Karl Harter - Winter of Frozen Dreams

Karl Harter

AUTHORS NOTE

This book is the result of extensive research and scores of interviews. The detectives who conducted the homicide investigations, the lawyers involved in the case, and residents of Madison who patronized or worked in the citys massage parlors were my primary sources of information. The Wisconsin State Journal and the Capital Times, Madisons two daily newspapers, gave the case wide coverage. Isthmus and Madison Magazine, both local publications, carried articles on the homicides and trial. A local cable station broadcast the trial proceedings in their entirety.

The Barbara Hoffman case touched all levels of the Madison community. It involved lawyers and farmers, professors and cabdrivers, schoolteachers and insurance salesmen. More than one hundred people, directly or indirectly involved in the case, were interviewed. The victims were loners. The few friends and acquaintances they had in Madison and Stoughton were kind enough to share their observations.

Many of the people who discussed their relationship with Barbara Hoffman and their knowledge of the sex business in Madison agreed to do so only under the promise of strictest confidentiality. Some of these sources feared physical reprisal should their names become public. Where it was requested and where I felt it appropriate, the name of a minor character has been changed. These changes do not affect the truth of the story or the facts of what was revealed.

In a few instances scenes are re-created and conversation is presented that cannot be corroborated word for word. The events depicted are true. Recollection of the events may vary depending on the perspective of the people involved. Scenes have been dramatically emphasized to more effectively portray the major characters in the story. In some instances a name has been changed to avoid unnecessary embarrassment to the individual. When conversations are portrayed, an effort was made to verify their accuracy through interviews with the participants.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Any project of this size is impossible without the cooperation of others, and many people contributed ideas, insights, and information about this sad, sordid story.

My thanks go to Bob Newton, who helped coordinate the initial phases of the research and who assisted with many of the background interviews. Hayward Allens early encouragement was a boost.

Many of the lawyers involved in the case were especially helpful. Jim Doyle, John Burr, and Don Eisenberg were generous with their time and knowledge. Burr and Eisenberg sat through long hours of interviews, tolerated my nagging questions, and discussed their strategies and opinions of the trial. Whenever I called back, asking for more time and more answers, they were patient and accommodating. Don Eisenberg has portions of the trial on videocassette, which he kindly loaned to me for study. Anita Clark of the Wisconsin State Journal shared her cogent insights into the complexities of the story and the personalities involved. The Madison Police Department and Captain Jack Heibl deserve mention for their cooperation.

There were scores of people I interviewedcops, masseuses, lawyers, bartenderswhose names shall not be mentioned but to whom I owe great thanks. Steve Herzberg, at the University of Wisconsin-Madison Law School, and Bill Marten, at the Wisconsin State Historical Society, read an early draft of this manuscript, and I am grateful for their encouragement.

I am indebted to Victoria Pryor, my agent, for her careful reading, her excellent suggestions, and her hard work. Her enthusiasm has been essential. I also want to thank Harvey Plotnick at Contemporary Books for his enthusiasm and editorial assistance.

PART I

Winter of Frozen Dreams

- 1 -

Christmas morning, and it was too cold to snow. Even by Wisconsin standards the weather was severe. Overnight an arctic breeze had descended on Madison. The temperature plummeted to twenty-two degrees below zero, and wind ripped off Lake Monona, pear-shaped and choked with ice. The eight inches of Decembers accumulation lay undisturbed by the gusts, frozen where it had fallen or been shoveled or plowed. Snow gripped telephone poles and parking meters. In the wire weave of a newspaper box snow was wedged like a sugary webbing.

Jerry Davies didnt notice the cold. He didnt notice the sky as flat and gray as the state office buildings that bordered the lake like chilly sentinels. His Chevrolet wheeled around the block one more time, and he feverishly composed what he would tell the police, desperately searched for a coherent pattern. For all of his thirty-one years Jerry Davies had had trouble focusing on events, on comprehending the essence of things going on around him. Christmas morning was no exception. Concentration seemed impossible. Thoughts formed and dissolved like a vapor inside his head.

At 10:15 A.M., December 25, 1977, Davies had his choice of parking spots. The downtown streets were deserted. A mountain of snow rose behind the Bank of Madison. Straight ahead towered the Wisconsin State Capitola granite fortress, gray tiers of columns and arches vaulting to the heavens, capped with a golden crown. A couple of blocks east the dull chimneys of Madison Gas and Electric shoved black billows of coal smoke into the sky, panting overtime to give the city a semblance of warmth.

Davies parked on Monona Avenue. Forgetting it was a holiday, he dutifully plugged the meter. The quarter bought him an hour, more time, he presumed, than his mission would require.

Madison Police Headquarters was situated in the basement of City-County Building, a seven-story cement rectangle a snowballs heave from the lake. The aluminum handle of the precinct station door stung Daviess fingers with cold as he grabbed to open it, and the moisture of his palm instantly froze to the metal. For a moment he feared his flesh would tear as he pried the palm away. Curiously, the pain connected him to the present, to Monona Avenue, to Christmas morning.

Davies trembled. He wanted to quit, to curl up on the concrete steps and sleep. He was so very tired.

Hand snapped free of the aluminum, Davies opened the door and felt the hot breath of a heating duct as he walked inside. Each step was counted, for he began to feel woozy and was afraid he might faint before he reached the cop at the duty desk. Fluorescent lights hummed. Dust balls collected on the tile floor.

Jerry Davies was staggering. The desk sergeant eyed the visitor in the green parka with imitation-fur collar. Davies had not shaved in a couple of days. He wore neither cap nor gloves. Wire-rimmed glasses tipped down the bony cartilage of nose, and he pushed the spectacles back with a pudgy index finger. This simple action demanded a tremendous effort, and the cop guessed he had a gentleman who was either seriously inebriated or seriously ill standing, no, wavering in front of him.

The cops mustache tilted as he cussed silently. Such a sorry individual could only bring him extra paperwork.

Last night I helped bury a body in a snowbank, Davies blurted.

Ordinarily the desk sergeant shrugged at a dramatic statement from an obviously disoriented person and suggested a cup of coffee before inquiring what was really on the mans mind. But not on Christmas Day. People do not pull pranks on Christmas. People get nostalgic and drunk and depressed, but they do not fabricate outrageous tales. The man in front of him was tremulous and ashen, earnest and disturbed.

The cop paused and jotted down the time.

I dont know who it was, but last night I buried a man in a snowbank. I can take you to where the body is, said Davies. His voice cracked like an icicle knocked to the sidewalk by the wind.