Authors: Rick Mofina
45
Chicago
K
ate drove away from the Plesivsky home excited and depleted.
The new information she’d picked up on Sorin Zurrn had alarmed her.
But can I put any credence in the ramblings of a drunken, suicidal drug addict who accuses her fifteen-year-old son of murder?
These thoughts, along with those of Sorin’s upbringing, his intelligence, his strangeness, the bullying, along with the invoice dealing with Krasimira Zurrn’s burial site, spun in Kate’s head as she stopped at a red light.
It had been a long, exhausting day. She’d forgotten about the time difference, had missed lunch and was getting hungry. She had to get a room, recharge, assess things and plan her next steps. The closest hotels looked sketchy to her. She kept driving until she came to a Days Inn suggested by her GPS.
After checking in, she took a hot shower then called home, talked to Grace and heard about her day.
“That new boy, Devon, asked me if he could kiss me.”
“Oh, my. What did you tell him?”
“I said no way! That’s gross! I could get his germs on me!”
Kate laughed. The sound of her daughter’s voice was comforting. After the call Kate walked to the Burger King across the street to get supper.
Fast food, cheap hotels, pressure, deadlines and only the fear of failure to keep you company. Such is the life of a national reporter.
After eating in her room, Kate set up her tablet and worked, first checking for any new stories out of Rampart. Her stomach began to tighten a little in anticipation of what she might find. There were a few news features, but nothing new had surfaced.
No new identifications.
Kate took a hit of her bottled water and continued. She saw Davidson’s message saying that he’d reached out to Viper through his sources with a request that he contact Kate.
Nothing, so far.
While Kate had gained some momentum from what she’d uncovered about Sorin Zurrn, admittedly, it was a tenuous thread linking the Zurrns to the document found in Jerome Fell’s Denver garbage to the Alberta abduction, Vanessa and Carl Nelson.
Kate sent a message to Chuck and Reeka.
“I’ve found new, disturbing information on Sorin Zurrn. I believe we’re on the right track, but I need to keep digging, to tie it all together.”
After sending the message she made notes on what she still needed to do: ask Chicago police for the reports on the deaths of Tonya Plesivsky and Krasimira Zurrn; check for coroner’s reports; check the Cook County Clerk of the Circuit Court in case Krasimira Zurrn had a will. Above all, she needed to follow the burial site document, so she’d check to see if another company assumed the business of the original funeral home. She’d also go to the cemetery administration office and keep trying the Glorious Martyrs and Saints Church, pressing on all fronts for more help.
Kate was tired and decided to rest her eyes.
Sooner or later I’ll shake something loose,
she thought while growing drowsy. Doubt crept up on her again as she considered what she was trying to do, connect Carl Nelson to Alberta, Denver and Chicago. It was like the rhyme about the lady who swallowed the fly, then the spider to catch the fly, then the bird to catch the spider, then the cat...how did it end?
She dies in the end.
Kate jolted awake when her cell phone rang.
In her torpor she saw the hotel room, rain streaking across the window in the night before remembering where she was and fumbling for her phone.
“Is this Kate Page, the reporter with Newslead?”
“Yes.” She sat up rubbing her temple.
“This is Ritchie Lipinski. You left your card in the door of my house on Craddick Street requesting I call you. What’s this about?”
“I’m doing some biographical research for a story on a person who lived there long ago.”
“What kind of story?”
“A news story. We’re trying to locate a former resident, actually.”
“The name?”
“Zurrn, Sorin Zurrn.”
A moment passed. Kate knew landlords, knew that Lipinski was weighing the pros and cons of talking to her.
“The story would have no reflection on the property,” Kate assured him.
“Would you mention that it’s a nice place and that my father and I are trying to rent it?”
“That’s possible. By the way, is your father Tabor?”
“Yes, he retired, I’m his son and I manage our properties.”
“Do you recall the Zurrns?”
“Most definitely.”
“Would you talk to me about them?”
“I’m at the house now. If you could be here in the next half hour, I’ll talk to you.”
46
Chicago
T
he hotel parking lot was not well lit as Kate, bent against the rain, hurried to her car.
How long did I sleep?
Wiping water from her face, she keyed 6168 Craddick Street into her GPS. As she wheeled out, the thought crossed her mind to contact Newslead’s Chicago bureau to request a photographer meet her there.
No, there’s no time.
Kate put her wipers on high speed. Lightning flashed and thunder grumbled as she navigated across New Jenny Park to the address. This could be the house of a killer, the place where his mother committed suicide, she thought.
