When Deputy Vincent Weber is gunned down in a café, Detective Dawes and Sergeant Aleckson respond to the scene and work to keep their friend alive till EMS arrives. Then it’s all hands-on deck to track down the shooter. After a deputy in another Minnesota county is killed, the FBI is called in to lead the investigation. They follow leads and paths, then set a trap for the suspect. No one could've predicted the stunning way it would end.
When Deputy Vincent Weber is gunned down in a café, Detective Dawes and Sergeant Aleckson respond to the scene and work to keep their friend alive till EMS arrives. Then it’s all hands-on deck to track down the shooter. After a deputy in another Minnesota county is killed, the FBI is called in to lead the investigation. They follow leads and paths, then set a trap for the suspect. No one could've predicted the stunning way it would end.
I clicked the call button on my Winnebago County Sheriff’s radio. “Six oh eight, County. I'm clear the traffic stop.”
“Sergeant Aleckson, you’re clear at nine twenty-three,” Communications Officer Robin confirmed.
The person I’d stopped drove away at a reduced speed, as per usual. I glanced at Whitetail Lake beyond the safety barrier. Waves rippled across the surface, and it appeared the lake teemed with spawning fish. Not the case that gray November morning. I entered the stop time in my log and pulled back onto County Road 35.
Robin was back on the radio before I’d gone a mile. “Winnebago County and Oak Lea police, go to channel three.” Her voice sounded panicked, and my body tensed as I switched from channel one to three.
“Officer down,” she said. “Seven fourteen’s been shot. Brookings Café, Oak Lea. Suspect fled, unknown direction, or if he’s on foot, or left in a vehicle. Tall. Wearing a long black robe with a hood over his head and face. And gloves. Seven twenty-eight’s onsite, multiple witnesses, ambulance en route.” Robin was mute for a moment then said, “Keep channel three open for. . . this.”
Vincent Weber shot? No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
I pulled onto the shoulder. My vision tunneled, the periphery blurred, my heart hammered against my vest, and my respirations puffed faster than I dared count. My arms and legs felt like they were encased in concrete.
“Three twenty, County. Shooter’s point of entry?” Detective Smoke Dawes asked.
“Front door, Detective.”
“Copy. All responders use the café’s east side entrance,” Smoke ordered. “On my way from the office.” He’d get there ahead of me.
Oak Lea Police Officer Casey Dey responded next. “Ten four. Two thirteen’s en route from the station.”
“Seven ten, en route from a mile south of Little Mountain.” Todd Mason.
“Seven twenty-three, ETA in three.” Brian Carlson.
“Oak Lea PD, and Winnebago County deputies, the County copies,” Robin said.
It sounded like Smoke was running when he said, “Two thirteen, preserve the scene at the front entry. Seven twenty-three, you’ll be the first deputy there. Assist Seven twenty-eight inside.”
“Ten four,” Dey said.
“Copy,” Carlson said.
“Be on the lookout for the shooter. Seven ten, start canvassing the neighborhood, ask residents and business owners if they saw the suspect running from, or getting into a vehicle, near Brookings,” Smoke said.
“Ten-four,” Mason said.
“Communications, get a statewide alert out to all Minnesota law enforcement agencies,” Smoke directed.
“Copy that, Detective,” Robin responded.
“All available units, report to the area, meet with Seven ten to divide up the search efforts,” Smoke said.
“Seven ten copies.” Mason again.
More radio chatter. Each voice held urgency. An army of officers responded. Communications officers repeated Smoke’s directives, and instructed them where to report.
A fog surrounded and entrapped me. I had to push through it. Respond. Seconds ticked by before I hit the call button. “Six oh eight, County. ETA in four.” So near, yet way too far away.
“Ten four, Sergeant,” Robin said.
“Sergeant, report inside the café,” Smoke said.
“Copy that, Three twenty,” I said.
Deputy Amanda Zubinski was with Vincent Weber. I prayed for them both and for mental clarity as I activated lights and sirens and accelerated east on County 35 at the fastest speed possible. The weekday mid-morning traffic was light so few vehicles had to pull over to clear my path. I was in Oak Lea in a minute and at Brookings—a brick structure built in the 1950s, located a block south of the Highway 55 and Highway 25 intersection—in another three. Weber’s, Zubinski’s, Carlson’s, and Smoke’s squad cars, along with Officer Dey’s Oak Lea police car, sat in the half-empty lot. Smoke was parked near the entrance. The ambulance had not yet arrived.
