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The Secret in Whitetail Lake 6th Installment

An old Dodge Charger with the remains of two victims has been recovered from an area lake in the latest Winnebago County Mystery. This entry picks up where the last one left off.

Chapter Four

After the remains of the victims were safely removed and on their way to the Midwest Medical Examiner’s Office in Anoka County, our team vigilantly worked to remove every item, mucky as they were, from the inside of the car, including the glove box and the trunk. It was painstaking. At three o’clock, Captain Randolph phoned Smoke to tell him he had ordered pizzas, and we all needed to take a break. I hadn’t though about eating since the granola bar and yogurt I’d had for breakfast. The mention of food made my stomach growl in response.

“You guys go ahead. There are only a couple more items to mark, and then I’ll secure this cart of things in the evidence room,” Matsen said.

“I’ll help you,” Mason told him.

“And if someone could hang a ‘do not enter’ sign on both the outside of the garage doors and on the inside entrance, that’d be good,” Matsen added.

“I’ll do that,” Weber said.

Smoke and I got out of our coveralls then I followed him to his desk and waited while he gave the sheriff’s cell phone another try. “I know Randolph has half the county looking for him, but I keep thinkin’ he’s gonna answer one of these times.”

“Should I call my mom again?”

“Maybe you should.”

When Mother answered the phone, I could tell she was flustered. But it wasn’t because she hadn’t talked to Denny Twardy. “Corinne, people are flocking in for the winter clearance sale. I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath all day. I should have scheduled one of my helpers to work today. I never dreamed I’d be so swamped. It hasn’t been busy enough to keep two of us busy lately.”

“Well, in one way that’s a good thing, huh? Mother, I’m checking to see if you’ve heard from Denny, or if you remembered he had an appointment, or something, after all.”

“Oh my goodness. No, I haven’t, and I was going to call him, but haven’t had a chance. Why, what’s wrong?”

“We don’t know if there is anything wrong. It’s just that we’ve got a big investigation here and we don’t know where he is.”

“Corinne, I hear the concern in your voice. Now you’ve got me worried.”

“Mother, there’s got to be a good explanation. Take care of your business and if Denny calls, or stops in, tell him to call the office, okay?”

“Okay. But Corinne—”

“I have to go now, but I’ll talk to you a little later. Bye.” I hung up before she could pump me for more information, and then shook my head back and forth at Smoke.

Smoke bounced his fist on his desk. “Our deputies certainly know his vehicle.”

“And Randolph said they checked his house.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t hurt to check again.” Smoke phoned him and learned deputies had made several stops at the sheriff’s house throughout the day. “Well, let’s get some nourishment, and figure out our next course of action. We need to talk to Tommy’s and Wendy’s families, that’s a given. And I’d like to run over to Ramsey to see how Doc Bridey Patrick’s team is doing on that end. But since there are only so many hours in a day, that’s not going to happen today. First off, we’ll pull the original missing persons file and review it.”

“I definitely want to read that.”

“Then talk to the families.”

“Right. Besides notifying them a-sap about what we got so far, we’ll need them to help us make positive identification.”

“Besides DNA, I’m wondering about dental records. I don’t suppose they’d have any after all these years. Do you remember the legal requirement for a dentist to keep them? Is it six years, seven years?”

“I remember from a past case I was on that it’s six years after a patient’s last visit. And I know a few of the old docs that never throw anything away. We won’t know for sure until we check.”

“We need to ask the families for DNA samples so the medical examiner has them for comparison.”

“We’ve come a long way, baby.” Smoke put his hand between my shoulder blades and gave me a mild push. “Let’s go scarf down some pizza.”

After running through each detail of the steps involved in recovering the old Dodge Charger from Whitetail Lake with about a dozen sheriff’s department personnel, between bites and swallows of a late, lukewarm lunch, Smoke and I broke away from the group and headed toward the records room.

“Since the case files go back to the beginning of time, they need to make room in the drawers from time to time and archive the old ones. I’ll take a look in the computer to see if the one we need has been moved to a storage box yet.” Smoke sat down at the computer and typed in Tommy Fryor’s name. I resisted looking over his shoulder, and instead checked my phone for messages in the minute it took Smoke to pull up the information.

“Yup. It’s in the storeroom with the other records from that year. In box number Seventy-three dash nine, which makes sense since it happened in the ninth month.” He logged off the computer, stood up, and pulled a set of keys from his pocket.

I followed him to the door of the records room and waited while he keyed in. The storeroom was about twenty feet by thirty feet and held cardboard boxes on shelves that started from a foot off the floor and climbed to a foot from the ceiling. We located the one we were looking for on the west wall, six feet up. I grabbed the ladder that was equipped with wheels and rolled it to the shelf. Smoke jumped on the first rung, climbed up a few feet then hooked his hand on the opening in the front of a box and pulled it toward him. He held it in one hand and climbed back down. I took it from him and carried it to the table in the center of the room. “This is heavy,” I said as I heaved the box down.

“The Fryor-Everton case alone must weigh a few pounds.”

Smoke lifted the cover off the box and was able to find the file with a quick glance. He reached in with both hands and pulled out the five inch expandable file that was filled to limit with papers. He laid it on the table. “Divide and conquer?” he said.

I set the box on the floor, giving us room to spread out the papers as needed. “Holy man, I mean, where do we begin?”

“Same as always, one step at a time, one page at a time.”

I reached over, picked up the top half of the pile, set it down then slid onto the chair behind it. A little shiver ran through me, and it wasn’t because it was a cold case. It often happened to me when I worked to solve a mystery, most notably a crime. “Someone interviewed in here knows something.”

“That would not surprise me. We just gotta figure out who it is.”

Smoke’s phone rang. “Dawes. . . . You don’t say. Well then, I will come out there and talk to him.”

“What?” I asked when he’d disconnected.

“Darwin Fryor—Tommy’s dad—wants to talk to us.”

“Word zips around pretty fast.”

“With or without social media. I’ll meet him at the front and take him to my cubicle where we can talk. It’ll be less formal than an interview room. You want to join us?”

I stood up. “Yes I do.”

Smoke left and I made sure the door was secure when I closed it behind me. I waited in the corridor outside his cubicle for the two of them, and when they walked toward me, I was caught slightly off guard by Mr. Fryor’s appearance. He appeared to be around my Gramps Brandt’s age, but he looked even more feeble. He was bent over at the waist and his spine was twisted so one hip had a forward tilt and the other was tilted more to the back. He had to swing his right leg in a painful looking way to walk.

