AT 7:00 A.M., TONY KNOCKED and entered my hotel room. He was comfortably dressed in faded jeans and hiking boots, ready to take on another day’s work. Tony announced, “Brittany began breathing independently last night. The lab results came back, and whoever abducted her injected her with some sort of animal tranquilizer to sedate her. It wasn’t a lethal dose, maybe just enough to put her out until her abductor decided what to do with her body.”
“Anyone who has worked on a farm could have taken syringes of the tranquilizer from a veterinarian,” I said. “The vets typically need help from the farmhands with holding the animals still during examinations, and they keep extra syringes in the kit.”
Tony agreed. “Yeah, I know. I’ve already contacted a veterinarian who serves the farmers in this area. He admitted that several doses were stolen months ago, but he was unable to confirm exactly when they went missing. He provides services to a lot of these small farms in Morrison County, so it basically confirms what we already believe, that it was someone local. The doctor thought Brittany may have only been submerged for twenty minutes. That means we,” Tony pointed a thumb to his chest, “us Morrison County guys, messed up, because we can’t account for Al or Jason Brennan during this time. It likely happened when you and I were standing on the dirt road, talking about fekking corn.”
I wondered out loud, “Why didn’t the neighbors find her when they searched?”
“She was about a quarter mile beyond where the search ended. They only searched between the Downing and Brennan farms. Brittany was north of the Brennan farm.” Frustrated, Tony ran a hand through his hair. “We don’t deal with a lot of homicides in Morrison County. We’re still trying to avoid heat from the last one.”
On Thanksgiving of 2012, Byron Smith had shot and killed two unarmed teenagers who broke into his home in Little Falls. He was currently on trial for murder, since he fired “kill shots” into the teens, after he had already wounded them and they were incapacitated. Attention had been brought to the Morrison County Sheriff’s Department over a report that Smith sent a memo to the department, one month before the shooting, requesting they check into break-ins on his property. None of this was related to our case, and employees of the sheriff’s department were not allowed to discuss it. With this in mind, I asked, “Where were Al and Jason twenty minutes before we found Brittany?”
“Al insisted they had to get some chores done, so they could help when the investigators arrived, and our local cops just let them go. Do farmers typically do chores alone?”
“Yes. Somebody gets silage and somebody throws hay down. And you fix and do some of the many things that need to be done. You’re never completely caught up. I doubt they started milking at that time. You can’t change the cows’ schedule.”
“Everything was done but the milking,” Tony confirmed. “Neither Al nor Jason can account for the other’s whereabouts, since they both had their own chores, but they did get all of the work done.”
I explained, “You get done with chores quicker if each person works independently. There is no time wasted in conversation. Maybe this is why farmers are notoriously quiet.”
“What exactly is silage?” Tony asked.
“Chopped up and fermented hay. It’s stored in silos to reduce its exposure to oxygen, to allow for fermentation and to maintain its nutrients. It’s poured out as needed, each time you feed the cattle.”
Tony scratched his head. “None of the Brennans tested positive for gun residue. We know it wasn’t Mary. She was with us.” Tony found some gum in his shirt pocket and, as he unwrapped it, said, “There were no decent prints on the jacket left on the road. Who leaves a leather jacket on the road when it’s freezing out?”
“Someone who wanted to leave the area quickly.”
“I interviewed Al Brennan last night,” Tony continued. “He’s an odd duck. The man eats northerns out of Green Lake.”
Green Lake, a small lake completely surrounded by farmland, just a couple miles south of the Brennan farm on 195th Avenue, wasn’t even labeled on a map. It had no rivers or creeks running into it, so the water was stagnant and infused with pesticides. If a person drilled a hole in the ice on Green Lake in the winter, green fluid would fizz out onto the ice. All the northerns out of this lake were skinny, “snakes,” and they were all particularly slimy. I tried to give Al the benefit of the doubt by responding, “Maybe he just catches them for the sport of it.”
Tony shrugged. “He claims they taste the same as any other fish. Al started college, but dropped out because he felt it was ‘all bullshit,’ which, of course, it mostly is. Then he got sixteen-year-old Mary pregnant, and she dropped out of school. They ended up taking over his parents’ farm. Al whined that we should have issued an Amber Alert. He didn’t quite understand that Amber Alerts only search for the victim, and we had the victim. Al also was upset that the reporter on the news pointed out that you were a farm boy. He told me, ‘We don’t need more farmers, we need investigators!’” Tony paced a few steps before he asked, “Are you in a relationship?”
“I’m not sure,” I responded carefully. Serena and I planned to talk again soon.
Tony smiled. “I’m not sure if I’m dating, either, but I do know a woman who’d be angry if she heard me say that. So, how do you know the reporter?”
“What makes you think I know her?”
“You gave an unknown reporter an exclusive. And she kind of gave you some cutesy eyes during the interview. She backed off when you were uncomfortable. That’s something a lover might do, but it’s an opposite instinct for a reporter. So, you have a history with Jada?”
I had to admit, Tony was good. I told him, “We used to date.” Tony grinned like the cat that swallowed the canary. “You’re trying to date someone else, then?”
