I preferred talking to people in person, even when that person was Alvie Eisner.
27: Alvie
When Alvie saw the Winnebago County squad car coming down her driveway, her mouth went dry. Rebecca was napping, and her car was safely hidden in the garage. Alvie slipped upstairs and closed Rebecca’s door, then went to her own room to watch. The squad car parked, and who but that little sergeant got out and walked right up to the door?
What on earth would she want? To ask Rebecca more questions about that fateful night in the hospital? The sergeant knocked and Alvie held her breath, but there was no sound from Rebecca’s room. The sergeant knocked again, but soon gave up that anyone was home.
Instead of leaving, she hung around in the yard, awfully close to where Uncle was, next to the oak tree and under the tire swing where Rebecca could stomp on his grave without even knowing it. He wasn’t fit to be her grandfather, or Nolan’s father, or Alvie’s uncle. It gave Alvie real satisfaction watching Rebecca have fun on his final spot, knowing he could never hurt her, or anyone else, again.
To top things off, the little sergeant pulled out her portable phone and talked for a while. The window was open, but she was far enough away so Alvie only made out a few words: “works, Sara, dinner.” Probably was setting up something with that probation officer. She finally got in her squad car, still yakking on her phone, and drove away. Couldn’t have been too important.
Alvie wracked her brain, wondering if there was any way they could trace anything to her, but she knew there wasn’t. She was too smart and had planned too well. But what could the little sergeant want that would bring her to Alvie’s house? Maybe it had nothing to do with her. Maybe it was about the neighbors. Alvie suspected they grew marijuana, but that was their business. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense the visit probably was about the neighbors.
28
“Corky!”
Both Grandma and Grandpa Aleckson came out of their cabin to greet me, their white hair bright in the sunshine. Grandpa’s face was deeply creased, weathered from years of crop farming during the long days of summer. Grandma had spent most of her time indoors doing the many household tasks and keeping the farm’s business records. She had a faint frown crease and some laugh lines that deepened when she smiled. They had both gotten a little too heavy in their retirement and moved more slowly. But they stayed current and vital and counted each healthy day as a blessing.
Grandma and Grandpa gave surprisingly strong hugs, and I rested in their warmth for a long moment. My grandparents’ excitement over my arrival made me feel a little guilty for waiting until the end of their resort month to visit. I knew they missed me when they were away.
“We didn’t expect you until later in the day,” Grandma said.
“I got an early start,” I said as I pulled my overnight bag from the back seat. Grandpa immediately snatched it out of my hand. Each of them put an arm around me as we headed inside.
“So, we’ll catch up first then you can tell us what you want to do.” Between the two of them, my grandmother did most of the talking. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, thanks, but the coffee smells good.”
We talked for over an hour. They didn’t know Judge Fenneman well enough to return home for his funeral, but wanted to hear all about it and how his family was doing.
“Oak Lea has been on the statewide news with those lawyer suicides,” Grandma said. “We saw Elton Dawes on both WCCO and KARE-11. He sure wasn’t saying much.”
That was an understatement.
“Yeah, I just missed my fifteen minutes of fame. I was standing next to him when the reporters were questioning him.” I paused. “The two suicides were awful, and we hate to have them plastered all over the news.”
“Why did Arthur Franz and Marshall Kelton kill themselves?” Grandma wondered.
“We have no idea, but we’re working on it.”
“Oak Lea has always been such a quiet little town,” Grandpa added.
Grandma changed the subject. “How is Arnold doing?” My Gramps Brandt. “I wish you could have talked him into coming up here for a few days,” she said.
“No such luck. He has become even more of a hermit, but I did get him out fishing last week. You know, Mom dotes on him, does his laundry, brings him meals.” Speaking of Mom. “Which reminds me, guess who had dinner at Mother’s the other night?” They both shook their heads. “Elton Dawes.”
My grandma inhaled an audible “ah” and smiled broadly. My grandpa nodded and said, “Could do worse.”
Nisswa was one hundred miles northwest of Oak Lea and about ten degrees cooler, a welcome break from the past weeks of temperatures in the eighties and nineties with high humidity. Rainfall had been above average for two weeks then there wasn’t a drop for almost a week. I was content to soak up the northern sun, do a little swimming and fishing, and tag along with my grandparents through the crafty shops of Nisswa. I even bought a few things.
Thursday morning, my grandfather joined his Nisswa cronies in their usual game of golf. My grandmother enjoyed the sport on occasion, but she didn’t want to leave me for those few hours. Grandma and I took our coffee to lounge chairs by Woman Lake, about twenty feet from the back door of their cabin. There were several resorts and over fifty private cabins on the lake: a quiet place to escape from the corporate world, carpools, and stresses. Parents and young children played on the shore, some teenagers battled over water tennis, and still others sat in boats hoping to catch a meal of walleyes.
On another day I could have completely relaxed, but the deaths of Arthur Franz and Marshall Kelton—and even Judge Fenneman—weighed heavily, an anchor pulling on my mind and heart.
“My Heart,” Grandma started.
I thought for a second she was reading my mind, but “My Heart” was her pet name for me when we were alone.
