Burying the Lede Page 4

  “Holy Jeeez-sus!” Tony squawked, trying to contain himself and failing. “Why didn’t you… of course, of course. Where? Where and when should I be where…?” Tony rarely got flustered by such things, but then he rarely got called to witness an arrest in a double murder case. In fact, he never got called to witness an arrest. He knew he had to calm down. Friendly or not, Davis would not want a blubbering idiot to accompany him.

  “Relax, Tony,” Davis responded evenly. “I’ll stop in front of your house in ten minutes to pick you up. Can you make it?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m already on the porch waiting for you,” Tony felt an urge to giggle, but held it back. “And Rich, thanks.” Davis didn’t respond except to end the call.

  Precisely ten minutes later, with the taste of toothpaste still in his mouth, Tony was sitting in the front seat of Davis’ state car, repeating his thank-you and taking big gulps from a 16-ounce Diet Dr. Pepper. He was wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt under his down-filled winter coat and hunter’s boots, all to ward off the cold. It was early March, and the ground was still covered with snow. Tony glanced at the dashboard of Davis’ sedan and learned it was twenty-six degrees outside. Not horrible, but too cold to enjoy working outside for very long.

  “This really is great of you, Rich. I don’t know why you guys decided to include me on this, but I really appreciate the opportunity.”

  “Enough said. You’re here because we know we can trust you, and because we expect this to be simple,” Davis replied.

  And, Tony wanted to say, because it’s an election year next year and Sheriff George Mackey can use the extra publicity. The DCI was always looking for ways to strengthen its relationships with the locals. Tony choked back the comment out of fear he would offend Davis, at whom the cynical thought wasn’t even aimed. And besides, Tony didn’t mind being used a little, as long as he was smart enough to see it and control it, and as long as it meant he had access to a great story. Putting these thoughts into words made the whole affair seem more sordid, so Tony put it out of his mind.

  “So where are we going? Who is this guy?” Tony asked.

  Davis replied, “His name is Wells, Ralph Adam Wells. Beyond that I can’t tell you much. Not because I don’t want to, but because there isn’t much to tell.”

  “Ralph Wells?” Tony was more than a little taken aback. “The young guy who practically lives at the Iron Range?” He was thinking of a rather chubby kid who couldn’t be more than 21 or 22 years old. He was a quiet guy who liked to play pool and drink beer. Tony had seen him in the pub on numerous occasions, but couldn’t remember ever talking to him. He was pretty sure Wells had never been in trouble, at least nothing serious enough to make the paper. He wasn’t even sure where the guy worked or lived.

  “I don’t know about his social life, or lack of it,” Davis responded. “All I can tell you is what’s in the official trial information.”

  Tony knew grand juries were used rarely in Iowa. The trial information was the document employed by most prosecutors to file charges against a suspect. It included the facts of the case, as believed to be true by law enforcement at the time. It was the basis for the arrest warrant and for a judge to order a suspect held until a plea could be entered, and in some cases, a preliminary hearing held. The fact that a prosecutor had completed a trial information and had already taken it before a judge made Tony very anxious to get to their destination. They were likely about to encounter a man responsible for the brutal murders of two people.

  “At this point, it’s pretty straightforward,” Davis said as he turned the cruiser east on the highway, then quickly turned south on a gravel road that ran past the Farmers’ Cooperative grain elevator, and then led them out of town. “So far we know Wells was in town drinking the night of the murders, and we know he can’t account for his whereabouts for hours. We also know he owns clothing matching what was seen by the girls who were in the house when their parents were killed. But I’m sure the main reason we’re here, and this is an editorial comment not for print, is the gun.”

  “The murder weapon?” Tony was almost embarrassed to ask the obvious.

  “Yes. Wells owned the .22 caliber rifle that killed the Ennises.”

  “Wow,” is all Tony said, but question after question was racing through his mind. The statement that Wells couldn’t account for hours of his time implied that investigators had already talked to him at least once. What else had they learned? Could he assume Wells had denied any involvement? Even if he had, if the authorities had his rifle and had proved it was the murder weapon, would Wells already be on the run? Or at home waiting for them?