After introductions, we settled in around Smoke’s desk and I held my breath while Mr. Fryor sat down, knowing it must be a challenge for him. He let go of a drawn out “huh” when he was finally in the chair. Smoke sat behind his desk and I pulled up a chair on Mr. Fryor’s side.

“I got a call from a friend of mine who’s friends with Harry Gimler, the one who lives up there on the hill overlooking Whitetail.” Gimler was the man who had rushed to the scene when we were recovering the vehicle.

“Sure,” Smoke said.

“Is it true? Was that Tommy’s car you pulled out of the lake?” He leaned in, and rested his elbow on the desk. A dozen wrinkles fanned out from the corner of his milky brown eyes.

“We don’t know that for a fact just yet, but that’s the way it looks.”

Mr. Fryor lifted his hand and dropped his forehead into it. When he raised it again there were tears on his lower lids. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. “We thought they’d up and run off. That Wendy sure had a way of turning a boy’s head when she wanted to.” He thought for a moment then stared at Smoke. “Well I guess I don’t have to tell you that, Elton. She caused a problem for you. A pretty big one, as I recall.”

Smoke shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable the attention had switched to him and a past indiscretion. “That’s true enough.” He cleared his throat. “We were planning to pay you a visit yet today, let you know what was going on. My apologies you had to track us down instead, Mister Fryor.”

Fryor nodded. “You know, Tommy disappearing like that caused a rift between the missus and me that we couldn’t mend. I tried, but she didn’t. A couple years later, she moved out. Was living over in Emerald Lake until a week ago Friday—” He quit talking and his eyes teared up.

“Where she go?” Smoke said.

“Passed on. We buried her last week.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Fryor.”

“If she’d a held on a little longer at least she could have known what happened to her son. Back in those days, she’d go off by herself every now and again for a day or a weekend for what she called some meditating time. It really stung that she shut me out of her life, wouldn’t let me help her. I was hurting too. But Tommy was her baby. They were like two peas in a pod. You try not to favor one kid over the next, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. It was pretty obvious to the other two kids, so I did what I could to be fair, and loved each one as much as the next.”

What my mother told me is that she loved my brother John Carl and me the same, but liked us for different reasons. That made sense to me because that’s how I felt about my three living grandparents, and my grandma who’d died.

“We used up a lot of our savings trying to find Tommy. But one day Ellen—that’s my wife—said we’d spent enough on two separate private detectives and needed to save some in case we ever needed to help the other two.”

“How long did you work with the private detectives?” Smoke said.

“Six weeks. I knew we’d used up a lot of our savings. I was surprised she had made the call is all. I figured Tommy and Wendy would tire of each other one day and they’d come back, so I agreed and we called off the search. And I know you folks did what you could to find them. Now we know why it wasn’t meant to be.”

“People disappear way more often than you could ever imagine,” Smoke said.

I thought back to the case we’d had the previous November and the staggering statistics I’d read about missing people and unidentified remains. If I had a loved that disappeared, I would never give up hope until I was convinced there was none.

“Mister Fryor, we’d like to collect a DNA sample from you so the medical examiner can make a positive identification.

Mr. Fryor swiped at a new tear. “You never really get over a thing like this. This is probably going to sound strange, especially now, but I still think of Tommy being alive out there somewhere.”

Self-protection was natural when a tragedy occurred, I’d learned during my years with the department. It was difficult, sometimes impossible for some people to accept the worst.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Series

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Bouchercon 2014: Murder at the Beach Take Away by Christine Husom

Conventions, conferences, writing groups, classes, workshops, and meetings with writers and others in the publishing world all afford opportunities for writers to hone their craft, get fresh ideas, and learn from others what has or has not worked for them in the world of publishing.

I have appreciated being part of the writing world in different ways, but had not attended a convention until two years ago when I went to Bouchercon in Cleveland. I loved the experience and was able go again this year: to Long Beach CA. It was my first time in CA, and an added bonus was I also spent two days with a childhood friend and her husband.

The main Bouchercon convention site was at the Hyatt Regency, but a number of the panels and events were at the nearby Convention Center. There was so much planned for the four days, they even had a panel to help guide attendees, “Bouchercon 101, Panel introducing Bouchercon first-timers to the ins and outs of the convention, including how Bouchercon works; what the many session, event, and networking opportunities are; and how to make the most of your experience.”

When you arrive at the convention, the first order of business is to register, then head to the book bag table for your supplies. Each bag contained a thick program guide, a pocket-size guide, and eight or so books from a variety of authors. I volunteered to help hand out bags, but they needed help stuffing the program guides in them instead. In two hours, our team stuffed hundreds. It was a good workout. What I learned was I could have brought my book bag with me and traded some of the books in my bag for others I was more interested in.

Each day, there was a hospitality area in the hotel rotunda where beverages and light snacks were served. It was a nice gathering place to meet others. There was a dealer book room “offering all the new and used books, recordings, and ephemera mystery fans could want.” Attendees were offered a Surveillance Training Workshop, followed by the opportunity to hit the streets out and practice the techniques they learned. There were a few tables where you could pick up free books, bookmarks, and other information about authors, editors, publishers, etc.

Thursday morning, after my bag-stuffing shift, I caught an hour of Author Speed Dating, where I sat at a table and a new round of authors sat down every few minutes and pitched their books.

A wide variety of panel discussions—150 of them—ran daily and included a moderator and four or five panelists. The problem was choosing which one to go to when up to eight ran concurrently, and most of them were appealing. They ranged anywhere from using humor in your writing, to how much violence you include in a book, to making sure the details are correct, to fighting for justice when the stakes are high. I often sat in on half of one panel and half of another.

In addition, they had Author Focus panels where people had the opportunity to spend twenty minutes with authors in a smaller setting. I was selected to be on one. The two main problems with the focus panels was that there were many other panels running at the same time and most people didn’t know what they were all about. Very few people attended them. I was lucky that three come to mine, including award-winning David Housewright.

