I followed the sheriff’s eyes to my hands and realized I was nearly rubbing the skin off my left hand with my right.
“A helluva mystery, and the coroner’s ruling is the best answer, the only answer, we have. Thanks for the effort. I know you’re putting in long hours on this.” Sheriff Twardy’s voice was flat.
I shrugged. “No problem, Sheriff, just doing my job. How are you holding up? Forgive me, but you look awfully tired.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I couldn’t sleep last night, but I’ll be all right. I’ll phone Chief Becker. The Oak Lea Daily News has been calling both of us for the story. Bradshaw won’t let any of his staff talk to Moore. Said he’ll issue a statement when we give him the nod. Seems like a decent fellow.”
I was coming to the same conclusion. “He’s all right. I’ll type up my account, put everything on paper so you can read it before I write the final report.”
“Sure.” Twardy seemed distracted as he reached for the telephone.
It was noon, so I called Mother to tell her I couldn’t make lunch. At one thirty, I handed my findings to the sheriff, then bought a vending machine sandwich and candy bar to scarf for some needed energy.
Detective Elton “Smoke” Dawes was sitting in his cubicle, tipped back in his chair, long legs stretched, resting cowboy boot-clad feet on his desk. His reading glasses were propped on his nose, and he was scanning a criminal complaint. He favored wearing western style sport coats and bowstring ties. His thick hair, best managed when kept very short, was showing more salt than pepper. In the years I’d known him, he had facial hair about half the time. I preferred the clean-shaven look, the way he was at the moment, but Smoke looked good either way. Angular face, long creases for dimples, strong chin, and full lips. What my mother called “rugged good looks.”
Smoke had earned his nickname the winter of his junior year in high school when he was ice fishing on Bison Lake and accidentally burned down his father’s fish house. His oil lantern had somehow tipped over and started the fire. Smoke wouldn’t tell me the story, but my mother, who was his classmate, said there was a girl with him when it happened, and rumor had it they were doing more than fishing.
“Busy?” I asked and sat down by his desk. He slid his feet over to make room for my lunch. I set it down on a paper-free space.
“Not overly. Same-o, same-o.” Smoke’s low husky voice matched his nickname and was a melodious treat to my ears. He pulled off his glasses and slid them in his breast pocket. The sky-blue eyes that could coax a confession out of almost anyone studied me, his eyebrows narrowed in concern. “Heard you had quite the ordeal last night.”
“Not the typical Monday evening shift, that’s for sure. When Chief Becker showed up at the scene, I thought he’d call in Garvey to do the investigation, but he turned it over to me. So I got a taste of the kind of work you do every day.”
I tugged the cellophane wrapper away from the sandwich with my teeth.
Smoke swung his legs down to the floor. “And how’d you do?”
I shrugged. “I have a lot to learn to be a decent detective,” I admitted.
“You have a good, level head, Corky. Good instincts. You like people. You’re thorough. You have the investigative skills—you just need to hone them a bit. You get it, better than most.” He reached over and gave my arm a small squeeze.
“You trying to steal my sandwich?” I teased.
“I might be tempted if I could identify what that meat might be.” He feigned disgust, a chuckle escaping from his throat.
“It doesn’t matter. That’s what mustard’s for. I try not to think about the sometimes disgusting things I consume in the name of nourishment. The alternative was lunch with Mother.” I rolled my eyes.
“How is Kristen?” His voice took on a special, smooth as silk quality when he spoke of her.
“Keeping herself too busy, as usual. I think she needs a man. Got any ideas?” I swallowed bread, mustard and mystery meat, thankful my stomach was lined with steel.
Smoke’s eyes held mine. “Carl would be a tough act to follow. I’ve never had a friend like him . . . except maybe you,” he added.
I studied him a moment. “You’re not kidding? You’re serious.” When he blinked a “yes,” I said, “Thanks. That means a lot, and . . . ditto.”
