She's Not There (32 page)

The trip to northern Wisconsin happened sooner than expected when in the last week of March, temperatures in the sixties graced the state with an early spring thaw. The grass was greening in spots and the highways exploded with people rushing north to take advantage of the mild weather.

Richard rode next to Eric in the Silverado, and Claire, who’d insisted on coming with them, sat quietly in the back. Two of Eric’s ATV’s were secured on a trailer behind them. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d agreed to be part of this wild goose chase, but it had been nearly six weeks ago when they’d agreed to wait until the snow melted.

If someone had told him he’d be riding to the ends of the earth with Schindler, hoping to resolve a case he’d promised Chief Thornton he’d drop—a case he himself had scoffed at not too long ago—he’d have questioned his or her sanity. Maybe he should question his own. But the chief had been retired nearly thirty days—his fair-haired daughter now an accomplice in an unauthorized search for the bodies of the missing women. As far as Richard was concerned, this was a fishing expedition. The bodies could be anywhere, assuming there even were bodies.

Eric talked about resorting to cadaver dogs and even ground-penetrating radar, GPR, if today’s search came up with nothing.
GPR. Christ, the guy must have an endless supply of money.

They were headed for Ashland County. The County’s upper border ended at Chequamegon Bay, an offshoot of Lake Superior. Mellen, a tiny town in the northwestern end of the county, was home to the hospital where Rommelfanger had lain close to death more than eight years ago. Wilson’s property, which had been owned by his uncle until he inherited it, lay about five miles north of Mellen.

Richard suspected the group’s involvement in Wilson’s timely demise, but had yet to figure out how it could have been accomplished. He had to admit that Schindler moving heaven and earth to recover the bodies of Wilson’s victims didn’t seem to fit with Schindler as a murderer.

The police forces had moved on to other things as the investigation into the missing women became cooler every day. It was too early for the statistics to have gone back to normal, but now that Richard had become a grudging convert to the theory of Wilson as the killer, he believed in time they would.

Even his partner didn’t know he’d joined the group in their search. Richard was on his own time with this one.

Claire stood in the rustic farmhouse, watching as Eric and Richard rode off on the ATV’s. The small place was neat and clean; she hadn’t cancelled the contract with the property management service that maintained it. There was little here of James. It was as if he’d never been in these rooms, although she knew he’d spent many weekends here, away from the city. And her. Poring through the old-fashioned house, she wondered if she’d find anything more personal than the furniture. She came across a dusty photo album in an old pie safe and carried it over to the round, oak kitchen table. The album had to have belonged to James’ uncle. His uncle’s family name and the date were written on the inside of the front cover.

Leafing through the musty pages, she found a photo of a woman labeled as Lorraine, James’ mother, holding a baby in her arms. God created all babies beautiful. Sadly, James’ beauty as a baby had been fleeting. On a following page, as a toddler, his features were already shaping into those of Ronnie. Claire noticed photos missing from each photo event, leaving blank spaces on many pages. Her heart softened with pity as she realized which photos were missing and why. Ronnie, had destroyed the photos of himself.

Eric knew the bodies, if found on the grounds, would quickly be linked to Wilson. The group had speculated that the longer it took for the connection to be made to Wilson, the less likely it would be that any of them would be linked to his murder. He wasn’t sure about that. James might be outed as the killer, but the members of their group would still be prime suspects in his shooting, regardless of the time frame. James had been a member of the MPD after all, and even though they would be resistant to admitting one of their own as such a heinous killer, they’d still be determined to find the person responsible for his death. Or not—Eric realized paranoia crippled his judgment.

They covered the acres of wooded land, watching for anything that could indicate a burial site. Eric’s heart nearly stopped when they saw a matted, bloody disruption in a last drift of snow tucked under a grove of pine trees. On closer inspection, it turned out to be all that remained of a deer that had become dinner for a wandering predator. Its rib cage lay in the shadows, a forgotten remnant of what had once been a beautiful animal. The sickening smell of death permeated the air as they left the scene behind.

Straddling the ATV’s hours after beginning their search, Eric and Richard rested on a low hill overlooking a small meadow surrounded by tall pine trees. The trees blocked out the setting sun, even though it was barely four in the afternoon. Guided by an aerial map of the land that covered nearly three square miles, this opening in the trees would be their last stop before returning for Claire.

