WASECA - Across this flat countryside, on kitchen tables and at bedsides, police scanners crackle in the night. They bring word of lost dogs, rolled cars and petty break-ins for miles around. It's how many rural residents keep up with the local news. Friday night, Feb. 2, brought more of the usual: A theft at the Kwik Trip. A drinking party out at the lake. It was 2 degrees below zero, with a stinging wind that pushed the windchill to minus 22. When a woman saw someone walking along the highway wearing only a windbreaker and jeans, she phoned police to ask if they could give him a lift. Waseca is that kind of town. Then, at 3:20 a.m., scanner lights flashed and frenzied squawks broke the silence inside darkened farm houses. Squad cars from the Waseca Police Department, the county sheriff's office, paramedics and volunteer firefighters raced to the big white house outside of town, sirens screaming. Intruder. Shots fired. The Kruger place.
The cold didn't stop Hilary Earle Kruger from taking her older son, Alec, out for dinner, as promised. She had put in a hard day at DeRaad & Goetz, an accounting firm where she'd been office manager for 21 years. The phone rang incessantly as the pre-tax rush began, but Hilary took the chaos in stride. She answered calls and ushered clients in for their appointments. Her resonant laugh kept people smiling.
Around 6:30 p.m., she and Alec arrived at Olde Towne Eatery downtown. The walls of the homey steak and ribs place are hung with antique tandem bicycles and old signs for livestock companies. Her boss, Dale DeRaad, was eating there, too, as were a couple of her other work colleagues. They waved at her from across the room.
Hilary's husband, Tracy, had been busy all week preparing for the annual Sleigh and Cutter Days vintage snowmobile race, which he had co-founded with his good friend Travis Boesch. He and Boesch talked on the phone almost nightly, usually while Tracy was out in the workshop tuning his Rupp Magnum snowmobile -- his "pride and joy" -- for the race.
Tracy, Hilary and their two sons were fixtures around Waseca -- well-known and well-liked, a portrait of a quintessential family in a small Minnesota town. When someone compared them to "The Waltons," it was only half in jest.
Both Alec and his younger brother, Zak, were supposed to take part Saturday in a wrestling meet, which normally meant an early bedtime. But a herpes scare had canceled the meet. Zak asked if he could spend Friday night with a friend, and his folks said sure.
Friday nights were often game night at the Krugers', when they'd gather around a Yahtzee board. Hilary would laugh, and the boys would mimic her. On bitter cold nights like this one, Tracy kept the wood-burning stove stoked. The house felt cozy and safe.
• • •
At about the same time, Michael Zabawa and his co-worker, Eric Fisher, pulled up to an apartment building at 906 State St., a few blocks away. They were in town for some drinking, maybe to shoot a little pool.
The two worked together at Woodville Pork, a hog farm east of town that had stirred unease among the locals, who worried about a big farm like that bringing in a bad element.
Desiree Ronquist and Steve Erens lived in the apartment. They didn't know Zabawa, but they knew Fisher from Austin, where they had all grown up, and they sometimes let him crash on an air mattress on the living room floor.
Fisher had gotten a DWI and a theft conviction in 2002, the same year he pleaded guilty to being under the influence of amphetamines and methamphetamine. But his job at the hog farm was steady, full-time work.
He and Zabawa parked in the back lot, then walked down the hall to the first-floor apartment. Zabawa peeled off his Adidas jacket, plunked down in a plush chair and popped open a Budweiser. Posters of John Lennon and Yoko Ono hung on the wall. Peach crates held National Geographic magazines.
Zabawa downed one beer, then another. He was lean and muscled from years of labor, with a square jaw that gave him a hard, country-boy look. He was from Matawan, a hardscrabble town of trailers, grain bins and abandoned businesses where horses now graze.
He talked about working on his truck, bought from a friend for $300, and about a recent DWI he'd gotten -- a "dooey," as they called them around here. His license had been revoked, but he was still driving. But he didn't want to get caught.
Like he always did after a night at the bars, he said, he planned to take the back roads home.
• • •
Waseca is a clean, prosperous town of 9,000. It is far enough away from Minneapolis to retain its small-town charm, but close enough that its residents can hop up to the Twin Cities for a night. After high school, young people often move away, to college or jobs in the Cities, but many come back when it's time to settle down and have kids.
Waseca's main drags, Elm Avenue and State Street, are lined with solid Midwestern buildings -- the Magic Mirror Beauty Salon, Charlie's Hardware, Smitten with Knittin'. Farmers gather at the Pheasant Cafe for lunch. The State Street Bistro across the street shows a more urbane Waseca.