The Opening Ceremonies were held Thursday evening. Honored guests were introduced, including Al Abramson, Fan Guest of Honor; J.A. Jance, American Guest of Honor; Simon Wood, Toastmaster Guest of Honor; Edward Marston, International Guest of Honor; Eoin Colfer, Guest of Honor; and Jeffery Deaver, Lifetime Achievement Guest of Honor. And William Kent Krueger was presented both the Barry and Macavity Awards for Ordinary Grace.

Friday morning there was a New Authors Breakfast, and each one had a minute to pitch his or her book. Friday evening featured The Shamus Awards Banquet where Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone received the Hammer Award. Later there was a Dessert Reception and Live Charity Auction that I didn’t attend.
Saturday afternoon featured an Anthology Book Launch and Signing from the Bouchercon 2014 anthology. That is something to check into for future conventions, if you’re interested. The highlight Saturday night was the Anthony Awards Presentation where William Kent Krueger took the Best Novel award for Ordinary Grace.

An estimated 600 authors and around 3,000 people attended. I met librarians and other readers who go to learn about authors and books. There were many volunteer opportunities. There are side trips. At $175, the convention itself was reasonable. Depending on where you live, travel can be costly. The hotel was the most expensive thing for me. I was not able to get into the convention hotel for either convention, and that would be motivation to register early in the future. For more details about Bouchercon 2014, check out their website. Bouchercon 2015 will be in Raleigh NC October 8-11. Some people prefer smaller conventions and conferences, so I’d like to check them out. Conventions are valuable for connecting and learning, and I’d encourage you go if you can.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Series

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The Secret in Whitetail Lake–Fourth Installment

The Winnebago Sheriff’s Department has recovered an old Dodge Charger from the bottom of a lake. Meantime, the sheriff is nowhere to be found. This picks up when the last entry left off.

Chapter Three

Sergeant Doug Matsen, head of the newly expanded Winnebago County Crime Lab, was waiting with the overhead door of the evidence garage open. KT Towing’s flatbed truck was backed up close to the garage, ready to unload the Dodge Charger. Smoke joined the group right ahead of me, and we all squinted against the blinding rays of the late morning sun reflecting from the glass and metal on the vehicles. Even with my sunglasses cutting out most of the glare, my eyes still partially closed from the assault.

Sergeant Matsen was in his late thirties, seven or eight years older than me. He had been on the wild side in his earlier days with the department, pushing the limits of what he could legally do to solve crimes. Word was that it had kept Sheriff Twardy on edge wondering if Matsen might cross the wrong line at some point. But Matsen had the determination and dedication that made him an astute road deputy. And when he put in for the crime lab’s supervisory position, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was the one best suited for the job.

“Back far enough into the garage to unload this precious cargo,” Smoke said.

Kyle got back in the driver’s seat and did just that. “Say when,” he yelled out his open window.

Smoke, Matsen, Ted, and I went into the garage to monitor the process.

“That’s good,” Smoke called out, and the truck came to an immediate stop.

Ted walked around to the back of the truck. “Okay Kyle, lift the front of the bed up and I’ll get the ramps in place.”

When the bed of the truck rose to about a thirty degree angle, Kyle lowered the ramps then climbed back up. He grabbed the truck bed wall for better balance as he walked uphill to operate the winch. Kyle shut off the truck’s engine and got out to watch the action. As the strap loosened, the car made its slow descent to the garage floor.

“If this don’t beat all,” Matsen said as he snapped on latex gloves and stared into the Dodge Charger that had been safely delivered to him. “When you get out of bed in the morning, you never know what the day is going to bring you.”

“That’s a given,” Smoke said.

It most certainly was.

Smoke honed in on Kyle and Ted who looked like they were settling in, prepared to stay for the duration of the investigation. “Thanks, guys. We need to get to work, and I’m sure you do, too,” Smoke said.

The towing team took the non-subtle hint and left with a wave and a nod.

Matsen frowned as we bent over and stared in the windows. “Two victims, from what I can see. Was it accidental drowning? Or something else?”

“That’s the puzzle we’ll have to put together. I know this car, and who it belonged to. I’d be willing to bet the owner’s one of the victims. And the other one was his girlfriend.”

Matsen straightened and studied Smoke like he was a specimen under one of his microscopes. “You’re serious?”

“This would not be a time when I’d be kidding.”

“No. No, I guess not. Who do you think they are?”

Tony Fryor and Wendy Everton. They disappeared thirty-three years ago. It seemed at the time that they fell off the face of the planet.”

“Thirty-three years ago? Damn, that is an old case. So how do you know so much about the car and the victims?”

“They were my classmates, and friends.”

“And my mom’s and dad’s, too,” I added.

“Whoa. Here at Oak Lea High School?” Doug said.

“Yup,” Smoke said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Matsen took a moment to have another look inside the Charger. “And they did a thorough investigation at the time?”

“Yeah, it sure seemed like it. I’ll go through the file again, but when the department hit enough dead ends, they called it.”

“What did they think happened to them, some kind of foul play?”

“No. They figured they ran off together. Maybe eloped.”

“Hmm, so it sounds like not everyone was in favor of their relationship.”

“That’s true enough. The way I remember it, Tony did not measure up to the high standards Wendy’s parents had set. Not exactly sure why. He was a star athlete, and seemed ambitious enough.

“And I don’t think Tony’s mother cared much for Wendy, given the fact that she’d had a number of boyfriends throughout high school. Everyone who knew them was questioned, back then. Including me, and Corky’s parents. I don’t know of anyone in our class who wasn’t. The classes were smaller then and most everyone knew everyone else. The detectives—and there were only two of them in the county in those days—were trying to find one person who had heard them say they were running away. And they never did. I guess now we know why.”

“Accident or suicide-homicide? That’s what we’ll try to figure out.”

Smoke drew his eyebrows together and sucked in a breath. “No, that’s what we will figure out. Now that we know where they ended up, we have a starting point anyway.”

“Smoke, are their parents still living?” I asked.

“Yeah, as far as I know. I looked through the file on them all those years ago, after I’d started here with the department. You know, I think about Tony and Wendy from time to time, kind of doing a little wishful thinking that they’d come back with a pack of kids and show everyone they were meant to be together after all.”

“A sad ending. But now their families will have closure,” I said.

He nodded.

“We know there won’t be any fingerprints. The water would have dissolved them within the first month.” Matsen said, enlightening me on that. “What time did you call the medical examiner?” he directed at Smoke.

