“Chief Becker, what are you doing here at this time of night?” I asked the head of the Oak Lea Police Department.
“This is my town.” He gave me the predictable response he used for just about any professional question he was asked. Not that he needed to remind me. Oak Lea had been his town as long as I could remember.
Police Chief Bud Becker was never off duty. He spoke warmly of his family, but being in charge of Oak Lea’s finest was clearly the essence of his life. He spent evenings at home listening to his police scanner, not turning it off even when he went to bed. He said routine calls were “white noise” to help him sleep. I wondered if his wife felt the same way.
“I heard the call and phoned the hospital,” Chief Becker explained after all. “Got here as the paramedics were on their way down to the pond here.”
Becker knelt beside the body and moved his flashlight around, then he stood and shook his head at the stomped down mess of footprints around the pond. “Who found him?” he asked the group.
“We did,” the middle-aged blonde told him. “Penny pulled him out.” She nodded at the nurse who was shaking so badly.
I probably had the least medical training of anyone in the group, but even I could see Penny was going into shock.
“Sir, perhaps we can move our investigation inside,” I suggested to Becker. “These nurses need to get out of the rain.”
“Oh . . . right.” Chief Becker sounded distracted and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You got pictures?” he asked me.
“Yes, plenty.” I patted the camera to be sure it still hung at my side.
The group trucked up the slippery wet, grassy hill. The wind was whipping, and the umbrella did little to protect the three nurses. Doc and I followed with the paramedics and the stretcher carrying the judge. We made a loop around the three blue spruce pine sentinels, standing straight and tall, guarding the main entrance of the building.
You let your guard down tonight, old boys.
Stepping inside, I blinked against the assault of light. I stopped to wipe my boots and drip on the entrance mat for a minute. I sided over to Becker as the paramedics and doctor disappeared around the corner.
The jeans-and-slicker guy was speaking quietly to the drenched nurses. A passerby could easily mistake them for victims of a capsized boating accident. The man turned to the chief and me, shook Becker’s hand then reached for mine.
“I know Chief Becker, but I’ve not met you.” He was not quite as tall as Becker, maybe an even six feet. His hand caught mine, gripping firmly, while his eyes, dark and stormy as the rainy night, probed mine, telling me he was a force to be reckoned with, a heavy hitter.
“I’m Sergeant Aleckson,” I announced, straightening my spine and refusing to blink first.
He looked at the badge on my raincoat. “And what does the ‘C’ stand for?”
“Corky, er, Corinne.”
“Sergeant Corinne Aleckson, I hardly know what to say. This is extremely unfortunate. We’ve never had a tragedy quite like this here before, but I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ve instructed the nurses to get into some dry scrubs from surgery. They’ll be out shortly to talk with you.” He let go of my hand, but stayed close to Becker and me.
“And you are?” I asked, blinking a raindrop from my eye.
He raised his hands slightly. “Excuse me. Nicholas Bradshaw, administrator of Oak Lea Memorial.”
Oh yes, a heavy hitter. He probably was in bed when the hospital called and pulled on the first thing he found with legs. That explained the jeans.
I nodded and turned to Becker. “Chief, I’m going to phone this in. I don’t want to put it over the air so everyone in the county with a police scanner will know what’s happened.” I escaped a few feet away and pulled out my cell phone.
“Good thinking, Sarge.”
“Are you going to call Detective Garvey?” I asked. Garvey was the investigator for the Oak Lea Police Department.
Chief Becker ran the cuff of his sleeve around his wet head, messing his hair even more. “No. You took the call. You can handle it.”
“Okay. Give me a minute, then we’ll start at the patient’s room and take it from there,” I said while digesting that the chief trusted me with an investigation in his town.
“Right.”
I reached Jerry in Communications, a little surprised he was still working. It was eleven twenty and his shift ended at eleven, the same time mine was supposed to.
“What’s the good word, Corky?” he asked.
“I wish there was one. I didn’t want this over the air . . . Judge Fenneman was found drowned in the drainage pond near the hospital.”
