As the morning sun was making its way from east to west, a single ray beamed through the bedroom window and hit Eugene Parlow in the eyes. Still in bed after a long day and longer night, he was in no hurry to get up. Parlow was the second of the four men released from prison because of tainted DNA. Because the DNA test results were the only solid, physical evidence against him, his lawyer had opted for a trial to the bench without a jury. Her reasoning being a judge would be less likely to convict on DNA evidence only. Parlow was convicted of second-degree murder in the stabbing death of a Minneapolis street prostitute.
He was released a few days before Howie Traynor and wasted no time reacquainting himself with old friends. In just a few weeks he had already been involved in one armed robbery and three burglaries. Parlow’s total share of all of the felonies was barely three thousand dollars, most of which he spent on booze and prostitutes. The rest of the money, Parlow liked to joke, he just wasted.
Parlow spent several minutes covering his eyes from the sun while thinking of the previous night’s events. He rolled his head to his right and saw that it was almost noon. Having arrived home and to bed around 5:00 A.M. he contemplated going back to sleep. With the sunlight now streaming through the window, he realized that was probably futile.
Parlow tossed the blankets aside and by the time his feet hit the floor he had reached for his cigarettes and lighter from beside the clock. Putting a cigarette in his mouth as he stood, he lit it with one hand while scratching his crotch through his boxers with the other.
He relieved himself in the toilet then shuffled out of the bathroom to the living room of his tiny apartment. Parlow thought about the lawyer, the Albright woman, who had loaned him some money and guaranteed him a huge settlement for being falsely convicted and sent to prison.
Parlow plopped down on the ratty looking, second-hand couch, picked up the TV remote and pressed the power button. The TV, a 42-inch flat screen, was the only decent item in the tiny apartment. Purchased with money from the lawyer, it was the nicest thing Parlow had ever owned.
When the screen lit up, a male anchor with perfect hair and perfect teeth was reading the news. The lead story was about the judge found murdered at his cabin in northern Minnesota. Parlow watched and listened with great interest but the details, other than the man’s name were very limited.
SIXTEEN
Tony Carvelli walked through the door of the detectives’ squad room and headed toward Owen Jefferson’s desk. On the way he said hello or waved a brief greeting to several cop friends including Jefferson’s boss, Lt. Selena Kane who smiled and waved back from her glass enclosed private office.
Sensing the disturbance of the ambient atmosphere of the room created by Carvelli’s arrival, Jefferson looked up from the file he was reading. He closed the file and placed it on the desktop then swiveled in his chair, leaned back, crossed his right leg over his left and laced his fingers behind his head.
Carvelli grabbed one of the cheap padded metal government chairs from another desk, placed it alongside Jefferson’s and sat down.
“I didn’t know you knew Selena,” Jefferson commented.
“Yeah, I’ve known her for a while. She made detective just before I retired. Word is she’s about to get kicked upstairs and you’ll get her job,” Carvelli said.
“Huh,” Jefferson almost snorted. “I’ll believe that when it happens.”
“You want her job?”
Jefferson removed his hands from behind his head and thought for a moment before answering. “That’s another question, but yeah, I think I do. Why not? More money, less street hassle.”
“Whatever I can do to help, let me know,” Carvelli sincerely offered.
“With your reputation upstairs?” Jefferson said raising his eyebrows. “Please, don’t help me.”
“That’s insensitive,” Carvelli said feigning hurt feelings. “I’m a very sensitive guy.”
“Uh huh. About as sensitive as a biker gang,” Jefferson said with a wry grin. “So, what’s up with our boy? Come up with anything?”
