Code 61

TWENTY-FIVE

Tuesday, October 10, 2000

11:55

The first thing I'd done when we got to the jail was start the call to the county attorney. Now that we had Toby in our clutches, and in a talkative state, I wanted to keep him as long as I could.

The first conversation with our county attorney had been very brief.

“I'm sorry, he's with a client now,” said his secretary.

“Tell him, Darlene, that this is really important. Really. I need to talk with him in five minutes or less. Something's happened that he's gotta know about.”

In about ten minutes, he called back.

“What's so important, Carl?”

“We need some fast research,” I said. “I've got to know what to charge somebody with who broke into a funeral home, and drove a stake through the chest of a corpse.”

There was a pause. “You're kidding?”

“Nope. I've got the dude in custody, but I gotta have a good charge, and quick.”

“You've gotta be kidding?”

“No, Mike, I'm not.”

“What's wrong with burglary? Just plain burglary, Carl.”

I reached behind me, and pulled one of the volumes of the 1999 Code of Iowa off the shelf. “Got your code handy?” I asked. I was going to have to work with him on this, and I really resented the time.

“Sure.”

“Okay, under 713.1… the burglary statute… got it?”

“Yes.”

I read it to him. The pertinent part was “Any person, having the intent to commit a felony, assault or theft therein… ”

“So?” he said.

“Well, he didn't steal anything, and since you can't assault the dead, he has to have intended to commit a felony, right?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Well, is it a felony to mutilate a corpse? We gotta know, Mike.”

“I'm sure it is,” he said, and I could hear pages flipping in the background.

“Here it is,” he said. “Chapter 709.18. Abuse of a corpse. Right here.”

I flipped my pages. It said, “A person commits abuse of a human corpse if the person knowingly and intentionally engages in a sex act, as defined in section 702.17, with a human corpse. Abuse of a human corpse is a class D felony.”

We were both silent, as we read it. “It wasn't exactly a sex act, Mike.”

Naturally, he had us both turn to 702.17, which defined sex acts. They all included the word “genitalia.” No go, and I told him so.

I could tell he was getting worried, too. Just about everything else regarding dead human bodies had to do with licensing funeral directors, medical examiners, and the paperwork required when one came into possession of a corpse. It was too bad Edie hadn't been buried, because if she had, and she'd been exhumed by the suspect, it would have been an aggravated misdemeanor. But, of course, she wasn't in the ground yet.

“Wait, Carl… Just a second… ”

“Mike, the only statute that covers it is the trespass section.”

“Wait, let's check 716, criminal mischief… ”

We did. Criminal mischief required damage to “tangible property.”

“I don't think a corpse is 'tangible property,' I'm afraid, Carl. I'll look, though.”

I had to agree with that. “Yeah, when was the last time you saw a price tag on a corpse?” I flipped the page. “Yep. Right. So, look at 716, trespass. That fits.”

It did, too. Under 716.7.2(a). Very specific. “Entering upon or in property without the express permission of the owner, lessee, or person in lawful possession with the intent to commit a public offense, to use, remove therefrom, alter, damage, harass, or place thereon or therein anything animate or inanimate… ”

That covered it. Edie was definitely “inanimate,” all right. And she'd been both “altered” and “damaged.” By something that had been “placed” there by hammering it into her chest. Unfortunately, trespass was a simple misdemeanor. That meant a hundred-dollar fine, maximum. Burglary charges required a felony.

That's when Mike, bless him, finally earned his keep. Sort of.

“Wait a minute, Carl, wait a minute… look under the 'hate crime' provision, down in 716.8. See, it says that if there's the intent to commit a hate crime, the penalty goes up to a serious misdemeanor.”

Wow. A whole five-hundred-dollar fine. Still two steps away from a felony, but we'd made some progress, at least.

“Hate crime?”

“Well, won't the relatives be offended, on, well religious grounds, Carl?”

I gotta admit that would never have occurred to me.

I would have just been very, very angry, religion aside.

“So, what do I hold him on, then?”

“Uh, well, a serious misdemeanor, I guess,” he said, “at least for now.”

At least for now. What did he think, that Toby was going to commit some more serious crime while he was in jail? A serious misdemeanor would keep him just long enough to do the paperwork, if we were lucky.

“It's gonna have to do,” I said. And if the bond were typically reduced to ten percent of the fine, he was going to walk on a fifty-dollar deposit. Great.

I got back to Hester, who was baby-sitting Toby in my office. No real point in beginning the process that would book him into jail, at least not if he was still talking, and there wasn't a really good reason to distract him with a lot of jail-related questions.