“The judge killed himself?” Jerry blurted out, the first one to ask that question.
“We don’t know yet. I’ll be interviewing hospital staff and see what we come up with.”
“Oh, man. Well, I’ll call the sheriff,” Jerry said.
“Per policy for unnatural deaths,” I agreed.
“Plus, he and the judge were golfing buds.”
“Really?” I had been on nights for years before recently going on the evening shift, and I didn’t pay much attention to the daytime scuttlebutt. “Thanks, Jerry.”
“Good luck, Corky.”
I’m going to need it, I thought as I made my way back to the police chief and hospital administrator. As I rounded the corner from the lobby, I saw Administrator Bradshaw talking to the three nurses, now clad in dry, turquoise surgical scrubs. The one about my age with the oatmeal-colored ponytail had stopped shaking, but was still visibly distressed. They all were. I overheard Bradshaw instructing them to answer my questions with facts only, and not to offer any information or opinions.
My blood immediately hit the boiling point. “Excuse me, Mister Bradshaw, have a minute?” I walked into the nearby staff lounge and waited with my hands crossed over my chest for Bradshaw to join me.
“I can’t believe what I just heard. You are interfering with this investigation. Are you attempting to cover something to protect this hospital?” My voice was a stage whisper.
Bradshaw didn’t have the courtesy to look contrite. “What are you talking about?”
“Telling the nurses what to say and what not to say,” I spit out.
“I did no such thing. I simply told them to stick to the facts. We need to get to the bottom of this and not have everyone speculating about what they think happened,” he calmly assured me.
I glared at him. “Are you a lawyer?”
Bradshaw shook his head. “I’m just using common sense.”
“Well, keep your common sense to yourself and let me do my job. I am hoping, through questioning, that someone here can provide answers to what may have happened tonight. Just let me do my job,” I repeated.
I remembered my rain gear, pulled off my jacket and hat, and hung them on a nearby coat rack. When I turned I caught Bradshaw scrutinizing my body, his expression unreadable. When I was in uniform, I was an officer of the law. But at that moment, Bradshaw was looking at me as a woman, and I found that both irritating and disconcerting.
“Please show me Judge Fenneman’s room,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “Of course.”
I doubted getting caught ogling me had embarrassed Bradshaw in the least. He led the way to B-Wing without another word. Chief Becker was waiting for us outside Room 120 where Judge Fenneman had spent his last day on earth.
I pulled out my camera as I scanned the room. Not much was out of place, except on the bed. The sheet and blanket were thrown back, and the IV needle and attached tubing were near the pillow at the head.
The bedside stand stood at an angle from the bed, as though it had been pushed out of the way to allow the judge to get out of bed around the guardrail, which was still in the raised position. A significant number of blood drips had pooled on the floor and stained the linoleum where Fenneman had apparently pulled out his IV.
I snapped photos of the entire room
, capturing frame after frame of the bed, the nightstand, and the blood—a harsh contrast to the beige floor. The small blood pool by the bed indicated the judge had stood there for a moment, then started walking, leaving one drop about every two feet to the room’s door.
I followed the drop pattern where it continued—more disguised on the multi-toned, gray corridor carpet—past the unoccupied nurses’ desk to the emergency exit door. There were red smudges on the push bar, challenging the stark sterility and disrupting the expected order.
I turned to the group gathered behind me. The three nurses were still joined at the hip. We were on the south side of the hospital. The main entrance was on the west.
“Is this the door you exited?” I asked.
“Yes,” the petite brunette spokesperson told me. “I noticed the blood on the door after I had finished checking room one twenty-three there.” She averted her eyes to the patient room on the left. “We thought Judge Fenneman must be somewhere in the hospital. We never thought he would go outside, what with it raining cats and dogs. I called to Penny and Linda, and we went out there together.”
“Who opened the door?” I asked.
“I think I did,” Penny with the oatmeal ponytail answered, and the others nodded.