Smoke squeezed my hand again. “Well, I’m going to wrap things up here and swing by Clarice’s, see if she needs anything. She was a big help when I moved back here. I’ll never forget that. Man, she sure went out of her way to find me just the right spot.”
“Yes, she did, and I know she can use your support right now. I felt so bad for her last night. She was really shaken up.”
“Who wouldn’t be, huh?”
Smoke Dawes was my mentor and the best friend I had in the department. He had returned to Oak Lea twelve years before, after living in the northern Minnesota boonies forever. Smoke had served first as a deputy, then several terms as sheriff in Lake County. His professional life had been more successful than his personal life. Smoke was in love with a woman who wouldn’t make long-term promises. He wanted marriage; she preferred a more open-ended affair. Smoke couldn’t continue seeing her without a serious commitment, so after years of trying to change her mind, he gave up and moved back to his roots.
Mrs. Moy had found him a prime piece of real estate—forty acres of wooded land, complete with a small lake and private duck slough. Smoke built a log home near the lake. He enjoyed fishing, hunting, canoeing, strumming his guitar, and tying flies to lure fish. His life seemed a little lonely to me, but he didn’t complain. One of his brothers lived in Minneapolis, and they saw each other fairly often.
The first draft of my report was lying on my desk with a post-it note from the sheriff simply stating “GOOD.” I inserted my zip drive into a computer, located the report, and printed two more copies to submit to administration.
It was a sad summary of a prominent man’s end.
7: Alvie
Alvie picked up a copy of the Oak Lea Daily News at the Holiday station and drove home, beside herself with excitement to read it.
It was the front page story.
But it couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. How in the love of mercy did they decide Judge Fenneman had died from “accidental drowning”? It clearly looked like a suicide. It was perfect, flawless. There should be no question at all. Accidental? Were they just saying that to protect the judge’s reputation?
Her son’s death story had been splashed all over, not only in the local newspaper, but in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, too. Neither one had had any trouble saying Nolan had killed himself. It was not fair, not fair at all.
Alvie had planned well, and she wanted the judge’s family to suffer as she had. Maybe they believed he had done himself in after all. Yes, that made sense. How could they call it an accident? Well, she would make sure next time there was no doubt at all. She was smart. She would find out what she could about her son’s probation officer, the lawyer that was supposed to defend him, the damn lawyer for the county who wanted him put away, and anyone else who was responsible.
Oh, yes, and Jason Browne, the turncoat, the traitor. Maybe he was the worst of them all. If you couldn’t trust your best friend, who could you trust?
Yes, Alvie, good old Alvie had finally found purpose in her life, besides raising Rebecca, of course. But this was for Rebecca. For Rebecca, and for Nolan, and for her. She knew if Nolan was watching from wherever, he would be smiling, maybe laughing.
What about that classmate of Nolan’s, the sergeant? Nolan had never bought a school yearbook, but there were probably some at the library. Alvie would look her up. She wasn’t a cop when Nolan died, so Alvie couldn’t blame her for what had happened to him. Rebecca had warmed to her right away, and Alvie had to respect that. The sergeant had been kind to her granddaughter, and to the memory of her son.
Maybe Alvie could work with her a little, provide some clues to let her think the judge really had killed himse
lf. But how? Her mind was tired of thinking about the judge. She needed her brain to plan the next suicide.
Alvie sat on her La-Z-Boy with a notepad and pencil. She quickly scrawled out five names.
Jason Browne, double-crosser
Marshall Kelton, useless public defender
Sara Speiss, spineless probation officer
Arthur Franz, merciless county attorney
Detective Dawes, heartless cop
Each one had put a nail in Nolan’s coffin. Why had it taken ten long years of misery and suffering to avenge her son’s death?
The question was, where to next? Should she scope out each of them, then play it by ear as the opportunity arose? No, that was too unorganized. She might never have the perfect set-up like she had at the hospital again.
