The I-94 Murders Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Frank F. Weber

  Front and back cover photo © Xsperience Photography

  Cover Design: Elizabeth Dwyer

  Author Photo © Brenda Weber

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-68201-093-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This project was made possible by a grant provided by the Five Wings Arts Council, with funds from the McKnight foundation.

  First Edition: September 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  North Star Press of St. Cloud

  19485 Estes Rd

  Clearwater, MN 55320

  www.northstarpress.com

  Dedications:

  To my wife Brenda: When we first met, I thought you were a beautiful and insightful teenager with a gracious heart. I felt that if I could be part of your life, I would be a happy man. Today I see you as a beautiful and insightful woman, with a gracious heart, and have the satisfaction of knowing this was something I was right about.

  To my parents, Rosetta and Leo Weber, Rod and Janet Brixius (After years of marriage, your in-laws become your parents too.): I have the utmost respect for each of you, as you’ve traveled a path before me, that I would be wise to learn from. As my journey covers more of your tracks, the learning is easier (I get it), and my admiration for you grows.

  Tiffany Lundgren: Thank you for your perceptive understanding of people, your creativity, and the sincere honesty with which you work with me. As a writer (and perhaps for anyone), it’s important to have a friend who has my best interests at heart, yet doesn’t hesitate to disagree. It is appreciated!

  The Beginning

  YESONIA HARTMAN, SIXTEEN

  9:30 P.M., SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2015,

  BUCKMAN, MINNESOTA

  FALL WAS THE WORST TIME to have a sinus infection, and my misery was not going over well with my seventeen-year-old sister. Leah had a big night planned with some guy she’d been talking to online, and she wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame her, but I couldn’t move without my head hurting. Leah was being such a bitch about it. We shared a bedroom, so I agreed to lock myself in the room for the night and not make a sound. Our parents were out with friends at the Bottoms Up Saloon. I called it the “twerk bar,” but my humor was lost on them.

  Leah could afford to be a bitch, as people described her as a young Sophia Vergara, while I, on the other hand, was nicknamed “Sony,” and compared to a flat-screen television. Older boys had been after Leah since she was eleven, and she had fallen so hard for the last one she humiliated both of us by sending him a topless picture of herself. Our parents would freak if they knew boys were now sending it around. If that’s what she had to do to get a guy, what am I going to have to do? And she was the one who was mature enough to have a cell phone. It wasn’t fair.

  As crappy as I felt, I wasn’t going to miss creeping on Leah’s first meeting with Cully for anything. I was upstairs, so I crawled next to the banister. If I’d lie on my stomach, I could see down into the living room without being seen.

  Leah was primping in a small mirror in the entry hallway—all chocolate brown hair and smooth, caramel-colored skin. Her simple beige dress contrasted with her colorful personality and the bright, but naïve optimism with which she entered relationships. There was nothing understated about her eye makeup. Her signature cat eye involved the use of Kat Von D’s raven black, super-thick, winged eyeliner. Leah had amazing hazel eyes—dark brown from our Mexican-American mother and emerald green from our German father, splayed out in concentric circles—which she knew was her best feature. Mine, of course, were just a faded brown.

  Over the next twenty minutes, I watched Leah text away on her cell phone, with no apparent reply. She was on crutches, due to a torn ACL. She had a large blue wrap from her ankle to her thigh that was supposed to keep her leg motionless. It was a bit of an ordeal, then, when she periodically got up and glanced out the window. After repeated trips to the window, Leah finally accepted she’d been stood up. Irritated she sought solace on the couch.

  Buckman was a town one square mile in area. There were about fifty houses, which meant our house number, 27222, had more than 27,000 unnecessary digits. My eyelids were getting heavy, but as I hoisted myself up to go in our room, I had to tease my sister a little. It’s an unwritten rule. She hated it when I sang my revamped version of “Please Come to Boston.” Because of that, I deliberately crooned, “Please come to Buckman for the springtime. You can sell your sweet corn on the sidewalk. And tan at a gas station where I’ll be working soon …”

  Potato chips tumbled to the floor as Leah scrambled for a shoe to throw at me. She yelled in warning, “You better hope I don’t catch you!”

