Alone at night, p.1
Alone at Night, page 1
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
2003
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
1984
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
2003
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Also by KJ Erickson
Praise for KJ Erickson’s Mysteries
Copyright
For
June Gorntizka
Carol Beglau
Dee Henehan
Helen Lifson
The four best mothers
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Rachel Ekstrom, Carly Einstein, and Kenneth J. Silver for keeping all the balls in the air, and to Steve Townsend and Keith Hersey for counsel on sniper rifles and ammunition.
2003
1
A door with height charts running either side of the frame is a door you should think twice about walking through.
Not that anybody does.
The last thing people going into a convenience store think about is that they’ve just got up close and personal with the possibility of real trouble. The kind of trouble their car alarms and home-security systems aren’t going to help them avoid.
Marshall Bahr thought about trouble every time he went into a convenience store. He knew what every law enforcement officer knew: anytime a guy walked into a convenience store with a gun, anybody else in that store was one wrong move away from injury if you were lucky or death if you weren’t.
Mars did more than think about trouble when he went into a convenience store. He thought about how lousy convenience-store security systems were. Not enough security cameras. Crummy video quality. Inadequate lighting. No hidden panic systems wired to police dispatchers. No security cages for employees.
And his personal favorite. A convenience-store clerk working alone at night.
Just the thought of a convenience-store clerk working alone at night made Mars grind his teeth, made bile rise in his throat.
He was counting on that bile in his throat to give him the energy he needed to be an effective cold case investigator. Energy that had been missing since he’d left his job as a special detective in the Minneapolis Police Department and joined the State of Minnesota’s Cold Case Unit.
After all, it had been a convenience-store murder his first day on the job as a uniformed patrol officer that had begun his career and that had confirmed for him that law enforcement was a job worth doing.
He thought about that for a minute. About how it had felt years ago to solve that case. It hadn’t just been about solving the case.
Just as much, it had been about Hannah Johnson.
* * *
Three hours and forty-three minutes into his shift on his first day as a sworn officer, he’d gotten a call to a convenience store. Robbery in progress.
What he remembered about that call was until that moment, there’d never been a time in his life when he’d been more conscious of his body. Of how hard his heart was pumping, of how hyperalert his senses were. Most surprising, how unafraid he’d been.
It was obvious when he’d pulled the squad car to an abrupt stop in the convenience store’s parking lot that the robbery in progress was now an after-the-fact event. A half-dozen people, some crying, milled around outside the store. One heavyset woman came at the squad car like a banshee.
“She been shot, you hear me? You get in there, now!”
The convenience-store clerk’s body was behind the counter. Mars could hear the ambulance sirens behind him as he knelt next to the woman. He’d put his hand at her neck, knowing before his fingers touched the skin he’d find no life. He lifted his gaze and found himself looking level into the eyes of a little girl.
Hannah Johnson was, in her own words, eight years and three days old. The convenience-store clerk was her babysitter and had taken Hannah with her while she worked what turned out to be her last shift as a SuperStore clerk.
Never mind that the shift was from eleven o’clock at night until seven the next morning. This was not the time to start making judgments about the way people lived their lives, especially about the way kids got tangled up in the way adults lived their lives.
Hannah Johnson had been sitting on a box behind the counter, reading a book, when the shooter had entered the store. Sitting on that box, where she’d been unseen, had probably saved her life.
Mars called Child Protection for somebody to come out until they could locate Hannah’s family. He asked a woman who’d come into the store to sit with Hannah until Child Protection showed up, then he’d gotten Hannah an Orange Crush out of the cooler.
Department policy prohibited interviewing a minor without a guardian present, so before Homicide arrived and as the Crime Scene Unit collected evidence, photographed and measured the scene, Mars had started to interview other witnesses.
This did not go well. He wasn’t getting any consistent stories or useful descriptions.
All the while, he could feel Hannah’s eyes on him.
As a child protection worker took Hannah by the hand, Hannah and Mars made eye contact again. Mars hesitated. It made sense to leave talking to Hannah to the Homicide suits. Probably tomorrow instead of tonight.
“Just a minute,” Mars had said, acting against the grain of what made sense.
He’d walked over to Hannah, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Hannah, can you tell me what you saw?”
The Child Protection worker had pulled Hannah closer to her.
“Not now, Officer. This has been traumatic. Give us a call in the morning…”
Hannah said, “I know. I can tell…”
Mars looked at the Child Protection worker, who looked down at Hannah.
“You don’t have to, honey. Not now. You can talk to the policeman later.”