I nodded. “I am.”
Tony said, “I thought so. You said you didn’t know if you were in a relationship. That translates to you wanting a relationship with a woman, but you’re not sure if she’s interested. If you didn’t want it, you would have just said you weren’t in a relationship.”
Going along, I simply said, “Okay.”
Tony looked a question at me. “You don’t see an issue with inviting an old lover to a small town where the investigators and the media are probably all going to be staying in the same hotel?”
I was embarrassed. “I guess I hadn’t considered that.”
Tony pointed at me. “Well, my vote goes to the beautiful black reporter.” He waited for a response but tired of the game when I didn’t offer one. He finally got down to business. “There was no DNA on Brittany Brennan because of her submersion, but it’s clear she’d been vaginally and anally penetrated. The problem is, we don’t know when, and she’s not talking.” Tony considered this for a beat, then continued. “Maurice wants Sean and Paula interviewing Al and Jason Brennan. Evidently, the family complained that I’m a little too harsh,” he said with a sneer. “I’m going to stop at all the farms along 210th Street, and the sheriff’s department is getting me a list of all of the registered sex offenders in the area. We’ll see what comes out of that.”
I was frustrated that being partnered with Tony cut me out of interviews with the prime suspects, so I offered to do some investigating alone. “I’ve given this some thought, and maybe it’d be best if I went to Brittany’s school to speak to her teachers,” I offered. “It would be interesting to know if Brittany exhibited any inappropriate boundaries around peers. Unless you want me to go with you.”
Tony’s short night was wearing on him. He stifled a yawn and waved me on. “No, go. When I’m done, I’ll check out Jason Brennan. You try to retrace Al’s steps from yesterday morning. As a farm boy, you’d know exactly how long it should have taken for him to do everything he did. I want to see if either Jason or Al had time to dispose of Brittany.”
AT LITTLE FALLS MIDDLE SCHOOL, I discovered Brittany had been written up in third grade for French kissing a boy in her class. There were no other reports of inappropriate behavior. Brittany didn’t share where she learned the behavior. The teacher felt it was something she may have seen on television. Sometimes, when a child is sexually abused, she exhibits poor boundaries in other environments. It’s referred to as “sexually reactive” behavior. The hardest part of any investigation is sorting out the relevant information from the distractions.
It bothered me that Brittany didn’t have any close friends, other than the younger neighbor girl. No friends from school came over to play at her home; nobody knew her. Every child should have a friend outside of her home. A stranger who is clever and appealing might seem pretty interesting when a child isn’t getting attention from anyone other than her mom—regardless of what she’s been told about strangers.
School records indicated that Jason was a C-student at Little Falls High School, where he did well in shop classes, but avoided the college preparation coursework. He had received after-school detention once, two years earlier, following a shoving match with a peer. The other student had apparently started it. Jason had no other disciplinary reports. He was described as quiet and sullen.
Mary Brennan had dropped out of school her junior year after she became pregnant with Jason, and never earned her GED.
I also learned that Al’s legal name was actually “Alban,” an old German name, common in medieval times but rarely seen today. Alban Brennan had been a B-student, and had been suspended twice for possession of chewing tobacco. None of the Brennans were ever involved in after-school activities.
As I finished going through the school records, I saw Al and Jason Brennan trudging into the office, so I sought them out to see what they were doing. They had stopped to see Brittany at the hospital and Al was making sure Jason wouldn’t be in trouble for checking into school late. Al had gaunt facial features, dark, thick, wavy hair, and set back, dark eyes. He seemed to have a little extra space between his teeth. In his thirties, he reminded me of a young Willem Dafoe. He was in good shape and stood about five feet, ten inches tall. Al was not particularly good or bad looking, just different. Jason had dark hair as well, which he wore long in the front and shaved in the back. His facial features were sharper than his father’s, and he looked like a typical gawky teenager. He kept his head down and avoided eye contact by hiding behind his hair.
When Al saw me, he said, “I guess I owe you thanks.” The comment seemed forced and not particularly genuine.
My thought was that Al was just one more local farmer of stoic German ancestry who lacked emotional congruence when he spoke. I could understand his frustration. His daughter had almost been killed, and only God knew if she would ever recover.
Al squinted and asked, “Do you think Brittany was hurt because someone was mad at me?”
“Is someone mad at you?”
Al looked away as he spoke. “It has me thinking. You make a lot of deals on a farm, buying and selling equipment and crops. Not everyone ends up happy. I sold Eldon Meyer some hay two years ago, and loaded it in a shed for him. It was green, and his shed burned up.”
The term “green hay” is used to refer to hay that’s still wet when it’s baled. The storage sheds can get to over one hundred degrees in the summer, and bales that are wet on the inside generate a lot of heat, sometimes catching fire. Every farmer knows you shouldn’t bale green hay.
Al continued. “Eldon and I haven’t spoke since. And now Brittany turns up on Eldon’s land, hidden in a culvert? It has me thinking.”
I told him, “We’ll check into it.”
Frustrated, Al said, “Checking isn’t enough. Do something about it!”
