Where the Dead Sleep: A Novel

Book 2: Ben Packard

by Joshua Moehling

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers

Synopsis

"One of the best new voices in the mystery genre." —William Kent Krueger, New York Times bestselling author

"Observant and authentic (and funny, too)...the literary descendant of Fargo and Mare of Easttown." —Adam White, bestselling author of The Midcoast

A small town's dark secrets turn deadly…

When an early morning call brings Deputy Ben Packard to the scene of a home invasion, he finds Bill Sandersen shot in his bed. Bill was a well-liked local who chased easy money his whole life, leaving bad debts and broken hearts in his wake. Everyone Packard talks to has a story about Bill, but no one has a clear motive for wanting him dead. The business partner. The ex-wife. The current wife. The high-stakes poker buddies. Any of them—or none of them—could be guilty.

As the investigation begins, tragedy strikes the Sheriff's department, forcing Packard to make a difficult choice about his future: step down as acting Sheriff and pursue the quiet life he came to Sandy Lake in search of, or subject himself to the scrutiny of an election for the full-time role of Sheriff, a job he's not sure he wants.

There's a hidden history to Sandy Lake that Packard, ever the outsider, can't see. Bad blood and old secrets run deep. But an attempt on Packard's life means he's getting uncomfortably close to the dangerous legacy of the quiet Minnesota town. And someone will do anything to keep it hidden.

 

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Release date: August 15, 2023

Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press

Print pages: 316

Sample

Chapter 1

 

The dog was inconsolable.

He had spent the night pacing the house, lumbering on three legs, wheezing and thumping like a jug band, all thudding footsteps and panting breaths and tinkling tags. Occasionally, overcome by some canine emotion, he would topple sideways as if there was no point in going on, only to find the strength to rise again once that spot on the floor got too warm.

Back in the bedroom, the dog watched his sleeping human, yawned, then whimpered and nudged the bed until Ben Packard lifted his bleary face out of the pillow.

Packard touched his phone to check the time—not yet 5:00 a.m.—and reached down to pet Frank. At Packard’s touch, the corgi got on his hind legs and put his single front paw on the side of the mattress, looking for some help to get the rest of the way up.

“No, go lie down,” Packard whispered. “There’s no room for you.”

In Frank’s spot on the bed was a naked man breathing low and deep whose name Packard couldn’t remember.

Don or Dan.

Dave?

---

The day prior was the Sandy Lake Labor Day festival. Packard had walked the length of Main Street through a crowd dressed in shorts and sunglasses soaking up the sunshine on the last official weekend of summer. It felt nice not to be stuck at his desk or investigating anything for once. His only job was to say hi to people and make sure everyone was having a good time.

Vendors under tailgating tents lined both sides of the street and fanned themselves behind tables set up with soaps and candles and local honey. There was Adirondack furniture for sale, and wooden signs painted with rules for the cabin and every saying imaginable involving the words mama and wine.

Gary Bushwright was there, advertising his dog shelter and kenneling services. A black Lab mix and a long-haired dachshund panted in the shade. Gary was dressed in cargo shorts and flip-flops. His enormous beard obscured most of the Gary’s Kids logo on his T-shirt. He twiddled his fingers in Packard’s direction and beckoned him under the tent as he talked to the mom of the two blond girls petting the dogs. “Deputy Packard got his dog from Gary’s Kids, didn’t you?”

Packard took off his sunglasses. He was tall, in his early forties, with a swimmer’s build that made even the department’s bland uniform look good. He had a neat, trimmed beard and dark hair, slightly receded at the temples, that he kept military short. “I got most of my dog from Gary. He only came with three legs.”

One of the girls looked unconvinced. “Dogs have four legs,” she instructed.

Packard took out his phone and pulled up a photo of Frank. “See, only three feet. Gary gave me a discount, but he also said he’d order a new foot. I’m still waiting.”

“Why don’t you get the foot?” the younger girl asked Gary.

“Honey, he’s teasing you. The deputy is very happy with his dog as is, and he’s going to pay extra next time he wants him kenneled.”

Packard gave the girls deputy stickers and made his way to the park where St. Stephen’s Catholic Church was hosting a bake sale and a dunk tank. A soggy old man in jean shorts and a white tank top sat suspended over the water, egging on a ten-year-old boy throwing left-handed.

