Murder on the St. Croix

By Glenn Ickler

When Mitch Mitchell and his buddy, photographer Alan Jeffrey, receive a hot tip on a bone-chilling day in March, they arrive on the scene of an apparent missing-persons case, neither knowing quite what they’ve gotten themselves into. Mitch, hoping to keep his job at the Daily Dispatch in the midst of proposed layoffs, investigates the case in an attempt to crack it—like the ice on the St. Croix in spring—wide open. While the sheriff is at risk of losing his patience, the intrepid reporter risks losing his girlfriend to the plains of Fargo, not to mention his job and his life. Can Mitch solve the case before the melting St. Croix destroys all the evidence?

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780878399437

Glenn Ickler

GLENN ICKLER has had a long career in newspapers as a reporter, feature writer, theater critic, columnist and editor in Minnesota and Massachusetts. He was the leader of an editorial page staff that was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and has won numerous awards for his writing. A native of Minnesota, he now resides in a tiny and historic town west of Boston and takes occasional cruises on the scenic and historic rivers of Europe. 

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Acknowledgments

My thanks to D.P. Lyle, MD, for providing expert information on the symptoms of schizophrenia, and to the webmaster at the Lowell Inn in Stillwater for providing a web page so loaded with information about the inn and its history that I didn’t need to bother anyone with a phone call.

Chapter 1

Cold Case

Yards of yellow plastic tape fluttered in the wind, keeping us fifty feet away from a white panel truck with its rear wheels dug into a chocolate-brown mixture of ice, snow, and mud.

An orange chainsaw lay beside the truck, near the door on the driver’s side.

Two Stillwater Fire Department dive team members in glossy black rubber suits crunched through a light-blue skin of ice along the shoreline on their way to deeper, fast-flowing water dotted with floating ice chunks, some as big as Volkswagen Beetles. A trio of Washington County sheriff’s deputies wearing dark-brown coats and black winter hats stood close together watching the divers.

Standing out amid this rainbow of colors was Alan Jeffrey, dressed like a Christmas package in a red ski jacket and green knitted hat. Al was aiming his camera in all directions, shooting pictures of the truck, the divers, the deputies, the crystal-rimed tree branches against the gray sky and two white-bearded gawkers who had been drawn to the scene by the flashing red and blue lights of the deputies’ patrol cars.

Anybody know what they’re lookin’ for? asked one of the gawkers, whose deeply lined face was topped by a red-and-black plaid wool cap with earflaps.

Alan Jeffrey and I knew, but we chose not to answer. Let the old snoop read about it in the St. Paul Daily Dispatch. The city editor of that fine newspaper had sent us out in twenty-degree weather to gather the facts beside the windswept St. Croix River in the aftermath of a mid-March snow and ice storm. Beware the Ides of March in Minnesota.

I’m reporter Warren Mitchell, known to my friends as Mitch. Alan Jeffrey, better known as Al, is a staff photographer and my best friend. Our city editor, Don O’Rourke, calls us the Siamese twins. It’s not that we look alike—I’m tall and slender with a light brown moustache and Al is short and stocky with facial hair like Blackbeard the Pirate. It’s because we team up together so effectively on assignments and our verbal exchanges sometimes provide amusement for our fellow workers.

On this bleak afternoon, we’d been chosen to follow up on a news tip phoned in by a woman who said police and firemen were looking for something in the river near her house in St. Mary’s Point, a tiny riverside settlement twenty miles east of St. Paul.

Upon arrival, we learned that the object of the divers’ search was the driver of the white van. The deputies wouldn’t tell us his name, only that he was a Public Works employee from neighboring Afton who’d been cutting up branches brought down by the previous day’s deposit of freezing rain. When two more men from Afton arrived to help him shortly after 1:00 p.m., they found his truck perched at a precarious angle on the river bank with its rear wheels dug in axle-deep. The truck was encircled by a maze of pockmarks where the driver’s feet had cracked the icy glaze covering a two-inch-thick layer of snow that had preceded the freezing rain. Some of the footprints led away from the truck to the crust of ice at water’s edge.

Even though we ignored his question, the gawker persisted. Sure is cold out.

His partner chimed in. How cold do you s’pose it is? His choice of headgear was a red-and-blue knit ski cap, which he’d pulled down to touch his white eyebrows.

Al couldn’t resist the obvious straight line. It’s so cold that a bank robber in the city walked in and found all the tellers wearing ski masks, he said.

The gawkers looked at each other and chuckled. Good one, said the man wearing earflaps.