Grandma picked up my hand and searched my face. “You’ve been a little distracted ever since you got here. You look just like your father did when he had something on his mind. Do you want to talk about it?” Grandma implored, as only she could.
Of everyone in my family, my grandma understood me best. Had she been born fifty years later, I had no doubt she would have been a top cop somewhere.
“Grandma, I know we’re missing something in the Franz and Kelton suicides, but can’t imagine what it would be. I feel, deep in my gut, their deaths are related, but the reason must be very well hidden, since no one in either of their offices has a clue. We still need to talk to their families some more, see if they come up with anything.”
“You think they were involved in something illegal together?” Grandma asked.
I shrugged. “As troubling as it is for the families personally, the county’s main concern is making sure there was no criminal activity that would jeopardize court cases, or initiate an investigation by the BCA or FBI.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m at the same loss as everyone else seems to be. Why would two successful, respected attorneys kill themselves in the same week?” I swirled the coffee around in my cup, then took a sip.
“And you ruled out foul play?” Grandma asked.
“What do you mean?”
Grandma folded her hands and leaned forward, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “You know, someone else did it and made it look like suicides.”
Sometimes Grandma had a pretty vivid imagination.
I drove back to Oak Lea obsessing about the suicide cases and my grandma’s words. Okay, what were the facts? Arthur Franz: a perfectionist, professional. On a Thursday in July, he left for lunch and didn’t return. No one knew where he ate lunch, but on that day his body was found by a fisherman, asphyxiated in his car. His uneaten bag lunch was on the passenger seat next to his suicide note. His wallet, containing his identification, was in the glove compartment. Arthur’s cell phone, the one he used to call Marion every day at noon—except on that day—was in one cup holder between the seats. A s
oda can with a small amount of white residue around the rim was in the other.
The questions: Had Arthur been thinking about suicide for a long time and finally got enough nerve that day? Is that why he had his lunch with him? “If I don’t kill myself today, I’ll eat my lunch.” Had he been carrying the hose and the pillow and the note in the trunk of his car for a while, or had he purchased them that day? What was the white residue on the can? Did he not call Marion because hearing her voice would make it harder to do what he was determined to do? Was his relationship with Marion a contributing factor? Why didn’t anyone in his life recognize some symptom of depression?
And what about Marshall? I had read that if someone was thinking about suicide and knew someone who had killed himself, the chances were greater he would too. I didn’t know if that was true, but it sounded logical in an illogical way. Marshall had sown some wild seeds and hurt his family, but he was apparently repentant and working toward being a better person. That should make him happy, not despondent.
On the day of Arthur Franz’s memorial service, Marshall went home, turned on the sports channel, drank a beer. Then in the middle of drinking a second one, he stopped, went to the computer, wrote a suicide note, sat back down in front of the television, cut his wrist, and watched the blood drip from his body until he passed out and died? And again, wouldn’t there be at least one person who would have seen some sign of depression?
Nothing made sense.
I remembered from my training that no one could positively predict a suicide. Of the many suicide scenes I had processed in my career, there were only four where the victim’s family or friends had had no idea they were depressed. Three of those people were professionals—a business owner, a doctor and an accountant. It turned out the doctor had a secret drug problem, the accountant had been pilfering money from a client’s account, and the business owner’s reason was still a mystery, as far as I knew.
The precipitating factors in suicides were usually an accumulation of stressors, one of them being legal problems. If Arthur’s and Marshall’s deaths shared a commonality, the reason was buried as deep as Arthur’s body. And Marshall couldn’t tell us, either.
I got to Oak Lea in under two hours. As I drove by the public defender’s office and courthouse, I had an ominous feeling Arthur and Marshall were connected in a way we hadn’t yet imagined. I pulled in the sheriff’s parking lot but stayed in my car. It was after business hours, so I could go in and do some work without having to explain myself, but I thought better of it. I glanced at my watch and figured Alvie Eisner should be home from work.
The sun was low in the western sky, poking holes of bright lights through the rows of pines. My eyes closed involuntarily against the visual assault as I drove down the gravel driveway. Rebecca was sitting on the grass next to the small barn, petting a kitten she held on her lap. She was a cover picture for Farmer Magazine with her blonde braids and denim coveralls, framed by the red barn behind her. Rebecca looked at my GTO with a frown, but her little face broke into a broad grin when she saw it was me.
“Sergeant Corky! You have a really different car.” She jumped up and ran to me, wheezing a little.
I touched her shoulder then petted the cat. “Hello, Rebecca. The car was my dad’s, so it’s pretty old. What a cute kitty.”
“We have barn cats that are mostly wild, but this is the runt of the last litter and likes me more than the other cats.” She moved the kitty to her shoulder. “Why are you here?”
“I just need to ask your grandmother a question. Is she home?”
Rebecca nodded. “I’ll get her, she’s in the house. Will you hold Kitty? I can’t bring her in.”
She handed the little tabby over before I could answer and disappeared inside. A moment later she returned with her solemn grandmother, who was dressed in black slacks and a black tee shirt. Was the woman in perpetual mourning, or what?
