A Cold Case of Killing Page 11

  “Then yah, it was me. I was up because Butchy needed to go out.”

  “Is Butchy your dog?”

  “Yah. She sometimes needs to take an early pee.”

  “What kind of dog is she?”

  “Shih Tzu,” she said. “And don’t make no funny remarks about that word. I’ve heard ’em all.”

  “I’m sure you have, Mrs. Waldner,” I said. “Tell me what you heard this morning.”

  “I heard a sort of poppin’ sort of a bang comin’ from next door. It wasn’t all that loud, but it was loud enough to make me think maybe it was a shot, so I called 911.”

  “Did you go over to Andersons’ to check on the noise?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t want to go over there and find somebody who’d been shot, or maybe even run into some crazy loon with a gun in his hand. I stayed right here in the house ’til the cops came, just like the operator said for me to do.”

  “Have the police talked to you?” I asked.

  “Some,” she said. “They asked some questions and then told me there was a dead man in the garage who’d shot himself. They wouldn’t say who it was but I figured it must be Jack.”

  “Can you think of any reason Jack would shoot himself?”

  “Not off the top of my head. I don’t know what kind of problems he’s been havin’, but with all that’s been goin’ on the last few days, with the buried body and all, maybe he just went off his nut.”

  “Well, if you think of any other possibility, please give me a call. Do you still have my card?”

  “Oh, yah, it’s still around somewhere.”

  “Good. Now I see a couple of TV crews heading toward your front steps, so I’ll say goodbye.”

  “Oh, shit,” she said. “I mean . . . oh, darn. I’m gonna go hide upstairs until they go away. And you remember now, I don’t want my name in the paper.”

  “I’ll remember. And thanks for your help.”

  “No problem,” she said. I gritted my teeth and ended the call.

  “Anything good?” Al asked.

  “She has a Shih Tzu named Butchy who had to take an early pee and she heard a popping sort of a bang. Also, she thinks Jack might have just gone off his nut.”

  “That’s a cracking good quote,” Al said.

  “Sums it up in a nutshell,” I said.

  * * *

  “HEY, YOU GUYS ARE really dressed up today,” said Virginia Donaldson, the Daily Dispatch receptionist, when Al and I walked past her desk on our way to the newsroom. “Something special going on?”

  I’d forgotten about my sloppy attire, and Al had dressed as quickly and casually as I had when the early morning call came in.

  “Very special,” I said. “We always try to look our sartorial best when we’re called before sunrise to go out and cover a shooting.”

  “Oh, wow! Who got shot?” Virginia asked.

  “Guy out on East Geranium,” Al said. “At the place where they dug up the bones a few days ago.”

  “Oh, gosh. Another big mess out there? I’ve got a friend that lives in the next block and she says the neighbors are sick and tired of looking at cops and tape and flashing lights all the time.”

  “Well, they got another dose of it this morning,” I said. “The guy shot himself at about five thirty and the cops, tape, and flashing lights were all there a few minutes later. Where does your friend live?”

  “Like I said, in the next block. She knows the place because of the big gardens out in back. She and the woman belong to the same garden club.”

  That got my attention. “Your friend knows Jill Anderson?”

  “Sort of,” Virginia said. “I don’t think they’re what you’d call friends or anything like that.”

  “But she does know Jill.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “What’s your friend’s name and phone number?”

  “Oh, God, are you going to call her?”

  “I’m calling everybody I can find who can tell me anything about that family.”

  “Molly won’t want her name in the paper.”

  “I won’t put her name in the paper. I’m looking for background, not quotes.”

  “Okay, her name is Molly Stewart. I’ll have to look up her number and send it to you with an e-mail.”

  Five minutes later I was punching Molly Stewart’s number into the phone on my desk.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Quiet Woman

  MOLLY STEWART WAS NOT pleased to receive my call. “I’ll bet Virginia Donaldson gave you my name, didn’t she? Wait’ll I see her. I told her I didn’t ever want to get a call from any reporters where she works.”

