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.
“The M.E. says there’s enough skin and hair under a couple of the victim’s fingernails for a DNA test. If our little asshole here is telling the truth, it should be Traynor’s,” Washcke said.
“That would do it,” Rhea said. “I say we have enough probable cause for an arrest and a DNA swab.”
“I agree,” Matthews said. “Rhea, go tell them to come back in. Then you do up an affidavit and get a warrant and DNA request signed.”
“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have them both,” Watson said looking at the detectives.
“We’ll wait in here or come to your office,” Carvelli told her.
Matthews asked the two men, “Do we give this guy a walk?”
“No,” Carvelli emphatically said. “He needs to do some time. A couple of years in Lino Lakes is fine, but he doesn’t walk completely from a felony murder without something.” Lino Lakes is a minimum security prison in a suburb of St. Paul. “And,” he continued, “I want a written confession of every burglary he’s done and who his fence is. We might as well clear some cases.”
“Jake?” Matthews asked Wascke.
“Yeah, I’m okay with that. I know this Traynor. He’s a bad boy that we need to get off the streets.”
There was a light knock on the door before Jimmy and his lawyer came back into the room. They sat down in the same chairs, Ferguson removed a legal pad from his leather satchel and looked at Matthews.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll offer,” Matthews began. “I’ll recommend ten years in prison…”
“What?” Jimmy practically yelled.
Ferguson placed his right hand gently on Jimmy’s left arm and calmly said, “Let him finish.”
“I’ll recommend ten years in prison and ask the judge to stay eight years of it. You’ll do two years in Lino Lakes, sixteen months actually, then ten years of supervised probation. You’ll have the remaining eight years of jail time hanging over your head. You will fully cooperate in the prosecution of your partner, including testifying if necessary. You will be absolutely truthful and you will not withhold anything. Any lying and the deal’s off and we prosecute you for burglary and felony murder. Do you understand?”
All eyes turned to Jimmy who sighed heavily, swallowed hard and said, “I hate the thought of going back to prison.”
“It’s Lino Lakes,” Ferguson reminded him.
“Or we can kick your ass loose and you can deal with Howie Traynor on your own,” Waschke said.
Ferguson glared at the homicide detective and sternly said, “Those kind of threats aren’t necessary, Jake.”
“Just a friendly reminder, Charlie,” Waschke replied.
“And one other thing,” Carvelli said. “You will write down, in detail, everything about this case and every job you’ve done since you got out of Stillwater three years ago. And,” he continued pointing his right index finger at him, “just because we haven’t been able to bust you for them, doesn’t mean I don’t know about them. If you lie or leave anything out, I’ll know.”
FIVE
“Okay, any questions? Everybody know what to do?” Jake Waschke asked the five men and two women. The eight police officers had gathered behind a Taco Bell on Twenty-Eighth Avenue and Franklin in Minneapolis. They were less than a block away and across Franklin from their objective, the East End bar.
Jimmy Oliver had suggested they try to find Traynor in this bar. It was where Jimmy had confronted him earlier that afternoon. Waschke had sent in an undercover cop he knew to check the place out. He had reported back that Traynor was there still shooting pool. The undercover officer was also still in the bar keeping an eye on him.
The eight cops gathered at the Taco Bell to conduct the arrest were Waschke and his partner, Carvelli and his partner and two plainclothes from burglary. Carvelli had also rounded up two uniformed cops. The two women were one of the plainclothes from burglary and one of the uniforms.
The plan was for Waschke, Carvelli, the two plainclothes and the two uniforms to go in the front. Waschke’s and Carvelli’s partners would come in through the back.
Jimmy assured them Traynor would not have a gun but could not say he would not have a different weapon. He also assured them it was unlikely Traynor would go peacefully and quietly. Waschke made sure everyone had on a vest and the two plain clothes cops would carry Tasers.
Everything went exactly as planned until they approached Howie Traynor. While the two uniforms blocked the front door and the two detectives came in through the back, Waschke walked up to Traynor holding the arrest warrant.
“Howard Traynor,” Waschke began while his three compatriots spread out to form a semi-circle around him. The other two detectives remained blocking the back door.
Traynor, his backside to the group, was bent over the pool table lining up a shot. After taking the shot, he stood up, turned to Waschke and casually asked, “Who wants to know?”
“I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Lucille Benson,” Waschke announced.
When he did this, the dozen or so people at and around the pool tables went completely silent. The ones closest to the table Traynor was leaning against quietly moved away. The East End was a tough bar in a tough neighborhood. Its patrons were not strangers to the police. But even these guys knew a murder warrant was not something in which any of them wanted to become embroiled.
Traynor looked over the four cops with an indifferent expression while shifting the pool cue to turn it into a club. He looked at Waschke and said, “I’m not done with my game.” This comment drew some mild laughter from the spectators and a sinister smile from Tony Carvelli.
“Howie, you’re coming with us and you know it. Put the cue down and let’s make this easy,” Carvelli said.
“Tell you what,” Traynor said to Carvelli, “you take it away from me and then I’ll come nice and easy.”
When he heard this, Waschke looked at the male plainclothes cop who had come in with them and nodded his head to him. Without hesitating, the man aimed the Taser he was holding behind his back and fired it at Traynor. The leads hit him in the mid-abdomen and fifty thousand volts began to course through his body.
Howie’s knees began to buckle, he dropped the pool cue, let out a large groan and then did something amazing. He grabbed the Taser’s wires, jerked the leads out of his body and threw them at the cop who fired them. Before anyone could move, he charged the cop who shot him and drilled him with a wicked right hand punch that lifted the cop completely off of his feet and flat on his back.
Waschke, for a big man, could move quick as a cat when he needed to. He swiftly jumped behind Traynor and as he did so, he flicked his wrist
and expanded the twenty-one inch, steel, telescoping baton he was holding. He laid the weapon behind Traynor’s right knee immediately collapsing it sending him downward. He also hit him with the palm of his open left hand in the back of the head. As Traynor fell face first toward the floor, the woman plainclothes cop fired her Taser and hit him in the back. This time, the weapon did its job.
The two police sergeants, Waschke and Carvelli, immediately went into action taking control of the situation. The woman who tased Howie, Helen Barkey, cuffed Howie then knelt next to the unconscious policeman. Waschke quickly walked away from the pool tables toward the front door. He walked through the curious crowd in the bar and told the senior patrolman, Owen Jefferson, what he wanted. No one was to leave without giving the cops their identification. While Waschke did this in the bar area, Carvelli told his partner and Waschke’s partner at the back door, the same thing. Get everyone’s name and no one leaves.
Waschke came back, grabbed a chair and he and Carvelli, none too gently, slammed the now handcuffed Howie Traynor into it.
Barkey stood up and said to the two sergeants, “Conlin’s hurt pretty bad. Maybe a busted jaw.” She then pulled her radio out and called for backup and an ambulance. Within ten minutes there were a dozen more cops in the place and two EMT’s were working on the assaulted policeman.
While all of this was taking place, Traynor was yelling and cursing at the cops claiming police brutality and a broken leg. Waschke leaned over him until his face was three inches in front of him. Traynor finally shut his mouth with the big cop glaring at him.
“Helen, come here,” Waschke said without looking away from Traynor. “You got your Taser and is it ready to go again?”
Barkey checked the weapon then said, “Good to go, Sarge.”
“Fine. If this asshole doesn’t shut up or if he even flinches, tase him in the balls. You got it?”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 141
