Authors: Charlotte Hinger
When I didn’t laugh, she shot me a hard look and refilled my glass.
“Now for mystery number three. How does the Swenson murder fit in with any of this?”
“It doesn’t. It just gives me something to do in my free time.”
She laughed. “Well, tell me all about the old man. He sounds far enough in the past to be safe. It would be a very good idea to put the St. Johns women out of your mind for a day or two. Tomorrow after I see my clients, we’ll go on out to Tuttle Creek. You can just stare at the water. It will do you a world of good.”
I told her all about the entanglements of the Swenson/Champlin families and how Herman Swenson came to be convicted of the murders.
“How tragic.”
“You’d know how tragic this actually was if you could meet him. He had a miserable excuse of a lawyer. Didn’t help himself. Didn’t defend himself. Said it was all his fault. All of it. But he never actually confessed to the murders. Then he had this terrible stroke.”
I told her how I had connected with the old man through his love of football, about his attempts to speak to me.
“I’m going to take some speech tapes back to Gateway City. He was trying to tell me something the other night, Josie. I know he was. About his family.”
“I can’t imagine why I thought it would be more relaxing for you to talk about this murder instead of the others.” She reached for her cigarettes, and took her time lighting one. “If anything, this is bothering you even more.”
“It is. It’s just so unfair.”
“He had normal interactions with the community before this happened?”
“As nearly as I can tell. There were meetings, events.”
“Something is wrong with this picture all right. And the sister-in-law? Rebecca, was it?” I nodded. “Where did she go after her sister’s death?”
“I don’t know. There wasn’t anything in the paper. And they used to put everything in the local news section. The lawyer who handled Swenson’s estate is dead, but his son took over his practice. He’ll have his father’s old files and they’d have sent Rebecca the check from the sale. I’ll call the office first thing tomorrow morning and ask Margaret Atkinson to run down that address.”
“No, no, no. Tomorrow you’re going to relax, damn it.”
“Can’t.”
“Won’t, you mean.” She dragged me from my chair and I batted at her in mock protest as I stumbled to bed.
***
The next morning after Josie left I took my coffee outside to her patio and tried to enjoy the beautiful blue sky and the smell of burning leaves. But I jumped out of my skin when a car door slammed and sent my cup flying. I swept up the glass.
Action was my favorite antidote for free-floating anxiety. I marched to the phone, called Margaret Atchison and asked her to track down Rebecca Champlin. She called back around noon.
“Greg says Rebecca Champlin moved to Topeka immediately after the auction. That’s the good news. We know the town. The bad news is that any monies or papers requiring her signature were sent to a post office box. No physical address.”
I groaned. “Thanks, Margaret.”
“We’ve had a number of genealogists in.” Her voice was stiff with disapproval of my flight to Eastern Kansas. “Minerva is back on the job, but Patricia Ramsey is out along with about ten others. William and I have managed to escape the flu. Good thing, too.”
Her refusal to offer any information about the St. Johns was a subtle reprimand that I usually concentrated on the wrong things. Like murders instead of the history books.
After I hung up, I went outside again. What would I have done in Rebecca Champlin’s shoes? I’d have moved from Carlton County. Too many terrible memories. There would be work available in a city. And anonymity. A place where people wouldn’t be bringing up the tragedy day after day.
Rebecca had a lot of money for those times. The inheritance from her parents and money from the sale of her farm. She would have been Emily’s heir, too, but that wouldn’t have amounted to anything. The bank would have had the first claim to any proceeds. Nevertheless, Rebecca wouldn’t have had to work at all if she didn’t want too.
On the other hand, I mused, maybe she would have wanted to live in the country. Rebecca had always lived on a farm, chose to keep on living on a farm after her parents died. But if I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t have wanted to work a farm. The financial risk was too great, I would just have wanted to live on one. I would have looked for a house with some surrounding acreage. About forty acres would be just right.
I may have had trouble relaxing, but I didn’t have any trouble thinking, and thinking isn’t bad when one’s intuition is out of whack. But try as I might, I couldn’t actually enter Rebecca’s mind.
Surely something went terribly wrong for this woman. One didn’t just drop out of everything during high school without a reason. I suspected health. However, I didn’t know if she’d actually quit doing needlework or just stopped exhibiting in the Carlton County fair. She might have entered in other counties. Perhaps she was tired of going up against her sister every year.
One thing was very clear. My head was now abuzz with my “other” murder. The Swensons. Now
it
was starting to drive me crazy.