“How we comin' for an attorney for him?” I asked.

“Attorney Junkel called,” said Hester. “He's on his way down. Wanted to know what he was being charged with.”

“And?”

“I told him the charges were still being determined.” She looked at Toby, who was listening closely. “He told Toby not to talk about the case with us until he got here.”

Expected, as any good attorney would say that. Toby, unfortunately, simply had to talk, and about anything that came into his head, I guess. Talk, talk, talk. And bouncing his feet. Still handcuffed, he looked pretty disheveled, because his hair was falling down over one eye, and he couldn't reach out and push it back. Consequently, he kept tossing his head, to clear his field of vision. I was thinking in terms of crystal meth or ecstasy. I didn't want to ask him, though, because it might lead to a charge, which his attorney would use to discount what he'd said.

“Nothing can be done, anyway,” said Toby.

When you deal with someone who is wired like that, you talk to them. If you don't at least provide some input from an outside source, they get angry, and sometimes violent. It's not difficult to talk with them, though, because they will chat about virtually anything you toss their way.

“I'm not so certain about that,” I said. “Frequently… ”

I'd started him off on another tangent, and he interrupted.

“A lot you know. There's this physics thing called the Uncertainty Principle, you know, and it says that nobody can know anything for certain. Ever. Nope, they can't, and it's been scientifically proven, too.”

My, he was wired. “You mean Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle,” I asked, offhandedly as I was wondering what to do when Attorney Junkel arrived.

“Ooooh, you can read,” he said.

“I think Uncle Werner was referring to subatomic particles that can be influenced by the impact of a photon,” I said. “Not whether or not your bank account balanced.”

“Uncle? He was your uncle?” There was wonder in his voice. It was apparently easier for him to believe I was related to the famous physicist than for him to believe I had read anything concerning the man. Helped along, no doubt, by the fact he was stoned.

“Figure of speech, Toby,” I said. “Just a figure of speech.” I kept a straight face, but it wasn't easy.

“My bank account never balances,” he pronounced with great dignity, “because I don't have one.” He began to giggle. “But I had one once, and I couldn't keep it balanced on the end of my nose to save my ass!” He broke himself up with that one.

While our captive entertained himself, I told Hester about my conversation with the county attorney.

“I figured as much,” she said. “Shit.”

“Oooh, lady,” came from Toby. “The 'S' word.”

“Go balance your checkbook, Toby,” she said. That got him laughing quietly to himself, and he left us alone for the moment.

“Do we want the county attorney here for Junkel? On the off chance that he might let us interview Toby in his presence?”

She shook her head. “Not at this point.”

Toby started to sing in a thin voice, using what he evidently thought was an English accent.

“D'ye ken Dan Peale with his teeth so white?

He sleeps in the day and comes out at night,

His unearthly powers give the mortals a fright

Till he goes back to his coffin in the morning.”

Hester and I looked at each other. He sang it again, in a quavering voice, keeping time with his foot.

“D'ye ken Dan Peale with his teeth so white?

He sleeps in the day and comes out at night,

His unearthly powers give the mortals a fright

Till he goes back to his coffin in the morning.”

He stopped, and looked at us. “He's gonna kill me, 'cause I failed him twice, and you don't get a third chance. Not from old Dan Peale.” His eyes darted about the room. “In the crypt, he told me to kill her, and I couldn't. He told me to keep her dead, and I couldn't do it right. He's going to kill me now, 'cause I failed him.” He spoke in a calm, steady voice. “Plonk, plonk, plonk,” he said. Just like that first night in the woods.

“He was born in 1604 in London fucking England, and he never, never dies.”

It was creepy.

I glanced at Hester, and mouthed “Crypt?”

She nodded.

“It's all right, Toby. Don't worry,” said Hester. “Wait till your attorney gets here. Quietly.” Her tape was obviously still running.

“Not my attorney. Their attorney,” he said, suddenly getting petulant on us. “He'll save me, all right, but he'll just be saving me for them.” He looked beseechingly at Hester. “Don't let 'em kill me, lady. Please?”

“Now you're putting me on,” I said. “Just wait for Mr. Junkel.”

“Don't I wish I was.”

“Yeah. Hey, why'd you run on us the other night? Just curious, no charge or anything.” I really was interested in why, and there wasn't anything that an attorney could glom onto with that question.

He tittered. “Well, I forgot to lock the fuckin' door, didn't I?”

“Yeah, you're just not fast enough,” I said. “But why'd you run?”

