Swirling Shadows of Guilt

By William Mitchell Ross

In March 1973, Norman Munz, a confessed killer, dies in prison from pneumonia. Twenty-two years earlier, he was arrested and sent to prison for the murder of Monroe police officer Gregory Figi. Over the years, his mother, Phyllis Munz, had petitioned the police and the governor to reopen the case. She was convinced that her son was innocent, and a grave injustice had occurred. Her determination and absolute belief in his innocence never wavered. Her son languishing in prison for a murder he didn’t commit broke her heart.
After his burial, Mrs. Munz was beside herself with grief. She owed it to herself and Norman to make one last plea to clear his name and to give her peace. She contacted Det. Samantha Gates at the Monroe PD to beg her to reopen the cold case to find justice for her son. At first, after hearing her concerns, Gates was intrigued but skeptical. The heartfelt, visceral emotions of Mrs. Munz wanting justice for her son resonated with the detective. Gates decided to look into the case, but a cold case is difficult being that it would rely heavily on faded memories, not to mention deceased witnesses. Nevertheless, Gates, who had never undertaken a cold case in her professional career, felt up to the challenge and immersed herself in the past.
What surprises would she find as she works her way through a maze of entanglements in the past? Was Norman Munz was wrongfully convicted of murder and sent to prison? Only by lifting the veil concealing the true facts of the case and exposing the truth could her question be answered.

Books by William Mitchell Ross
in
“Monroe Mystery Series”

Deceived by Self
All Passion Denied
Love’s Obsession
Echoes Screaming in the Night
A Greedy Vengeance
Murder for Malice
Who Killed Fritz Zuber?
Swirling Shadows of Guilt

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796086904

William Mitchell Ross

William Mitchell Ross lives in Monroe, Wisconsin, with his wife, Marilyn. Bill is retired from his day job in the dairy industry. He is also the former mayor of the city of Monroe, having served for eighteen years. After finally making it to retirement, he enjoys being one of the docents for city tourism, puttering with home projects, and writing mystery novels. Last year, he teamed up with the Monroe Chamber of Commerce and is currently the docent for the “Monroe Mystery Tour” that identifies six scenes of the crime as well as gives visitors a brief historical sketch of Monroe and Green County. The tours run June through September.

Book preview

SWIRLING SHADOWS

OF GUILT

WILLIAM MITCHELL ROSS

Copyright © 2020 by William Mitchell Ross.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Rev. date: 02/05/2020

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

808860

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Books by William Mitchell Ross

in Monroe Mystery Series

Deceived by Self

All Passion Denied

Love’s Obsession

Echoes Screaming in the Night

A Greedy Vengeance

Murder for Malice

Who Killed Fritz Zuber?

Swirling Shadows of Guilt

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

M y special thanks to professional photographer Marissa Weiher, Madison, Wisconsin, for the cover photo; Robert Duke W. Goetz, owner of the Goetz Movie Theatre, for years of movie entertainment enjoyed by his Goetz patrons since 1931; Lucien Knuteson Photography, Seattle, Washington, for the author photo; my wife, Marilyn, whose continuing support, patience, and understanding that I have imaginary friends is very much appreciated; and the Monroe readers, who take great pleasure and amusement in trying to identify my fictional characters who, I insist, have never been issued birth certificates.

map%201.jpgmap2.jpg

CHAPTER 1

P hyllis Munz, sixty-five years old, plump, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, gray hair tied back in a bun, sat at her kitchen table with her chin nestled comfortably in her hands as her elbows rested on an antique round oak wooden table. She was weeping. She felt all alone in a world of disbelief and abandonment. Life had weighed and ground her down to the mere shell of a woman. It was Saturday, March 17, 1973. Her sad tears never stopped flowing, cascading down her face as a mountain of wet tissues gradually piled up and grew on the floor beside her oak pressed-back chair like a stalagmite. Her grief-filled pale blue eyes stared blankly into space as she relived the recent horrific tragedy in her life, causing her so much pain and distress. She ignored a cup of coffee sitting on the table in front of her. She was frozen in time, in the death grip of unbearable suffering. The ache in her heart wretched the tears from her eyes. What was she going to do?