  “You expecting any trouble?” Tony asked aloud. “You said this would be simple.”

  Davis smiled. “Getting nervous? Just because we brought you along as a shield?”

  Tony returned a grin, but held his tongue awaiting an answer.

  “No, seriously, and off the record, our perception is that Wells is a little slow, both physically and mentally. We expect to surprise him and have him in custody before he knows what hit him.”

  Tony was comforted somewhat, but could still envision all kinds of problems, from embarrassing glitches to deadly catastrophes, as men with loaded guns tried to conduct business in the dark.

  “How many of us…uh, you…are there tonight?” Tony asked, trying to assess the risk.

  “Seven,” Davis said casually, missing the implication in Tony’s question. “Sheriff Mackey, two deputies, two state troopers, Dan, and myself.”

  Tony knew that “Dan” meant Dan Rooney, Davis’ DCI partner stationed in Quincy County.

  Davis continued, “We’re the trigger car. Relax. It’s not trigger in the sense of a trigger on a weapon. We, in effect, trigger the operation. Everyone else should be in place by now. When they see my car approach on the road, they’ll enter the house and secure Wells. By the time we drive up, he should be in cuffs.”

  Despite his earlier thoughts about the risk, Tony was disappointed that he was likely to see only the tail end of the operation.

  The gravel road they traveled on in the dark generally followed the path of what had been the Rock Island Railroad tracks. The tracks had been pulled up years ago. Today the land was used primarily by hikers and dirt bike riders, who begrudgingly shared the wide path through the countryside and into the woods along the Raccoon River. Tony wasn’t sure but assumed the State of Iowa owned the land now and would pave it eventually as part of the state’s bicycle trail system. Years ago, Tony knew, the rail line had been vital to farmers in the area, carrying grain to major distribution centers in Chicago, Minneapolis, and Kansas City. Because freight trains don’t make very appealing neighbors, most of the path’s miles were bordered by farm fields or roads. Where the contour of the land, the thickness of the trees, or other features prevented farming, the land often held the lowest income families living in old farmhouses, converted farm buildings, or trailer homes.

  As Davis slowed, Tony realized they were headed for the latter. It was an older trailer home – the type with the wheels still underneath – partly visible behind a botched attempt at skirting the home with trellis and of a width that was legal to pull down most highways. Rust at the seams and under the windows revealed the home’s age and poor condition. The yard was uncut and cluttered with debris, including an old Frigidaire refrigerator missing the door handle and a rusty gas stove missing pretty much everything. The long gravel drive didn’t really end as it reached the home, but dissipated into the weeds and snow. In short, the home revealed not only the residents’ economic status, but their lack of ambition and pride. Hang on Tony, he thought to himself. Don’t be so judgmental. You have no idea what the circumstances or issues are with this family. Tony’s face began to visibly curl in disgust, but he stopped himself. He found the conditions distasteful, but he knew he had to keep an open mind.

  Suddenly – so suddenly Tony almost missed it – two darkly clothed deputies with guns drawn were on the front
step. A crowbar popped the door open and in an instant they were inside, followed almost as quickly by two uniformed troopers.

  Davis stopped his cruiser about halfway up the drive, the only visible law enforcement vehicle. He shut off the engine but left the lights shining on the trailer. Tony was out the door before Davis could tell him not to. He walked briskly along the side of the drive, staying close to the trees for cover, but moving toward the trailer. He didn’t want to miss any more of this than he had to.

  Tony wasn’t more than a dozen feet from the front step of the trailer, with Davis right behind him, when the two deputies brought Ralph Adam Wells out the door. Wells looked frightened and completely submissive. He was whining his objections, almost in whispers, as the officers dragged his bare feet down the three metal stairs to the ground. Wearing boxer shorts and an old high school baseball jersey, he looked like absolutely anything but a killer. The word pathetic formed in Tony’s mind. It was the best description of the scene, but he had no idea how he would work it into the newspaper story.