The man in the ski cap nodded in agreement. Time we was gettin’ into someplace warmer, Eddie, he said. So long, fellas. The man wearing earflaps waved goodbye to us, and side-by-side they shuffled away up the sloping, ice-coated road.

Al and I turned our attention back to the river, where the dive team was dodging the mini icebergs. Like synchronized swimmers, the two dark figures ducked under the surface, came up and went under again.

The river ice had broken up early because of unseasonably warm weather in the first two weeks of March, and the increased volume of water from the snowmelt upstream accelerated the flow. When the divers surfaced the second time, they were fifty yards downstream from their entry point. They signaled each other and began swimming toward a sandbar. The swift current almost swept them past the bar, but they plunged onto it, pulled themselves out and started trudging toward us. In unison, they shrugged and spread their arms, palms up, indicating they’d seen nothing in the murky water.

One of the deputies approached us. You, with the camera, he said, pointing at Al. Could you come and take some pictures for us? Our forensic photographer is way up in Scandia, shooting a three-car crash. It’ll be a couple of hours before he can get here.

Of course Al accepted the invitation. It allowed him to step inside the yellow tape and get some better shots for the Daily Dispatch in addition to those requested by the deputy. The footprints and a dark spot on a depression in the ice near the rear of the truck were of particular interest to the lawman.

What’s that dark spot he had you shooting? I asked when Al returned.

Not really sure, he said. Looked like some liquid that froze into the ice. It might be anything, including blood.

Blood? Do they think he cut himself with the chainsaw?

The deputy isn’t saying what he thinks it is or how he thinks it got there, but he wanted some close-ups.

A car horn blared behind us. We turned to see a black sedan skidding down the hill, brakes locked, fishtailing out of control on the ice-slicked road.

I move that we get the hell out of the way, I said.

Second the motion, Al said, and we voted aye with our feet, literally slipping away on the icy surface.

This proved to be a really good decision. The car stayed in toboggan mode as it slid past the police cars and split the yellow tape where we’d been standing. It spun halfway around before it stopped less than ten feet from the stranded truck.

What the hell? yelled one of the deputies.

A woman wearing a purple ski jacket and blue jeans jumped out of the car. Her feet flew forward and she did a classic circus pratfall, finishing flat on her back on the ice.

Al and I started to laugh, but we cut the laughter short when the woman sat up and yelled, What happened to my husband? Where is he?

Chapter 2

Where’s Charlie?

Ever the knight in shining armor, I slip-slid my way toward the fallen woman and stopped with my toes between her splayed feet.

I leaned down and thrust out my hands. She grasped them and started to haul herself up. Unfortunately, my feet had no grip on the glazed surface. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled on top of the woman in a highly compromising position, with my knees jammed into her crotch and my chin nearly touching her nose. I saw a flicker of light from above that emanated either from a heaven-sent lightning bolt or the flash on Al’s camera. Since I was still alive, I decided it was the camera.

Ever the gentleman, I pushed upward with my arms until I could look into the woman’s blue-green eyes, whereupon I smiled and said, I’m Mitch. Nice to meet you.

The lady did not return either the smile or the greeting. Get off me, you goon, she said.

That hurt. Working for a newspaper, I’ve grown accustomed to being called uncomplimentary names, but this was the first time I had been classified as a goon.

Sorry, I said. The footing is really slick. As if she didn’t know that.

Well, you’re not, she said. I should have one of those cops haul you in for assault.

So much for being the knight in shining armor. I managed to release the woman by crawling backward until my nose cleared her feet. Two deputies grasped her hands and dragged her to a vertical position, all the while struggling to maintain their composure as well as their balance.

When she was upright, she asked again, Where’s my husband?

We don’t know for sure, Mrs. Gunderson, but it looks like he might have somehow got into the river, said the taller and younger of the two deputies. Tracks go that way, like he walked toward the river when the truck got stuck.

He’d die in that water, Mrs. Gunderson said in a tone only slightly softer than a shriek. It’s freezing cold.

The divers didn’t find nothing, so we’re hoping your husband just walked along the edge and went in somewhere to get warm, said the shorter deputy, who was twenty years older and forty pounds heavier than his six-foot companion. We knocked on the doors of every house in that direction but nobody’d seen him, so that’s why we called the divers.

But you didn’t find him in the river. She waved an arm toward the water and almost fell again.

That’s right, the older deputy said. They’ve made several dives over the last hour and, like Tom said, they didn’t find anything. So there’s a good chance your husband ducked into somebody’s house and we missed him. We’re gonna check all the houses in the area again.

