The Guilty Dead

by P. J. Tracy

  Gino stooped down for a closer look. “Somebody either had a bad accident or got clocked big-time out here. And not that long ago. Maybe right around the time Norwood bought it. This could be another dent in the suicide theory.”

  “I’ll call the property manager again and have him double-check on the staff. Maybe Norwood dismissed the household workers but kept on maintenance.”

  “Clumsy gardener dings himself on the head with a pruning saw, nothing to do with Norwood’s brains all over his office, and we’ll have the crime-scene tape rolled up by sunset. That would be good.”

  Magozzi made his call as they walked the lawn slowly and methodically, looking for more blood. A drop here, a drop there, leading past a rose garden to a wooded area that buffered the back yard from the street. He finally reached the property manager, who confirmed that no maintenance personnel had been on site since yesterday.

  “So much for the clumsy gardener,” Gino mumbled.

  They looked up when a Bureau of Criminal Apprehension crime-scene van cleared the police cordon and drove up to the house. Magozzi was vastly relieved to see the head crime-scene guru, Jimmy Grimm, in that van because this case had just gotten a little more complicated.

  While his crew unloaded equipment and got suited up, Jimmy walked over to greet them. “You know, we ought to get together for beers sometime instead of always meeting over dead bodies.”

  “If you’re buying, I’m there,” Gino said.

  “Likewise. Maybe that’s why we never get together for beers.” Jimmy smirked, then looked over his shoulder at the house. “A Norwood suicide, huh? You guys pulled another whopper. Just can’t keep your pretty faces out of the news, can you?”

  “We wish. This thing was a nightmare from the get-go, but it might get worse.”

  “How so?”

  “We can’t dismiss homicide.”

  “Take me for a walk, then.”

  “You got this, Gino?”

  “Got it. You go take a hike and make sure nobody’s bleeding to death out in the woods.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  WHILE GINO BROUGHT Jimmy and his crew up to speed inside the Norwood house, Magozzi expanded the outdoor search, following intermittent drops of blood into a woodland area that seemed staged. There was no dead wood, no buckthorn, no scrubby, noxious undergrowth: he was in the middle of a meticulously groomed suburban forest. He paused and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The gesture was a lost cause—he could already feel sweat collecting around his shirt collar and soaking it. Nothing evaporated in this kind of humidity. His phone rang and he saw Gino’s number on the caller ID. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up out there? Anything?”

  “More blood. Tell Jimmy to send some of his people out here to tag and bag when he can spare them. Learn anything inside?”

  “Nothing we didn’t already figure out, but I just talked to Malcherson. He belonged to the same gun club as Norwood, and they went shooting together every month or so. Norwood was definitely a left-handed shooter.”

  “One more click up the homicide dial.”

  “Yeah, but Zeller’s nine-one-one call still supports suicide. By the way, we have an appointment with him at one.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Malcherson did. Chief also did us another solid and broke the bad news to the Norwood family. He wanted to do it personally. They’re flying in from Aspen at two o’clock and they’ll be available for us any time after that. Are you having fun in the woods? Because I could use your help.”

  “I love it when you’re needy.”

  “Leo, get your ass in here.”

  Magozzi hung up and started retracing his steps, then widened his perimeter. The blood trail had ended, but that didn’t mean the trail itself had.

  He almost missed the backpack, just a little innocuous thing concealed in the shade of a big oak, but wildly out of place in this pristine forest. In this day and age, it would have been appropriate to consider it a suspicious package if it had been sitting on a street corner or in an airport, but out here, in the groomed woods of Chez Norwood, Magozzi deemed it harmless and called Gino back.

  “What ‒ did you get lost?”

  “Yeah, the birds ate my breadcrumb trail. Get out here, I might have something.” While Magozzi waited, he gloved up and started going through the contents of the backpack. There were expensive lenses and a camera body, a crumpled-up wrapper from a protein bar, press credentials, and some business cards that read: “Gerald Stenson, Freelance Photographer and Journalist.” He called the contact number listed on the card, but it went to voicemail.

  He kept digging and found a poignant Post-it note that told Magozzi Gerald Stenson was cherished by somebody. “Love you to the moon and back, Sugar Bear,” it read. At the bottom of the bag, he found a wallet with a Minnesota driver’s license that confirmed the owner as Gerald Stenson. The photo showed a youngish man with curly dark hair ‒ a good match for the piece of scalp he’d found on the lawn. There were three credit cards, some cash, and an in-case-of-emergency card, with the name, phone number, and address of a Kris Stenson. He called and left her a message, too.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Gino was pacing tight circles around the backpack. “Photographer sneaks onto the property, gets assaulted. Wouldn’t be the first time the paparazzi got an ass-whopping.”

