“Why would the newspaper report who attended the funeral?” Pam asked.
“There wasn’t a lot of news that week,” Floyd replied, “and this is a small town.”
“Why are you interested in the Solstad funeral and accident?”
“I haven’t got anything specific other than a nagging feeling in the back of my head,” Floyd said. “Having more information is better than not having enough. Sometimes you find a nugget that ties to something else when you put all the pieces together.”
“Do you want me to do anything more with Mark Roberts’ truck logs?” Pam asked.
“Put them into the file. Knowing that he lied about being out of town when Aaron disappeared is probably enough information for now.” Floyd got up and washed his coffee cup. “I’ll head over to the library and see what Brenda found.”
Floyd parked downtown and walked the few blocks to the library, nodding to people he met on the street. One old man stopped him to ask about the annual sheriff’s auction of seized and abandoned goods. The rainwater had evaporated from the street in the afternoon sun and the humidity was nearly 100 %. Floyd arrived at the library hot and sweaty.
“Hi, Brenda!” He said to the librarian who was sitting behind the counter studying a computer screen.
“Hi, Floyd,” Brenda said when she saw him approach the reference desk. “I sent the Des Moines Register’s website a request for a search. Their archives are on microfilm and it’ll take them awhile to search and send me a copy of the article. A copy of the funeral article from the Pine City Pioneer is on the counter.”
Floyd picked up a grainy photocopy that had apparently been made from the microfilm machine. He read through the description of the tragic loss of Ken Solstad and a summary of Reverend Johnson’s eulogy. He quickly scanned the names of the attendees. Included were Kathy Tucker, Mike Nelson, Betsy Ring, Sue Roberts, and Karen and Alex Solstad. Significantly absent were Melissa Smith and her parents. The arrangements had been made through the Johnson-Bradshaw Mortuary.
“Floyd, Des Moines just e-mailed a copy of the article.” Brenda pushed back from her computer and stood so Floyd could read her computer screen.
The copy was also grainy with an article only three inches long on the obituary page of The Des Moines Register dated December 12, 1998.
A Minnesota man was killed yesterday in a head-on crash on I-35 south of Des Moines. The Iowa state patrol reported that the driver apparently lost control of his vehicle and crossed the median, striking a semi driven by Nancy Bennett of Charles City, Iowa. The semi driver reported that the victim’s car drifted slowly across the median and into her path and she was unable to avoid the collision. The highway patrol reported that the victim was ejected from his vehicle upon impact. The State Patrol spokesman said the driver may have fallen asleep. The identity of the victim is being withheld pending notification of relatives.
“You must’ve used some tricks to find this,” Floyd said. “It doesn’t mention Ken’s name anywhere.”
Brenda’s face beamed. “We librarians have ways of digging out information. That’s why they keep us around.”
“Can you print a copy of this for me?”
Brenda leaned over and clicked a few keys. Within seconds the printer whirred and the page started printing. “Will this help with the investigation?”
“I never know what will help,” Floyd replied. “I just know that the things I don’t get copies of are the things that I always want later.”
Brenda pulled the paper off the printer and handed it to Floyd. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“If you can figure out where Aaron Roberts has been for the past fifteen years I’d really appreciate a call.”
Brenda shook her head. “I suspect that he’s somewhere in the hundred-square-miles of swamp and bog around here. That’s what I find creepy about Pine County, a killer could drag a body ten yards off a road and it might never be found.”
“Luckily, most killers aren’t that smart.”
“How would you know, Floyd?” Brenda asked playfully. “You only know about the ones you arrest.”
“Oh, I know.”
CHAPTER 36
Kathy Tucker registered the sound of the kitchen door somewhere in her subconscious. It wormed its way into her dream, making her sleep restless and light. She squirmed under the sheet and rolled onto her side facing the window. A slight movement in the room caused the thin curtains to move in front of the open window and the movement of air combined with the subconscious recognition of the sound of denim jeans rubbing together brought her fully awake.
“Who’s there?” she croaked.
“Time for paybacks.”
Kathy reacted too slowly to the strange voice. She turned her head in time to see the motion from the corner of her eye, but not fast enough to bring her arm up to deflect the blow that struck her ribs. The air rushed from her lungs followed by the searing pain of broken ribs. Before she could clutch her ribs and gather her wits a second blow hit the point of her shoulder. Unable to catch her breath enough to whimper, much less cry out in pain, she tucked her head and covered it with her free arm.
A hand ripped the sheet away, exposing her naked body. “Mouthy bitch!” More blows rained on her hips, arms, and legs. The attacker grunted with each swing of the baseball bat. Before he’d spent his anger, Kathy lapsed into oblivion.
Floyd rolled over in bed and picked up the phone on the second ring. “Swenson.”
“This is dispatch. We’ve got an assault in Hinckley. Kathy Tucker is on her way to the Sandstone Hospital. Kerm Rajacich is on the scene and he requested you.”
Floyd looked at the glowing numerals on the clock, which indicated 5:12 AM. “Who called it in?”
“Kathy Tucker called for an ambulance. Kerm responded ahead of the ambulance and found Kathy badly beaten, lying on the kitchen floor next to the phone.”
“Tell Kerm I’m on my way.”
Floyd pulled on a pair of jeans, then slipped on a windbreaker to cover the holster he’d clipped to his belt. He dialed Dan Williams on his cellphone when he reached I-35. “Somebody beat up Kathy Tucker,” he reported to the undersheriff and gave him the address.
Hinckley was just starting to awaken as Floyd sped off the interstate and wound the narrow city streets to Kathy Tucker’s house. He could see the flashing lights reflecting off house windows and lighting the leaves on the trees from blocks away. When he pulled to a stop there were already a half-dozen neighbors standing on the sidewalk in bathrobes and slippers.
“Did any of you hear anything?” Floyd asked as he walked toward the house.
“Nothing,” the man closest replied. “Not till the sirens came.”
Floyd ducked under the crime scene tape strung between two trees in the front yard.
Kerm Rajacich was standing at the bedroom door taking pictures when Floyd walked into the small house. Floyd looked over Kerm’s broad shoulders at the bedroom. Bloody sheets lay crumpled on the bed and floor, and blood splattered the walls. A smeared trail of blood crossed the small bedroom and led down the hallway.
“My God,” Floyd said. “How bad is Kathy?”
Kerm stopped snapping pictures and looked away from the scene of carnage. “Somehow it’s easier to look at through the viewfinder. It doesn’t seem so enormous or so personal.” He took a deep breath. “She’s bad. If any normal person had taken a beating like that they would’ve been dead. Kathy’s in great physical shape, so she may have fared better. Even at that, she’s got a bunch of broken bones and a lot of contusions. I can’t believe she was able to drag herself to the kitchen to call 911.”
“Was she coherent?” Floyd asked.