I parked in the nearest stall, snatched my work cell from the dashboard, and radioed Communications my location. Oak Lea Police Chief Bud Becker drove into the lot and lifted his pointer finger as I climbed from my car. We exchanged a quick glance and a brief sense of calm washed over me. Oak Lea was “his town” and he meant to keep everyone in it safe. Officer Dey was stringing a yellow “Crime Scene Do Not Cross” banner between two front posts.
I entered the café’s east side entrance and did a trained visual scan of the area. Booths sat on either side of the café with three picture windows on the walls above them. Round and square tables filled the center area. A group of around a dozen people—staff and patrons—huddled in the back across from the side entrance. Their faces displayed bottled up emotions: shock, fear, uncertainty, disbelief.
A crack of thunder and bolt of lightning tightened my muscles and drew an array of audible gasps and words from the crowd. One woman screamed. Chief Becker touched my elbow on his way toward the witnesses.
My focus went to the crime scene as I moved forward to join the team. Nothing about it seemed real. Weber was sprawled face up on the floor next to a booth, eyes closed, his ruddy complexion pale. His uniform shirt and bulletproof vest were open, the flaps pushed aside.
Smoke had his hand and forearm positioned under Weber’s left shoulder and the other gloved hand pressed on his upper chest area. Blood circled around the outline of Smoke’s hand and spread on Weber’s T-shirt. Smoke glanced up at me and said, “Bullet entered his chest under his armpit, just outside of his vest.”
Amanda Zubinski knelt beside Weber, one hand under his chin to keep his head tilted back and his mouth open. Her opposite index finger and thumb pinched his nostrils shut as she delivered life-giving breaths.
Brian Carlson knelt on Weber’s other side. An open AED case was on the floor beside him. When I moved in beside the team, I spotted a small hole in the back of the booth.
“Carlson, we’ve gotta get his duty belt off. Sergeant Aleckson, can you assist?” Smoke said.
Carlson unbuckled the belt. We worked together and slid his service weapon and taser holsters off the belt, followed by cases that held his radio, ammunition, freeze-plus-3 mace, flashlight, knife, keys, memo pad, and work cell phone. We left his personal cell phone and wallet in his pockets.
Smoke called out to Becker, “Chief, get folks into the kitchen until we’re clear here. And see if you can locate a bag for Weber’s equipment.”
My eyes locked with Smoke’s. “Has a pulse, stopped breathing.” His voice was a hair above a whisper. “Talked to the emergency room doc, asked him if Weber’s heart stops beating if chest compressions would be safe, given this.” He glanced down at Weber’s wound. “Doc said to go ahead if that happens.”
Oh, dear God, please no.
I dropped down next to Mandy Zubinski. “Let me spell you.”
She gave a quick head shake and delivered the next resuscitation as her tears fell on Weber’s cheeks. I needed to stay strong and not fall to pieces like I feared might happen.
“Mandy, let Corky take over till EMS arrives,” Smoke said.
She sniffed and shifted. I used the cuff of my sleeve to blot her tears as I moved into position. My mouth had never touched Weber’s before, and it felt both natural and unnatural to deliver respirations that inflated his lungs. His skin was cool next to mine, and I prayed it was because my body had heated to about a hundred degrees; not because life was leaving his.
I kept my focus on Vincent Weber as Smoke and Carlson exchanged words. Chief Becker came over with a paper bag, and Smoke and Carlson put Weber’s belt and contents into it.
Mandy sucked in a loud, ragged breath as I delivered another lifesaving one to Weber.
“Carlson, secure his equipment in my trunk,” Smoke said.
“Copy.” Carlson left and returned in short order.
“I’ll stay with the folks in the kitchen,” Becker said.
“Good,” Smoke said.
Mandy let out a few coughs then said, “I’d just joined Vince. He got here a few minutes before me, had a cup of coffee in front of him. I hadn’t ordered. No clue what was happening at first. I saw Vince glance up and frown at what turned out to be the shooter. My back was to the door. And I almost never sit with my back to the door. Vince kind of turned to the right as his hand went for his gun. Before he drew, before I could react, there was a loud shot.
“People started screaming. Vince jerked backwards then fell sideways. I rolled out of the booth, drew my gun, but the shooter was gone. That’s when I saw the blood on Vince’s shirt, and moved to catch him so he didn’t fall head first to the ground. A guy helped me lay him on the floor.”