  “Guys!” Davis called from behind Tony’s left shoulder, almost sending him out of his khaki slacks. “Watch his feet.”

  The officers pulling Wells down the driveway slowed and provided more support to keep his feet from dragging on the rocks protruding from the packed snow. Tony wondered how much of that extra care was for his benefit, rather than the suspect’s, and then wondered if he was being too cynical. As Wells was tossed into the back seat of the sheriff’s squad car, Davis tugged at Tony’s coat, holding him back as Davis passed him and approached the car. Tony got the hint and stepped back, but not so far that he couldn’t hear. Before Davis uttered a word, both he and Tony were surprised by a small voice from behind them.

  “Ralph?” Tony turned and saw a small, dark-haired, and not entirely unattractive girl. She may have been in her early twenties, but the word woman never entered his mind as his eyes moved down her pixie-like frame, dwarfed further by a faded Tweety Bird nightshirt and by the two deputies standing just behind her, inside the door of the trailer. “What’s going on? Are they hurting you?”

  “I’m okay. I don’t know,” Ralph called in a high-pitched voice from the back seat. Tony was struck by the sound of it. This was no arrogant punk like in a made-for-TV movie, claiming his innocence while rubbing his guilt in the faces of the cops. This was a tired, frightened voice filled with questions. “It’ll be all right. Just hang on and I’ll get this square. Why don’t you get some clothes on and call your sister to come wait with you?”

  Tony was struck by the naivety. Wells sounded like he expected to be back home in an hour or two. Just a chat with the boys in town and then back home for breakfast. Was he ignorant…or innocent?

  Four of the officers stayed behind to begin the search of Wells’ trailer, property, car, and every other possession he owned, borrowed, or rented. Two were in the car with Wells, and Davis was back in the car with Tony.

  “Did he strike you as a cold-blooded murderer?” Tony couldn’t help but ask.

  “Hey, pal, don’t be fooled. John Gacy was a Boy Scout leader and Jeffrey Dahmer was a charming guy with a girlfriend. You’re smart enough to know that appearances don’t mean squat when it comes to what someone may have done in the heat of a moment or as a result of a carefully calculated plan.”

  Tony knew Davis was right, but he also knew Wells looked about as guilty as Lumpy on Leave It to Beaver. He struggled to reconcile his intellectual and emotional reactions to what he saw. Almost as if he could read his mind, Davis said, “My advice is to wait until you have all the facts and see what they tell you, or more importantly, what they tell the jury.”

  ***

  The thought of the jury pulled Tony back to reality. Or had it been something Lawrence Pike just asked in cross examination? Something about the angle of the bullets.

  “So it’s your expert opinion that three of the bullets were fired while the shooter was standing on the bed, aiming down at the couple?” Pike asked.

  “That’s my opinion,” the doctor answered.

  “Let’s talk about that fourth bullet,” Pike said. “From where was it fired?”

  “I believe all the evidence is consistent with the fourth bullet being fired from the floor behind the bed. It seems obvious to me this actually was the first shot. The killer fired into the back of the female victim’s skull, and then stepped up on the bed, firing three more shots, killing both the husband and the wife before they had any chance to react.”

  Tony glanced over and noticed the prosecutor squirming in his chair, probably wanting to object, as the doctor had gone beyond the facts and into the realm of speculation, but not wanting to object and risk alienating his own witness.

  “So in your expert opinion,” Pike was asking, “the female victim was on her knees, on top of Mr. Ennis, engaged in sexual intercourse at the time the bullet entered the back of her skull?”

  “That’s correct,” Torgeson answered, “but of course no one…”

  Pike cut him off. “And based on the spatters on the wall and the exit wound from the female victim’s face, she apparently was upright, and not bent over her husband at the time of the shot?”

  “That’s correct,” the doctor said again.

  “So, based on all these facts, the apparent position of the couple, the placement of the bullet wounds, and the resulting human tissue splattered on the wall at the head of the bed, would you say the rifle would have been pointed straight ahead, in other words, positioned roughly parallel to the floor?”

