Buried in Wolf Lake

by Christine Husom

  We will do everything we can to find the monster who tortured and killed you, I silently vowed to Molly.

  My cell phone rang and knocked me out of my musing. “Sergeant Aleckson.”

  “It’s me.” Smoke. “How are things going down there?”

  “We got an ID. Molly Getz, twenty-seven, from Minneapolis.”

  “She’s got a record?”

  “Prostitution.”

  He let out a loud breath. “Well, that opens the pool of suspects up to the size of Lake Superior. Damn. Anything on the garbage bags yet, any prints?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You don’t have to wait for the results. I just got a call from Melberg. The autopsy is set for twelve thirty at the medical examiner’s office. I signed you and Zubinski up to witness it. You may want to get a little something on your stomachs before that,” he suggested.

  “All right. Are they still located across the street from Hennepin County Medical Center?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay. How’s court going?”

  “Still waiting to testify. We’re on a fifteen-minute recess.” he paused, “Which is over about now. Good luck.”

  “You, too.” I clapped my phone shut and looked at Mandy. “We’re the lucky ones that get to observe her—” I nodded at Molly’s photo, “—autopsy.”

  Mandy’s eyebrows shot up, her eyes huge. “I’ve never—”

  Darin put an arm around her shoulder. “Keep reminding yourself it’s the least fun you’ll have all week.” He looked over at me. “What time is it set for?”

  “Twelve thirty.”

  He looked at his watch. “Ten thirty now. Eating something light will help settle your stomachs.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Smoke said.”

  He smiled. “Come to think of it, he’s probably the one who taught me that in the first place.”

  Darin guided us to a bright, airy cafeteria. “This will count as my coffee break—which I never usually take, by the way. They have great chicken noodle soup, and I personally love their vegetable wraps.” He rubbed his stomach.

  Mandy chose Darin’s suggestions, and I got soup and yogurt. We were about to eat when Darin got a call. He frowned and stood up with his coffee, looking from Mandy to me. “I’m going to have to leave. Good to see you—say ‘hey’ to Elton.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Mandy. “If you want, give me a call sometime. Anytime.” With a small salute, he took off.

  Mandy leaned in a little. “He sure is nice. And pretty cute, too.”

  My mouth was full, so I didn’t have to answer.

  “How does he know Detective Dawes so well?”

  I chewed and swallowed. “They worked together in Cook County. Darin was a deputy before he became the Forensic Science Supervisor in the Criminalistics Laboratory here.”

  “I wonder why he left law enforcement?”

  “Not sure.” I looked at my watch. “We should head out.”

  “Yeah, I’d rather be early.” We threw our paper and plastic in the trash and stacked the trays. “Have you ever been to an autopsy before?” Mandy asked.

  I nodded. “Two, actually. One was a woman who allegedly shot herself holding the gun in her left hand—she was right handed. Turns out her right hand was broken, they figured from a fall. Kind of a weird deal. The other one was a drug overdose. The guy laid there at a party all night and no one checked on him. They all thought he’d passed out, not passed on.”

  “Man.” She shook her head. “I have to confess I’m a little freaked out about this.”

  “Me too,” I agreed.

  Dr. Melberg, Mandy, and I stood in the autopsy room, waiting for the inevitable. Dr. Peter Jarvis was checking out the tools. He was in his mid-fifties and extremely tidy looking. His scrubs appeared starched and pressed, and I searched for an errant hair, but didn’t find one on his head, his eyebrows, or in either ear. Dr. Choua Vang was close to forty and very intense. She was so petite, I felt gargantuan next to her. The attendant, Scott Stevens, was thin and gawky and gave the impression he was uncomfortable in his own skin.

  The two pathologists set to work. Stevens took notes and photos, and Dr. Melberg, Mandy, and I served as witnesses.

  First they conducted an external examination of the five body parts, beginning with the limbs.

  “Ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, indicating she was bound. Very clean cuts. I would say he used a bone saw like butchers use,” Dr. Jarvis began.

