Wisconsin Witness

Of course, my first murder case was inevitably connected to three other serial killings in the area. I pushed through the front doors of the Argonne Sheriff’s station. 

“Good morning!” I say, giving Sandy Marsh the biggest smile. Usually, her vibrant smile matched her bright yellow cardigans, but today, her shoulders were hunched, and the deep, unfamiliar creases around her mouth signaled concern, not excitement.

“Detective…” she paused.

“Sheriff Elkhorn wants you in his office. She pauses, glances at me, then at the closed door down the hallway. Now.” 

She mouths the word “sorry” as I breeze past the reception desk toward the back of the station.

The words Office of the Argonne Police Sheriff rattle as I shut the door behind me.

“We need to get a hold of this, and I mean yesterday!” Sheriff Elkhorn demands, his heavy, barrel-chested frame leaning over the desk. He tossed a case file onto his desk. Pictures of dismembered bodies peek out just enough for me to see. 

“Sir, with all due respect, these are the most homicides—” he interrupted me the moment I began pleading my case. Elkhorn always did that. It was the curse of being a detective who looked barely old enough to buy a beer; he saw my youthful face, my sharp mid-fade, and blue eyes, and assumed I didn't have the grit.

“This town relies on tourists during the winter months. Peak season for ice fishing and hunting, this town cannot survive if tourists are too afraid to come.” Sheriff Elkhorn demands, spinning in an about-face motion now with his back toward me. "Hop in your cruiser, go to Wausau, and collect the statement from the only surviving victim.”

“Sir, it's a three-hour drive and I just — “He cut me off again.

“Then you should start moving.” He says. 

I spin around and leave his office, greeted by the look on Sandy’s face. Her cheeks were red, not from blushing but from embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry.” She says, tucking a strand of her golden hair behind her ear.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle. Comes with the job. It’s time for me to leave. I need to go pick up a key piece of evidence.” 

I grip the steering wheel tightly, letting the heater blast air against my face to thaw out both my fingers and my temper.

Just in time for the shift change, I arrived at Wausau Hospital. 

A soft light glows from behind the gray door, illuminating the narrow, prison-like bars set into its frame.

Knock

Knock

The small window slides up with a sharp metallic click to expose the security guard inside, who looks nothing like I’d expected. Tall, muscles bulging from under his security uniform, dark eyes, and olive skin. He looks like he should work as a team leader on a SWAT team, not guarding hospital case evidence. 

“Security Officer Martinez, how may I help you?”

”I’m here to pick up the items for Clara Miller.”

”Can do! Actually, it’s the final chain of custody I have today.” He says.

He spins around and picks up a white and orange bag from a tray in the back of the small room.

He pushes a clipboard under the bars through a small window opening at the bottom. “Just need you to sign. There are two copies, one for you and one for me.”

"'Here you go!' Officer Martinez says as he slides the package of evidence under the bars. I grabbed the bag. Ten minutes later, the TV’s light filled my small hotel room with a supernatural blue glow, illuminating the unopened evidence.

My eyes are so tired from looking over the case files, maybe hearing the events straight from a witness would help me understand something I can’t see.

I snap the tamper seal, ease back against the pillows, and hit play.

[RECORDING BEGINS]

Clara: They think I’m crazy! They keep telling me that the propane heater leaked. They keep saying carbon monoxide. But gas doesn't eat a man. Gas doesn't... wear him.

A ragged inhale.

Clara: It was three in the morning when the heater died. I was shivering so hard. And then... this heavy, suffocating stench flooded the shanty. It choked out all the air.

Clara: The door didn't open. It exploded inward. The wood splintered like matchsticks. And... It was standing in the doorway. It had to double over to fit inside, but the way it bent... oh God, its elbows snapped backward. Like dry pine branches breaking.

Clara: It looked down at me. Its head tilted at a ninety-degree angle, and then I heard it. 