“As soon as the divers said we had skeletal remains. She was tied up, finishing an autopsy. When she called me back, she said she’d meet us here.” Smoke looked at his watch. “Should be shortly.”

“Good. I’d rather wait for her. I’ll get some more shots of the car and the contents.”

The contents.

Smoke’s phone rang. He pulled it out of its holder, looked at the display, and pushed a button. “Cindy. What have you got for me? . . . Hmmph, his radio? And his car is gone from the parking garage? . . . . Okay, well thanks. And keep me posted.” He hung up and caught my eyes with his. A slight shake of his head told me there was still no word from the sheriff, but it sounded like he had driven off somewhere. “His portable radio is sitting on his desk.”

A growing sense of unease pickled my nerve endings. It was completely out of character for the sheriff to not answer his phone or at least let his staff know when he left in the middle of the day where he was going. And to leave his portable radio behind was unheard of. As the chief law enforcement office in the county, Sheriff Dennis Twardy was always on duty. Always. And there we were sitting with evidence of the very old, unsolved mysterious disappearance of a young couple and he was nowhere to be found.

“I’m gonna give Kenner a call, see if the sheriff stopped by to see him. And maybe has a dead cell phone,” Smoke said. Chief Deputy Mike Kenner was out on medical leave, following a surgical procedure.

“You’re looking for the sheriff?” Matsen said.

“Yeah. Nobody seems to know where he is.”

“I saw him in the break room getting a cup of coffee first thing this morning.”

But where did he go after that?

Smoke phoned Kenner, checked on how he was doing, and learned Kenner had not heard from the sheriff at all that day.

Sergeant Matsen spent the time getting photos of the car from every angle.

“I’ll try one last thing. The sheriff took his car, so he’s got that radio, if he’s still driving.” Smoke pulled out his radio. “Three-forty to Three-oh-one on two.” When there was no response, he repeated the call. Still no response. He shook his head and his shoulders lifted in a slight shrug.

As Smoke turned to me, Doctor Bridey Patrick from the Midwest Medical Examiner’s Office opened the inside entrance door and walked with purpose in her step toward us. She was short and squat, and had spiked gray hair. Patrick was wearing a white lab coat over a black top and pants. She gave Smoke a look of noted appreciation, and greeted us with a simple, “Morning,” then turned her full attention to the Dodge Charger and its “contents.”

Doctor Patrick shook her head back and forth. “This is my first experience with remains that have been submerged for decades in a vehicle. I have two assistants who are on their way with gurneys and body bags.” She grabbed a pair of gloves out of the lab coat pocket, pulled them on without a downward glance then made the sign of the cross on her head and chest with her right hand.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Series

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No Wake Zones in Minnesota

When people refer to Minnesota, “Land of 10,000 Lakes” is often included as the tagline. There are officially 11,842 lakes that are ten acres or larger. Wright County, the one I live in, has about three hundred lakes within its 714 square miles, so you don’t have to go far to find a place to fish or recreate.

In addition to water quality and its management, lakeshore property owners are also concerned about preserving their shorelines. Depending on the lake, some have sandy beaches, some have clay to the water’s edge and have added rocks to make them more accessible, others are on a steeper grade and have built retaining walls with steps down to the water, as a few examples.

In high precipitation years, lake, river, pond, and ditch levels rise in conjunction, creating any number of problems. This past year, our area had nearly seventy inches of snow and was also the second wettest April on record. So as the snow was melting, instead of soaking into the saturated ground, the water gathered in low areas, including the lakes, and shorelines crept closer and closer to peoples’ homes. Waves on the water, either from strong winds, or motorized vehicles, can cause erosion. A bank in one of our county parks collapsed into its lake this spring during a high wind storm.

The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (DNR) established high water no wake restrictions a number of years ago on certain waterways to address this problem. In the last few years, a number of lake associations and lake improvement districts in Wright County have requested to be included in no wake restrictions. There are different levels of restrictions, but the most common one is when water levels reach the high mark, motorized vehicles, which can produce good-sized waves, are not allowed to go more than 5 miles per hour within 300 feet of the shoreline. On some lakes it’s within 150 feet.

According to the Minnesota DNR website, “All water surface use management starts at the local unit of government – town, city or county, depending upon where the lake or river is located. Any ordinances proposed by the local unit of government must have a hearing and be approved by the DNR before they can go into effect.”

This past June, the DNR declared emergency no wake zones, allowing local jurisdictions to impose restrictions for 30 days, or until levels receded below high water marks. As is the case with many rules and laws, I don’t think no wake restrictions would be necessary if people would use common courtesy and common sense when recreating on lakes and rivers. Do you have similar laws in your state?

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County mystery series.

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How Are Easter’s Dates Calculated?

Today April 20th, Easter Sunday. Easter can fall anytime between March 22nd and April 25th. Have you ever wondered why?

Some of our holidays, like Christmas, are celebrated on the same day each year, while others follow a different set of standards. The leaders of the early church determined Easter needed to be celebrated on Sunday each year, and rightly so. In the early days, it was set on the Sunday following the first astronomical full moon after the spring equinox.

Then in 325 AD, the Council of Nicea decided they needed to establish a more standardized system for determining the date. Astronomers were able to approximate the dates of the full moons in future years, and established a table of ecclesiastical full moon dates. These dates would be the basis for setting holy days on the ecclesiastical calendar.

According to Mary Fairchild, in her article “Why Does the Date for Easter Change Each Year,” she writes, “At the heart of the matter lies a very simple explanation. The early church fathers wished to keep the observance of Easter in correlation to the Jewish Passover. Because the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ happened after the Passover, they wanted Easter to always be celebrated subsequent to the Passover. And, since the Jewish holiday calendar is based on solar and lunar cycles, each feast day is movable, with dates shifting from year to year.”

By 1583 AD the table for calculating the ecclesiastical full moon dates was established and been used ever since. According to the tables, the Paschal, or Passover, full moon is the first ecclesiastical full moon after March 20, which was the spring equinox date in 325 AD.

The early leaders were mindful of the best way to set Easter’s date, and I commend them. Calculating it is not as complicated as I’d once thought. Happy Easter.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Series.

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Stalking Is Serious

In the fictional world of crime writing, stalkers make noteable characters. Their activities are obsessive, freaky, and often downright frightening, which creates and builds tension throughout a novel. But in the real world, a stalker’s motivations and actions are harassing, dangerous, and too often deadly.

