“Be glad you aren’t married to him.”
We laughed, then I thought about my talk with little Rebecca Eisner. Sara was four years older than me and not originally from Oak Lea. It occurred to me that she might not have heard about Nolan.
“Sara, do you remember a Nolan Eisner, were you here then?”
Sara dropped her spoon and stared at me. “Oh, Lord. He was my first case in Winnebago County. Why, of all the people in the world—or in his case, no longer in the world—did you think of him? I didn’t even know you then.” She was visibly distressed, her face paled, brows knitted together in an uncharacteristic frown.
“You’re upset. Sorry, I had no idea he was yours.” I filled a glass with wine and handed it to her.
Sara accepted the drink. “Since I tell you everything else, I’m surprised I never told you about that case.” She stared at the wall for a moment. “But I guess it was a few years before you started as deputy—before I ever met you.”
Sara sank onto a bar stool by the counter. “You knew Nolan Eisner?”
“He was in my class at school. When he wasn’t in detention, that is,” I said.
Sara leaned her body forward across the counter and rubbed her arms. “I almost quit my job after he killed himself. I was this close . . .” she drew her index finger and thumb within a quarter inch of each other “. . . to chucking my career and moving back home.”
Sara was originally from Brainerd, about two hours north. She picked up her wine and took a long sip.
“I’m glad you didn’t. Did you ever meet his mother?” I wondered.
“Unfortunately, I saw her every day during the trial, sitting like a statue in the courtroom, mostly just staring. Nolan was in jail, so I did the pretrial investigation and other meetings there. She wasn’t at those meetings, thank God.”
Sara took a gulp of wine before going on. “The only time I spoke to her was after Nolan died. She came to my office, walked in without an appointment, about quitting time, and just stood by the door and stared. It frankly scared the bejeebers out of me. I finally managed to tell her I was very sorry about her son.
“She didn’t change her expression, just kept staring at me for the longest time then finally said, ‘You shouldn’t have sent him to prison.’ I got kind of choked up and looked down at my desk for a minute, trying to think of what to say. When I looked up a few seconds later, she was gone.”
She downed the remainder of her wine.
“Oh my gosh, Sara. That’s all she said, just, ‘You shouldn’t have sent him to prison’?”
Sara nodded.
“How strange is that?” I poured a little more wine in my glass. “I can tell you, she hasn’t changed.”
“What do you mean?”
I told her all I knew about Nolan and meeting Rebecca and Ms. Eisner.
I shuddered, a surprise given the heat and humidity. “I have an eerie feeling every time I think of her. I can imagine her staring at me, even now.”
“Stop it.” Sara gave me a small shove. “You’re giving me the creeps.”
9: Alvie
Alvie sat in her Chevy on the street southwest of Sara Speiss’s house. She parked so she had a clear view through two trees and over a hedge of bushes. She could see the probation officer and the little sergeant in Speiss’s kitchen. The P.O. was cooking something on the grill and had stepped outside once to check it. Alvie thought she was well hidden on the tree-lined street, but sank down in the seat anyway.
Alvie had gone through her father’s clothes, ones she hadn’t gotten around to throwing away in the thirty years since his death. She found one gray work jumpsuit he had worn once or twice, so it looked pretty good yet. It didn’t take her father long in his job as an auto mechanic for his uniforms to get covered with grease. They just didn’t get clean going through the wash. So Alvie had herself a jumpsuit with a “George” name patch above her left breast. She added a black ball cap, sunglasses, and a fake mustache Rebecca had used the past Halloween to complete her disguise.
Alvie felt very clever indeed.
The sergeant being with Speiss was a surprise. Maybe she lived there, too. That could make things a little more complicated, but Alvie told herself she could handle it. Actually, it could make things more interesting.
Alvie had gotten some information on the little sergeant at the library. She remembered seeing yearbooks in the reference section where she’d found the Physician’s Desk Reference, so it wasn’t as nerve-racking when she made a second trip to the library.