Clara: Out of its awful mouth came Mark's voice. "Clara, baby, it’s so cold, please help me, Clara, it hurts! "But Mark was dead! Mark was dead because the thing was wearing his coat! Not just the winter jacket! It had peeled him!”

Unidentified Male Voice: Clara? I need you to calm down. You are safe here.

Clara: (Screaming) IT WAS WEARING HIM! IT WAS WEARING MY MARK! DON'T LET IT IN! DON'T LET IT USE HIS VOICE!

Unidentified Male Voice: “Patient secured by orderlies. Administering five milligrams of Haloperidol intramuscularly.”

Muffled shouts fade quickly as a heavy door thuds shut in the background. The sound of slurred sobbing right next to the microphone.

[RECORDING ENDS]

I open my eyes, staring at the tape recorder.

“What did I just listen to?” I think to myself. 

The hotel silence pressed in. I tested the lock, but a locked door offered zero protection against Clara’s recorded screams still echoing in my mind. I didn't wait for sunrise. By 4:00 AM, my cruiser’s high beams were cutting a narrow light through the dense pines. On the passenger seat, the tape recorder weighed barely an ounce, yet it felt like brick. 

“It was wearing him.”

My grip choked the steering wheel. Every dead branch whipping near the shoulder of the road looked like a fractured, backward-bending limb.

I didn't let out an exhale until I was staring at the familiar brick facade of the precinct. The heavy oak doors, the row of parked squad cars. What wasn’t familiar was the two news vans parked across the visitor spots. 

“Detective, what are your thoughts on the arrest of Arthur Vance? A reporter asks. 

“No comment.” I rebuffed the reporter before shoving open the door.

Sandy immediately met my eyes.

“What is going on?” I ask. Sandy’s face was blank.

“We couldn’t get a hold of you.” She explains.

You know most of the route back here has no cell service. What — “

“We got an arrest.” The voice of the sheriff cut the tension.

“We?” I ask.

"Per the official statement, a joint task force has located a suspect matching witness descriptions across several crime scenes."

“Arthur Vance.” The sheriff announces.

“Vance. You can’t be serious. He’s a local substance abuser and he wouldn't hurt anyone.” I say.

“Witnesses have spotted him near multiple crime scenes, and he possessed a few personal effects from a victim.” He explains. 

 “Yeah, to pick their wallets to score more dope, come on, Sheriff.” I rebuff.

“The District Attorney wants a speedy trial on this. As do I.”

“We will need to get Clara to provide a positive ID.” He says. 

“I’m not entirely confident her testimony will stand up in court.” I urged the sheriff.

“Get it done!” He replies. 

The sheriff walks away, and a resounding thud comes from the slamming of his door.

“He doesn’t mean to be like that,” Sandy says. “It's an election year, and this is the biggest crime to happen in decades.”

“Well, I’ve barely slept, so I’ll get this recording over to the DA’s office and start on witness prep. I just need a clean shirt.” I say.

“We have other officers, you know?” Sandy says.

“I caught this case and I’m seeing it through. Let the others deal with the trespassers and traffic violations.” I reply.

“Let me know if you need anything.” Sandy says.

“I’ve got it sorted, Sandy, but thanks.”

I threw back a brief glance and a faint smile, then pushed through the doors into the frostbitten morning. Tightening my grip on the evidence box, I cut straight through the reporters toward my cruiser.

Their questions vanished the second I slammed the driver’s door shut. I shoved the box onto the passenger seat, cranked the ignition, and pulled away. The heater blew uselessly against my stiff fingers as I navigated the slick, slush-covered streets toward the courthouse. Hauling the evidence down the fluorescent-lit hallway, I pushed open the doors into the conference room.

I dropped the box onto the table with a thud.

District Attorney Miller verified the logs, shooting his cuffs to reveal a sliver of an immaculately tailored charcoal suit before turning to the two-way glass. His slicked-back dark hair and sharp, angular jawline gave him the predatory posture of a lawyer who’s already written the closing argument.

