Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

  In one of the stories by the Chicago Tribune, there was a picture of the grieving but lucky widow. Max studied it for a minute looking for any resemblance to Mackenzie Sutherland. The features were similar but her hair was a natural blonde cut in a style that framed her face, her eyes were a bright blue and she wore very stylish black glasses. Also, according to the articles in the news, Frances Cartwright was eight or nine years younger than Mackenzie would have been.

  Max continued his search but the picture kept creeping back into his head. He went back to it twice and the second time an idea came to him. Max took out his phone and made a call.

  “Anna Finney,” he heard the St. Paul detective say.

  “Hey, it’s Max Coolidge,” Max told her. “Do you have a clear picture of Mackenzie Sutherland?”

  “What are you up to Max?”

  He quickly told her where he was and what he was doing.

  “You think this Cartwright woman might be Mackenzie?” Anna asked.

  “I don’t know,” Max answered. “No, probably not but it’s worth checking out. I need to get a picture of each of them to compare side-by-side.”

  “You know there’s software that can do that, too,” Anna said.

  “Do we have her picture?”

  “I don’t think so but I know a guy at the Pioneer Press. They must have one. She’s been in their paper a few times. It’ll cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “Probably a hundred.”

  “Okay, do it. Call me back,” Max said.

  “Sean,” Max quietly said as he approached Flaherty’s desk. The Chicago detective was reviewing a file when Max spoke to him.

  “What’s up?” Flaherty asked.

  “You know anybody at the Tribune who can get me a copy of a photo of Frances Cartwright?”

  “Sure, it will cost you a c-note,” Flaherty said.

  “What is it with these people?”

  “It’s a two-way street, Max. You know that. When do you want it?”

  “Now,” Max shrugged.

  “Let me give her a call,” Flaherty said. He found the woman’s number, called her and chatted her up for a couple of minutes. He got down to business and she agreed to get him a clear copy of Frances’ photo.

  “We’ll pick it up at lunch,” he said to Max.

  At that moment, Max’s phone rang and he took the call. It was Anna Finney calling him back.

  Max listened for a minute then said, “Can he email it to me?”

  After Anna assured him the man could, Max looked at Flaherty and said. “Give me your email address.”

  Flaherty told him what it was and Max relayed it to Anna.

  “Thanks, Anna, I owe you one. Tell your guy I’ll pay him when I get back.”

  “I’ll have to pay him now,” Anna told him.

  “Good, take it out of petty cash.”

  “Yeah, right. There’s usually six or seven dollars in there,” Anna said.

  “I’ll pay you back,” Max promised.

  “Yes, you will.”

  When the three detectives returned from lunch, Max had the photo of Frances Cartwright and the one of Mackenzie Sutherland had arrived via email. Flaherty got a tech guy to make a clear print of Mackenzie on photo paper.

  “What do you guys think?” Max asked the two CPD detectives. All three of them had carefully compared both photos.

  “I don’t know,” Flaherty said. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t swear to it in court.”

  “I think there’s a definite resemblance,” Luther told Max. “Look at the facial features; the nose, cheekbones, chin. If either of them was smiling, the teeth would give it away.”

  The tech guy who made the copy of Mackenzie’s print was looking over Max’s shoulder and said, “I can run a facial comparison through our computers for you.”

  “You can?” Max asked.

  “Sure, it will take a while. But I have to warn you, it’s not perfect.”

  “Go ahead,” Max said and he handed the two photos to the young man.

  As the techie walked away to compare the photos, Max asked the two detectives, “Would you guys mind it if I re-interviewed the family members?”

  Flaherty and Cole looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.

  “No, not at all. In fact,” Flaherty continued turning back to Luther, “we got nothing going, you want to go with him?”

  “Sure, why not? Maybe the Sherlock Holmes of Minnesota could teach us something,” Luther replied.

  “Probably,” Flaherty added.

  “No doubt,” Max said.