“I don’t want anyone else to touch this push bar until I dust it for prints.” Maybe there were a hundred smudged prints on the door, but Judge Fenneman’s prints should be on top. I pulled a pen from my pocket and pushed, hard, on the bar to open the door. The most deafening blast sounded, and I nearly dropped my camera when my startled body reacted. I glanced at the second hand of my watch and counted as it cycled twice past the twelve.
After two full minutes of the most blaring alarm I had ever heard, it was finally silent. I turned back to the group. “Did anyone hear this alarm sound between the time the judge was last seen sleeping in his room and the discovery that he was missing?”
The three nurses all shook their heads.
“I’m guessing that given the size of this hospital, and the appalling volume of that alarm, that had it been tripped, someone should have heard it?” Everyone nodded.
“It’s a new system, Sergeant—we had it installed about ten days ago. As far as we know, it has been working fine,” Bradshaw said.
“We used the code when we went out and didn’t even think of why we didn’t hear the alarm if the judge went out this door.” The small brunette again.
I pushed open the door with my foot. The overhead spotlight revealed more red drops on the cement landing outside the exit. The roof overhang had protected them from being washed away.
“Mister Bradshaw, you can disarm the alarm?” I asked and he nodded. “I’ll get my rain gear and walk down to the pond.” I started for the staff room, but Bradshaw caught my arm.
“Sheila, will you gather the sergeant’s rain gear from the break room? I’ll punch in the code.” Bradshaw brushed against me, reached above my head, and pressed a series of numbers to silence the alarm. “All set. You can open the door now without setting off the alarm.”
The brunette nurse hurried away and returned a minute later with my outerwear. I donned the apparel and used the same method with the pen to open the door, careful not to damage any remaining prints. I left the group behind and snapped photos of the outside door. Once I left the protection of the overhang, there was no visible trail to follow, but I continued walking toward the pond. The hill from the hospital to the water was a steady decline and dropped probably ten feet. The footprints around the pond were rapidly becoming a washed together mess.
What had happened? I wondered as I made my way back up the hill to the emergency exit. Chief Becker followed my earlier example, using a pen to depress the push bar to let me back in. Housekeeping would have to deal with all the mud the next morning, but it seemed a small matter in the face of the night’s tragedy.
I stomped off my boots as best I could then looked into the face of the Winnebago County Sheriff, Dennis Twardy. His color was terrible, and I felt sad his professional and personal life had crossed like that. “Sergeant Aleckson,” he acknowledged me, “any ideas?”
“Not yet, sir.”
The sheriff pinched the top of his nose between his eyes. “Has Clarice been called?”
“Who, sir?” I asked, wondering about protocol.
“Judge Fenneman’s daughter.”
Of course. I knew her as Mrs. Moy.
“We called her as soon as we found him, Sheriff. She is babysitting her grandchildren and had to find someone to come over before she could leave.” Bradshaw again.
“For godsakes, we could have sent someone.” The sheriff pounded his fist into his hand. He didn’t look well. His normally ruddy complexion darkened to a burgundy tone, and I worried his blood pressure reading was soaring off the charts. Bradshaw rested a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder.
Sheriff Twardy had enjoyed exceptional health until his wife’s four-year bout with cancer. She had died about a year before. The sheriff was in his late fifties. His body looked fit, but his face bore deep, aging stress creases, and his hair had grayed. Twardy’s secretary, a perpetual mother hen, kept a close watch on him, determined to prevent a premature stroke.
“Why don’t we go to my office, or better yet, the boardroom?” Bradshaw offered. “Sergeant Aleckson can speak with my staff. Doctor Dahlgren has also been called and should be here any minute.”
“Why Doctor Dahlgren?” I asked.
“He is . . . was . . . Judge Fenneman’s primary care physician. Hopefully, he can help fill in the gaps.” Bradshaw was doing my job better than I was.
As our increasingly large group headed for the boardroom, Paul Moore, the stocky, middle-aged star reporter for the local newspaper, scurried toward us. No one acknowledged him.
