Buried in Wolf Lake

by Christine Husom

  After opening statements by the prosecution and defense, County Attorney Ray Collinwood called witnesses and presented evidence as exhibits. After he finished questioning a witness, the defense attorney took over for his round.

  Witness after witness testified. The psychiatrist, the psychologist, the nurse who had smoked a cigarette with Alvie Eisner outside the emergency door exit, other nurses, doctors, Jason Browne, Sheriff Dennis Twardy, Deputies Brian Carlson, Todd Mason, Vince Weber, and Amanda Zubinski, Sara, Smoke, and me.

  Eisner maintained her stiff-as-a-statue pose the entire time. She didn’t speak and rarely blinked. Her lips pursed slightly from time to time then settled back to their natural downturn. The county attorney had given me the name for her condition: schizoid. By my observations, it seemed to fit.

  My six hours on the stand were, without question, the longest of my life. I tried to look anywhere except at Eisner, but curiosity got the better of me time and again, and my eyes drifted to the woman who had tried to kill me.

  The evidence linked to the death of Judge Fenneman included his IV tube with traces of the haloperidol Alvie had stolen from her brother’s prescription, a piece of paper containing the code to bypass the emergency door alarm, a strand of her straight gray hair, retrieved from the hinge of Fenneman’s eyeglasses the night he died, and the note Eisner had sent me after Judge Fenneman’s death. The licked stamp and envelope contained her DNA.

  Evidence from Arthur Franz’s death included a soda can with traces of haloperidol, a sales receipt for a dryer hose and pillow used to ensure successful carbon monoxide poisoning, his Palm Pilot, stolen from his vehicle, a “suicide” note written on Eisner’s computer; and a sheet of paper Eisner had used to practice Franz’s signature.

  DNA testing placed Alvie Eisner at Franz’s death scene, where she had left behind cigarette butts and soda cans. Her work shoes were a perfect fit to the footprint cast taken at the scene.

  From Public Defender Marshall Kelton’s death there was a beer can with traces of haloperidol, his personal calendar taken from his home, a “suicide” note written on Eisner’s computer, and a sheet of paper on which Eisner had practiced Kelton’s signature.

  Other pieces of evidence collected from Eisner’s home were the three bullets missing from Jason Browne’s home, two murder-suicide notes, one allegedly written by Jason Browne and the other by Sara Speiss printed on the same printer as all the other notes. There were five pieces of paper, torn from one larger sheet of paper, each containing a name and description: Jason Browne, double-crosser, Marshall Kelton, useless public defender, Sara Speiss, spineless probation officer, Arthur Franz, merciless county attorney, Detective Dawes, heartless cop. Eisner’s victims and intended victims.

  My name was not on her original list—I had had the misfortune to get in her way while doing my job.

  A bullet, removed from Eisner’s woodwork, was the same brand and caliber as the one found in the exhumed body of her uncle—the uncle she admitted shooting to defend her son when the uncle was assaulting him. Eisner had verbally confessed to the crime, but refused to sign a statement.

  I lost track of the number of pieces of evidence entered as exhibits.

  News crews hovered outside the courthouse, gleaning stories from any willing source. My voicemail box filled with request after request for interviews. I ignored all of them. One brave, not very bright, young male reporter was standing by my squad car when I walked out of a restaurant that Thursday evening while on duty.

  “Sergeant Aleckson. KTLK news. Can you tell us any highlights of Alvie Eisner’s trial?”

  I kept walking to my squad car. “No, I can’t. Please step aside.”

  “How does Eisner seem to be holding up?” He didn’t move.

  “Sir, if you do not step aside so I can get back to work, I will arrest you for disorderly conduct.”

  His chin dropped so low it almost hit his chest.

  While I patrolled Winnebago County, my mind switched from the trial to the Molly Getz case. I zeroed in on every tan four-door sedan and all Ford Expeditions. I ran license plates until my fingers hurt from typing in the numbers. I jotted every plate number that came back to a man in the twenty-five to thirty-five age range to check on later, if I didn’t have probable cause to stop the vehicle. It was my mission to find and stop the killer before he victimized another young woman.