Stan Shaw, the current elected sheriff of Sandy Lake County, and his wife, Marilyn, were sitting on folding chairs in the shade of a tall arborvitae. Stan looked gray and gaunt. The back of his hands and his arms were spotted and badly bruised from every time he’d been stuck with a needle. An oxygen tube went under his nose and connected to a tank between his feet.

“I got a report about some

trouble over here,” Packard said.

Marilyn put the last bite of a brownie in her mouth, stood up, and hugged him. “The only trouble over here is me not fitting into my pants after working this bake sale all day,” she said.

Stan gave Packard a slight smile and held out his hand. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, looking genuinely pleased to be outside. Cancer had withered his body and weakened his voice. If Packard hadn’t been making regular visits to see his boss for the past several months, he didn’t think he’d recognize the man whose hand he was shaking.

“Great to see everyone enjoying themselves,” Packard said.

There was a crash from the dunk tank as the old man dropped into the soup. The boy throwing the balls looked at his parents with surprise.

“I bet you took a few dips in that tank,” Packard said to Stan. He and Marilyn were longtime members of St. Stephen’s.

“Fewer than you might think,” Stan said. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “I reminded people I knew their license plate numbers and where they lived.”

On the far side of the park, firefighters and deputies helped kids in and out of a fire engine and a patrol car that had its emergency lights flashing. Another thrower dunked the old man.

“Benjamin, there’s pan-banging chocolate chip cookies over there,” Marilyn said. She was brushing crumbs from her blouse with one hand and holding Stan’s hand across the gap between their chairs with the other. “They’re crinkly and have crunchy salt on top. Make sure you try one.”

Packard adjusted his belt. “All right then. I’m going to keep moving. I’ll stop by the house after the budget meeting with the council later this week.”

At this point in his cancer battle, Packard knew Stan Shaw cared about the department budget like he cared about thirty-year mortgage rates. Keeping him in the loop was a game they played, more for Packard’s benefit than Stan’s. “Keep up the good work, Sheriff,” Stan said.

Packard didn’t think he’d ever get used to Stan calling him that. Technically, Packard was the acting sheriff. Even that felt like a title he hadn’t earned, didn’t deserve. There was no point protesting. Stan felt otherwise.

From the park, Packard wandered over to the fenced area behind the stage where the bands playing later that night were waiting their turn to sound check. He

said hi to the high school band director and the brother-and-sister acoustic duo, then navigated a maze of folding chairs and tables to where three others were sitting.

“You guys must be the headliners.”

“We’re three of the six,” said a man in a sleeveless T-shirt with drumsticks in one hand. He stood up to shake Packard’s hand, said his name. Dylan? Dale? Mid- to late thirties. Blond hair swept back from his forehead and buzzed short on the sides. Arms and shoulders like grapefruits packed into a tube sock. He introduced the other two. “The rest are on their way.”

“What’s the name of your band again?”

“Maneater,” the drummer said with a raised eyebrow. “After the Hall & Oates song.”

They were based in St. Cloud and billed themselves as a yacht-rock cover band. They played songs by Michael McDonald, Christopher Cross, and other light rock artists from the ’70s and ’80s.

“Are you coming to see us tonight?”

“Planning on it,” Packard said. “I’ll be off duty in a few hours.”

“I’ll look for you,” the drummer said. He lifted the front of his shirt to wipe his forehead, showing off a flat stomach and the colorful waistband from a pair of designer underwear.

Packard looked and the drummer caught him looking and smiled.

---

When they took the stage later that night, the members of Maneater all wore white captain’s hats with gold embroidered anchors. The lead guitar player took the costuming to the next level with a white officer’s uniform, open at the throat to reveal his hairy chest and gold chains. He traded off singing duties with a young woman with thick, curled hair and a voice fit for church or a blues bar. Rounding out the band were a keyboardist, a bass player, and a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt who provided the requisite ’80s saxophone solos.

The drummer had changed into tight white pants and a striped shirt that made him look like he was in the French navy. The shirt was a size too small and stretched taut as a sail.

As the sun set, the band played “Right Down the Line” and “Ride Like the Wind” and “Sara Smile.” The crowd knew every word to every song. The band played “Islands in the Stream” and “Silly Love Songs” and “Love Will Keep Us Together.” Small kids wearing glow-in-the-dark necklaces practiced their dance moves with their parents in front of the stage. More people filled in behind them. A trio of intoxicated women off to one side clung to each other and danced in circles and smoked cigarettes as they sang along.

The drummer played a solo during Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody.” He looked good

 up there, sweating under the low-hanging stage lights, bouncing and swiveling as he rolled over the top of everything in his kit. He had forearms like Christmas hams.

