David A. Schwinghammer
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Roman Platz becomes the principal suspect in the Andy Leyk murder.
Chapter 6
Lamb of God
"Let him go for a scapegoat into the wilderness."
– The Holy Bible: Exodus –- Numbers
Father Czech buttered a piece of toast, heckling Viktorija as he slathered on the spread. Disheveled, in a ratty brown bathrobe and uncombed hair, the pastor wore a scowl that would frighten a Jehovah''s Witness.
"Your doctor he does not wish for you to have the greasy food," she said.
"I don''t like oatmeal. I can''t abide dry cereal. What can I have, if I can''t have bacon?"
"Good morning all," Dewey said, rubbing the crusty sleep out of his eyes.
"Fire this woman, Father Fischer," the pastor said. "She''s guilty of gross insubordination."
Dewey twiddled his fingers at Viktorija. This morning she wore an embroidered apron over a blue house dress. She''d done something to her hair; it was fluffier somehow, more puffed up. "Let him have the bacon, Viktorija. Father has a death wish."
She just smiled up at him. Barely five feet tall. He''d been the runt of the litter all of his life, but she made him feel like Kareem Abdul Fischer. She handed him his coffee and a plate with two slices of toast, accidentally brushing his hand. "I enjoyed meeting your friend Gordon," she said.
"I''ll bet," he said, giving her a wink. "I may have a job for him if I can get him to agree."
Father Czech slurped at his coffee. "Really? What''s that?"
"Irv Trutwin called last night, asking if I''d sit in on the interrogation of his son."
"Where was I?"
"Asleep in your chair."
"I have to go on the wagon. I miss everything these days."
"Mind taking my class today, Father?" Dewey said. "My ten o''clock?"
"Can''t. Got the little stinkers over at the elementary. They''re more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Only a Russian invasion would sway me."
"I''ll call Mrs. Cooper and cancel."
"Don''t envy you that. That woman will probably read you the riot act."
"Thanks for the warning."
#
The red eye of the video camera blinked as Mrs. Weaver dollied in for a close-up of the assemblage in the sheriff''s office. Behind her the Bunn machine brewed overtime for the seven people gathered around Sheriff Weaver''s desk. The Trutwins, Jim Miller, Dewey, the sheriff, and Gordy Culp with his hand on Trace''s shoulder, whispering something in the boy''s ear. Trace nodded and went to sit between his parents.
"Who''s that guy?" Irv Trutwin croaked, rolling up his blue dungaree sleeves. The father was an older, heavier version of his son, with a chipped tooth to match the boy''s.
"That''s Gordon Culp, Mr. Trutwin," Dewey said. "He''s a criminal lawyer; I took the liberty of . . ."
"This is bullshit," the mother, who had a raspy voice of her own, said. "We can''t pay no fancy lawyer." A hideous yellow muumuu couldn''t disguise the fact that she was a step up in weight class from her husband and could''ve been a barroom brawler in her own right.
"I''m willing to work gratis on this one, Mrs. Trutwin," Gordy said. He leaned against the wall with one hand in the pocket of his three-piece suit; his eyes hidden behind tinted glasses.
"Oh . . . in that case."
Decked out in white shirt and tie, Trace sat with his hands between his knees as if he had to pee worse than Mutt had the night before.
"What''s this about, Sheriff?" Gordy said, taking the offensive.
The sheriff lit a cigar, drew on it, and exhaled a stream of smoke in Gordy''s direction. "The boy failed a lie detector test."
Gordy grinned like a druggie after a heroine fix. "Come now, sheriff. You know they''re not admissible in court."
Weaver sighed, the sigh sounding like an especially gross profanity. "We don''t really think Trace did this, Mr., ah . . ."
"Culp, as in Robert."
"Oh, yeah, the man from U.N.C.L.E."
"No, that was Robert Vaughn."
"Whatever. Why don''t we just let Trace tell us where he really was?"
"You want to do that, Trace?" Gordy said.
Suddenly Trace sat bolt upright.
"We told the boy to tell the truth," Irv growled, Governor Ventura style.
Gordy moved into camera range. "Tell it then, Trace," he said, but take it nice and slow."
