Pretty Girl Gone (12 page)

“You disagree?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I’m only saying that the investigation should have been handled by people who knew what they were doing, not some hick-town cop in a six-man department whose idea of a major crime was someone stealing fishing equipment out of a boathouse. There’s been only one murder committed in Victoria in its entire history. One. It remains unsolved. Bohlig blew it. That’s what I wrote. I was fresh out of JO school and just loaded with idealism, and I wrote that the city of Victoria’s police chief was less than he should be and they damn near fired me for it. ‘That’s not the way we practice journalism,’ they told me. I came down here hoping I could use the
Herald
as a stepping-stone in a long and storied journalism career. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Tell me what you can about the case.”

Salisbury sat in the chair across the table from me. “Why do you want to know?”

“Like I said, it’s part of the story of the Victoria Seven.”

“I don’t think so. You’re on to something else.”

I considered his hypothesis, couldn’t concoct a lie that would refute it in such short notice, so I told him the truth. “I’m trying to find out what happened to Elizabeth Rogers.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then why should I help?”

“There might be a story in it. Something big enough you might get a call from the Cities.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“Oh, I love deals.”

“If I can solve the crime, or at least come up with a better explanation of what happened to Elizabeth than the one Chief Bohlig supplied, I’ll make sure you get the exclusive.”

“Is that why you’re here? To solve the crime?”

“No, I’m not. But I might have to solve it to get what I came to Victoria for.”

“What is that?”

“See, now we’re back to square one again.”

“You can’t tell me,” Salisbury said.

“No, but you weren’t that far wrong earlier when you said book or screenplay.” I hoped the lie would give him something to think about.

Salisbury reached a hand across the table.

“Done.”

I shook his hand, then retrieved my pen and notebook.

“What do you have?” I asked him.

“Saturday, March 15—This is all in the newspaper, by the way; you can look it up yourself. Anyway, the day after the Victoria Seven upset Minneapolis North for a berth in the state basketball tournament there was a party at the house of the mayor. Everyone was there, including the coach and all seven of his players. Jack Barrett, captain of the basketball team, was dancing with Elizabeth Rogers, captain of the cheerleading squad, his longtime girlfriend. In the middle of the dance, they start arguing—now that’s something I developed on my own, it never was printed in the paper. Barrett and Rogers had an argument, and Barrett left the party early, leaving Elizabeth.”

“Did Barrett leave alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did he live?”

“Outside town about four, five miles. His old man had a farm off of County Road 13.”

“Did he have a car?”

“No.”

“Then how did he get home?”

“Walked.”

“Four, five miles? At night? In the winter?”

“This isn’t the Cities, McKenzie. There’s no bus service. People walk a lot, sometimes because they have to. Especially kids if that’s the only way they can get around. Distance doesn’t mean as much.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Argument?”

“Barrett and Elizabeth.”

“Oh, yeah, the argument. No one seems to know.”

“What did Barrett say?”

“Nothing as far as I know. If Bohlig interviewed him, he’s kept the conversation to himself. Anyway, Jack leaves, Elizabeth stays. This is around eight thirty, nine. The party goes on. Around eleven o’clock, which is late in Victoria even if you did just win a historic basketball game, Elizabeth leaves. Alone. Witnesses are pretty adamant about that.”

“Where was she going?”

“The assumption is that she was going home, but like most assumptions . . .”

“Did Elizabeth live near the mayor’s house?”

“A few blocks away. She never made it. Her parents were worried, but they didn’t contact the police until after two.”

“Did anyone leave the party just before or after Elizabeth?”

“No one remembers after all these years, and like I said, I can’t get access to the police reports. All I know is what was reported in the newspaper at the time. They found Elizabeth’s body at Milepost Three early the next morning. There was no sign of a struggle. Apparently, she had been dumped there. That’s what Bohlig said—one of the few things he said for the record.”

“How was she killed?”

“Manual strangulation.”

“Hmm.”

“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“Strangling someone with your bare hands is considered an intimate way to commit murder. Profilers will tell you that it usually indicates the killer had a personal relationship with the victim—usually, but not always.”

Salisbury stared at me for a moment.

“Who are you?”

“What was the condition of the body?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Was she dressed, was she . . . ?”

“Fully clothed. Boots, coat, purse nearby.”

“Not raped. Was she robbed?”

“She only had a few dollars in her wallet, but it was still there. A locket was missing. Apparently she wore it around her neck on a silver chain, wore it everywhere, but that could have come off when she was strangled.”

“Not robbed or raped.”

“So where’s the motive?” Salisbury asked as if the question had just occurred to him.

“What did the ME’s report say?”

“Don’t know. I never saw it. No one did. Bohlig said that releasing it would compromise the investigation. That’s what he said during the investigation. Later, he wouldn’t even tell me that much. I tried to get a copy from the county—the Nicholas County ME did the autopsy—but I was stonewalled.”

“Was there any other evidence gathered at the scene?”

Salisbury shook his head.

“There’s always something,” I insisted, before reminding myself that the crime was committed over thirty years ago. That was practically the Dark Ages compared to today’s forensic achievements.

“Who covered the original story?” I turned my attention to the ancient newspapers, found the byline William Gargaro. “Can we talk to him?”

“Conversation might be a little one-sided.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I wanted to talk to him, too, only Billy’s been dead for like twenty years. Most likely, though, everything he knew he put in the paper. That’s what my editor said.”

“Okay.” I packed up my notes.

“What are you going to do?” Salisbury asked.

“Make a nuisance of myself. Oh, one thing. I want to add a codicil to our agreement.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t know me and you don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s true enough.”

Victoria Area High School overlooked the Des Moines River. It was a comparatively new building—the date 1988 was carved into a cornerstone—with a football stadium on one side and a baseball stadium on the other. There was an empty field between the school and the river, and by the way the snow was trampled, I guessed that it was a popular place with the kids.

