A Winsome Murder (23 page)

And a sister.

Jeannie.

She was easy to find. They were all easy to find. Especially the first one, Deborah Ellison. She had been handed to him. In the beginning, he was only going to punish her and her father. They were the cause of all. He knew that killing Tom Ellison's daughter was the way, kill her horribly and let him ruin his mind with the thought of it, destroy his brain with the never ending, never ceasing, always waking, thought of it. That should have been enough, and it would have been, but then the others were shown to him and the dark thing in his depths rose into the back of his mind and spoke quietly, but fiercely, and it said,

Carry on
.

Each time was easier. The last one easiest of all. Out in the country, no neighbors for miles, a clunky motor drowning out any sound of his approaching, the barn door wide open, nothing hindering him. The way lay open, as if all his actions were greased. He moved without sound, now, invisible.

For this was he ordained, for this was he set on this earth.

M
angan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

He and Coose had driven to Winsome Bay as soon as they'd learned of Jeannie Schaefer's murder. The woman's sister, officer Michele Schaefer, had taken a leave of absence for the funeral and to be with her father. The police chief, Wesley Faber, was still in Waukegan with his
family, and Dan Ehrlich, a young officer covering for them both, had no idea when they'd be back.

Mangan and Coose had been allowed to set themselves up in the chief 's office. Strewn about Faber's desk were the arrest records of all the victims' fathers. Mangan, sitting in Faber's chair, was culling through the records of Tom Ellison, looking for something, anything, to stand out. Something that might drive a person to kill five women. Coose, on a small couch across the room, was sifting through Wesley Faber's records, and Dan Ehrlich, sitting next to him, was looking through the records of Michele Schaefer's father.

Mangan glanced at a wood-framed photograph on Faber's desk as he picked up another arrest record. He couldn't help looking at it every so often. It was the first thing he'd seen when he sat in Faber's chair. He wanted to move it, or put it face down, but he couldn't do either. It was a picture of Faber's wife and three boys, his daughter and his grandchild, a fall scene, pumpkins and puffy coats.

The man had lost his only daughter.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child.

Mangan chased the thought away.

“You guys want anything?” Dan asked from the couch, stretching. “Food or something?”

Mangan shook his head. Coose said, “Yeah. I'm hungry.”

“I'll call the Dew Drop, we can get a pizza or something. Is that okay with you guys?”

“Sure,” Coose said.

Ehrlich had been doing his best to help Mangan and Coose get access to whatever files they needed. Before the day had started, over coffee, he had told Mangan the details of Jeannie Schaefer's murder.

After getting the call from Mangan, Dan had hurried to find Michele Schaefer and tell her about the break in the case. That's when she remembered her sister was out at the farm. They jumped in the cruiser, speeding, lights and sirens. As they approached the farm Michele could see her brothers still on their tractors in a far corner of the field. She knew where Jeannie would be, up in the old barn, where she'd been for the last two days, baling. The cruiser spun out sideways as they skidded to a stop on the dirt driveway. Michele flung open her door, grabbed the shotgun, and was sprinting up the rutted dirt path before Dan had
his seat belt off. The barn was perched on a steep rise behind the main farmhouse.

When he caught up to Schaefer, they could hear the sound of an engine running in the near distance. Reaching the barn, they edged their way around the side of the building. They reached the corner and peered around. The hay elevator was running clunkily, but no one was tending it. Michele called out for her father. There was no reply. She called out for her sister. Nothing. Dan drew his weapon and they continued around the building and entered the barn. That's where they found Mr. Schaefer sitting in the dirt at the bottom of a ladder that led to the hayloft, legs straight out in front of him, hands in his lap. He stared up at them as they entered, his eyes adrift and childlike. He said nothing. His overalls were darkened wet with blood. His hands were covered in blood too, as were the bottoms of his work boots. Michele and Dan didn't speak. They both knew where to look next. The rungs of the loft ladder were stained with blood. Michele went up the ladder first, and then Dan. And then they saw.