"I said I was with the counselor, but that wasn''t true. I was . . . ah . . . studying . . . with one of the Terries. Anyway, I didn''t want to get her in trouble so–-"
"Erin Reese says you had a fight with Andy just before she was killed," Sheriff Weaver said.
"Those two they fought all the time," Mrs. Trutwin offered.
"Mrs. Trutwin, I''m going to have to ask you to leave if you interrupt again," the sheriff said, pointing his banana-like finger.
"Erin Reese was the girl I was studying with. She got pissed at me ‘cause I said I didn''t want to see her anymore."
The sheriff puffed on his cigar, adding to the haze of bluish-grey smoke. "Did you have a sexual relationship with the Reese girl?"
"Hold it, Sheriff," Gordy said. "Do you want to answer that, Trace?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes sir, what?" Weaver said.
"Yes, sir, I had sex with Erin Reese."
"So then, are you saying she made up that fight between you and Andy to get even with you?"
"Ask her."
"Bullshit." The sheriff suddenly realized he had a priest in the room. "Excuse me, Father," he said. "We got some other witnesses who say you had an argument with Andy the night before."
"He didn''t say he didn''t have a fight with her," Mrs. Trutwin said.
"Take her out of here," Weaver said to Miller.
The veins on the woman''s neck bulged, and she let loose with a torrent of profanity, but before she could elaborate on Weaver''s incestuous relationship with his mother, Irv tugged at the yellow muumuu. "We''ll fill you in, Honey. We got that lawyer guy." She huffed and puffed like the wolf in "The Three Little Pigs," but she whirled about and shuffled out the door with Miller following along in her wake.
"Go ahead, Trace," Gordy said. "This all sounds like fodder for the mill. Our mill."
"I guess that fight Erin was talking about was real enough. You see . . . Erin said Andy was flirting with this guy old enough to be her father."
"You see this guy in the sports car yourself?"
Trace glanced over at Gordy, who almost imperceptibly shook his head no. "Nah, she''d been givin'' other guys the eye, so I didn''t put it past her."
"So then, you were jealous of Andrea and this guy in the sports car, and you were screwing little Erin at the same time. I don''t understand how your mind works, Trace. It was okay for you to mess around, but it wasn''t kosher for her–-"
"I don''t see what Trace''s double standard has to do with the price of legal advice on the Internet," Gordy said. "Trace, were you having sex with Erin the day Andy Leyk disappeared?"
"Yes, sir. I was."
"Sheriff, I''d suggest you get that little girl in here and sweat her until she verifies what Trace says. We''re done here. That is unless you want to put Trace under arrest." Gordy fingered his red silk tie as if he were daring the sheriff to do just that.
"I have something," Irv said.
"What''s that, Irv?"
"Ah . . . that retard out there who lives next to The Runway. That Roman Platz kid. The Leyks say they never thought our boy did this, and they''re wondering why you folks haven''t talked to the dummy. The Leyks say he scared her."
The sheriff crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back in his expensive executive chair. "Retards don''t bury their victims twenty miles away in a gravel pit," he said.
"I don''t know why he couldn''t," Trutwin rasped. "The Platz family used to live out that way when the mister was still alive."
Dewey finally got in a word edgewise. "I was at the Platz farm when the mother died, Sheriff, and the boy I saw wasn''t capable of–-"
"The neighbors say they seen him drive that truck," Trutwin said. "And the Leyks say their daughter Audrey went to school with that boy and that he attacked the teacher once with a scissor ‘cause she wouldn''t let him eat glue."
Gordy tapped Trace on the shoulder, and the boy stood. "If that''s all, Sheriff. We''ll be going."
"Yeah, go ahead," the sheriff said, grinding his cigar out in an overflowing ashtray. "Father, would you stay behind please? I want to bend your ear about something."
When they were all gone, the sheriff said, "We''re going to have to haul the retard in here, just on principle, you know. I''m gonna need to serve a warrant to search the house, too. As far as I know, he hasn''t got any relatives. Since you''re a priest and all . . ."
"You want me to be there when you search the Platz house?"
"Roman he ain''t competent and we''ve got to cover our butts somehow."
"Why don''t I talk to Gordy about this?"
"Not that lawyer guy again. He ain''t going to be there, is he?"