  “He’s a butcher, all right,” Mandy muttered quietly near my ear.

  “She was still in rigor when she was found. Doc—” Dr. Jarvis’ eyes narrowed on Melberg, “—you recorded her core temp of seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit at sixteen thirty hours yesterday. The water where she was found was seventy-two degrees, close to what the air temperature was as well.”

  Melberg cleared his throat. “That’s correct.”

  “So, she hadn’t yet reached the environmental temp,” Dr. Vang surmised, touching the skin on the torso. “No adipocere.” She looked at Mandy and me and explained, “The subcutaneous adipose, or fatty tissue of corpses, when immersed in cold water—or kept in plastic bags—can undergo a fairly uniform formation of adipocere. The superficial layers of skin actually slip off. This happens more on heavier people and . . . children.” She paused. “You can see her skin’s intact, which supports what her temperature indicates. She was dead twenty-two or twenty-three hours. I estimate death between seventeen thirty and eighteen thirty Sunday.”

  Between five thirty and six thirty the previous evening.

  Unfortunately, I had been at one death scene where an older woman had died in the bathtub and was not found for several days. Her skin was not intact, which made for a very long, messy, and careful removal.

  “From the—” Dr. Vang measured, “—two inches of neck which is still attached, we see the evidence of strangulation. No ligature marks on her neck. Killer used his hands, not a rope or wire or other means.”

  Dr. Jarvis turned the torso on its side to examine the back. “Several bruises and what looks like one, two, three bite marks. Upper right arm, left breast, and upper right thigh.” He looked at the pathologist taking the notes. “We’ll swab each of those for DNA.” The attendant dropped his notepad in his pocket and performed the tests, then returned the torso to its back.

  Jarvis examined further. “A fair amount of vaginal and rectal tearing and scarring.” The female doc swabbed for semen.

  “A point of interest: she worked as a prostitute,” Melberg told him.

  “So, that will make it difficult to positively sort out what the killer did and what others may have done. The tears do look fresh.” Jarvis drew his brows together.

  Dr. Vang picked up the scalpel and made the Y incision by cutting from each shoulder to mid-chest, then down to the pubic area, opening the victim. Mandy started coughing—the same response she’d had the previous day when we had uncovered Molly’s torso. By the time the doctor used the rib cutters and lifted out the breast bone, Mandy’s pale face had a green tinge to it.

  I put my hands on her waist and guided her to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down?” The last thing we needed was for her to fall and split her head open. There was enough trauma in the room already.

  The doctors weighed and examined each vital organ.

  “No head to be found?” Vang asked me.

  “No. We scoured the lake with divers and sonar. We even checked a nearby swamp,” I said

  “Well, if a dog found her leg, maybe some wild creature found her head and carried it off somewhere,” the female doc offered.

  “If I only had a brain,” Jarvis said dryly.

  Dr. Vang’s lips tugged to the left in a wry smile.

  Mandy and I managed to get caught in afternoon rush-hour traffic, also. “You want to go through a drive-thru? Get something to eat?” I asked.

  Mandy’s color was back, but her face was strained. “No, thanks. All I want to do is get back
to my apartment, take a very long shower, and find the funniest thing I can to watch on TV.”

  Comedy was the polar opposite of the past two days’ events. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “And thanks for not giving me a hard time about feeling sick back there. I can just hear Weber when he finds out.”

  I looked over at her. “Weber pick on you?”

  “Not really, he just thinks every stupid thing I do is funny.”

  “Mandy, he’s not going to find out unless you tell him,” I assured her.

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  “You know, there are a lot of guys in the department who like to give each other grief—take it with a grain of salt. There are things in my life my fellow deputies—as much as I trust and care about them—will never know.” I raised my eyebrows and grinned. “I hope.”

  “I think sometimes I try too hard to fit in.”

  Smoke had nailed it on the head. “Just be yourself.”

  Mandy smiled and said, “Thanks,” once more.

