[Marc Kadella 04.0] Certain Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Yeah, I did, Sarge,” the much younger man answered.

  Carvelli looked at the women and said, “We should clear out of here and let the crime scene people do their job. You’ll get me a list of the missing items?” he asked the victim’s daughter.

  “Yes, as soon as I can. The insurance company will have an inventory of everything. I made sure of that. There are also photos.”

  “That’s smart. Good job,” Carvelli said.

  Leaving Jefferson at the door, the four of them went out through the front door. Carvelli nodded his head at the beefy man coming through the front gate. They all waited at the bottom of the step as the man approached.

  Carvelli and Waschke shook hands and Carvelli introduced the homicide detective to the two women.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Waschke sincerely told Janet. “I should go take a look,” he said to Carvelli.

  Carvelli indicated to his partner to stay with the women while he and Waschke started up the front steps to go inside. Jefferson was at the door with a clipboard making a record of everyone who entered the crime scene. He took down Waschke’s name and badge number. As the two men were walking up the stairs, Waschke said to Carvelli, “Keep an eye on him. He’s sharp as a razor and will make a damn fine detective and soon.”

  “Where’s Collins?” Carvelli asked referring to Waschke’s current partner.

  “He’s got his old lady knocked up again and they had some doctor’s appointment this morning.”

  “Another kid?” Carvelli asked. “What’s that, five or six?”

  “Yeah, something like that. I’m not even sure he can keep track.”

  “Maybe you ought to have a little talk with him about how to avoid it.”

  “I’ve tried. He won’t listen,” Waschke growled as he walked into the bedroom.

  He greeted the two people from the medical examiner’s office who moved away from the body to allow Waschke to look over the elderly woman.

  Waschke looked over the woman’s face for a moment then asked the tech standing next to him, “What’s this on her cheek?”

  The tech leaned over next to Waschke and with a pen, pointed at a very lightly discolored area along the right jawline. “That right here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It could be bruising. Look at this,” He picked up a pillow lying next to the woman and pointed to a very light stain on it.

  “What is it?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” the tech said. “But it could be a bit of lipstick. Even if a woman washes it off before bed she wouldn’t get all of it. We’ll know more when the CSU guys run some tests. Could be trace saliva on it too.”

  “He held a pillow over her face,” Waschke said as he straightened up.

  “Maybe, we’ll know more in a day or two.”

  “Put a rush on it, will you, Paul? I got a call from the chief this morning who got a call from the mayor about this. I guess this is a pretty prominent family.”

  “Sure, Jake. Will be a lot of political heat on you for this one. Sucks to be you.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Waschke sarcastically answered.

  The two detectives had just stepped through the doorway leading to the front yard when a small Cadillac limousine pulled up and double parked in front of the house. They stopped and watched as a very attractive woman in her early fifties exited the back seat of the car. When she did this, the victim’s daughter walked quickly to the gate in the wrought-iron fence. The two women gave each other an affectionate, consoling hug then walked up the sidewalk toward the house.

  “Who is she?” Carvelli asked.

  “I do believe that is Vivian Donahue, top dog of the Corwin family. You know them?” Waschke answered his friend.

  “I know of them. Since this looks like a homicide and I’m in burglary, I’ll let you deal with her,” Carvelli said. He then turned and went back into the house.

  Waschke walked up to the women as the older one was consoling the housekeeper. Waschke gave a slight jerk of his head at Carvelli’s partner to indicate he could leave which the young detective did as quickly as seemed polite. Janet introduced him to Vivian Donahue and explained that her mother was Vivian’s aunt. Janet had called her earlier after calling 911. Waschke immediately realized this explained the call from the mayor to the chief of police and the subsequent call to him.

  “May I see my aunt?” Vivian politely asked.

  “I believe they’re about ready to move her,” Waschke replied. “Plus, it’s a crime scene and the fewer people that go in there right now, the better.”