In May 1908, Phyllis was born on a farm in Jefferson Township, located outside the city of Monroe, Wisconsin. She was one of eight children raised by Emma and Harold Edelman. She thoroughly enjoyed her idyllic childhood of family, hard work, and the many rewards that growing up on a dairy farm provided. All the love she felt from her family, the land, the livestock, and the distinct four seasons made her life happy, complete. All her hopes and dreams centered around marrying a farmer to raise her own family and to continue to enjoy country life.

At a Turner Hall Labor Day dance in 1930, she met John Munz and fell hopelessly in love with the tall, handsome, talented dancer at first sight. They cut quite the couple on the dance floor as the ever- popular polka bands played for the raucous, happy crowds. The floor was greased with wax, making their dancing feet glide effortlessly while he held Phyllis tightly in his arms. They danced to Birdie Red Wing, In Heaven There Is No Beer, Beer Barrel Polka, Hoop-Dee-Doo, and the Pennsylvania Polka. His first kiss was a peck on her cheek after a waltz. Feeling his lips on her cheek for the first time made her feel dizzy and warm. She was smitten and in love. They loved doing the schottische. He would whisper in her ear as they circled around the dance floor—right foot first, then the left foot, roundabout, and back again. She laughed and laughed until her sides ached.

John was working as a hired man for a local farmer and had dreams and aspirations of someday owning his own farmplace. The country was in a full-blown depression, but he was a smart young man and determined to make his way and to own his farm despite others going bankrupt. He insisted that any idea of marriage had to be deferred until his dream became a reality. Phyllis wanted to get married right away, but she relented and lived with her parents until John could save the money needed to secure a mortgage to buy a farm. Being apart from John was unbearable. The longing, waiting, and yearning made her heart pound when they were apart. Her burning hopes consumed her as time passed by like the slow ticktock of a clock. Love and love alone sustained her through the lonely nights. When John came to visit, she could feel his heart beating as they tightly held hands and cuddled on the front porch of her parents’ home. Then suddenly, an unexpected inheritance from a bachelor uncle John hardly knew saved the day. They were married in April 1932, the happiest day of her life. The United States was also full of optimism with FDR winning the presidency that year.

Life was good for the newly married couple. They purchased a 160-acre dairy farm on Clarno Road, south of Monroe. With the help of extended family and friends, they planted row crops and started milking Holstein cows. Phyllis turned the white framed farmhouse into a loving home using all her creative energy and talent. She had a love for gardening and had a sizable vegetable garden with plenty of food to eat. Money was scarce, but they managed to get by. Neighbors helping neighbors was the glue that kept the farming community together and surviving in tough economic times. During those Depression years, Phyllis would accompany John on fishing trips to Yellowstone Lake in Argyle, Wisconsin. His passion for fishing excited her, and he was good-natured about her catching more fish than him. They both liked solving crossword puzzles and playing cards with the neighbors and family.

Five months after her marriage, Phyllis became pregnant, and Norman Munz was born in May 1933. It was a difficult delivery. He was two weeks overdue, and after twenty hours in labor, the pain was unmanageable, so the doctor ordered an emergency caesarean section to save her life. The birth was successful but not without consequences. The good news was that the baby and mother were fine, but because of birthing complications, Phyllis could not get pregnant again. The news was devastating and traumatic for her. The hope of having a large family faded away on that delivery table. The sadness was something that she and John came to terms with and doted on little Norman.

Phyllis lifted her coffee cup to her lips and took a sip of the tepid brew and made a face. It tasted cold, bitter, and terrible in her mouth. She became aware of the chiming antique mantel clock in the living room when it rang out with ten strikes on a high-pitched bell that echoed throughout the empty house, announcing 10:00 a.m. She shifted in her chair, stared into space, and once again became lost in thought.

After Norman’s birth, life on the farm was perfect. His smiling happy face was the joy of their lives, and he cheered them up when feeling blue. Their close-knit little family sustained them. The bond between father and son was unbreakable. John loved and hugged his little angel all the time. It was pure bliss for Phyllis to watch them play together. When Norman turned three years old, they began to notice some disturbing things about him. His social and communication development skills seemed off, a little odd. He struggled with ordinary daily activities. He would only eat certain foods and didn’t connect emotionally with his many cousins at playtime. Sometimes he seemed very distant and got angry if someone invaded his space. Watching other kids playing from a distance, he had a puzzled look on his face. Losing interest in his toys, he seemed perfectly happy to be alone and play by himself. Phyllis spoke to her mother about her concerns, but the response was not to worry, it was only a phase that children go through, and Norman would grow out of it. The problem was that he never grew out of it, and his behavior only became worse. So she took Norman to her family doctor, who was of no help. He said that some kids are developmentally slow, and nothing could be done for him. As parents, they would have to learn to live with it and get used to it. Otherwise, Norman should be a healthy happy little boy and live a long life. His prognosis broke her heart.