The Oak Lea Almanac was purple leather stamped with white lettering. Purple and white, the school colors, from what Alvie remembered. The Student Index listed the entire school in alphabetical order. Eisner, Nolan, page 111. She flipped to the page and found Nolan’s name in the “Not Pictured” list. Alvie had forgotten he didn’t have a senior picture taken.
Aleckson, Corinne “Corky,” pages 19, 43, 46, 51, 67, 71, 75, and 105. Alvie located each page and the sergeant’s smiling face in page after page of smiling faces. Happy little groupies. Student Council, Yearbook Committee, Homecoming Royalty, Band, Volleyball, Girls’ Basketball, Girls’ Track Team, Senior Picture: the only one she was alone on. Popular and busy. Like her mother and her father had been, Alvie recalled from her short time at Oak Lea High. The kind of people you either liked or hated.
Maybe Alvie was a little jealous that everyone else seemed to have a normal life, except her and Henry. So what? That was in the past. What was important was what she could do about it, how she could make a good future for Rebecca. Get rid of all the people who had killed Nolan.
Speiss was listed as S. Speiss in the phone book. Corinne or C. Aleckson was not listed. Maybe she lived with her mother. Kristen Aleckson was in the book. Corinne was probably hiding from the bad guys. Ha! Alvie would have to do a little more investigating to find out where the little sergeant lived.
It bothered Alvie deeply that the newspaper had written Judge Fenneman died accidentally when it clearly looked like a suicide. She would get a note off to Sergeant Corinne Aleckson at the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department. The sergeant would be sure to get it there.
But Alvie didn’t want to think any more. It was more fun to watch, and to know it wouldn’t be long.
Did you hear that, son?
10
“Smoke, look at this.”
I stared at the words for a full minute before tracking him down at his desk. It was Thursday, my “Monday” of a five-day stretch.
“What is it, Corky?”
I handed him the unlined piece of paper with the words computer-printed in capital letters: “WHAT MAKES A SUICIDE AN ACCIDENT?”
“What the hell? Where did this come from?” Smoke squinted and held the letter up to the light.
“The mail, it was in my box, mailed to me. Here’s the envelope.”
“Postmarked Oak Lea, mailed locally. Your name and address is printed in block letters, no writing I recognize.”
“What does it mean? What are they talking about?” I was puzzled.
Smoke leaned back and read the words again. “How many unusual deaths have you had lately that were ruled accidental?”
I bent over his desk, taking in the words once more. “Oh. So someone thinks Judge Fenneman killed himself?”
“That would be my guess.” We stared at each other, each of us hoping to pull an explanation from the other.
“What do you think?” I asked, breaking the long silence. “Does someone know something about the judge, maybe knew he was depressed—something no one else seemed to know—and couldn’t bring himself, or herself, to tell Missus Moy, or the doctors, and let’s not forget, the police?”
Smoke blew out a long, steady breath and shifted in his chair, bringing out the squeaks. “Corky, you’re most likely the next in line for investigator, if Hughes ever officially throws in the towel, that is. This is a high profile death, so be careful.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“Be discreet. According to the doctors, the death was accidental. According to Clarice, it had to be accidental. I think we need to talk to the sheriff. Damn.”
“This is a helluva deal on the day we’re going to bury Judge Fenneman.” Sheriff Twardy’s ruddy tone darkened and his features tightened into a scowl.
“Who were the judge’s closest friends?” Smoke asked.
“Besides his late wife, his former law partner, John Wallace. He joined us for golf when he could.”
I knew Mr. Wallace. He and his wife had recently moved to an assisted-living apartment. According to my most reliable source—my mother—his wife had some physical difficulties and her husband could no longer care for her at home.
“Do you think he would write this note?” I asked.
Sheriff Twardy snapped the note in front of me. “For godsakes, Corky, why would John do something like this? He’d give me a call, or stop in to see me. What would be his motivation for telling you his friend committed suicide and didn’t die accidentally?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“A helluva deal on the day we bury the judge.”