  “I’ll neither confirm nor deny your suspicion,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not looking for quotes. I’m just trying to learn more about the Andersons—what kind of people they . . . are.” I’d almost said “were.”

  “I can’t help you much with that,” Molly said. “The only contact I had with Jill was at garden club meetings and I never once met her husband.”

  “What was your impression of Jill at the meetings?”

  “I don’t think I ever had an impression. She was super quiet, never said ‘boo’ about anything. Never hosted a meeting at her house or ever invited us to come look at her gardens, either. We all thought that was kind of strange, especially since she had all those big beautiful roses to show off. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “She had those gorgeous gardens and she never invited club members to see them up close?”

  “Not once. If she knew there was a body buried there, I guess I can understand why she didn’t want visitors. Does that answer all your questions?”

  I wasn’t going to let her go that quickly. “So do you think Jill knew about the body?” I asked.

  “I haven’t a clue what she knew about anything. All I know is that she came to meetings, listened to the speakers, got ideas from us, and never shared one damn thing with the group. She’d say ‘hi’ and ‘goodbye’ and almost nothing in between. We all thought it was because she was depressed about losing her daughter, but maybe it was more than that. Always kind of hung her head like she was afraid to say anything to people. What were the cops doing there this morning, by the way?”

  “A man shot himself in the garage early this morning,” I said.

  “Oh, no! Was it Jill’s husband?” Molly asked.

  “Cops haven’t confirmed it yet, but everybody is ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent sure that it was.”

  “Jesus, that poor woman. She’ll really be hanging her head now. He’s dead, I suppose?”

  “He is. And you say that you’ve never had a conversation with Jill, or been in her garden or her house?”

  “That’s right. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get out of here and get to work. Please don’t put my name in your paper, Mr. . . .uh?”

  “Mitch,” I said. “Mitch Mitchell. Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem,” Molly said as she hung up. Really? It seemed to me that there was a problem all the time we were talking, but who am I to judge her?

  The “You’ve Got Mail” light on my computer was flashing. The email was addressed to a long list of media and came from the St. Paul Police Department, and read: “John L. (Jack) Anderson, age sixty-five, was found dead, apparently from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, in his garage at approximately 5:45 this morning. A .38-caliber Colt revolver was found beside the remains. The official cause of death will be announced upon completion of an autopsy by the Ramsey County medical examiner. Mr. Anderson is survived by his wife, Jill Anderson, and a brother, Edward Anderson.”

  “And maybe a daughter, Marilee Anderson,” I said to myself as I copied the e-mail into the story I’d begun writing.

  As I wrote the story of Jack Anderson’s suicide, I recalled Jill Anderson saying that it was time that it all came out. Had Jack shot himself because it all was coming out? If so, what was the “all” that was coming out? Was it related to the skeleton found in the rose g
arden?

  Another thing I wondered about was the presence of homicide detective Mike Reilly at the suicide scene. Was there something about Jack’s death that the investigator hadn’t told us about? I called Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown’s private number.

  “Homicidebrown,” Brownie answered in his usual one-word response. “Can you hold for a minute?”

  “Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said. “I can hold.”

  I held for a minute that lasted for approximately 360 seconds. When Brownie finally came back, I asked about Reilly’s role at the suicide scene. “Did something look like it might not have been suicide?”

  “The investigator, what’s his name? . . . Albright . . . had a question about the position of the gun in relation to the victim’s hand,” Brownie said. “Detective Reilly checked it out and was satisfied that the weapon could have fallen where it did.”

  “So Albright was wondering if somebody else might have placed the gun near Jack Anderson’s hand?”

  “I assume that was his concern. Detective Reilly found nothing to indicate that anyone else had handled the weapon. It’s clearly a suicide, Mitch. Don’t try to blow it up into anything else.”

  “You know me, Detective. I’m always asking all the questions.”

  “And you’re always looking for the biggest, most sensational story. Sorry to disappoint you on this one.”