  27

  I was mentally drained and emotionally exhausted at the end of each day of the trial. Then I went on patrol for my evening shift and, in between the other calls, I obsessively looked for the man who had brutalized Molly. When Friday afternoon arrived, I was relieved to get a two-day break from court and hearing all the sordid details of Alvie Eisner’s crimes. I pulled over on the shoulder of a rural road and phoned Nick to check on our weekend plans.

  Nick let out a loud chuckle. “Corky, it’s good to hear your voice. This has been one long week at work. How are you holding up with the trial?”

  “Let’s just say, thank God it’s Friday.”

  His voice level dropped. “That bad, huh? Does that mean you could use a day of fun?”

  “You could say that.”

  “All right. We picked the perfect day to head north tomorrow. The fall colors have reached their peak on the North Shore. And the weather promises to be sunny with temps in the sixties. If we leave at nine, we’ll be in Duluth in time for lunch.”

  An oncoming car veered close to the center line, then back again. The wind was strong that night.

  “Sounds fantastic. Did you check to see if Faith is interested in going to the aquarium up there?”

  “She is. Oh, and Sarah and Janie are able to come along, too. I think one is more excited than the next.”

  I laughed. “They are such good little girls. See you in the morning.”

  Nick knocked on my door and called out before he entered. We met in the entryway. It was obvious we had both just showered. Our clean soap smells blended in a pleasant way when we kissed.

  “I’d like this to happen every morning,” Nick said into my lips.

  “A wonderful way to start the day,” I agreed.

  “We have a car full of girls waiting for us.” He stepped back and caught my hand.

  “Hey, should we be embarrassed?”

  “About what?” A puzzled look crossed his face.

  I touched his chest, then mine. “We’re dressed alike—jeans, blue tee shirt, navy hoodie, running shoes.”

  He looked at our outfits and chuckled. “Nah, we’ll just look like an old married couple who likes to match their outfits.”

  “As long as the three girls aren’t wearing the same things,” I teased in mock horror.

  “They are, but their hoodies are different colors, I think. Don’t make me tell you what they are, though.”

  We were both laughing by the time we got to the car.

  28: Langley

  Langley looked both Thursday and Friday nights, but there was not an Eve to be found. He’d had no problem finding the others on the streets of Minneapolis, but would need to expand his search if one didn’t turn up soon. He despised the feelings of helplessness and frustration. Working on his research project helped, but it only carried him so far.

  Langley needed another Eve.

  He crawled out of bed early Saturday morning, compelled to get another look at the Eve-cop. He knew she went on morning runs. Where could he hide so she wouldn’t see him? His parents were home for the rare weekend, and he couldn’t borrow one of their cars without raising questions. He did have two cars of his own, though. The Eve-cop had stopped him in his Lexus—he’d take his Chevy.

  Langley took a look in the mirror. Shaving his head and beard would change his appearance dramatically. It might raise questions among his co-workers, but why would they care? He could say his girlfriend liked the shaved look and had asked him to try it. He rarely saw his parents, and by the next time he did, his hair would be growing back.

  He started with a
n electric razor and finished with a safety razor. It took over an hour to do the job right. There were little red bumps peppered across his scalp and face, but a little shaving lotion would help that. The change was startling and actually surprised him. Feelings of nakedness splashed over him, but he pushed them aside. He wasn’t naked or vulnerable or exposed. He was Gideon. And Gideon had a sleek new look.

  Langley decided on a quick drive-by past the Eve-cop’s house. He parked some distance away where he could see when she left her driveway. If Eve ran in his direction, or another car happened by, he would take his car out of park and drive away.