It would be well worth my time to go to Topeka and look up the records of real estate transactions for that year. Then it occurred to me that just because she had her mail sent to a post office box in Topeka wouldn’t necessarily mean she had moved there. She could have lived in another town and picked up her mail in Topeka. But if she did that, it would be because she was trying to hide her identity.
Would I do that if my sister and her children were murdered? I might, I decided. If the press was prying all the time. Before it happened, she had become a recluse. But she had come out of her shell after her parents died. Why had their deaths made a difference? She’d become a terrific businesswoman, prospering from raising and selling hogs.
I glanced at my watch. Too late to zip over to Topeka today, and I had an appointment with Josie’s speech pathology friend at three o’clock. We would head to the lake after that. I picked up my coffee cup and went back to the kitchen.
My cell rang.
Thinking it might be Keith, I answered on the second ring.
“Sam Abbott here, Lottie.”
“What’s up?” I knew it was something important for him to interrupt my visit.
“Just wanted to tell you not to rush home. Take your time. Zelda’s murder has been solved,” he said bitterly.
“What?”
“According to the Neanderthals at the KBI, they are now convinced Zelda was murdered during a random burglary. Yesterday, someone used her bank card in Denver to make an ATM withdrawal. Far as they’re concerned, that ties it up with a neat little bow.”
“But wasn’t there a video? All of those places have videos, don’t they?”
“Get this, the person wore a ski mask and a camouflage suit. Which means our thief is smarter than the average bear.”
“Everyone in Western Kansas has camouflage,” I said, “but the ski mask was a nice touch. So is deflecting the search to Denver.”
“That person knew he was being videotaped. He knew the KBI would be keeping track of credit card transactions. That kind of stuff is common knowledge nowadays. He’s no dummy.”
“The KBI was set up.”
“Dumb bastards. Doesn’t take much,” he said.
“What if it’s our letter writer?”
“If it is our letter writer,” he said, “that’s good evidence our pen pal really is a murderer instead of a teaser.”
My throat was dry. I licked my lips. The last letter had said I would be next.
“I’m coming home, Sam.”
“No point. You can’t do anything. I’m so mad the KBI is pulling out I could spit nails. We’re going to be right back in the dark ages without their resources.”
“What about Judy?”
“You ain’t going to believe, this. They don’t think there’s any connection between Zelda’s murder and Judy’s murder.”
“More reason than ever for me to come back. I’ll talk to Jim Gilderhaus myself.”
“Won’t do no good. Jim’s not the problem. He agrees with me. It’s his higher ups who’re ordering him off the investigation. So stay in Manhattan. You’ll just wear yourself out back here. You need the rest.”
“I’m not getting any, Sam. When I’m not thinking about the St. Johns, I’m thinking about the Swenson murders.”
“Wish I had never told you about them. Wish I had never hired you on in the first place.”
Men. If Sam and Keith had their way, I would be wearing an apron and making strawberry jam.
“I’ll be there tomorrow. If I didn’t have an appointment with a speech pathologist I’d leave today. Josie isn’t going to like this. She was planning on going to the lake.”
“Sorry I had to make this call, Lottie, but I didn’t want you to hear it on the news.”
***
By the time Josie finished with her last patient and came through the door, I’d collected the tapes I needed for Herman and was already half-packed.
“You’re not leaving?”
“Sorry, something’s come up. I’m going back to Western Kansas right now, and psychologists aren’t permitted to throw tantrums.”
To my surprise, she didn’t bother with a reply. She put up her briefcase, crossed over to the piano, and trailed her fingers across the keys. Then she lowered the lid over the keys, picked up her cigarette case, and turned it over and over.
“Lottie.” I looked up at the worry in her voice. “I know it’s too late to ask you not to be involved with this. You know Keith is worried sick and that isn’t enough to stop you. You’re not going to listen to me much. A little maybe. But I want you to consider what I’m going to say. Please?”
I nodded, suddenly swept with a wave of sorrow, like I was afflicted with an incurable disease causing enormous distress to my family.
There were tears in Josie’s eyes. “I’ve been consulting with a friend of mine. He’s on staff at Washburn and was, in fact, formerly a profiler for the FBI. Here’s what he has to say. He believes you are dealing with a multiple murderer. You and Sam are not mistaken in that, no matter what the KBI thinks. This person is extremely intelligent. You know that already. And dangerous. It’s a terrible combination. For some unknown reason you’ve pushed this person to the edge.”