Alvie tore a sheet of paper into five pieces and put a name to each piece. She shuffled the papers for a minute then laid them on the coffee table. She would move, left to right, to eliminate each one, in order of the draw.
It was as good a system as any.
8
My Grandfather Brandt, “Gramps,” was watching television when I walked into his living room. He had gotten addicted to a daytime drama series sometime during his retirement and usually stayed tuned to see what Dr. Phil had to say.
“Hey, Gramps. Who is doing what on that soap, now?” I yelled over the loud volume of the set.
“Hello, sweetheart.” He knew I really wasn’t interested in the lives of his soap families. I heard enough of those stories in real life.
I bent down to kiss his cheek then looked around for the remote. “Are you set for some serious fishing?”
“Didn’t you see the pole and tackle by the door when you came in?” He patted my hand.
“Yes I did, so let’s go.”
Gramps pushed himself out of his chair with effort and shuffled to the television to shut it off. He was too stubborn to use his cane, and Mom even had me worrying he was a bad fall waiting to happen. I hooked my hand on his arm, and we eventually got to my car.
“Have you heard where the fish are biting?” I asked.
“South side of Bison, by the public access. They’re catching sunnies from shore.” He didn’t get out much, but he always had the answer to that question.
“Should we pick up sandwiches from the deli, Gramps, for an early supper?”
He waved his hand as a “no.” “Your mother’s bringing me pot roast for dinner, so I’ll pass. There will be plenty for you, Corky, you know that.”
“Sounds great. We’ll see what time we get back. I have my ballet class tonight.” I climbed behind the wheel, but looked at my grandfather before turning the ignition. “Gramps, did Mother tell you about Judge Fenneman?”
Gramps clicked his tongue. “Yes, and I heard it on the radio this morning, too. He was a good man. A real shame. And drowned, for Pete's sake. At this age, you pray you go in your sleep.”
Gramps was elderly, past expected longevity, but I hoped he would be around for a long time to come. He kept me sane when his daughter, my bordering-on-eccentric mother, drove me crazy.
I attended ballet class Tuesday evenings when I was not working. Otherwise it was Saturday mornings—not ideal when I was on duty late Friday night. A new six-week session was starting that night. I pulled on my sleeveless leotard and a pair of exercise shorts, grabbed my bag, and headed out the door.
My work cell phone rang halfway to town. “Sergeant Aleckson.”
“Don’t you check your messages?” It was my friend Sara, a probation officer for Winnebago County. We had met shortly after I hired on as a deputy. She’d joined me in a jail conference room for an interview with one of her clients following his arrest. Her jade green eyes flashed with fury at the young man for committing another crime while he was on probation. I admired her spirit and spunk from that first day. She was small, but as tough as she needed to be with her probationers.
“You know I do,” I said and grabbed my personal cell phone from the car seat. Three missed calls, one from Sara. “Oh, gosh, sorry, I was with Gramps until about fifteen minutes ago. You know how he hates when I bring my cell phone fishing, so I left it in my car. The fish were really hitting on Bison, so he didn’t want to leave, and almost made me late to my class, which I’m driving to as we speak,” I explained.
“Whew, take a breath. That’s right, my friend the ballerina.” I could hear the smile around her words.
“I haven’t heard from Baryshnikov yet.”
“Who?”
I laughed. “Never mind. What’s up?”
“I bought some chicken breasts to throw on the grill. You eaten yet?” she asked.
“No, I even passed up Mother’s pot roast.”
“Are you crazy?”
“You have to ask?”
I could see her smile again. “Touché.”
“Actually, I just didn’t have time before class.” I pulled into the last available parking spot in the back of the dance studio in downtown Oak Lea.
“So, you want to stop over after class? You’ll be hungry. I even bought a bottle of Australian wine Arthur recommended.” Arthur was the county attorney and knew his wines.
“Sure. I’m here, so see you in a little over an hour.” Sara said a quick “bye,” and I turned off my cell phone.