  When I saw she was half crying, I felt badly and apologized, “I’m sorry—I …” Realizing nothing I could say would comfort her, my voice trailed off. I got up and retreated to our bedroom. After first slamming the door to let her know I was in the room, I quietly reopened it—just in case. The front of my forehead throbbed in protest of my movements, so I collapsed on my bed and pulled a pillow over my eyes.

  I must have drifted off, but I woke to hear Leah talking to someone downstairs. She was asking impatiently, “Why don’t you just step where I can see you?”

  I pulled the pillow from my eyes, and strained to hear the exchange. The voice of whoever she was talking to was muffled, so I could barely make out him saying, “My phone battery froze, so I didn’t get your texts. What do I need to do to prove to you that I’m Cully?” I realized the discussion was being held through our locked front door.

  Leah remained silent.

  I silently slid off my bed and snuck back to my prone position next to the banister, peering downstairs. Could a phone battery freeze at thirty-four degrees?

  He spoke again, “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know. You tore your ACL dancing in front of the mirror.” In spite of the searing sinus pain through my head, I had to giggle over that. Leah had told everyone she had been trying a rock climbing maneuver.

  Her hand was on the doorknob of the still-closed door, and she leaned her forehead against the door.

  He continued, “You wanted to play volleyball in college, but being five-six, and now having a torn ACL, you feel that’s shot. You told me you had two chances—slim and fat—and now you have none. You weighed 125 before the injury, but now you weigh 136.”

  Leah jerked her head back indignantly, “One thirty-five. I’m sure I said one thirty-five!”

  “Okay, what else? You secretly hope your volleyball team loses in your absence.”

  “Shhhh,” Leah shushed him. She turned around and leaned her back against the door, arms crossed. She turned her face toward the door and suggested, “Tell me about you.”

  “I hate talking about me—you know that.” After thirty seconds of silence, Cully confessed, “Okay. My dad’s in prison. My mom’s been with a dozen guys who rub her like a bad stain before they completely wash her from their lives. I spend my free time hacking into people’s computers and reading about their lives, because my life sucks.”

  I groaned inwardly. This is getting pathetic. But I think I’d still let him in. He’s got to be telling the truth. Who’d lie about that?

  In an apparent concession, Leah’s arms dropped to her sides; she turned again, and her fingers curled tentatively around the doorknob.

  “Look, I’ll go,” Cully offered. “I just want you to know you’re beautiful. And soon you’ll resume an active lifestyle, with a new appreciation of the freedom of unrestrained movem
ent.”

  I shook my head gently, careful not to stir up my sinuses. Wow. Girl, let the boy in. I guess this guy wasn’t a big enough loser to make her roster.

  Suddenly, Leah smoothed her hair and reached for the deadbolt on the door as she turned the knob already in her hand. I heard it snick open.

  CRASH! Before I had a chance to smile, our front door blasted open, and Leah went flying backward to the floor. A heavy man landed on top of her and straddled her quickly before she could react. I tried getting up, but I felt frozen in place. Leah winced in pain as she reached for her injured knee. He struck her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

  My headache was pulsing in earnest now and, as if in sympathy with Leah, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to yell for him to stop, but only a barely audible whine left my constricted throat and went unnoticed.

  Leah fought back with a resilience that made me proud of her. Cully pulled his weight up for a moment and slammed her to the floor. Dazed, Leah moaned in pain. Tears of helplessness began flowing, creating trickles of winged eyeliner from her eyes to her ears.

  Instead of conceding, Leah rallied and elbowed him in the face with the raging scream of a warrior. When he raised his body to slam her once again, she quickly squirmed out from under him. Crawling on her hands and her one good knee, her blue-wrapped stiff leg clunking awkwardly behind her, Leah managed to escape his grasp. But Cully caught up with her and tackled her hard, face down, and pummeled her in the kidney with his fist. Then he turned her over, and held her wrists to the floor. He was now firmly in control.