Clara sat alone inside under the flickering lights. She looked incredibly small, her frail shoulders swallowed by an oversized, institutional gray sweatshirt. Her matted brown hair clung to her cheeks, and her skin held a translucent quality, that made the dark, bruised circles under her eyes stand out.

"If her story hesitates for a second, the defense eats her alive," Miller says, grabbing the doorknob. “Time to find out what she’s capable of.”

I walk toward the door. He walks into the room, stops just a foot inside, turns to me and says,” This is where we part ways. You can review the tapes after trial prep is complete.”

The door slammed shut inches from my face.

When the DA Miller walks out, Clara barely looks in my direction, as if released from detention, she makes a beeline for the exit.

“Everything, Ok?” I asked.

“All good. You are welcome to watch the interview tape. Here I’ll cue it up for you.” He says.

The DA answers a phone call and leaves the room. I look at the coffee machine, exhausted, then see the telltale sign of a maker's mark bottle, the red wax cap I would recognize anywhere, peeking out the bottom drawer of the desk.

I pause, scan the room and double-check the hallway before pulling the drawer open. I pour myself a knock of whiskey, key up the video, and press play.

Timestamp: 14:02:15. 

Clara sits hunched at the table. DA Miller leans in. The posture of a lawyer who’s already written the closing argument.

“We need you to push past the coping mechanisms,” Miller says, his voice soft.

“I am not coping,” Clara rasped. “I am telling you what broke into the shanty.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. He feeds her the clinical narrative: “a fractured mind inventing a monster to hide an abusive fiancé.”

“He didn't abuse me!” Clara’s finger darted out, trembling. “He was already dead!”

“Eyewitnesses are always somewhat unreliable.” Miller says sympathetically. 

“IT WAS WEARING HIS FACE!” She screams! 

Clara shoves backward. Her chair crashed to the floor. She’s hysterical. Miller’s good cop routine vanishes. He closes his manila folder.

“If you cannot differentiate between psychosis and reality,” he says, “we will evaluate your competency for your own protection.”

On screen, Clara freezes. The fight drains out of her. “You don't believe a word I'm saying.”

Timestamp: 14:08:33.

“You're going to stop looking for it,” she whispered. “It perfectly mimics his voice... and it knows you'll just invite it right in.”

“Let’s take a recess,” Miller ordered indifferently. “Call Dr. Vincent to adjust her medication.”

The feed cuts to black. I stare at my reflection in the monitor. Three weeks evaporated into the morning of opening statements. The Wisconsin wind bites, but I’m numb to it, my phone propped against the steering wheel of my cruiser, streaming the closed-circuit feed of the trial."

The defense attorney’s voice floats through my speaker. "Did you or did you not state the assailant had glowing eyes like a deer?" 

"Because it did!" Clara shoots back. "It wasn’t Arthur!"

The defense attorney paces, weaponizing the empty ice shanty and her medical records. He frames her survival as a psychotic break. An imaginary boogeyman conjured to cope with her husband's abuse.

"It wasn't his voice!" Clara’s scream peaks the mic. "It was mimicking a dead man!"

Uneasy murmurs ripple through the gallery. The gavel cracks. The defense attorney pushes harder, leveraging the psychosis diagnosis, but Clara is already erupting.

"A human being cannot fold their elbows backward!" she shrieks!"

The courtroom explodes. The judge hammers the gavel in rapid succession.

"If you stop looking for it, it’s going to keep feeding!" she begs.

And then the live feed goes quiet.

For eighteen seconds, the only sound in my cruiser is Clara’s amplified, ragged breathing. She isn't looking at the lawyers or the judge anymore. Her eyes are blown wide, dead-locked on the back row of the public gallery.

"Why is he wearing a parka?" she whispers.

My heart hammers against my ribs. The courthouse heating is brutally aggressive; it has to be eighty degrees in that room.

Clara raises a trembling arm, pointing directly into the camera's blind spot.

"The skin," she pleads, her voice dropping into a low register of pure terror. "It doesn't fit his skull. The cheekbones are sagging."