When Noman started the first grade, the other children picked on him. Being different, and not like them, brought out a certain cruelty in the other children. As a result, Phyllis took Norman out of school and tried to school him at home, but it was a futile attempt. She and John did their best, but the truth was that their only child was going to live a very different and difficult life. They gave him all the love and tenderness that loving parents could offer and constantly worried about his future as an adult. As the years passed, they soon discovered two things that Norman really enjoyed that calmed him down during his more anxious moments. One was drawing stick figures. He had a talent for them, and the figures were, in a sense, action figures, performing various activities like milking cows or flying a kite or running through a field. The other was shooting guns. John would take him to the firing range north of Monroe on HWY 69 and spend hours shooting at paper targets. Norman was a good shot with both a handgun and a rifle.

Then tragedy struck. In the spring of 1949, John suffered a massive heart attack while doing chores in the barn, taking his life in an instant. Phyllis was devastated. Norman was sixteen at the time and couldn’t understand the sudden loss of his father. After the funeral, Phyllis rented out the farmhouse and land and moved to Monroe. With the life insurance money, she bought a small two-story house in the 1700 block of Eighth Street, a short distance from the downtown courthouse square. The house had a covered front porch. The bedrooms and one bathroom were located on the second floor. She got a secretarial job in an insurance office and supported herself and Norman the best she could. Her next-door neighbors, a retired farming couple, watched Norman during her absence. After moving into town, Norman would take afternoon naps and then wander around the square at night. He especially liked stopping at the Goetz Movie Theatre and looking at the brightly lit marquee movie posters announcing current movies and upcoming attractions. At first, these nocturnal wanderings seemed strange to Phyllis, but they soon became a habit of his and seemed to have a positive effect on him. She spoke to the police chief about it, and he didn’t seem too concerned since Norman didn’t pose any kind of threat, even given his propensity to odd behavior at times. The police just accepted the fact it was Norman doing his thing. Norman’s only complaint during his trips around the square was that a second-shift patrol officer would sometimes stop and tease him during his rounds. According to the officer, it was only harmless fun, and nothing ever came of it. Norman didn’t like being wound up like that and one time kicked the patrol car hard enough to cause a minor dent in the passenger side door as the officer roared in laughter. Other than that, his wanderings were fairly innocuous.

Weary of these memories, Phyllis slowly got up, rubbed her arthritic knee, and went into the living room and looked out the picture window. A late winter storm had blanketed Monroe with six inches of snow. The city streets department did a good job clearing the snow, and the traffic in front of her house moved along smoothly. People were going about their daily routines, unaware of the pain and sadness in her heart. The sun was shining brightly, and the snow cover should be melted away in a couple of days. She turned, went to her flowered sofa, and sat. What was she to do?

Phyllis clearly remembered the day, June 2, 1951, when her mother called and told her that a second-shift Monroe police officer, Gregory Figi, was found murdered by a single gunshot wound while sitting in his squad car. It was a bullet to his head in front of the Goetz Movie Theatre the night before. Apparently, he was parked in front of the theater sometime after midnight when someone approached his car and shot him at close range. The whole town and countryside were buzzing with the horrific news. Her first thought was that it was the same officer who occasionally teased Norman. Other than that, she didn’t give the sad news much thought. She barely knew the Figi family. She asked Norman if he saw anything suspicious during his walk the previous night, and he couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary.

A few days later, the police came to the house, looking for Norman. Phyllis assumed it was to ask him questions about the night of the murder since he frequented the movie theater during his walks around the square. They asked Norman if he owned a .38-caliber pistol. Phyllis told them that they did. It belonged to her husband. The police wanted to see it. Norman went upstairs and returned with the gun. He handed it to the officers, and then they left, with Norman in tow to the police station. Phyllis followed them and waited in the visitor area while Norman was being questioned. She prayed that Norman wouldn’t freak out during the interview.