It was horrendous. Too, too horrible.

Dan had gone a little pale at that moment in his story. His lips blued, and Mangan thought the young man was going to be sick. Ehrlich searched his pockets for a moment and handed Mangan a letter.

“You can read the rest yourself.”

It was the coroner's report.

The three men had spent most of the day in Faber's office, each in their own little worlds, studying their respective files. The last hour or so had been very quiet, and Dan had finally broken the silence and ordered some food.

“Pizza,” he said, carrying it in. He put the box on the coffee table and flopped open the cardboard cover. “I got jalapeños on half of it. I hope you guys don't mind.”

“I can pick 'em off,” Coose said, already eating.

“I got some pop too, diet and regular. In the bag there.”

Coose grabbed something to drink and continued reading arrest reports. “I've got a shitload of DWIs here.”

“Yup,” Dan said, “we get a lot of that around here.”

“Concentrate on the women,” Mangan said. “Under thirty.”

Dan held a slice of pizza out to him.

“No, thanks.”

Mangan continued searching through Tom Ellison's arrest records. Most of his perps had been males, and mostly picked up for minor crimes: public intoxication, DWIs, a few bicycle thefts, cars broken into, CDs stolen. There were a few drug arrests, also. Nothing too major, some marijuana, OxyContin at the high school, a meth lab that was—

The last record caught Mangan's eye. “What's this?” he asked, holding it up.

Dan got up from the couch and joined Mangan at the desk. “Oh, that,” he said. “Yeah, that was pretty wild. I'd just started. Hazmat and Dane County SWAT came in. They busted up a meth lab out on one of the old farms, Vern Stenghal's old place. Some Chicago guys were cooking crystal meth out there. They were selling it too, before moving it back to the city. They were dealing right behind the high school.” Mangan took the report back and studied it. Dan kept talking. “Meth, heroin. It's huge out here, you guys know that? It's all over the place. When I was a kid, all we did was—”

“Deborah Ellison's name is in here,” Mangan said.

“What?” Coose asked.

“Her name is here. She was picked up that day. Suspicion of narcotic trafficking.”

“Yeah,” Dan said, “she was at Vern's farm when they raided it, she and another girl. Everyone knew she was using. She was pretty messed up for a while back then, but she had nothing on her when they picked her up. They brought her in for questioning.”

“Who did? Who questioned her? Her father? He was leading the investigation.”

“No, the chief did. He took over once they got back to the station.”

“So they just let her go?”

“Yes. There was nothing to hold her on.”

“There were three other arrests that day.” Mangan read more of the report. “Two men and another woman, but Deborah was the only one released?”

“Yes. The others all had priors. They were cooking the meth here and then selling it out of some bar in Chicago.”

Mangan searched the report for Deborah's statements. It appeared that she had given up information in return for her release. She gave up
the name of the bar where she used to buy her drugs, the Wicked Cherry. She stated that that's where she'd met the two men who had been arrested with her. One of them had mentioned needing to find a place to cook meth outside of the city. She had told them about Winsome Bay and about Vern Stenghal's old farm that was up for sale.

Mangan shook his head. “So, Deborah Ellison helped to get a meth lab set up. Then she turns informer when she gets caught, and the police let her go?”

“Well, I, I guess it was something like that,” Dan said.

“You guess?” Mangan said, things not quite falling into place for him. Some of it had a kind of logic to it. A retribution killing? Because Deborah Ellison had given up information? Maybe. But why the other killings? Why target the daughters of policemen?

“What about the other woman arrested that day?” Mangan pointed to a name in the arrest report. “Lynnette Anderson, nineteen years old. Tom Ellison arrested her.”

“Uh-huh,” Dan said, reading the details. “Uh, I think she was … let me see … yeah, here it is. She was from Rockford. Deborah Ellison knew her from Chicago, a friend of hers, she said. She was out here trying to buy. She had fifteen grams on her when she was arrested. It was a second offense so she got third-degree possession.”

“Coose,” Mangan said, “get on this. Find this girl.”