Richard alit from the vehicle, stretching his limbs. “Man, I feel like I’ve been on a horse. I don’t think we’ve covered half of this land. It could take days to go over it all.”

Eric squinted into a ray of sun spiking through the trees. “We didn’t expect to find something right away.” The meadow below, thick with growth, was pungent with the scent of the surrounding pines. Something about the seemingly innocent visage made him uneasy.

Richard turned to him, following his line of sight. “What do you see?”

“I don’t know. Those shrubs in the meadow look like Blackthorn bushes. I had to get rid of some near the house last summer; they have nasty thorns. Not sure I’d expect to find that many of them bunched together in the middle of the woods.”

“Why not?”

Eric squinted in the direction of the meadow. “They’re pretty common, but those look like they’re in a pattern of some kind.” He shuddered at the thought of such a lovely scene being the site of a mass burial. “Come over here and take a look at them from this angle.”

Richard walked over to Eric. “I see what you mean. The outer ones almost seem to form a circle. Too perfect to be random growth?”

Eric tried counting the shrubs. “Hard telling, but that would be my guess.” Eric’s gut told him this was it—the women were resting in the meadow, buried under the Blackthorns.
Wilson’s private cemetery.
His chest tightened with a sickening dread of what they’d find underneath the thorny branches. “Let’s try digging below one of the smaller ones.”

He drove down into the meadow, the trailer behind his vehicle bouncing noisily behind him on the rough terrain. When they reached the meadow, Richard asked, “Sure you’re okay with this?”

Eric sat on the ATV, wondering if he were close to Kayla.

Richard offered, “I can do this, Eric. Why don’t you wait back at the house with Claire?” Richard jumped off the ATV and stood next to the smallest bush. There’d been rain the last few days, making the ground spongy and easily tilled by the spade he retrieved from the trailer. After he lifted out the first few shovelfuls of soil, he repeated, “Sure you want to do this?”

Eric, standing at Richard’s side holding a spade of his own,
wasn’t
sure. It was one thing to be looking for graves, but the fact that one of them could be the resting place of his missing wife was something else. But he’d known what he was getting into—had gone looking for it—done everything in his power to make this day happen. He started digging beside Richard. The fresh smell of the disturbed soil filled his nostrils, sickening him as if the scent were that of rotting flesh.

The bush itself came out easily, its spidery roots trailing a scent of hewn earth that reminded him of hunting night crawlers as a kid. But the ground was frozen once they got down about a foot. They unzipped their jackets and continued to work their way into the hardened soil. Forty minutes later, about two feet into the ground, Richard’s spade hit something solid. They carefully exposed a heavy, green plastic tub about five feet long, the kind kept on patios to store things like cushions and gardening implements.

Richard tossed the shovel aside.

Eric said, “Open it.”

“We can’t open it. If it’s what we think it is we might compromise the evidence. It’s time to call the local authorities.” Richard took out his phone and dialed the number of the county sheriff he’d talked to the day before.

“This is Detective Richard Conlin from the Milwaukee Police Department. I talked to you yesterday about the former Morehouse land. We’re on the property now.”

Eric couldn’t hear what the other person said, but Richard’s next words were, “I think we found them. If we did, I’m guessing there’s at least twenty, maybe more. They appear to be marked with Blackthorn bushes. It’s getting dark fast. I’m not sure we can do much more tonight.” He paused, listening. “No, We can’t do any more here until a forensic team arrives. I’ll call in to my people; they’ll get the state crime scene techs to come out.” Then in response to something said on the other end, “We don’t want a media blitz, so keep it quiet. Bring tape and lights. We’ll keep watch until the experts get here, however long it takes.”

Richard closed the phone. “He’s coming over to see what we have. I need to make a couple more calls. Why don’t you go back to that motel we saw in town and check us in. Unless you want to stay here at the house.”

“Sleep here?” Eric shook his head. “No way. I’ll make the arrangements for us at the motel, but I’ll be back. I’m not leaving this spot until they’re all brought up. It’s the least I can do.”

Six days later the exhumations were completed and every inch of the grounds examined. The bodies, which James had carefully wrapped in heavy quilts before placing them in their coffin-like plastic tubs, were transported to the state crime lab for identification.

