, like my grandmother’s old fashioned sprinkling can.

  “Well, we know why it sank,” Smoke concluded.

  As the water drained out, the black bag took on the form of a woman’s torso: shoulders, breasts, stomach.

  “Someone grab a blanket to lay this on,” Smoke directed.

  “I got it.” Zubinski was back a moment later.

  “This looks like the most level spot.” Smoke pointed to an area not far from the hoof prints. Mandy shook out the gray wool blanket and laid it on the ground.

  “Okay, guys, put her down.” Smoke snapped on gloves while Weber and Carlson slowly lowered their package to the blanket-covered ground.

  No one uttered a word as we all fixated on the plastic-clad form. I reached into the glove pouch on my belt and struggled to pull a pair of latex gloves onto my sweating hands. I noticed others had the same problem.

  “Detective?” Melberg prompted.

  Smoke glanced at the doctor. “Aside from the obvious, my concern is preserving possible evidence on the bag. Flashlight, anyone?”

  I handed mine over.

  Smoke knelt beside the form, tipping his head to the side, his eyes following the streams of light to the bag. “I don’t see any prints, but there could be some in the folds, or inside, or hidden somewhere. Sergeant, can you cut the bag open on the bott
om seam there? I don’t want to disturb the tied end.”

  I pulled out my jackknife, opened it, and painstakingly sliced the straightest line possible to open the bag. I held my breath against the assaulting odor of wet, decaying flesh.

  “Okay, everyone gloved up?” Smoke glanced at the sheriff, Melberg, Zubinski, and me. “Sheriff, Zubinski, I want you to get on either side of the bag. Use the thumb and pointer of each hand and carefully grasp the top of the bag with one hand and the bottom with the other.”

  They knelt on opposite sides of the blanket and followed Smoke’s instruction. “Got it?”

  They both nodded.

  “Now pull the top taut.”

  They did.

  “Okay, Corky, cut the bag open, right down the middle.”

  I crouched on the blanket next to Mandy, aimed my knife up so it would stay as far away from the object in the bag as possible, and sliced the plastic.

  I thought I was prepared, but how could I be? There was a collective, loud, and sharp gasp from eight professionals—people used to gory sights—sharing the mutual shock of seeing a headless, limbless torso.

  Mandy turned her face away from me and started coughing into her shoulder. I managed to hold my breath instead.

  “In all my years . . .” The sheriff rubbed his cheeks with both hands.

  Dr. Melberg withdrew a thermometer from his back pocket. He inserted it into a spot on the lower right side of the torso. We watched as the mercury rose to seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit.

  “That’s a surprise. Internal temp is seventy-five degrees. The water temp is seventy-two—hasn’t even gotten down to that yet.” Melberg looked directly at the sheriff. “She’s been dead no more than twenty-four hours. Probably got here sometime last night.” He stood, pulled off his gloves, then jotted the data on his notepad.

  Smoke stared at the torso and shook his head. “Corky, since I pulled the crime lab guys out to dive, you get the pictures. Zubinski, log what she snaps.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zubinski had finally stopped coughing.

  I was relieved to step away from the scene for the time it took to retrieve my camera from the hood of my car. I glanced at Ortiz and Norwood, who were keeping the perimeter secure, beyond curious to see what the divers had landed. Tara and Dean Engen rose from their chairs, straining to get a glimpse from a distance while keeping their feet planted as firmly as the flowers around the patio.

  My brain was not quite able to translate what had occurred at Wolf Lake into real events. A woman’s leg rested on a lawn under a makeshift tent, and her torso lay on layers of plastic and wool not far away.

  “. . . if there’s any more.” I caught the last few words of Smoke’s sentence.

  “Back to it,” Carlson said, and the divers pulled on their masks for round two.

  I had helped my mother clothe the mannequins at her dress shop a number of times. As a young child, I’d found the lifeless forms frightening. Their eyes gazed off in the distance, but if I looked long enough, I imagined them moving slightly, watching me. When the shop door opened, or if a person walked by the adult-size dolls, their clothes would stir, giving them the appearance of being alive, breathing, shifting.

  “Corky? You okay?” Smoke leaned closer.

  “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  But mannequins didn’t have belly buttons or rib bones or nipples or blood vessels or skin with freckles and moles. I snapped one photo after the next from various angles, wondering if the young woman had had any clue what would become of her. Did her killer talk to her, say anything as he tortured her, or did he let her imagination come to its own conclusions?

  “More bite marks.” Melberg’s voice was strained. “Those two inches of the neck show evidence of strangulation. Looks like the leg belongs here.” He pointed to the groin area where the leg had been severed.

  “I hate him, whoever did this to her!” Mandy drove her pen into her notepad a few times. No one disputed her words.

  Smoke got a phone call from Deputy Griffin, the mounted patrol officer. He hung up and reported, “Griffin’s going to unload the horse in the park, then head this way to begin tracking.”