  Two hours later the three detectives were back at the CPD homicide division. Of the four ex-wives of Wendell Cartwright, they were able to interview only three. Even though Wendell had died several years ago, the passage of time had done nothing to diminish their bitterness. All three were convinced wife number five, Frances, had murdered him. Of course, there was absolutely no evidence to support this except for their anger over the money.

  When Wendell was alive each ex-wife and Wendell’s two adult children were all receiving monthly payments to live on. The payments were all coming from the trust Wendell received through his family. Because the terms of the trust prohibited Wendell from taking large lump-sum amounts to pay off each wife and be done with it, millions to each of them, the monthly payments were the best he could do. All four ex-wives and the two progeny were receiving twenty-thousand-dollar per month payments, tax-free.

  No more monthly payments and no insurance to make them up. Since they all lived well off of Wendell’s trust none of them had saved or invested much for the future. Because of this, they were all looking at a serious lifestyle downgrade. The happiest person involved was, of course, Mackenzie Frances Cartwright, who went by her middle name, Frances.

  Waiting for Sean Flaherty was a note from the techie asking him to call. While he did this, Max wheeled a chair up to the desks of the two CPD cops. Flaherty made the call to their techie as Max sat down next to Luther Cole.

  “I remember when we interviewed them the first time, they were all living in nice houses or luxury condos,” Luther told Max. “Now they’re in one bedroom apartments. Quite a comedown.”

  “He’ll be here in a minute,” Flaherty said after hanging up the phone.

  “What did he come up with?” Max asked.

  “He wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”

  “What do you mean ‘he wouldn’t tell you over the phone’, why not?” Max asked.

  “He wouldn’t tell me,” Flaherty shrugged. “Wants to come up and tell us in person. Techies, they’re a strange breed.”

  “I ran the photos through two different software programs,” the young man announced when he got there. He was holding the two photos as if the detectives did not know what he was referring to. “Both came up with a similar finding. One had them an eighty-seven percent match and the other an eighty-five. I ran them twice just to be sure and the scores were the same.”

  “Thanks, Aaron,” Flaherty said as he was handed the photos. “You can go back to your world now.”

  “Hey, detective,” Aaron said. He bent down and poked a finger into Flaherty’s soft midsection. “Have another doughnut. I bought stock in Krispy Kreme just because of you.”

  “Nice shot!” Luther said while he and Max burst into laughter.

  When the jocularity died down and Aaron had left, Max said. “Eighty-seven percent.”

  “It’s her,” Flaherty said.

  “Probably,” Max answered him. “But is eighty-seven percent good enough in court?”

  “So what?” Luther asked. “So what if it’s her? Cartwright died of a heart attack because of his lifestyle. Your guy in Minnesota, same thing. She hit the lottery twice. Lucky her. You see a crime here?”

  “He has a point,” Flaherty said.

  “We’re cynical cops,” Max reminded them. “You guys think this is a coincidence?”

  Luther and Flaherty looked at each other
then back at Max and both said at the same time, “No.”

  “It might be enough to exhume the bodies…” Max started to say.

  “Cartwright was cremated,” Luther reminded him.

  “Oh, shit, that’s right,” Max said. “Sutherland wasn’t. Maybe this is enough to dig him up and do a more detailed tox screen.”

  “To find what?” Flaherty asked.

  “To find out if he was drugged or poisoned and see if that’s what caused the heart attack.”

  Max looked at a clock on the wall and absently said, “I was hoping to hear back from the son, Phillip. I’m flying back tomorrow morning and I’d like to talk to him first.”

  Flaherty’s intercom buzzed, he answered it and said, “Thanks, Cheryl. Send him back.” He put the receiver in its cradle and said, “Speak of the devil.”