And I’m going there alone to meet a stranger on a night like this.
Kate repositioned her grip on the wheel.
Maybe it’s a risk—but I can’t lose this chance to get inside the house.
She could handle herself. She’d taken firearms courses, although she detested guns and never carried one. She’d taken self-defense courses. She had a can of pepper spray and a personal alarm in her bag.
She always took precautions.
She arrived at the house to see a late-model Cadillac parked in the driveway.
Kate eased up behind it, then took a photo of the car with her phone, then another, zooming in on the license plate. Then she sent them to Chuck and Reeka along with a message.
Going to meet Ritchie Lipinski, owner of the Zurrns’ house on 6168 Craddick Street. This is his car and plate. FYI, going alone. If I don’t send you an OK within one hour call Chicago PD.
She pulled up the hood of her jacket, hurried to the door and knocked. Lights were on inside. Thunder rolled then there was movement inside and the door opened.
“You must be Kate. I’m Ritchie.”
The man extended his hand. As Kate shook it, hers disappeared in his. He held it firmly for half a second longer than she liked. He was in his fifties, about six-two, with an expensive suit, tie loosened. His long blondish hair was slicked back accentuating his clean-shaven pockmarked face. A scar meandered from the right side of his lower lip, disappearing under his chin, which moved with his rapid gum-chewing as his intense eyes took a walk all over Kate.
“Let me take your wet coat,” he said.
“That’s fine.”
Ritchie’s eyebrows went up a notch at her refusal.
“Suit yourself there, Kate.” He turned and cast a hand over the empty house. Naked walls, naked hardwood floors. It smelled musty and looked as if it could use a good cleaning, maybe some paint. “I’d offer you a drink or something, but I’ve got nothing. I just came by to give the place a quick look, check the wiring and plumbing, see what kind of shape it’s in before we rent again, or sell it, or tear it down. I don’t know. This way.”
The floorboards moaned and his strong cologne trailed as he led her to the kitchen, where there was a table and four chairs.
“At least we can sit and talk here.”
He pulled out a chair for her but remained standing, leaning against the sink with his arms folded. Before Kate got out her notebook, she positioned her pepper spray can in her bag so it was on the top, easy to reach without Ritchie seeing.
“What can you tell me about the Zurrns?”
He looked at the ceiling, chewing.
“That takes me back a few years. The woman was nuts, so was her kid. But they never gave us any trouble and she was always on time with the rent, until the day she hung herself in her bedroom closet.”
“She hung herself.”
Ritchie nodded, still chewing.
“I found her. Dad sent me to check on her when she was late with the rent. It was awful...and the smell. I tell you, I had nightmares.”
“Did she leave a note?”
Ritchie shook his head.
“Nope, nothing. She was living alone. Her kid was grown, long gone. She used scarves, tied her scarves together. Sad.”
“Any indication why she did it?”
“Drugs, booze, who knows? We all knew she was hooking, but there was never any trouble. She told Dad that they were her boyfriends. Look, I never knew the woman and my dad didn’t know her. And neither of us were her johns, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
His gum snapped.
“So what can you tell me about her son, Sorin?”
“Him?”
Ritchie looked off at the walls as if reading a memory there.
“Creepy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?”
“In the basement, come on. You have to see this.”
He walked to a door leading from the back just off the kitchen.
“Follow me.” The door stuck and he jerked it open.
Kate hesitated.
“Come on,” he said, and tugged the chain switch for the light. “You want to know about the kid, you should see this.”
She tossed her notebook in her bag and collected it. As she reached the top of the stairs she felt inside her bag, sliding her fingers around the canister. A disagreeable, damp, cold smell wafted up as she followed him down the creaking staircase.
It was dim and unfinished.
Pipes, cables and ductwork were tucked into the joists of the main floor. Spiderwebs swayed in the breeze Ritchie made as he passed. Empty crates and boxes were piled into one corner. Somewhere water was dripping. Kate heard scratching as a large shadow zoomed across the floor.
Was that a rat?
“Over here.” Ritchie stood by a heavy wooden door with a large steel lock. “There’s a crawl space in there, but I don’t let renters use it.”
Keys jingled and he inserted one in the lock. It clicked and he opened it. He pulled on the door, swinging it, scraping it across the floor. No light reached inside the crawl space. It was black.
Keys jingled again and Ritchie selected a penlight from his key ring, crouched and entered. “In here. You won’t believe this.”