"Might have to be."
#
Dewey ambled across the bridge, enjoying the early morning sun and the slight breeze coming off the river. Again he marveled at the double-domed wonder built from the tithes of the Polish immigrants. Sacred Heart Church was an architectural curiosity that people came from hundreds of miles to ooh and ahh at.
Across the street a yellow-brick Lutheran relative seemed dowby in comparison. Dewey needed to see the Lutheran minister and Father Albers of Sacred Heart about the possibility of sponsoring a joint recreational center. Nothing much to do for kids in St. Gervais, except drink and experiment with drugs. Most of the parents were stuck in minimum wage jobs–-the only industries a meat packing plant on the West Side and a brewery and a plastics factory on the East Side–and had little time for supervision.
But his meeting with the two ministers would have to wait. He had a bone to pick with Sheriff Weaver.
Just past Sacred Heart, Dewey turned toward the Catholic middle school, recently consolidated with St. Boniface Elementary on the East Side. St. Boniface housed K-5, while Sacred Heart served grades 6-8, a tidy little arrangement that had actually increased Catholic enrollment in St. Gervais. His appointment was in the convent across from the school. The middle school could no longer claim the iron-fisted discipline of Catholic nuns, but the convent was home to several retired sisters. And this was where social services had temporarily placed Roman Platz.
Dewey rang the doorbell. An aged nun dressed in full-body apron and modified wimple answered. "I''m Father Fischer," he said. "Here about Roman Platz."
"Oh, yes, they''re expecting you," the octogenarian nun said. "Come this way." She smelled like Ajax and tred soundlessly in tennis shoes, except for the swish of the outsized apron.
The conference room lacked sensory distraction, except for the Sears version of The Last Supper hanging behind the fold-out table. No plants, beige walls.
Dewey made the mistake of shaking hands with Jerry Weaver, one of those bone-crusher types. The sheriff puffed on an even more foul-smelling stogie this time around. Dewey coughed.
"Oh, sorry, I forgot I had the cigar," the sheriff said. "It''s almost a part of me."
A thin fellow with a David Niven mustache shook hands with Dewey. "I''m with the Bureau," he said in a Jack Webb monotone. "Name''s Turner, Steve."
One of the nuns was already at the table, holding hands with Roman, who was staring straight ahead, mouthing some kind of unintelligible mantra.
"Like some coffee?" the sheriff said. "The sisters fixed us some. Best damn coffee I ever tasted. Got some cookies, too. Oatmeal."
"That would be nice," Dewey said.
The sheriff handed him a cup. "Well, let''s get at it then," he said, and he, the BCA agent and Dewey took a seat. "This is what we''ve got. As you know, we found some evidence implicating Roman in the kidnapping and murder of Andrea Leyk."
Dewey sipped his coffee. It really was good. "You don''t really think that stopwatch is evidence, do you sheriff?"
"It''s got her name on the back, don''t it?"
The BCA took over. "He had some other things Mrs. Leyk has identified."
"Sure he did," Dewey said. "Her senior picture, a dime store ring, and a glow-in-the-dark religious statue. Mrs. Platz told me they were friends. This is stupid."
"You''re saying she gave him an expensive stopwatch," Weaver said. "Come on!"
Roman rotated his hands in front of his face and groaned.
"Is he trying to tell us something?" Turner said.
"No. He does that all the time," the nun said.
"Maybe you can get him to tell us about the stopwatch," Turner said. "Does he talk?"
"He can talk," Dewey said.
Roman swiveled in his chair and tried to nuzzle the nun''s breasts. She leaned so far backwards that her chair upended, and she went crashing to the floor. Sheriff Weaver''s cigar fell out of his mouth, rolled around on the table and landed in Roman''s lap. Roman picked it up and put it in his mouth. Everybody laughed.
The nun set her chair to right, moving a little farther away from Roman.
"What''s he doing now?" Weaver said.
Roman spun the cigar on the table top. When the nun reached for it, he let out a howl, and she drew her hand back as if she''d just touched an electric fence.
"Considering the shape the kid''s in, I don''t think an indictment would go very far," Turner said. "If he killed her, he obviously didn''t know what he was doing."