The band played their last song—“Lonesome Loser”—and thanked everyone for coming out. As they broke down their equipment, fireworks shot up behind the old water tower. Packard watched the upturned faces in the crowd change colors as explosions echoed down Main Street. Labor Day meant another summer in Sandy Lake had come and gone. Fall would be too short. Winter loomed.

When the final shower of sparks winked out, the crowd began to disperse. Packard talked to people he knew, never wandering far from the stage. He was stalling. He couldn’t say exactly what he was expecting with regard to the drummer, but he wanted to create the opportunity for something to happen. The end of another season—more than birthdays or New Year’s Eve—made him feel the passing of time. A person only had so many summers in his life.

He was looking at his phone when the drummer suddenly appeared at his side. “How’d you like the show?”

“That’s the most bulletproof set list I’ve ever heard,” Packard said.

“People love the yacht rock. We could play a gig every day of the week if we wanted to.”

“I believe it.”

“Are we too late for a beer?”

Packard checked the time on his phone. “Last call at the beer tent was ten minutes ago.”

“Where can we still get a drink?”

“Bob’s is right there.” Packard nodded at the hole-in-the-wall bar at the end of Main Street, where yellow light and the noise of a crowd spilled from the open door.

“What about your place?” the drummer asked.

Packard turned and really looked at this guy, trying to be certain that the proposition meant what he thought it meant. The drummer gave him a sideways grin and a raised eyebrow. Packard remembered the flash of flat belly and designer underwear he’d seen earlier.

It meant what he thought it meant.

Packard closed the distance between them by a step. “You want to go to my place?”

“I do.”

“Then let’s go.”

They walked to the end of the street and then across the park. People were disappearing into the dark, carrying kids and lawn chairs. “I’m the red Ford

truck,” Packard said.

“I’ll follow you.”

At his house, the beers Packard opened were barely touched, forgotten in a flurry of mouths and hands under shirts and the jingle thunk of pants with phones and keys in the pockets hitting the floor. Frank barked and danced around their ankles for a minute, then found a rawhide that was more interesting and left them alone.

---

There was no getting back to sleep. Packard slid out of bed and grabbed his phone. Frank followed him out to the living room, where Packard opened the sliding glass patio door to see if the dog wanted to go out. Cold morning air swirled in, making them both dance from foot to foot. Frank looked up at Packard like he was out of his mind for even suggesting such a thing.

Packard closed the door and stood naked in front of the glass. Fog lurked in the low spots and on the lake behind his house. It had been a long summer of tying up loose ends from the Emmett Burr case. They’d found three women buried on Emmett’s property and still only knew the identities of two of them. Jenny Wheeler, the daughter of Packard’s cousin, had been held captive by Emmett and nearly became his fourth victim. Between that case, the extra duties of being the acting sheriff, and coming home to a house in a permanent state of construction, Packard felt like a rope being twisted tighter and tighter.

But today was his day off. Nowhere to go, no need to get out of bed if he and the drummer decided not to. A strange, elusive feeling came over him in the moment. Contentment was too strong a word. A touch of peace maybe. A temporary madness.

Then his phone vibrated in his hand and the screen said DEPUTY REYNOLDS, and Packard’s satisfied feeling took flight and left him behind.

“Sorry to call you so early, Sheriff, but you’re up to catch the next case according to Deputy Thielen.”

Packard had the irrational thought that his deputy could see him naked in the window, so he stepped back from the glass into the darkness of the living room with Frank at his heels.

Last night at the dance, he’d promised Thielen he’d take the next case, no matter what it was, because she was overwhelmed with work. He’d failed to stipulate that he meant after his day off.

“What’s going on, Reynolds?”

“We’ve got a male

victim. Multiple GSWs. Someone came through a sliding glass door, shot this guy in his bed, and fled. Wife called it in. She’s unharmed. We’ve got the location secured and crime scene has been called.”

“Who is it?”

“The victim is William Sandersen.”

“The wife’s name?”

“Carolyn Walbach.”

The names didn’t mean anything to Packard. “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Before going back to the bedroom he googled Maneater band MN. The About Us page on the band’s website listed Maneater’s drummer as Brad Ruble.

Brad?

That didn’t sound right. He could have sworn it started with a D. Doug or Drew?

Whoever he was, he was awake when Packard came back to the bedroom.

“I heard you talking. Work?”

Packard nodded and turned on the lamp by the bed.

