Buried in Wolf Lake

by Christine Husom

  A dog.

  It was the worst day of Langley’s life to date, and that said a lot. First he was humiliated by the Eve-cop, and then to find out Eve II was barely buried before she was found. He had failed. Wolf Lake had failed him. Maybe he knew all along something like that would happen. He didn’t feel quite the same satisfaction with Eve II as he had with Eve I, as hard as he tried. He knew what to do. The only way to make himself feel better was to find another Eve.

  18

  I stopped at the sheriff’s office the day after Labor Day to talk to the chief deputy. Kenner was standing in front of his four drawer file cabinet thumbing through a row of files in the top drawer. “Come in, Corky. What’s up?” He pulled the selected file out and dropped it on his desk as he sat down to face me.

  I sank onto a chair across from Kenner. “I talked to the Engens yesterday, and they are having a really hard time dealing with the Molly case.”

  He nodded several times. “Understandable. Yeah, I’d say very understandable.”

  “I told them I’d talk to you since you’re so good at what you do, you know, with debriefing.”

  His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes searched mine. “They want a debriefing?”

  I nodded. “I think it would help them a lot.”

  “I’ll give them a call.”

  “Thank you, Mike.” I released my breath, relieved the Engens would get the help they needed to work through their ordeal.

  “No problem. I should have thought of it myself.” He punched his right fist into his left palm. “In fact, I’ll take it one step further.”

  He picked up his desk phone and hit a number. “Karen? I need a few things. First, check to see if we can get a conference room for a week from Thursday—that should give us enough time to pull this together. I need to contact a couple to do a debriefing. If they’re free, we’ll send letters out to all the neighbors out around Wolf Lake, invite them to be part of it, if they want to . . . That’s right. Thanks.”

  The chief deputy hung up the phone and slapped his desk. “Done.”

  The file on the Molly case had grown to about eight inches thick in a very short time. In addition to the reports every deputy on the scene had written, there were pages and pages of interviews with area residents. And Sergeant Olansky had sent the reports from the Minneapolis Police Department. I made a copy of Molly’s picture and taped it to the inside back cover of the memo pad I kept in my breast pocket.

  If the horror done to her was in the name of vigilante justice—someone targeting hookers—what had led the killer to decide the crime of prostitution deserved torture, murder, and dismemberment? The things that happened to a prostitute on a regular basis were punitive in and of themselves. What had led Molly to work the streets? Abuse, drugs, money, booze?

  I was reading over one of the neighbor interviews when I got a call from Ray Collinwood, the new Winnebago County Attorney. He had been appointed by the county board when Arthur Franz, the former county attorney, was killed by Alvie Eisner.

  “How’s it going, Sergeant?” Collinwood coughed and cleared his throat.

  A loaded question. “It’s going. How about you?”

  I heard his office chair creaking under his substantial weight as he moved. “The same. Say, I wanted to let you know we got the Alvie Eisner trial on the docket. Jury selection starts a week from Monday, the twenty-first.”

  I was taken aback. “Seriously? How did you manage it so fast? Two months from arrest to trial—that’s almost unheard of.”

  “Let’s just say we were very, very motivated. She got our boss, and you know how much we thought of Arthur around here.” Collinwood’s voice cracked with emotion. “We’re slapping her with three counts of murder one, in addition to murder three for the going-on-thirty-years-ago murder of her uncle, first degree assault with a deadly weapon, and so on.”

  A chill ran up my spine. I had stood on her uncle’s grave under an oak tree, next to a swing, without realizing it. “I hope you can make the first degree murder stick. You should have no trouble proving premeditation.”

  “That famous word—should.” Collinwood grunted.

  “What are they doing about a public defender? Is it still that one from Sherburne County, the one who represented her at the first appearance and arraignment?”

  “You haven’t heard. Eisner hired a private attorney.”

  A private attorney. “She what? Who’d she get?”

  “Ronald Campion.”

  “Ronald Campion? You have got to be kidding. He charges beaucoup bucks. How in the world can Eisner afford him? He’s not doing it pro bono, is he?” I tried to envision Eisner locating, and enlisting, an attorney of Campion’s stature.

  Another grunt. “Campion? I doubt it, but could be for the publicity, I suppose. Maybe he thinks he can come up with something really creative to get a minimal sentence. Then he could charge his future clients even more than the immoral amount he gets now.”

  “Man.”

  “I found out in discovery he was looking at the insanity route, of course. Judge ordered two separate evaluations: one by a psychiatrist and one by a psychologist. They did testing, interviews, and both came up with—” I heard papers moving “—schizoid personality disorder—”

  “Schizoid? Is that a form of schizophrenia?” I jotted the words on my memo pad.

  “No, I looked it up. It’s called an ‘eccentric personality disorder.’ People with it often appear odd or peculiar—”

  “I could have made that diagnosis, if I’d known what it was.”

  “They avoid social activities, interaction with others—you know, they’re loners. May seem dull or aloof. Have limited range of emotions, so they appear apathetic—don’t seem to have much sense of humor. They have what they call ‘flat affect.’”