“Me?”
“You. Not the St. Johns. You. That’s what he thinks.”
“I just don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’ve shown him everything, told him everything, and he’s positive it’s something you’re doing. Or saying. Or not saying. You, Lottie. You.”
“I’ve been over everything in my mind a thousand times.”
“I know that. He has an idea for smoking this person out.”
“What?”
“Your only contact is through your column, right?”
“Right.”
“He wants you to use it. Coax this person into writing a family history. Everything that’s said will help us. Can you do that? We’ll be looking at every word on this end.”
I was hopeful for the first time in a month. Later I would remember that wild hope I felt then and on the long drive back across Kansas. With my hope and my naive confidence I was equipped to deal with the Devil.
I made another call for family stories in a quarter-page ad in the Gateway City Gazette. The text was fourteen-point script, Garamond type, bordered with an antique scroll design. At the bottom of the ad a notice referred readers to additional information in my column.
My column was entitled, “They Need to Know.”
Are you tired of reading family histories that seem like fairy tales? Have you delayed writing your own story because it’s “too grim, too shattering.” Too contrary to perceptions of idyllic life in a small county?
THEY NEED TO KNOW. I’m urging everyone who has refrained from writing his or her story for any of the above reasons to make the effort. For your sake, and for our sakes. We need to know.
This column will appear on a daily basis for the next two months. It’s not necessary to write the whole story at once. We will be happy to print a small section you can supplement from time to time.
It took three days. The letter came from Tulsa, Oklahoma.
“I was a very special child. My mother loved me. We waited every day for my father because our lives would be perfect when he came to us. I never got to meet him because he was killed in the war.
You can print this. Do not print the P.S.
P.S. My mother taught me not to flinch. She did not like it when I was unhappy.”
That was all. This stilted little letter. Loaded. One didn’t have to be a psychologist to know how. I closed my eyes for a minute, slowly reread it, and called Josie.
“I want to look at it,” she said. “Fax it right away.”
I did, and she called back fifteen minutes later. “I talked with Harold Sider, the professor I told you about who used to be with the FBI. In tomorrow’s column ask her what made her flinch.”
“Her? You think it’s a she?”
“Harold does. I don’t. But then I’m not a profiler. He’s the expert, so let’s go with his assumption. However, we both agree there’s too much leeway for mood changes by the time your questions and her answers are printed in the column. We want to keep pressing her. Harold has an idea for that, too. Are you on the Internet at the office?”
“Sure. I mostly use Microsoft Outlook at home and on my laptop, but we’re on America Online here at the office because more people are familiar with it. Researchers can use services like Family Tree-maker Online and get into the state historical society’s databases.”
“Super. We know all these letters were printed using a laser printer, so here’s hoping our poison pen pal is computer literate in other ways. Put a notice in your column saying people can email if they like. Assure the readers you’ll only print what they want.”
“Can you trace anything that way?”
“No. But you can save and forward the letters to me immediately through AOL. The goal here is to track emotions. That’s all we’re after right now.”
I glanced at the clock. “Okay. If I hustle, I can make tomorrow’s paper.”
***
Right after the
Gateway Gazette
came out the next day, I hurried to my computer and accessed America Online. “You have mail,” announced the mechanical voice.
There were eight messages listed. Annoyed at having to read through four pieces of junk email, I read them anyway, to make sure I wasn’t tossing something important before I forwarded the trash to TOSSPAM. There were three requests for historical information. When I clicked on the last email, I gasped. My pen pal. At last I had a name. AngelChild.
AngelChild
What made me flinch? It was not knowing what she wanted when she came toward me. Usually she hugged me and told me I was her darling little angel child. But if she didn’t like the look on my face, she would slap me instead. Then she would tell me how ungrateful I was and lock me in the closet until I was grateful. I don’t mind being in the closet. She is not in the closet with me.
I forwarded it to Josie then called her.
“The last sentence is written in present tense through the eyes of child,” she said. “Not from her vantage point as an adult. She must have been terrified.”
“It makes me sick just to read it.”
“I’ll show it to Harold, and we’ll let you know the next step.”
Too fidgety to go through my regular mail while I waited for her to call back, I took a folder of stencils from the supply shelf and began tracing letters for a display. It calmed my hands, if not my mind. Josie called back five minutes later.
“Harold wants you to try to make her respond right away. If you can’t, she may be at work and can’t risk using the business computer. It might mean she’s emailing from her home. Every bit of information helps.”