With technological advancements continually upgrading, stalkers have increasingly new ways to make their victims’ lives more miserable than ever. There are countless programs and avenues for criminals to explore and use.

For example:

He can monitor his victim’s computer programs.

She can use a program that hides her own phone number and displays another’s on her victim’s Caller ID. And disguises her voice so even those closest to her won’t recognize it.

He can remotely access his victim’s voicemail, ensuring she doesn’t receive her messages. But he does.

She can send an anonymous email to cover that she is the one who is actually sending it.

He can post inflammatory, false, or enticing information about his victim that includes her name, address, phone numbers, and email address on a social network, which in turn causes her to receive harassing messages, sometimes visits, from strangers.

She can “friend” her victim’s family, friends, and other contacts on social networks to get personal information about her. And use it in insidious ways.

He can download a program on her phone that allows him to set up an account for himself to access her information and track her. Tip: only let people you completely trust borrow your phone to “make a quick call.”

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, “Protect Yourself From Computer Hackers,” it is very easy to hack into someone’s home computer and see what the eye of the camera is looking at. A slick, sick way to obtain an insider’s information about someone. Cover the eye of your computer camera.

I am currently working on the sixth book of the Winnebago County Mystery Series, and in the subplot one of the deputies, burly Vince Weber is a victim of stalking.

So what can you do if you know, or suspect, you are being targeted in this kind of abusive activity? Report it to the police. And preserve any evidence you have. If you get an unsettling phone call or email, do not delete it, as you may want to do. Sometimes it takes a person a while, and a number of incidents, before she recognizes she is being harassed. Save any suspicious message you receive. And if there are more messages, a pattern is emerging, and helps the police develop a case.

More and more stalking cases are being successfully uncovered and prosecuted. Stalking can lead to serious and tragic outcomes if the offender is not caught and stopped. Stay safe.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Series.

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An Unsolved Double Homicide from 1897 by Christine Husom

Every once in a while I hear a story  that takes up residence in my mind and consumes me for some time. Maybe for days or weeks or months. The latest one is a crime, a double homicide, that happened in 1897 in Middleville Township, Wright County, Minnesota, about 15 miles from my home. The main reason it gnaws at me is because it was never solved, and all the family members, thus far, have gone to their own graves without knowing the truth.

 I first read of the murders of William and Lydia Boxell in the Wright County Heritage Newsletter last fall in an article submitted by Chris Marcotte, the great great great granddaughter of William and his first wife Rachel. I was stunned that a crime so similar to the one attributed to Lizzie Borden, five years before that, had not gained the same notoriety.

Last week, Marcotte spoke at the heritage center and I attended the session to learn more about what happened on that fateful night.  Marcotte has spent the past couple of years doing extensive research, visiting family members, and gathering hundreds of documents, newspaper articles, and pictures to learn as much about the family and the crime as possible. She has ten theories of who may have been the perpetrator(s).

Here is a little background: William Boxell married Lydia some time after his first wife Rachel died, and it must have caused quite a stir. William and Rachel had fourteen children and nineteen grandchildren at the time of her death. William’s two youngest sons, ages fourteen and sixteen, were still living at home when he married Lydia. He was sixty-two and she was nineteen, forty-three years his junior. Was it arranged by her parents who were promised 40 acres of land in return for their daughter’s hand? The two married after a three-day courtship, which may have angered at least one of her two potential suitors.

William was fairly well-to-do. He had 260 acres of farmland and was worth about $15,000, a nice sum in those days. After his marriage to Lydia, there was allegedly talk that William was changing his will. Was Lydia expecting a baby, or had something else sparked that belief? The couple had been married only three months at the time of their deaths.

The known facts of the case: It was around ten o’clock at night on May 15, 1897 and the two teenage Boxell brothers were spearing for fish in a nearby lake. Their older brother Joseph saw them as he headed for home after picking up a trunk for his father-in-law at the railway station in Howard Lake. When the boys returned home from fishing before midnight, they found blood on the porch and the front door locked. They went to get their brother Joe at his house, about a half mile away. They headed into town, where around fourteen men were getting out of a meeting. The whole group headed out to Boxell’s.

They discovered William’s body on the road, about 100 feet south of his gate. The boys had not seen it when they had returned home earlier. An ax was found thrown some distance away. The door to the house was locked, and it was apparent the killer had crawled out a partially open window, evidenced by the blood left on it. The boys had not noticed that earlier, either. Someone eventually rode to the county seat of Buffalo for the sheriff. He did not arrive until noon the next day. Why had it taken that long?

So what happened? According to Marcotte, it is believed that William knew the killer when he opened the door because he had loaded guns in the house, but did not have one on him. The killer struck William on the head with a club, which broke in three pieces. He then went into the house, locked the door, and attacked Lydia with an ax, fracturing her head in several places and crushing her face. Her body was found in a “crouched on the floor of the bedroom, having fallen forward from her knees with her head on the floor in a pool of her own blood,” as reported in the St. Paul Dispatch on May 17, 1897.

William likely was knocked out from the club blow then regained consciousness. He may have heard his wife’s screams and tried the door, but it was locked. Did he then head down the driveway to go for help, or was he trying to escape the killer who tracked him down and delivered an ax blow to his head? It was a blow so powerful that brain matter was found over twenty feet from the body.

In 1897, DNA had not been discovered. In fact human blood had yet to be separated from the blood of animals. Fingerprint evidence was not commonly used. There were a number of possible suspects, but the one who seemed to stand out from the crowd was son Joseph. He was tried and acquitted by a grand jury. But was he, in fact, the guilty one after all? If evidence had been collected properly and retained, even after all these years, the case could be solved and all the suppositions put to rest. Perhaps in the course of Marcotte’s investigation, she will uncover a key piece of evidence that will complete the puzzle, and the Boxell decendants will have the truth at last.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County mystery Series, including Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, An Altar by the River, The Noding Field Mystery, and A Death in Lionel’s Woods

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Protect Yourself from Computer Hackers by Christine Husom

Last week, I attended the Association of Minnesota Counties three-day conference. There were great workshops and presentations, but the one that really grabbed my attention was “Cyber Security” by FBI agent Michael Bazzell. He kept the large group of us spell-bound for 90 minutes. He was somehow easy-going and intense at the same time. His sense of humor and delivery style was reminiscent of a comedian at open mic night, and kept us engaged.

