THIRTY-THREE
It took the better part of two years after the trial of Howie Traynor for the murder of Lucille Corwin Benson for the dreams to stop. Jimmy Oliver spent fourteen months in the correctional facility at Lino Lakes expecting to be shived in his cell at any moment. At night, more often than not, his sleep would be disturbed by the image of Howie Traynor’s hands reaching for his throat. Jimmy would wake up in a sweat checking his cellmate, worried he had awakened him. Upon his release, it was another seven or eight months before the dreams began to subside.
Jimmy originally planned to remain in the Cities just long enough to build up a stash then hit the road. Over the years his fear and desire to leave waned. One thing led to another and he never quite got around to it, that and a taste for crystal meth he needed to feed.
Jimmy was never someone who paid attention to the news. He knew nothing about Howie’s release until the man himself showed up at Tooley’s. Jimmy was in the back fetching a case of beer and when he walked out of the storeroom, Howie was standing at the bar. At first, Jimmy’s mind couldn’t grasp what he was seeing. Then the image changed to the Grim Reaper; scythe, hooded cloak and dead eyes.
His worst nightmare was standing a few feet from him when something almost miraculous happened. Howie Traynor broke into a broad grin and extended his right hand across the bar; a sight Jimmy Oliver would not have thought possible.
Without wetting himself or dropping the beer, Jimmy composed himself enough to shake Howie’s hand. For the next ten minutes the two men conversed like old friends. Finally, Howie apologetically informed him that he was a changed man and all was forgiven. Jimmy wasn’t sure he believed him though he seemed sincere. That night and each night since, the dreams were back.
Tonight the crowd in Tooley’s was light even for a weeknight. Jimmy was starting to feel a little on edge and decided he could use a little toot of the meth burning a hole in his pocket. He served one of the regulars then asked the other bartender if he could take a smoke break.
“There’s some trash by the back door, Jimmy,” the man said. “Toss it in the dumpster will you?”
“Sure thing, Dave. I’ll be back in a bit,” he told his co-worker who knew exactly where Jimmy was going and why.
Forty minutes after Jimmy went out back into the bar’s parking lot he still had not returned. Knowing what Jimmy was up to and with the sparsely patronized bar, Dave wasn’t too concerned. A few minutes later the bar’s owner, Richie Mayfield, came in and asked Dave about Jimmy.
“Goddamnit, I should fire his ass.”
“He’s okay,” Dave said sticking up for him.
Annoyed, Richie said, “I’ll go get him and kick his little junkie ass back in here.”
Richie went out the back door and walked through the almost empty parking lot. He had installed two bright pole lamps in the lot and Richie could easily see Jimmy was not there. To his right, the apartment building next door had put up a cedar board privacy fence. It ran along Tooley’s property line and took a ninety-degree turn at the back corner of the parking lot to run parallel to the alley. When Richie reached the alley he turned to his right and from the light from the pole lamps, he could see Jimmy sitting on the alley floor up against the fence.
Owen Jefferson’s cell phone went off waking up both the detective and his wife. In his line of work, midnight calls were simply a part of the job. Because of his current case, this one was particularly unwelcome.
“Yeah, Jefferson,” he answered sounding completely awake.
“Owen, it’s Dan Fielding. Sorry to bother you…” the MPD sergeant began.
“It’s okay, Dan. What do you have?”
Fielding had been the first cop to arrive at Tooley’s. He took one look at the displayed body of Jimmy Oliver and immediately called in for Jefferson’s personal phone number.
“I think it’s one of yours. The guy’s displayed like the others. Barbed wire crown and his hands nailed to a fence. Looks like his throat’s been slit ear-to-ear.”
“Where are you, Dan?” Jefferson asked.
“In the alley back of Tooley’s bar. The owner says the victim is…”
“Jimmy Oliver,” Jefferson quietly finished the uniformed cop’s sentence.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Take charge and seal off the area,” a dejected Jefferson said. “You know what to do. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks, Dan.”
By now Jefferson was sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear. He quietly said to himself, “Goddamn sonofabitch. I should’ve seen this coming.”
“They found another one?” his wife of thirteen years, Clarice, asked.
“Yeah, babe,” he answered her while making a phone call. “Rod, it’s Owen Jefferson. Who you got sitting on Howie Traynor?”
“I’m not sure. What time is it?” Schiller replied.
“We found another one. Get up and whoever it is get somebody in that apartment and knock on his door right now. Kick it in if they have to. If Traynor isn’t home, tell them to wait for him and arrest his ass the minute he shows up.”
“You got it, Owen. What if he is home? You want him brought in?”
Jefferson thought this over for a moment then said, “No, I guess not. Get them up there to check on him. Oh, and while you’re at it, check on the other two guys, Parlow and Forsberg.”
Natalie Musgrave had been in uniform with the MPD for seven years. A black woman in her late twenties she had earned outstanding performance evaluations and more importantly, the respect of her peers. She felt like she was approaching a crossroad in her career. Does she stay in uniform or try to go into plainclothes and make detective? Her current assignment, helping surveillance of the Crown of Thornes suspects, was initially an opportunity. For the past ten days or so she had begun to find it routine and more than a little boring. Watching Howie Traynor was not exactly a suspenseful thriller. All he ever did was go to work, go home, go to the gym most evenings and three or four times a week stop at the grocery store.
