“A lotta guys had a crush on Kristen.”
Gil nodded. “Including you, El.”
Smoked shrugged.
“You’re a pretty good mix of both your parents in looks—you got the best of both,” Gil told me.
“Thanks.”
He turned his attention back to Smoke. “We’re heading up to the cabin for the one last hurrah of the summer. Too bad you can’t join us. Chaz called a while ago. His whole crew can make it this year.”
Smoke nodded. “Occupational hazard. Are you going to keep the cabin open through hunting season again this year?”
“Oh, yeah. We won’t winterize it until after deer season.”
“Good.” Smoke slapped his thigh. “Well, we best get back on the road and let you get back to work.”
“Thanks for stopping. We haven’t seen enough of each other lately, El. And good to see you again, Corky.” Gil smiled.
I smiled back. “You, too.”
“Have a safe trip home, and tell your mother hello for me.”
“Will do,” Smoke and I said together.
12: Langley
Langley watched the DVDs of the last days in the lives of his concubines, skipping ahead to the best parts. He had planned to wait another month to take his next concubine, then realized he should locate her and move in when the moment was right. It might take a while to find Eve III, after all. It was probably best to start looking sooner rather than later.
His phone rang and he jumped at the unexpected interruption, annoyed because it had pulled him out of his excitement. His mother was the only one who ever called him, and that was rare. He checked Caller ID. It was his mother, all right, but Langley couldn’t answer. He needed time between the pleasure his concubines brought him and talking to the woman who burdened him with one nagging issue or the other.
He waited for the message—it might be about Sheik. Langley would want to know about that right away. No, it was nothing. His parents had returned home after their latest jaunt. He should call when he had time.
Should and would were two different things entirely.
13
Winnebago County Chief Deputy Mike Kenner was well trained to facilitate debriefing sessions. He was an effective leader, sought after by area police departments, fire departments, ambulance services, and neighboring counties following any number of critical incidents: car crashes, house fires with burn victims, suicides, use of deadly force.
Kenner had served with the department for twenty years. He was close to six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a longer torso, and shorter arms and legs. He enjoyed waterskiing and had developed a deep tan over the summer. His brown hair was shaved on the sides and short on top in a typical military cut. I’d seen his brown eyes soften in kindness or harden in anger, depending on the circumstances. They were neutral, almost guarded, that day.
“Welcome, everyone. I’m glad to see so many of you here after Monday’s discovery and recovery efforts. Anyone here not been part of a debriefing before?” He lifted his right hand like he was taking an oath.
Ortiz and Holman, both recent hires, raised their hands.
“Good. The purpose is to help you understand what happened, and to help you understand that you had no control over what happened. In this case, to victim Molly Getz. You need to take the incident out of your short-term memory and put it in your long term memory. Make sense?”
It made sense to me, and I needed help to make it a reality.
Kenner looked from face to face. “You are not in this alone. We’re going to work through it together. Okay, how many of you have had trouble getting the images of dismembered body parts out of your heads?”
Everyone in the room raised his or her hand.
Kenner nodded. “After a traumatic event, our minds keep running what happened over and over. We need to stop that process for our own peace of mind. Anyone here wonder why and how someone would torture, kill, and dismember another human being?”
Again, every hand went up. Kenner pulled a dry erase marker from his breast pocket.
“Okay. First, I want each of you to describe your experience at Wolf Lake and your part in the investigation we’ve been conducting the past two days. What I’m looking for here are the facts.”
We each shared our roles in the events. Mason, Carlson, and Weber described feeling around the murky water for the body parts and bringing them to shore. Zubinski shared her questioning Mr. Engen, assisting with the body parts after they were removed, and the autopsy experience.
Smoke was the first on the scene and had the initial contact with Mrs. Engen and the leg. In addition to everything that had happened at Wolf Lake, he also relayed the details of the visit to the Minneapolis Police Department. Some of the deputies had had little direct involvement, but told what they had done. The sheriff gave his version.
In addition to relaying what it was like taking fingerprints from dismembered arms, I echoed what Smoke, Zubinski, and the others had reported.
The chief deputy assured us that our reactions and emotions were appropriate and very normal. “From what you have all reported, the most prominent common thought is that having the dismembered body of a young woman in one of our local lakes is something none of you had ever thought of as a possible crime scenario. You are horrified by it.”
We glanced around at each other, checking reactions. Some nodded, and a few agreed out loud. Mandy caught my attention for a shared moment then my eyes met and held Smoke’s for another.
The chief deputy’s voice drew me back to his face. “Okay, now tell me, what was the worst thing for you, personally? You had different roles in the discovery and recovery. What got you the most?”
For Smoke, it was being first on the scene, mentally processing that he was actually looking at a dismembered leg while he attempted to calm the PR—person reporting. Mason said it was finding the arm on the lake bottom and having to hold it. The other divers said discovering the garbage bags and feeling the body parts in them was the worst. Some said the shock of the leg lying on the grass hit them the hardest. Mandy said it was seeing the torso with the evidence of violence on it.
