Gitchie Girl: The Survivor's Inside Story of the Mass Murders that Shocked the Heartland (12 page)

Mike Hadrath, male, 15 years old. Wounds to the upper left chest, left upper arm, left side of face, left hand, and wrist. Also shots to the back, buttocks, and legs. One of the pathologists reviewed the notes where he determined this had happened after the initial wounds and while the victim was likely lying face down on the ground.

Dana Baade, male, 14 years old. Wounds to the right chest, heart, and back.

The pathologists also removed what was later determined by ballistics experts to be #4 and double-ought buckshot from the bodies of Stew and Mike, #4 buckshot from Roger, and double-ought buckshot from Dana.

Sandra thought that attending the funeral would provide some relief, some sense of closure. Instead, the pain intensified. A strangely unsettling woe tore at her insides. She’d never been a worrier; however, she both dreaded and yearned for the time of the funeral to arrive knowing it would be the last time she’d see Roger.

She rummaged through the clothes her mom had hastily packed. Fortunately there was an adequate amount of black clothing to choose from, and Sandra tugged and fussed with the fabric of her outfit in front of a cloudy mirror pocked with dark spots. She tried to put her hair up in an elegant bun, but she’d never worn her hair that way and the result was disastrous. She brushed her hair out again, choosing to wear it straight, the only way Roger had ever seen her.

An officer arrived at the safe house in an unmarked car with dark windows and instructed her to sit in the back. Arriving to the funeral at the same time as the other mourners, he drove around to an inconspicuous entrance. She’d barely exited the vehicle, when the side door opened, and she was hurried into a small, empty room with the curtain closed for her own protection. She wrinkled her nose at the sickly-sweet smell of funeral flowers.

Roger and the other boys had been popular. The funeral was packed to capacity with standing room only and mourners lined up out the door. Sandra couldn’t see anyone but could hear muffled conversations in hushed voices and occasional loud sobs. She stared into her lap and imagined people on the other side politely taking turns gazing mournfully at Roger before commenting to whoever was next to them about the beautiful flowers, then finding empty pews where they could dab at their eyes with wadded up tissues. Feeling as though she couldn’t bear the sadness or pain another minute, she ached for the service to start. Loneliness descended on her, and she forced herself to momentarily silence her trembling sobs.
I can’t take this anymore!
She wanted to feel the warmth of comforting arms, but bore the sorrow alone.

Sandra was unaware that not all the conversations were muffled. Beyond the decorum of the chapel, a relative of one of the slain boys loudly expressed disapproval of Sandra’s presence at the funeral. This person had the same misgivings as many in the police department that Sandra was lying about what had happened that ghastly night at Gitchie. Why would a cold-blooded killer drive her home and drop her off? Who was the real killer? Perhaps a jealous boyfriend?

The distraught relative caught word that Sandra was behind the curtain, and with emotions running high, went to find her. “You get the hell out of here! You know more than you’re telling the cops! I want her out of here!” the heart-broken relative screamed.

With her cover blown, Sandra had no choice but to leave Roger’s funeral without ever saying her final goodbye.
It can’t get any worse!
she thought. But it did.

For days details of the Gitchie murders topped headlines across the Midwest. Actual headlines read:

NO MOTIVE FOUND FOR 4 SLAYINGS; DESCRIPTIONS OF SUSPECTS RELEASED

FOUR AREA TEENS FOUND SLAIN IN PARK

This was followed by a description detailing the limited information the police had to share with the public. There wasn’t much to go on. Vinson had neither suspects nor any conclusive physical evidence that provided a trail to the murderers. The focus was on the three sketches, which would turn out to be remarkably accurate portrayals. Also, the police were asking for information about a Chevy fleet-side pickup, red and white in color with a white, wooden stock rack in the box, and a gun rack in the rear window. The windshield was cracked from left to the right center. As much as Sandra wanted to forget the horrible events that had occurred within, she had astonishingly remembered minute details, including the color of the inspection sticker in the lower corner of the windshield. And then there was the gas tank, standard farm equipment, but this one was red. In the tri-state area, an all-points bulletin was put out to law enforcement agencies. The artist’s renderings of the three murderers hit the newspapers, and this set the public on edge. Yet, after several days of grueling work, hardly a clue or lead had surfaced. Doubts about Sandra’s story mushroomed. She wasn’t allowed to return to school or leave the safe house unattended, and accusatory whispers spread among her classmates.

