The Case of Peanut Noyer
by Francis Gene Collins
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
The Department’s focus shifted toward identifying the person behind the threats. Daddy had been chief of police for twenty-five years and had put more than a handful of men behind bars. Bismarck wasn’t a bastion of felons bringing misery to their surroundings like what was seen in big cities, but it still totaled more than a hundred possibilities.
The IT staff was strong, if not brilliant, and it used the power of computers and the internet to sort through the names. After rigorous investigation, they were able to come up with names. With luck and skill, the department might have actually come up with the given name of the man who called himself Peanut Noyer.
In addition to the IT staff, Daddy assigned three patrol officers to review the cases of the individuals who were identified as the most likely to be Peanut Noyer. The next day they put a presentation together for Daddy. I tagged along to the meeting room and picked a chair at the back.
The head of IT was Nils Larsen, tall and slender with a mop of wiry, uncombed red hair. He looked like an upside-down exclamation point. “Chief,” he said, “we’ve narrowed the possibilities to five.” He picked up a remote control and clicked it several times until a list appeared on the screen. He said, “Here’s number one: Gunderson, with his criminal history and the available demographic data.”
Daddy interrupted. “What’s his first name?”
Larsen said, “The first names for all five are in the hardcopy I handed out for everyone, along with as much detail as we could find. For ease of on-screen presentation, I left out the first names and much of the data that’s on the handouts.”
Daddy said, “Got it. Proceed.”
Larsen continued: “Okay. Gunderson, age thirty-six, was convicted of embezzling twenty-five thousand dollars from a liquor vendor in Grand Forks. He was sentenced to eight years, paroled in three. You were the arresting officer here and had oversight of his incarceration and during his transfer to custody in Grand Forks. His family disowned him, and he lost everything, literally. House, car, possessions. All he had went to buy down his debt. He has a local address and is currently employed as the head of maintenance in one of the local hotels.”
Daddy asked, “Is he behaving himself?”
“Far as we can tell. He works ten-hour days, Monday through Saturday, but takes Wednesdays off. A total of fifty hours. Finishes at five and then heads for a nearby saloon. He stays there until closing time at eleven. He only drinks beer and watches whatever games are playing on the big-screen TV.”
Daddy asked, “Anything else?”
“Yes. During those hours in the bar, he tells anyone who will listen how much he hates law enforcement. Wife divorced him. Kids won’t talk to him.”
Daddy nodded. “And what does he do on Wednesdays?”
“Grocery shopping. And then he putters around in the yard at the house he’s renting.”
“How about finances?”
“He does okay at the hotel. He picks up extra hours whenever he can. He doesn’t have much left over after he makes payments on the money he owes from the embezzlement.”
Daddy smiled. “The entire twenty-five thousand?”
“Yup. Plus, interest.” Larsen used the remote control to move to the next name. “Number two, Gustafson, age forty-one. Spousal abuse, felony assault, history of multiple episodes, two different women, sentenced to 10 years, paroled in seven, current address Jamestown.”
Daddy interrupted. “Jamestown. Two-hour drive, right?”
“He lives a bit west of town, so it’s more like an hour and forty-five minutes, Chief. He works at a local feed and grain store there. Seems to be toeing the line, as far as obeying the law. He drives over here every week for anger management treatment with a local therapist. That’s a condition of his parole.
“He checks in with his parole officer here by phone every week, and once a month he has an in-person visit same day as his therapy appointment. The parole officer says he seems to be behaving, but those weekly visits put him in proximity to you and your family. He hates the entire Bismarck police department, you in particular.”
Larsen waited a moment to see if the Chief had any further questions, and then punched the remote. “Number three. DeSills,” he said. “Convicted of a Class B felony, voluntary manslaughter of a child. Sentenced to ten years plus a fine. Served the entire ten years. The victim was the four-year old son of his girlfriend. The little boy had gone into DeSill’s art studio and touched up a few of the paintings that Desills was working on.