Carvelli went over in detail the surveillance he had out on Howie Traynor. For the past two weeks, they had been on him from the time he left his apartment until he got home. A typical day would see him leave around 8:00 A.M. He would drive directly to the church where he worked and head home, usually between 3:00 and 4:00. Sometimes he would leave a little earlier, sometimes a little later. Traynor would normally drive straight back to his apartment maybe stopping at a grocery store on his way home. He would have dinner early then four or five times a week go to a gym and workout. After that, straight home and in for the evening. The surveillance would stay with him until around 10:30 or 11:00 when the TV and lights in his apartment would go out. So far, he had no guests stop by and did not leave the apartment at all except to go to the gym. The only thing out of the ordinary he had done was to make a couple of trips to see his lawyer, Glenda Albright, at an office she was using in downtown Minneapolis.
“Did your guys interview Jimmy Oliver about the little chat he had with Howie?” Carvelli asked.
“Yeah, I did personally. He claims Howie told him he forgives him. Said he wanted to let Jimmy know he had nothing to fear from him.”
“Did Oliver buy it?”
“He’s not sure. He remembers the Howie Traynor from back in the day. He told me when he saw Howie standing at the bar he almost passed out. But Howie assured him it was all good. Maybe this conversion to Jesus is legitimate,” Jefferson said.
“Maybe,” Tony shrugged. “But my cynical cop intuition tells me it’s bullshit. I can’t explain why but I can’t shake it either.”
“Hmmm. Cynical cop intuition is a good thing and it’s been my experience that it’s often right. How long will you stay on him?”
“I don’t know,” Tony said. “At least another week, maybe two. The guys don’t mind. It gives them something to do and the money’s good.”
“Vivian Donahue’s money. She must have some.”
“This is nothing for her plus she’s pissed this guy got cut loose. If you ever get the chance to cross her, don’t. This lady is not someone you want as an enemy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I run for governor,” Jefferson said. He spun around in his chair, picked up the file he was looking over when Carvelli arrived, handed it to him and said, “Take a look at this. Ever see or hear of anything like it?”
Tony took the thin file and quickly read through its slim contents. It consisted of a police report and preliminary autopsy. When he finished it, he handed it back to Jefferson.
“This that judge that was killed up North Saturday night?” Carvelli asked.
“Yeah, Robert Smith. Retired judge of the state appeals court. Somebody didn’t like one of his opinions,” Jefferson half-joked.
“I’ve heard of victims being posed but nothing like this,” Carvelli said. “Must’ve been a helluva site for the neighbors to find. They’re lucky the wolves didn’t get to him first.”
“Beltrami County is looking for help,” Jefferson said. “They’re sending this,” he continued as he tapped the file, “all over the upper Midwest and to the Feebs to see if anyone has come across anything similar.”
“They’ll probably come up with something. At least something similar,” Tony said as he stood to leave. “I’ll check around. If I come up with anything I’ll let you know. I’ll keep in touch about our boy Howie too.”
Jefferson stood, the two men shook hands and Tony turned to leave.
While Carvelli was meeting with Owen Jefferson, Marc Kadella was across Fifth Street in the government center. He was attending a pretrial conference in a courtroom on the fifteenth floor. It was the pretrial conference for his uncle’s solicitation case. Normally the pretrial conference is an opportunity for the defense to talk to the prosecutor about the case. To check out the strengths and weaknesses and in all likelihood, make a plea arrangement, especially for first-time misdemeanor defendants.
Marc had patiently waited in the gallery seated next to Uncle Larry for the better part of an hour. The judge was not on the bench and whenever a deal was made, one of the lawyers from the city attorney’s office, the defense lawyer and the defendant would go back to the judge’s chambers. There the judge would hear them out and decide if he would accept the plea arrangement. Since the cases being considered were all misdemeanors, it would be extremely rare for the judge to turn it down. Normally there would be a fine, maybe a little jail time and some typically unsupervised probation. The judge would have his clerk and stenographer come in and they would make a formal record. Once that was finished, the case was completed.
One of the city attorneys, a balding, heavyset man dressed in a cheap suit in his early fifties, Earl Bicknell, looked over his shoulder at Marc and motioned him forward. Marc told Larry to wait, went through the gate and took a seat at the table with Bicknell.