The scant information available indicated that the investigation should focus on Sandra. Homicides of this nature by strangers are rare in themselves, but in the small towns surrounding Gitchie Manitou where doors often remained unlocked even at night, the thought was preposterous. One detective returned from a long day of finding nothing but false leads and sat Sandra down. His bloodshot eyes revealed the strain of the investigation.

“Enough of this! You need to tell us what you really know.” His livid voice cut Sandra, adding to her feelings of helplessness. She’d told them everything she knew and had pushed herself to conjure up the horrible memories again and again and again, hoping to recall something to help the investigation. She’d endured pain beyond description, been removed from her home, her friends, her classmates, and now was being accused of covering up a violent crime. Her spirit was crushed. She wanted to stay in bed all day, still and silent with the covers pulled tight above her head to block out the light. A glimmer of hope came from knowing that Vinson believed in her.

The seasoned Lyon County Sheriff had a gut instinct that the girl was telling the truth about the unbelievable tale. He had built a reputation as a stern, headstrong sheriff who wasn’t afraid to demand or go against the grain in order to get the job done. He knew that being in charge sometimes involved making decisions or having opinions that wouldn’t make everyone happy. He had his focus, though, and was prepared to do everything in his power to solve this case. Every morning he and a detective picked Sandra up at the safe house and together they systematically wove their way down seemingly endless roads based on the map Vinson kept at his side. Each day more gravel, more tar roads to traverse. Since it had been dark and foggy the night of the murders and Sandra had never been to the area before, Vinson and another detective had developed a map that covered an immense area of potential locations for the farm and abandoned house.

Vinson refused to give up searching for the farm with a red gas tank. While they searched, he tried to keep Sandra’s spirits up by asking about her favorite foods, family, and fun memories while growing up. The conversations were a welcome diversion from the strain of the burden she was carrying and helped forge a bond between Sandra and the sheriff. For her own protection, she was not allowed to return to school or leave the safe house unless on official police business until the killers were in custody. So daily drives along miles of remote roads, past the dried remains of last summer’s cornfields and countless two-story white farm houses, gave Sandra a sense of purpose. She preferred it to sitting idly at the safe house with nothing to think about apart from the horrible night. What Vinson didn’t know was that this methodical search was laying the groundwork to unravel a bizarre tale of murder straight out of a horror movie.

On this day a detective from Sioux Falls rode with them as he occasionally did. Vinson was a careful observer of his surroundings, a necessary quality for anyone conducting an investigation and part of what made him a successful sheriff. He was also blessed with the ability to bestow deep compassion or to remain professionally detached, depending on the situation. His interactions with Sandra required the former. “Are you getting tired? Do you need to rest your eyes?” She shook her head no.

As they approached another farm, Vinson slowed the car and looked over at Sandra to get a read of her face. Her hopes soared every time a glimpse of an abandoned structure or a two-story white house came into view. She couldn’t believe how many of them dotted the countryside and had lost count days ago. She continued staring out the side window and shook her head. She slumped back in her seat and sighed. Giving up had never crossed her mind. The boys deserved her help, and she was the only eyewitness. It was up to her to identify the places the Boss had taken her that night. She was so unfamiliar with the area that she needed to stay focused on identifying recognizable buildings. They’d covered so much territory; shouldn’t they have found the place by now? After nearly two weeks of the search, hope for finding the farm was fading quickly.

“Are you sure? I can drive back by those buildings”—he pointed to a barn several yards off the road—“and maybe something will look familiar.”