It's not uncommon for people to keep their doors unlocked, or to leave their keys in the ignition. On frigid days, you'll see cars left running while their owners dash into the grocery store for a few items, or even down a quick drink at the bar.
"Our number one asset is the people," said Mayor Roy Srp. "Wonderful people. Thoughtful, kind, generous folks."
South of town, past corn and soybean fields, a few large houses are signs of rural prosperity. One of those belonged to the Krugers and their sons, 13-year-old Alec and 10-year-old Zak.
When the big house with the wrap-around porch went on the market a year before, it caught their eye, but the price was too high. Tracy talked to the owner, Merlen Gekeler, and told him how much they could spend. "They wanted it so bad for their kids," Gekeler recalled. "I said, 'You know what? It's yours.'"
The house stands out on the flat prairie 6 miles from town. Two wagon wheels mark the entrance to the driveway. The windows are framed with black shutters, and iron eagles adorn each side of the house. There are outbuildings, a car park, a garage, a deck with a grill, a basketball hoop.
A long, twisting driveway leads to a quiet dirt road.
• • •
South of Waseca, the towns are tidy, but rougher. Ramblers give way first to farm houses, then to rural bungalows, then to trailers.
The kids who stuck around after high school generally work labor jobs -- in wood factories or grain elevators, gas stations or hog farms.
Michael Zabawa spent part of his teen years in a trailer house in the small town of Matawan. Some locals call it "the Matawan swamp" because it floods after heavy rains.
At one time, the town was relatively bustling, with a creamery, garage, lumberyard and two beer joints, said Earl Parriott, who lives a few miles away. It had a reputation.
"Bunch of renegades in that town," Parriott said. "Rough group."
As the town withered, residents moved to Waseca or Austin. Today, only about 40 people are left. A half-dozen modest homes are scattered along the main road, mostly trailers.
Across a vacant lot, a trailer sits with its back to the road. This is where Zabawa lives.
Next door are two more trailers, pushed back in a stand of trees. The yard is strewn with toys and old cars. This is where Zabawa's mother, stepfather, two sisters and four nephews live.
It's 19 miles from Waseca, and a whole world away.
• • •
On Friday nights, Katie O'Leary's Beef and Brew is hopping. It draws a younger crowd who come to Waseca to drink tap beer and down shots of tequila or "Scooby Snacks" and listen to oldies cover bands.
On the night of Feb. 2, Fisher's girlfriend, Stephanie Blaser, drove him and Zabawa to the bar, where they spent the night drinking and playing pool.
One of them got in a fight that night. Several people said it was Fisher. But Blaser said it was Zabawa. It never got out of hand. No one called the police.
After bar closing, Fisher and Zabawa walked the frigid half-mile back to the apartment on State Street. Erens was in bed, but he heard muffled talking and some music in the living room. Zabawa had to go to work in the morning at the hog farm, and he wanted to go home. Fisher and Blaser tried to get him to stay, to sleep on the couch.
We'll get you up for work, they said. You've been drinking.
But Zabawa ignored them and pushed past out the door.
The night was black, the wind strong enough to rattle windows. Amber Johnson, who lived upstairs, grew up in Waseca and never thought to lock her car door. Zabawa rifled through her minivan, grabbed her handbag and tossed it onto the front seat of his truck.
A few minutes later, Erens heard Zabawa's truck roar off into the night.
• • •
The back roads out of Waseca would have taken Zabawa up 110th Street, which turns into a dirt road just outside of town. It intersects 320th Street, where the Krugers live, at the junction of two fields.
The road was icy, and Zabawa's light-blue pickup slid into the ditch and got stuck in the snow. The windchill had pushed the temperature to 28 below zero.
He was right by the home of William Clayton. But Zabawa turned down the long snowy driveway across from the Claytons', past the wagon wheels, toward the big white house 200 yards away. Hilary's SUV was in the drive, her keys in the ignition.
He drove it down to the road, attached a tow rope, and tried to pull his truck out of the ditch. But the SUV started to slide. It ended up in the ditch opposite the truck, the tow rope stretched between them.
Zabawa climbed out. He crossed the road, walked up the driveway. This time, he approached the house, where Tracy, Hilary and Alec Kruger were sleeping.
The door was unlocked.
Jon Tevlin • 612-673-1702
COMING MONDAY: The petty criminal and the family man.