“Hey, Marc,” Bicknell said. “Haven’t seen much of you lately since you became such a hot shot celebrity.”
Marc leaned forward and whispered, “Fuck you, Earl,” to which both men laughed.
Bicknell opened the file and said, “Larry Jensen. First time solicitation. I’m feeling generous today. Three hundred dollar fine plus costs.”
“Sorry, Earl,” Marc said. “No.”
Bicknell looked at him to see if he was joking, then said, “What do you mean, no? I sent you a copy of the recording. It was loud and clear. He offered an undercover policewoman fifty bucks for a blow job. Your guy’s seventy-five years old. What the hell….”
“I know,” Marc sighed looking up at the ceiling. “He says he wants a trial. Won’t plead.”
Bicknell stared at Marc for several seconds then said, “What the hell are you doing? Talk some sense into him.”
“I’ve tried Earl. Believe me it’s just, well….” Marc answered.
“Well?” Earl said wondering what was coming.
Marc grimaced then confessed, “He’s my uncle and…”
“Seriously?” the prosecutor said with a laugh.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. He wants a trial so he can look like a stud at the retirement home where he lives. He wants me to get the media at the trial so it will be on TV and impress the geezer chicks.”
With that, Bicknell could barely contain himself from laughing out loud. Marc started to speak but the lawyer held up his hand to stop him. After a good thirty seconds, Bicknell was able to calmly breathe again. He looked at Marc and said, “Let me guess. He gets the pro bono family discount?”
“No,” Marc quietly said. “In fact, I quoted him a fee that I thought would make him come to his senses. Instead, he wrote me a check, which is still in my desk drawer.”
“Tell you what, two hundred and we skip the costs and fees. Tell him, if we go to trial, I’ll ask for jail time.”
“Ah, that’s an empty threat and we both know it. No judge will waste jail space on a lonely, seventy-five-year old widower for this. But I’ll tell him.”
Marc went back to where he had left Larry and told him about the offer. He barely got the words out before Larry vehemently turned him down.
Marc went back to his chair at the table and said to Bicknell, “Sorry, no deal. He wants a Rasmussen hearing. Go ahead and schedule it and I’ll see you then.”
“Okay, see you then.”
Marc turned to leave and Bicknell reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his suit coat. Marc turned to look back and Bicknell quietly said, “The two hundred bucks is on the table until the Rasmussen hearing.”
“I’ll keep it in mind and see what I can do. Hell, I’ll pay the fine for him myself if I have to.”
Marc and Uncle Larry parted company on the north side of the government center across Fifth Street from the Old City Hall. Larry walked toward the train platform on Fifth Street to catch a train and Marc started across the government center plaza to his car. A few feet from the fountain his phone began to vibrate in his coat pocket. He checked the caller ID and answered it by saying, “Hey, paisan, what’s up?”
“I’m just leaving the police department downtown, I want to talk to you. Can we meet for lunch?” Tony Carvelli said as he walked across Fifth at the corner of Fourth Avenue. “Where are you?”
Marc was looking east across the plaza on the north side of the government center. “I’m about a hundred feet away looking right at you. Look to your right.”
Carvelli stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looked toward the fountain in the plaza and saw his friend wave at him. While Tony waited on the sidewalk, Marc walked over to him.
The two men shook hands as Marc said, “Let’s walk over to Peterson’s,” indicating the restaurant across the street a block away on Sixth.
The waitress walked away after taking their order and Marc asked Tony, “So, what is it you want to talk about?”
Carvelli gave him a quick summary of the surveillance of Howie Traynor and what Howie was up to.
“During his trial, you got to know him at least a bit. What do you think? You buying his ‘I found Jesus’ act?” Tony asked Marc.
Marc thought it over while the waitress placed their meals in front of them. He waited until she finished then said, “I don’t know. I remember back then being scared of him. Thinking this guy had no empathy, no feelings for anybody, probably including himself.”
“A pure sociopath,” Carvelli said while chewing a bite of his burger.