Kate froze.
Should I follow him in there?
She checked her grip on her pepper spray and twined her fingers with her keys in the spiked position. Then she followed him in. He’d lowered himself to a squatting position in a corner and began raking his flashlight across the crawl space.
“See?”
Kate saw a row of cinder blocks stacked to make a small room. Steel circles were anchored in the wall.
“I found this after they moved out. My dad said it didn’t exist before they moved in. Her kid did this. I thought it was for a dog, or something. Looks like a little jail cell—what do you think?”
Brilliant light flashed as Kate took a picture.
She had to take several more because her hands were shaking.
47
Pine Mills, Minnesota
S
omething’s going to break.
Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler held on to that belief. He had to, because this case had been troubling him ever since he’d first responded to the scene in Lost River.
The images of the victim—her hands rising from the earth—haunted him. But he didn’t tell his girlfriend that when she’d returned.
“Is it true, Cal? Was she buried alive? Did you see her?”
Some of the TV stations in the Twin Cities had called it one of the most gruesome crimes in Northern Minnesota. The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension had taken the lead with support from the FBI. They’d also pulled in more resources and detectives from Rennerton, Tall Wolf River and Haldersly.
It was a big investigation and Meckler had taken pride in how the BCA and FBI agents had commended him for his “solid, by-the-book protection of the scene.” But after that he was assigned to canvass designated rural areas with the other deputies.
Meckler wanted to do more to help.
But that was all BCA had asked of the county.
For the past few days he’d visited the homes of people who lived on the southwestern edge of Lost River State Forest. One by one he tried to find out if anyone had seen anything that could help—any strange vehicles, anything that seemed out of place or out of the ordinary.
He knew these people. They were the kind of people who’d drive into a snowstorm looking to help stranded travelers; they were the kind of people who turned off their cell phones in church. If you visited them, they walked you to your car when they said goodbye and insisted you take something home with you, a slice of homemade pie or at least the recipe.
That something so hideous had happened so near shook them.
When Meckler told them, some of the moms and dads shouted for their kids in the yard to stay closer to the house. “A murder in the woods, there? No kidding? Hope you catch the guy.” Others tried hard to be helpful, scratching their heads. “No, I didn’t see or hear anything, Cal, but if I think of something, I’ll let you know.” Most would look to the forest pensively in a way that told him that if they said they didn’t see anything, it was the truth.
And always, before he left, they’d shift the subject, almost in a respectful, funereal fashion. “How do you think the Vikes are going to do, Cal?” or “How’s your car running, there, Cal?”
That’s how it had gone.
He’d pretty much visited everybody on the list attached to his clipboard. The addresses and Meckler’s responses for them would be collected into a digital map the BCA analysts had created as part of the investigation. For now, he decided to go to Bishop’s General Store and Gas, get a coffee and say hi. Meckler hadn’t been by since the murder. He’d expected that Bishop’s would be on his list of places to canvass but was told that Rennerton detectives would canvass all businesses in the area.
But what do those guys know about the folks out here around Pine Mills? They don’t know how to talk to Fergus Tibble.
Ferg hadn’t been quite the same since a car he was working under five years ago slipped off the jack and nearly crushed him.
Sure, he could still do his job, and eighty-year-old Agnes Bishop had been letting him run the store since her husband Wilson died. But sometimes Ferg was slow remembering stuff and you had to prompt him.
Maybe those Rennerton guys did that. They were detectives, after all, Meckler thought after parking his car at the side of the store.
Transom bells jingled when he entered, taking in the smells of motor oil, coffee, butter tarts and fresh bread. Agnes let the local churches sell baked goods at the store.
The place looked empty. He glanced down the small aisles stocked with cereals, canned beans, soups and condiments. The floorboards creaked as he walked by the chip racks and the coolers filled with milk and soft drinks.
“Ferg!”
A door in a back room closed and a man appeared wiping his hands on a towel. He wore a khaki work shirt with “Ferg” on his name patch and dirty jeans. He had a salt-and-pepper stubble, and Meckler figured he was in his early fifties. He knew Ferg had no kids and lived alone.
“Hey there, Cal, haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been busy, got any coffee left?”
“You bet.” Ferg went behind the counter to the coffeemaker and started pouring some into a take-out cup. “So, are they getting anywhere with this murder, Cal? Are they gonna find who did it?”
“They’re working on it.”