He’s got a cell phone, Mrs. Gunderson said. Why wouldn’t he call for a tow truck? Why would he walk toward the river? When the deputy shrugged, she added, Unless he was confused.

Could he have been confused? the deputy asked.

Sometimes he gets that way. Like he doesn’t know for sure where he is. He’s got a medical condition.

Well, whatever. I expect we’ll find Charlie having coffee in somebody’s kitchen. Why don’t you go on home and make supper? We’ll give him a ride.

She nodded and returned to her car, taking short, careful steps. Have him call me the minute you find him, she said before she got in. The deputy promised he would.

All five of us, the three deputies, Al and I, had to push in order to get her car turned around and started up the glassy incline.

Do you really think you’ll find him tonight? I asked the older deputy.

What I think isn’t relevant to your report, he said.

Can I quote you on that?

Be my guest.

And your name is?

Deputy Walter Jordan.

Thanks, I said. And do you know the lady’s first name?

You’ll have to ask the lady, said Deputy Jordan. Now you guys need to stay outside what’s left of the tape line while we finish up. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s getting dark.

I had noticed. I suggested to Al that we had gathered all the news we could, except for Charlie Gunderson’s wife’s first name, and that it was time to go back to the office. We shuffled our way to our staff car, where we found a sturdy-looking middle-aged woman wearing an ankle-length red coat and black rubber boots leaning against the driver’s side door.

You the newspaper guys? she asked.

Since she was resting her ample butt against the Daily Dispatch logo, I figured there was no use denying it. I’m reporter Warren Mitchell, and this is photographer Alan Jeffrey, I said. My friends call me Mitch.

I’m Desiree Dunbar, she said. My friends call me Dizzy. I’m the one who called the paper with the news tip. She offered a cold-reddened hand for kissing or shaking, and I chose the latter.

Nice to meet you, Al said. I got some good shots of the divers thanks to you.

You guys got my money? Dizzy asked. The Daily Dispatch pays fifty dollars for news tips that lead to published stories.

We don’t carry cash, Al said. The office will mail you a check.

You’d think they’d give you guys a bunch of fifties to carry around, she said. So’s you could pay off on the spot.

I’ll mention it to my boss, I said. We had a better chance of winning a multi-million-dollar lottery prize than we had of getting even one fifty-dollar bill from City Editor Don O’Rourke.

I came home from shopping and saw the truck there with the yellow tape all around it practically in my backyard and the sheriff’s cars with the lights flashing, so I called the paper. She pointed toward the house closest to the river, at the end of the road where the tape-encircled truck was stuck. Why the divers? she asked. Is some poor bastard in the river?

They’re not sure, I said. The truck belongs to a Charlie Gunderson. Do you know him?

Yeah, I know Charlie. Him and his wife are real active in my church. That’s his truck stuck by river?

That’s what the deputies say.

Oh, my God, Dizzy said. Poor Joan will be apeshit.

Joan is his wife? Al asked.

Yeah. I thought that was her I saw go tearing by in the black Chevy just now, but I wasn’t sure.

It was, I said. And she is apeshit. Is Charlie a pretty good guy?

Oh, yeah, he’s a sweetheart, Dizzy said. He’d do anything to help a friend. Gets his ass in a sling sometimes for helping people on company time, if you know what I mean.

I nodded knowingly, wishing I could use her exact words in our family newspaper. Charlie works for the city of Afton? I asked. For the Public Works Department?

I guess. He’s kind of an all-round handyman.

If he works for Afton, why would he be in St. Mary’s Point? Al asked.

The storm, she said. All the little towns in the valley pooled their workers to help clean up the mess. You can’t believe how many trees and branches are down from the ice. There are five communities in that part of the St. Croix River Valley, with Afton being the largest and St. Mary’s Point one of the smallest.

We’ve seen some of the mess, Al said. It’s like a couple of armies fought a battle with cannon balls here.

Joan Gunderson said that Charlie has some kind of medical condition that sometimes gets him disoriented, I said. "Do you know what that is?

No idea, Dizzy said. Oh, well, it was worth a try.

What about Joan? Does she work somewhere?

She sells real estate. Goes out nights and weekends when Charlie is home to watch the kids.

How many kids are there?

Two. Boy and a girl, I think.

Do you know how old they are?

Oh, jeez, I ain’t sure exactly. Must be in junior high by now, she said. Charlie and Joan are pushing forty.

Kids are close together in age? I asked.