I parked my Audi in the lot behind the school. I had a difficult time finding a space because of all the cars there. I guessed that most of them belonged to the students—so much for Salisbury’s theory of kids in Victoria hoofing it when they needed to get around.

The doors to the school were unlocked. I walked in and began wandering the halls, looking for the main office. No one stopped me; no one challenged my right to be there. I had to wonder if the school board had made a considered decision to operate its school like a school instead of the armed camp found in so many other schools in so many other
towns, or if they were just being careless over security. Then I met the three women in the office and realized it was carelessness.

I asked for the names and whereabouts of any teachers who might have taught at Victoria when the Seven won the tournament, and they were happy to tell me—without checking my ID or, for that matter, even asking my name.

“Oh, you want to see Suzi Shimek,” one woman told me.

“Where is Suzi?” the second asked.

“She has a free period, Room 238,” answered the third after consulting a schedule pinned to the office wall.

I was given directions, yet no escort, and none of the women asked why I wanted to see Suzi.

Small towns seem never to believe they have a problem until the problem hits them square between the eyes,
my inner voice concluded.

I eventually found Suzi Shimek hunched over a desk grading papers. Auburn hair fell along the side of her face and she pulled it back with her free hand and tucked it behind her ear. A pair of glasses sat on her head like a tiara. She was a well-made woman and my first thought was that when she was younger she must have had a difficult time keeping the minds of the teenage boys in her class on their work. Even now I could believe half of them would be in serious lust over her.

I introduced myself gently and Suzi assured me that she welcomed my interruption. She said she would love to chat about “those heady days when the Victoria Seven ruled the earth. Besides,” she added, “after grading the same essay question on sixty-two tests, any break in the routine is a blessing.”

Suzi offered coffee in a way that made it impossible for me to refuse and led me to a teacher’s lounge near the second-floor stairway. I had never been in a teacher’s lounge before and was disappointed to discover that it was little more than a small lunchroom. There was a large round table, chairs, vending machines, coffeemaker, refrigerator, a CD/AM/FM
stereo cassette recorder on top of the refrigerator, microwave, a bulletin board loaded with flyers, calendars, and memos, and two battered, but comfortable, sofas placed at a forty-five-degree angle to each other. Next to the sofas was a bookcase containing yearbooks as well as textbooks and other volumes. After pouring coffee, Suzi took one of the yearbooks from the shelf and began paging through it. Her spectacles were still perched on top of her head and I wondered if she wore them to see or strictly for show.

Suzi sat next to me on the sofa. Her eyes were soft blue and candid. I didn’t think she’d be good at keeping secrets.

“They told me when I was going for my teaching certificate that I would always remember my first class, and they were right,” Suzi told me. “I remember my students quite vividly. The Seven, of course, the ones I actually taught at least. Beth Rogers. I had a kid named Paulie who could juggle five balls simultaneously, and a girl named Rachel who threw up during midterms and eventually dropped out because she was pregnant—ah!”

Suzi turned the yearbook so I could see the page she found. There was a black-and-white photo of a young woman with dark hair that fell to her waist leaning against a classroom door with her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing bell-bottom jeans and a loose-fitting peasant blouse adorned with flowers.

“Now be honest, don’t I look like I’m sixteen?”

“This was you?” I blurted.

“It’s hard to keep order in the classroom when you look younger than your students.”

Suzi turned the book so she could look at herself some more.

“How did you manage it?” I asked.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Suzi replied. “I was an awful teacher my first couple of years. Just terrible. I didn’t realize that at the time, though. I thought I was better than Mr. Chips. I thought I was hipper than Sidney Poitier in
To Sir, With Love.
”

I decided I liked Suzi. Anyone who described herself in relation to movies nearly always got my vote.

“Here’s another one.” It was a photograph of her and a second woman just as young. “That’s me and Monte, Grace Monteleone, but everyone called her Monte. We were both first-year teachers and we kind of gravitated toward each other out of self-defense. We became quite good friends. Now be honest, weren’t we just the cutest things?”

I had to agree. She and Monte had looked like they were manufactured in the same factory—long hair, long legs, short skirts, and thin waists—although, while Suzi’s face was open and exuberant, Monte’s was guarded and had a sad kind of smile that reminded me of the painting of the ballerina hanging in Mr. Muehlenhaus’s lobby.

“What became of her?” I asked.

“Monte didn’t care too much for Victoria. She did at first. She seemed to love the town, seemed to welcome living here after growing up on the north side of Minneapolis. That changed around the beginning of February at just about the time people were getting excited about the Seven and started making heroes out of the kids. Jack Barrett had been one of her pet projects. He was ungodly smart. He would have been an honor student in any school in the country and Monte was determined that he go to college. Except, suddenly, it was all basketball, basketball, basketball and forget about school. Coach Testen lectured her for giving the boys homework and when she brought it to the principal, he sided with Coach. I think that took a lot out of her.

“Besides, look around. It’s Victoria, Minnesota, for God’s sake. Back in those days it wasn’t even half as big as it is now. The school was this broken-down barn on the other side of town. Enrollment—we had ninety-two students, total. That’s why the basketball team was so small. Seven kids played basketball and eleven played hockey. There was talk of closing the school and sending the kids to Windom. That ended after the Seven won the championship. Nobody wanted to be the one to say let’s shut it down after that. Plus, we started getting industry. The
lawn equipment people moved here. That generated 350 jobs. The meatpacking plant came two years later. That was another 475 jobs. The town was saved, the school was saved. We now have an enrollment of nearly six hundred. The Seven had a lot to do with that. They brought a lot of positive attention to Victoria at a time when the town badly needed it.”

Suzi smiled broadly.