Death's Door
DEATH’S DOOR
RICK POLAD
Minneapolis
Copyright Page
Minneapolis
FIRST EDITION June 2017
DEATH’S DOOR Copyright © 2017 by Rick Polad.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Calumet Editions, 8422 Rosewood Drive, Chanhassen, MN 55317
Printed in the United States of America.
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Cover and interior design: Gary Lindberg
ISBN: 978-1-939548-77-1
Table of Contents
Other Books By Rick Polad
Other Spencer Manning Mysteries
Change of Address
Dark Alleys
Harbor Nights
Missing Boy
Cold Justice
Door County’s Dangerous Passage
Door County’ s Dangerous Passage
The strait linking Lake Michigan and Green Bay, between the northern tip of the peninsula and Washington Island, is known as Death’s Door. There are several stories about the origin of the name, but the fact is that the rough waters have claimed many ships over the years. Between 1837 and 1914 twenty-four vessels sank in those waters with another forty nearby. This was a factor in the decision to build a canal connecting Lake Michigan and Green Bay at the south end of the peninsula in 1881. A ship could cut about one hundred miles off of their trip and could avoid the dangerous waters of Death’s Door.
Chapter 1
May 8
The drizzle started during the drive to the cemetery. Rosie and I were in the Lincoln behind the hearse, holding hands in the back seat. She had forced me to bring an umbrella, even though I was sure it wouldn’t have the nerve to rain. On the way out, I had grabbed Mom’s favorite. It was bright red. Rosie had given me a look, but it was exactly the statement I wanted to make. Her dress and my suit were black, as were the hearse and the Lincoln and most of the cars in the procession. That was enough somber.
Chapter 2
Six Days Prior, May 2
Lieutenant Stanley Powolski and I had played gin almost every Wednesday night for the last two years. This night it was raining, and we had decided to order pizza for delivery instead of going out. While we were playing we talked about the upcoming trial.
Six months ago, Stosh had been getting gas late at night at a Shell station ten minutes from his house. He was off duty. He was standing next to the pump and saw a young man walk around from the side of the building and enter the station. A minute later he heard a gunshot and saw the man run out of the building. The lieutenant yelled at the man to stop. The man did stop, long enough to point the gun at Stosh who already had his gun out and put a bullet into the man’s leg, causing him to drop the gun and fall to the ground. Stosh grabbed handcuffs from his glove compartment, cuffed the man to the door of the station, and went to check on the clerk. There was only one person in the station, and he was lying in a pool of blood behind the counter. The cash register drawer was open. Stosh bent and checked for a pulse. The man was dead. Stosh used the station phone to call for help.
A patrol car arrived four minutes later and an ambulance two minutes after that. Fifteen minutes later the station apron was full of police cars. The man refused to talk. But he had a wad of bills in his pocket, a little over a hundred dollars, and his driver’s license identified him as Montello Williams.
When he got back to the police station, Stosh called Robin Garth, the head of the gang unit, and asked him to come in. Montello Williams was the younger brother of Renald Williams, the leader of the Prophets, the largest gang in Chicago. Montello was charged with robbery and murder. Stosh was the only witness.
A week later the threats started.
***
I had just filled a four-card straight and was trying to decide which card to discard when the doorbell rang. Since it wasn’t my doorbell, I kept my attention on the cards. I was still trying to decide when I heard Stosh say, “Yes? What can I do for you?” And then I heard the gunshots. I was surprised when Stosh didn’t react and wondered if I had imagined it. I stopped wondering when he fell to the floor.
I knocked over my chair pushing away from the table and ran to the door and knelt next to Stosh. I quickly glanced out into the yard but didn’t see anyone. Stosh was fighting to keep his eyes open. The red stain on the front of his shirt was the size of a quarter. I told him I was going to call 911 and to hang on. But as I was standing up, the neighbor from across the street ran up and said he would call. I opened Stosh’s shirt and put pressure on the red spot that was growing bigger. His chest barely moved, but he was breathing. With my other hand, I felt his neck for a pulse and didn’t find one.
“Hang on, Stosh. They’re coming.”
He looked at me, barely moving his lips.
“Don’t try and talk.” I could hear a faint siren. “They’ll be here in a minute.”
But he was still struggling to tell me something. I bent down with my ear next to his mouth and barely heard him whisper “she.” He looked at me for another ten seconds before his eyes closed.
I had no idea what would happen next. But, unless there was a welcoming committee, Stosh was facing it alone. He had no idea I was there. I was holding him supported by my left arm, but I was alone too. It was then that I realized how lonely death was.
He was still taking sporadic shallow breaths, but there was no other sign of life. I wasn’t aware of the paramedics driving up… I just knew they were there, removing my hand and calmly taking over. There must have been sirens, but I hadn’t heard them since the first faint one. The room was filled with people, but it was like a dream. I was just watching in what seemed like slow motion.