By JON TEVLIN
First of three parts
WASECA - Across this flat countryside, on kitchen tables and at bedsides, police scanners crackle in the night. They bring word of lost dogs, rolled cars and petty break-ins for miles around.
It's how many rural residents keep up with the local news.
Friday night, Feb. 2, brought more of the usual: A theft at the Kwik Trip. A drinking party out at the lake. It was two degrees below zero, with a stinging wind that pushed temperatures to minus 22. When a woman saw someone walking along the highway wearing only a windbreaker and jeans, she phoned police to ask if they could give him a lift. Waseca is that kind of town.
Then, at 3:20 a.m., scanner lights flashed and frenzied squawks broke the silence inside darkened farm houses. Squad cars from the Waseca police department, the county sheriff's office, paramedics and volunteer firemen raced to the big white house outside of town, sirens screaming.
Intruder. Shots fired.
The Kruger place.
• • •
The cold didn't stop Hilary Earle Kruger from taking her older son, Alec, out for dinner, as promised. She had put in a hard day at DeRaad & Goetz, an accounting firm where she'd been office manager for 21 years. The phone rang incessantly as the pre-tax rush began, but Hilary took the chaos in stride. She answered calls and ushered clients in for their appointments. Her resonant laugh kept people smiling.
Around 6:30 p.m., she and Alec arrived at Olde Towne Eatery downtown. The walls of the homey steak and ribs place are hung with antique tandem bicycles and old signs for livestock companies. Her boss, Dale DeRaad, was eating there, too, as were a couple of her other work colleagues. They waved at her from across the room.
Hilary's husband, Tracy, had been busy all week preparing for the annual Sleigh and Cutter Days vintage snowmobile race, which he had co-founded with his good friend Travis Boesch. He and Boesch talked on the phone almost nightly, usually while Tracy was out in the workshop tuning his Rupp Magnum snowmobile -- his "pride and joy" -- for the race.
Tracy, Hilary and their two sons were fixtures around Waseca -- well-known and well-liked, a portrait of a quintessential family in a small Minnesota town. When someone compared them to "The Waltons," it was only half in jest.
Both Alec and his younger brother, Zak, were supposed to take part in a wrestling meet on Saturday, which normally meant an early bedtime. But a herpes scare canceled the meet. Zak asked if he could spend Friday night with a friend, and his folks said sure.
Friday nights were often game night at the Krugers', when they'd gather around a Yahtzee board. Hilary would laugh, and the boys would mimic her. On bitter cold nights like this one, Tracy kept the wood-burning stove stoked. The house felt cozy and safe.
• • •
At about the same time, Michael Zabawa and his co-worker, Eric Fisher, pulled up to an apartment building at 906 State St. a few blocks away. They were in town for some drinking, maybe to shoot a little pool.
The two worked together at Woodville Pork, a hog farm east of town that had stirred unease among the locals, who worried about a big farm like that bringing in a bad element.
Desiree Ronquist and Steve Erens lived in the apartment. They didn't know Zabawa, but they knew Fisher from Austin, where they had all grown up, and they sometimes let him crash on an air mattress on the living room floor.
Fisher had gotten a DUI and a theft conviction in 2002, the same year he pleaded guilty to being under the influence of amphetamines and methamphetamine. But his job at the hog farm was steady, full-time work.
He and Zabawa parked in the back lot, then walked down the hall to the first-floor apartment. Zabawa peeled off his Adidas jacket, plunked down in a plush chair and popped open a Budweiser. Posters of John Lennon and Yoko Ono hung on the wall. Peach crates held National Geographic magazines.
Zabawa downed one beer, then another. He was lean and muscled from years of labor, with a square jaw that gave him a hard, country-boy look. He was from Matawan, a hardscrabble town of trailers, grain bins and abandoned businesses where horses now graze.
He talked about working on his truck, bought from a friend for $300, and about a recent DUI he'd gotten -- a "dooey," as they called them around here. His license had been revoked, but he was still driving. But he didn't want to get caught.
Like he always did after a night at the bars, he said, he planned to take the back roads home.
• • •
Waseca is a clean, prosperous town of 9,000. It is far enough away from Minneapolis to retain its small-town charm, but close enough that its residents can hop up to the Twin Cities for a night. After high school, young people often move away, to college or jobs in the Cities, but many come back when it's time to settle down and have kids.
Waseca's main drags, Elm Avenue and State Street, are lined with solid Midwestern buildings -- the Magic Mirror Beauty Salon, Charlie's Hardware, Smitten with Knittin'. Farmers gather at the Pheasant Cafe for lunch. The State Street Bistro across the street shows a more urbane Waseca.
