Page 17 of Guess Again
She looked down at her notes.
“Mr. Bernard, you were convicted in 1993 of second-degree homicide of Henry Hall, a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department. You were sentenced to sixty years in a state penitentiary, with the possibility of parole after thirty years. This is your second request for parole, the first having been denied in 2023. Special guests today include Whalen and Earnest Bernard, your parents, as well as your sister, Margaret. We also have special guests, Clint Dackery, retired police chief of the Milwaukee Police Department, and Ethan Hall, the victim’s son.”
The hearing began with Francis Bernard’s attorney speaking for fifteen minutes about Wisconsin state law that required those sentenced prior to December 31, 1999 to be eligible for mandatory parole after serving two-thirds of their sentence, which for Francis meant that, despite the board’s decision today, he would be a free man in eight years. The attorney then chronicled what a model inmate his client had been in the last thirty-two years. Francis had not only avoided citations while in prison, but had also entered into a religious studies program. The attorney went on about the progress Francis Bernard had made in the last several years with his faith and finding a higher power. Next up were Francis’s elderly parents, who sobbed at the “loss” of their son and not being able to spend meaningful time with him for three decades. Yes, he had done a terrible thing, they admitted, but he was a different man now than he was then. He has paid his dues, his mother argued, and deserved to be with his family.
Through it all, Ethan sat stoically and waited his turn. When the parole board asked if Chief Dackery wanted to speak, he deferred to Ethan.
“No, ma’am,” Dackery said. “I believe Hank’s son speaks for all of us.”
“Mr. Hall?”
Ethan nodded and stood.
“Thank you. My name is Ethan Hall. Henry Hall was my father. Francis Bernard killed him when I was thirteen years old. Francis Bernard not only took my father from me, he also took him from my then ten-year-old sister. When Francis Bernard killed my father, he took my mother’s husband. He took my grandparents’ child. He took my aunt’s brother. So as I stand in this courtroom this morning, I find it amusing that Francis Bernard’s attorney boasts about what a stellar inmate he’s been for the last thirty years, and all the things he’s accomplished during his incarceration—including, we learned this morning, that he’s found Jesus. But I think it’s worth noting that in those thirty years my father, too, could have done great things. He could have continued his life’s passion as a detective and helped many more families during his career. He could have raised his two children. He could have walked his daughter down the aisle at her wedding. He could have witnessed the birth of his grandson. He could have cared for his wife when she fell ill with cancer. He could have been there to bury his parents when they passed. So in the thirty years that Mr. Bernard has supposedly been working to become a better person, those are the same thirty years he took from my father who never had the chance to become more than he was the day he knocked on Francis Bernard’s front door.”
Ethan paused. The courtroom was eerily silent.
“And, this morning, I think it’s important for the parole board to understandwhymy father knocked on Francis Bernard’s door that day. My father, as a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department, went to Mr. Bernard’s home to question him about a series of murders that had taken place in the Milwaukee area that summer. My father was the lead detective in the Lake Michigan Massacres, as they were called back then. You see,” Ethan said, looking at the members of the parole board, “someone was killing women and dumping their bodies on the shores of Lake Michigan during the summer of 1993. Slicing their throats and tattooing black hearts on their chests.”
“Ms. Jackson,” Francis’s attorney said as he stood. “I regret the interruption, but it’s crucial to note that my client was charged and convicted of asinglecrime, which he has admitted to and has professed his deep regret about. Francis Bernard was never, and I repeat,nevercharged or linked to the crimes Mr. Hall just mentioned.”
“Francis Bernard was never charged, but he was a suspect in those murders,” Ethan said. “And that’s why my father went to Mr. Bernard’s home that day. To question him about the Lake Michigan murders. It’s important to note, in the context of potentially granting this man his freedom, that he was a suspect in the deaths of eight women that summer. And when my father arrived at his home to question him about those murders, Mr. Bernard shot him in the face. And what did Francis do after he shot a Milwaukee PD detective? Did he flee? No. Did he call an ambulance? No. He walked back into his home and burned it to the ground. He started a fire in his basement that ravaged the entire area. The fire department was called only when the flames and smoke grew heavy enough for neighbors to notice. When they arrived, they found my father dead in the front foyer and everything in the basement destroyed. So as the board considers Mr. Bernard’s pleas for release, I ask you this: Why do you think he killed my father? And why do you think the first thing he did afterward was set his basement on fire?”
More ghostly silence as Ethan paused again.
“Francis did those things to hide evidence that would identify him as the Lake Michigan Killer.”
“Again,” Francis’s attorney said, still standing. “I urge the board to disregard Mr. Hall’s conjecture that my client was in any way associated with any crimes other than the one he was convicted of.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “I urge you to do the same thing. Disregard my conjecture, by all means. But I also urge you to ask Francis Bernard, not if he is remorseful about killing my father, butwhyhe killed my father. Please ask him why he killed a detective who entered his home for the sole purpose of asking him about eight women who had been murdered that summer. And then ask him why he burned his home to the ground moments later. And then, if he can figure out answers to those questions, please ask him one more.”
A final pause brought back the deafening silence as Ethan turned his gaze from the parole board members to Francis Bernard.
“Ask him why, after he was arrested for killing my father, dead women stopped showing up on the shores of Lake Michigan.”
Ethan sat down and folded his hands again on his lap. The hearing lasted another thirty minutes and ended with the board unanimously denying Francis Bernard’s request for parole.
CHAPTER 20
Milwaukee, Wisconsin Monday, July 14, 2025
DETECTIVEMADDIEJACOBSON SAT BEHIND HER DESK AT THEMILWAUKEEPolice Department. She tried to work but was getting nothing accomplished that morning. Her time with Ethan at the cabin up north felt like a lifetime ago, and any peace those quiet days had offered was long gone.
“Jacobson,” another detective said as he walked past her cubicle. “Isn’t the parole hearing today?”
Maddie nodded. “Yeah.” She checked her watch. “Going on right now.”
“How come you’re not there?”
Maddie pushed a smile onto her face. “I went last time.” She patted her chest. “Didn’t think I could stomach looking at him again.”
“Hang in there. There’s no way the son of a bitch is getting out.”
She lifted her chin and smiled as her colleague hurried off.
Maddie Jacobson had been sixteen years old when she narrowly escaped becoming the Lake Michigan Killer’s next victim. For thirty-two years Maddie had carried the burden of being the sole survivor and only woman to keep her life after being abducted from the Milwaukee area during the summer of 1993. Now forty-eight, Maddie still bore the wounds from that long-gone summer. A scar traced her abdomen, from her navel to her sternum, where he had inserted the knife. The internal bleeding and blood loss had temporarily stolen the sight from her left eye, now restored to the minimum level of visual acuity needed to enter the police academy. In the mirror and in photos, the remnants of Bell’s palsy were still visible—a paralyzed facial nerve that faintly drooped the left side of her face. And a red, blotchy scar decorated her left breast from where he had tattooed a black heart into her skin. Even the skills of a plastic surgeon had not been able to fully erase it.
The physical reminders, however, paled in comparison to the psychological damage that was done. Mercifully, the years had erased much of her memory about her time in captivity, so that today, only with great effort and concentration, could Maddie recall how she had managed to escape from the shores of Lake Michigan after he brought her there to kill her and pose her body like the eight other women he’d claimed that summer. Those memories included a makeshift knife she’d crafted from the edge of a picture frame and a piece of driftwood she found in the sand. Maddie had used both to win her freedom.
