Free Winter of frozen dreams by Karl Harter Page B

company fete after about 8:00, and no one saw him at the U-Name-It later. Lulling surmised that Berge drove straight home. When officers examined Berges house on December 26th, they found his dirty work clothes on the bed. The evening newspaper was folded as the paperboy had tucked it and lay unread on the dining room table along with two pieces of mail, unopened, addressed to "Occupant." The watchful neighbor had attended a church function that evening, so when Berge left for Madison was unknown. But considering that the autopsy reports indicated Berge had died within one to one-and-a-half hours after ingesting a large meal, he could not have dallied at home for very long.
    Lulling duplicated Berges itinerary for that fatal night. The detective meticulously timed every stage of the journey. He walked from the time clock to the parking lot,

    which took two minutes. The drive to Berges home covered eight-tenths of a mile and took three minutes. Once inside, he undressed, washed up, brushed his teeth, and put on fresh clothes. At a leisurely pace this took no more than fifteen minutes. The trek from Stoughton to Madison was eighteen and two-tenths miles, which Lulling drove at the speed limit, and took thirty minutes, including parking in the Lake Street ramp. The entire procedure took fifty minutes, which meant that Harry Berge was at Hoffmans apartment by 9:00 easily. The timing coincided with the autopsy findings.
    These computations pleased Lulling immensely. The time scheme, combined with the autopsy data, provided a plausible framework for the murder.
    For three days Chuck had worked at the case almost every waking hour. Finally he had a theory as to what had transpired.
    Berge had arrived at Barbara Hoffmans apartment before 9:00 p.m. He and Hoffman argued, maybe over Jerry Davies, maybe over this mysterious Linda Millar. The scratch on Berges neck indicated that the hostility flared into actual violence. Maybe Berge foisted himself on her; maybe he threatened her. Barbara clawed to get away.
    Undeterred, angry, and hurt, Berge stalked her. Berge approached, and Barbara kicked him in the balls as hard as she could. Berge doubled over, groaned, then groped for her.
    She was the only woman he'd ever dated, and he was losing her. The adoration he felt for her turned quickly to bitterness. Maybe he shouted. They were in the kitchen. Barbara grabbed the frying pan from over the stove and cracked his skull once, twice, a third time before she could control her rage. Berge dropped unconscious.
    Blood poured from Berges head. Barbara rushed to the bathroom, gathered towels, and administered first aid, but to no avail. Berge was dead. In her panic and fear she'd killed him.
    Berge was nothing to her except a trick, a lonely old man who bought her nice gifts. Moreover, Barbara

    realized, Berge was nothing to anyone, trapped as he'd been in his solitary existence. She knew of his isolation. She counted on his disappearance going relatively unnoticed.
    She stripped his clothes, cleaned her apartment of his blood, and waited until the deepest part of night to dispose of his body. She wrapped the body in a bedsheet and dragged it down three flights of stairs—which accounted for the abrasions on the hips, legs, and lower back, which the pathologist said were postmortem inflictions.
    Once outside she buried the body next to the Dump-ster, against the fence where the snow had been plowed. Then she returned momentarily with Berges car. But rigor mortis had set in, and Berges body was awkward. She couldn't wedge it into the trunk. Barbara needed help.
    The following day she enlisted Daviess aid. Aware of his sensibilities, she was also aware of his malleability. If anything went awry, she could control Davies, or so she had guessed. Once Berge was buried on a secluded country lane, chances were slim that he'd be discovered before the spring thaw.
    The speculations needed refinement, but the outline was feasible and fit what the police