I-94 Murders

By Frank F. Weber

A tryst of bondage. A lover's murder.
Investigator Jon Frederick returns in a search to uncover the identity of a killer creeping through communities along I-94 in Minnesota, targeting couples who store their fetish photos online. Jon is given the task of protecting Ava, who behaves as if she is invincible. The killer taunts Jon with hidden messages embedded in local media that lead him to Sonia, a caring young woman with a terrible secret. A fast-paced thriller based on the profile of a true-life serial murderer. The I-94 Murders guides the reader with an insider's light along the dark road of the killer. A story of intimacy, revenge, passion and trust. This is the second book in the Jon Frederick series.

The I-94 Murders is a 2019 MIPA Book Award winner for Best Romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781636491660

Book preview

FREDERICK

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 is 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 two-year-olds, with more confidence than wisdom. Nora is very active, which is enjoyable, but exhausting by the end of the day. Still, it’s 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 was 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. Serena took our daughter to our hometown of Pierz and moved into a house recently built by her parents.

I’m and investigator for the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension—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 pick Nora up and take her to my parents (who also live in Pierz), so I don’t have to waste any of the 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.

When Serena and I were about seven years old, we were in a play together—Babes in Toyland—at Holy Trinity Catholic School in Pierz. It wasn’t the best of times, but it still meant something to me. Serena was so adorable with those big green eyes, and long dark pigtails. Her dad seemed so intimidating when he told me, You know how all parents think their daughter is the cutest? Mine actually is. It felt like there was an unstated, So, don’t screw this up, in his message. I remembered sweating bullets as I nervously forced out my lines, while Serena handled hers with graceful confidence. At the time, I never thought either of us would change. The world can be cruel to promising young women.

Serena and I were directed to lay in bed together, in our pajamas, dreaming while older kids acted out the play. My best friend, Clay Roberts, was first selected to play opposite her, and I was the stand-in when he skipped practices to go ice fishing with his dad. The director thought my shyness and obvious embarrassment over lying in bed with a girl played better with the audience than Clay’s hamming it up did, so Clay was booted out. I never realized the level of resentment he held over this until a couple years ago. Today, Clay looked like Brad Pitt in his youthful, long-haired days; I sometime thought Clay actually believes he would be Brad Pitt, if he had kept that part.

As if I wasn’t already embarrassed enough, halfway through our performance, Serena reached for my hand and my mentally ill older brother, Victor, stood up and yelled, Jon, watch out! Victor was only eleven years old at the time, but he had the misfortune of struggling with childhood schizophrenia. At seven, having a brother that was afraid of everybody, regardless of size or sex, was embarrassing. I was already feeling humiliated over the pajamas I was wearing. My mom wouldn’t let me wear the loose-fitting, comfortable pajamas Grandma Kapsner made for me. She didn’t want people to think we were too poor to buy clothes. Instead, I wore long-sleeved, cotton pajamas that were too short and so tight they looked like they were painted on my body. Even though they looked new, they were obviously bought at a garage sale since, like most of our clothes, they came without tags or packaging. The Catholic in me felt tremendous guilt, at the time, over allowing this to embarrass me.

Just a couple hours ago, as I was leaving my parents’ home, my mom reminded me righteously, Your daughter has gone long enough with two unmarried parents.

I responded flatly, You should have seen that coming when you made me do that bed scene with Serena when I was a small child.

As I walked to my car, I could hear her yelling, That’s not funny!

It was a little funny.

After I entered my apartment, I kicked my shoes off and set my phone and billfold on the kitchen table. Then I noticed my extra set of car keys sitting on the counter—someone had been in my apartment. I had no reason to take out the extra set, and when I was alone, I always left my counter clean. I quickly spun around, scanning my space, but nothing else seemed out of place. I cautiously picked up the keys and hung them back on the hook, over my mailbox key. I immediately texted Serena and asked if she had been at my apartment. I received a simple, No, in reply. It was typical of how little she had to say to me and it hurt. I’d become the arctic air to Serena—painful when present and nothing of concern after she shut me out.

I am six foot one, and, as they say, wiry strong. Now energized with anger over someone invading my home, I searched my apartment, daring an intruder to be present. I had a solid oak bedroom door (installed by my dad who feared for my safety because of my job) that remained securely bolted, so that space had not been violated. After a walk-through, I was satisfied I was alone.

Okay, who was in my apartment?

The realization that a stranger had walked about my home was unsettling. Even though it was after ten at night, I called Jada Anderson and she immediately offered to stop over.