It's not uncommon for people to keep their doors unlocked, or to leave their keys in the ignition. On frigid days, you'll see cars left running while their owners dash into the grocery store for a few items, or even down a quick drink at the bar.
"Our number 1 asset is the people," said Mayor Roy Srp. "Wonderful people. Thoughtful, kind, generous folks."
South of town, past corn and soybean fields, a few large houses are signs of rural prosperity. One of those belonged to Tracy and Hilary Kruger and their sons, Alec, 13, and Zak, 10.
When the big house with the wrap-around porch went on the market a year before, it caught their eye, but the price was too high. Tracy talked to the owner, Merlen Gekeler, and told him how much they could spend. "They wanted it so bad for their kids," Gekeler recalled. "I said, 'You know what? It's yours.'"
The house stands out on the flat prairie 6 miles from town. Two wagon wheels mark the entrance to the driveway. The windows are framed with black shutters, and iron eagles adorn each side of the house. There are outbuildings, a car park, a garage, a deck with a grill, a basketball hoop.
A long, twisting driveway leads to a quiet dirt road.
• • •
South of Waseca, the towns are tidy, but rougher. Ramblers give way first to farm houses, then to rural bungalows, then to trailers.
The kids who stuck around after high school generally work labor jobs -- in wood factories, or grain elevators, gas stations, or hog farms.
Michael Zabawa spent part of his teen years in a trailer house in the small town of Matawan. Some locals call it "the Matawan swamp" because it floods after heavy rains.
At one time, the town was relatively bustling, with a creamery, garage, lumberyard and two beer joints, said Earl Parriott, who lives a few miles away. It had a reputation.
"Bunch of renegades in that town," Parriott said. "Rough group."
As the town withered, residents moved to Waseca, or Austin. Today, only about 40 people are left. A half-dozen modest homes are scattered along the main road, mostly trailers.
Across a vacant lot, a trailer sits with its back to the road. This is where Zabawa lives.
Next door are two more trailers, pushed back in a stand of trees. The yard is strewn with toys and old cars. This is where Zabawa's mother, step-father, two sisters and four nephews live.
It's 19 miles from Waseca, and a whole world away.
• • •
On Friday nights, Katie O'Leary's Beef and Brew is hopping. It draws a younger crowd who come to Waseca to drink tap beer and down shots of tequila or "Scooby Snacks" and listen to oldies cover bands.
On the night of Feb. 2, Fisher's girlfriend, Stephanie Blaser, drove him and Zabawa to the bar, where they spent the night drinking and playing pool.
One of them got in a fight that night. Several people said it was Fisher. But Blaser said it was Zabawa -- she said he threatened someone with a pool cue, but bystanders calmed him down. It never got out of hand. No one called the police.
After bar closing, Fisher and Zabawa walked the frigid half-mile back to the apartment on State Street. Erens was in bed, but he heard muffled talking and some music in the living room. Zabawa had to go to work in the morning at the hog farm, and he wanted to go home. Fisher and Blaser tried to get him to stay, to sleep on the couch.
We'll get you up for work, they said. You've been drinking.
But Zabawa ignored them and pushed past out the door.
The night was black, the wind strong enough to rattle windows. Amber Johnson, who lived upstairs, grew up in Waseca and never thought to lock her car door. Zabawa rifled through her minivan, grabbed her handbag and tossed it onto the front seat of his truck.
A few minutes later, Erens heard Zabawa's truck roar off into the night.
• • •
The back roads out of Waseca would have taken Zabawa up 110th Street, which turns into a dirt road just outside of town. It intersects 320th Street, where the Krugers live, at the junction of two fields.
The road was icy, and Zabawa's light-blue pickup slid into the ditch and stuck in the snow. The windchill had pushed the temperature to 28 below zero.
He was right by the home of William Clayton. But Zabawa turned down the long snowy driveway across from the Claytons', past the wagon wheels, toward the big white house 200 yards away. Hilary's SUV was in the drive, her keys in the ignition.
He drove it down to the road, attached a tow rope, and tried to pull his truck out of the ditch. But the SUV started to slide. It ended up in the ditch opposite the truck, the tow rope stretched between them.
Zabawa climbed out. He crossed the road, walked back up the driveway. This time, he approached the house, where Tracy, Hilary and Alec Kruger were sleeping.
The door was unlocked.
Coming Monday: The petty criminal and the family man.
Jon Tevlin • 612-673-1702
Jon Tevlin • jtevlin@startribune.com
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