“Dear God,” Smoke said.
I continued to deliver breaths, and when the emergency medical technicians arrived, a heavy weight lifted from my heart. EMT Max pushed in the gurney with a tank of oxygen and IV drip bottle attached to its rail.
“We’ll get him on the gurney, cover the wound, and assess,” EMT Lisa said. I stood, helped Mandy to her feet, and we backed away to give the EMTs the space they needed.
Max lowered the gurney, removed a backboard from the top, and laid it on the floor next to Weber. “Let’s slide him on.”
“Aleckson and Carlson will assist,” Smoke said as he continued to apply pressure on Weber’s wound.
We moved into position. The EMTs took Weber’s upper body. Carlson and I slid our arms under his hips and legs.
“To the board on three,” Lisa said.
We moved him on the third count. “Now to the gurney. One, two, three.” And we lifted the board onto the gurney.
Max tore the wrapper from a hemostatic gauze patch, designed to stop bleeding in gunshot wounds and other traumas, and applied it to Weber’s chest while Lisa clipped an oximeter on Weber’s finger, put an oxygen mask on his face, and slid the straps around his ears. She placed two fingers on one side of his neck then slid them to the other side. “No pulse,” she uttered.
Mandy grabbed my arm with both hands, and it felt like everything slid into slow motion. Max pointed at the defibrillator. Carlson picked it up and set it next to the gurney.
“Start chest compressions,” Max said as he removed the oxygen mask. Carlson sprang into action. He located the spot beneath Weber’s breastbone, locked his elbows, laced his fingers, and with the heel of his bottom hand pushed and released, pushed and released. The tune “Stayin’ Alive” played through my mind, in sync with the tempo of Carlson’s compressions.
Max pulled a pair of scissors from somewhere and cut through Weber’s T-shirt, exposing his bared, broad, and hairless chest. Lisa ripped the covers from the AED pads and attached one underneath his collar bone on the right side of his chest, and the other on the lower left side of his rib cage below the wound area.
I kept count as Carlson delivered the chest compressions. I was up to a hundred and fifteen when the voice in the AED said, “Do not touch patient, analyzing.”
Smoke and Carlson removed their hands and took a step back.
“Do not touch patient, analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch patient. Step away. Shock will be delivered in three, two, one . . .” I felt my heart jump into my throat when Weber’s body jerked.
“It is now safe to touch patient. Start CPR,” the voice said, and Carlson resumed. He did thirty compressions, and I moved in to deliver the two breaths as directed by the AED voice. “Do not touch patient, analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch patient.” After a long moment it said, “No shock advised. It is now safe to touch the patient.”
Thank you, Lord.
Lisa and Max removed the AED pads, attached the gurney straps to secure Weber, placed the oxygen mask back on his face, and raised the gurney. All in about forty seconds.
“Let’s roll. Give him an epi shot on the way if need be,” Max told Lisa, as if she needed the reminder.
I ran ahead, glanced up at the threatening sky wondering when the rain would fall, and opened the rig’s door for the EMTs and their precious cargo. Smoke, Carlson, and Zubinski fell in behind. Smoke helped Lisa and Max roll the gurney into the rig. Lisa hopped in the back, followed by Mandy who turned to us. “I need to go with.”
Smoke nodded. “Sure.”
Mandy’s eyes met mine. Her face was drawn and flushed; her mouth downturned. I managed a half smile and a few nods. Max closed the ambulance doors, hustled to the driver’s door, and climbed in. Seconds later, lights flashed and sirens blared as the ambulance sped away at 9:44 a.m. with our friend, the victim of a heinous crime.
Smoke pulled off his gloves inside out. He withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket, stuffed the gloves inside, opened his trunk, and tossed it inside. We looked at the paper shopping bag that held Weber’s equipment. “It’ll be okay in my trunk till I get back to the office and secure it in a locker. We’ll need to check his work cell phone for any suspicious calls or text messages.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
Smoke rubbed the back of his neck, turned his head from side to side, and pulled out his phone. “I gotta call Chief back. We talked for a couple seconds on my drive here.” He connected with Chief Deputy Clayton Randolph, filled him in on the details then said, “I know it’s very early in the morning in Hawaii, but the sheriff needs to be apprised a-sap. . . .You did? Good . . . . No, we’ll hold off on bringing in the crime scene team until we’ve finished interviewing witnesses.”