Jada was a news reporter, whom I had dated for four years before Serena and I rekindled that old flame. Jada was a confident and assertive African American woman, who was friendly enough that a person felt fortunate to be in her presence. Her willingness to venture out into the bitter night, simply to pacify a friend, was admirable.

Jada’s thick black hair was pulled into a ponytail, revealing her smooth, dark skin and swan-like neck. I hung her red, wool pea coat over the back of a kitchen chair. Jada was dressed in a scarlet cotton top with three buttons open, and dark blue jeans, which is apparently what you wear to meet an obsessive ex who’s down on his luck. Jada’s mocha brown eyes met mine as she said, You do remember that I returned my key three years ago.

Jada and I never lived together, but we were close enough that I’d given her a key to my place when we were dating. I honestly wasn’t certain if she returned it, but I hadn’t been sure of a lot lately. I trusted Jada.

Jada cupped her hands in front of her mouth, blowing warm air into them. Her eyes smiled as she peered about my spotless apartment, You could have just said you were lonely. Jada didn’t give me time to respond to that, thankfully. She asked, Have you thought anymore about taking on the private eye work I offered you yesterday? She’s a cute little blondie in distress. It’s the Mayers—remember years ago, we attended a posh fundraiser sponsored by Marcus and Angela Mayer?

I dismissed the offer, As they say, not my circus, not my monkeys. I gestured toward the countertop and said, My extra set of keys were sitting on the counter. And the toaster’s plugged in.

Jada grinned as she remembered, "And you have to unplug your toaster because your mom bought you one with a light on it, so it burns electricity anytime it’s plugged in. And, God forbid, you waste electricity. She raised an eyebrow as she changed the subject, Remember why we used to call each other late at night?"

I was momentarily jolted into silence. Amused by my awkwardness, she winked and commented, You could at least offer me a beer. It’s so cold, I thought of asking a cop to tase me, just to warm up.

As I obediently made my way to the fridge, my obsessive brain considered—what if the intruder touched my food? Beer should be safe because it’s sealed. I’ll throw out all of my unsealed food tomorrow. I retrieved a cold Surly Furious, rinsed off the top of the can and poured it into a glass to make certain it was the appropriate untampered color. Jada smiled at the ordeal as I handed the glass to her. After I closed the refrigerator door, I opened it again and grabbed another Surly for myself and repeated the process.

Jada took a sip, Mmmm, lots of hops. She rambled on, Work is crazy. I’ve got a transsexual assistant, El Epicene. Straight, thick, strawberry blonde hair, black framed glasses, talks like a woman, but seems to have an Adam’s apple. Kind of like a young Woody Allen, but with a paunch.

Jada had followed me to the kitchen and leaned a hip against the countertop next to where I was standing. She continued, She—he?—compliments me all the time, but I’m not sure which way the door swings, so I just use ‘El’ as much as I can. In a pinch, though, I say ‘she’ or ‘her,’ as that seems to be the way she’s leaning. It’s more difficult than you’d imagine to not use pronouns, but I don’t want to be disrespectful to El’s choices.

Jada leaned into me and teased, So, who would break into your apartment and plug in your toaster? Any similar appliance-related crimes the BCA has you working?

I knew it sounded stupid, but it concerned me. Jada had featured my work on a previous investigation in a WCCO news story, which highlighted how my obsession with details had helped solve the case. I carefully placed my cellphone on the kitchen table, thinking of nights spent hoping for calls from Serena that never came. Instead, I received late night work calls that mercilessly stole my piece of mind. Nobody calls an investigator late at night with good news.

Jada glided to the kitchen table and perched elegantly on one of the wooden chairs. So, either it’s someone you know, or someone who followed my story. She stared intently at me while she mulled the situation over, then asked, Why did you call me?

Two reasons. The first is that you’re the only emotionally stable friend I have. I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

Jada mused, That’s a scary thought. Using one hand, Jada counted off on the manicured nails of the other, Let’s see, Tony is battling with his paraplegia, Victor is schizophrenic, Clay is just an ass. When Serena bailed, you lost the one stable leg on your chair, and landed exactly where you’re at today.

Like most guys, I had shared all of my distressing thoughts with one woman, so when Serena left, I felt abandoned—like the floor dropped out from beneath me. Getting to the second reason, I said, Do you think the Mayers may have come here, looking to talk me into taking on the case?

Jada set her beer down on the table. It’s possible. They were persistent. They have a lot of money and they’re used to getting their way. It could be a nice payoff for you, and if you’ll work with me, it may well be the break I need to be a primary reporter in a large market. You could help me here, Jon.