After three hours, a police officer approached Phyllis and told her that Norman had confessed to the murder of Officer Figi and signed a confession. The gun used to kill the officer was, in fact, the same gun that Norman had given them earlier that day. Phyllis went into shock. By all appearances, according to the police, it was an open-and-shut case. Norman Munz murdered Police Officer Gregory Figi. There was no trial, given the circumstantial evidence against him and his signed confession. Norman was given a life sentence to be carried out at the Oregon Correctional Center in Fitchburg, Wisconsin. It all went by so fast. A blur. A surreal time of life. Phyllis was devastated and visited him once a week. Norman steadfastly maintained his innocence and told her he was tricked into signing the confession. He had absolutely no explanation for the gun being the murder weapon. After a short time, Norman got used to the routine of prison life and had a job working in the prison laundry. He continued drawing his stick people and handed them out to his fellow prisoners for their amusement. His cellmate was a big burly man named Tiny, who took Norman under his wing because Norman reminded him of his younger brother who also had mental challenges.

Phyllis wrote numerous letters to the governor and the police department, asking them to reopen the case, but to no avail. Norman being in possession of the murder weapon, his fingerprints on the gun, no alibi for the night of the murder, and his confession were the reasons given for not reopening the case. Unless some new evidence surfaced to warrant it, Norman would remain behind bars the rest of his life. Phyllis suffered from depression. First, her beloved John passed away at an early age, and then Norman being in prison for a crime she knew he didn’t commit was almost too much for her to bear. After twenty-two years, she was still convinced of his innocence.

Exactly ten days ago, on March 7, Phyllis got a call from the prison chaplain. He told her that Norman had contracted and suddenly died of complications from pneumonia in the prison hospital. She was stunned. She couldn’t believe it. The chaplain offered his sympathies and said all the appropriate things, but Phyllis wasn’t listening. She rushed to the prison and identified his body. Why wasn’t she told about his condition? The why questions madly rushed through her mind like a runaway freight train. Her relatives stepped into the breach and supported her. Her life seemed upside down. She was in a heavy, dense fog and went through the beginning stages of grief and loss, hardly aware of her surroundings. Decisions were being made for her. She only nodded in agreement to what was being said and asked of her, not capable of thinking clearly. The Rettig Funeral Home brought Norman’s body back to Monroe for burial. He was buried quietly next to his father in Greenlawn Cemetery at a graveside service. Only a handful of relatives attended.

A total of twenty-two years had passed since Norman was convicted of the murder. As Phyllis stared out her living room window, she suddenly became very angry. She tightly clenched her fists and fiercely pounded on the sofa. Damn, damn, damn! Her body tensed up, and her mind raced. She needed justice for Norman and to clear his name. But how? There had to be an answer, someone to take an active interest and reopen the case. But who? She slumped back into the sofa, exhausted. She closed her eyes, and immediately, like a bolt of lightning striking out of nowhere, illuminating the darkness, a possible solution flashed across her mind. She sat bolt upright and furrowed her eyebrows. Of course, she told herself. The answer was obvious, right in front of her all the time. Det. Samantha Gates from the Monroe PD! she screamed out loud to her empty house. Gates had the reputation of a fair, caring police officer. She wasn’t in Monroe when Norman was convicted, but could she treat it as a cold case and investigate? Phyllis jumped and hurried to the phone and nervously dialed the number for the police department on her black rotary dial telephone. Then she abruptly hung up and ended the call before it went through. You are silly goose! she said, admonishing herself, and then laughed out loud. Today is Saturday! I will need the weekend to think about what I am going to tell Detective Gates to pique her interest to reopen the case, she said in a self-reassuring voice. For the first time in a very long time, she felt a glimmer of hope.

CHAPTER 2

S amantha Gates kissed her husband, Drew Nelson, on the cheek before leaving for work Monday morning. She stood five feet ten and a half inches, had a slim build and blue-green eyes, and wore her chocolate brown hair short. He gently rubbed her stomach, feeling for a baby bump, and smiled. I love you, he whispered into her ear. After trying for several months to get pregnant, the answer to their prayers happened in December. The joy she felt being pregnant for the first time made her face glow with anticipation. She was so looking forward to motherhood that her excitement was hard to contain at work. She was in the first trimester of her pregnancy, feeling and seeing amazing changes to her body. Her khaki pants were feeling a little snug. She was eating differently, craving some foods she hadn’t imagined eating. Good for the baby, she told herself. As of yet, she couldn’t feel any baby movements. Drew insisted that when she felt the first kick, she would immediately tell him. He had over-the-top enthusiasm and joy in his voice. Her morning sickness wasn’t as bad as her mother told her it would be, for which she was thankful. That being said, she was no stranger to the porcelain god.