I’d be frustrated too, if I’d just learned that my daughter was left for dead, and my wife had subsequently been badgered by an investigator.
Al added, “There are lakes around here where you could leave a body, and no one would ever find it. Why leave her body in a culvert under a county road? It had to be convenient for him.”
“I promise we’ll look into it.” I said, then asked, “How is Brittany this morning?”
Al looked down the hall as Jason headed off to class, responding, “Still the same—just lying there. If I find the man who did this . . . he’s dead.”
I asked Al to let us handle this and then took my leave, assuring him that I wouldn’t rest until I found out who abducted Brittany.
I CALLED TONY AND SHARED the information I received from the school and Al Brennan. Tony indicated that Eldon Meyer had an alibi for the time Brittany disappeared. After church, Eldon ate Sunday dinner at his sister’s and was on his way home when he noticed the bales in the ditch had been disturbed. “I need you to meet me at the investigation center,” Tony said. “I found an elderly couple who met Brittany walking home. This’ll take our focus in a new direction. Don’t waste any more time on the Brennans.” He sighed heavily. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
TONY WALKED INTO THE INVESTIGATIVE center with a couple who looked to be in their early seventies, wearing matching red-and-black-plaid wool coats. Tony introduced them, saying, “This is Richard and Martha Boser. They were checking on their son’s farm yesterday. Their son and his new wife were off on their honeymoon. The Boser farm is on the same road as the Brennan and Downing farms, south of both. Richard and Martha had gone for a long walk and were on their way back when they met Brittany walking toward her parents’ farm.” Tony turned to them. “What time did you say it was?”
Richard scratched his bald head and looked over to Martha.
Martha was a thin, silver-haired woman with a timid voice. She quietly said, “It must have been a little after ten thirty.”
Richard nodded in agreement.
Tony asked them, “Do you want to tell my partner, Jon Frederick, what you told me?”
Martha would have preferred to remain silent but knew her husband was expecting her to start the conversation. “About ten minutes after that little girl went walking by, we saw a blue Ford pickup speeding down the road in the same direction as Brittany. The girl had walked over the hill, so we couldn’t see her anymore. I remember Rich saying, ‘I hope that maniac doesn’t hit that poor girl.’ I never say things like that out of fear they might come true.” She gave me a knowing look.
Richard continued. “The Ford pickup was a 1993 or 1994 model. Dark blue. It said ‘FORD’ on the tailgate in silver letters, except the ‘R’ was missing.”
“That’s a pretty good memory,” I commented.
“I’m a Ford man. I take care of my trucks. That ‘R’ would have been replaced on my truck.”
“Did you get a good look at the driver?”
Richard shook his head. “No. I was looking at the truck.”
His wife said, “I was pulling Rich to the side of the road so he wouldn’t get hit. That man was going way too fast.”
Tony asked Martha, “Did you see the driver?”
Martha gave a faint look of being lost. “I don’t recall, but I must have. I believe it was a young man, but I can’t really remember what he looked like. I’m sorry. I’m getting old.”
I thanked her. “Both of you have greatly helped us by coming forward. And by the way, I drove by your son’s farm yesterday and it looks very nice. I’m a former farm boy myself, and you can tell when people do good work just by looking at the grange.”
Rich smiled with pride and said, “You know, we used to have a farmers’ union called the Grangers. You don’t hear that word used for the farmyard anymore.” Richard rubbed his head. “If there’s anything more we can do to help, let us know.”
TONY TOLD ME HE WAS GOING to the sheriff’s department to cross-reference trucks that fit Richard Boser’s description with registered sex offenders in the area. Since I wasn’t part of their agency, and they were skittish about information getting out on the Smith trial, I was asked to wait for him. Tony thought this would take about an hour, so I made a quick decision to drive Brittany’s journey from the Downings’ to the culvert.
I stopped at my hotel room and filled a large glass with ice and Dr. Pepper. I still had a bit of a headache from yesterday’s ordeal, but I was hoping caffeine would carry me through the day. The glass fit snugly into the cup holder in my car. On the way, I drove by the south field, where Al Brennan’s day started, and decided to take a look at the field. Sometimes, finding nothing is productive, as it allows you to rule out possibilities.
My eyes burned as I drove to the field. I felt a bit overheated and nauseated from yesterday’s chilling immersion, but I wanted to work. The sky was overcast, and it had started to drizzle. We were above freezing, so we wouldn’t have snow—just freezing rain. I pulled off the tar and onto the dirt approach to the field. Before getting out, I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, then looked over the wet fields and muttered to myself, “Okay, no discarded guns lying around.”
My phone buzzed.
Serena said, “ Gemutlichkeit.”
“Ga-meet-la-kite?” I sounded out the unfamiliar word.
“Gemutlichkeit is a German word that means you make me feel as comfortable as if I were at a warm, caring home. My hobby is finding words for emotions in other cultures that we don’t have the English equivalents for. It’s the word that came to mind after enjoying yesterday with you. Do you have just a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, I’m just checking out a field south of the Brennan farm.”
Her voice became softer and muffled. “Shoot, I’ve got another call,” she said. “If I can handle it quickly, I’ll call you back.”