Bazzell’s job is exposing hackers and uncovering computer crimes, a constantly changing environment. It would be impossible to include all of the information on a short blog, but I wanted to pass on some of the things I learned.

Be sure to protect your passwords, and change them at least once a year. Use different ones for personal email, work email, financial records, and if you do online shopping. A lot of us are already doing this. I checked how many I have: 47. A few of the sites I am on frequently, others very infrequently.

Use a combination of letters, numbers, and characters. There is a program hackers use to crack people’s passwords that has every word in the English language. If you use a word like “flower” for example, it would take them approximately .07 seconds to find that out. Don’t post your passwords by your computer. Someone posted a picture of a well-known man sitting at his computer with his password clearly showing. He became a computer crime victim very quickly.

Business centers in hotels are insecure places to do any online work. Files are not encrypted and easily copied. If you use the hotel’s computer, be sure to not only close down the internet, but also log off. All a hacker has to do is look at the list of logins and bingo, they have your information. And they focus on higher scale hotels.

Any public place with wireless access is also subject to scams. There is a device called a “pineapple router,” available for sale that hackers use to intercept everything you do on your laptop. They gather your passwords, cookies, and websites.  

If you have a web cam on your computer’s hard drive, disconnect it when you aren’t using it. It’s very easy to hack into someone’s home computer and see what the eye of the camera is looking at. When I bought my laptop, I covered the camera eye with a sticky star I can remove if I ever would Skype.

 If you have a thermostat that you can access remotely, put a not-easy-to-figure-out password on it. There is new technology that allows hackers to search devices’ security cameras from owners cell phones or other mobile devices. The agent did just that and showed us a number of thermostat units in peoples’ homes. And it showed things like “porch light on,” what the temp was (so if it was 58 degrees, that indicates people are not home), and on and on.

Another device that is being used at ATM machines and gas pumps is a “skimmer.” They are homemade, a fifth the size of a postage stamp, with a pinhole camera that records you typing in your pin number. There are hundreds out there and difficult to trace to the thieves.

Those are a few things to be aware and beware of. Not long ago spam emails were easy to pick out. Now the bad guys are getting more sophisticated and their emails often look like they are from credible sources. Generally speaking, do not clink on any links, unless they are from your best friend who wants you to see his latest contribution on YouTube. Let’s do what we can to help in the fight against computer crimes.

 Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Series, Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, An Altar by the River, The Noding Field Mystery, and A Death in Lionel’s Woods, www.christinehusom.webs.com

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A Second Excerpt of A Death in Lionel’s Woods by Christine Husom

A Death in Lionel’s Woods will be released later this year by Second Wind Publishing. I first posted an excerpt in April. Detective Smoke Dawes, Sergeant Corky Aleckson, Deputies Vince Weber and Amanda Zubinski are at a death scene in a private woods next to a public county park. This picks up as the medical examiner arrives.

The four of us turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle. The Midwest Medical Examiner’s van turned onto the field road and continued to where the mobile crime lab sat. The van stopped next to it. A short, stocky woman with gray hair moussed into a spikey do got out and walked toward us with deliberate steps. “Bridey Patrick,” she announced before the rest of us had a chance to greet her. Her small brown, not quite beady, eyes narrowed on Smoke. “Detective Dawes.”

“Doctor Patrick. Thanks for making it out here so fast. Team, introduce yourselves.” The three of us gave her our names and got a quick nod in return, then the doctor turned her attention to Ms. Doe. Whatever she was thinking, she kept to herself.

“You photographed the deceased?”

“Yeah, from all angles,” Weber said.

Doctor Patrick pulled on protective gloves and then leaned down and touched the inside of Ms. Doe’s wrist. “She’s as cold as the earth she’s lying on.” Her initial examination was brief, as she ran her hands over the body, looking for obvious signs of what caused her death. Her hand stopped in Doe’s mid-back section. “There’s something underneath her.”

“We didn’t see anything–”

“No, her sweater’s covering the part that’s sticking out. Could be a large knife, or some sort of tool. Let’s turn her over.” Zubinski and Weber had crime lab gear on, so they moved in to help Patrick. Any one person could have completed the task alone, but Zubinski and Weber carefully slid their hands under Doe’s shoulder and hip and rolled her on Weber’s count of “three.”

“What the heck? She was laying on a garden trough?” Weber said.

Smoke and I took a step closer then we both leaned in, almost bumping heads. “The ground is disturbed under the leaves,” he said.

“She was digging something? Weber, where’d you put your camera?” I asked.

“Back in my squad. Front seat, on top of the pile there.” I left to retrieve it.

“Grab an evidence bag while you’re at it,” Smoke called out. I didn’t know what supplies were in the trunk of the squad car I had driven. Since I’d been assigned to office duty, I’d been driving my personal vehicle back and forth to work. The squad car I had previously shared with two others had picked up a third deputy in my absence. I wasn’t sure what would happen after today. Only God knew that. I found the camera where Weber said it was, then I popped open the trunk of the borrowed car and dug through a box of evidence bags until I located one large enough to accommodate the trowel.

I returned with the camera and handed it to Weber who snapped photo after photo from various angles. Zubinski took the evidence bag from me and waited for Weber to finish. When he handed the camera back to me, Zubinski opened the bag and Weber reached down, lifted the trowel, and dropped it in the bag. Zubinski sealed it, and then carried it over to the crime lab where she would date it and give it a number.

“Do you need the deceased while you conduct the rest of your investigation here, Detective? She’s been out here alone for two days, by my estimation. I’d like to take her to the office.”

“No, we’ve got what we need from her. I’ll help you with the gurney.” He followed Doctor Patrick to her vehicle.

“I don’t want to know how uncomfortable that was, laying on that thing,” Weber said.

I stared at Doe’s face again, but her blank expression hinted at nothing. If anything, she looked at peace. “For sure. Something went terribly wrong somewhere. We just have to figure out what.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re here for.”

Is that what I’m here for? I’ve missed having that strong sense of purpose these past months. The belief, the assurance, that I used to take for granted.

Smoke and Bridey Patrick rolled the gurney to about four feet from Doe’s body. Patrick unzipped the bag as Mandy returned from the mobile crime unit. “We’ll get her for you; she can’t weigh eighty pounds,” Mandy said and nodded at Weber. Ms. Doe didn’t protest in the least when they scooped her up and laid her in the body bag. Patrick zipped her in, unlocked the brake on the gurney, and Smoke pushed it to the back of the van.

