Authors: Charlotte Hinger
I managed to get out the door without crying. But then I’ve always been good at saving face. I was ashamed of my little venture into the big bad world. My stomach tightened as I drove home.
We have photos of jack rabbit hunts at the society. Men stood proudly behind a mesa of rabbits neatly stacked as high as the roof of a porch. Clubbed to death. Years ago, it was a form of recreation second only to wolf hunts in general popularity. The children watched, and the womenfolk served pie afterward.
I have pictures of children watching public hangings. They, too, were family affairs. Occasions for picnics.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
I was free to cry now.
“Not even a rabbit,” I whispered softly. There was no one to see my shame.
Our farmstead is chock full of guns. We have shotguns and rifles. Hunting is a way of life. Two of Keith’s daughters, Angie and Bettina, hunt game. Surprisingly, Elizabeth does not and I never do. Don’t know how, don’t want to learn.
I turned on the radio and was assaulted with information about the newest murder in Western Kansas. It had taken place in a rural farmhouse. A young couple shot. Just a little over a week ago, in our own pristine little town, a fine lady had been bludgeoned to death.
“Can you kill someone, Lottie?”
Who was I to expect other people to kill on my behalf? I wanted to keep my own hands clean. Yet I expected a peace officer to kill for me in a heartbeat. Wanted him to have the sin on his head. His hands bloody.
Ironically, I knew all about hand guns. They had been my version of teenage rebellion. Josie and I had attended a private Eastern boarding school. When our father insisted we adopt a sport, I took up archery and target pistols, and Josie fencing. Loner activities, despite the fact we competed against teams from other schools. It was not what Daddy had in mind.
I had a whole collection of purple ribbons. Handguns were a sport to me.
By the time I turned up our lane, I had made myself profoundly miserable and could hardly stand my own double-minded company. Once inside, I sought refuge in front of the TV. I flipped over to PBS and stared stupidly at Jim Lehrer.
Elizabeth’s nasty words kept echoing in my mind. “A lady whose idea of real life is working with dusty old manuscripts.”
Keith came through the back door, and I jumped at the sound.
“Nothing ready for supper,” I mumbled.
“That’s okay,” he said with a quick glance. “You all right, hon? Can I fix you something? Headache coming on?”
“No,” I said coldly, taking umbrage. I felt like there was a sign on my forehead. “Neurotic, pampered, high-strung bitch. Beware of the headache.”
“Okie, dokie,” he said carefully.
I closed my eyes, heard him start down the hallway.
***
That night I snuggled up against him, making myself small against his bulk.
“Keith, do you think it’s wrong to kill people?”
“What?” He shot up, clicked on the lamp on his night stand, and turned to me, his head braced in the palm of his hand. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
“You’re safe,” I laughed. I propped my pillow up against the headboard and sat up.
“What’s bothering you, Lottie?” he asked, gently stroking my hair.
“Nothing. Nothing, really. Well Zelda’s murder, I guess. Do you think it’s right to kill someone? I really want to know.”
“Not murder. But self defense? Of course. Why would you ask? You have to know how I feel about that, from my service in Vietnam. I trained for it, even though I was in the medics.”
“If someone came to this house and you thought he was going to kill us, you wouldn’t think twice?”
“I’d do it in a heartbeat,” he said flatly.
He turned out the light and reached for me, pulled me closer, closer. I clung to his warmth. His sure sense of right and wrong. Hearing him talk like this, there was no other possible conclusion. It was my own personal hurdle. There could be no room for hesitation. That much I did know. If I did carry a gun, I would have to be ready to use it.
Western Kansas was an arsenal already, I reasoned. Morally, what was the difference between owning a handgun or a shotgun or rifle, if you really would never be called on to use it anyway? I realized the same rationale could be used to justify a nuclear bomb.
By morning, at some tortured level between dreams and nightmares, I had decided. I was capable of killing another human being.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t kill a rabbit. But I could kill a person to protect someone’s life. Besides, how often would I ever have to draw a gun? Some peace officers went their whole career and never did.
We had a gun dealer in town. I selected a Smith and Wesson Ladysmith. I walked into Sam’s office with it two days later.
“Now, about my firearm training,” I said.
***
I pushed through the kitchen door lugging a storage box containing my new uniforms, booklets, files, nightstick, badge, and gun.