He positively giggled. “Toby wins,” he got out. “Yes!”

I tried another tack. “And who's this 'they' you keep referring to?” I tried to keep it matter-of-fact, but there was a tinge of anticipation in my voice, I'm afraid. It was a justifiable question, though, even in the light of Miranda. Our knowing who was going to “kill” Toby was in his own interest.

He regarded me for a moment, suddenly quite calm. Sober, in a way.

“Vampires all over the world,” he said. “That's who 'they' are.”

He was lying again.

“I mean the 'they' you were just talking about,” I said. “The ones represented by Junkel.” And we all knew who at least one of those clients would be. I really expected him to say “Jessica Hunley.” Of course, that would have been a truthful statement, and I should have known better.

“Corporate America,” he said, looking me right in the eye.

“Can't help you unless you play it straight,” I said. Hoping against hope that he'd tell.

He suddenly cocked his head, squinted, and then began to breathe more rapidly. The dope again.

“You're the one,” he said, to me. “You're the reason. I heard you say that Edie was telling on us. You said so. So I had to make sure she stayed dead.”

I was taken aback for a second, both by the accusation and the sudden mood swing, until I remembered that I had said something about Edie, and speaking to us. Holy shit. I'd meant at the autopsy.

Before I could say anything, he said, “I fucked that up, too. You're supposed to stake 'em through the heart, then cut off their head, then burn 'em. That's what you gotta do, and I… ” Tears, now. Big ones. “I couldn't do that.” He got blubbery. “I luh, luh, loved Edie!”

While he cried, Hester looked questioningly at me.

“I said something about Edie's dead body giving us information at autopsy, the other day, and I remember the look on his face.” I spoke very softly. “Well, at least I do now, for sure. He looked kind of shocked. Now I know why, I guess.” I looked at Toby, who was pretty self-involved at the moment. “Where do you suppose the 'crypt' is? The basement?”

“That'd be my guess,” she half whispered back.

“But there was no blood evidence down there… ”

“He said he couldn't kill her there,” said Hester, staring at Toby. “Probably wouldn't be, then… ”

Well, sure, Carl. Pay attention. “Ah,” I said, tapping the side of my head with my finger. “Thank you.”

“He called and told me I'd be really strong,” came from Toby. We both looked at him. “He said I'd have his strength. I did, too, boy. I did. I hit that stake once, and it went right into her chest.” The tears had stopped, but his nose was running. He grinned, an evil grin if there ever was one. “Slicker 'n shit. One powerful hit, was all. He was so fuckin' right.” Then a worried frown came over him. “But I couldn't take her head off. I just got… weak.” His face screwed up, tears started again, and he went back to referring to himself in the third person. “Toby's a failure. But he tries!”

Hester pushed a piece of scratch paper over to me, with one word written on it. “Committal?” I nodded. It looked like we'd have to.

“The first time we killed her, she knew it, and she asked me for help,” he said, and this time the crying that he did was nearly hysterical. He lurched to his feet, and came right at Hester. She started to step to the side, and I started for him, and he tripped on the chair leg, and went facedown on the carpet with a resounding thud. He just laid there and cried. “Help!” he wailed, into the greenish gray nap.

“The first time we killed her” I mouthed to Hester. She was wide-eyed, and nodded.

“Where were you, you and Edie, the first time you killed her?” I really hated to ask, but we just had to know where she'd been killed.

He stopped crying instantly, and turned his head so he could see me. “No fuckin' way, dude. No way. That's between me and her and Dan.”

Well, it had been worth the try, I thought. Probably couldn't have used it anyway, at least not against him.

I picked up the phone and dialed Dispatch, while Hester knelt down by his head. “This is Houseman. We need an ambulance back here, to transfer one subject to the Maitland Hospital.”

“Is it ten-thirty-three?”

“No, but ASAP would be real nice.” Crap. Once there, the diagnosis would probably be of a psychotic episode, or something. The committal process to the Mental Health Institute at Independence would take about two hours. Then one of us would either have to haul him the fifty miles to the mental ward, or one of us would have to go with him in the ambulance. The Board of Supervisors would crap, because, since he was in custody, Nation County would have to pay the bill. And, since he was in custody, we might have to either hire a cop to watch him down there, or send one of ours to stay. Those damned complications, as they say, complicate things. But it needed to be done. Not that I was all that altruistic, or anything. If we didn't commit at this point, and we did have a murder suspect on our hands, we could well lose the case. We were going to need excellent medical testimony as to the fact that Toby was totally tweaked on either meth or ecstasy, or some combination thereof, and not insane. We really needed not insane.