  Mason surfaced with another loaded garbage bag. Water streamed from a large gash in the bottom. He walked to shore holding the package as far away from his body as his arms would allow. Carlson stood up, waist high in the water with what I quickly identified as an arm.

  “Might as well flip it so the tear is on the top. Let’s lay it on the blanket.” Smoke reached out to help Mason negotiate the bag and its contents. They lowered it to the ground.

  Smoke glanced at the camera in my hand. “Zubinski, you can make the slice on this one. Sheriff, if you’ll take that side, I’ll take this one.” They held the bag away from what was inside as Zubinski cut it open.

  Another leg and another arm.

  “I think the bag caught on a sharp rock. That must be how the first leg fell out,” Mason said.

  “She’s starting to come together,” Melberg quipped.

  Professionals who deal with death on a regular basis say unexpected things and often have unusual senses of humor.

  “Least now we got fingerprints,” Smoke added.

  Carlson, still holding the other arm, waited impatiently for instructions. When Melberg relieved him of his load, Carlson waved me over and pointed to his mask. I lifted it away from his face.

  “I am going to burn these gloves.”

  “I’m getting a whole new wet suit,” Mason said.

  Carlson nodded. “Not a bad idea.”

  “Where’s her head? Think it fell out, too?” Smoke asked.

  Mason shrugged. “We didn’t find it, but it sure could be in there somewhere, I guess.”

  Suddenly, the small lake looked mammoth, with a myriad of hiding spots.

  Griffin rode past our group, seated on his American Quarter Horse. He waved, turned around, and continued slowly back into the park.

  Deputy Warner moved in next to Smoke. “If the divers don’t locate the head in the next, say thirty minutes, I’ll launch the boat. The sonar system should find it.”

  “Be nice to have one of those remote operated vehicles, Sheriff, like St. Louis County has,” Smoke said.

  Warner smiled.

  “Be nice to have a lot of things, keep up with all the latest technology,” the sheriff agreed.

  Smoke lifted his hand in my direction. “Corky, you get the best fingerprints of anyone here. Grab the portable kit from the lab. I’ll hold her arms, you roll.”

  I had never taken fingerprints from a dead body before, much less from detached arms. My hands were shaking when I began my task. Smoke held her right arm, then her left, as I inked each finger and rolled each one on the card.

  Smoke’s lopsided grin deepened his left dimple. “I was wondering how you’d do with those trembling fingers of yours, but you somehow managed to get clean, readable prints.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I pulled off my gloves and wiped my damp hands on my pants.

  My eyes met Zubinski’s. There was no evident envy or gloating. It was the first time in our two years working together I had caught a hint of admiration on her face.

  The mounted officer returned with news. “I followed the tracks to the parking area on the west side of the park there. Looks like he drove an SUV pulling a two wheel trailer. There are footprints and tire marks, nothing very distinct, not enough to cast, but I got pictures.”

  Neither the divers, nor Warner and his sonar system, were able to locate the victim’s head.

  The three divers formed a semi-circle in front of Smoke. “You guys have already put a lot of time and effort into this, but I think we need to check one more location.”

  Weber sucked in a breath. “Where’s that?”

  Smoke pointed to the swamp where the horse had gone first. “Can you handle another hour or so?”

  “Swamp’s too shallow to put the boat in,” Warner noted.

  Mason’s lips turned up in a slight
grin. “That’s why we get paid the big bucks.”

  Warner and the dive team headed to the swamp.

  Melberg turned to the sheriff and Smoke. “We need to call the mortician to transport our victim to Hennepin; get her in the morgue as soon as possible, ready for autopsy.”

  “Thanks, Doc, you’re right. The closest one is Little Mountain?” Smoke asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. I’ll call them.”

  The two directors/owners of McKay and Hall’s Funeral Chapel arrived a short time later in their white transport van. Apparently, they thought it was not the kind of job to pass on to their employees who normally picked up bodies of the deceased.

  Both men were in their fifties, and it was the first time I had seen either one of them in casual clothing. I had always assumed the first thing they did in the morning was put on their suits and ties, and the last thing they did before climbing into bed was take them off. I guess I was wrong.

  McKay, the shorter and balder of the two, talked to Melberg while Hall pulled a stretcher out of the vehicle and laid a body bag on top. He unzipped the bag, then joined his partner and the doctor by the body.

  Melberg pointed to the Engens’ front yard. “Her other leg is over there, under that tent. We’re still looking for her head. When and if we recover that, I’ll personally take it down to Hennepin.”

  “They know we’re coming?” McKay asked.

  Melberg swatted at a mosquito. “I talked to the M.E. a while ago to alert him. I’ll call again when you’re on your way.”

  McKay and Hall left with Ms. Doe’s recovered body parts and the necessary paperwork. The divers continued to hunt for her head. At dusk, after painstaking hours in the water, the search was called. The evening air cooled as the sun lowered and a gentle breeze stirred, raising goosebumps on my sweaty arms. More mosquitoes found their way out of their daytime shelters and buzzed around us.