“Put her clothes in paper bags and we’ll pick them up later.”

“Right. I’ll call you when they’re ready,” Doctor Patrick said.

“She’s as serious as Melberg. Seriouser,” Weber said after Patrick drove away.

“I love it when you make up words, Vince,” Mandy said and frowned, negating her statement.

“Patrick’s like Melberg at crime scenes and autopsies. Both of them are extremely focused. Some guys can joke, release some steam to break up the tension. Others can’t I guess. Or won’t. Melberg and Patrick fall in the latter category.” Smoke got on his hands and knees. “Let’s scoop up the leaves she was lying on and bag ‘em up. There may be some kind of trace evidence or transfer from her clothes. Or somebody else’s.”

Zubinski retrieved a small shovel from the van and Weber waited with a large evidence bag, open at the top as far as he could stretch it. Mandy bent over and scooped a small amount of the leaf matter, dropped it in the bag, and scooped another, taking some dirt with it.

“What have we here?” Smoke asked. He bent over for a closer look, then used his pen to push a few leaves aside.

“She buried something here?” I asked as I leaned in myself.

“Photo man, we need some more shots,” Smoke said, needlessly pointing at the ground.

Vince sighed as he handed the leaf-filled bag to Mandy and then lifted the camera that hung from a strap around his neck and rested on his chest.

The disturbed area on the floor of the woods was about twelve inches by eighteen inches. The dirt appeared to have been dug out, then put back, and patted down.

“Curious,” Mandy said.

“And curiouser,” Vince said. “And I didn’t make that up. It came from something I read as a kid.”

“You read Alice in Wonderland?” Mandy’s eyebrows squeezed together.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” he mumbled and hitched a shoulder up.

Mandy smiled and I shook my head.

“Let’s see what might be in this rabbit hole,” Smoke said. He held out his hand for the shovel which Mandy handed over, and then set about carefully digging around the edges of the “rabbit hole.” After he’d had dug a little trench around the perimeter, he knelt down and started brushing away some dirt from the surface. He stuck his pen in the ground a few places. “There’s something here.”
Mandy, Vince, and I leaned in even closer, growing cuiouser by the second.

Smoke stood and used the shovel to scrape thin layers of dirt from the site. “I got something.” He uncovered a gallon-size plastic bag, then bent over and lifted it from its burial plot, shaking off the bit of soil that clung to it.

“What the heck?” Vince said.

“Bags of money in there?” Mandy said.

“That’s a little on the strange side. But I have heard of people burying money before,” I said.

Smoke gave a quick nod. “We’ll need two of you take these bags, one by one, and count to see how much is in each bag. First let’s see just how many we got here.”

“I’ll get another evidence bag so we can transfer them as you pull them out,” Mandy said. She was gone and back in a flash.

Smoke reached in and withdrew one sandwich size baggie after the next and handed them to Mandy who kept count, then dropped them in her bag.

“We should be able to get fingerprints, find out if there are any other ones on them besides our victim’s,” I said.

Altogether, there were nine bags of varying thicknesses, depending on the stack of bills in each one of them. On the bottom of the gallon bag was a single picture in its own baggie. It was the last baggie Smoke removed. He studied the front of it for a long moment. “I’m guessing it’s our Miss Doe, but she has a whole lot more muscle and tissue on her body. She’s with two little kids.” He flipped the bag over and read out loud what was written on the back. “Looks like M-A-I-S-A, Maisa, L-E-L-A, Lela, S-E-S-E, Sese. And Georgia. Georgia, I’m guessing that’s where they were when the picture was taken.” Smoke looked at me and handed the photo over. “Those sound like Swiss names to you?”

“Could be I guess. I really don’t know.”

“Swiss names?” Mandy asked.

“Our sergeant here thought maybe Miss Doe was a member of the Swiss Apostolic clan in Kadoka.”

“Huh. Are those the ones who wear those kinda drab colored dresses and have those head coverings?” Vince wondered.

“Yeah.”

He jutted his chin out. “Oh. I thought we had a little group of Amish around here somewhere, but never asked nobody about it.”

“I think they’re mostly in southern Minnesota near the Iowa border. Around Harmony,” Mandy said.

“Peace loving people that they are, they musta picked that town for its name,” Weber said.

“There’s a fairly large population northwest of here too, in Todd County,” I added, my eyes fixed on the photo.

Weber shrugged. “Had no idea.”

“Any of you guys been to Georgia?” I asked.

“When I was a kid,” Mandy said.

“I’m trying to remember my geography. They have mountains there?”

“Sure, the northern part of the state,” Smoke answered.

I admired the setting. “Picturesque. Woman holding a toddler, another little one at her side, standing in front of some trees with the leaves about a hundred autumn shades of green and red and orange and gold. The mountain peak behind them in the distance.” I handed the photo to Mandy who held it up so Vince could look at it with her.

“Kids have regular clothes on, shorts and tee shirts, but the woman looks kind of old-fashioned in that dress,” Mandy said.

“How old do you suppose she is there?” Vince asked.

“Twenty-five, maybe younger,” Smoke said.

“The little girl can’t be two. The boy maybe four, five?” I said.

Smoke reached for the photo and nodded. “I’d say that’s about right.”

A small wave of sadness rolled over me. “They look happy.”

“It would’ve been nice if she had put the year on it, too. Give us some idea of how old the kids are now,” Mandy said.

“They might not be hers. Do you suppose they’re from Georgia, or were they on vacation, visiting someone there?” I asked.

“It’s a puzzle, all right. And we still got the question of why she had all these bags of money,” Smoke said.

Vince elbowed Mandy’s arm. “Speaking of which, let’s go count, Zubinski, see how much she was protecting when she died.”

Zubinski gave me the baggie-protected photo and I reread the names. Maisa, huh? And Lela and Sese. Unusual names, all right. Maybe they are Swiss.”

“We’re a melting pot nation.”

Smoke’s phone rang. “Dawes. . . . Okay, Doc. I’ll have someone from our office there, too. . . . Right, bye.” Smoke closed his phone. “Doctor Patrick. She got Miss Doe scheduled for autopsy tomorrow afternoon at two. They’re going to work on a computer sketch of what she might have looked like at a normal weight.”