“Must be serious for them to call you this early.”

Packard said yeah but didn’t elaborate. “Listen Brad, I hate to do this to you, but I’m needed at the scene and I can’t leave you here. No offense. It’s just…”

Brad sat up and rubbed his face. “I get it. Wouldn’t hurt to get back to St. Cloud and get my gear unloaded before it gets hot again.” He fell back and pulled away the bedsheet so Packard could see all of him, stretched out and naked. “How much of a hurry are you in?”

Packard looked at the drummer, then looked at the time on his phone. “I should… I should get going.”

“You need to shower, though, right?”

“I do.”

“Want company?”

“A quick shower,” Packard said.

“I can be quick,” Brad said and stuck out his hand.

Packard put down the phone and hauled the drummer out of his bed.

---

The sky was turning from purple to gray with the coming dawn as Packard poured coffee into his travel mug. He handed Brad his in a to-go cup with a lid.

“That’s some bathroom you’ve got,” Brad said. Every other room in the house was still in a state of construction, but the main bathroom was an oasis with its infrared sauna, two-person shower, and heated floor. “Like something out of a hotel,” he said.

“That was the idea,” Packard said as he herded him toward the door. “It was great meeting

you, Brad. I enjoyed it.”

“Likewise,” Brad said. He smiled but looked like he had something else he wanted to say. Nothing can get in the way of a long Minnesota goodbye, Packard thought. Even between two strangers. Even when there’s a dead body waiting.

Brad reached for his wallet and took out a card. “My numbers. Stay in touch.”

Packard looked at the card. “Wait, your name is Dave?”

 

Chapter 2

Packard followed dave back toward town and when they came to the highway, Dave went one way and Packard went the other. The name thing was embarrassing but not mortally so. Dave said Brad was the band’s old drummer, who had quit after his wife had twins. Dave had been drumming with them for six months, and no one had gotten around to updating the website. They both had a good laugh about it. Dave’s business card was from his day job as an insurance inspector. He told Packard to call if he found himself in St. Cloud.

The hazy glow of a good lay made up for the early hour. Packard drove and grinned as he recalled things they’d said and done. There was no shortage of comedy in the male nude or the slip slide of unfamiliar bodies. Enjoy this feeling, he reminded himself. It would burn off as soon as he came face-to-face with the dead man.

The nav system in the sheriff’s SUV took him east on a two-lane highway into the rising sun, past the turnoff for Blank Township. Blank was all of five blocks by five blocks. It had streets named after trees that ran north–south, and numbered avenues that ran east–west. Two baseball diamonds marked one end of town, a one-stall fire station the other.

Packard headed north and up a slight rise that slowly revealed two sheriff’s cars and an ambulance with lights going. The crime-scene van hadn’t arrived yet, not unexpected since it was early on a Sunday morning. It would take time to round up the team. All the emergency vehicles were parked in a row, blocking one lane of the road. No one parked on the gravel shoulder in case the shooter had parked there. Part of the investigation would be to go up and down both sides of the road, looking for signs of a stopped vehicle.

Packard parked in the line and got out. Yellow tape twisted and flapped across the driveway of a split-level house with a two-car garage. Behind the house, Packard saw the blue-black water of a small lake. From where he stood, it looked like no other houses shared the water.

Deputy Reynolds, the department’s newest hire, was standing at the door. He was a pink-faced local kid just out of college with a criminal science degree. He looked like he shaved once a month. Had a wife and a baby already. “Tell me again who we’ve got,” Packard said.

“The victim is William Sandersen. His wife is Carrie Walbach.”

“Different last names?”

“Yeah. Second marriage for both. Deputy Baker is inside with Ms. Walbach. I’ve been out here standing where I was told.”

“Anybody else in the house at the time? Kids?”

Reynolds shook his head.

“Who’s in the other squad?”

“Deputy Shepard is around back.”

Packard grunted, like he did every time Shepard’s name came up.

Through the door, a short set of stairs went up to a living area and another set went down to a lower-level walkout. Carolyn Walbach was sitting on a sectional sofa with her back to the front windows, dressed in a thick white robe and light-blue slippers. Her eyes were red. She looked exhausted and frightened. Deputy Baker—black hair, early forties, graying goatee—sat next to her and was writing in a notebook.

The sight of another officer was enough to bring fresh tears from Carolyn. She pressed a tissue to her nose and lowered her head.