  “There’s nothing much to see,” Janet said to her cousin. “Mom looked like she was peacefully asleep.”

  “You’re sure there was a burglary?” Vivian asked Jake.

  “Yes, absolutely,” Janet answered before Jake could respond.

  “Is her death a homicide? She had a bad heart…” Vivian began to say.

  “As long as she took her meds she was fine. I made sure each week her pill box was filled for each day. I checked the one for yesterday and she had taken her pills,” Janet interjected.

  “We don’t know,” Waschke said to Vivian.

  “She’ll have to have an autopsy?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Waschke shrugged.

  “Oh, God, how ghastly,” Vivian said. “But I suppose we have to know.” She handed Waschke a personal card with her name and private number on it. “Please keep me informed as much as you can, Sergeant. I don’t mean to interfere but…”

  “I understand,” Jake replied. “I’ll do what I can,” he continued while thinking, If you can’t use the kind of clout she has what’s the point of having it?

  Jake handed one of his cards to each of the three women and told them if they thought of anything to call him.

  Vivian Donohue slipped her left arm through Waschke’s right arm and led him several steps away from the daughter and housekeeper.

  “I won’t hold you to it but tell me what you think,” she quietly said when she let go of his arm and looked up at him. Waschke was a large, veteran cop who knew how to intimidate people with just a look. Rarely did he ever experience the uneasiness he felt because of the look this woman was giving him.

  “It’s probably a burglary gone bad. Likely he found her and smothered her with a pillow.”

  “Will you catch him?”

  Jake took a deep breath, scratched his chin and thought about his answer. “I’ll be honest, the odds are not good. If we can recover some of the stolen property…”

  “Which isn’t likely,” Vivian said.

  “Usually not,” he agreed. “We have our best people on it. We’ll do our best. I promise you that.”

  THREE

  Jimmy “Little” Oliver, having called in sick at his job with the cleaning company, was on the living room floor of his North Minneapolis apartment. Jimmy made a point of living modestly. Having spent all of the time in prison he cared to spend, he was determined to keep a low profile, avoid the cops and move on to a warmer climate next year. He had laid out the loot from the night before and was trying to decide the best way to dispose of it. The two of them had divided up the cash, almost three grand each. Not as much as Jimmy thought there would be in the safe but not bad either. It was at least enough to last for a couple of weeks until he moved the silver and jewelry.

  The television in the corner was on and turned to a local station. It was mid-morning and Jimmy had it on looking for news of the burglary. So far not a word was mentioned, which was always a good thing. He picked up his phone to call a guy he knew to fence the goods when a news alert flashed across the TV screen. Still kneeling on the floor in front of his second hand Goodwill couch, he found the TV’s remote and turned up the volume.

  Jimmy stared in stunned disbelief while the female reporter told the audience what the police had found. She was standing in front of the house on Parker Street and Lake of the Isles Boulevard reporting the previous night’s event. Jimmy barely listene
d wondering how they discovered it so quickly with the homeowners supposedly out of town for another couple of days. At first he was not too concerned; it would be reported to the cops sooner or later. Later, of course, would have been better, especially if he could have moved the goods first.

  The attractive young blonde woman said something about the body being found in her bedroom. It didn’t register right away with Jimmy what she meant. The camera panned to the front door of the house and two men wheeled a gurney down the front steps with a black body bag lying on it. He focused on what the woman was saying and her words made sweat break out on his forehead and his hands start to shake.

  Jimmy stood up, sat down on the couch and stared silently at the screen listening to the newscast. By the time it was finished he had calmed himself, turned off the TV and said out loud to himself, “You crazy, sick sonofabitch. What the fuck did you do?”

  Jimmy walked into the dimly lit bar on Franklin Avenue and stood in the doorway waiting for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine. It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon and he had spent most of the day cruising dive bars around town searching for Howie Traynor. Jimmy looked toward the back where the pool tables were located and saw the back of Howie’s head with its close cropped, quarter inch haircut.