Then most of them were gone, and Stosh wasn’t in the doorway. Rosie was holding my hand, and Captain Perez was asking me questions. Two detectives were talking to the man from across the street. And then the only ones left were Rosie and the captain. I had lost track of time, but Rosie told me it was 9:20, more than an hour after it had happened.
Rosie told me the man across the street had heard the gunshots and seen someone running away, but didn’t have a description other than the person was short, more than a head shorter than Stosh who was six foot, and wearing a dark sweatshirt with a hood. That put the person at not a lot more than five foot tall. That matched what I had noticed in the doorway, but most of the shooter had been blocked by Stosh. The neighbor hadn’t noticed a car. Rosie told me there were policemen all over the neighborhood and the homes were being canvassed. The captain asked me what had happened.
“We were playing cards. The doorbell rang, and Stosh went to answer it. I heard the shots, but it didn’t register right away that they were shots. It was unbelievable. Then he fell to the floor, and I ran to him.” I took a deep breath and tried to remember. I looked up at Rosie and shook my head. “All I remember is putting pressure on his chest. After that it’s all a blur.”
She squeezed my hand.
“How is he? Is he…?”
“He’s still alive, Spencer. They’re doing all they can.”
I nodded.
The captain put his hand on my shoulder and told me to call him directly if I remembered anything else.
The quiet in the house was ominous. Rosie was calmly talking to me, but whatever she was saying didn’t register. She drove me to the hospital, and we sat in the waiting room with the captain. Ten minutes later a doctor came out and told us Stosh was going into surgery, and it would be hours before they knew anything. He suggested we go home and get some sleep. At least he was still alive. None of us left.
“What?”
“He was lying on the floor trying to say something. I bent down and barely heard him whisper ‘she.’”
“Are you sure?” asked the captain.
“Yes.”
“Did you see the person?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t. Stosh was blocking the doorway.”
“That’s all he said?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. He could have been trying to say anything, but I’ll get out the word that maybe it was a woman.”
The captain left.
“What do you think he was trying to say, Spencer?” Rosie asked.
I thought for a minute and then wondered if I should say what I was thinking. I knew Rosie wouldn’t think I was crazy.
“Sitting there holding him, I was thinking about death… about what happens. Maybe he was seeing Francine. Maybe she was waiting for him.”
Rosie put her arms around me and didn’t say anything. We’d never know. The last thought that I remember was that the Prophets didn’t have any women in their gang. Francine seemed like a good explanation.
Rosie and I fell asleep on the couch in the waiting room. It was a little after three in the morning when I felt a touch on my shoulder.
“Spencer.”
I stirred, opened my eyes, and saw the doctor and Captain Perez.
“Come with us,” the captain said.
“Rosie?”
“She’ll be okay here for a few minutes.”
***
I returned twenty minutes later and woke her up with a gentle shake of her shoulder. I put my arms around her and let her cry. After ten minutes, I about had to carry her to the car. We went back to my place and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Chapter 3
May 8
The priest was saying something about our souls and reuniting with our Heavenly Father. He had an altar boy holding his black umbrella. I was holding the red umbrella over Rosie and me and thinking about my folks and the funeral I had missed. I was all alone in the back country of Yellowstone when the ranger found me. That was a week after they died. I had felt all alone with Stosh, too. No matter what, death was a lonely thing.
The rain was still a steady drizzle, but was a bit less under the large oak tree except for large plops on the umbrella when a leaf released its collection of water.
The service had been with a closed casket, and the procession to the cemetery consisted of only twenty-one cars. Normally a slain officer would have a procession of over a hundred cars from many departments and municipalities showing their respect, but Stosh had left instructions in his will that limited the number. The instruction wasn’t specific, but the intent was clear. He believed police forces could best show their respect by doing their jobs.
There were about forty people around the gravesite. Chief Graff, Captain Perez, and I had spoken at the service. The only one scheduled to talk at the graveside was the priest, but Rosie wanted to speak. When the priest finished, we joined him in the Lord’s Prayer, and he nodded to Rosie.
As she started toward the casket I started to follow her with the umbrella, but she shook her head and walked alone. She gently touched the casket with the fingers of her right hand, bowed her head, paused, and said, “Farewell, my friend. I love you.”
I couldn’t tell her tears from the raindrops. But I knew there were tears… just as many as anyone else’s. We watched in silence as the casket was lowered into the ground, and I silently echoed her sentiment.
Stosh had also specified that he’d like everyone to get together for a party, but not for a month or so after the funeral. He didn’t want it to be spoiled by the sorrow of the day.
Chapter 4
May 3
Several years ago, shortly after my folks died, Stosh had given me an envelope that he told me to open after he was gone. I had opened it the day after the shooting. It held one piece of paper and a handwritten note that said to look in a fireproof case under his bed. It was late morning and I was hungry, but curiosity trumped lunch.