Keith sat at the island shuffling a deck of cards. He lifted his head, looked at me, looked away, rapidly shot the cards into a horizontal solitaire layout. When he flipped over the third card in the row, he turned up a joker.
“Figures,” he said bleakly. He scooped up the cards, scanned the deck, removed the other joker and re-dealt.
I had expected temper, prepared myself. Keith’s one bad habit. Farmers don’t bother to control it. Who’s to hear when they let ‘er rip under acres of sky? Keeps them happy and ulcerless. However, gentlemen cuss things, not ladies, and Keith never used cruel words. Nevertheless, I expected him to tell me how he felt, loud and clear. Thrown by his gloom, I set my box on the floor.
“How did you hear?”
“Coffee shop.”
“Oh Keith, I’m so sorry.” I closed my eyes. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“That’s big of you,” he snapped. “Did it ever occur to you to talk it over with me first?”
“Yes,” I stammered. “But I thought…”
“You didn’t think, you knew, knew it was an ignorant, short-sighted move. You knew I would hit the ceiling.”
“I knew you’d try to stop me and this was my decision. It’s about
my
life.”
“No it isn’t. This has to do with
our
marriage, not just your life.”
The veins in his neck throbbed. He unclenched his fists, rubbed his palms together, studied his fingers.
“I feel by-passed, Lottie. Scuttled. Like you don’t trust me.”
Stricken with guilt, I could not think of one word to say in my defense.
He rose and started toward me. I expected him to enfold me and reassure me that we could work it out. Instead, he walked past me and didn’t speak again until he was half-way up the stairs.
Turning, looking like an old man, his gaze was unwavering. “My life with Regina was miserable, you know that. You’re a gift from God. A surprise, after I’d reconciled myself to living alone the rest of my life. I’ve lost one wife. I’m telling you, woman, I can’t stand to lose another one.”
It was the word “woman” that did it, though I knew it was an ancient country usage, for emphasis, not a slur.
“I’ll be just fine. We’ll be just fine,” I yelled.
“Like shit,” he said, and went up to bed.
“Sam, are these old cases still open?”
I had been eyeing the dusty, old file cabinet in the corner for the past three days but stuck to studying material on police procedures, knowing he wouldn’t trust a woman who headed for the fun stuff right off. Volunteers were manning the historical society this week while I learned the ropes for my new job.
It was going well because I had sense enough to smile when he smoked. The material he had given me on interview techniques seemed familiar, as I used some of the same methods in recording oral history.
“Depends,” he said. “No statute of limitations on murder. They’re open but hopeless. About five of those in the last seventy-five years have never been solved. Some have had murky outcomes. Like the old Swenson murders.”
“Swenson murders?”
“Swenson was the name of the family. Hideous thing. Old case. Happened when I was just a kid.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Nope. In fact, you really should look at all those files. It will give you a good idea of some of the procedures we use in this county. Or don’t use,” he added gloomily.
“Can I work on them?”
“There’s nothing to work on, Lottie. We’re talking ancient history here.”
Immediately, the wheels started turning. I wanted to have an active role in investigating Zelda’s murder. So far, Sam was treating me like an intelligent, pampered, well-mannered guest. He clearly expected me to go away in a very short time. If I could find new information about an old, unsolved murder, my status would change.
I went to the drawer and found the Swenson folder. I poured a cup of coffee, carried it back to the rickety desk Sam scrounged up for me, and began to read.
Triple Murder in Gateway City
by Valeria Comstock
OCTOBER 29, 1949. Last Thursday, the Herman Swenson residence was the scene of a bizarre tragedy that is still under investigation by Sheriff Andrew Morrow. His office released the following account of the crime:
Herman Swenson allegedly found his wife, Emily Swenson, murdered in her bed when he returned from a trip to Gateway City. He claims he was a day late getting home and spent Wednesday night by the side of the road after their Model A stalled in the dust storm ten miles from their house. He walked on in to his farmstead Thursday morning.
Swenson claims that upon discovering his wife’s body, he rushed outside and began looking for his seven-year-old son, Johnny. When his son did not reply, Swenson went back inside the house and phoned Sheriff Morrow. According to Swenson, the earpiece to the phone was dangling when he got home, indicating that Mrs. Swenson had tried to call out at some time. Sheriff Morrow reports that no one on their party line could call out Wednesday due to downed lines. The line had been repaired early that morning. Sheriff Morrow went to the farm at once, accompanied by the county coroner, John Babbitt.