Tonight she was sitting by herself in a nondescript van one door down from Traynor’s apartment. She was on the midnight to morning shift and just checked in with the cop in the alley, Troy Lenoir.
Natalie barely had time to get settled in for her shift when the van’s phone went off. She checked the caller I.D., answered the call and in less than fifteen seconds was out of the van and speaking with Lenoir on the radio.
“Schiller just called, Troy. We need to go in and get up there and check on him. I want back up so hurry,” she said as she trotted across the street toward the building.
Natalie used a master key the cops and fire department were issued to get in the building and started up the front steps. On her way to the third floor she was relieved to hear the back door open and footsteps on the back stairs.
Lenoir joined her at the door to Howie’s apartment and she pounded on it loudly several times. In about a minute they heard footsteps in the apartment. The door opened and a groggy Howie Traynor peered at them.
“What?” he angrily asked.
“Have a nice evening, Mr. Traynor,” Natalie said. They made a hasty retreat and heard Howie slam the door shut. Lenoir followed her out the front and Natalie said to him, “I think someone’s going to be disappointed he was home.”
Owen Jefferson parked his car in the middle of the street alongside Tooley’s. The street and the area all around the scene was crawling with cops. Two TV media vans and their crews were being held back about a block away. Using bright lights and directional sound detectors they were filming the scene and trying to pick up whatever could be heard.
Jefferson walked under the yellow crime scene tape and into Tooley’s parking lot. When Sergeant Fielding saw him, the two men walked toward each other.
“What do you have, Dan?”
“Okay. The bartender says Oliver went out for a break at a couple minutes past eleven. He says he specifically checked the clock because Oliver sometimes takes
a little too long. About eleven forty, eleven forty-five, the owner comes in just to check on the place. Oliver isn’t back yet so the owner goes out back to look for him and finds him along the fence in the alley.”
While Fielding was telling him this, the two of them were slowly walking toward the alley. The CSU team had set up several powerful floodlights to illuminate the scene.
When they reached the alley Jefferson looked toward Jimmy’s body just as his phone went off. He checked the I.D. and decided to take the call.
“What do you have, Rod?” he asked.
“Traynor was home and looked like he’d been sleeping,” Schiller told him.
“Shit,” Jefferson glumly replied.
“Aaron Forsberg was also home and mightily pissed at being bothered.”
“Tough shit. I don’t much care.”
“But,” Schiller continued, “our boy Eugene Parlow was nowhere to be found. He managed to slip away from us.”
“Put a BOLO out on him and pick him up,” Jefferson said.
“Already done,” Schiller replied.
Jefferson spent a half hour at the crime scene. He took a close up look at the body, talked to the CSU people and the assistant M.E. on the scene. He checked Jimmy’s fingers and noted they were all crushed but not his toes. Probably in a hurry, he thought.
Jefferson went inside and questioned both the bartender and owner to be sure of the time frame. Satisfied there was little more he could do, he decided to leave. While he was opening his car door, a thought occurred to him.
Jefferson looked at his watch then covered his mouth with the palm of his hand. He stood in the street staring at nothing but obviously in thought for a moment.
“Officer,” he said to a uniform he didn’t know who was watching the street.
“Yes, sir,” the man responded.
“Keep an eye on my car. I’ll be back in a while for it,” Jefferson said as he started walking.
Exactly fifty-six minutes later he rapped on the door of the van with Natalie Musgrove sitting inside. Without waiting for a response, Jefferson slid the door open and found Musgrove with her handgun at her side.
“Jesus Christ, Sarge, I about jumped a foot.”
“Sorry, Natalie,” he said. “What time did you knock on his door?”
“12:17,” she replied.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I logged it.”
“Okay, good. I need you to run me back to the crime scene and my car.”
“You sure it’s…”
“Yeah, he’s not going anywhere else tonight.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Owen Jefferson parked his department issued Chevy sedan in an open spot on Third Avenue alongside the Old City Hall building. It was barely past 6:00 A.M. and the downtown traffic was still very light.
Jefferson got back to bed shortly before 3:00 A.M. and had dozed off and on for a couple of hours. Every time he closed his eyes the black, dead eyes of Jimmy Oliver were staring at him. This one bothered him more than all of the others. He knew why, too. He should have seen this coming. He should have done something, anything to at least warn Oliver if not give him more protection.
“Don’t take it out on Marcie,” he quietly said to himself as he opened the car door and got out.
Twenty minutes after he arrived at the conference room they were using Marcie Sterling came in.
“Why didn’t you call me last night?” she said without speaking a greeting.
“Good morning, Marcie,” Jefferson.
“I thought we were working together on this,” she continued. Marcie was standing at the front of the table, an annoyed look on her face.
“I thought about it,” Jefferson sighed, “but decided not to. It was after midnight and I saw no reason to drag you out of bed. There was nothing you could do.”
“Oh, you mean you were being considerate,” Marcie said almost apologetically.
