I stretched, threw back the patchwork quilt my Grandma Brandt had lovingly made, and remembered how I had fallen into bed the previous night, exhausted beyond words. I decided to put on running clothes and go for a short jog before showering. Hopefully, it would clear my mind and jump-start my body. Coffee alone wouldn’t do it.
My house sat on the crest of a small hill overlooking acres of cornfields, golden wheat, and a horse pasture, enclosed by yards and yards of white fencing. The back of my property dropped down to a small lake, and when the small woods of maple and birch trees shed their leaves in late fall, the lake was part of my backyard view. I watched it ice over in the winter and thaw in the spring before the trees leafed out once more.
My maternal grandparents had given me twenty acres of land from their 1,600 acre farm. Gramps leased the bulk of his property to a young neighboring farmer who planted corn one year and soybeans the next. I had built a three bedroom, one and a half-story home three years before, with my mother acting as my subcontractor. She loved projects, and it kept both of us way too busy for six months: deciding on a plan, finding a reliable builder, plumber, electrician, mason, and everybody else you needed to get the job done.
After walking the tenth-of-a-mile length of driveway, I set my pace at about an eight-minute mile. It was a good thinking speed, and my mind swept over the calls I had been assigned the past few days. Three driving under the influence arrests—including the hospital patient— some minor traffic violation tickets, four or five domestic disputes—with only one landing the offender in jail for fifth degree assault—medical emergencies, vandalism, a house burglary, a small fire in a country tavern, and drug paraphernalia found on a transient were the things that immediately came to mind.
Every call seemed routine compared to Judge Fenneman’s bizarre end. I would complete the investigation, file the reports, and most likely defer to expert medical opinion. My training made me question the pat medical answers, and I could not erase the sinking something’s-not-right feeling in my gut. What was causing that?
I jogged past my mother’s house, about a half mile down the road from my own. It had been her childhood home, and she’d raised my brother, John Carl, and me there, also. Both sets of my grandparents lived on the same road: the Brandts on the east side and the Alecksons on the west side. Overwhelmed with so much family nearby, my brother had fled to Colorado to attend college and stayed there. His acreage awaited his return.
My father’s parents were in their seventies and wintered in Arizona. They were thinking of selling their home and renting a condo in town when they returned to Minnesota in the spring. Besides the few months in Oak Lea, they also spent the month of July at a lake resort in northern Minnesota. Maintaining two homes was getting to be a burden for them. Grandma and Grandpa Aleckson had asked me several times if I was interested in selling my newer home and moving into theirs. I loved their old farmhouse and seriously considered it.
My maternal grandparents had retired from farming when I was five years old and built a smaller home on five acres, a quarter mile from the homestead. I was thrilled to move from our small bungalow in town to the rambling two-story one they had given up for us. In addition to living in a home I loved, it meant we could raise animals and ride horses.
My mother’s overprotective hovering had put a damper on many of my desired activities, but I still managed to swim in the small, nearby Bebee Lake, climb fences, trees, and hay mounds, and ride my grandpa’s mare when Mom was otherwise occupied. My brother, John Carl, was too honest and way too serious to do things behind our mother’s back, so he chose to remove himself geographically instead.
After my Grandma Brandt died, Gramps continued to live in his house, largely due to my mother’s efforts. She cooked his meals, had his house cleaned, laundered his clothes, and was at his beck and call. I helped when I could, but my schedule was erratic, and I didn’t like to make promises I couldn’t keep. I rationalized that Mom could handle the extra chores very well, but feared she might explode into spontaneous combustion at any given minute. I also thought she needed a man in her life, but had about given up thinking that would ever happen.
As I trekked back home, I began to feel energized. I preferred hiking through the woods and exploring to running down a road, but a two-mile jaunt was a quick aerobic workout. A long drink of water, a cooling shower, and two cups of very strong coffee, I thought, should bring me completely to life.
I walked along the south side of the hospital grounds. The night before, the site had been sinister, the unrelenting rain pounding on people and the earth. That morning, sunbeams danced playfully across the ripples of the pond water’s surface. The dozens of footprints had been reduced to a few depressions in the wetland and no longer resembled feet. The grass where the judge had lain when I arrived at the scene was starting to spring back up as it dried, lifting its blades to the sun.
Rebecca Eisner was propped up in her bed watching television, still clutching what I identified as a stuffed puppy. Scrawny and pale, she looked like she had suffered a lifetime of poor health and appeared younger than nine years old. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was nearly colorless, making the blue veins on her temples and cheeks vividly visible in contrast.
“Hello, Rebecca.”
She regarded me warily. “Hi,” was her small response as she squeezed her puppy closer.
“I’m Corky Aleckson. I went to school with your father,” I said as I pulled up a chair beside her bed.
“You did?” She brightened, her pretty little face transformed by the smile.
We talked for a few minutes. I tried to think of something nice to say about her dad, and suddenly realized we had something very basic in common. “I know what it’s like to want to know about your dad. My own father died before I was born, just like yours did.” I took her bone china hand in mine.
“He did? I thought I was the only one.” She held my eyes with hers.