  “We need to talk,” Jimmy quietly said to him as Howie casually chalked his cue.

  “Yeah, what about?” Howie laconically asked.

  Jimmy stared at the younger man for several seconds, a look of disbelief on his face, then finally raised his eyebrows and quietly said, “About last night. About what happened when you went upstairs. About that, remember? Let’s go outside for a minute.”

  The two men walked the ten feet to the bar’s back door and went into the parking lot. When they got about thirty feet from the door, Jimmy said, “What the hell happened upstairs?”

  Howie shrugged and simply said, “The old bag was home. She was in bed. She sat up and saw me so, I did her. No big deal. What was I supposed to do?” Howie then described exactly what happened and how he murdered Lucille Benson.

  “This is bad, dude,” Jimmy said as he began to pace about in a small circle. Howie folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the trunk of a parked car, listened to Jimmy and watched him nervously pace.

  “This is really fucking big time bad,” Jimmy kept repeating over and over.

  “What’s the big deal? We keep our mouths shut and the cops can’t prove dick.”

  Jimmy stopped pacing, looked at Howie and said, “You don’t get it. The chick on TV said the woman is a member of a rich, powerful, politically connected family. They won’t just let this slide. They’ll want to nail somebody for it.”

  At that precise moment, Jimmy Oliver realized exactly what he had to do. Otherwise he was a dead man and he knew it. Based on some little things Howie had said in the past, Jimmy suspected Howie had killed before, in fact, probably two or three times. People often believed Howie’s attitude was caused by a lack of intelligence but Jimmy knew better. Howie was, in fact, a really bright guy.

  “So, move the shit, get me my money and we’ll cool it for a while,” Howie said. “Think about it. What evidence do they have? Nothing,” Howie said.

  Jimmy pretended to think it over then slightly nodded his head a few times as if agreeing with the sociopath, then said, “Yeah, you’re right. I was never in there without gloves and a hairnet. They won’t find anything. We should be okay. I guess I just got a little rattled, you know, when I saw it on TV.”

  “No problem,” Howie said as he stepped forward. He patted Jimmy on the cheek and asked, “How long do you think it will take to get the cash?” Howie took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, removed one, took a lighter from his pocket and lit it.

  “I’m going to see a guy tonight. I’ll know more then. Cool lighter. Where did you get it?”

  Howie held up the gold, engraved lighter and said, “Off the old lady’s dresser last night. I know, I need to get rid of it,” Howie said. “I will in a couple of days. It’s nice, though,” he continued as he rolled it over in his fingers. “Maybe I should come with you tonight.”

  This was something Howie had never done before. For some reason Jimmy had never quite figured out, Howie always trusted Jimmy to fence the stolen property, get a good price and give him his share. Thinking quickly, Jimmy said, “No, this guy don’t take well to strangers. He knows me. I’ll handle it.”

  Howie stared into Jimmy’s eyes which caused a slight shudder in him. “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll get together.”

  When Jimmy had driven his old Chevy a couple of blocks, he stopped and parked. He took a business card from his wallet, called and spoke with a man he knew quite well. The man assured him he could come to see him right away. Ten minutes later, Jimmy took a seat in one of the client chairs in the office of his lawyer, Charles Ferguson.

  For the next half-hour, Jimmy told Ferguson what he had done the night before and exactly what he had in mind to do now. When Jimmy finished his story, the lawyer asked, “Are you sure about this? Once we go down this path, there’ll be no turning back.”

  “I know,” Jimmy agreed. “This psycho asshole will kill me once he gets his money. I could read it in his face. He scares the shit out of me.”

  “Okay,” Ferguson said. “I’ll make the call.”

  FOUR

  Jimmy Oliver, accompanied by his lawyer, exited the elevator on the twentieth floor on the court side of the Hennepin County Government Center. Ferguson had called a friend of his in the county attorney’s office, a woman who Ferguson had tried several cases against named Rhea Watson, and set up this meeting.

