Frozen Stiff (17 page)

“Nope, I’m not.” She stood up and kissed him. “All I can say is you’ve got a damn good alibi.”

11:25 pm

Without waiting until the car warmed up, Claire pulled onto the highway barely able to see. Her breath was freezing to the inside of the car window so Claire tucked her head into her jacket collar. The defroster wasn’t making a dent in the frost and she could only see through a small hole in the windshield. Thank god it was the middle of the night and no one was out on the roads. She was going about thirty miles an hour down Highway 35.

Claire hated to think what she was going to find when she got to the Walker’s. When she had worked in Minneapolis, there had been a homicide nearly every day. Down in Pepin County, years passed with no one getting killed. Sheriff Talbert teased her that murders had gotten much more frequent since she had come to work for the department. Before her joining the force there hadn’t been a murder in the county in almost twenty years. Then Claire’s neighbor Landers Anderson had been killed. That was ten years ago. Since then they had averaged nearly a homicide a year. Claire blamed it on the influx of “foreigners,” which in Pepin County meant anyone from outside the county, like her.

A shooting like this needed to be handled carefully. She would find a bloody body waiting for her, a hysterical wife, a crime scene that needed securing in this blasted cold weather. She hoped the crime lab would get there soon. She already knew she would want tire mark prints and footprints. If they hadn’t drifted over.

As Claire turned up the hill away from the lake, the darkness deepened, the bare braches of the trees folding in over the road. The cold landscape entered her body. Winter was beautiful down in the coulees, but brutal. Even though heat was finally coming out of the blowers, Claire shivered compulsively, in hard jerks.

It wasn’t just from the cold.

Sherri’s voice had reminded her of her own hysteria nearly ten years ago, when her husband had been killed. She remembered the moments after Steve had been killed so vividly; they were tattooed into her psyche.

He had been hit by a truck on the road right in front of their house. Meg, eight at the time, had seen it happen, then hidden
in the curtains. Claire remembered starting to scream. The calm, effective Minneapolis homicide detective couldn’t stop shrieking as she tried to bring her husband back to life, as he was dying in front of her. She couldn’t remember when she gave up, when she finally stopped. The sound of her screaming she still heard, sometimes in a dream, sometimes seeping into her waking life.

After a near nervous meltdown, Claire had left the cities so she would never have to experience that kind of evil again. Every year she had lived in the country she felt herself melt and unwind from what she had been put through, felt herself begin to trust the security and warmth she got from Rich, the safety in this small and tight community, where people watched out for each other.

She didn’t want to have to see another woman’s anguish that might so clearly mirror what her own had been. As she got close to the driveway turn-off, she slowed down even more.

In order to not ruin any marks—footprints or tire prints—Claire decided she better park out by the road and walk in alongside the driveway. The turn to the Walker’s driveway appeared in her headlights and she pulled over and sat for a moment. The stars shone brittle in an infinitely dark sky. No warmth from those solitary wanderers, no solace anywhere.

Claire pulled in closer to the side of the road, blocking the end of the driveway so that no one could make the mistake of driving down it. She pulled her hat down tight on her head and, bracing for the cold, got out of the car.

Her shoulders automatically constricted, pulled in as the cold air hit her. She could feel her lungs constricting, protecting themselves. The air was so frigid it hurt to breathe. Again, Claire tucked her face into her jacket collar. She walked along
the road and then waded into the snow alongside the plowed path of the driveway.

When Claire got close to the house, the light by the front door illuminated her way. She watched where she put her feet, not wanting to obliterate any recent prints. She was able to make it up the front steps and get to the front door by stepping only in unadulterated snow.

When she pulled open the door, she saw Sherri sitting on the entryway floor with her husband’s head in her lap. The woman was bent over and her hair was covering his face. Soft sounds were coming out of her mouth, but Claire couldn’t tell if she was gently weeping or praying or talking to her husband.

“Sherri,” Claire said quietly, not wanting to startle her. “I’m here.”

As if he were still alive and could feel what she was doing, Sherri stood up and gently placed Walker’s head on the floor.