  11

  After dropping Mandy off at her vehicle, I drove home wondering what a warped monster—one who tortured a woman, cut her apart, and threw her dismembered parts into a lake—might look like. Young, middle-aged? Most likely not elderly. Was he handsome? Was he her boyfriend, a family member, or a stranger? Did he lure her by acting charming, or by appearing to need help, like a Jeffrey Dahmer or a Ted Bundy?

  A warm shower eased some tension, but didn’t relax me. Actually, I wasn’t ready to relax. I needed to find out all I could on dismemberment cases. I sat at my computer and pored through search engines, researching and reading until my eyes blurred from exhaustion.

  The cases were gruesome and chilling. As I had told Sara—very poor bedtime stories.

  In Brazil, seven youngsters were shot and dismembered as a result of a fight between gangs to control drug trafficking in the area. A man in Texas killed his girlfriend, dismembered then burned her to cover his crime. A teen in Japan beheaded his mother. There were cases in Pennsylvania, Louisiana, El Salvador, Guatemala, Israel. A horrific, violent offense that crossed economic, cultural, racial, and social lines. But why?

  I phoned Nick first, then Sara, and answered every question I could about the case and how I was doing. It was too early for bed, and I was too tired to read anything distracting and fun. I didn’t feel like eating or watching television. It was one of the rare times I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  My mother called at seven thirty.

  “Hi, dear, just checking in. You still able to help me get ready for the party this weekend?”

  “As far as I know, Mom.” I filled her in on the events from the past two days in case something happened that would require me to work on the weekend.

  My mother gasped. “That is the worst thing I have ever heard. I’m surprised it’s not all over town.”

  “We had a gag order yesterday. The sheriff lifted it this afternoon, after we were able to make an identification. It’s pretty bad, all right.”

  “Oh. I’m getting a call from your brother. I better take it. I hope John Carl isn’t cancelling out on this weekend.”

  My mother, the worrywart. “Tell him I can’t wait to see him.” My brother and his wife lived in Colorado.

  I had barely hung up when Smoke called.

  “Up for the next round?”

  A tightness gathered around my middle. “And that is?”

  “I just finished talking with Glen Olansky, homicide sergeant with Minneapolis. Our victim had a roommate, and she let the officers look through Getz’s things—personal papers, letters, et cetera. Roommate said Getz moved up here from Kansas a few weeks ago. Her parents are still there. Kansas City has a uniform on the way over there to make notification.”

  I thought of Molly’s family and wondered what kind of people they were.

  “Bad deal. Anyhow, I set up a meeting with Olansky tomorrow at oh eight hundred. You should be there.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll swing by and pick you up at six thirty.”

  “Uniform or street clothes?”

  “Street.”

  The Homicide Investigative Division of the Minneapolis Police Department was housed in City Hall. We found Room 180 and Sergeant Glen Olansky. He was a bear of a man—six foot four or five, two hundred fifty pounds, prematurely gray at forty.

  Olansky had a stocky Latino officer beside him. “Detective, Sergeant, this is Inspector Jesse Hernandez. He commands the First Precinct, where we believe Molly Getz was picked up.”

  Both Olansky and Hernandez stared at me long enough to make me feel I should check for egg on my face.

  Hernandez nodded and broke the silence. “According to Getz’s roommate, she worked Hennepin Avenue, usually around Seventh Street.”

  “What’s the roommate’s name?”

  “Um . . .” Olansky checked his report. “Polly Rose Kline.”

  Smoke raised an eyebrow. “Molly’s roommate’s name is Polly?”

  Olansky smirked. “You think I make this stuff up? That’s the name on her ID.”

  “Molly and Polly, makes it easy to remember,” I said.

  “When was the last time Kline saw Getz?” Smoke asked.

  Olansky referred to the report. “Thursday night about ten. Kline said Getz was on Hennepin, between Seventh and Eighth. Kline got home late—no Getz. Got up the next day—still no Getz. When it got toward evening, Kline called her cell, but there was no answer. Kline was starting to get concerned at that point.”

  Smoke furrowed his eyebrows. “Is there a pimp?”

