“You’re getting to be a regular around here, Carvelli. People are starting to talk about you and Jefferson,” an MPD detective by the name of Clark Fields smart mouthed Tony.
Carvelli was back in the detective’s squad room again to talk to Owen Jefferson. He heard the comment, turned toward its source and saw Fields leaning back in his chair, a big grin on his face.
Clark Fields was treading water on the job to hang on long enough to get a thirty-year pension. He was wearing his standard polyester slacks, black shoes, a white shirt and rayon tie. Tony had known him for almost twenty years and basically despised him. The reason being Fields started treading water toward retirement ever since he made detective.
“Did you think that up all by yourself, Fields? I’ve been wrong all these years. I always thought you were both lazy and stupid. Now I see you’re really very clever. I’ll be sure to laugh at your rapier wit later,” Tony said staring down at the seriously overweight cop.
Tony’s comment elicited a good bit of laughter from the half dozen or so other detectives in the room.
“Fuck you, Carvelli,” an obviously embarrassed Fields said.
“Clear a case, asshole, then you can talk to me,” Tony said then turned his back to the man and walked away.
“Was that fun?” Jefferson asked Tony after he had taken the chair next to the detective’s desk.
“He’s a clown and he should know better than to run his mouth to me,” an annoyed Carvelli said.
Tony brought Jefferson up to date on the surveillance of Howie Traynor. There was nothing of substance to report including his trip to the library earlier that day. Before he finished, Marcie Sterling returned from the women’s restroom. Jefferson introduced them to each other and Marcie brought her chair from her desk around to sit next to Jefferson and join in.
“How’s your investigation going?” Carvelli asked.
“I don’t know,” a clearly exasperated Jefferson began. “I probably shouldn’t discuss it with you but I know you can keep your mouth shut. So far, we got nothing. A list of possibles and we’re chasing our tails checking them out. We’re not even sure he’s on our list. The fact the judge up North handled several appeals from trials that Rhea Watson did is the only connection between them that we have.
“I was wondering,” Jefferson continued. “How do you know for sure you’re putting him to bed every night? How can you be sure he’s not slipping out the back?”
“He could be,” Tony shrugged. “I thought of that so I put a guy in the alley to watch for it a few times. None of them ever saw him. Plus his car is on the street. Pretty unlikely he slipped out, took a bus to Bemidji, did that judge and got back by morning.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jefferson agreed. “How much longer will you stay on him?”
“I need talk to Vivian Donahue tonight. This is getting to be a waste of everybody’s time and her money. And I have other business to attend to and so does Madeline. The other guys, the retired cops, they’re starting to grumble a bit too about other things they want to do. Everybody’s bored. What about you two? You got anything going?” Tony asked.
“Not much. I told you about our list, didn’t I?” Jefferson said.
“Yeah, you did.”
“We’ve managed to eliminate sixteen names. They’re either dead or still in prison or out of state and alibied.”
“That leaves….?”
“Fifty-eight,” Marcie said.
“Too many,” Carvelli said. “Hey, I’m taking off. If anything comes up…”
“You’ll let me know,” Jefferson finished for him.
Vivian Donahue was out on the front lawn of the mansion watching the groundskeepers work on the garden. It was late summer heading toward autumn and she wanted to be out enjoying the beautiful day.
Vivian saw a car pull into her driveway and watched with curiosity as it approached. As it got closer she realized it was the black Audi owned by Madeline Rivers. They made eye contact as Maddy drove by and waved at each other as Maddy continued to the house and parked her car.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Vivian said as she held out her arms to the younger woman. The women gave each other an affectionate hug. When they separated, Vivian continued by asking, “What brings you all the way out here on this lovely day?”
With a curious look on her face, Maddy asked, “Didn’t Tony, I mean Anthony, call you?”
Vivian laughed at her use of the name Anthony, put her right arm through Maddy’s left and started toward the main building. “You call him Tony, dear. I’ll stick with Anthony. It sounds more natural that way. And no, he didn’t call me. Why?”
They heard the quiet rumble of Tony’s Camaro and both of them turned to watch him drive by.
“I’ll let him tell you,” Maddy said as they continued toward the house.
A few minutes later the three of them were seated at a table on the patio overlooking the lake and swimming pool.
“You’ve come here to tell me you want to call off the surveillance of this Traynor person,” Vivian flatly stated before Carvelli could say it.
“Yes,” Tony said sipping his iced tea, “We’re getting nowhere. He’s not doing anything and we both have other clients.”
“You’ve spent enough money on this, Vivian,” Maddy added. “He’s not your problem and it’s beginning to look like his religious, whatever it is, awakening or conversion is real.”
Vivian took the news quietly. Tony and Maddy sipped their drinks waiting for her to respond. Vivian stared out across Lake Minnetonka seeing but not really watching a two-masted sailboat silently glide by.
“Chalk it up to being a foolish old woman…” Vivian started to say.
“Stop it. You’re neither,” Maddy mildly chastised her.