Claire kneeled down, needing to check to make sure he was dead. She could see the small hole that had been blown open in his chest, near or next to his heart, a splat of blood surrounded it. As soon as she put her fingers on his neck, she could tell Daniel Walker was dead. Already heat had fled his body, leaving it plasticy and lifeless. No breath, no pulse. Dead.

Sherri was swaying back and forth, saying, “No, no, no,” her arms wrapped around her waist as if holding in her guts.

A resonance hummed in Claire, a huge desire to join this woman in her weeping and anguish, but she fought it hard, swallowing it down her throat as if it were a piece of food she could not longer chew.

Claire stood up and put her arms around the shaking woman. Then she pulled Sherri in tight, trying to hold her together. The wailing sound in her ears tore at her.

“You’re okay. It’s going to be okay,” Claire said, even though she knew she was lying.

5 January: 8:45 am

A
punk weapon,” Jed Bartholomew said, rolling a small shell casing around in his gloved hand. “Usually used for squirrel hunting and even then you have to be pretty handy. I tell you it’s really a fluke this guy died from it. Either the shooter was just plain lucky or a hell of a shot.”

“Or both,” Claire said. “This isn’t going to help us locate the killer given how common a shotgun is.”

“Yup, you can say that again,” Jed said smacking his lips together. An arms specialist from the crime bureau, he was within moments of retirement. Claire had been surprised and very happy to see him arrive at the scene. As far as she was concerned, he was one of the best in his field. “I’d be surprised if there isn’t one of those shotguns in just about every farmhouse from here to Durand. Not worth much either. So whoever used it will probably just dump it. No great loss.”

“You’re a bundle of optimism this morning.”

“Morning?” Jed looked out the back of the house. “So it is.”

As he talked, Claire had been watching the first glow of the sun tinge the snow on the horizon. It would still be another hour or so before the sun crested the land, but it was already lighter out.

“The wife seems pretty distressed.” He spoke more softly, even though they had finally persuaded Sherri to retire to the bedroom. “You don’t think she had anything to do with this?”

“Doesn’t look like it. From what I can see of the marks in the driveway and the position of the body, it happened the way she said it did. I think, even though they had had their problems, she loved him. Plus, she’s a city gal. I’d be surprised if she knows how to shoot a gun.” Claire felt a tug at her heart, remembering Sherri’s sobbing. “But, you know, she was there. Her husband was killed right in front of her eyes. That can get to you.”

“You did a good job at this crime scene, routing everyone in through the bottom door, cordoning off the whole driveway,” he said as he bagged the bullet casing and marked it.

“Thanks. I didn’t want anyone to plow into the tire marks. Yeah, now if that blasted print examiner would just get here.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry. Nothing’s going to melt in this cold. Plus, you need to have pictures taken before he gets to work.”

“As soon as the sun’s up, that’s going to happen. Jerry’s been working on it but he’s having problems with the camera freezing up.”

Jed slapped his hands together. “Nothing like doing an outdoor crime scene in below zero weather, is there?”

Claire stared at the spot where the sun would emerge from the land. Any minute now. She desperately needed more coffee.

8:50 am

“If in doubt, shoot it,” Amy told Jerry after he had asked her what she wanted photos of. “You know Claire, she goes for overkill. We won’t have a second chance with these prints.”

“Freaking cold.” Jerry asked, “Have they made more coffee? I’m freezing out here.”

“You’re not alone. Get those tire tracks over by the snowbank and I think that’s it. Unless you see any others.”

As she watched him set up for the last few photo shots, she stomped her feet and thought of John, probably still sleeping in her bed. They had stayed up awful late. What she wouldn’t give to be lying next to him.

Besides being cold, there was another reason Amy couldn’t wait for Jerry to finish. She wanted to watch Ted Lawson, the print examiner, take the castings of the tires and foot prints. She had heard he was one of the best in the field. The longer she worked in law enforcement, the more interested she was in the forensics aspects. She was even seriously considering going back to school to get a degree.

When Jerry finished, they both went in the house to warm up. Someone had raided the kitchen and made some coffee. Black and gritty, just the way she liked it. A shot of pure caffeine would keep her on her feet for a few more hours.