“Desills was apparently quite successful as an artist with most of his paintings bringing more than five hundred dollars. According to his girlfriend, Desills had a hair-trigger temper, and on this occasion, backhanded the boy, who fell against the pointed edge of a dresser. The dresser caused a fracture at the base of his skull, and he bled into his brain stem. The boy was already dead by the time paramedics arrived. Desills blames your testimony for his sentence. Current whereabouts unknown.
“Number four, Pederzen. It was originally Pederson, but he got mad when his family kicked him out because of his drug habit. Had the name legally changed, swapping the s for a z. Arrested here for possession of cocaine with intent to sell. He had two hundred seventy-five grams of crack. Lab here says it was a first-rate product. He got a ten-year sentence, served seven. Last known whereabouts Orange County, California. You were the arresting officer, and he made no bones about hating your guts.”
“And number five, Buck Holz. Name was originally Jens Buckholz, which he hated. He had it legally changed long before his arrest. Says the new name makes him sound manly. He was tried and convicted for vehicular manslaughter. Ran over two young children when he was arguing with his wife. Dropped his cell phone onto the floor of the car, tried to reach for it. Lost control of the car. The two kids had no chance. Convicted of two counts of vehicular manslaughter and sentenced to twenty years. Served fifteen. Wife divorced him.
“He currently lives in Minot. Works in an auto parts store. The parole officer thinks the guy has turned himself around. Church on Sundays. Volunteers on weekends at a local homeless shelter. The red flag, though, is that you were the arresting officer, and he never hesitates to blame you for the back-to-back ten-year sentences.”
Daddy nodded. “Thank you, Lars.” Daddy then turned his attention to Deputy Chief Akecheta Bernard. His first name translated roughly as “fighter,” and his last name, probably derived from French, meant “Brave Bear.” He was born and raised on the Spirit Lake Indian Reservation in the northeastern part of the state.
When he was a senior in high school, with no previous training in boxing, he entered the tri-states Golden Gloves competition which served Minnesota and both Dakotas. At 147 pounds, he fought as a welterweight and easily won the division, in keeping with his name Akecheta.
After high school he joined the Navy, completed Seal training, and served in various parts of the world. It was an understanding in the department that no one was allowed to ask Brave Bear about any of his deployments.
“Bear,” Daddy said, using his departmental nickname, “any thoughts about protection for my family?”
“Well, Chief, we’re handicapped in two ways. One, we don’t know for sure who the guy is, and two, we don’t know when he’s coming. But it is an exigent threat, and we have to act on it. He says he’s coming soon. We’ll take that at face value.
“We have the manpower to rotate staff at your home 24/7. Plus, we’ll need to provide security for your ladies when they venture out of the house. We won’t detail anyone to shadow you, but you look like you can take care of yourself.”
And so it went. The months passed. Cross-country season ended, and I spent a couple of hours in the high school gym after classes ended each day. One of the department’s staff always kept me in sight, so unobtrusively that few people noticed.
One more note arrived, the most taunting in nature:
Coming soon, Miles. Love that name, Miles, because when It’s all over I’ll be miles and miles away. Soon now, Miles. And all those pretty-boy guards you assigned to your babes — I mean ladies — won’t be a factor at all. Nice try though. Soon. Very soon.
That note arrived on Memorial Day, and it turned out to be the last note.
* * *
The end of the school year came up fast. I had always done well academically, and that paid off with my ready acceptance as a Criminal Justice major at North Dakota State.
What hadn’t been worked out yet was whether I would need protection in Fargo and, if so, how to accomplish it. I didn’t fret about that. I was too busy planning a graduation party for the whole family, and it was a big family. I was the oldest cousin and the first one to graduate from high school, so this particular get-together was more of a big deal.
I asked Daddy about the menu. “Keep it simple,” he said. “North Dakota food. Go for barbecued beef on buns with lots of sliced potatoes fried in butter. No salads, but put together a tray of fresh fruits and vegetables. Sodas for the kids and red wine for the adults. You pick it out, and I’ll have Randy’s Liquor deliver it.”