Ferg set the coffee on the counter. Meckler blew softly on the surface before sipping it.
“Got any sugar?’
Ferg reached into a box by the coffeemaker, tossed a couple of small packets on the counter.
“Two Rennerton cops talked to me yesterday, asked me if I saw or remembered anything unusual, or ‘out of character for the community’ was how they put it.”
“And?”
Ferg shook his head.
“I didn’t see anything. You know how it is. Same old, same old here, the same old regular customers, a few travelers and the bird-watchers come through.”
“So nothing at all?”
Meckler shook the sugar packets as Ferg shook his head.
“Not even a little thing that you might remember? Think hard, Ferg.”
Ferg scratched his whiskers.
“How little are we talking, Cal?”
“Small enough to make a memory. Don’t think it has to be some foaming-at-the-mouth crazy with a sign that says I’m a Killer, Ferg, but any little thing that you might remember that stands out. It could help.”
Ferg folded his arms, lowered his head and thought.
“Well come to think of it there was this one guy, out-of-state plate. He had a van, nice-looking van and he was a big tipper.”
“Okay, is that all?”
“Well, when I was filling him I heard a noise in the back.”
Meckler stared hard at Ferg.
“You heard a noise in the back? What kind of noise?”
“Kinda like a faint muffled moan. I asked the driver if he had a dog in the back and I tried to look inside through his side window.”
“What you see?”
“Nothing, the reflection blocked me.”
“What did the guy say?”
“The driver said his wife was in the back trying to sleep, so that was it. I was real quiet after that and he gave me a fifteen-buck tip. That’s why I remember.”
“Did he have any other passengers?”
“None that I could tell.”
“Did you tell the Rennerton cops about this?”
“Never thought of it until just now.”
Meckler pulled out his notebook, checked his watch.
“What do you remember about the driver—can you describe him?”
“He was a white guy, I’d say about forties, bald, had sunglasses on.”
“Wait. Did Rennerton review your security cameras?”
“They tried to, but they’re broken. I’ve been meaning to ask Mrs. Bishop if we can get a new system.”
Meckler rolled his eyes.
“Your system’s not broken, Ferg. I showed you the problem about two weeks ago. Let me get back there.”
Ferg stepped clear as Meckler came around the counter and looked at the lower shelf, exhaling in frustration at the monitor, which was a black screen.
“Ferg, I showed you how to fix this.”
Meckler squatted to the lower shelf before the DVR, which looked like a DVD player. He pulled the system out, and studied the web of wires and cables running between the DVR and the monitor, which recorded everything seen by the camera in the store and the camera at the pumps. He tightened a cable for the monitor’s input. The monitor came to life, sectioned, splitting the screen into two, one with live images of the store, the other with images of the pump.
“See?” Meckler said. “The monitor cable came loose.”
“Oh.”
“Darn it, Ferg.”
The image inside was fuzzy and the image outside was too dark.
“Ferg, you have to clean the inside camera lens. It’s way too dusty. You need to get up there—” Meckler nodded to the camera in the corner near the ceiling “—and clean it with a soft cloth.” Then Meckler pointed to the controls for the outside camera. “Look, I told you the light changes outside and you have to set the camera to the auto brightness setting, here, so it adjusts to the changing light conditions. You got it?”
“Yup. Auto bright for outside. Clean the lens inside and check the cable.”
“Good, now it still recorded, so let’s see if there’s anything here. Is that okay with you?”
“Oh, yes, anything to help.”
“Now we need to know what day that was, the day that you got your big tip from our van.”
“Well, I remember Molly dropped some bread just before he came so that had to be Monday, around noon or so.”
“I’ll enter the date and the approximate time, so the recording takes us to there.”
“Sounds good.”
Images of activity at the pumps appeared. Vehicles came and went with Ferg pumping gas, checking oil or cleaning windshields. But this time they were so bright they were difficult to distinguish, like staring into the sun at silhouettes.
“Wait, go back,” Ferg said. “There! That’s him! I recognize the shape.”
A van rolled up to the pumps, but it was all in shadow.
“I don’t think we’re going to get a plate out of that,” Meckler said.
“Let it play a bit, I think something happened after the van.”
Soon after, the distinct silhouette of a police car rolled up to the pumps in the opposite direction as the van was leaving.
“That’s you, Cal.”
“I’ll be darned.”
“And you got a dash-mounted camera, right?”
Meckler nodded.
“If you had it on,” Ferg said. “You would’ve got a better shot of the guy.”