Amy found Lawson out in the garage, setting up buckets and other equipment. “How’re you doing out here?”

The tall, thin man wiped his hands on his insulated pants. “I think I’ve got what we need. We really lucked out with this garage being heated. I wasn’t looking forward to working outside today, but this will definitely make it easier.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to help you.”

“Seriously. You want to be out there in that weather?”

“I’ve never seen this done before in snow. Is it much harder?”

“There’s an extra step, but I’ve got the special wax we use for this, so it shouldn’t be too hard.” He added, “I’d love some help.
Let’s mix the dental stone in here. First we’ll go out and set up the forms. You know which ones you want prints of?”

“I think so, but you can tell me what you think. I’ve got them marked with flags.”

“It’s going to take a while. The wax needs to set up for a few minutes before we can pour the cast.”

They both bundled up, covering every inch of skin, and went back outside. Over the next few hours, Amy helped him set forms around each print, spray the wax over the impression, and then mix dental stone using very cold water. Then they’d cover the impression with a box and let it dry while they started to work on the next one. When they had impressions of all four wheels and multiples of each shoe, they decided they had enough.

Amy’s fingers were numb and she was shaking with exhaustion, but thrilled that she got to work with Lawson. She was drinking more coffee and standing next to him, looking over their work. The castings covered the floor of the garage in rows, reverse images of the prints in snow.

Lawson said, “Nobody thinks to cover their feet. Wouldn’t be that hard. Just slip on rubbers or booties or something. We would still be able to tell a few things, like their approximate weight, but that wouldn’t give us much evidence. Sure they wear gloves and put masks over their faces, but then they tromp all over, leaving tracks that are easy to find, especially in snow. Lots of info in foot prints.”

“It’s almost all we’ve got on this guy.” Amy asked, “What can you tell from these prints? Anything jump out at you?”

“So this is what we know: the guy—I’m assuming it was a guy since most women don’t wear a size 12—was wearing some
kind of boot, I’m guessing either a Red Wing or a Timberline. Hard to tell without studying them. They make a very similar impression. I’m also thinking he wasn’t overweight. The prints weren’t too deep. The boots look fairly new, there’s not a lot of wear on them.” Ted stared down at the prints that were lined up in the garage. “All I can say is if you find the guy and find his boots, you’ve got him. These are nice clean prints.”

“What about the vehicle?”

“I’m not as good with tires. Not my area of expertise, but those are good tire prints. Again, crisp and clean. Looks like some kind of truck. Notice how wide apart the wheels are. But those tires are worn. So I’d say some kind of old clunker.”

“Thanks for letting me help.”

Ted lifted his coffee cup. “Any time. You do good work.”

Amy found Claire sitting at the kitchen counter and filled her in on what Ted had told her.

Claire wrote a few notes down, then said, “Listen, go get a couple hours of sleep and then I want you to drive into the Cities and find Danielle and let her know what’s happened to her dad. I know it’s an hour and a half drive, but I’d rather you tell her in person. Sherri said she went back to the cities today. You’ve got her address in town, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I got it at the hospital.”

“I want you to drive up there and talk to her in person. I want you to see how she reacts. I doubt she’s involved, but I want to check out everyone that’s on our list of suspects. We know she doesn’t drive a truck. However, I need to go talk to Clyde Hegstrom and then I’ll drop in on John Gordon. A guy who wears boots and drives a truck—could be either one of them.”

“About John Gordon...” Amy started. Like pulling a bandage off skin, do it quick.

Claire must have heard something in her voice, because she lifted her head up and looked at Amy. “Yes?”

Amy faced her square on. “He wasn’t wearing boots last night. I know because his shoes are under my bed.”

9 am

The sun glared doubly in her eyes, once through the pale blue sky and then again off the glazed snow crust. There was a crystalline quality to the landscape, and Claire felt like it was cutting her up into little pieces. She felt tired, not just from waking up after only a few hours of sleep, but tired from seeing what people did to each other. As she drove out to the Hegstrom farm, she realized she didn’t want to have to ask these people what they had been doing last night. She knew it was her job, but suddenly it seemed immensely rude.