She shook her head again and pointed to a metal swing set and wooden playhouse between the barn and the house. “I know this isn’t the place.” She swung her head around to catch Vinson’s expression when he wasn’t expecting it. Would he look perturbed? Disappointed? She could handle either of those, but what she couldn’t bear at this point would be a look of doubt etched in the creases below his eyes. To Sandra, his eyes conveyed as much as his words. She’d watched the way his eyes transformed from hopeful to defensive when they’d caught “The Look” from some of the other officers. It was a look that questioned Vinson’s leadership and blatantly challenged his view of Sandra’s honesty. But now, all she saw was the same strength she’d been relying on to carry her through this far. It reminded her of the way her grandfather had looked at her when she’d at first been afraid to go into the big barn. He’d comforted her by saying it was all right to sometimes be frightened. Maybe everyone didn’t believe her, but Vinson did. And her family. That was all she needed, she convinced herself for the moment.

After several hours in the car together, the conversations had dwindled to an occasional comment about the condition of the road or the number of silos bordering a farm. The car was silent save for the whine of wheels on smooth blacktop. Frustration built as the day wore on. Sandra wondered how many more times she’d disappoint them by having to say, “No, that’s not the place,” before they gave up on her and the search. It felt as if the entire investigation lay on her shoulders, so finding the farm was vital to bring justice for Roger and the boys.

Vinson fell under enormous pressure from all sides as well. He continued frequent communication with the families of the victims and regularly assured them the department was doing all it could to pursue justice for their loved ones. Keeping the public calm and quelling their outrage at three killers still being on the loose was a daily battle on top of everything else that had to be done. And then there was the media. Just this morning he’d picked up and just as quickly tossed aside several requests for press releases about the investigation. There was nothing more he could share at this point. Even with all of this weighing on his mind, there was something that concerned him even more. Sandra. Her determination and strength right from the beginning had reassured him. To squelch increasing protests from his fellow lawmen, however, he decided to have Sandra take a polygraph test.

“The girl’s telling the truth,” the expert from the Iowa Bureau of Criminal Investigation said to Vinson. Two polygraph examiners had put Sandra through an intense round of questioning. Additionally the doctor concluded that Sandra had been sexually assaulted on the night of the murders.

Vinson’s confidence soared; again his hunch was right. He’d thanked God that this sole witness, their shining hope for cracking the case, hadn’t crumbled under the mounting obstacles she’d had to endure. She was gradually earning a reputation as a tough but quiet girl among those who believed her story. Initially, Sandra’s emotional pain had been buffered by a fuzzy layer of shock that protected her mind from the grief and trauma she’d experienced. She’d operated on instinct, moving continuously from one task to the next with hardly time to sleep. Yet, after the sting of reality had crept upon her, her eyes had turned bloodshot, and her face was dulled with grief. She talked, but with a voice that had lost its fire. She answered questions but only with brief responses. This articulate girl who’d written reams of potential evidence and answered endless questions in the wake of breakdown had withered as day after day passed with nothing but disappointment. He could see that she was fading.

Vinson switched on the radio and tuned in an upbeat country song to quell the uneasy silence. Then, remembering how Sandra had raved about a new rock ’n ’roll song, he moved the dial until the static disappeared, and Mick Jagger’s voice came booming through the speakers. Vinson reasoned that was about as much rock as he could handle at the moment. He pushed thoughts of a hungry press and an anxious public from his mind to concentrate on the investigation. As sheriff, he was used to juggling many responsibilities at once and others considered him adept at being able to focus on the business at hand. Today, the job of keeping Sandra focused was up to him. Over the past several days she’d enjoyed hearing stories about his family, devouring the tales about the time he spent with his friends on the golf course.

“And you eat dinner together as a family
every
night?” she’d responded when he’d told her about his family.

“Oh, not every night. Not with this job,” he laughed. “But we did all the time before I became sheriff.”

She asked him questions that seemed strange at first. Did someone put plates on the table or did everyone get their own? Was there a tablecloth? Until it dawned on him that perhaps she was wondering
how
a family ate dinner together. Finally she admitted that one thing she yearned for was eating together as a family. They used to when she was a very small girl back at her grandparents’ farm, but now her mom worked so much that she didn’t have time for family meals. Everyone fended for themselves. What touched him was that she didn’t have a hint of self-pity in her voice. She was more concerned that her mom had to work such long hours and how much the two missed each other when they were apart.