Hester and I sat him back up in his chair. Physically, he seemed to be just fine. Hester got a wet paper towel and wiped his face, clearing away the tears, mucus, and spittle and that seemed to help. It at least made him easier to look at. I figured the ambulance would take about fifteen minutes.

And, of course, Attorney Junkel picked that moment to make an entrance.

“What's going on here?” asked a strident, courtroom voice. I didn't even have to turn around to know it was Junkel.

“Hi.”

“What have you done to my client?”

“Very little, actually.” I shrugged. “Basically, we arrested him,” I explained.

“How are you, son?” he asked.

“Toby is shitty,” said Toby. “And Toby thanks you for asking.”

Junkel looked at me. “Just what is going on here?”

It took about all I could muster not to answer him in third person. What I said was, “We arrested Toby for breaking in to the Freiberg Funeral Home, and driving a stake into the chest of the corpse of Edie Younger.”

You just don't get to see an attorney look like that every day. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped perceptibly. Seeing his startled look, I had an inspiration.

“It's either a simple misdemeanor, or, if you consider it a hate crime, it becomes a serious misdemeanor. The statutory bond for the most serious one is fifty dollars. Cash.”

“Can he post?” asked Junkel.

I played my ace. “Nope. Looks like he's ours.”

It worked. Just to spite me, Junkel reached into his back pocket, pulled out his billfold, and removed a fifty-dollar bill. Why not? He'd probably received a call from Jessica Hunley, he was on retainer, and the bill would now include a fifty-dollar expense.

“The hell he is,” he said. “He's now in the care of his attorney!”

I looked down at the money, then up at Junkel. “I suppose you'll want a receipt?” I tried to sound disappointed.

He glared at me. “Of course I will.”

I thought for about two seconds about a possible aiding and abetting in a murder case as another charge for Toby. But to pop him on his statements, while in his current state, would just be asking for trouble. We didn't have any good evidence against him yet, and moving too soon would tip our hand. I rejected the notion.

“And you might as well also help him with his committal to the Mental Health Institute. We've started that. You might not have noticed, but your client is pretty well pharmaceutically enhanced,” I said.

Eventually, the mental health referee came up, pretty much took one look at Toby, and told Junkel that, “Your client's having a bad trip,” and offered to sign Toby into the MHI for detoxification and counseling. Translated, that was roughly a three-day involuntary commitment. I was very pleased with detox.

“Unless, of course, your client wished to commit himself,” said the referee. I could tell he was thinking about the paperwork. “If that's the case, all this would be unnecessary.”

Junkel leaped at the offer, so Toby obligingly agreed to commit himself. Cheap trip, as he could check out any time he wanted to, he would be guaranteed to be back out in three days, and his attorney was going to have to figure out how to haul him to the mental health facility at Independence. But at least he wasn't a drain on our meager resources.

Besides, with what we actually had on him, it would have been three and out, anyway.

About two hours after we had arrived at the office, Toby was on his way. As we helped pack him into Junkel's car, he giggled, and began to say “Plonk, plonk,” faster and faster.

“What's he saying?” asked Junkel. “Isn't plonk a term for cheap wine?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe he's thirsty.” Actually, plonk, in this instance, is a usenet term, and it's the sound that a novice internet user makes when he hits the bottom of the kill ffle. To be “kill ffled” means that his correspondents have told their computers to automatically ignore anything from him. The meaning here was that Toby was, if not already dead, considering himself as good as. I felt no compunction to enlighten Junkel. Let him ask his own kids.

Toby hadn't been out the door five minutes, when Dispatch told me that Lamar was on the phone. He was calling from the church hall, where the after-funeral luncheon was winding up.

“Hi, boss.”

“Marteen told me the details,” he said slowly, evenly. “All of 'em.”

“Shit, Lamar, I really didn't want you to have to deal with that.” I was about ready to kill the funeral director, too, but didn't say so.

“I want whoever did it, Carl. I want him bad.”

A good moment, at last. “Oh, we already got him. He's charged, and on his way to MHI.” I thought for a second. I figured I better tell him. “We think the same suspect was there when she was killed, Lamar. He's shaping up as an accomplice. We only have his verbal statement to that effect, and he was wasted when he said it. He's telling the truth, but we have absolutely no hard evidence. I think we should have some pretty soon.”

After a pause, Lamar asked, “Who is it?”

“Toby Gottschalk. There's more, but it'll have to wait.”

“Fine. So long as you got him.”

“What I have to find out now is where she was killed. But we're working on that.”