I had intentionally avoided working with Jada over the last couple years, out of respect for my relationship with Serena. I took in a deep breath. Hell, with Marcus and Angela Mayer’s money, they may have even paid the landlord to let them in. Waiting for Serena to return hasn’t exactly been productive. It suddenly realized the Mayers could help reduce my misery. I owned some land by Pierz, in a beautiful, wooded area. I had bought it, a year ago, because the price was right. I knew I’d be able to resell it for a profit. If I built there, lived there, I’d have more time with Nora, be happier, and even if I didn’t have the job I desired. Maybe I could earn a down payment. I told Jada, If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll do it.

Jada leaned back and, in contrast to her usual poised manner, took a large swallow of Furious, leaving a little line of foam on her upper lip. She delicately swiped her thumb over it. Her expression brightened, Okay. Angela Mayer claims her daughter’s innocent of everything but being reckless, and they’ll pay a fortune to protect her. Jada placed her hand carefully on top of mine.

Even though I’d been cast aside, the touch felt like a betrayal to Serena; I momentarily tensed. Sensing my discomfort, she slowly pulled her hand back.

My heart unexpectedly sank to a dark and lonely place. To create some distance, I walked back over to the refrigerator and opened the door, pretending to be looking for something as I gathered my composure. I returned and asked, "How are you doing?"

Jada had picked up my cellphone and was scrolling through recent calls. Embarrassed over being caught in the act, she said, I’m sorry. It’s the reporter in me. Serena’s not calling, but you’re waiting for her to change her mind—ruminating over everything you could have done differently. Jada set the phone down, and with one finger, slid it back across the table. She cocked her head and asked, What are you going to do?

Work obsessively. Make enough money so I can build a house close to my daughter. I raised my beer in a mock toast and took a drink.

Jada responded with concern, You’re a great investigator, Jon. Don’t throw that away.

The only time I’m happy is when I’m with her … I tossed back the remainder of my beer and mercifully, Jada let the subject rest for the time being.

Jada gave me the contact information for my prospective clients, and after a pleasant but chaste hug, I walked her out to her car. She lightly kissed my cheek, and we went our separate ways. Talking to Jada made me realize there was safeness in our poorly-aligned goals. Jada and I drew lines and neither of us conceded, so we were never at risk of being consumed by one another. Serena and I were so closely aligned, we would each lose our sense of self, taking care of the other. I couldn’t be Serena’s friend. How could I have a relaxing conversation with Serena, when her every mannerism tore at my heart strings?

When I’d returned to my apartment, I received a text from Serena, Are you okay?

I immediately thumbed in my answer, Yes. Nothing taken.

Serena texted again, I lost my key. I thought I’d find it, but I haven’t. Sorry for not telling you. I forgot about it.

This actually brought me some relief. Maybe someone found it, and only recently discovered where the key could be used. After entering my apartment, they realized I didn’t really have anything of significant value … except for Serena’s ring, and it was safe behind my locked bedroom door. Maybe the intruder considered stealing my car, but then discovered it wasn’t here. My mind churned as I tried to make sense of the intrusion.

My phone chirped with another text from Serena, Had to know you’re ok. It’s best for me if we don’t talk.

In hopeless resignation, I responded, I love you.

Her response was, I know. I hear nothing further.

Serena once was good for me. I just wanted her to be okay. It’s a hard thing to say, because I miss her immensely. The Tom Petty song, Walls, played through my brain as I lay in bed.

… all around your island, there’s a barricade.

It keeps out the danger, but holds in the pain.

You’ve got a heart so big, it could crush this town.

But I can’t hold on forever; even walls fall down.

Serena was the most gracious and tender-hearted person I knew. But waiting months for her to return, when she couldn’t even commit to a conversation, weakened my resolve. Even walls fall down.

My mind drifted to lying in bed with Serena after the last time we made love. She was lying on her stomach, her beautiful, tanned body on white bed sheets, partially beneath a white comforter. Her long dark curls were flowing down her back. Her captivating green eyes seemed distant, so I’d asked, What are you thinking?

Serena turned into me, I appreciate that you’re so responsive to me.

I swept a dark strand from her face and sighed, Somehow I feel the wrong kind of ‘but’ coming, I reached beneath the blanket and caressed her derriere.

This is embarrassing. Serena blushed and pushed the sentence out, "You know I’ve needed you to be more crude in our, uh, talk." During foreplay, we’d spoken of our desires. We were never demeaning to each other, but it had taken harsher terms to achieve the same arousal in her more recently.