As awful as the discovery had been, the worst thing for me was learning the victim’s identity and wondering who had brutalized her in such a way, and why he had done it.
After acknowledging each of our worst moments with care and concern, Kenner pressed on. “So tell me, what symptoms are you having? Any trouble sleeping? Nightmares, nervousness, what?”
Weber cleared his throat. “I dreamed I was on patrol and saw a guy throw bags in the water. When he turned toward me, he had one of those scary guy masks on. And—I’ll fess up —I woke up with my heart pounding pretty good.”
I thought of Smoke’s dream, then my own.
“I worry that when I get a call on the radio, it’ll be the discovery of another dismembered body,” Mandy admitted.
I hadn’t thought of that.
“I’m thinking when I’m fishing, I’ll reel in an arm or a leg,” Carlson said.
I hadn’t thought of that, either. Swimming and water sports, common to most of us, presented a potential new threat.
Everyone admitted to trouble sleeping.
Kenner rubbed his hands together and lowered his voice to a soothing, almost hypnotizing level. “Each one of you is expressing completely normal, expected reactions. You have each other, you have me, you have other members of the department. Talk about your feelings. I know that isn’t always easy, especially in our profession, but it is important. Talk to your friends, family, loved ones.”
His voice gained volume with the next instructions. “Eating well is important. Exercise is important. Don’t abuse alcohol. If you’re having problems, come talk to me or one of your colleagues, or see a doctor. You are all valued members of the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department, and we want you—we need you—to stay healthy. Untreated symptoms often lead to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and we all want to avoid that. Any ques
tions?”
Our session had lasted two hours, and I was on information overload. When no one responded, Kenner smiled and clapped his hands together. “Okay, then. I’ll turn this over to Detective Dawes for some updates.”
Smoke grabbed the file from the table, stood and faced the group. “We got some info back from the BCA on the photos and measurements of the suspect vehicle and horse trailer tires we sent ’em. The tires are Ford factory. From the measurements of the front and rear tracks, they were able to identify the vehicle as an Expedition.”
“Just need a year and color, huh?” Mason voiced. Every deputy jotted the information on memo pads.
Smoke slid his readers onto his nose and glanced at the report. “By taking the distance of the horse trailer wheels to the SUV, and the distance between the tires, they identified the trailer as being ten feet long and six feet wide. The tires are two hundred twenty-five by fifteen-inch Goodyear, which are standard on a trailer made by a company called A-1 Trailers. I got a picture of what it looks like.”
Smoke handed the photo to me. The trailer was white with silver trim and a round front. It had a full front door in the nose in addition to the back doors: a unique model. I passed it on.
“If you spot an Expedition pulling that trailer, do not stop it without backup. It will be a probable cause felony stop.”
Smoke gave a rundown of our meeting with Sergeant Olansky and Inspector Hernandez from the Minneapolis Police Department, and he passed Molly Getz’s photo around the room. Every deputy studied it carefully and quietly.
Carlson leaned over and said, “Corky, notice she looks kinda like you?”
I nodded. “Me and about ten percent of all the other women my age in Minnesota.”
“Not all blue-eyed blondes are quite as cute as you.”
There was nothing to do but roll my gray eyes.
14
For the past ten years, my mother had held an end-of-summer shindig on Labor Day weekend. She had the perfect spot for the party—a huge barn so old the wood was practically petrified. It had been some time since animals actually lived there. When it belonged to my grandfather and his father before that, dairy cows, cattle, and a few horses had spent nights there when they came in from the pastures. Pigs, sheep, chickens, and turkeys had other accommodations on the farm.
I found my mother in the barn, sweeping down a cobweb, the day before the party. “Hey, Mom, I’m here to help.”
“Corinne! I didn’t hear you coming—you startled me.” She leaned against her broom and fingered away some hair that had fallen across her face. “Well, what do you think?”
I began my perusal by starting with my favorite view: straight up. The center and main part of the barn was a hexagon that rose twenty-four feet to the roof. The six sides tapered and met in the apex. From the outside, the cupola—a miniature model of the barn sitting on the peak—was visible. A copper weathervane of cut and hammered letters N, S, E, and W were attached to dowels, pointing the four directions. A Belgian workhorse, supported by a pole, stood on top.
The hay lofts were positioned as balconies about halfway between the floor and roof on all six sides. There were openings on each of the walls, covered by wooden doors. My mother had had glass installed in the openings and kept the doors open to let the sunlight in. When I was a child, I loved climbing the steps to the lofts. I would lie on my back on a blanket of hay and watch the clouds pass by the windows, picking out shapes and figures as they moved and changed.
My mother had cleared the lofts of hay sometime before and had half-walls and railings installed. She’d accumulated a variety of garage sale tables and chairs and painted them fun colors. People at her parties enjoyed sitting on the loft areas to relax, visit, eat, and watch the dancing below. There were a few couches on the inside walls. On occasion, I would retreat on one to watch the clouds pass by and daydream again.