Coroner Babbitt reported that although Mrs. Swenson died of strangulation, she was in childbirth.
Sheriff Morrow found Johnny Swenson dead in a well in back of the house. The whereabouts of the baby’s body is unknown.
Herman Swenson has been charged with the murder of all three. Dr. Henry McVey has said that Swenson has been in a state of deep shock from the time his son’s body was located by the authorities.
“How could it have happened?” I blurted the words, not caring about sounding unprofessional. I looked at Sam.
“We don’t know,” he said. “No one ever knew, and no one understood it, either. He had always seemed as normal as apple pie. But it was after the war. He was losing his farm, taking it hard, because all around him folks were doing better.”
“You said this was one of the murky ones. Why?”
“Herman never owned up to it. Said he didn’t do it. Then he was crazy out of his mind for so long no one would have believed him anyway. But it’s always bothered me that he never owned up to it. I was a kid at the time, but when I was elected sheriff and got to looking at it, there were some things that didn’t seem right. Never have.”
“Such as?”
“Can’t see where they looked for much of anyone else. ‘No need,’ they said. Herman was already half-crazy with worry over the farm. In fact, that’s why he had gone to town so close to Emily’s time. He had talked to the banker, trying to keep them from foreclosing. Didn’t work. They were coming Monday morning, anyway. Going to take everything he had. Common knowledge at the time. They figured he snapped. Tried to keep Emily and Johnny and the baby from an even harder life than they already had.”
“But you weren’t satisfied with this account?”
“Nope. Wasn’t then, and I’m not now. Read on.”
I opened the manila envelope containing the official police report and pulled up the photos. The hair on my arms rose. I ran for the bathroom and threw up. I marched back out. Not looking Sam in the eye, I grabbed my purse, went back to the laboratory, pulled out my cosmetic bag, gargled Listerine, squared my shoulders. Then I went back to the table and picked up the photos. I risked a quick look at Sam who was disguising a bleak smile with a pull on his pipe.
“Her belly was slit open,” I said. “The paper just says ‘in childbirth.”
“Yes. Like a hog being butchered. It was different back then,” he said. “We figured the press didn’t need to know everything. The
Gateway Gazette
just called Sheriff Morrow for information and he sort of cleaned things up. According to the coroner she was strangled first.”
“The mutilation wasn’t in the paper,” I said.
“No. A lot of folks knew about it. But they didn’t print every gory little detail like they do now. They had some respect for families and for cops trying to do their job.”
“What would drive a man to do this?” I stared at the yellowed hand-written report.
“Everything I’ve heard about Herman tells me that he couldn’t have, wouldn’t have done this,” Sam said flatly.
“Where is Herman Swenson buried?”
He smiled. “In the nursing home.”
“He’s still alive?”
Sam snorted. “If you can call it that. He had a stroke ten years ago. Been at Sunny Rest ever since.”
“Can I see him?” I asked eagerly. “Do you mind?”
“Won’t do no good. He can’t talk. Can’t think. And no, I don’t mind.”
“But before I see him, since we don’t have a microfilm reader here, I’m going back to the historical society and look at old newspapers.”
“Everything that’s ever been written about it is in that file.”
“That’s not the kind of thing I’m looking for.”
***
Back at the office, I dug out microfilm of early Carlton County newspapers and located birth announcements for Herman Swenson and Emily Champlin.
There’s an art to reading newspapers. It’s dependent on intuition and open-mindedness. The scholarly analysis comes later, but in the beginning, I Zen it, making connections I wouldn’t notice if I began with preconceived ideas.
This initial research is a mystical process. Some mornings when there is a certain slant of light and if I’m not interrupted, it’s as though I step into the past. I’m there, living the time, wearing the clothes, eating the food, breathing the air.
Herman was three years older than Emily, born in 1921. Just to be on the safe side, I started reading back issues of the
Gateway Gazette
well before his birth.
There was nothing that caught my eyes about Herman’s parents. Back then, local news columns reported everything. No detail of anyone’s life was sacred. A couple of months after Herman’s birth, another name caught my eye. A Rebecca Champlin had been born September 24, 1921, to the same parents as Emily Champlin.
So. Emily had had an older sister.