The pews of Bethlehem Lutheran, the largest church in Oak Lea, were packed. People had to sit closer together than on any given Sunday morning, with the exception of Easter morning. The funeral was set for five o’clock in the afternoon to accommodate most people’s work schedules. A dinner at the VFW hall was to follow the interment at the cemetery.
Smoke took my arm when he spotted my mother and dragged me to her. “Hello, Kristen,” he said quietly.
“Elton, Corinne.” Her lips curled slightly, the smile she reserved for somber moments when she was nonetheless glad to see you.
Smoke leaned over slowly and put his cheek on hers. They both closed their eyes for a moment, and I watched their brief intimacy with interest.
“Let’s find a seat in back. Corky’s on duty,” Smoke said.
I checked to make certain my pager was on silent/vibrate. Communications knew my radio was off and would page me for any emergency. Half of the county was present: hospital board members, county and town officials, court personnel. Bradshaw was sitting near the front with his secretary.
The small family filed in: Mrs. Moy, Allan and his wife, Heather, her husband and two children, Mr. and Mrs. John Wallace. Even the infamous Mr. Moy was there, minus the new wife. There were a few others with the family group, perhaps siblings, in-laws or cousins of the judge. I scanned the church and sensed Smoke doing the same. My mother, seated between two sets of roving eyes, didn’t even notice. Her own were filled with tears.
I watched Mr. Wallace for a moment. He looked more stricken than Mrs. Moy did, if that was possible. The sheriff was probably right. What motivation would Wallace have to send the note? A deep-seated desire to set the record straight? The sheriff might not approve, but I was investigating the matter, and I owed it to the judge to find out.
The late afternoon sun pushed a rainbow of colors through the stained glass windows, adorning the guests and the countless bouquets of flowers. The service was a tribute to a man who had dedicated his life to public service. The music, the eulogy, the reassurances of the minister, and the Bible readings were designed to give comfort and hope, but the unanswered questions put an added damper on the day.
The family followed the minister and pallbearers with the coffin out of the church to the waiting hearse. The congregation began to file out slowly behind. A mysterious chill ran through me, and my eyes locked with Nolan’s mother’s. She was standing about ten feet away, holding Rebecca’s hand. For a second I considered saying “hi” to the little girl, telling her I was glad she was out of the hospital, but I noticed her grandma looking from Smoke to my mother, then back to me. What a strange woman, I thought for the countless time as I left the church.
11: Alvie
Alvie had to be there. She hated crowds and most people, but she had no choice—she had to be at the funeral. It gave her great comfort to see the judge’s family and friends in pain. Of course, there were all the people who had to be there for political and professional reasons. The sheriff. She hadn’t thought much about him before. He was the top law enforcement dog in the county, and had been back when Nolan got sent away. Maybe she should add him to the list. She’d think about that.
Alvie was able to spot just about everyone on her list—the county attorney, the probation officer, Nolan’s attorney, the detective. That was another surprise, Detective Dawes seemed pretty cozy with the little sergeant and her mother. She didn’t even want to know what shenanigans they might be up to.
Alvie remembered Kristen Brandt and Carl Aleckson from school. Her father had moved her and Henry to Oak Lea during Alvie’s sophomore year of high school. Kristen and Carl were popular seniors and probably did not even know Alvie existed. Of course, she had only attended school for four months before she began to show with Nolan and had to quit before people asked a lot of questions.
She felt a slight twinge of guilt the sergeant would be losing two of her friends, but it couldn’t be helped. They had helped destroy Nolan and had to pay for their crimes; it was that simple.
The sergeant looked like she was going to talk to her and Rebecca. It was better she didn’t. Alvie had never taken Rebecca to a funeral before, and if the little sergeant started asking questions, Rebecca might start asking Alvie questions, and the whole thing would get more complicated. It was a funny thing. Alvie did kind of like the little sergeant, but of course they could never be friends. She might have been kind to Rebecca and the memory of her son, but she was, after all, one of them.