“Sergeant Aleckson.” Her frigid stare was enough to cool anybody, anytime, even in the heat of summer.
I counted to three to compose myself. “Good evening, Ms. Eisner. I have a quick question to ask you. Rebecca, will you take the kitty? I need to talk to your grandma alone for a minute.”
Rebecca looked from me to her grandmother. Ms. Eisner nodded.
“Okay,” Rebecca said, not hiding her disappointment.
“What is this about?” Eisner asked.
“You heard about Winnebago County’s public defender, Marshall Kelton?” I started.
“Yes.”
“Well, going through his things, we discovered he had written your son’s—Nolan’s—name on his desk calendar and wondered if you knew why?”
Eisner’s eyes blinked, the first hint of expression I had seen on her face to date. “No.”
“Did Marshall Kelton contact you, or did you talk to him recently about Nolan or his legal case? I understand he was Nolan’s attorney,” I said.
Eisner’s unblinking icy stare returned. “He was my son’s attorney, but he has not contacted me since the trial.”
I pulled a small memo pad from my jeans pocket so I could break our staring session. “And you have no idea why he would have written Nolan’s name now, after all these years?”
“No.”
“Nolan’s name was written on the date of Judge Fenneman’s funeral. You didn’t talk to Mister Kelton there?” I continued.
“No.” If looks could kill.
“Okay, well, thank you for your time, and if you think of anything, please call me. Do you still have my card?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Thanks again.” I waved at Rebecca, who was still patiently petting the kitty. “Bye, Rebecca, enjoy the rest of the summer,” I called out.
Rebecca waved back.
“Goodbye, Ms. Eisner.”
She gave me a slight, terse nod in return.
I drove away wondering how that statue of a woman could hold a job and raise a little girl. Maybe it was me that brought out the worst in her. I was her son’s classmate, so maybe I’d triggered a sadness somehow. Or it could be with all the legal trouble Nolan had had, she had a thing against cops. A lot of people do.
I dialed Smoke’s cell number. “Detective Dawes.”
“Smoke, you owe me.”
“Ah, my favorite sergeant. I didn’t look at Caller ID. Where are you?” he asked, the soothing, melodious quality back in his voice.
“Leaving Alvie Eisner’s driveway.”
“You’re working? I thought you were at your grandparents’ cabin.” I heard Smoke’s dog, Rex, panting nearby, and the whirr of a fishing rod and reel. I pictured Smoke sitting on his dock casting for walleyes in his small lake.
“I got back a while ago and decided to see if Eisner was home. The good and bad news is, she was home and I actually had to talk to her. Man, that woman is like a stone.”
“And?”
Plunk! The jig and bait hit the water.
“She says she doesn’t know anything.”
“So she didn’t contact Marshall, and Marshall didn’t contact her?” he asked.
“Guess not.”
“Then it was most likely Marshall was thinking about the case, maybe about the suicide. If Barbara or his other co-workers don’t know, and Alvie Eisner doesn’t know, we probably never will, either.”
“Fish biting?” I asked.
“Nah, but it’s too nice out to sit indoors.”
Gramps would love to fish from Smoke’s dock.
When I got home, I retrieved my sheriff’s memo book from my bed stand to look up Marion McIllvery’s phone number.
“Hello . . .” Arthur Franz’s voice spoke to me after the first ring, and I nearly dropped the phone. “. . . We can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message and we’ll get back to you at our earliest convenience.” I didn’t leave a message. Marion might not have returned from Duluth, so I planned to try later.
My cell phone rang, and I smiled at the name on display. “Hello, Nick.�
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“Are you on the road?” His voice sent waves of joy through me, helping to dispel the distress I felt.
I lay down on my back on top of my bed quilt and watched the ceiling fan circulate round and round. “Just got home a few minutes ago.”
“How are your grandparents?” he asked.
“They’re great. How’s Faith?”
“Doing well. Why don’t you stop over and see for yourself?”
“I have an errand to run, but we’re on for tomorrow night? Movie and a pizza?”
“We are.” Nick’s voice was playful. “You’re going to make me wait until then to see you?”
“Not that I want to, but, yes I am. See you tomorrow.”
After hearing Arthur’s voice on his recorder, I felt a strong need, a compulsion, to go to the lake, the site of his death. I parked next to where his vehicle had sat. Arthur’s embedded tires tracks were broken down, driven over by other vehicles since then.
I turned off the ignition and rolled my window down to listen to the sounds of the evening. The crickets were out in force, their clicking noises amplified by the general quiet of the country. Plop. A keeper-sized northern rose from the water, then quickly disappeared. I wanted to take Gramps fishing there some evening, but he preferred the smaller pan fish, sunnies and crappies, prevalent in other area lakes.
For many years I believed people went to Bebee Lake not only to fish, but also to be wrapped in its small cocoon of serenity. Somewhere overhead a mourning dove sat in a tree, delivering his lonesome call, “Coo, coo, coo, coo.” Apt. I listened to the dove repeat his melancholy lament, over and over.
“Who are you sorrowing for?” I called in the direction of the dove.
Murder in Winnebago County Page 17