  “I’m always looking for the true story, sensational or not,” I said. “I’ve got one more question: Is anyone at the St. Paul PD planning to ask Jill Anderson about why Jack shot himself?”

  “You’d have to ask Albright about that,” Brownie said. “I assume they’ll be talking to her, but I imagine they’ll handle her gently. Apparently the deceased didn’t leave a note, so she might not know why he did it.”

  I briefly considered telling Brownie about Jill’s bothersome comment, but decided to keep it to myself for the moment. “You’ve been questioning Jack about Skeleton X. Could his suicide have something to do with that?” I asked.

  “I’m not about to speculate on Mr. Anderson’s motive.”

  “Okay. But speaking of Skeleton X, any luck with identification?”

  “Nothing yet. We’ll let the media know when we find out who he was. Now I’ve got another call to take. Have a good day, Mitch.”

  I had one more call to make. I punched in the number for the house on East Geranium Street. A man answered.

  I identified myself and asked the man for his name. “This is Edward Anderson,” he said. “And we’ve got no comments for the press.”

  “‘We’ being you and your sister-in-law?” I said, assuming that Uncle Eddie wouldn’t be using the royal “we.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “We’ve just lost a dear family member and we’ve got nothin’ to give to the press.”

  I decided to try the route suggested by Jayne Halvorson. “Actually, I have something to give to Mrs. Anderson,” I said. “I’d like to return the picture of Marilee that I borrowed a few days ago, and also give her the enhanced enlargement that my photographer friend made from it.”

  “Not the one that shows what Marilee supposedly looks like now?” Edward said.

  “No, no. It’s a copy of the school picture that we borrowed.”

  “Jill cried for hours after she saw the one that showed what Marilee would look like if she was still alive. That was a terrible thing to run in the paper. Made Jill bawl her eyes out and gave me the creeps.”

  “We were hoping that Marilee is still alive and that someone might have seen her recently.”

  “Well, we’re pretty damn sure she’s not alive and it was awful for Jill to see that picture of her little girl looking like she was forty years old.”

  “I’m very sorry about that,” I said. “But as I was saying, I’d like to return the picture we borrowed. Would it be possible for me to come to the house?”

  He thought for a moment. “If it was up to me, I’d tell you to go to hell. But let me ask Jill. It’s her picture. Hang on a minute.”

  I hung on. It was another long minute—296 seconds by the sweep hand on my watch—before Edward said, “You still there?’

  “I am,” I said.

  “She says it’s okay for you to bring the picture here this afternoon. But no cameras and no notebooks to write down anything she says.”

  “Fair enough. What’s a good time?”

  “Better make it late, like three o’clock or so.”

  “Three o’clock it is. Thank you for your help, Mr. Anderson.”

  “You’re welcome,” Edward said. Now there was a well-mannered man, even if it didn’t sound like he really meant it.

  * * *

  AT EXACTLY 3:01 P.M., I rang the Andersons’ doorbell. The barricade was gone, allowing me to park right in front of the house, and the yellow tape had been removed, permitting me to walk up the steps to the front door. No TV crews or police officers were in sight.

  In my left hand, I carried a manila envelope containing the original photo of Marilee and the eight-by-ten copy that Al had made. In my shirt pocket, I carried my tiny tape recorder loaded with a fresh tape.

  Uncle Eddie opened the door and I introduced myself. “Oh, yah, I remember you,” he said, stepping aside. “Come on in. Jill is in the livin’ room.” His tone was as welcoming as it would be for a visit from Satan.

  He turned his back to lead the way and I switched on my pocket tape recorder as I followed him through an oak-paneled archway into the living room. The beige-carpeted room was surprisingly bright, thanks to the wide floor-to-ceiling bay window that faced the street and two tall windows that looked toward the garage.

  Jill Anderson was seated on a faded floral print sofa facing the bay window. Her eyes were red from crying and her shoulders and upper body were slumped in exhaustion. In front of the sofa was a dark wooden coffee table covered with a scattering of magazines. Most had flowers on their covers.