“No, there’s you, there’s me, and I’m sure there are a lot of others we don’t know about. It happens sometimes.”
Rebecca looked forlorn, and I wanted to pull her into my arms and hold her.
I paused before changing the subject. “There’s another reason I’m here, Rebecca. I’m a sergeant with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department—”
“A real cop?” she interrupted. “Then where’s your gun and your uniform and your badge?”
“I suppose I don’t look much like an officer today without my uniform on.” I pulled my identification badge from my back pocket and held it up for her. She took her time, reading every word. “You are very smart to ask whether I am really a cop. Some people might not think of that.” She studied me a moment. “My gun is locked in my car. I don’t need it here.”
“Oh. Wow! A girl cop.”
I smiled at her sudden enthusiasm and approval. “Rebecca, I was here last night, checking on some things, and I need to ask you if you heard or saw anything unusual, you know, different than normal?”
She gave me a blank look and shook her head.
“It would have been pretty late. What I mean by unusual is, did you notice another patient walk by your room? Or did you hear any alarm noises? Things that haven’t happened before?” I was having difficulty phrasing my questions without giving too much information.
She continued shaking her head. “Uh, uh. But you can ask my grandma if she did.” She looked past me to a woman standing in the doorway.
When I turned around, a large woman dressed in black was studying me. How long had she been listening to our conversation, and why was she hovering in the doorway?
“Hello, Missus Eisner, isn’t it?” I stood and extended my hand.
“It’s Ms.”
She glanced down at my hand, then finally shook it. Her grasp was firm, her stare severe, piercing.
“Ah, I’m Sergeant Corky Aleckson, Winnebago County. I was in your son’s class at school.”
“Yes,” was all she said, her eyes dagg
ers boring through me.
I was unnerved, anxious to finish my business and get the heck out of Dodge.
“Actually, the reason I’m here talking to Rebecca is, I’m doing some follow-up on an incident that happened on this wing last night.”
She raised her eyebrows in question. Judge Fenneman’s death wasn’t a secret, so I gave her the generic version of the story.
Ms. Eisner kept her eyes trained on me. “I was here with Rebecca for a while last night. I’m not sure when I left, but I didn’t hear any alarms.”
“Okay, thank you, Ms. Eisner, and thank you, Rebecca. You are a special girl, and I know your father would be very proud of you. I hope you feel better real soon.” I turned back to her grandmother. “Here’s my card if either of you think of anything, or if you have any questions.”
Ms. Eisner accepted my business card without a word or change of expression. I slipped out of the room and away from that very peculiar woman. Why did she tell me she hadn’t heard any alarms? She must have overheard my question to Rebecca.
I tried to remember her at school functions, but couldn’t. I could only picture Nolan alone. If she had attended, she was one in a sea of faces. After meeting her, I could easily believe she had a social phobia. And what had happened to Nolan’s father? She’d stressed the “Ms.” so maybe she had never married, really none of my business.
I stopped by the judge’s room. Freshly cleaned, it shone and smelled of disinfectant, all set for the next patient. A little magic Blood-Be-Gone and, poof, it was—at least the visible sign of it. But for a handful of us, it would be in that room forever. A battleground between a man and the equipment keeping him there.
I stepped inside and rested my hand on the bed tray. A chill ran through me.
Not a drop of blood in sight, not an item out of place, yet a tightness gathered in my middle, disturbing, unsettling. Was it how quickly things had reverted to business as usual? A tautly-made bed, polished metal, and shining wood. Stark evidence the world didn’t slow down for much of anything.
Mr. Bradshaw’s plump, middle-aged, no-nonsense-tolerated receptionist took my name and informed me he was on the phone. I could have a seat if I didn’t mind waiting—for how long, she didn’t know. I jotted a few details of my conversation with Nolan’s daughter and mother. The girl was shy and amiable, and from what I could see, completely normal compared to her very odd grandmother.
“Sergeant,” Bradshaw said as he closed the distance to my chair. When I stood, we were so close I caught a hint of masculine soap or aftershave. I felt my pupils widening against my will at the sight of him, gorgeous and exceptionally tidy in his light gray suit. He raised one eyebrow slightly, smiled, and took my hand in his, confirming I looked as affected as I felt.
“Good morning, Mister Bradshaw. Thanks for seeing me.”
“Undercover today?” His eyes scanned my light blue tank top, jeans, and sandals. He stared at my painted toenails for a second.
“Actually, it’s my day off, but I wanted to wrap up this investigation and file my reports,” I explained.
“I see. Come into my office. Missus Lange, hold all calls, barring an emergency,” Bradshaw called over his shoulder.
I sat opposite Bradshaw on the other side of a mammoth dark oak desk, an effective safety barrier between us. “Has the alarm company been here yet?” I asked, opening my memo pad and noting the date and time.
Bradshaw cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, just after eight o’clock. They ran a series of tests and checks, and found no malfunction whatsoever.” He leaned forward and rested his hands, palms up, on his desk.
I jotted that on my paper. “Do you find that strange, Mister Bradshaw?”
“No, quite the opposite. What I find strange is that Judge Fenneman got out that door without tripping the alarm. I can’t understand it.” His brows knitted together.