  The first hour of waiting passed very, very slowly. He had gotten there just after nine o’clock. Maybe she had gone on an earlier run that day. There was no sign of activity around her house at all. She could be gone, she could be sleeping. Langley wouldn’t wait for her any longer. He’d head back to Minneapolis and hope for better luck finding an Eve there. Saturday night was a good night for prowling.

  29

  After court on Monday, I was reviewing a report on a felony theft call I had taken when Smoke stuck his head through the squad room door.

  “You’re gonna wanna be in on this.”

  The intent look on his face brought me to my feet. I shuffled my papers into a smaller sprawl and followed him. “What is it?”

  “A woman claiming to be Alvie Eisner’s mother is in Interview Room B.”

  His words stopped me in my tracks. “No way. What planet was she hiding on?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that.” He glanced over his shoulder at me.

  “I’ll let you do the talking,” I said.

  “Feel free to chime in, if need be.”

  Smoke tapped his index finger on his lips, alerting me not to talk. He slipped into the observation area of the interview room, and I followed. If I had given a thought to what Alvie Eisner’s mother might look like, I would not have envisioned the petite brunette woman sitting at the table. Her eyes were closed, and she worked her hands like she was rubbing lotion into them. The deep wrinkles on her face were likely caused by a life of struggle and worry.

  I nudged Smoke and silently mouthed, “Eisner must take after her father.”

  Smoke inclined his head to the left, knocked once on the interview room door, and walked in with me a few steps behind. He laid his notepad on the table and sat down opposite the woman claiming to be Alvie Eisner’s mother. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.

  The older woman glanced at me then focused on Smoke.

  “I’m Detective Dawes, and this is Sergeant Aleckson,” Smoke offered as an introduction. The woman nodded slightly and frowned. Perhaps she knew who I was from news reports.

  Smoke pulled out a notepad and pen. “The clerk at the front desk said your name is Elaine Van House.”

  “That’s correct.” Her eyes moved slowly to Smoke. She spoke quietly, just above a whisper.

  “Can you tell us why you’re here?”

  Ms. Van House nodded. “It’s about my daughter. She’s on trial here.”

  “Alvie Eisner.”

  “Yes. I guess you knew that.” She looked down at her vein-covered hands. “I was in court today.”

  That’s why she recognized me—I had been on the stand for hours.

  “I can’t believe the things they’re saying she did. I read about it in the Minneapolis newspaper, and then in court today . . .” She braved a quick peek at me and looked down again. “I can’t imagine. I had to come. I just don’t know what to do or what to say. I need to see my daughter, but how can she ever forgive me for leaving her, and her brother, Henry? I didn’t go because I wanted to.”

  “Why did you leave them, and when was that, exactly?” Smoke’s tone was matter-of-fact, accepting.

  Her face was pinched. “I left because I was afraid, terrified actually. When? They were just little children, six and four. Alvie was six, Henry, four. Forty years ago.”

  “What were you afraid of?” Smoke asked.

  “Of their father, my husband. And his brother.” Van House pursed her lips.

  “Why was that?”

  She picked at the corner of the sweater she was wearing and began twisting it with her small fingers.

  “Ms. Van House?” Smoke invited.

  “Um, this is difficult. I’ve never said the words out loud before.”

  He leaned closer to her. “What words?”

  “My brother-in-law raped me . . . more than once.” Ms. Van House watched her hands before braving a look first at Smoke, then at me. Her eyes locked on mine. I blinked and nodded, acknowledging her struggle. First living with the pain of her abuse and telling no one about it. And then having to tell two deputies she had met moments before a story she had never uttered out loud. And one had testified against her daughter for over half the day.

  I moved to a chair next to Smoke and placed my arms on the table, palms up, hoping Van House would relax a little and continue her story without our prodding.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I married young, barely eighteen. My husband George was twenty-five. I thought it was kind of sweet at first, how jealous he was, but by the time a few years had passed, and we had the children, he was almost crazy about it. I stopped going most everywhere so he wouldn’t accuse me of being with other men.” A story similar to many I had heard in my years as a deputy.