“How’d she get that done so fast?” She can’t have gotten to Anoka yet.”

“I’d venture to guess she was conducting business over the phone on the drive over. Let’s check on our team.”

Smoke and I went to the doorway of the mobile crime lab and watched them work. “These stupid gloves slow down the operation,” Weber said as he fumbled to lift a five dollar bill from one pile to set it on the waiting pile on the narrow counter.

“One hundred and sixteen,” Mandy said and wrote it down on the outside of an evidence bag. She was the one who spoke the numbers out loud as she and Weber finished counting the bills in the bag they were on. She wrote the agreed total on the bag. Then she replaced the bills in the original baggie, slipped it inside the larger evidence bag, sealed it, and put her initials over the seal. “Two down, seven to go.”

“A hundred-forty-three bucks in that bag. How much in the first?” Smoke asked.

“One thirty-six smackeroos,” Vince said.

“Different amounts, so not consistent that way.”

“No.”

“Largest denomination was a twenty in the first bag, a ten in the second,” Mandy added.

“And what would be the reason for all the smaller bags inside the big one? They weren’t marked, like the one-forty-three was for the electricity bill, and the one-thirty-six was for groceries,” I said.

“Yeah. Huh,” Vince agreed.

“Until we can find her family and or identify her, I think we’re stuck with way more way more questions than explanations,” Smoke said. “Weber, Zubinski, carry on here. Get your evidence taken care of, but I’ll keep the photo to show some folks. Aleckson and I will start talking to the neighbors in the area.”

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A Death in Lionel’s Woods excerpt by Christine Husom

This is an excerpt from the fifth book in the Winnebago County Mystery Series.

Chapter One

“You killed my friend.” I hit the 2 on the phone to replay the message. “You killed my friend.” I’m sorry. So very sorry, I mouthed. It was the fourth time that morning I had been drawn back to the muffled voice that accused me, held me guilty, with four short words. You. Killed. My. Friend. The caller–I couldn’t tell if it was a male or a female–didn’t name me specifically, or say who he or she was. But the message was sent to my voicemail and was personal nonetheless. I felt compelled to keep it to myself for a while. More correctly, between the caller and me. You killed my friend. Did he or she somehow share in the same grief I couldn’t shake?

My sadness was persistent, and at times I was afraid it would consume me, swallow me whole. It had been months since I had blindly led the man I was dating to his death, but that tragic moment in time was never far from my conscious, subconscious, or unconscious thoughts. I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t know how to live with the burden.

Many people assured me, some over and over, that time was the great healer. And I had to believe the weight of guilt would lessen, but I knew my life would never be the same. The other thing people tried to drum into my brain was that it wasn’t my fault. I almost believed that on one level, but on another level, which caused persistent gnawing at my heart and gut, I was convinced my police training and innate skills should have alerted me of the danger ahead. By the time I sensed something was hinky, it was too late to stop the rapid chain of events that resulted in the death of two men. Eric Stueman’s was at the hands of an evil man. The evil man died by mine.

It was like watching the videos of Twin Towers going down on 9-11. I knew it would be exactly the same no matter how many times I viewed it. Yet the part of me that didn’t want to believe it had really happened hoped if I watched it one more time the ending would be somehow different. That’s the way it was every time my mind’s eye watched Langley Parker shoot Eric. No matter how much I willed for a different ending, it never varied one iota. The images in my brain had become my nearly constant companion, along with the smell of fresh salty blood mixed in with sweet blossoms in the warm late Spring evening air.

Winnebago County Sheriff Dennis Twardy had pulled me off the road as a supervising sergeant, and assigned me the special duties of helping in the evidence room, checking outstanding warrants on offenders, and any number of other details the department was backlogged on. When I was at work, I forced myself to be focused. When I was with family and friends, I was coaxed from my grief for short periods of time. When I was alone, I fell apart as often as not.

I had added Doctor Kearns, my psychologist and new best friend as number 8 on my speed dial. The only professional–or his voicemail, at least–I had access to by hitting two buttons. Since I hadn’t slept through the night for months, he’d talked me into getting a prescription for a sleeping aid from a medical doctor. I’d done as he suggested and had the unopened bottle sitting in my bathroom cabinet, in case. I chose to self-medicate with wine in the evenings instead. A glass or two or three dulled the pain, but didn’t allow me slip into a dreamless, guilt-free night which I didn’t feel I deserved anyway. I had no idea what I had to do, or how long it would take to pay the penance that would get me out of my personal prison. I hoped one day Doctor Kearns would pull a rabbit out of a hat, something brand new, and he’d say something that would magically help me forgive myself.

My cell phone rang midmorning. It was Detective Elton Dawes, my mentor and dear friend. I forced myself to sound mildly cheerful so he wouldn’t pry into what was wrong. “Hey Smoke.”

“Got a lot going on in Warrants?”

“You know it never ends around here.”

“Tell me about it. You heard Weber call me out to his suspicious circumstances call?”

“I did. How suspicious are the circumstances?”

“I’d go with quite suspicious at this point. We’re don’t really know the extent of what we got. I’d be obliged if you’d come out here. We’re up to our eyeballs and it seems that half the guys I usually count on are off deer hunting.”

A wave of panic rolled through me. “Smoke, I . . .”

“Sheriff says you’d be putting your talents to better use on this case than in the office. If you’re ready to get back out here, that is.”

“What have you got?”

“A woman. Dead a couple of days, it looks like. Skin and bones. Waiting on Melberg and the crime lab team which is only Zubinski, with Mason out today. The chief deputy hasn’t found anyone to reassign yet, but he’s still working on it. Weber will fill in as long as he can.”

I sucked in a breath and blew it out, mentally ordering the feelings of fear and anxiety to leave with the expelled air.

“All right.”

“The closest address is twenty-two-nineteen Quinton Avenue, in Swedesburg Township. We’re in a private woods next to in the Jeremiah Madison County Park off County Two, a quarter mile in. A guy found her after the morning deer hunt.”

“Man. Okay. I’ll be out there in about twenty.” I disconnected and glanced at the clock on the office wall, hoping reading the time would give me a sense of urgency that would propel me into action. Ten-fifteen, Friday morning. The start of a long, sad weekend for the victim’s family. That thought spurred me and got me moving.

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