Milwaukee’s new Chief of Police had stayed in constant touch with the process, and thanks to Richard and the group, submitted the names and photos of the women they assumed to be the victims. The formal ID process, once started, would take weeks to complete.

Because of a four-karat, emerald-cut diamond ring, Kayla Schindler was the first to be tentatively identified. The ring, along with the designer dress she’d been wearing the night she disappeared, cinched the ID for Eric, but the authorities were still awaiting conclusive DNA evidence before making a positive ID. With the discovery of her body among the others, there was no doubt that Kayla’s death had been at the hand of the same perpetrator.

Lisa walked into Bernstein’s office for a scheduled appointment. Sitting across from him in a recliner—but not reclining—Lisa told him what she’d done. “My problem is, I’m not feeling guilty about it. For days, I even felt proud of having pulled it off.”

“Lisa, as you know, I’m not required to report a crime you have committed as long as I’m certain that you are not a danger to yourself or anyone else.” He paused and tented his fingertips together, touching the joined index fingers to his lips.  “That said, I don’t believe you are either of those things, but if at any point I feel differently, then I won’t be able to retain your confidence.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t have to give you the technical jargon I would another patient. You’re aware of how this could affect you. I will remind you though that not everyone in your circumstances experiences PTSD. The fact that you haven’t, and possibly never will, does not make you a bad person.”

Lisa winced.

“Do you feel that you’ve become a bad person?”

“No, I believe what I did saved the lives of many more women.”

“Yes, it very well might have. But that would lead us to a discussion of the pros and cons of vigilantism, wouldn’t it?”

Lisa paused for a moment. “In the eyes of the law, vigilantism is never permissible. But we both know it’s often overlooked—unprosecuted.”

“That’s true. But if you’ve come here for approval—or absolution, you’re in the wrong place. Have you considered talking to a priest? Making a confession?

“I’ve never found answers or taken comfort in organized religion. I believe that God is forgiving—and understanding.”

He studied her. “We aren’t here for theological discussion or debate. I believe the fact that you aren’t agonizing over this goes to your inner strength—your faith in your own morality.

“I’m not sure yet exactly why, but I believe part of your decision to eliminate Mr. Wilson goes back to your hatred for Lawrence—your plans for
him
. It’s possible that a part of you felt cheated when you didn’t have to carry it out.”

Lisa’s mind drifted back in time.
Lawrence.

He went on, “I also feel that the support of your friends has been essential to you, and will continue to be.”

“But not all of them know about it. Only TJ.” Lisa frowned. “It bothers me that I haven’t been able to tell Eric.”

“Is your reluctance to tell him based on wanting to protect him from this knowledge, or is it fear that what you’ve done may hamper his feelings toward you?”

“Both, I’m afraid.”

More than thirty days after the trip to Mellen, Detective Richard Conlin received the final report. All but two of the bodies had been on the group’s list. Only one had yet to be identified. After he finished reading, he picked up the phone.

When Lisa answered, Richard said he wanted to see her. She pretended to check her schedule, trying to ignore her racing pulse. Was today the day she’d be arrested?

She said, “I’m busy today, but I have time from noon to one.”

“That works for me. I’ll bring lunch.”

Lisa hung up the phone, her tension dissipated. He’d hardly be bringing lunch to someone he was going to arrest.

They ate the tacos he brought sitting across from each other in the conference room. Richard seemed amiable enough, and when they finished eating, he opened a battered leather briefcase and took out a file-folder. “This is the final report—I thought you’d like to see it. All the bodies except one have been identified.” As he handed it to her, he said, “I’ve never apologized to you.”

“For what?”

“That first day you came to my office—I didn’t believe you.”

“There wasn’t anything substantial to convince you with at the time. The decision not to open a case based on the statistics hadn’t been yours to make.” It was easy to be gracious now that everything was settled, the bodies identified, their killer dead.

Lisa opened the folder, curious why he’d brought it to her rather than to all of them. She read through it, feeling a sense of satisfaction that their work had been the catalyst leading to the identification of the women. Her sense of accomplishment melted into disquietude as she realized whose name was missing—Jamie Denison. She looked up from the folder and saw sadness in Richard Conlin’s eyes. Now she understood his visit. “You want me to tell TJ.”