"He didn''t do it," Dewey said. "He cleans the ditches. That''s where he got the stopwatch. Why don''t we see if we can get him to take us to where he found it?"
Dewey grasped Roman''s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Clean ditches," he said.
"Clean ditches!" Roman said and jumped up, overturning his chair.
#
Single file, the BCA agent, Sheriff Weaver, and Dewey followed Roman and his black garbage bag all the way to the abandoned farm and back the other way. Prickly burrs snagged on Dewey''s clothes; ropelike roadside grass tripped him up; milkweed pods stank up his clothes. Then a shiny Pepsi can caught Roman''s attention, and he tried to drink what was left in it before Weaver wrestled it away. Roman cried, tore up and flung grass at the sheriff. Dewey picked up the discarded garbage bag and shuffled toward town, stooping to collect broken glass, newspapers, and soft drink cans, until Roman realized someone else was horning in on his act and pried the bag out of Dewey''s fingers. Eventually the troop came to a huge boulder that had been dragged out of the clover field and left in the ditch. And Roman said, "Tick tock. Tick tock."
"I do believe he means the stopwatch," Turner said.
"Yah think?" Weaver said. "Better get forensics out here right away. Looks like blood on that rock. The girl had a fractured skull."
"Doesn''t look good," Turner said. "It''s rained quite a bit since it happened. I doubt we''ll find much."
"We''ll have to take the boy into custody," Weaver said.
"No way," Dewey said.
"The boy had the watch, and Andrea''s mother says she had it the day she disappeared. She used it to time herself when she skated out to the abandoned farmhouse. There''s no way she gave it to Roman."
Almost on cue, angry blue-black clouds formed overhead, the wind picked up, and droplets of rain began to tattoo the windbreakers and raincoats the men were wearing. "I want Roman to talk to a doctor," Dewey said. "There''s no way I''m going to let you people railroad him, just to clear the case. Besides, if you pin it on him, the real murderer will still be out there. Ever think of that?"
"Don''t get your water all hot, Father. Doc Alexander''ll talk to him; we''ll get forensics out here, and then we''ll go from there."
"The medical examiner? What does he know about retardation?"
"The doc is everybody''s doctor around here. I''m sure he knows more about Roman''s medical condition than any so-called expert."
#
Dewey found Doc Alexander''s office a block east of Bank Square, kitty-corner from the courthouse and above the old Rexall drugstore. Patients climbed an outside staircase, like the one Doc Adams had in Gunsmoke. According to the plaque next to his door, Alexander had been the one and only doctor in St. Gervais since 1951.
One entire wall of the doctor''s office was stacked with yellowing medical journals, and the doc was ensconced in a chair that could have been stolen from a furniture museum, scuffed mahogany on wheels with a latticed backrest.
Doc dusted off a chair for Dewey.
"I''m here about Roman Platz, Dr. Alexander. He found Andrea Leyk''s stopwatch in the ditch alongside The Runway, and the sheriff has him in custody."
"You don''t say."
"Yeah, I promised his mother I wouldn''t let them hang this murder on Roman. What can you tell me about his mental condition?"
Doc Alexander leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling as if he were watching a scene unfold. "Should''ve seen him," he said. "Ate his own feces. Didn''t relate to anyone except
his mother, and she was just a life support system. The kid''s attention span is short. I mean really short, five seconds to a minute at most. If a butterfly flew by he''d lose interest in the girl."
"Audrey Leyk says he went after a teacher with a scissor."
The doctor ran his hand over his thick brush cut. "The boy was awfully sensitive to sound when I examined him. I''d say she was most likely yelling at him, wouldn''t you? I haven''t seen him in awhile, though. What else does he do?"
"A lot of rocking. Oh, yeah, he seems to really like peanut butter."
"Obsessive behavior, huh? I''m just a lowly g.p., but it sounds an awful lot like autism to me." He reached behind him and pulled a volume out of an overflowing bookshelf. "There''s an article in here about a woman with autism who designed slaughter houses to make them more efficient." He handed the book to Dewey.
An Anthropologist on Mars authored by a neurologist named Oliver Sacks, who worked with Tourettes patients and others with unusual brain diseases.