  Panting from exertion, he laughed as he told her, “My name is Culhwch, pronounced Cull-lock in Scotland, but in America we’ll say Cul-witch.”

  Their wrestling had landed them so Culhwch was facing away from me. I dug deep and got myself on my feet. I began slowly and silently working my way down the steps, my eyes riveted on my sister and this monster, with no idea what I’d do once I reached them. Searing pain ripped through my skull when I moved, forcing me to sit.

  He grasped her chin to hold her focus. “Just to be clear, you’re not telling anybody about this, because I have all those topless pictures of you, and I’ll make sure your parents and everyone in your church youth group gets them if you say a word.” His head turned my way ever so slightly, so I froze in place. He focused on her once again.

  “But you were so nice to me,” Leah whimpered. I wanted to hold her head in my lap and gently soothe her, like Mom did when we were little.

  Cully laughed at her, “I Googled, ‘What do you say to someone who’s lost a lover?’ I found, ‘I wish I had the right words. Just know I care. I can’t tell you how to feel, but I’ll listen.’”

  How humiliating. I felt sick for Leah. I took a few more steps down the stairs, praying I wouldn’t hit the one that creaked and had given us away since we were little. The pain in my head once again compelled me to sit back down.

  Bewildered with shock, Leah asked, “Why me?”

  Cully bragged as he continued to pin her arms to the floor, “I went through hundreds of profiles and cut it down by attractiveness, neediness, willingness to put out for a guy, and it all came down to you.”

  He smirked brazenly, “My process is similar to how people steal cars today. People don’t hotwire cars, anymore—they haven’t been able to do that since 2000. Instead, they search cars until they find one with a hidden set of keys on the frame—typically hidden under the driver’s-side wheel well.” His laugh was low and sinister. “You were available and easy.”

  My experience arguing with Leah told me her blood was boiling, and she was about to say something stupid. I silently prayed she wouldn’t. Her gaze shifted past his face, and she locked eyes with me. She shook her head slightly, her eyes warning me off. Then, with venom in her voice, Leah spat, “And now you’re going to get your ass kicked by a one-legged girl!” She valiantly scratched and hit, until he got his hands around her throat. Soon, he was choking the life out of her!

  An unrelenting rage overtook him, and he unleashed it on Leah. I didn’t have the power to stop him.

  Leah’s panicked resistance just seemed to anger him further, and he tightened his grip. After a torturous minute or two, her ferocity dwindled to a stop. Her good leg stilled. I watched helplessly, feeling that, not only had I abandoned her, but life was now abandoning her, too.

  My head swam with agony and, feeling weak, I clung to the spindles as I stood. Instead of coming to Leah’s rescue, I retreated back up the stairs. Carelessly, I stepped on the damn creaking step.

  Culhwch glanced up, but before turning my way, he caught his own reflection in the living room window. He suddenly pulled his hands away from Leah, as if they were burned by the flesh on her neck. What did he see? He was staring intently at his own reflection in the window. When he turned in my direction, I was out of his line of sight, again lying flat on the floor at the top of the steps.

  I could see Leah’s carefully applied makeup was smeared about her face like dirt, but she was still sadly pretty. I urged her in my mind, C’mon Leah. I’ll never argue with you again. I promise. The miserable pig of a man was still sitting on her still body. Suddenly, Leah started coughing and gasping for air, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. She was alive, but now she was scared to death.

  Cully mercilessly howled at his good fortune and taunted her, “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” Using both hands on either side of her head, he pushed himself clumsily to his feet and stood over her. He lecherously grunted, “I need a souvenir. You told me your dad has a gun. I’ll let you go if you tell me where it is; then I’m going to leave, but the gun better damn well be there, or our evening isn’t over.”

  Leah lay as vulnerable as a lamb. It was clear from her expression she truly feared her life was about to end. Her bruised voice choked out, “It’s in my parents’ bedroom. There’s a compartment in the headboard.”

  Hell. That’s exactly where the gun was.