  “That’s right,” Torgeson said more slowly, clearly wondering where Pike was headed.

  “So then doctor, knowing all of this, and knowing the height of the bed and size of the bodies, did you calculate an approximate height of the murderer?” Pike asked.

  “Objection!” Nelson was on his feet. “Your Honor, Dr. Torgeson is a fine pathologist, but there’s no way he could know all he needs to know, such as the way in which the gun was being held in order to estimate the height of the killer.”

  “Sustained,” Schroeder said.

  “I withdraw the question, Your Honor,” Pike said, unruffled.

  Tony smiled, understanding immediately that Pike had made his point. If the gun was against the killer’s shoulder, which any reasonable person might assume, then the gun had to be positioned at a particular height for the bullet to travel the line it did from the back of the skull through the middle of the brain and into the wall.

  Tony began sketching the picture in his mind: the old-fashioned bed several feet off the floor, the man on top the bed, the woman on top the man, the gunman behind them by at least a few feet…

  Damn, I should have been paying attention, Tony chastised himself. The woman upright, the gun pointed at her skull. Holy shit! He almost said it out loud. It wasn’t too hard to envision the butt of the rifle nearly six feet above the floor. Tony glanced over at Ralph Wells, five-foot, five-inch Ralph Wells, and wondered again just what was going on.

  ***

  The state’s second witness on day six was a ballistics expert from the DCI. Everett Anderson described in excruciating detail the chain of custody that ensured the rifle he tested was that received from Ralph Wells, and then in equally great detail, the process used to fire the weapon in the lab and compare both the lead bullets and the brass shell casings with those found at the murder scene. The testimony was as compelling as it was detailed. There was no doubt the rifle that killed Jerry and Anne Ennis was the one Ralph Wells had pulled from the trunk of his older model Chevy Malibu and had handed to DCI investigators months earlier. As the prosecutor took his seat, looking very pleased with the testimony as well as with his own performance, the judge turned to the defense table. “Any cross examination, Mr. Pike?” he asked.

  Pike rose slowly. He was wearing a light tan suit that needed pressed with a striped tie that didn’t quite match and was 20 years too wide. His sparse white hair appeared to be uncombed since his morning shower. I
n short, he looked like someone’s grandfather rising slowly from his favorite chair to answer the family’s call to dinner, which was, Tony understood, exactly how he wanted to look.

  “Just a moment, Your Honor,” Pike said quietly as he picked up his legal pad and examined his notes. He seemed to be talking to himself, but just loud enough for the jury to hear, as he ticked through the lines. “Hmm, no, no, no, well… no, no,” he said. Then, looking up and in a normal tone of voice, “No, your honor, I don’t think I have anything to add to Mr. Anderson’s fine testimony.” Pike appeared to be turning to sit when he stopped in his tracks, turned, and said, “Well actually, Mr. Anderson, I do have one or two very quick questions.”

  “You may proceed,” Schroeder said.

  “You already have described for the jury your outstanding qualifications, so I won’t ask you to repeat them,” Pike began. “If I summarized your experience by saying you’ve been doing this a really long time and you’re really good at your job, would that be a fair assessment?”

  “I’d like to think so,” Anderson replied, just a little wary of this too-nice approach from the opposition’s counsel.

  “So, in all those years, how many murder cases have you assisted the state in prosecuting? Would it be dozens? Hundreds?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I guess I would say somewhere in between. More than a few dozen but fewer than hundreds. Perhaps a hundred cases or more in total.”

  “Just one more question, Mr. Anderson,” Pike turned to face the jury. “In all that time…in all those one hundred cases…have you ever heard of a murderer volunteering to investigators that he had the murder weapon in his trunk and voluntarily turning it over to them?”

  “Objection!” Nelson was on his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

  Pike responded before Schroeder could rule. “Never mind, Your Honor. I withdraw the question,” he said, still looking at the jurors.