“Nor can I. Frankly, I thought they would find a problem.” I considered other possibilities. “Would a staff member have any reason to disarm the alarm in order to go out that door without tripping it? Maintenance personnel, anyone?”
“I did discover we have two nurses on staff who do just that, so they can slip out to have a cigarette.”
I jotted that on my memo sheet, waiting for the names.
“But neither of them was on duty last night,” Bradshaw explained. He was thorough.
“Okay. Well, thank you for your help. I appreciate your cooperation and concern. And, please call any time with any new information.” I didn’t remember giving him my card the previous night, so I handed him one.
Bradshaw stood with me and accepted the card. “Certainly, and of course, contact me with any questions that may arise. I can’t adequately express how terrible I feel, how all of us here at Oak Lea Memorial feel.”
I nodded and slipped out the door. Twelve hours before I had felt dislike at first sight for this man. So why was I a little sad thinking I probably wouldn’t see him again? Common sense betrayed by fickle emotions.
6
The sun was bright overhead when I stepped outside. I squinted against it, scanning the parking lot for my squad car. I momentarily forgot I had driven my personal vehicle, a red 1967 Pontiac GTO. My car was a classic, complete with a 400 cubic inch V-8 engine, four-barrel carburetor, three-speed manual transmission, disappearing windshield wipers, leather bucket seats, and hidden headlights.
My father, Carl, had bought it a few days before he received his draft notice for the Selective Service of the United States of America. At nineteen years old, he had been laying concrete blocks for a local company all summer, in addition to helping his father with farm work. He had built both a healthy bank balance and strong muscles. When he reported to the draft office, the enlistment officer asked Carl if he had considered spending his stint in the Marines. The officer said the Marines could use a young man as strong and robust as Carl was. Carl believed it was his duty to say “yes.”
Following six months of grueling boot camp, infantry school, and advanced combat training, Carl returned to Oak Lea. He had orders to fly to Da Nang, South Vietnam the next week and was given a short personal leave of absence. My parents decided to marry right away.
Kristen and Carl had grown up on adjoining farms. They were lifelong friends and shared the common bond of each being an only child. They had been born one day apart, and my mother liked to tease Carl—since she was older, she was naturally wiser. As they passed through puberty, their feelings deepened into a growing attraction. They committed, at the ripe old age of sixteen, to marry one day, a plan supported by both sets of parents.
Carl and Kristen exchanged vows in the small county church where they had been baptized and confirmed. A simple sandwich and cake luncheon was served by the ladies guild to the 150 guests in the church basement. The hall was crowded, and the guests’ body heat warmed the chilly building that winter afternoon.
My favorite photograph of my parents was captured as they were climbing into the GTO on their way to their honeymoon at the Radisson Hotel in downtown Minneapolis. Their bright eyes and smiles said it all—they were young, excited, and completely enamored with one another. I kept the photo on my bedside stand.
My brother, John Carl, was conceived during their few days together. When he was born nine months later, my father applied for emergency leave and was granted a twenty-eight-day furlough. That’s when I began as the sparkle in my mother’s eye, as she put it.
Carl died in a Vietnam jungle.
His shrapnel-laden body was sent home for burial a few months before I was born. I had heard the story many times, from many different people, but the impact of it hadn’t hit me until a few years before. As I passed my twenty-first birthday as a carefree college student, I speculated on how my mother had managed, at the same age, as a widow with two babies. I felt less resentful of her smothering overprotectiveness and perpetual hovering. Carl was gone, but he had left his progeny in her care, and by God, with His help, she would guard us an
d keep us safe.
My mother didn’t drive the GTO after Carl died. She put it into storage in our garage, almost as a memorial to him, for over twenty years. When Mom was finally convinced I would take loving care of it, I had become the proud owner and brought it back to life.
“You always remind me so much of your father,” she had told me.
The years of sitting necessitated a fair amount of mechanical work and replacement of all the belts, but I got my car to run like a top. When I drove it, I felt a connection to my father, the man I only knew through stories.
I hung my Winnebago County parking permit on my rear view mirror bar as I pulled into a permit-only parking lot at the courthouse complex. The sheriff’s department offices and common secretarial area were a flurry of activity. There were never enough hours in the day around there. I stopped at the sheriff’s open door and knocked on the frame. Sheriff Twardy motioned me in without a word or change of facial expression.
The sheriff’s walls were lined with framed diplomas, awards, certificates, and an extensive collection of arm patches from most of the law enforcement agencies around the state of Minnesota. It was my habit to scan the patches to see if I could spot any new ones.
“What have you discovered, Sergeant?” Twardy asked.
“Not a lot, sir. The only thing I learned from my trip to the hospital was the door alarm checked out A-okay. Without an autopsy, we’ll have to stick with the coroner’s pronouncement that cause of death was accidental drowning.”
I sat down on the edge of a visitor chair. “Since there seems to be no one that actually saw the judge leave the hospital or fall in the pond, the closest thing we have for a reason is what the doctors call ‘sundowning.’ I guess why no one saw or heard him, or why the alarm didn’t sound when he opened the emergency door, will probably always be a mystery.”
Murder in Winnebago County Page 5