"What I''m saying is that Roman could have done it, but it''s not likely. The slaughterhouse woman got all kinds of therapy, and as far as I know, Roman never got any."
"Weaver''s cigar fell out of his mouth during the BCA interview. First Roman tried to eat it, then he sort of spun it around."
"Probably thought it was a turd," Doc said. "I think we better find us a specialist or two or three. If I know Weaver, Roman will wind up in the bughouse at St. Peter with a bunch of slavering wing nuts."
#
That afternoon Dewey tried to put the Leyk case out of his mind. It wasn''t his bailiwick after all. In any event he couldn''t do anything until Doc Alexander found a specialist who would agree to examine Roman. Dewey was just about to call Father Albers at Sacred Heart about the youth center when the phone rang.
"St. Boniface rectory," he said.
"Miller here," the caller said. "The blood is Andy''s. Thought you''d like to know. The techs sifted through the vacuuming from the roadside and found some paint flecks, but they probably can''t be used in court since they were in the ditch and not on the road where she was hit. Runoff, you know."
"What color were they?"
"Probably shouldn''t tell you this, but seeing as how you helped out at the crime scene . . . Just don''t tell anybody else, okay?"
"I won''t."
"We found several different flecks, different colors, but there''s a predominance of silver ones, and they''re less weathered."
"Silver''s not all that unique, is it?"
"Makes sense if you''re talking sports car. Maybe little Erin was telling the truth after all. We''re hoping forensics can identify the make and model somehow. Those boys are geniuses."
"Roman''s truck is blue, isn''t it?"
"Yes, but we don''t know the silver flecks belong to the car that hit her. Roman Platz is still a suspect. Looks like Trace Trutwin is in the clear, though. That girl Erin Reese finally admitted she was with him during the time Andy was taken. All afternoon. We''re looking for cars with dinged up front bumpers."
"My Renault has a bashed front bumper."
"Where were you the day the girl was killed?"
"On my way from my parents'' house in Anoka. Either that or I was talking to you out at the railroad bridge. After that I was with Father Czech and Viktorija."
"I guess that''s about as good an alibi as you could get."
"Sheriff get a chance to talk to the other girls yet?"
"What girls?"
"The ones at the Dairy Queen."
"Right. The Erickson girl says she remembers Andy sitting with some guy in a sports car, but she thought it was Andy''s cousin Bob. He drives a little red Triumph. The other girl, one of the Olsens, says she''s always too busy to notice what''s going on in the parking lot."
#
Jimmy Judek and his friend Paul cast their lines twenty feet below out into the Mississippi. A nice collection of iridescent Sunnies were gasping for breath on the railroad ties next to them.
"Lucky thing old Jimminy is busy with that Leyk killing," Jimmy said, "or he''d''ve chased us off of here before we had a chance to get the lines in the water."
"Couldn''t catch a slug if it stopped to take a leak," Paul said.
"Who, Jimminy?"
"Who''d you think?"
"Thought maybe you was still pissed at me for blabbing to Fischer about you not being sick that day."
"What''s old Babyface gonna do? Can''t hardly get nobody to be an altar boy no more. You know they''re thinkin''a settlin'' for girls?"
"Nah! You''re lying."
"I''m lying I''m dying."
Jimmy stiff-armed the boy, and Paul dropped his pole into the water, the splash barely audible twenty feet below."
"You son of a bitch. You damn near gave me a heart attack."
"Shut your pie hole, yah mama''s boy."
With the fearlessness of ten-year-olds, they grappled high above the water in mortal combat for the remaining pole, that is until Jimmy got a bite. "Motherhumper!" Jimmy bawled. "It feels like I got a whale on the end of the line. Help me pull her in. I''ll bet it''s Old Moss Back. My dad will go green around the gills when he finds out I caught Moss."
After struggling and cussing for what seemed like a half hour, the boys hauled up a pair of in-line skates wrapped in a pair of shorts and a halter top.
"Son of a bitch," Paul shrieked. "You know whose these are?"
"Mine," Jimmy said. "I been hounding my dad for a pair for years."
"Asshole. Always thinkin'' of yourself. This is evidence. Don''t go touching them like that; you''re screwing up the fingerprints."
"Duh. They been in the water, yah shit for brain."
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