“Carolyn, I’m Ben Packard. I’m the acting sheriff and a detective with the Sandy Lake County Sheriff’s Department. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Carolyn nodded and he let her cry for a minute. She looked to be midforties, with a thin face

and straight brown hair that came down to her shoulders.

He asked Baker if they had consent to search and Baker nodded. “Carolyn, I’m going to look around, and then I’ll want to ask you some questions,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Packard noted signs of money spent everywhere he looked. The living room had hardwood floors with inlays around the perimeter. The furniture was new and looked vaguely uncomfortable. Walls had been taken down and a beam put in to open the upper level so you could stand in one place and take in the high-end kitchen, the French doors that opened to a deck overlooking the lake, and a dining area where an expensive light fixture sprouted Edison bulbs in all directions over a sleek wooden table. Down a short hallway were a guest bedroom, a bathroom, and a master suite. Packard did a double take at the unmade bed and the absence of a dead body.

He went downstairs and found a carpeted great room with a pool table and leather recliners in front of a movie screen. A large gun safe was tucked into a corner. There were three doors—one led to laundry and a bathroom, one to another guest room, and the final one to yet another bedroom, this one with a dead man in the bed and the smell of blood in the air. A sliding glass door was half-open. Packard could see Shepard in the backyard, staring at his phone.

Packard stayed out of the room and shined his flashlight on the body in the bed. It was turned away from the door. There was blood on the wall behind the bed and on the sheets. Packard spent a minute imagining the door sliding open in the middle of the night and someone shooting Bill Sandersen in his sleep. The door didn’t look forced from where Packard stood. Unlocked doors weren’t as common as they used to be but not unheard of either. Could be someone left it unlocked to let the killer in, or the killer came in a different way and only exited through the sliding door.

Back up the stairs to the living room. Through the large front window behind Carolyn, Packard saw the crime-scene van pull up behind his vehicle. A man and a woman in black shirts got out. There was nothing but farmland across the road from the house. Not the most rural location, but no neighbors within half a mile, at least.

Packard took a chair from the dining room table and set it in front of the couch. He started by asking Carolyn to state her full name, date of birth, and relationship to the victim. He asked her what she did for work.

“I’m the CEO of the Gherlick Family Trust. It was started by my father thirty years ago. The trust makes annual grants to organizations across Minnesota that are trying to address issues associated with child poverty.”

Packard nodded, made some notes in his notebook. “Carolyn, I know Deputy Baker has been taking your statement about what happened, but I’d like to hear it for myself before we let you try to get some rest.”

Carolyn took a deep, hitching breath. Her shoulders twitched involuntarily, a sign of

 someone who’d been up all night. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to slowly tip to the side and close her eyes. “I was asleep in my room—”

“Back up,” Packard interrupted. “Tell me what you and your husband did last night.”

“I spent the evening visiting my mother. She’s in the early stages of dementia. I stop in and see her every other evening or so. Bill went out to meet his friend Roger.”

“What’s Roger’s last name?”

“Freeman,” Carolyn said.

“What time did you get home? What time did Bill get home?”

“Me around ten. Bill later. Probably around midnight.”

Packard was waiting for Carolyn to look him in the eye when she answered. So far she’d only stared at her hands in her lap. “Did you see him or talk to him when he got home?” he asked.

“No. I was in bed already,” Carolyn said.

“Did you hear him come in?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?” Packard asked.

“He went to bed, I guess.”

“You and your husband have separate bedrooms.”

Now Carolyn looked at him. “Yes. Bill uses a CPAP machine for sleep apnea,” she said and used her hand to cover her nose and mouth. “He snores terribly. It’s better for us both to have our own rooms.”

“How long have you been married?”

“A little over two years.”

“Children?”

“I have two grown children from my first marriage. Twins. Rebecca and Ryan. They’re both graduated from college. Rebecca lives in Duluth, Ryan in Minneapolis. Bill never had any kids.”

The two crime-scene investigators came through the door at that point, led by Deputy Reynolds. The woman carried a plastic storage bin with a lid. The man had a metal clipboard and a camera. Both were already wearing black gloves and cotton booties over their shoes.

“Where should we start?” asked the woman.

“Downstairs bedroom on the right,” Packard said.

“Was the intruder anywhere else in the house that you know?”

Packard looked at Carolyn. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “Just in the lower master as far as I know.” She didn’t seem entirely sure.

“Have you noticed if anything was stolen or is missing from anywhere in the house?”

Packard asked. “I haven’t really looked,” Carolyn said. “I’ve barely been off this couch since the police first arrived. ...