  I made a list of the symptoms as Collinwood dictated. “Eisner could be the poster child for flat affect. No emotion in her expression at all. She has that perfected.”

  I heard him shuffling more papers. “The Psychiatric Society of America has criteria listed in their Comprehensive Guide of Mental Disorders. To be diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder, you have to have four of the characteristics on the list.”

  “You have the list?”

  “Yup, right here—I’ll read it. ‘They do not desire or enjoy close relationships, even with family members. They choose solitary jobs and activities. They take pleasure in few activities, including sex. They have no close friends, except first-degree relatives. They have difficulty relating to others. They are indifferent to praise or criticism. They are aloof and show little emotion. They might daydream and/or create vivid fantasies of complex inner lives.”

  I looked at the key words from the list I’d scribbled while Collinwood was talking. “From what I know about Eisner, I’d say she has at least four of those. So it’s a personality disorder and not insanity?”

  He let out a loud breath. “In her case, good question. The disorder is a mental illness, but so is depression—doesn’t mean a person is insane. As you know, the insanity plea says the defendant is not guilty because they lacked the mental capacity to realize that they committed a wrong or appreciate why it was wrong. Rarely, rarely works.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you and we got sidetracked. The psychologist added another diagnosis—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Must have gotten the incest by the uncle information out of Eisner.”

  I tapped my pen on the table. “Oh, great. That could add a whole new spectrum.”

  “I know. But Campion agreed to the trial date, so he must figure he’ll have all his ducks in a row by then. I’m sure he’ll call in expert witnesses. I should have his witness list by the end of next week. Why don’t you look at your schedule and figure out a time when you can come in for a pretrial prep meeting.”

  “Will do. I’ll check and let you know.”

  Alvie Eisner’s trial would start in less than two weeks, and I couldn’t wait to put it behind me for good.

>   19: Langley

  Langley sat in the mandatory meeting while the director of the Veterinary Diagnostic Laboratory droned on and on in his soft, nasally tone.

  “We have invited key legislators from the Minnesota Senate Committee on Agriculture and Veterans Affairs, and their staff members, here for a tour this Friday. We’re asking for an increase in funding from the state so we can continue to build our surveillance and emergency response. I don’t have to tell you the importance of identifying the zoonotic diseases animals can pass to humans: tuberculosis, mad cow, avian influenza—”

  Langley donned what he hoped was an interested face and tuned out. Maybe he could call in sick Friday. Maybe not. He hated the thought of making nice to a bunch of senators. On the other hand, he might need a personal day here or there coming up. It all depended on when he would find his next Eve. He had been able to work the one weekday during the last Eve’s capture. And it provided a perfect alibi—as if he needed one.

  No one at the lab would ever suspect Langley had a secret life outside of work. When they asked him out for a drink after work, he always said he had to get home to his girlfriend for one reason or the other—it was her birthday, they had dinner reservations, they were going out of town for the weekend—whatever he thought of on the spur of the moment. The other researchers and staff had quit inviting him before long.

  Langley could not banish the Eve-cop from his mind. She was always hovering in there, popping to the foremost of his thoughts, over and over. Maybe the way to expel her from his constant attention was to give her the message. The cops would never discover who had buried Eve II in Wolf Lake, but they would know why she was there.

  Langley had been convinced—with every fiber in his body—that Eve II would never be found. And, by some fluke, she had been.

  He needed to relieve his stress about the whole unplanned incident and develop a new strategy. If he left his Eves in places they would be found, it could serve as a warning to all the Eves of the world: use your power over men and you will be divided into pieces.

  “. . . think that’s all. The tour starts at nine and will last as long as it takes. I know you’ll all do what you can to answer any questions the senators have. Thank you. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  The director was the first one out the door, Langley was the second. He made his way to the restroom and splashed cool water on his burning skin. His hours at the lab were precious. He had more important things to do than entertain senators in hopes of getting more program money. Sheik was waiting for him to uncover the cause of Equine Cerebellar Abiotrophy so he could find the cure.

  Langley bent over the sink a long time, splashing water on his face. He needed to regain control, and the brisk temperature of the water helped him think and plan. He did not want to look like a fool—like he hadn’t planned for Eve to be found; play with the sheriff’s department a little. Yes, the best thing was to send a message.

  20

  I was still reading reports when Smoke stopped by the squad room.

  “Corky, I just got a call from Sergeant Glen Olansky of Minneapolis Homicide. He’s arranged a conference call with Special Agent Kent Erley from the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia.”

  I pushed my chair away from the table. “Seriously? When?”

  “Tomorrow, oh eight hundred our time. Any plans?”

  “Outside of sleeping? Ah, no. This is way more important than sleep.”

  “No doubt. I’ll talk to the sheriff. He’ll most likely want to arrange for one of the larger conference rooms in the courthouse, get as many deputies there as possible.”