“She'd be in Davis County,” Dan said. “That's our max security prison for women. About five hours from here.”

“You got a number for the warden there?” Mangan asked.

Dan took out his phone. “I will in a second.”

“Good. Get us an interview with this girl,” Mangan told him. “Coose, find out where her parents are.”

Coose hustled out of the room and Ehrlich was already on the phone with the Davis County prison. Mangan combed through the details of the arrest report. It was a pretty large bust for such a small town, but he was well aware that a lot of meth cookers had moved their operations to the rural areas outside Chicago and Milwaukee.

Dan ended his phone call and looked at Mangan. “I got through to the prison.”

“Good,” Mangan said. “When can we talk to her?”

“We can't.”

“Why not?”

“She's dead.”

“Dead?” he repeated. “How?”

Dan hurried over to a computer and Googled a search of Lynnette Anderson. Mangan watched over his shoulder. An article in the Davis County
Lakeside News
appeared first.

“Jesus.” Mangan thought for a moment. “Did Tom Ellison know about this?”

“I, I don't think so.”

“He was the arresting officer, how could he not?”

“I don't know.”

“This never came up in the investigation of his own daughter's murder?”

“Tom checked his own records himself,” Dan said. “We looked through them too, but we were only looking for men that he'd arrested.”

“Nobody knew this girl had been killed in prison?”

“It was awhile ago. She'd been away almost two years.”

“Find out when she died.”

Dan scrolled to the top of the article. “July third, this year.”

“That's about five weeks before the Ellison murder.”

Coose hurried into the room. “Daniel Anderson,” he said. “Forty-eight, a software analyst for the Middleton Credit Union. Married to Elizabeth Anderson, forty-two. Got a photo from his driver's license record, and car registration. Drives a silver pickup truck.” He handed the suspect's picture to Mangan. “Last known address: 32 Woodland Court. Just outside of Rockford.”

Mangan posed a possible scenario in his mind: a man's daughter is arrested and dies at the hands of police under suspicious circumstances.
Brought up on charges, the police are later acquitted. He's outraged.
I am a man more sinned against than sinning.
He goes on a killing spree. His first target: the policeman who arrested his daughter.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats
. But he doesn't kill the man, he kills his daughter. He wants the father to feel what he feels. He wants to torture him, not kill him.
I would have thee live, for in my sense 'tis happiness to die.
Death would be too lenient. And then he can't stop. A psychotic break, perhaps?
My wits begin to turn.
Insatiable rage? Compelled to kill. He has a mission now—

There's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,

Where bloody murder or detested rape

Can couch for fear, but I will find them out.

It all made a horrible kind of sense, to Mangan. These murders weren't the sex trade, or a love triangle, or drug-related retribution.

They were revenge.

H
e had not moved.

The room was very small, but he could not bring himself to move.

She was there again. Watching him. She was always watching.

He saw her broken reflection in the window, and in the mirror as he passed, and in the shimmery black surface of the coffee he sipped. Her eyes glimmered in the sheen of the dark enameled stove. She was everywhere and nowhere. Outside the window, within the trees, her thousand faces and eyes watched him from behind every thin wisp of shifting branch. She hid shallowly within the thick forests, that swayed as one, deep bending with the wind, on trunks that should have broken, as he had, but did not. Her voice was there too, in the wind, in his breaths, in his heartbeat, everywhere, like the ever-present and never quiet quick crick of a clock.

She was in the air today.

He could feel his mind going again to the place where he could not be, could not live for long. There was no breathing there. He wrenched his thoughts away and sent them elsewhere, to another place, yes, yes, to someplace else. He saw himself as a boy again. He was a boy, out in the woods, on the island, learning to shoot the deer and the turkey and the pheasant on the wing. He was a boy at the cabin that his father had built overlooking the lake, Crane Lake, where there are no more cranes.
He had seen them, though, in his youth, he had seen the cranes. Lynnette had too, when she was very little. She'd seen them before they flew away forever.