Moore pushed his geeky, oversized glasses closer to his eyes and singled out Becker. “Did you find him?”
“Who are you talking about, Moore?” Chief Becker asked.
“The missing patient, the old guy?” He pulled a pen from his breast pocket.
“Geez, Paul, you pick that up on your scanner? Must be a slow news week if you come running out here in the rain for that,” Becker said in dismissal.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to, but I couldn’t sleep, anyway, so I figured if they were sending an officer here, maybe something was up, so I thought I’d check it out.” Paul sniffed.
Chief Becker put his arm on Paul’s shoulder and led him toward the main exit. Becker had several inches and over one hundred pounds on Moore, and looked like a father having a chat with his small son. I couldn’t hear what he said, but figured it had to do with assuring Paul he would get the whole story when the time was right. It was common knowledge, even to me, that Becker and Moore had coffee together most mornings. Becker caught up to us as we entered the boardroom.
To say the room was nice would be a gross understatement. It had simple elegance. A long, cherrywood table occupied the majority of the space, while a dozen soft, buff-colored leather office chairs surrounded it. I took one of the side chairs and sank down. It swallowed me in softness and cush. My eyes swept the room, taking in the six-foot-tall ficus tree, the tasteful watercolors, and the floor length vertical blinds covering the three windows. The corner lamps promised subdued lighting for more casual meetings.
“I’ll brew a pot of coffee,” Bradshaw said. “Go ahead, Officers, with your investigation.”
I was weary and could not let myself get even a little comfortable. Everything seemed backward, off-kilter somehow. The surreal death scene, the unusual tragedy on such an unlikely spot as hospital property. I sat in a conference room surrounded by people who were shocked with disbelief, each one wishing the outcome could somehow be undone.
It was new territory for me—for all of us.
I pulled a small notepad from my back pocket and leaned forward. Desperation had snaked its way into the hearts and showed on the faces of the people who felt responsible for what had happened o
n their watch.
Everyone—the sheriff, chief, and hospital personnel—were watching me intently, waiting for me to proceed.
I was the only one with a name badge. The nurses had apparently left them with their uniforms. “Let’s begin by introducing ourselves. I’m Sergeant Corinne Aleckson, Winnebago County. This is Sheriff Dennis Twardy and Oak Lea Police Chief Bud Becker.” Glances, nods and half-smiles were exchanged.
I looked at the petite brunette nurse. “Your name, please?”
“Oh sorry, um, Sheila Van Buren, RN.” She subconsciously reached for the identification that wasn’t there.
I nodded at the oatmeal ponytail who had finally stopped sobbing. “P-Penny Smith, RN.” Her voice was shaky, and I gave her a small smile of encouragement before glancing at the dishwater blonde with the short perm.
“Linda Pedersen, RN.” Her eyes were hazel cereal bowls that dominated her pale face.
“Is that Pedersen with a ‘d’?” I asked as I jotted the names in my notebook.
“Yes. P-e-d-e-r-s-e-n,” she clarified.
“Thank you.” I noted the time. Midnight. Just. A little over an hour since I’d been dispatched there, and my work had barely begun. “I’m going to record this interview so I don’t have to rely on my memory or scribbled notes. Please relax, as best you can, and give me an account of everything you remember about Judge Fenneman from, say, supper on.” I set up the recorder Bradshaw had found for me.
Linda Pedersen was the nurse assigned to the judge for the three-to-eleven shift. Judge Fenneman had been admitted to the hospital for bacterial pneumonia two days previously. Responding well to antibiotics, he was alert and comfortable throughout the evening.
Fenneman requested a sleeping aid around eight p.m. Dr. Dahlgren ordered the medication, and it was administered at eight thirty p.m. Nurse Pedersen last saw the judge in his room at nine fifty p.m. He was in bed, listening to his radio with his eyes closed. She checked his vital signs and IV drip. Ever thoughtful, the judge had patted her hand and thanked her. When she checked again on her last round at ten twenty, he was gone.
Murder in Winnebago County Page 2