A-sap was Smoke’s condensed version of ASAP, the acronym for as soon as possible.
Smoke continued, “There were eleven people besides Weber and Zubinski in the cafe, and given how fast everything went down, it shouldn’t take thirty minutes between the four of us. Meantime, can you ask Doug Matsen to go to Holiday, the closest business with cameras, ask for their video footage thirty minutes before and thirty minutes after the incident. . . . Yep, we’ll keep each other in the loop.”
Sergeant Matsen was in charge of Winnebago County’s Crime Lab and oversaw the four crime scene teams. Each team had two deputies, on call twenty-four seven for one week at a time. Joel Ortiz and Bruce Holman made up the current team.
After they’d disconnected Smoke said, “Sheriff’s in Hawaii, Chief’s sicker than a dog, Lieutenant Armstrong’s out on medical leave, Weber is down, and his shooter is loose out there in the world. Chief said he’ll have Communications send a ‘we have nothing to report yet’ message to all the media outlets.”
“The media,” Carlson muttered.
Smoke took a moment to look at his text messages and shook his head.
Chief Becker and Casey Dey came out the café’s east side door.
Becker pointed at the café. “I got a hold of Pete, the owner here. He was up at the restaurant supply store in Saint Cloud and will be on his way. Didn’t get into details with him, but said there’d been an incident here, and told him to drive safely, and concentrate on the road.
“Officer Dey and I strung tape across the front half of the dining area to preserve the scene. The café’s phone rang a few times. We turned off the volume so the calls will go to voicemail for now. I let the witnesses back into the dining area, asked them to stay back by the kitchen and not to make any phone calls till we’d gotten their statements. If family members call, I said send a message back that you’ll call ʼem soon.”
“Good advice, Chief,” Smoke said.
“Reminds me, when we were in the kitchen the witnesses started going over what happened. I instructed them not to discuss what they saw until we’d interviewed them. Didn’t want ʼem to start comparing notes, maybe get false memories planted. Something along those lines,” Becker said.
Smoke’s eyebrows lifted. “Or start doubting what they saw, maybe think the other guy’s right, they’re wrong.”
“Happens,” Becker agreed.
“Okay. Let’s gather our thoughts, then get to the interviews,” Smoke said.
I patted my front pocket. “My memo pad’s in my car.”
Smoke, Chief Becker, and Carlson headed toward the east side door, and Dey to his guard post.
The 10th novel in the Winnebago County Mystery series, Deputy #714 Is Down is supposed to hit close to home. The first victim of a newly emerging serial killer, you see, is a beloved member of the Winnebago County Sheriff's Office, and a close friend of the protagonist/narrator of the book(s), Sergeant Corinne “Corky” Aleckson to boot.
And I am pretty sure that it does just that, (hitting close to home), when the reader is someone who has closely followed this Mystery series. For someone like me though, who was just introduced to Christine Husom's work, it was a much cooler experience. Which is not necessarily a bad thing.
I was struck by how matter-of-factly, almost bureaucratic the police investigation unfolds. Particularly since Husom writes from personal experience, as she has been serving with the Wright County Sheriff’s Department and trained with the St. Paul Police Department in the past. She contrasts this meticulous, by the numbers investigation with the understandably all over the place emotions of Sergeant Aleckson, the beating heart of her story, and - through her eyes - everyone else in her Sheriff's Office, as well as her local community. As a result, there is an air of authenticity that makes Deputy #714 Is Down quite an engaging, unusual read.
Unusual, and a bit refreshing, because we are accustomed to either larger than life, or much more cynical cop characters and stories. On the other hand however, this down to earth and rather black & white, good guys versus bad guys approach, (which is probably much more true in small, rural communities like Winnebago County than big metropolises like New York for example), deprives at least the first half of this mystery of much needed suspense, while keeping the action to the bare minimum. The result is more of a character drama than an action thriller.
And although we do need much, much less cynicism in the world right now, a healthy bit of grey, less clear cut, more messy portrait of law enforcement and their stories is always a must. Put into words by experts in the genre, such as Patricia Cornwell (who also writes from personal experience) in her beloved Dr. Kay Scarpetta series.
Or maybe, this is just a case of me reading more of the Winnebago County mysteries to get the big picture. Not a bad prospect. Not at all.