“Yeah,” Marc nodded, “pretty much. He just didn’t seem to give a damn about anything or anyone. I know his prison record says he changed but…”
“Can someone like that ever change? Or is it genetic or some organic quirk, some physical attribute that makes somebody that way?” Carvelli said.
“I remember back then talking to his parents. They wanted nothing to do with him. Both said he was a bad seed and always had been. His sister wasn’t much help because she was several years younger and didn’t know him very well. But his older brother believed it was something he was born with. People can change,” Marc said with a shrug. “You going to keep an eye on him?”
“Yeah,” Tony nodded while swallowing. “At least another week, probably two.”
“I remember when he was found guilty, or maybe at his sentencing, I can’t remember which, he said something threatening to me. Something like, ‘I won’t forget this’. It sent a shiver down my spine. I’ve had unhappy clients but none scared me like this guy.”
SEVENTEEN
Rhea Watson waited until her date turned the corner of the short hallway leading to the restaurant’s restrooms. As soon as he disappeared, she tossed a twenty on the table and wrote a short note. The gist of the note was Rhea didn’t think it would work out between them. She put the note on the twenty-dollar bill, grabbed her purse and almost ran for the exit.
Hurrying to her car, a new Mercedes C-Class, Rhea muttered to herself, “Why do I keep doing this to myself?” She was referring to the first date she was fleeing from that she had set up through an online dating service, the most popular one on the net.
This was now at least the tenth first and only date she had set up through that service and she was getting discouraged. Were there no honest men out there? This one was at least three inches shorter, thirty pounds heavier and a lot less hair than was on his profile or indicated by his picture. The picture was at least ten years old and on top of it, he actually admitted he was still living with his wife, although he tried to claim they were separated in spirit and preparing for a divorce. Rhea decided she wasn’t going to stick around for any more bad news.
She drove out of the small parking lot of the trendy, little restaurant on Lyndale and headed south toward home. The four thousand square foot Tudor style house in the upscale Minneapolis neighborhood of Kenwood was her prize from the divorce. Rhea had just turned forty-seven, although her dating profile had her age at forty-two, and it was time to move on. After more than twenty years of marriage, she had forgotten how hideous dati
ng could be.
After graduating cum laude from the University of Minnesota law school, Rhea had spent ten years in the Hennepin County Attorney’s office. It was a great place to hone trial skills and putting criminals in prison was richly rewarding. Eight years ago, the third largest law firm in Minnesota dangled a great job offer in front of her and she jumped.
Rhea was initially hired to work in the firm’s white collar crime department. Firms of this size did not handle run of the mill “criminals”. Their clients didn’t steal hundreds of dollars with a gun. Theirs was a much better class of crooks who stole millions with computers and bogus contracts.
Rhea had been promised the chance to move into the high end world of corporate litigation. It became obvious to her several years ago, just before she was made partner, that promise was not going to be kept. Still, the money was more than she had dreamed of and she was driving one of the perks. And now that her son, an only child, was attending Northwestern she was relishing her independence.
Rhea waited for the garage door to finish rising then drove her car in and parked it on the double door side of the attached three car garage. She pressed the button of the remote in the Benz to put the door down. She entered the house through the kitchen, shut off the alarm, and dropped her purse and keys on the countertop.
While walking through the dining room she glanced at a wall clock and noticed it was barely past 9:00. Rhea stopped at the open stairway leading up to the bedrooms, leaned on the railing and took off her shoes. A few seconds later she reached her destination, the liquor cabinet in the living room.
At the liquor cabinet, she half filled a large brandy snifter with an expensive Courvoisier she was a little too fond of and swallowed a large gulp. Rhea would not admit it but over the last three years or so she had developed a bit of a drinking problem. In her mind it was her cheating husband that caused the divorce and not her drinking and indifference to him that contributed to the cheating. She took another large swallow of the smooth cognac, refilled the glass and headed upstairs.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 148