  The three men looked toward the front of the room and Phillip Cartwright came in. Flaherty waved at him and he headed toward them. To the three streetwise police detectives, it was obvious that Phillip had a drug problem, probably a serious one. Phillip Cartwright, who was almost forty, sported long, stringy hair, an unshaven face and was wearing an open, green flannel shirt, a red T-shirt, jeans with holes and beat-up sneakers.

  Introductions were made and the three cops took him into an interview room. They all took chairs around the cheap table.

  “So, you want to talk to me about my cheap-ass, old man? Did that bitch that killed him decide to give up some of the money she stole?”

  The interview went downhill from there. For the next twenty minutes, while Max tried to get whatever useful information he could from him, all Phillip wanted to talk about was how bad he got screwed by his “cheap-ass, old man and the bitch that murdered him.” This was followed by a whining session about how tough his life was and whose fault it was; certainly not his.

  Finally, fed up with his poor, poor me, sad story, Max asked, “Don’t you have a college degree?”

  “Yeah,” Phillip answered. “So what?”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “Macalester College,” he answered.”

  “In St. Paul?” Max asked a little surprised.

  “Yeah, that’s right. My mother went there. Again, so what?”

  “What was your major?”

  “Partying,” Phillip answered with a grin showing off his bad teeth. “English lit,” he said.

  “Maybe you could stoop to getting a job and working to support yourself,” Luther sarcastically added.

  “Kind of a warm day for a long sleeve shirt,” Flaherty said believing Phillip was covering needle tracks.

  Phillip nervously looked the three men over then said, “What is this? I haven’t done anything. I’m out of here.” He stood up knocking the cheap plastic chair over and went to the door.

  “Throw that bitch in prison and get my old man’s money. I deserve it, she doesn’t.” He slammed the door when he left.

  “Meth,” Max said when Phillip was gone.

  “And heroin,” Luther added.

  “He’s dealing, too. That’s how he’s supporting himself. Worthless little shit,” Flaherty said.

  “Can you have Rodrigo here in the morning? I booked a flight out at ten oh five.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Flaherty said. “You want a ride to the airport?”

  “That would be great, yeah. Thanks.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Anna Finney placed the documents she was reading back into the file folder on her desk. She stared off into space thinking about what she had seen.

  “What do you think?” Coolidge asked her.

  Max returned from Chicago with his prisoner in tow the day before. After turning Rodrigo Barnes over to the Ramsey County jail, Max spent the remainder of the day once again combing through every word in the file he received from the Chicago cops and the news stories he had printed off concerning the death of Wendell Cartwright. This morning he sought out Finney to get a second opinion. Max was seated next to her desk while she went through everything.

  Before she answered, Anna picked up the photos of Mackenzie Sutherland and Frances Cartwright. She held them next to each other comparing them for the fourth time.

  “It’s her,” she said. “I absolutely believe it.”

  “Me, too,” Max agreed. “What about the file?”

  “His medical records show he had an EKG two years before he died. It came out well within the normal range. No history of heart problems in his family except an aunt that died of heart disease. He dies of a massive heart attack and the grieving widow conveniently had him cremated. What happened to the ashes?”

  “Lake Michigan,” Max said.

  “Is that legal?” Anna asked.

  “I don’t know, probably not. You want to try to get her for polluting Lake Michigan? It’s probably a fine,” Max said.

  “What do you want to do?” Anna asked.

  “Dig up Bill Sutherland. This is too much of a coincidence.”

  “You think this is enough?”

  “Let’s talk to McCarthy. See what he thinks,” Max said referring to their captain.

  Max knocked on the glass portion of Captain McCarthy’s door. Without waiting for a reply the two detectives walked in.

  “Where’s Kubik?” McCarthy asked Anna Finney.

  “Called in sick,” she replied. “Which reminds me,” she continued. “I’d like a new partner.”

  McCarthy ignored her request, looked at the file Max was handing him and said, “What’s this?”

  Max and Anna took the two chairs and Max gave the captain a summary of why they wanted to see him.

  “Don’t you two have enough to do without continuing to flog this dead horse? What do you think?” he said looking at Anna.