  I offered my condolences on her husband’s death and held the envelope toward her. She reached out and took it, laid it on the coffee table without opening it, and waved toward an armchair set at a ninety-degree angle to the sofa, upholstered in the same pattern. “Please sit down, Mr. Mitchell,” she said. “Thank you for returning the picture of my dear daughter.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I’m just sorry about what’s happened here.”

  She emitted a long sigh and let her head droop until her chin touched her chest. “Yes, it’s all coming out, just like I said it would,” she said.

  I decided to risk asking the obvious question. “What’s coming out?”

  Another sigh. “The body in the garden. What Jack did. What Jack and I did together. Everything . . .”

  Edward, who’d taken a standing position at the end of the sofa, jumped in. “Jill, hold it right there. Don’t say no more.”

  Jill raised her head and looked at Edward. “It’s okay, Eddie. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve decided that I want to tell this gentleman what really happened twenty-five years ago. Nothing I say can hurt Jack now. And what have I got to lose? My daughter is still missing, my husband is dead, and my beautiful garden is gone. What else can happen to me?”

  “This man’s a reporter,” Edward said. “Don’t you understand? He’ll put the whole damn mess in the paper.”

  “Maybe that’s the best place for it,” she said. I wanted to voice my enthusiastic agreement but I clamped my jaws shut.

  “You’re makin’ a big goddamn mistake talkin’ to him,” Edward said. “If you blab about everything that happened back then, it’ll ruin you for the rest of your life.”

  “What life do I have left?” Jill asked. She turned toward me. “You don’t have anything to take notes on, do you?”

  “I have a great memory,” I said. Not to mention an hour’s worth of tape in my shirt pocket, I thought.

  “Eddie, please get this man a notepad and a pen from my desk.”

  “Jill, I think it’s stupid and crazy for y
ou to do this,” Edward said.

  “I need to do this,” Jill said. She sat up straight and her voice grew stronger. “I’ve been holding all this shit inside me for twenty-five years and I’m tired of it. I’m sorry, Eddie, but I just can’t hold it in anymore. Jack is gone where he’s safe now and I don’t give a damn what anybody does with me.”

  I could feel my excitement rising as she talked. My armpits were getting wet with sweat and my forehead was hot and damp. I had all I could do to keep from telling Eddie to do what he’d been told.

  Eddie stood looking down at Jill for a long moment. Her eyes met his and held steady. At last Eddie blinked. He turned to me and said, “Be right back.” He walked stiff-backed out of the room and returned a minute later with a legal pad and a ballpoint pen. He held them out to me while looking past me toward the bay window. I took them and thanked him and he just grunted in response. Good manners disappear when a man is really pissed.

  “Are you ready to listen, Mr. Mitchell?” Jill asked.

  “Any time you’re ready to speak,” I said. Edward had walked to the bay window and was staring out with his arms folded and his back to us.

  Jill sighed yet again and looked down at her lap, where her hands were folded. “It all started thirty years ago when Jack took his first trip to Canterbury.”

  She paused and I said, “The horse race track?”

  “The horse race track. That visit started all the troubles that ruined our lives.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s All Coming Out

  JACK WENT TO CANTERBURY for the first time with a friend who went there all the time,” Jill said without looking up. “The friend talked him into betting on every race, which he hadn’t figured on doing, and he won enough times that he came home with a couple of hundred dollars more than he’d left with. Now you’d think that would be a good thing, wouldn’t you?”

  She looked up at me and I nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  She looked down again at her folded hands. “It sounded good to Jack, too. Sounded like easy money. So good and easy that he started going back two or three times a month. Then it got to be every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday, and then he started taking sick days off from work so he could go to the track. He even used up all his vacation days out there betting on those damn old horses. Sometimes he won more money than he lost, but most days he lost everything he had. Then he’d go to the ATM to get some more, which he would also lose.