I am most certainly not a Jack of all trades. I am, however, a master of many.
At 9:30 a.m. it had already seemed a long morning at the law office. And I wanted to get the inside info on the floater murder. It was time for an informational visit to my friend in local law enforcement.
When I arrived at the Ottawa County Law Enforcement Center, a five minute drive from my office, the atmosphere was electric in the wake of the previous day’s disturbing discovery… so much so, that I had managed to slip through the usual administrative roadblocks and right into Gunner’s inner office.
Gunner is Ottawa County’s Chief Deputy Sheriff, Doug Gunderson. He’s in his mid-forties, six foot, 180 pounds and in pretty good shape. Though he displays a hint of a belly, his body is mostly muscle. Gunner’s round face, light complexion, and short, reddish-brown hair are not atypical of many fourth-generation Scandinavian immigrants to this area of Minnesota.
Gunner is also one of the very few people in town who has any idea of my true life experiences as a covert intelligence operative during my twenty-year absence from Red Wing.
We had known each other in our youth, and had been casual friends in high school, but we hadn’t kept in contact until my return to Minnesota five years ago. On one occasion a couple years back, he had pressed me for details concerning my life after leaving Red Wing.
As a professional investigator, he can be irritatingly tenacious.
At the time, it hadn’t been my first choice to let Gunner in on my secrets. But he was persistent. My gut told me I could trust him. And a friend in local law enforcement is not a bad thing. So I had elected to come clean about my government past — minus many details, of course. In return, he’d vowed to keep my confidences — a promise he had faithfully fulfilled.
Since then, Gunner and I had cooperated on a few cases. He operated by the book. I, by my own rules. The differing approaches created some conflict. But we shared common goals, and we understood each other well enough to make it work. As a side benefit, my involvement with law enforcement activities satisfied my desire for more action than mere lawyering could provide.
Gunderson was seated at his desk, deeply absorbed in review of glossy crime scene photographs. He looked up when he heard my voice.
"So what’s going on today, Gunner? Things are hopping around here. "
Gunner looked up from his work.
"Becker. Who let you in here? Oh never mind. You know damn well what’s going on. Everybody from the Sheriff, to the Mayor, to the frickin’ Press is all over our asses to solve this murder case. Deadline is yesterday.
"And of course, the big wigs’ve gotta fight over the jurisdictional issues. The Staties want in on the investigation. The FBI claims it oughtta be in charge because the body was found in interstate waters. "Course, our own department has the best claim to the case, since it appears the murder occurred on our dirt.
"So in short, it’s a madhouse. Nobody’s in charge. And despite all the activity around here," — Gunner made an arm motion circling his head — "not much investigating is really gettin’ done."
I looked at him, feigning shock.
I’m pretty sure Gunner could sense my lack of sympathy for his bureaucratic hiccups.
Gunner frowned for a few moments, then lightened up.
"Oh geez. You might as well have a seat," he said at last. "I need a break anyway."
Gunner motioned me to one of his side chairs.
It was stacked with manila files.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
He returned the look. But the files didn’t move.
So I cleared the chair myself, piling the manila obstacles alongside a similar heap of files already reclining against the wall. Then I sat down.
Commotion continued in the hall outside his office.
With hands crossed over his torso, Gunner leaned back in his 1960s-vintage vinyl office chair, looking at me as if waiting for something to happen.
"So…," I began. "Do you know who the unlucky fellow is… was?"
I could see Gunner was trying to project cool and calm — but the butterflies definitely fluttered in his gut. A murder in Ottawa County was a very big deal. But Gunner wasn’t about to let his excitement overtake his professional persona.
"We’re pretty sure it was a prof from the U of M Ag Lab at the Ottawa Facility," he said, locking his fingers behind his head.
I noted obvious perspiration under his arms.
"His wife reported him missing to the Cottage Grove cops early yesterday morning. He hasn’t shown up for work the past two days. Car’s gone, too.
"Oh yeah." He paused for dramatic effect. Gunner likes drama. I think he watches too many cop shows on TV. "There’s a large amount of dried blood in the Lab parking lot. We’re assuming it’ll match our victim."
I paused for a moment.
"Seems logical," I said, bypassing the drama. "Have you got a name?"
Gunner looked a little wounded that I hadn’t been more impressed with the big blood puddle.
He leaned forward, referencing the notepad on his desk. "Donald G. Westerman, PhD. Home address is in Cottage Grove. We’ll be invitin’ the wife to the morgue to identify the body as soon as we can make it… ah… presentable."
The killer had nearly severed Dr. Westerman’s head from his body. Some tidying up was prudent before exposing the wife to her husband’s corpse.
"Don’t suppose you found a weapon?"
"No such luck. The M.E.’s tryin’ to get us a description of the blade. But since it’s a slash, that’ll probably come back ‘inconclusive.’ With a stabbing, you can maybe get a cast or somethin’. With a cut, usually it’s just whether the knife is serrated, and how thick."
Based on my experience with knives, Gunner was probably right about the forensics.
"And at present, no motive either?"
I had all the smart questions.
"Not really," Gunner continued. "Though it’s interesting to note the fellow’s lab assistant has also disappeared."
He consulted his notes again.
"One Farris Ahmed. British exchange student in the graduate program at the U of M. Sent a couple deputies by his apartment. No one home. We’re workin’ on a search warrant."
In my former military career, I had once encountered a radical Muslim Jihadist who went by the name of Farris Ahmed. It was a common enough name in Arab countries — but given my past experiences, this name did not sit quietly in my gut.
"What ethnic derivation is Mr. Ahmed?" I asked. "Muslim Brit?"
Gunner raised his left eyebrow in my direction. "Not strictly relevant, Beck. You know there’s no racial profiling in this department."
Ah. The company line.
"We don’t know Ahmed’s story yet. We’re a small department. We can’t do everything at once, for godsakes. Anyway, we try to save the bigotry assignments for the BCA."
The BCA was the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, the branch of the State Police charged with criminal investigations. They would likely take a lead role in the murder investigation, regardless of any Sheriff’s Department protests to the contrary.
The mention of the name ‘Farris Ahmed,’ and the international background of the lab assistant, had further piqued my interest.
"Gunner. You would probably ask the BCA to do this anyway… but would you mind checking for any international phone calls made from the vicinity of the Lab around the time of the murder? I mean, not just the assistant’s phone, or the land lines, but anonymous, throw-away cell phones, too?"
"Why?" Gunner leaned forward in his chair. "You think this thing has got some connection outside Minnesota?"
I didn’t want to get Gunner off track just because my gut had a twinge — especially with no evidence at all of global foul play. But I wasn’t going to ignore my instincts either.