I passed two parked patrol cars a block up from Stosh’s house. There was a patrol car and an unmarked car in front of the house, the front yard was cordoned off with yellow tape, and a crime scene placard was in the front window. I parked on the opposite side of the street and said hello to the two patrolmen, one of whom I knew.
“They still going over the house, Danny?”
“Yup. The team was all over the yard this morning, and we have officers up the block talking to neighbors.”
“Anything?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. Whoever it was has disappeared. Do you have any ideas, Spencer?”
“Well, there’s a gang leader that doesn’t have to worry about the witness.”
Danny looked angry. “I hope they still get the bastard.”
“They still have the deposition, but it’s always good to have a real person.”
He nodded. “See you, Spencer.”
“See you guys.”
***
I had a brief chat with the evidence techs in the house. They hadn’t found anything useful other than possible footprints in the garden next to the walk, but they weren’t hopeful. I walked down the hall to the back bedroom, opened the door, and stood looking around the room. I knew Stosh hadn’t slept in it since Francine had died four years ago. That added to the sadness.
I knelt, raised the bedspread, and peered under the bed. There were several boxes and one substantial container. There wasn’t a key in the envelope so I wondered how I was going to get it open. I didn’t have to wonder long… it wasn’t locked. I placed it on the bed and sat next to it.
It contained five business-sized envelopes. One was fatter than the rest. I expected it to be full of hundred dollar bills. I opened that one first… it wasn’t. It contained all the documents that were important to Stosh’s life… his birth certificate, born in 1923 and his middle name was Gregory, his service discharge papers, the house mortgage papers, a copy of his driver’s license, and Francine’s birth and death certificates.
A second envelope was full of some type of foreign currency. My guess was Polish. I had no idea what the values were and assumed they were more sentimental than valuable.
The third had three letters from Francine. I took a deep breath and remembered how wonderful those two were together. It was as if they had been created for the sole purpose of spending their lives together, and there was no question that would happen. I didn’t read the letters.
The contents of the next envelope took a bit of studying to figure out, and even after going over them several times I still wasn’t sure. There was a letter from the From Us to You Adoption Agency, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. It was dated March 8, 1975 and congratulated Stanley and Francine Powolski on the successful adoption of a baby girl named Janet. It listed several other details and ended with a paragraph saying that a Mrs. Peters would be in touch within the month to make arrangements. Stosh had never said anything about an adopted baby.
Also in the envelope was a canceled check, number 207, for six thousand dollars, made out to the agency and dated March 12, 1975. The check was clipped to three sheets of yellow lined paper on which was written a list of check numbers and dates and amounts. The first check was number 212 and was dated June 1, 1975. There were nineteen checks, made out to Single Mother Outreach, dated every six months for ten years, with the last check dated January 1, 1985. All but four were for five hundred dollars. Those four were for varying amounts up to a thousand dollars. I went through it all several times and each time was just as confused as the first.
The Powolskis had evidently been trying to adopt a baby and had been successful at that, at least on paper. They had written checks for eight thousand dollars, but they had obviously never received the baby. That much was clear. The other checks were a mystery.
>
As I sat there thinking, I remembered the last envelope. Inside was one folded letter on letterhead from the From Us to You Adoption Agency. It was addressed to the Powolskis and basically thanked them for their generous offer. It didn’t say what the generous offer was. It was dated May 6, 1975. I sat there for a few minutes trying to make sense of it all. I couldn’t, but then none of the problems that landed on my desk made sense at first. It was only after shaking the trees that the pieces of the puzzle fit together. That took time and a starting point.
The obvious starting point would have been Stosh, but he was unavailable. The next candidate was the adoption agency. I asked one of the detectives if I could use the phone in the kitchen. He didn’t see why not. I called the office, gave the name and address to Carol, and asked her to find out if they were still in business and whatever else she could discover. I also told her to see what she could find out about Single Mother Outreach and told her I’d be back in about an hour.
***
Watson looked up at me as I came in the back door. He had stopped growling at me after he moved in and learned who was paying for the food. My purchase of the office building had been finalized, and Carol and Billy had moved in a few months ago, giving Watson a new home. Comfortable in his office bed, and no longer being fed by me, Watson wasn’t giving me any more than a look for a greeting. Billy was a different story. They were pals.
“Good morning, Spencer.”
“Good morning, Carol.”
She got up and met me in the hall with outstretched arms and gave me a hug. I returned it.
“That’s a nice way to start the morning, but what did I do to deserve it?”
“I’m so sorry you lost your friend, Spencer. I can’t imagine how you feel.”
I put my arm around her shoulder and said, “Yes, you can. You lost your husband. Unfortunately, we both can imagine.”