  “Look at the photos, they’re right on top,” Anna said pointing at the file.

  McCarthy held up the two photos, looked them over carefully and said, “Okay, they’re very similar.”

  “The Chicago PD tech ran them through two different facial comparison programs. The report is in the file. Eighty-seven percent match.”

  “Not enough for a conviction,” McCarthy said.

  “I’m not looking for a conviction,” Max said. “I want to get Bill Sutherland’s body dug up and another autopsy performed.”

  “Why?”

  “There are drugs, chemicals that can cause a heart attack and would not show up on a routine autopsy,” Anna answered him.

  “This woman is wrong, Dave,” Max said leaning forward, his hands on the captain’s desk. “I can feel it in my bones. I think she murdered both Bill Sutherland and this Cartwright guy for their money.”

  “And if she did that,” Anna said, “how much of a stretch is it that she set up Bob Sutherland and murdered him, too?”

  “Okay, let’s say you get a court order to dig up old man Sutherland, then what? You got any evidence she drugged him?”

  “If his heart attack was drug induced, she did it and we’ll find out how. We’ll tear her life apart and we’ll find it,” Max said.

  McCarthy thought it over then quietly said, mostly to himself, “Three possible homicides.” He looked at the two detectives and said, “Okay, take it to the prosecutor’s office and see what they think.”

  “We’ll go talk to Heather Anderson. She knows more about this than anyone else,” Max told him.

  “We’ll end up back in front of Gabe Sendejo on this,” Heather said to Max and Anna, “and he won’t be happy to see us.”

  The three of them were sitting in Anderson’s office in downtown St. Paul. Max and Anna had waited patiently for a half-hour while she reviewed the Cartwright file. Before bringing their case to her, Max had a St. Paul police tech run the photos for a computer comparison. His program came back with an eighty-eight percent match.

  “Three homicides, Heather,” Anna reminded her.

  “Maybe,” Heather said. She paused for a few seconds, sighed and said, “Oh, what the hell. I haven’t taken a flyer for
a while. What do you say we give it a shot?”

  “That’s my girl!” Max said with a big grin.

  “Tell you what,” Anderson continued, “today’s Friday. Let me keep this over the weekend,” she said pointing at the file. “I’ll review it, go online and check out the news stories from here and Chicago and I’ll talk to you two on Monday, okay?”

  “You won’t regret it,” Max said as the two detectives stood to leave.

  “We’ll see about that,” Anderson replied.

  Later that same day, in mid-afternoon, Mackenzie received a phone call on a private phone that very few people knew about. Before answering it she looked at the number, a Chicago area code and hesitantly answered it.

  “Mrs. Sutherland,” she heard a familiar man’s voice say, “it’s Lou Travis,” the man said.

  “Yes, Lou,” Mackenzie said. “Do you have something for me?”

  “Yes ma’am,” the man said.

  Lou Travis was a private investigator that Mackenzie had retained to keep her informed of any developments in Chicago. So far the man had proven himself to be competent, reliable and discreet. Because of this, Mackenzie always paid him promptly and with an added bonus. She also did so by money order which allowed Travis the option of keeping the IRS out of it.

  “What is it?” Mackenzie asked.

  “There was a St. Paul detective in town for a couple days. He was here to transport a prisoner that the Chicago cops were holding back to Minnesota.”

  “His name?” Mackenzie asked although she was certain she knew who it was.

  “Guy by the name of Max Coolidge. He and a couple CPD detectives, I know both of them, went around town interviewing your dead husband’s ex-wives. They also had Phillip into the homicide division for a little chat. I heard he was pretty uncooperative.”

  “And how is Phillip doing?” Mackenzie asked.

  “Not so good,” Travis answered her. “He’s got a pretty good drug problem still; meth, crack and I think he’s moved up to heroin.”

  “And the women, the ex-wives?” Mackenzie asked.