Hannah said again, “I know. I can tell…”
She could and she did. She described the shooter’s height relative to a marketing display next to the cash register. She described the part of the gun that had been visible over the countertop. She described a tattoo on the shooter’s wrist.
“When he ran out,” she said, “I went to the front door and looked. It was a tan car that had a big dent on the trunk. The numbers on the car were FXL six-one-three. I couldn’t see which state.”
Hannah Johnson had gotten a second can of Orange Crush for the road. She’d earned it. Everything Hannah Johnson told Mars held. They arrested the shooter in less than twenty-four hours.
All these years later, his first day on the job stood as the most satisfying, gratifying twenty-four hours in Mars’s professional life.
Mars had stayed in touch with Hannah Johnson, always feeling hopeful about the human condition after he’d seen her or talked to her. Hannah’s mother was available on an unpredictable basis and Hannah’s uncle, with whom she’d lived when Mars had met her, had problems of his own. Hannah spent a substantial part of her life after Mars had met her moving from one relative to another, with occasional pit stops in foster care.
Mars kept track of Hannah through Child Protection Services, and when those checks revealed that she’d moved to another shirttail relation or a new foster home, he’d call her at the new home. And he always, always, sent her birthday cards. Mars wanted to be sure that wherever Hannah Johnson was, she knew that there was one adult in her life who stayed constant and who thought she was a special kid.
Later, when Mars began working partners with Nettie Frisch, Nettie had asked him who he was writing the birthday card to. So he’d told Nettie the story about his first day on the job.
“How do you know when her birthday is?” Nettie had asked.
“Because,” Mars said, “it was three days before my first day on the job. When I asked her how old she was, she said, ‘Eight years and three days.’ Easy to remember.”
Every once in a while, Nettie would ask him, “How’s that kid—Hannah Johnson? How’s she doing last you talked to her?”
The answer was that the circumstances of Hannah’s life went up and down. Mostly down. None of which had prevented Hannah from graduating from high school with honors.
Hannah Johnson had been a great start to a career in law enforcement.
* * *
What Mars needed now was a great start to his cold case care er.
It served both their purposes that he and Nettie decided on investigating the unsolved murders of convenience-store employees as their first major cold case initiative.
Mars wanted to bring back the bile to his professional life.
Nettie wanted to use the investigation to test the five-state criminal database she was building.
Their first pass at defining the scope of the investigation failed. They’d run cases involving the murders of convenience-store employees in the five-state region through Nettie’s pilot database.
What had come out of that effort was too many cases with too few logical connections. They considered narrowing the time period, but felt narrowing the time frame ran a risk of eliminating related cases.
It had been Nettie, running the data backward and forward against a variety of criteria, who’d suggested looking at abductions of convenience-store workers. She’d given Mars three cases based on that criteria, two involving the abduction and murder of a convenience-store employee, and one that involved an abduction where no body had been found.
The perpetrators’ method of operation in the three cases was similar from one case to the other. All the convenience stores were located within 150 miles of each other. All the stores were located near an interstate highway.
And all three involved a female convenience-store employee working alone at night.
A circumstance guaranteed to raise bile in Mars Bahr’s throat.
* * *
They’d begun with the two cases where the abduction victims’ bodies had been found.
But after two months of rereading case files, reinterviewing families, friends, and suspects—after two months of running sexual predator files to identify possible connections to the areas or the victims, after two months of retesting, reexamining forensic evidence—they knew no more than when they’d started.
“So, what do we do next?” Nettie said.
“We go with what we’ve got left,” Mars said. “Andrea Bergstad. 1984. Redstone Township, Minnesota. Working on an October night at the Redstone One-Stop, never to be seen again, dead or alive.”
“You’re going down to Redstone?”
“I’ve called the guy who was chief of police in Redstone in 1984. I’m taking Chris to the airport tomorrow morning, and I’ll leave from there.”
“Big plans for Chris’s last night at home?”
“The interment, Nettie. Tonight’s the interment.”
“How could I forget?”
2
They carried the Styrofoam cooler between them. Mars carried a spade in his free hand. Chris Bahr carried a potted plant with his free hand.
They walked slowly across the lawn, the difference in their heights making their passage unsteady. This was the backyard of the house Mars had lived in all his married life, the house Chris had been born to, the house Mars and his ex-wife had sold four months earlier. It was the backyard where, during a deep freeze the previous January, Mars and Chris had attempted to bury Chris’s cat.
The burial had failed in its stated purpose, but had achieved a higher goal. It was after the failed burial that Chris’s mother, Denise, had decided to give Mars custody of Chris.