Janet Sonnenburg, an old and dear friend who lived in Madison, Wisconsin, was Sam’s bridesmaid at her wedding. When Sam told her the good news, Janet was elated. She and Sam talked as often as their schedules allowed to catch up and talk about the pregnancy and how it was going. In many ways, Janet was just as excited as Sam. Once the weather got better, they planned a girls’ night out together in Madison.

Sam’s mother, Sharon Gates, was at the Parkview Nursing Home. Sharon wryly referred to the place as an asylum, where she was one of the saner inmates. She was treated well and was well-respected by the staff, but she had a weird sense of humor that was challenging. When she learned that Sam was pregnant, she rejoiced, renewed her faith in God, and started offering up advice and possible names for the child. Drew found all this merriment amusing. Sam just rolled her eyes and humored her mother the best she could.

Sam’s fellow police colleagues were happy for her and teased her about motherhood and the challenges of raising children based on years of their own personal experiences. She ignored their good humor and couldn’t wait to give birth. Drew told everyone he knew that he was going to be a father. He even bought some pink bubble gum cigars. Sam teased him that pink meant the baby was a girl, but he didn’t care. It was the announcement that counted. Besides, the odds he was right were fifty-fifty. Men! Sam mused. Drew worked at the Monroe Regional Medical Hospital as a physical therapist and shared his good news with his patients, much to their amusement. The time Sam and Drew spent together at home was filled with exuberant happiness and excitement, radiating throughout the house. The notion of being new parents was exhilarating. The unborn child’s bedroom was readied for the homecoming. A couple of touches of either pink or blue would be added once the gender was revealed.

After Sam married Drew Nelson, the police department personnel wanted her to keep her maiden name of Gates at work, a name that they felt very familiar and comfortable with. Chief Johns was delighted with her decision to remain Gates, being that Samantha Nelson would take some getting used to and somehow didn’t seem right. Sam was okay with being known as Sam Gates at work, and Drew didn’t object, even if he thought it a little weird. Since her last murder case, things had settled down at the PD, and Sam’s days were mostly filled with following up on mundane misdemeanor criminal activity and writing reports in triplicate for the file. She hated writing those routine reports and filing them away, but she accepted it as a part of the job. Just grinding it out.

When she arrived at the police station at 8:00 a.m., she parked her car and sloshed through the slushy snow in her fur-topped boots, a Christmas gift from Drew’s mother. Upon entering the station, Shirley Weiss, the day shift dispatcher, told Sam that she had a call from a Mrs. John Munz, who wanted a call back. Did she give you any information as to why she wanted to speak to me? Sam asked.

Shirley shook her head. No. Only that she wanted a call back.

Sam squinted and rocked back on her heels, thinking. Why does the Munz name sound familiar? she asked Shirley.

Shirley straightened up in her chair to answer the question. Her son, Norman Munz, died in prison a couple of weeks ago and was buried at Greenlawn Cemetery.

Sam pointed her index finger at Shirley. That’s right, I remember now hearing about it. Do you know the backstory behind his imprisonment?

Well, from what I remember, Norman confessed to the murder of a Monroe police officer in 1951 and received a life sentence in prison. A sad story all around.

Why do you say that? Sam asked.

Well, Norman had mental challenges, and there were some questions at the time about his arrest and conviction from some of the townspeople. Wagging tongues, if you get my drift. One of them was my father, who knew Norman and couldn’t believe he was capable of murder. Too much of an open-and-shut case in his opinion, a slam dunk, a rush to judgment. In his opinion, the police didn’t thoroughly investigate the murder, given Norman’s mental condition.

That was twenty-two years ago, so why is Mrs. Munz contacting me now? Sam asked.

Shirley shrugged. Beats me. Maybe she just wants to talk. The loss of a child is always hard on a parent, no matter the age of the child.

Sam nodded. Give me her phone number. I will call her back. Shirley handed Sam the piece of paper with the phone number written on it. Thanks. I will call her this morning. Sam went into the empty briefing room and sat at her desk. Chief Johns was on a ten-day vacation