  Leah glanced over at her cell phone on the floor and, for a moment, I had a sickening fear she was about to risk going for it.

  Cully warned her, “If you tell anyone about tonight, I swear I will find you and finish this—even if it’s years from now. Do you understand?”

  Leah nodded tearfully. Cully noticed Leah’s cellphone on the floor, and snatched it up as he left the room.

  I scrambled downstairs to Leah’s side. Since she was in no shape to run, I helped her up and, with her arm around my neck, she was able to hobble up the stairs. We moved as quickly as she could with her wounded leg and beaten body, fearing what would happen when he returned with that gun. Once inside our bedroom, we pushed a dresser against the door, hoping it would keep him at bay. We slid to the floor and clung to each other behind the dresser, waiting for the jolt of Cully ramming the door. Instead, we heard the porch door close as he left the house.

  I touched her cheek gently, as it was already discoloring with bruises, and looked Leah in the eyes. I urged, “We need to call the police.”

  Leah painfully pulled my hand from her face, and gripped it ferociously. She urged, “You have to promise me you will never tell anyone about this—he will kill me! And if Mom and Dad and everyone at church gets those damn pictures of me, that’ll be way worse than tonight. Please, Sonia, let it be over,” she breathed painfully. “If the neighbor asks, say it was some guy looking for Trail’s Edge”—Buckman’s one-stop shop for food, fuel, liquor, hair styling, and tanning.

  “But your face and neck—you’re already bruising. Someone’s going to notice you’ve been beaten up!”

  Leah smiled sadly, “That’s what makeup is for, Sonia.”

  Feeling cowardly, I reluctantly agreed to stay silent. I commented, “He’s lucky I didn’t have that gun.”

  There’s a shadow on the ground,

  So the sun must still be there.

  No one’s lost that can’t be found,

  By someone, somewhere.

  Jerry Riopelle
>
  1

  JON FREDERICK

  10:05 P.M., THURSDAY, APRIL 13, 2017,

  MINNEAPOLIS

  THE ARTIFICIAL LIGHTING on the storefronts in Minneapolis couldn’t distract from the eeriness of its bitter-cold darkness. The city was a ghost town tonight—cars lined a street devoid of people, and wisps of steam escaped from manhole covers, evaporating into nothingness. I turned the heat up in my car in an effort to stop the chill, but the arctic wind wouldn’t be denied.

  My apartment was cold, empty, and dark when I entered. I’d had this fantasy, for three months, of opening the door of my fifteenth-floor apartment to find Serena there with our daughter, Nora. When Serena walked out with Nora, the best part of me left, too. I’d become exactly what I never wanted to be—a part-time father. The last census, in 2010, was the first time fewer than half of American children were living with both their biological parents—it’s dropped to forty-eight percent, and now I was contributing to that decline.

  My Nora’s a beautiful, curly-haired and maybe a little over-inflated, two-year-old. I think of her as my little scientist, as she’s always questioning and experimenting. She’s like most toddlers, with more confidence than wisdom. Nora is very active, which is enjoyable, but exhausting by the end of the day. Still, it was hard to be away from her. Her mother, Serena, is a petite, brunette beauty. Serena had been a victim of a brutal assault, and the assailant had been killed. She and I were engaged, and we both wanted to marry, but she wanted to work through her trauma, first. She was recovering, and we were planning our wedding. Then her progress suddenly eroded, and Serena took our daughter to our hometown of Pierz, and moved into a house recently built by her parents.

  I’m an investigator for the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension—otherwise known as the BCA. The BCA handles all the homicide and kidnapping cases in Minnesota, similar to the manner in which the FBI handles cases that cross state lines. I work out of the St. Paul office, so the distance between us doesn’t allow me to see Nora during the week, but I’m always with her on my days off. Whenever I can, I’d pick Nora up and take her to my parents (who also live in Pierz), so I don’t have to waste any of my time with her in travel. It’s an absolute heart-breaker for me when we’re playing and she gets bumped, as she typically says, “I want Mom.” I could never take her away from Serena. I just wanted more time with her.