Denise had also granted Mars custody of the unburied cat.
Neither Mars nor Chris felt equal to another dead-of-winter burial, so the cat had taken up residence in the freezer in Mars’s apartment. Sarge, wrapped in the same towel they’d taken him home from the vet in, had been interred in a Tupperware container. Chris had taken great care to “burp” the container, assuring Mars that doing so would remove all air and further retard decay.
“The other thing is,” Chris said, “there shouldn’t be any smell at all.”
They had looked at each other after he’d said this, each seeing the lack of confidence in this assurance on the other’s face.
The first time Chris used ice cubes from the freezer, he’d walked over to the sink and spat the cube into the drain.
“The ice cubes taste funny,” Chris said.
Whether the ice cubes actually did taste funny was a matter of conjecture. But on a point like this, if you thought something tasted funny, it did. It wasn’t like scientific evidence to the contrary was going to change your mind.
Within another week, Mars and Chris agreed everything they put in the refrigerator tasted funny. This included cans of Coca-Cola—probably pretty solid evidence that how things from the refrigerator tasted was a function of their imaginations. Knowing that didn’t keep the Coke from tasting funny.
So, since January, the only thing in the refrigerator at Mars’s apartment—and, when they moved to the condo in April, the only thing in the refrigerator at their condo—was a Tupperware container in the freezer.
It had been their plan to bury Sarge as soon as the ground had thawed in the backyard of the house Mars and Denise had bought after they were married. But then all their personal plans had accelerated. Buyers came forward for the house with a substantial cash bonus offer if they were able to take possession by April 15. Mars had a chance to buy a condo from a colleague in the police department who’d give Mars a deal if they didn’t have to use a realtor. And Chris pointed out that if Denise moved during his spring break, he’d be able to go to Cleveland with her and “help her get settled.”
Mars understood the subtext of Chris’s suggestion and was touched. Leaving Chris was going to be wrenching for Denise. Having him make the move with her—even if it meant Chris spent only a week in Cleveland, then a couple days with Denise at Disney World before he flew back to Minneapolis—would go a long way toward making the good-byes easier.
The musical chairs dance—the house being sold, Denise moving to Cleveland, and Chris and Mars moving into their downtown condo—had begun in April, long before the ground was thawed. Now, on a hot and humid June evening, the night of the last day of school and the eve of Chris’s departure for his summer visit to his mother, the two of them were in the backyard of a house they no longer owned nor lived in.
The new owners of the house had turned the backyard lights on and waved, but they left Mars and Chris to their business.
“Do they know what we’re doing?” Chris asked. He kept his voice low.
“I had it put in the purchase agreement,” Mars said. Then he recited the language he’d written himself. “Purchasers agree that sellers may, by prior arrangement, install a planting for memorial purposes at a mutually agreed site within six months of sale date. Purchasers will have final approval of plant choice.”
“What is it, anyway?” Chris said, still whispering.
“It’s what they said they wanted. A northern lights rhododendron. Whatever that is.”
“Is this the right time to plant a rhododendron?” Chris said. It was the kind of thing he thought about and that Mars never did.
“Beats me,” Mars said. “If it isn’t, they”—he tipped his head toward the house—“don’t know any more about rhododendrons than I do.”
Chris shook his head. “I don’t think this is the right time.”
“Oh, really?” Mars said. His patience for giving Sarge a proper burial was wearing thin. “Think about it this way. What we lack in timing, we more than compensate for by the high quality of fertilizer we’re putting in.”
“Dad!” Chris said. But even in the fading light, Mars could tell Chris was working hard not to grin.
* * *
They dug for maybe twenty minutes before Chris took the Tupperware container out of the ice chest and removed the towel-clad body, lying it gently at the bottom of its new grave. He held his hand against the towel for moments before starting to scoop dirt on top of the towel with his hands. When there was a six-inch layer of dirt covering Sarge, Mars and Chris started shoveling dirt into the hole. Then they placed the northern lights rhododendron in the hole and finished packing dirt around the plant.
They stood for a while, looking at the plant, without saying anything. Then Chris said, “There were all kinds of things I was going to say in January. Now I can’t think of anything. Except to tell Sarge that I loved him.”
Mars swatted at the escalating swarm of mosquitoes that were gathering around them.
“Can’t do better than that,” Mars said, bending to pick up the spade. “C’mon. The bugs are getting bad. And we’ve got to be up early to get you to the airport and me out to Redstone Township by early afternoon.”
