“Yeah, me too,” said Adams. “Just to be on the safe side, can I read Sorenson’s file?”
“You bet. I’ve got her right here. Copy whatever you want. Like some java?”
“Sure, black.”
Adams picked up the Sorenson file, found an empty desk, and sat down with the rather thin manila folder. Inside the folder were the usual police workup sheets, a fresh Polaroid snapshot of the crime scene showing the grotesquely contorted body of a youngish, white male lying amid a jumble of bicycle parts and wheels. The body was soaked in blood. Whoever committed the crime had used ammunition large enough to have blown Bill Sorenson apart.
To Adams, who had seen many crime scenes, this did not look like a bungled robbery attempt. Robbers will kill and run. Whoever did this stayed to finish the job. In addition, none of Sorenson’s fellow shopkeepers reported hearing gunfire. Bullets big enough to cause this much carnage had to make a lot of noise. Unless, of course, the killer had a professionally manufactured silencer.
Whoever killed Sorenson wanted him dead. Adams saw that Sorenson had been married and made a note to visit his widow.
Wilkinson returned with the coffee in two Styrofoam cups. He sat down across the desk from Adams. The coffee was a little bitter, like it was the dregs of the pot, but the warm fluid felt good to the parched FBI agent.
“Any chance I can see the crime scene?” said Adams.
“No problem, we can go in my car if you want.”
“Thanks, but I have to go on from there. Why don’t you lead the way?”
“Okay, let me get my coat.”
Adams followed Wilkinson up Hennepin Avenue to Franklin Street to the Lake of the Isle Bicycle Repair Shop. The shop had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene plastic tape. The forensic people had already come and gone and a lone police officer leaned against the door to the shop.
As Wilkinson came to a stop in front of the store, the police guard stood upright and straightened his uniform. Adams brought his car to a stop immediately behind the detective’s unmarked Chevrolet Caprice. Wilkinson walked up to the police officer, with Adams right behind him.
“Hi. This is Special Agent Herb Adams of the FBI. He’d like to take a look in Mr. Sorenson’s shop,” said Wilkinson to the officer standing at the door.
“Hello, Officer,” said Adams as he shook the policeman’s hand.
Inside the shop, Adams found pretty much what he expected to see, a typical homicide scene. He wondered why he thought he would have found anything different. In real life, however, the extent of the carnage was far more extensive than the small Polaroid could ever hope to depict. The heavy, distinct smell of blood permeated throughout the small shop, along with the smell of metal and oil. The hot humid Minnesota summer afternoon did little to stave off the smell of death in this store.
After walking through the shop and noting the position of the chalked outline of a body on the floor, a grim faced Adams walked out into the sunlight.
“Did Sorenson indicate that he had any enemies?” said Adams.
“No one except maybe that Tim fellow that I mentioned in my InfoNet report,” said Pete.
“Do you have anything more on this Tim?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks a lot. I’d consider this matter closed.”
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said Adams, as he displayed his identification and gold badge through the narrow opening in the door. “I’d like to ask Mrs. Sorenson some questions.”
“Look, my sister has answered all the questions the Minneapolis police have asked her, can’t you leave her alone at a time like this?”
“Believe me; I would not intrude unless I had to. I really need to talk to Mrs. Sorenson.”
“What the hell do you feds want anyway?”
From the other room, a woman said, “Let him in.”
With that, the young man unlatched the safety chain and opened the door for Adams. A young, pretty, but hard-looking woman with bleached blond hair, probably no older than twenty-one, came into the living room of the one-bedroom apartment. She wore a sweatshirt much too large for her small frame and stone washed-dungarees. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red and her mascara had run from crying. She held a tissue in one hand.
“I’m LuEllen Sorenson,” said the woman between sniffles. “This is my older brother, Jon, please excuse him. He was just trying to help.”
“No problem, Mrs. Sorenson. I’m really sorry to intrude at a time like this. But we have to follow up on a report that your husband made yesterday to the Minneapolis police.”
“That detective, Mr. Wilkinson, asked me about the report yesterday,” said LuEllen. “I just don’t know anything about that. It isn’t like Bill at all.”
“Was he upset about anything recently?”
“Yes, something he wouldn’t talk about. But he seemed to have snapped out of it in the afternoon.”
“Do you know a Tim?”
“Detective Wilkinson asked me that too. I don’t know any Tim. Do you know if he had any friends named Tim, Jon?” LuEllen asked her brother.
“No.”
“How long were you married to Bill Sorenson?” Adams said.
“We were married two years last June.”
“Forgive me if I ask too many personal questions, Mrs. Sorenson. How long did you know your husband before you were married?”
“I met him about a year before we were married, during the picnic that me and a bunch of my girlfriends had near the volleyball field on Lake of the Isle to celebrate graduating from Southwest High School. While we were having our lunch, one of the girls, you know how they get, saw Bill sitting by himself just looking at the lake. She went right up to him and asked if he wouldn’t join us. Real shy, kind of nice looking, you know. Later on, when we went to Valley Fair, Bill went with.”
“When did you start to date him seriously?”
“That fall Bill just sort of fell in with our crowd and we got kind of real close. Bill proposed on New Year’s eve, real romantic like.”
“How well do you know his family?”
“Bill was born in Illinois, his daddy died in Vietnam and his momma sort of lost touch after she left Bill with his grandparents.”
“Are his grandparents still alive?”
“No, they both passed on about a year before we met.”
“Have you ever met his mother?”
“No, Bill lost touch with her after his daddy’s death. Why is this important?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sorenson. We just have to ask all sorts of questions to try to find out what happened to your husband. One final question. Do you have a copy of his birth certificate?”
“Sure do,” said LuEllen as she went to a small end table next to the couch and started looking through it. “Here it is.”
“Thank you,” responded Adams.
The birth certificate was issued for William Edward Sorenson, born January 12, 1967, in Rosston, Illinois.
“Mrs. Sorenson, do you mind if I borrowed this for a while?” Adams said calmly, hiding his obvious surprise to see Rosston appearing once again.
“If it will help. Can you make sure I get it back?”
“Absolutely, I’ll make sure of that myself.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Sorenson. I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Do you think you’ll get the guy who killed my Bill?”
“We’ll do our best.”
With that LuEllen sat down on the couch clutching a photograph of Bill Sorenson and started sobbing quietly. Her brother sat down next to her and held his sister close. He looked up hostilely at Adams.
“Are you through now?”
“Yes, I’ll let myself out the front door.”