“Thank you, dear,” she patted Maddy’s left had. “Very well. If you think you’re wasting your time, I don’t care about the money, then end it.”
Howie Traynor arrived home from work at his normal time later that same day. He parked in a spot in front of his building and was surprised to see the car that had followed go past and drive away. Believing he was still being watched, he kept to his normal routine and went into his building and up to his apartment.
For the next hour, every few minutes, he would peek through the vertical blinds in the windows of the small living room. Howie believed there was someone on station in front of his building to relieve the man who followed him home. He checked every car in sight and saw no one. After an hour or so he was satisfied they were gone.
Howie went into the small bedroom and laid down to take a nap. He decided he would break his routine and go out later around eight o’clock to see if they were really gone.
TWENTY-TWO
Jeannie Peterson waited patiently on the curb at the passenger drop-off area. Her husband of almost forty years, Ross Peterson, was removing the two medium size pieces of luggage from the trunk of his car. He placed the bags on the street and slammed the trunk lid down. The trunk didn’t close and it took him two more attempts before the latch caught and locked. Jeannie stood on the sidewalk trying not to look amused while her husband fought with the old car. By the time he made the third attempt, he was cussing and she was almost laughing.
“Maybe it’s time to buy a new car,” she said for at least the hundredth time. The twelve-year-old Taurus had seen better days.
“It’s fine,” he snapped at her. “I’m not wasting retirement money on a car.” He continued by saying, “I’m not going to eat dog food when I retire.” While he stated this last line, Jeannie was reciting exactly the same words in her head knowing he would say them.
“I’ll do my best not to cook dog food for you,” she said as he set her bags next to her. “I hate having to carry luggage onto the plane.”
“They’ll fit in the overhead. I’m not going to pay fifty bucks to check a bag. That’s ridiculous,” he grumbled as he turned to go back to the car and left his wife standing on the sidewalk. “Call me whe
n you get there,” he practically ordered, then got in the old car and drove off without even saying goodbye.
Jeannie Peterson could not have cared less that he didn’t say goodbye to her. In fact, she barely noticed. She was flying out of the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport to Massachusetts to spend time with their daughter and new grandson. This was their third grandchild; one by their son and his wife and this second one by their daughter and her husband. Even though she didn’t need the help, their daughter Ellen had asked Jeannie to visit. Both offspring had moved as soon as they were old enough in order to get away from their father. Their son Mike had moved to Texas and Ellen to Massachusetts.
Defying the old cheapskate, Jeannie checked both bags and charged it to a credit card Ross knew nothing about. She passed quickly through security and headed toward her gate. While walking down the concourse to catch the people mover she again thought to their future. Three more years until her husband reaches mandatory retirement. The old curmudgeon had no hobbies, no interests, nothing to keep him occupied. What was she going to do with him underfoot every day?
The man found a seat in the semi-crowded courtroom of Judge Ross Peterson and sat behind two large women. There was a trial taking place and the defendant was on the stand. He listened for fifteen minutes while the young man testified to the jury. Apparently it was a homicide trial involving drugs and the twenty-something defendant was obviously lying. It was almost painful to watch as he talked himself into a quick conviction. Or at least that’s what the stranger thought.
He had been watching the judge for a couple of days. He followed him to the airport this morning and watched from a space in front of the terminal a couple of cars down as the old man dropped off his wife. Now he was in the courtroom checking on the judge to finalize his plan.
The defense lawyer finished his exam of his client and Peterson had the lawyers come forward. When the two prosecutors and defense lawyer reached the bench, Peterson asked, “You got any more witnesses after this?”
The defense lawyer, a well-known African-American said he did not.
Peterson then asked the prosecution about their cross-examination. The lead attorney told him she had at least an hour.
When the lawyers returned to their chairs, the judge informed the jury they would take a short break. It was almost 5:30 P.M. and Peterson was determined to finish taking testimony that evening.
While Peterson was leaving the bench, the out-of-place stranger in the back quickly fled to the hallway. He exited the courtroom and went right to the elevators.
Judge Peterson parked the old Taurus in the attached garage and looked at the dashboard clock. It was 8:18 and almost dark outside.
The trial would be given to the jury tomorrow, two days ahead of schedule. Peterson took pride in running a tight ship. He had been on the bench for twenty-one years and knew how to be in charge and keep a trial moving.
On the drive home he had indulged himself with a meal at a small restaurant by his home. He rationalized the expense by convincing himself it did not cost much more than if he ate at home.
He went into the house through the door to the kitchen and to the refrigerator. The judge allowed himself one or two lite beers each night, his one and only vice. He reached for the door handle as a shadowy figure dressed completely in black appeared in front of him. The man stood in front of the elderly judge, his right hand in the pocket of his black windbreaker.
The judge jerked backward at the sight and awkwardly said, “Who, what, ah, who are you?”
“I’m hurt,” the sinister figure said, “I thought you would remember me.”
At that moment, the light of comprehension came on in the judge’s head. He immediately thought of two names: Robert Smith, an acquaintance and appeals court judge and Rhea Watson, a lawyer who had tried many cases before him.