  Watson came out to the reception area of the county attorney’s offices and greeted Ferguson and his client. She then led them back to a conference room where three men were seated on one end of a long, well used, government-issued conference table.

  “Hey, Tony,” Jimmy said to Tony Carvelli who was sitting to the left of the county attorney himself, Gary Mitchell. To Carvelli’s right, also facing the door was a man Jimmy did not know who was obviously a cop, Jake Waschke. Watson took the chair to her boss’ right. Ferguson and Oliver took chairs on that same side several spaces away.

  “Jimmy, good to see you again,” Carvelli answered. “You going to tell us what you’ve been up to lately?”

  Carvelli had been a detective in the burglary department for almost three years. He knew Jimmy Oliver and suspected him of a number of burglaries. No one in the room was happier than Tony Carvelli.

  “We need to set some ground rules…” Ferguson tried to begin.

  “Bullshit,” Waschke interrupted staring at Jimmy. “Your client is scared shitless of his psycho buddy and he needs our protection. He’ll give us Howie Traynor and hope we’re in a generous mood. How am I doing, Jimmy?”

  “Not bad,” Jimmy quietly agreed.

  “Jake, let’s hear what he has to say,” the county attorney said. He then looked at Ferguson and asked, “What are you looking for, Charlie?”

  “Witness protection…”

  “Won’t happen,” Mitchell answered. “This isn’t a mob case. This is a couple of low-life criminals turning on each other. You’re just going to have to trust me, Charlie. I’m prepared to be lenient depending on what he has to say. You know me, Charlie. We’ve known each other quite a while and you know I keep my word.”

  “Yeah, Gary, okay,” Ferguson said. “I had to try.” He turned to his client and said, “Go ahead, tell them.”

  When Jimmy finished his confession, giving as few details as he believed he had to, Jake Waschke was the first to speak up. “That’s it? That’s the bullshit you expect us to believe? According to you, Howie practically forced you to help him rob the woman.”

  “It’s true, he’s the scariest dude I’ve ever met,” Jimmy said practically pleading.

  Waschke, who could play the bad cop role with the best of them, leaned forward in his chair. He placed his arms on
the table and glared directly at Jimmy. “I say we throw this lying little asshole in a cell, go pick up his partner and see if he’ll be more cooperative. See if he wants to make a deal.”

  This little act Waschke was performing had been agreed to and set up before Jimmy and his lawyer arrived. Unfortunately for those people seated at the head of the table, Jimmy knew Howie Traynor a lot better than they did. Instead of being intimidated, Jimmy burst into genuine laughter.

  “Go ahead,” he said while he held up a hand to stop Ferguson from speaking. “Pick him up and see what you get. I know this psycho. You can beat on him for a week and he’ll spit in your eye. He’s hard as a rock.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Jimmy,” Tony Carvelli interjected. “We’ve known each other a while now so cut out this babe in the woods act.”

  “Rhea,” the county attorney said, “would you show Charlie and his client to your office? Charlie, give us a few minutes, please,” he said to the defense lawyer.

  “Sure, Gary. I need to talk to him anyway,” Ferguson said sending a clear message that he would convince his client to be more cooperative.

  After they left, Matthews asked the two detectives, “Well, what do you think?”

  “He’s holding back,” Waschke calmly said.

  “Of course he is,” Carvelli agreed nodding at his friend. “But you know this asshole Traynor,” he said to Jake then looked at Matthews. “He is a bad dude. We suspect him of a lot of burglaries, car thefts, you name it and a couple of home invasion homicides. You remember Jake,” he continued, “last year, that couple in Edina.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Waschke agreed.

  Rhea Watson returned and took her seat next to Matthews and said, “I remember that case. We liked this Traynor guy for them but didn’t have enough for an arrest, let alone a conviction.”

  “Uncorroborated accomplice testimony is not enough for a conviction. We’ll need more than Charlie’s client,” Matthews reminded them.