The street where Merodie Davies lived was teeming with young children enjoying their final weeks of summer vacation. I also saw a few stay-at-home moms. Instead of minding the kids, nearly all of them seemed to be intently watching me as I made my way to the Anoka police cruiser parked in Merodie’s driveway. I didn’t actually hear the words, but I could see them passed from one set of lips to another: “Now what?”
Officer Boyd Baumbach sat alone inside the cruiser, the windows and doors shut tight, the motor running. I tapped on his window, startling him. He quickly lowered it. Cool air lapped against my chest and face.
“McKenzie,” he said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Rollie Briggs, he’s the assistant county attorney, he said someone should let you look through the house.”
My inner voice took notice. Rollie Briggs—is he G. K.’s pal in the county attorney’s office?
“Why you?” I asked.
Baumbach silenced the car engine and stepped out. He looked directly into my eyes when he spoke. “I apologize for the other day. I had no right getting rough with you, and I should not have abused my authority by arresting you. I apologize. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Wow.” I was so shocked by his words that I nearly laughed in his face. “Moorhead must have really put the screws to you.”
The straight line of Baumbach’s mouth told me that it sure wasn’t his idea.
“Do you accept my apology?”
“Sure,” I said, although I knew his heart wasn’t in it.
“Are you going to report me?”
“Report you to who?”
Baumbach brushed past me and moved to the front door of the house. “The assistant county attorney, Mr. Briggs, he said that the tech guys have been through it a couple of times. So has Human Services, so there’s nothing you can foul up for us.”
“Fine.”
Baumbach unlocked the door and opened it. He waited for me to pass him. He took hold of my elbow when I did.
“Is there anything else, Officer?” I asked.
He released my elbow and stepped back.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Are you coming inside?”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait out here.”
“Sure.”
Baumbach tried to smile, but it was too much effort, so he stopped. “I’ve been in the house before,” he said.
“Sure.”
I stepped inside and was immediately met by a punishing wave of warm, stale, fetid air that smelled strongly of rotting meat. It literally pushed me back against the door.
“Oh, God,” I said, clamping a hand over my mouth.
The Anoka Fire Department had used its enormous fans to pull much of the odor from the house, and the county’s Human Services Department had made an honest effort to clean the dwelling of the feces and garbage. Yet the stench, compounded by the August heat, was still so strong that I seriously doubted anyone would ever live there again.
I fished a handkerchief from my back pocket and cupped it over my nose and mouth. I inspected the nearly empty living room. A faded white chalk outline on the carpet represented the body of Eli Jefferson as he lay in death. Red chalk was used to outline the softball bat. I examined both outlines from several angles, using the CID’s Photo Report as a guide. I didn’t have any of the actual 147 photographs taken at the scene by the Criminal Investigation Division; however, I did have a sheaf of about fifty photocopies, plus the investigator’s narrative describing in sequential order each photo that was taken. By using both, I was able to stand in the exact spot where each photo was taken and see what the camera saw.
Photo #18-22. These are overall photos showing the position and condition of the body as it was found.
Photo #29-31. These three photographs depict a softball bat that was found near the body. Note in particular the blood smear that is clearly visible in Photo #31.
Except for the missing body and softball bat, the living room looked exactly as it had in the photos. Cream-colored drapes were open to let in shafts of sunlight swimming with dust motes. Forest green carpet flecked with blue was stained in more places than I could count. A sofa was shoved against the wall; a floor lamp with a dirty white shade sat next to the sofa; a chair was hiding in the corner. The pieces of furniture seemed unrelated to each other and all had a secondhand shabbiness. A black velvet painting of a clown framed in gold hung on the wall, a solitary tear on the clown’s cheek. That was it. I checked the report again. Apparently, nothing had been moved, removed, or added to the house since the photos were taken.
I pushed on.