She softly asked me, "Do you need that?"

No. Personally, I like it best when we don’t talk at all. Although I have to admit, a twisted part of me sort of enjoyed it.

Serena closed her eyes and was silent for a moment before admitting, It bothers me that I need that. I think I need help. Dejected, she turned away from me.

I didn’t know what to say. It was painful to see her so broken. Winning the lottery couldn’t make me feel better than moments I’d had with her. I ran my hand through her hair and gave her a deep massage. She closed her eyes. I kissed her shoulder and whispered, We’re just two people who love each other, having fun. Don’t read anything into it. Couples try different things …

Looking back, she was turning me into a man who would be easier to leave, and with blinders on, I followed her lead. I had minimized her misery. I should have said, We should go to counseling together. Since she left, I’ve researched this and discovered she was struggling with eroticized rage. When victims have not resolved past abuse, they can experience shameful arousal related to their past humiliation. I wish I would have listened with the insight I have now, but I reminded myself, let it go. What’s done is done. Continue to learn and be ready for the next opportunity.

2

JON FREDERICK

8:30 A.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 14

MINNEAPOLIS

IF YOU ADDED TWENTY digits to every number on a roulette wheel, you’d be spinning numbers from twenty to fifty-six, and have the possibilities of April weather in Minnesota. There are days in April on which the temperature will vary over thirty degrees in the same day. Last night, we were at the low end; today, we were above freezing.

I told my BCA supervisor, Maurice Strock, that someone had been in my apartment, since there was always the possibility it could be associated with my work. With his blessing, I left work to review the camera footage from my apartment. There was no hall camera by my door, but there was one by the building entry. It made me realize I had never seen most of the people who lived in my complex, and the few I recognized, I didn’t know well. When you fast forward through recordings of people walking, I’d become aware of behaviors I’d rather not observe, such as how frequently people adjust their clothing.

I had no idea who was in my apartment or why, but nothing was taken or damaged, so I had to set that intrusion aside for the moment. I thought about replacing the key fob, but decided to do one better. I carefully carved a space into the sheetrock on the wall, directly across from my door, and installed a motion-sensitive camera behind a one-way glass mirror. My landlord wouldn’t be wild about it, but I’d agree to have it patched up before I moved out. It would simply look like an ornate mirror hanging directly on the wall. I could access the recordings on my cellphone at any time. I wanted to catch the intruder. And I would still be safe behind my bolted bedroom door at night.

2:30 P.M. FRIDAY, APRIL 14

MINNEAPOLIS

I contacted a man I had helped from the Rotary Club of Eden Prairie. He was eager to share Marcus and Ava Mayer’s business dealings with me. He told me Marcus could be bull-headed, but Angela was always fair in her business ventures. When I contacted Angela and Marcus Mayer, they insisted on stopping at my apartment right away, suggesting the matter was urgent.

Marcus entered with the subtlety of a marching band drum major—big and loud, and used to people following his direction. He looked like a man who would never be seen in anything but the expensively-tailored, dark blue suit he had donned today. Marcus was big and bold, and had an extraordinarily large head. His body appeared to consume the entire doorway. He was over six feet tall, and reeked of power. In spite of his brouhaha, his carefully combed hair did not move with him, as it was securely sprayed in place. Angela Mayer was no small woman, standing nearly the same height as her husband. She strode into my home with confidence, her slacks, blouse, and cardigan all cream-colored. Even her perfectly coiffed, shoulder-length hair was a creamy shade of blonde. One would have to be confident, wearing all white in the slushy throes of April. In contrast to Marcus’ bluster, Angela was calmly intense, and determined to finalize on an agreement.

Angela was all business. We believe our daughter was assaulted and abandoned on Interstate highway 94, in freezing weather. The police aren’t going to do anything because she agreed to be blindfolded and tied up naked to the bed before the assault. She doesn’t know who the assailant was, but she knows it wasn’t her partner. We want you to find this horrible man. Do whatever it takes; we will compensate you.

After ten minutes of Marcus talking at me about what I should do, I offered, I have land near Pierz I’d like to build a house on. I’ve drawn up a house plan, but I don’t have the capital to start the project. I know a great builder who happens to be available. I didn’t bother to tell them Clay Roberts is available as a result of an argument with a homeowner that ended his current project. I could handle Clay—he was an old friend.

I continued, "If you start this project, and deal primarily with Clay, I will spend every free moment I have helping your daughter discover who assaulted her. No payments will go through me. While you’ll initially front the building costs, I will pay you back, minus my