Alvie overheard a dozen conversations. What a wonderful man the judge was, what a tragic way to die, how his only daughter will be lost without him, on and on. “There was no suicide note, so the authorities dismissed that right away.” The words got louder and louder in Alvie’s brain: “no suicide note, no suicide note.” She had messed up. All her careful planning, and she had not thought of that one detail. One small detail had become one large mistake. What had Nolan’s note said? “Sorry, Mama, I love you.”
She started to sweat—time to leave. Right away. And Rebecca needed to get home to rest anyway. She was going to camp the next week and needed to be completely well. It was difficult for Alvie to let Rebecca have friends, but Rebecca was very social—a trait she had gotten from her mother—so Alvie let her spend time with Tina. Tina went to a church camp every year, and Alvie had finally said Rebecca could go with her. As it turned out, the timing could not have been more perfect. Alvie needed to do some more planning, and it would be easier to work with Rebecca away.
How would she write the suicide notes? She had her computer. That would make them look neat, professional-like. And she had letters, signed letters and things from at least some of the people who needed to die. She’d have to look at the file. She had never wanted to see it again, but she’d kept it anyway. Alvie finally knew why—she would need it for the signatures.
After she got home, Alvie waited until Rebecca fell asleep, then pulled the box from under her bed and blew the dust away. There was no reason to label it. She knew what was inside. The arrest report, signed by Elton Dawes, Deputy Sheriff, and witnessed by Arthur Franz, County Attorney. The presentence investigation, completed and signed by Sara Speiss. The letter of agreement to represent Nolan, signed by Marshall Kelton, Public Defender. The execution of sentence, signed by Judge Nels Fenneman. Well, it was too late for that signature. She wondered what the little sergeant was doing about the note she had sent her, hinting that Judge Fenneman’s death was no accident, that maybe he had done himself in, after all.
The more she thought about it, the more Alvie realized she might just have to let that one go. Maybe the judge’s family did think he’d killed himself, but didn’t want the press to have a field day with it. She had to concentrate on the rest of the jobs at hand, make sure they were all done right, commit the perfect murders, bing, bing, bing. So much to do, so lit
tle time. It was the fifteenth of July, and she wanted all of her work done by September first, Nolan’s twenty-ninth birthday.
So little time.
12
I was on my way back from the evidence room when my pager went off. It was the sheriff. I felt like a child summoned to the principal’s office, only worse. When the sheriff paged me, I was usually in trouble, and I knew what I had done.
“Yes, sir?” I asked outside his open door.
“For godsakes, Aleckson, get in here and close the door.” I did as commanded.
“You questioned John Wallace? You actually questioned him?” The sheriff’s hands were in balls of fists on his desktop. His face was a literal beacon, and I would have felt very guilty if he’d stroked out or dropped dead from a heart attack.
“Sir, please. I did not question him, I merely asked him a few questions,” I offered quietly.
“In my book, and in his, too, for that matter, that constitutes questioning.” He pounded his fist on the desk for emphasis, and the tips of his ears were glowing red. It was not the time to argue what constituted questioning, legally speaking. The longer he glared at me, the tighter my stomach got.
“I’m sorry, sir. He seemed happy to talk to me, to be part of the investigation.”
“Well, John Wallace apologizing for being late for our golf game because he was being questioned by one of my sergeants is a helluva way for me to find out about it, in my opinion.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” What else could I say?
“Okay. Enough said. Point made.” He relaxed a moment, leaning back to an upright position in his chair, folding his hands and resting them on his stomach. “So, tell me everything. John didn’t say much.”
“To me, either. I showed him the letter, and his response was about the same as ours. ‘Who in the world sent this, and why?’ He said Nels Fenneman had been his best friend for over fifty years and he could not imagine a reason for him to kill himself. He was a survivor and a devout Christian. If the judge had been depressed—and Mister Wallace said he wasn’t—he would have gotten professional help.”
Murder in Winnebago County Page 7