I thought hard about the next question.
“Didn’t your teachers notice anything wrong? They are supposed to be trained to recognize child abuse.”
I sent the message and stayed on-line. For the rest of the day, I listened eagerly for the mail announcement, but it never came.
It was waiting the next morning.
Don’t you ever, ever criticize my teachers. You don’t know anything. I loved school. Mother didn’t want me to go to school. I didn’t want to either at first, but the truant officers made me. When I got there and saw what other children did, what they were like, what they knew, I understood what I was supposed to do. With my mother, I never knew. That was the worst part. The not knowing.
I talked mother into ordering the right clothes, because if things weren’t right, the men might come around again. They might take me away. Everyone felt sorry for the poor widow woman who had lost her husband in the war but they would not feel sorry for a mother who wouldn’t let her darling little girl go to school.”
I quickly typed.
Which war? World War II? Korea? Vietnam?
There was no response. I reconciled myself to waiting until morning again. My pen pal was female. Harold was right. Since she had not come online during the daytime, we could be certain this was a working woman. She had used the words “truant officer,” an older term. She was not young.
I was a bundle of nerves. At the office, at home that evening, I jumped at shadows and started at the slightest sound. Keith was at the neighbors, seeing to a dog that had been hit by a car. I felt like a teenager who had watched too many re-runs of
Halloween
.
Hoping hot chocolate would help calm me, I then swore like a dock hand when I dropped the cup on the floor. At least cleaning up the mess was something I could handle.
Determined to do something productive, I finally scrawled a note to Keith and left for the Sunny Rest Nursing Home for my promised visit to Herman.
I lugged in the combination TV/VCR I had promised him and soon had it up and running.
“No football on tonight,” I said, after checking all the channels. “Besides, I brought those tapes I told you about. We might as well get to work.” I slipped the cassette into the slot. We listened to the dull introduction, then he studied the sound patterns.
“Do you think we can figure this out?”
He nodded. I focused on the section of tapes illustrating the “AB” words. He nodded. His eyes were bright.
“Ba-ba-ba,” he mumbled. “Ba-ba-ba.”
“B-a-a? Like in sheep,” I asked.
He shut his eyes in despair.
“Ba,” he repeated.
“Long A? Are you trying to say a long A?”
He nodded.
I tried words. “Bad? Back?”
He flushed with frustration.
“Let’s go through the alphabet.”
He nodded again.
“Baby? Are you trying to say baby?”
If he had been a puppy, he would have wiggled out of his chair. Now I knew what he wanted to say, but I didn’t have the slightest idea why. He began the clicking sound again. It was a little easier this time, because I was looking for a word that would make sense with baby.
“Can you open your mouth a moment? I want to look at where you’re putting your tongue.”
The tip was curled forward touching the top of his palate, near his front teeth. I put mine in the same position and started down the alphabet again. Very quickly I zeroed in on the “cl” sound and mimicked the roundness of his mouth.
“Clothes,” I said. “You’re trying to say baby clothes.”
He nodded and nodded and nodded, then let out a slight expulsion of air. No longer excited, he had the quiet pride of someone who has completed a long, hard journey.
“But I still don’t understand what you want me to know.”
He gave a little shake of head and smiled. “Oh, you think I can figure it out, do you? Just like that? Well, you’re right about one thing. I’ll bet I give it my best shot.”
I glanced at my watch. “Better be going. I can’t tell you when I’ll be back. I’m busy at the office right now. I’ll leave instructions at the desk for working with these tapes.”
***
Keith’s Suburban was in the garage. He sat at the island sipping a cup of instant soup and reading the
Wall Street Journal
and ambled over when I walked into the kitchen.
“That’s not enough food for you,” I said. “Let me fix you a sandwich.”
“I’m okay.”
He gave me a weak smile and I answered with one of my own.
“Yeah, we’re both okay,” I said bitterly. “Just super. This mess wouldn’t be so bad if I could leave you out of it. You’ve lost weight, too, and I’m so terribly sorry to be worrying you, Keith. But this is a small town, and after this
thing
is over the chances of anything dangerous ever coming up again in my lawbreaking career are so remote that…”
“Shush,” he said gently. “Just don’t talk about it.” He kissed the top of my head, smoothed my hair back and caught my face between his large strong hands, tilted it so he could look me fully in the eyes.
“Haven’t you noticed? We get along much better if we just don’t talk about it.”