Chairs scrape violently across the floorboards. Out of frame, people are scrambling. Getting up. Backing away.

"THE EYES ARE FLAT! LOOK AT ITS EYES!"

Pandemonium breaks. Two bailiffs swarm the frame, seizing Clara by the arms.

"THE JAW IS LOOSE! LOOK AT ITS JAW, IT’S GOING TO UNHINGE!"

She thrashes violently as they drag her through the side holding doors. The heavy steel slams shut.

The courtroom slowly quiets. The camera feed remains fixed, unblinking, on the empty witness stand.

Through my phone speaker, The judge formally declares Clara medically unfit and orders the clerk to strike the testimony from the record. A single gavel strike rings out. I lock my phone screen, sprinting for the heavy courthouse doors. I slipped into the gallery’s back row just as the room was emptying.

Judge Margaret sat alone on the bench, her fingers rubbing her temples. Stripped of the bustling gallery, she looked suddenly fragile. The silver streaks in her tight bun caught the dimming daylight as she reached for her briefcase with trembling, blue-veined hands.

A plain white envelope rested squarely on the empty steno machine below. She leaned down, plucked it off the keys, and unfolded the single sheet inside.

As her eyes scanned the tight cursive, the color drained from her face. She looked up, staring hollowly into the empty gallery. 

"Detective," she whispered, her voice thin, stripped of all judicial authority. "Get up here. Read this."

I stepped up to the bench and took the paper from her shaking hand.

It read:

Your Honor,

I have lived in northern Wisconsin my entire life. If the winters here teach you one thing, it is to keep your head down when the wind shifts. I apologize for leaving without notice, but I will not return to work on Monday or ever again.

People often forget that court reporters are paid to remain unseen. We don't speak or interject. Our job is to observe everything. We serve as the unseen observers of the record. Since nobody looks at us, we notice what everyone else in the room tries to hide.

When Clara Miller started screaming and pointed to the gallery, the bailiffs looked at her. You looked at her. The jury looked at her.

I looked at the back row.

Clara wasn’t crazy, your Honor. When the room erupted, I watched the man in the heavy winter parka. He just smiled. I sat at my machine and watched the sagging skin around his mouth stretch. I watched his jaw unhinge a fraction too far, its reflective eyes staring directly at the witness stand, completely detached, just drinking in her terror.

I sat twenty feet away and realized I was looking at a monster wearing a dead man's skin, sitting perfectly safe in a courtroom full of armed bailiffs.

I should have screamed. I should have stood up and stopped you from striking her testimony. But I didn't.

There I was, watching everything you all did to her: the gaslighting and the institutionalized doubt. You erased her truth because it was easier than facing the dark.

I saw it. I would rather let Arthur die in prison and allow that thing to walk out of the courthouse than have this town look at me like they did that poor girl. 

Enclosed are my keys.

As I finished reading, I didn't look at the judge. Instead, I folded Brenda's letter back into three neat creases, slipped it inside my breast pocket right next to my notebook.

"Just a quitting note," I tell her, my voice flat, professional. "Court reporter burnout. I’ll make sure it gets to HR."

The judge looked at me, her eyes wide, searching my face for the panic she felt. She wanted me to call for backup. She wanted sirens. But sirens wouldn't fix what was sitting in row four.

Sheriff Elkhorn got his quiet winter. The DA got his conviction. Argonne got to pretend the woods were safe for deer hunting and ice fishing again.

I let them have it.

 Five o’clock came, and I clocked out, grabbed a neat bourbon at the end of the bar downtown, and smiled when Sandy asked if I was glad it was over. I told her I was.

But when night fell, I didn't go home. I backed my cruiser into the blind pull-off along Highway 32, overlooking the turnoff toward where the cluster of killings had taken place.

The official investigation was dead. The real one was just starting.

I checked the magazine on my glock, racked a round into the chamber, and pulled up my personal notebook. Look for the coat.