  The courthouse conference room was filled with deputies, in and out of uniform. All the brass were there: the sheriff, chief deputy, captains, lieutenants, sergeants. It was the first opportunity most of us had had to be part of a telephone conference with the Minneapolis Police Department Homicide and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

  I walked in with Brian Carlson. There was a table in the center of the room with a beige telephone as its only adornment. Sheriff Twardy and Smoke hovered nearby. Chairs had been pulled into many rows of circles around the table. Brian took the last seat in the back row, and I found one in the front. Smoke nodded his hello. Mandy Zubinski slid onto the vacant chair next to mine, ogled Smoke for a second too long, then turned to me.

  “Hi, Sergeant,” she whispered.

  My new best friend.

  The sheriff held up his arms. “Okay, everyone, listen up! We’ve got the speaker turned up as far as it will go, but it’s going to be hard for everyone to hear. The eighty or so bodies in here are going to absorb a lot of the sound. So hold your chit-chat until after the call.”

  At the appointed time, Smoke dialed the arranged number. After he identified himself and his department, Sergeant Olansky welcomed us and introduced Special Agent Kent Erley.

  “Hello, everyone. Let’s get right down to business. I’ve read through all the investigative information you sent and studied the pictures.” Erley’s voice was clean. He was a tenor with no frogs in his throat. I guessed his age at around thirty-five.

  “Sergeant Olansky, you have two cases which may be related. Two victims, Amber Ferman and Molly Getz. Same general description—blond hair, just past shoulder length, average height, slim build. Both last seen working the streets on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis.

  “Both disappeared, un-witnessed—no evidence until the dismembered body of Ms. Getz was discovered four days after her disappearance in a small lake next to a state park in Winnebago County, approximately forty miles from downtown Minneapolis.

  “According to the tests done at the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and the Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s Office, Ms. Getz’s body had been in the water for less than twenty-four hours. This would indicate she was held for three days by the unknown subject, or UNSUB.”

  The sheriff was looking at the phone and nodding.

  Special Agent Erley went on, “Since Ms. Ferman hasn’t been found as of yet, we cannot say, positively, that the two are related. However, in reviewing the crimes from both a behavioral and investigative perspective, I would say they are.”

  Olansky’s voice came across the speaker. “So what type of person are we looking for here? Someone targeting hookers?”

  “Not in the way you may think. You’re referring to a ‘mission killer,’ someone who is compelled to get rid of the ‘undesirables’ of society. The mission killer targets his victim, but there is no torture, no strangulation. He doesn’t move the body after he kills her.

  “This UNSUB despises women. To him, they are all bitches, whores. So, a component may be that they were prostitutes, but more likely it’s because they are easy targets. He’s punishing women because he believes they are powerful, evil. He needs to take that power away.”

  Mandy shivered next to me, and we looked at each other a minute.

  “You’re looking for a sexual sadist. He’s all about power and control. He rode on horseback to dispose of the body. He identifies with the innate power a horse possesses. He targets and abducts his victim and takes her to a specific destination. He binds her, tortures, and rapes her, and eventually strangles her. He records his activities, most likely videotapes them. He gets off on the suffering of his victim. His goal is to dominate and control. To him, his victim is a nothing. After she is dead, dismembering her reduces her to bits and pieces of nothing. Less than nothing.”

  There were quiet rumblings among the sheriff’s personnel. We had seen the results of his brutality.

  “What does he look like? His race, his age?” Smoke asked.

  “On the surface, he’s well-groomed. Good, or at least, pleasant looking. Caucasian. Intelligent, educated, middle to upper middle class. Twenty-five to thirty-five; lives alone, doesn’t draw attention to himself. Most likely holds a good job. Neighbors would describe him as quiet, polite. Underneath the surface, he nurtures complex fantas
ies. He has a plan and he knows how to execute it. He’s very methodical. And he will do it over and over again, as long as he gets away with it.”

  “Any thoughts on where a guy like that might live?” Sergeant Olansky asked.

  “I’d say in the city, but he may have a place in the country where he can take his victims without being seen or heard. He either owns a horse or has easy access to one at, say a relative’s farm. The burial site he chose was not random. He’s familiar with the area.”

  Smoke’s solemn expression held my attention. He raised an eyebrow and sucked in a deep breath.

  Erley’s voice came over the speaker. “Let’s take a look at the victims. Following the victimology on each woman, there is no evidence the two knew each other. According to the investigation the Minneapolis police conducted in both cases, Ferman had been in the city—on the streets—for several years.

  “Getz moved from Kansas City to Minneapolis one week after Ferman disappeared, and three weeks before her own disappearance. Any attempt to link the two women to one viable suspect is futile. Their paths never crossed, according to what you discovered in your investigation.

  “Sergeant Olansky, I suggest you go through your cases for the past several years. See if there are other missing women who match the victims’ general descriptions. That is the commonality.”

  Olansky cleared his throat, but the gravel was still there. “Cripes, I can see some problems there. I mean, a lot of prostitutes leave the city without saying goodbye. Sometimes we get word through the grapevine they just get fed up with getting arrested and move on. Once in a great while there’s a friend who thinks something is suspicious and reports it, but most times not.”