  “No. According to Kline, Getz was an independent.”

  “That could make a lotta pimps mad,” Hernandez added.

  “Could, sure.”

  “Any enemies? Boyfriend? Jealous johns?” I asked.

  “None of the above.” Olansky threw the report on the desk. “There is something else.”

  “What’s that?” Smoke asked.

  “Four weeks ago we had another streetwalker go missing. One Amber Ferman. Take a look at her mug shot.” She had shoulder-length blonde hair, and facial features similar to Molly Getz’s.

  “They could be sisters,” Smoke observed.

  “Look at the height and weight on the rap sheets. Ferman: five foot four, one hundred twenty pounds. Getz: five foot five, one hundred fifteen pounds.” Olansky walked over to where I was sitting. He held the two photos, one in each hand, on either side of my face.

  “What’s your height and weight, if you don’t mind?”

  “Five five, one hundred ten.”

  “Not planning on any streetwalking in Minneapolis, are you?”

  “Not anymore,” I quipped.

  Olansky lowered his voice and kept his eyes trained on me. “We’d been studying those mugs, and then you walked in and it was like I had a vision. We’ve been in the business long enough to know it doesn’t take much to get people on the wrong path sometimes. Drugs, booze, gambling, you know.”

  Olansky’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from its case on his belt, glanced at the face, hit a button, and laid it on his desk. He continued, “I’ve gotten a little jaded in my twenty years here. But, like I started to say—Sergeant, when you walked in, I imagined for a second Molly Getz was standing there. It gave me new resolve to find the vile creature who cut her up. And also, to find Amber Ferman. My gut tells me the two cases are connected.”

  A tingling sensation ran through me. “Doesn’t bode well for Ferman.”

  “No, it does not.”

  “Are you in a hurry to get home?” Smoke asked.

  We were at a stoplight in Medina, a Minneapolis suburb.

  “Not especially. Why?”

  “Gil’s office is about a mile from here. I thought we’d drop in and harass him a minute.”

  “Go for it.”

  Gilbert Dawes was Smoke’s younger brother. He was an engineer with the Hennepin County Transportation Department.

  Smoke
looked at his watch. “He should be there, I’m guessing. Haven’t seen much of him or his family this summer. His boys play baseball, and when they get a free weekend, they head to their cabin.”

  I turned toward Smoke. “You’ve been to a few of their games, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. But, as you know, it’s been busy at work. Doesn’t seem to let up.”

  “That is the truth.”

  I’d met Smoke’s brothers a couple of years before. Smoke had invited their families over for a barbeque and discovered he was out of gas when he tried to fire up his grill. He’d called to see if I had a tank. I’d disconnected it from my grill and taken it over. Smoke had asked me to stay for dinner, but I hadn’t.

  Gil and his wife Lora had three teenagers, two boys and a girl. Smoke’s older brother, Charles—Chaz—and his wife Cindy had three girls and one boy. Two were in college and two were in high school.

  “What brings my big brother and the lovely Ms. Aleckson to my door?”

  Gil rose from his chair and came around to our side of the desk when we stepped into his office. He shook my hand first, then turned to Smoke. They locked their right hands and threw their left arms around the other’s shoulders. A hand- shaking hug.

  Gil had dark brown hair that curled up at his collar. His eyes were a paler shade of blue than Smoke’s. Family photos were lined on a shelf behind his desk. I studied them while Smoke explained.

  “We’re on our way back from Minneapolis, so as long as we were in the neighborhood—”

  “Glad you stopped. A bad deal you got going on in Winnebago, huh?”

  Gil waved his hand at two office chairs as he sat on a third. Smoke and I took our seats.

  “Yes, it is.” Smoke summarized the case.

  “El, what have you got planned for Labor Day again?”

  “I’m the investigator on call Friday and Saturday, and Kristen’s party is Sunday.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you were on call.” Gil looked at me. “When I was a sophomore in high school, I had the biggest crush on your mom, who was a senior, of course.”