She took a deep breath and let it out.
“I asked the unis to get Wayne Haas,” she said. “I’m not telling him this. I can’t. You have to.”
“All the lights and sirens, and he hasn’t come out on his own?”
“Bobby told me he went to bed early because he wasn’t feeling well.”
“I should sleep so hard,” Kovac said. “If my neighbor doesn’t stop banging on his roof in the mornings, I’ll take a hammer to him.”
Liska wasn’t listening to him. She looked up at the sky and shook her head. “Oh, God…”
“It’s because he’s a kid,” Kovac said quietly. “That’s too close to home.”
“You know, I really wanted to feel sorry for him,” she said. “I did feel sorry for him. The poor, motherless child.”
“I don’t know if Bobby Haas was ever a child.”
“Maybe that was the problem.”
“And maybe he had three sixes branded on the back of his head,” Kovac said. “Don’t try to figure it out, Tinks. There’s a reason that’s not our job.”
They couldn’t do it. The toll was too heavy emotionally, and emotion took away objectivity, and one thing a detective absolutely had to be was objective.
Hypocrite, he thought.
One of the forensics people stuck her head out of the garage. “Detectives, I think you need to come see this.
“Becker took the stuff out of the briefcase to inventory,” she explained. “This is pretty scary.”
Inside the garage, Kovac looked over the items that had been spread across the workbench-Carey’s files having to do withTheState v. Karl Dahl. The papers she had been taking home to look at over the weekend. All of it was wet and stinking.
“Jesus, he pissed on it!” he said with disgust.
Liska had moved on to the rest of it. “Oh, my God…” she whispered. “Sam…”
All neatly contained in Ziploc bags: a journal; two clear four-pocket plastic sheets holding photos of Bobby with his father-playing catch, fishing, being happy; half a dozen large Ziploc plastic bags with newspaper clippings in them, organized by month.
MINNEAPOLIS MASSACRE
GRUESOME HOMICIDES SHAKE QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD
CRIME SCENE“A BLOODBATH”ACCORDING TO DETECTIVES
DRIFTER ACCUSED IN BRUTAL SLAYINGS
Kovac found the clippings only slightly weird and creepy. It wasn’t unheard of for loved ones of homicide victims to keep track of the case in the media.
Then came the final, smaller plastic bag.
The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and a sudden cold sweat misted his skin.
“Holy God…”
Liska looked over at him. “What is it?”
In a case like the Haas murders, the detectives often kept certain details of the crime secret from the public, details only the killer would know. It helped them weed out the crackpots who always came out of the woodwork to confess to heinous crimes in a sick attempt to gain attention.
Kovac held that secret up to the light.
“Oh, Jesus!”
Perfectly preserved, vacuum sealed on a single sheet together, side by side by side-largest to smallest-the right thumbs of Marlene Haas, and Brittany and Ashton Pratt.
“Jesus H.,” Kovac breathed. “Karl Dahl didn’t do it.”
The irony was bitter. Stan Dempsey had ruined his career and his sanity trying to see Karl Dahl convicted of the Haas homicides. He had been so convinced of Dahl’s guilt. Everyone had. The strange drifter with a record of sexually oriented crimes-relatively minor crimes, but just the same… He’d known the victims. He’d been seen going into the victims’ home on the day of the murders. He’d had no alibi. When he’d been arrested, Karl Dahl had been in possession of a necklace that belonged to Marlene Haas.
It had to be Dahl. No one wanted to think their neighbor or their mailman or their meter reader could be capable of the atrocities committed on Marlene and her foster children. No one would even have considered the boy next door.
The killer had had to be Karl Dahl. Dahl had been arrested, indicted, would likely have been convicted. Case closed.
Instead, Dahl’s arrest had triggered a terrible series of events. Dahl had escaped jail, murdered two women, and abducted a third. Carey Moore had been forced to kill Stan Dempsey out of fear for her life.
Karl Dahl, as it turned out, had indeed been a murderer, but he hadn’t been guilty of the crimes he had been accused of committing.
Kovac put down the vacuum-sealed bag. No one said anything. There was too much-and nothing-to say.
“Detective Liska?” One of the officers Liska had sent into the house filled the doorway.
She didn’t turn her head away from the things laid out in front of them.
“Your guy in the house?” the officer said. “He’s dead. Looks like maybe he had a heart attack.”
“I’m sure it does,” Liska murmured. “I’m sure it does.”
68
THE JOURNAL OF Bobby Haas read like a Stephen King novel. The first entry was dated a couple of weeks prior to the murders. The boy had written about his anger over his parents’ discussions about possibly trying to adopt the “two little worms,” as he called them.
He wrote at length about his feelings of betrayal and rejection. Everything had been fine when it had just been the three of them. He had felt important. He’d had the undivided attention of his parents, particularly of his dad. Then Marlene had, in his mind, turned on him, rejected him. She had wanted something more-more children,other children. He wasn’t good enough for her.
Just like before,he had written.
Women didn’t love him. In his mind, every woman in his life had rejected him-his mother, the first Mrs. Haas, Marlene Haas. His vitriol directed at Marlene Haas jumped off the page. Women were selfish bitches-and worse-who ultimately became bored with him. Like a girl with a favorite doll, Marlene had tired of him and moved on to other, newer toys.
He hated her. He loved his dad. Marlene had been trying to pull Wayne ’s attention from Bobby, trying to ruin their father-son bond, which had clearly been the most important relationship in Bobby’s life.
The details of his planning the murders were chilling. The accounts of the murders themselves were horrific. He told about feeling powerful and invincible as he watched the realization of what was about to happen to her and her “precious little worms” dawn across Marlene’s face.
In the more recent entries, he had written about his attempt to kill Carey Moore, and his growing frustration that his father was paying more attention to Marlene and the foster children now than when they had been alive, and less and less attention to him. That wasn’t what the plan had been.
He doesn’t want to be alive. I’ll be doing us both a favor…
He had written pages about selenium poisoning, which conveniently mimicked the symptoms of a heart attack and wouldn’t show up in the standard basic toxicology screen.
How ironic that Bobby had turned around and done the very same thing he had accused Marlene Haas of. He had tired of their presence-Marlene, the foster kids, and finally Wayne, the father he had so desperately wanted all his life. They had worn out their usefulness to him, so he had broken them and cast them aside.
The diary of a budding serial killer.
Kovac knew the journal would be valuable to the profilers and the psychologists, who were always looking for more insight into the minds of murderers. But if not for them, he would have thrown the thing in an incinerator. The book was tainted with the evil that lived in Bobby Haas, and he, for one, wanted to put it somewhere that evil could never escape.
Processing the Haas scene had gone well into the next day. By five o’clock that morning, the story had broken locally, then hit the news networks. By eight, the media feeding frenzy was on.