“Wait, no, please…” Peterson started to say as he held up his hands and extended his arms. What stopped him was the 50,000 volts the intruder sent through him. Unfortunately, the fun he expected to have torturing and killing his third victim was not to be.
Unknown to the judge’s assailant, Peterson had been fitted with a pacemaker a little over a year ago. The voltage from the Taser produced a cardiac arrhythmia and in less than two minutes, Judge Ross Peterson was dead.
By 9:05 A.M. the next day, Marty Colstad had become quite concerned with the missing judge. Marty was Ross Peterson’s clerk and in the year and a half he had clerked for the judge, Peterson had never been late to work.
Marty, a student in his final year of law school at William Mitchell in St. Paul, had taken it upon himself to find out what happened. The first thing he did was discuss it with the lawyers. Both sides were ready to give closing arguments and the jury was getting impatient.
Marty then called the police and asked them to check at Peterson’s home. Within a half hour, they called back with the grim news.
Officer Rhonda Dean parked her squad car on the street in front of the Peterson’s home. The first thing she did was ring the front doorbell and look through the windows in the front of the house. Next she went around the side to the back door, knocked several times and looked into the kitchen. Seeing nothing noticeably amiss she walked around the garage to check the yard.
She came around the back corner of the garage and saw him. He was sitting up, his back to the garage, his hands nailed to the garage wall and what looked to be a crown of some type on his head.
Owen Jefferson parked his car at the mouth of the Peterson’s driveway. He and Marcie Sterling followed the small crowd of police and first responders around to the back of the garage. The head of the crime scene unit was already there and the two detectives walked over to her.
“Hey, Barb,” Jefferson said as he shook hands with her. “Lieutenant Barbara Langer, Detective Marcie Sterling,” he said introducing the two women.
“I have a team in the house and your guys are canvassing the neighborhood,” Langer said. “So far, we haven’t found anything inside. Whoever did this is really careful.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jefferson quietly agreed. “Wait here,” he said to Marcie.
Jefferson walked carefully across the grass and knelt down in front of the body next to Clyde Marston, the man from the medical examiner’s office.
“No blood this time,” Marston said referring to the front of Peterson’s shirt. “No crushed fingers either.”
“What do you think?” Jefferson asked.
“Don’t know. He could’ve had a weak heart and if he was hit with a Taser like Watson that could’ve killed him. We’ll see.”
Jefferson took a minute to look over the victim’s fingers and the wound where the nails were driven through his hands. “He died before our guy got around to the fun part,” he quietly said.
“Looks like it,” Marston agreed.
“Put a rush on it, will you, Clyde? And let me know right away.”
“You got it, Owen. I may even know yet today.”
That afternoon Jefferson commandeered one of the private conference rooms in the detective’s squad room. He and Sterling moved their case files into the room and set up on the table inside. There was a large whiteboard along one wall and the tech department set up two PC’s for their use.
Marcie was finishing listing seven names on the whiteboard when Selena Kane entered the room.
“These are the ones from our list who are attached to all three victims. They were all tried by Rhea Watson with Ross Peterson on the bench. And all seven had their appeals rejected by the judge up North, Robert Smith.”
“When these cases go up on appeal,” Kane said, “they are not decided by just one judge. Have you thought of that?”
“Marcie did, yeah,” Jefferson answered making sure he gave his new partner the credit. “And you’re right, there are three judges on each case. We have figured out who and we’re having them all notified. The state can provide them with protection until this is over. That’s the best we can do.”
“Okay,” Kane said. “Good catch,” she said to Marcie.
“I think it’s one of these three,” Marcie said pointing to three names on the board. “Eugene Parlow, Aaron Forsberg or Howard Traynor.
“Why them?” Kane asked.
“They’re the ones who were recently released because they were convicted with falsified DNA test results,” Jefferson answered.
“Oh, okay. I see what you mean,” Kane said. “Did this start after they got out?”
“Yes, a few weeks later,” Marcie answered her. “There was a fourth one too,” she continued, “a rapist named Angelo Suarez. He was the guy shot and killed by that woman in St. Paul…”
“I remember that,” Kane interrupted. “We should send her flowers, a congratulatory card and a shooting merit badge. Now what?”
“We’ll get them in here for questioning,” Jefferson said. “But I’m not sure. My bet would be Traynor but he’s got a solid alibi for the first two.”
“Try to catch this guy and soon. The media will be all over this before much longer.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Mia slow down! Don’t cross the street without me,” Katie yelled at the little girl. Katie Gibbs was a twenty-three-year-old, part-time nanny for three-year-old Mia Harper. Mia stopped at the corner and Katie hurried to catch up with the child. Katie was a student at the University of Minnesota in their dental hygienist program. The Harper’s were a post forty couple with successful careers who had Katie as their little showpiece accoutrement. Their total parental involvement with Katie was to make sure she had good nannies and to get her into the best schools and occasionally display the beautiful, brown-eyed brunette to their wine and cheese friends.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 152