My mother had started me on ballet lessons as a child, but I had hated them. Climbing trees and playing sports was much more fun. She finally let me quit in junior high, after I had begged for two long years. Mother had been more surprised than pleased when I started going again three years before.
I had pulled a muscle in my thigh after chasing a suspect across a pasture in the dark. I caught my foot on an exposed tree root. My right leg stopped, but the rest of my body kept moving. I tumbled, jumped up, and took off again. Fortunately, the suspect had run out of breath by then, so I didn’t have to go far on my injured leg. By the time I had him cuffed and stuffed in my squad car, I was hurting and needed a good program for stretching, toning, and rebuilding. A former classmate of mine taught ballet. She suggested I give it a try, and I got hooked. Who’d have thought?
My skin was glistening with sweat after the workout. I pulled a towel from my bag to dry off. Students for the next class were beginning to file in and put on their shoes. I dropped to the ground to change back into my sandals when I felt a presence hovering.
“Sergeant, is that you?”
I looked up at the hospital administrator, Nicholas Bradshaw. That morning I doubted I’d ever see him again, and the dance studio was the last place I would have picked for a chance meeting. I stood up and took the hand he was offering.
“Good to see you in a more relaxed setting,” he said, and continued to hold my hand.
“Are you taking ballet lessons?” I asked, trying not to sound as surprised as I felt.
Bradshaw’s baritone laugh filled the room and drew everyone's attention. First my face flushed then the rest of my body joined in.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to imagine myself in a leotard. Your body is much better suited for one.” He slowly perused the body in question, fueling the spreading burn.
A young girl of eight or nine appeared at Bradshaw’s side. He put a protective arm around her shoulder. “Sergeant Aleckson, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Faith. Darling, this is Sergeant Aleckson from the Winnebago Sheriff’s Department.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
I took her tiny hand. “Very pleased to meet you. What a lovely name, Faith.”
“It was my grandma’s. She died,” Faith said matter-of-factly.
“Then I’m glad you got her name.”
“Me too.”
Faith was fine-boned with delicate features. She had her father’s dark eyes and hair, but her complexion was fair. I would never have picked her as Bradshaw’s daughter.
“Dad, class is about to start.” Faith gave his arm a little tug.
�
�All right, I’m gone. Sergeant . . .” He turned to me. “Will you consider joining me for a coffee, or another refreshment, while my daughter takes her class?”
“Oh, thank you, but I’m going to a friend’s for dinner. In fact, I better run, but thanks.”
A slight frown narrowed the space between his eyes, revealing his disappointment. I sensed loneliness.
“Another time?” he asked.
“Ah, sure.” I ran out the door.
Well, Mother, I almost had a sort-of date. Nicholas Bradshaw, a gorgeous widower with a little girl.
“Come in,” Sara yelled from inside.
“Hey, Sara. Thanks for the invite—I’m starving.” The smell of chicken on the grill wafted from the deck into the kitchen. Sara handed me a glass of white wine. “Thanks, but I best down some water first.” I helped myself then leaned against the counter with the wine.
Sara added dressing to the green salad she was tossing. “Tell me about Judge Fenneman. I heard you took the call, did the investigation.”
“Not much to tell. Not much of an investigation.” I filled her in on all the details, the death scene, Mrs. Moy, the hospital, the administrator and staff, the alarm not working, the lack of a real cause or satisfying answers. I decided to reserve a personal conversation about Bradshaw for another night, after I had sorted out my feelings.
“I got to interview one of yours,” I told her.
Sara looked up from her salad preparation. “Who’s that?”
“Bart Rogers. He’s on the same wing as the judge was.”
She shook her head in mock disbelief. “Ah, yes, the famous Bart Andrew Rogers. We have an appointment set up for his last offense, and now he almost kills himself doing the same thing. Some people are more challenging than others, and Bart definitely takes more of my energy than most.”
Murder in Winnebago County Page 6