“Yes, I was,” Jefferson said realizing he had just talked himself out of trouble. “Sit down and we’ll go over it,” he continued while Marcie hung up her coat.
When he finished, Marcie said, “So, Parlow was missing again.”
“Yeah, but…”
“I’m beginning to lean toward him. We got nothing on anybody else and he’s the least alibied one of the three of them.”
“You didn’t let me finish. We found Parlow shacked up with a woman friend. She swears he was with her from ten o’clock until we found him. But could’ve been Traynor,” Jefferson said referring to the walk he had taken from the crime scene to Howie’s building.
“Yeah, possible,” Marcie agreed. “But it just doesn’t seem likely. How did he get out again without being seen? We’ve had his ass covered and…”
“I know,” a dejected Jefferson said.
Marcie sat back, furrowed her brow and stared at her partner for a moment then said, “You want it to be Traynor. Why?”
Jefferson thought over her statement then said, “I guess I do. I’m not sure why. Probably because it makes the most sense. Who else would have a motive to go after Jimmy Oliver?” He paused for another ten seconds or so then continued. “I’m just not sure I buy his ‘I found Jesus’ act. You had to know him from the old days. I have a report to write.”
At 7:30 Selena Kane came into the room carrying a cup of coffee. She took the seat at the head of the table, looked at Jefferson and said, “Tell me.”
While verbally giving her the report of Jimmy Oliver’s murder, Jefferson finished typing his official one. He hit the print button on his laptop and the printer began spewing out several copies.
Before he could finish giving Kane his report, the department phone rang and Marcie answered it. She listened for several seconds then said, “I’ll tell him, just a minute. It’s the M.E., Marston. They found three more hairs and…”
Before she could finish Jefferson grabbed his extension and said, “What do we have?”
While Jefferson listened to the M.E., Marcie told Selena Kane what Marston had told her. They found three hairs on Jimmy Oliver that were not his and examined them. They appeared to be an exact match to the one found on victim number six, Cara Meyers.
“We’ll be right there. Give us ten minutes. We’ll run them over to St. Paul ourselves,” Jefferson said then hung up the phone.
“Call St. Paul, the BCA. Give them a heads up what we have and we’re on our way,” Jefferson said to Selena Kane. “Let’s go,” he said to Marcie who was already up and holding the conference room door open.
While the two of them were hurrying down the hall leading to Jefferson’s car, his cell phone went off. He checked the caller I.D. and answered it.
“I heard about last night,” Tony Carvelli said. “Should we go?”
“Um yeah, that will be fine,” Jefferson cryptically answered not wanting Marcie to know what the call was about.
“What was that?” Marcie asked.
“Personal. Nothing to do with the case,” Jefferson said after ending the call.
The two of them walked a few more steps while Marcie continued to look at him and Jefferson obviously ignored her. “Bullshit,” she said.
“Leave it alone,” he answered her. “Trust me this one time.”
Tony Carvelli and Maddy Rivers were parked in front of the apartment building next to Howie Traynor’s. Maddy was dressed in a mild disguise. She wore dark blue slacks, a lighter blue blouse and a somewhat floppy blue wool hat. She was wearing stylish black-framed glasses and carried a leather satchel briefcase. Her long hair was tucked under the hat and anyone who saw her would think she was a businesswoman making a call.
“Six minutes, no more,” Tony reminded her. “Even that’s pushing it. We should keep it to three minutes.”
“I’ll be okay, Daddy,” Maddy said mocking his concern. “You just keep an eye out and stay in touch,” she continued referring to their comm. system.
Maddy was wearing a small ear piece that she would receive calls on from Tony
and allow her to transmit to him. They had also taken the precaution to drive by St. Andrews to be sure Howie and his cop surveillance were both there.
Maddy held two small metal instruments in her right hand and the briefcase in her left, as she approached the door to the apartment building. With her experience and training she believed she could get the lock open in under thirty seconds. But barely two steps from it the door opened and an elderly tenant came out.
“Oh, hello,” the woman said to Maddy, a little startled to find her at the door.
“I’m sorry,” Maddy replied with a friendly smile, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, it’s all right, dear. You go on in,” the woman said as she held the door open for Maddy.
“Why, thank you and you have a nice day,” Maddy said as she entered the building.
Barely ten seconds later she was on the building’s third floor kneeling on one knee at Howie’s door. Using her lock picks she had the door open and was inside n under twenty seconds.
“I’m in,” she quietly said to Tony.
“The clock’s ticking, get moving,” he answered her.
Before arriving at the apartment, the two of them had gone over how Maddy should conduct her search. They had come up with a list of where to begin and how much time to spend in each room.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Maddy said for Tony’s benefit.
She quickly but not carelessly began going through all of the drawers and cupboards. Wearing surgical gloves, she pulled the drawers out and went through each and even looked under them. Using a small penlight she checked behind the stove and refrigerator looking for anything out of the ordinary.
“Time’s up, move on,” she heard Tony say.
“Heading for the living room.”
Maddy smoothly repeated the same process in the living room and finished seconds before Tony told her to. She did the same thing in the bathroom and so far, found nothing. This wasn’t a surprise since the two of them had not expected Traynor to be that careless.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 159