Oh, yah. Joan says they’re almost twins. Her story is that the first one coming out almost met Charlie putting the second one in. Another great quote that wasn’t fit to print.

We chatted for a few more minutes, during which we learned that Charlie and Joan lived in an area called Afton Hills, and that Charlie had coached two of Dizzy’s sons in the St. Croix Valley youth hockey program. Charlie has coached for a dozen years or more, and the kids all love the guy, she said. My youngest son went on to be a high school hockey coach, probably because of Charlie.

We promised Dizzy we’d expedite her fifty-dollar check and got into the car. We sure got our fifty bucks worth out of Dizzy, Al said as we buckled our seatbelts.

Yeah, Dizzy is a dandy, I said. Don should pay her double.

Should we suggest a double dip for Dizzy?

"We’d be dopey to do that. The Daily Dispatch might deduct it from our pay."

Right. Don would think we’re downright daffy. Anyway, a duo of dazzling detectives like us could have dug out that dirt without a dame like Dizzy.

We rode in silence for a few minutes before I said, By the way, I sensed that you took a shot of me spread-eagled on top of Joan Gunderson in a very embarrassing position. You’ll either delete that photo or I’ll destroy your camera with an ax.

I can’t picture you swinging an ax, but the camera’s in the bag behind you if you insist on cutting out a very sharp image.

I pulled out the camera, found the image, which made me look like a mad rapist, and hit the delete button twice. Gonzo.

Al looked crushed and expelled a phony sigh. What a shame that such a historic photo will never be seen on YouTube.

I’m happy that it’s down the tube, I said.

After another period of silent thought, I said, Charlie’s wife said he has a medical condition. I wonder what it is.

I don’t know about medical, but I’m betting his physical condition is cold and stiff, Al said. Wonder when they’ll find his body.

This is Tuesday, I said. I’m guessing Friday. That would be the second day of the state high school hockey tournament in the Xcel Center, with excitement mounting over the semi-finals. The streets and sidewalks in downtown St. Paul would be crammed with decorated cars and out-of-town visitors wearing their school colors and waving flags and pompoms. The paper would be filled with hockey news and features, and every available photographer would have an assignment.

That would be the worst possible time, Al said.

And it was.

Chapter 3

Hats Off

By Wednesday noon, Charlie Gunderson’s disappearance had become a major Twin Cities news event, even with the hockey tournament about to begin. My story in Wednesday morning’s paper alerted the three major TV news channels to the action east of the Twin Cities, and all of them sent reporters and camera crews out to the spot where Charlie’s truck had been stuck. Of course the truck wasn’t there because the sheriff had ordered it towed and impounded, but all of Wednesday’s TV news programs featured shivering people reporting live beside an unoccupied spot of churned-up mud and ice a few feet from the roiling St. Croix.

Not that either the TV reporters or I learned much worth reporting on Wednesday. The Washington County sheriff, who was in charge of the search, had been noncommittal and Joan Gunderson had refused to talk to anyone from the news media. Her son, who sounded like he was in his early teens, was answering the phone and his polite response to reporters before hanging up was, Fuck off.

An attempt to obtain the names of the workers who found Charlie’s abandoned truck got me a no comment from the head of the Afton Public Works Department. I went over his head to the city administrator with no better results. Afton officials simply did not want anybody to interview those guys.

The search of the river continued through the daylight hours Wednesday, the Stillwater divers taking turns with a team from nearby Hudson, Wisconsin. They found nothing, and one of the Hudson divers was cold-cocked under water by a fast-moving chunk of ice. His dive partner saw the man float up and lie motionless, grabbed him and towed him to shore. Al, who was on the scene and got a shot of the rescue, said the guy had a nasty cut on the back of his head where the ice block conked him.

If it hadn’t been for the hockey tournament, Don would have sent me to Afton with Al to stake out the Public Works garage on Thursday. We would have tailed the guys who’d found Charlie’s abandoned truck and interviewed them. Instead, Al went to the Xcel Center to shoot a first-round game and I did a sidewalk interview with some hyped-up hockey moms from Lake City, the Cinderella team of the tournament.

Minnesota high school hockey is divided into two divisions, Class AA, which is comprised of the sixty-four biggest schools playing the sport, and Class A, which encompasses all the other schools putting teams on the ice. Lake City, which had started hockey only a few years earlier, was the newest team in Class A and was in the state tournament for the first time.

Dressed completely in orange and black, the school colors, and waving orange-and-black pompoms, the women nattered like a gaggle of excited geese about their Tigers and