Two wings jutted out from the back sides of the hexagonal main section. They had housed the dairy cows and cattle. Horses had been kept in the center part, but Mother had had the stanchions removed when she decided to turn the structure into a dance barn. The ground floor consisted of wide ironwood planks and served as a fine, though not necessarily perfect, dance floor. Large picture windows dressed with gingham curtains were on the three available sides of the hexagon.
My great-grandfather, assisted by his brother, had designed and constructed the barn. Neighbors had helped raise it with sturdy ropes and strong bodies. The barn, built to last, had withstood over one hundred years of Minnesota climate extremes. From sixty degrees below zero to over one hundred degrees above, as well as rain, hail, gusting straight-line winds, freezing drizzle, blizzards. My great grandfather had made the weathervane with his simple tools.
“Gosh, Mom, what did you do? Scrub the floors, for heaven’s sakes?”
The barn had stopped smelling like animals long before.
“I don’t know why you always give me a hard time about that. A mop with a little Murphy’s Oil Soap makes a big difference.” She grinned, bringing her laugh lines to life.
My mother was almost fifty, but retained a youthful look despite the time she devoted to worrying about everything possible. She was widowed with two children when she was in her early twenties—a good explanation for why she worried as she did.
Mother was slightly curvy and naturally thin. We shared gray eyes and blonde hair—hers was wavy, mine was straight. I had two inches of height on her.
Long tables covered with cloths stood against the two side walls to the immediate right and left of the front double doors. One would hold a smorgasbord of food and the other a variety of beverages. Wash tubs on the floor would be filled with ice for soft drinks, bottled water, and beer.
The wall opposite the front door provided the backdrop for where the band played. Strings of white lights hung on the loft railings and around the outer wall on the main floor. More colorful garage sale tables and chairs were arranged under the loft area and helped to brighten the space.
“Okay, so what’s left to do? Everything looks done.” I took another look around.
“We’ll need extension cords from the storage room for the band and the food tables. And if you want, you can do a last weeding in the flower beds. I have the food pretty well under control.”
Extension cords and weeds I could handle.
“What time is John Carl getting in?” I asked.
“His plane arrives at three, so by the time he picks up his car, he figures he’ll be here around five,” Mother explained.
I looked down at the clean wood planks, then at my mother. I weighed my words. “Mom, I have to tell you something that has been bothering me for a while.”
She leaned on her broom. “What is it, dear?”
“You know that night you had Smoke over for dinner?”
“Of course.” Her words held a hesitancy.
I didn’t want to embarrass my mom, but I had to clear the air. “Well, I stopped by to drop off your salad bowl and I saw you and Smoke making out, pretty hot and heavy, in your kitchen.”
My mother’s complexion darkened until her rose-colored shirt became the perfect camouflage for her neck and face. She turned the exact shade in seconds. “Corinne Mae Aleckson.” She set her broom aside and propped her hands on her hips. “Not that it’s really any of your business, but since you brought it up, I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”
“Okay.” But remember, I’m your daughter, so spare me any intimate details.
“You know Elton and I have been friends since junior high, and he was your father’s best friend.” She paused and smiled. “After me, that is. Anyway, Elton and I have always liked each other. He, especially, thought there might be more to it. We tried a little experiment, you know, to see just what might be there. And, as it turns out, the spark was missing—for both of us.”
“From what I saw, you were in the middle of a pretty passionate kissing session,” I argued.
Her color was ret
urning to normal. “What you saw was us trying to make it passionate. It just didn’t work. We gave up after a couple of minutes, started laughing, and picked up where we left off, with our friendship the way it was.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Sorry for what?”
I gave her a hug. “That Dad had to die so young, and that you haven’t found someone else.”
She looked down in thought, then back at me. “It’s funny. I knew your father my entire life, and when he left for Vietnam, I never thought he wouldn’t come back. I thought we would be together for another sixty or so years.
“When I dream about him, he is still this handsome young twenty-year-old. Then I wake up and look in the mirror and think, ‘What would Carl want with an old woman like me?’”
I put a hand on each of her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. “Okay, reality check here. Mother, I know you are closing in on fifty, but a lot of people ask if you’re my older sister. And I seriously don’t understand why you are not all wrinkles the way you fret about everything.”
“I don’t,” she defended herself.
“You have it down to a science.”
A Dodge Intrepid pulled into Mother’s driveway right after I finished my chores. John Carl got out, a broad smile on his normally serious face. I ran to him and we held each other tightly. He was only ten months old when I was born, and we were close, despite being direct opposites and living eight hundred miles apart. But, as different as we were, we shared the same core beliefs and principles.
Mother tapped his shoulder, and he grabbed her into a warm embrace. By the time they separated, Mom had tears streaming down her cheeks.
“John Carl, you are so skinny,” I said.
“Not exactly skinny,” he protested.
Mother pulled the neck of her shirt up to dab at her wet cheeks. “Dear, have you been sick?”
“No, I forget to eat sometimes,” he admitted.
Buried in Wolf Lake Page 7