Daddy had taught me a little about the basic differences between red wines and white wines and how they paired with foods, so I felt comfortable picking one. A red wine would pair nicely with the beef, so I selected a high-end Zinfandel.
Daddy ordered three cases. I thought it was a lot of wine, but Daddy said there would be lots of people, and most of them would have two or three glasses. The wine was delivered that same day, and I had the delivery guy take it down to Daddy’s small wine cellar in the basement.
Graduation day was sunny, but not too bright, and there was a light breeze. It was a perfect North Dakota spring day, a perfect day for the celebration. I could have done without the pomp and ceremony at the graduation itself, but the gym was packed with parents and relatives, all seeing their family members set to move off to a different part of their lives.
Back at our home, several cousins and I set up the rented tables and chairs. The caterers brought a mountain of food, served in huge platters on the three long tables. Daddy sent me down to the wine cellar to get the wine. I brought it up to the kitchen, and I and three of my cousins set about opening all thirty-six bottles.
We filled thirty-six glasses and served them to all of the adults. Daddy had asked that no one take a sip yet because he wanted to make a grand toast to the family’s first high school graduate.
As Daddy held up his glass, everyone else did, too. Before Daddy could make the toast, I casually whispered, “Daddy, it was some new guy who delivered the wine today. He brought the wrong one. It was supposed to be Zinfandel, but he brought a different red wine. I think it will still go well with the beef. It’s the Peanut Noyer.”
I realized what I had just said as Daddy’s eyes widened. He screamed, “Stop! Stop! Put the glasses down! Don’t take a sip! Not one sip! I need everyone to back away from the table.”
Nils and the Bear were the police detail on duty for the affair. Daddy said, “Bear, grab some latex gloves from your car for you and Nils. Put them on and then clear the table of wine bottles and glasses. Take everything into the kitchen. Dump all the wine from the glasses into the big orange bucket that Sarah will get for you. Recork all the bottles and put them back in the cardboard case. Sarah and all the cousins, go wash your hands with soap and water. Now. Twice. Do not touch your mouth with your hands. And adults, follow the kids. Everyone, scrub your arms and hands. Twice.”
When Bear and Lars had cleared the table and all of us cousins and adults had scrubbed down, Daddy had everyone sit down. He said, “Sorry for the excitement. I think we got a bad batch of wine. We’ll all be having soft drinks and water as beverages.”
When everyone had been served again, Daddy proudly made the toast. “To Sarah Jean Baumgarten, her generation’s first high school graduate but certainly not the last.” The afternoon had become joyless, and everyone ate sparingly, with little conversation. The party broke up quickly after that.
The toxicology section of the state’s crime lab said there was enough cyanide in each bottle to kill everyone present, even if they took only a few sips of the wine.
The Bear had photos of all the suspects on his cell phone. I quickly picked one, and the Bear put out an APB. The Bear even had the year and model of the suspect’s car plus the license plate number. Don’t mess with Akecheta.
* * *
Back at her office, Sarah smiled at Clive. “And that’s the story,” she said.
“You didn’t say which suspect was Peanut Noyer.”
“No, I didn’t. Do you want to take a crack at it?
Clive nodded. “Sure. My money is on Gunderson. He was the one who embezzled from a liquor distributor, and he should have been pretty savvy about wine.”
“You’re correct.”
Clive nodded again. “So, what happened to him?”
“He was spotted on Highway 83, headed north toward Minot and the Canadian border. The state Highway Patrol saw him and gave chase. It ended when Gunderson ran into a concrete abutment at a hundred miles an hour. The trooper said it looked like Gunderson did it intentionally.”
“Okay,” Clive said. “I guess that explains the bottle of Pinot Noir on your desk”
“Only partially,” Sarah said. “This bottle is an off-the-shelf version. The doctored ones are still in the crime lab, probably. I decanted most of the wine in this one. Left maybe half an ounce with the cork removed. Over time the wine evaporated and left a hazy purple residue on the bottom. I keep the bottle here as a reminder that the residue is the last known remnant of Peanut Noyer, and may he never return.”
Copyright © 2025 by Francis Gene Collins