  Van House’s fingers moved to her top two buttons. She unbuttoned and buttoned them over and over and over. I willed myself not to watch her compulsive movements while we waited for her story to resume.

  “George barely ever drank, but when he did, he drank too much and would rant and rave about how I liked to lead men on, liked the way they looked at me, secretly snuck off to meet them, on and on.” Van House closed her eyes and crossed her hands, laying one on each shoulder.

  “And then an awful thing happened. His good-for-nothing brother lost his job and moved in with us. George told me Albert would help keep an eye on me. That’s when the real nightmare began. George was . . . I guess you would say . . . sick. Albert was worse. What man would take his own brother’s wife that way?”

  Unfortunately, too many.

  “Did you tell George about Albert?” Smoke wondered.

  “Yes, I tried. I mean, I did, but when he confronted Albert, of course Albert denied it. George believed his brother over his wife.” Van House shook her head a few times. “Then Albert really had me over a barrel. He said if I ever said anything to George again, he would say that I had seduced him and we had slept together.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I offered.

  “No, I couldn’t either, before . . .” Van House paused again. “George got worse after I accused Albert of the unthinkable. He threatened to kill me if he ever found me with another man, or if I tried to leave him. He had a gun.” Van House shuddered at her words. “And I believed he would do what he said.”

  It was probably the same gun her daughter had tried to kill me with. The one she had killed her uncle Albert with. I knew Smoke was thinking the same thing.

  “Did he ever physically abuse you?” Smoke asked.

  “He never hit me, but he did make me do things I didn’t want to . . . things that hurt . . . um . . . sexually.”

  “Did you go to the police, seek help?”

  She raised her shoulders slightly. “In those days?” She shook her head. “I didn’t know how it would help.”

  Smoke nodded. “How long did this go on before you left?”

  “About a year. When I started planning my escape, I knew I had to go alone. There was no way to safely get my children out of the house. As heartbreaking as it was, I had to leave them behind.”

  My mother would have taken a bullet in the back before she left John Carl and me behind.

  “So I got up one night when George was snoring, grabbed my purse and a small bag of clothes and personal items I had hidden away, and walked to a neighboring town, about seven miles away. We lived in s
outhern Minnesota, about fifty or sixty miles south of here. They had a bus that made daily trips to Minneapolis. I paid cash for my ticket.

  “From there I took the train to New York, where I lived and worked for over thirty years. When I retired two years ago, I moved back to Minnesota, but I never got up the courage to contact my children.”

  “Your husband didn’t look for you?” Smoke asked.

  “I’m sure he did, but it was easy to disappear in those days. George had the money to hire a detective.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if he got one or not. I changed my name, got a Social Security number using a birth certificate I got from one of those underground operations.”

  “Weren’t you afraid to leave your children with George and Albert?” I blurted out.

  “George had me convinced I was the problem. I thought if I left him, he wouldn’t be jealous anymore and things would get better for the children. And Albert seemed to like them just fine.”

  If she only knew. Albert’s abuse had caused irreparable harm to Alvie and Henry Eisner. Henry had spent his adult life in mental institutions and group homes, and Alvie had borne Albert’s son—a son who had lived outside the law and eventually died in prison by his own hand. It was a reality Alvie could not face. Instead, she had blamed the legal personnel involved with her son’s case for his death.

  Smoke detected my growing agitation. “Sergeant, I know you have to get back to the case you were working on. I’ll finish up with Ms. Van House and go over the info on Rebecca. Anything else you need?”

  I had a dozen questions, maybe two dozen, I wanted to ask Alvie Eisner’s mother, but what was the point? And it was clear Smoke thought it best for me to leave.

  I was out on patrol when Smoke phoned. “Ms. Van House was both happy and sad to learn about Rebecca. She’s over at the jail now, visiting Eisner.”

  I tried to imagine that scene. “I’m sure that will go well.”

  “So, what’s your take on her?”