  “So where’s Stenson?”

  “In the hospital getting his head sewn back together. Or maybe he’s filing assault charges. Or maybe he’s getting booked for trespassing.”

  “That’s one scenario.”

  “The other scenario is Stenson hiding out in the woods, trying to catch a shot of his mark. He hears a gunshot, decides to be a hero and runs to the house, but he surprises the guy who killed Norwood. He gets bludgeoned and dragged off the scene.”

  “Who would want Norwood dead? He was practically the patron saint of Minnesota.”

  Gino scratched his jaw, finding a patch of whiskers he’d missed during his morning shave. “Everybody has enemies, even saints. Money makes people crazy. And Norwood wasn’t just rich, he was powerful. Influential. There may be a lot of people who wanted him dead.”

  Magozzi’s phone rang. He lifted a silencing finger and put it on speaker. “Detective Magozzi.”

  “Detective, this is Kris Stenson returning your call.”

  “Thank you for calling back, ma’am. I’m looking for Gerald Stenson. Is he available?”

  “No, he’s on a job. Is something wrong?”

  “We’re just following up some leads,” Magozzi whitewashed. “We have reason to believe Mr. Stenson may have been a witness to a crime we’re investigating and we’d like to ask him a few questions. Have you spoken to him recently?”

  “Not since he left this morning. My husband is a photographer and sometimes his work keeps him in the field for hours at a time and out of contact.”

  “Did he mention what the job was?”

  “He was working a freelance gig at Gregory Norwood’s house … Why are you asking me these questions? You have our names and unlisted home number and you’re looking for him … Tell me what’s going on.”

  Magozzi appreciated short and to-the-point. Kris Stenson was no idiot, but he had no choice but to treat her like one. “Routine follow-up, ma’am. Would you have your husband call us when you speak to him?”

  “Of course. I’ll try to get in touch with him right away.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it.” Magozzi gave her his cell number and hung up. “Let’s go shake the trees for Stenson. He’s the only potential witness we’ve got right now.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  IT DIDN’T TAKE long for Gino and Magozzi to find out that Gerald Stenson wasn’t in any local emergency room getting his head checked. It took even less time for the cops on the street to respond to the BOLO ‒ the “be on the lookout” bulletin ‒ and find his ten-year-old Honda CR-V parked a few blocks away.<
br />
  “Nothing sexy, guys,” Jimmy Grimm announced, crawling out of the back of the Honda with some sealed evidence bags. He wagged them in the air, then plucked at his white protective coveralls, which were probably poaching him alive. “Fibers for future comparison, if you need them, receipts, some desiccated French fries and loose change from under the driver’s seat ‒ the usual junk you’d find in anybody’s car. We gave it the full spa treatment front to back, top to bottom. You ask me, this was a regular guy who drove to work this morning and went off to do his thing. He just didn’t come back.” He looked around. “I don’t see any security cameras.”

  “There aren’t many around here,” Gino said.

  “Funny. A ritzy neighborhood like this, you’d think it’d be loaded with them.”

  “Ritzy neighborhoods like this aren’t supposed to need them.”

  Magozzi loosened his tie. “What’s your take on Norwood’s scene, Jimmy?”

  He shrugged ambivalently. “Looks like suicide, but you’ve got a couple curveballs with the right-hand-left-hand thing and Stenson. Suspicious, but not evidence of homicide. I’d keep an open mind while things shake out.” He passed his fistful of evidence bags to one of his techs. “I’ll be in touch as soon as l know anything. Good luck, guys. You might need it.”

  “He’s losing it,” Gino muttered, watching him climb into the BCA van. “He usually tells us something we don’t know.”

  Magozzi looked at his watch, which was already closing in on noon. “Let’s check in with the neighborhood canvass, then go talk to Zeller.”

  * * *

  Apparently, the Zeller family didn’t have the same hang-ups the Norwood family did about conspicuous consumption. To call their estate on Lake Minnetonka palatial was an understatement of the highest order. They also took their security a lot more seriously than the Norwoods. There was a gate and a gatehouse inhabited by two armed guards who possessed all the charm of North Korean border-control agents. The entire property was fenced, probably electrified, and there were cameras everywhere. And for every camera Magozzi saw, he knew there would be dozens he didn’t.

  Gino parked the car in a circular courtyard where an ostentatious fountain burbled merrily. “Jesus, I thought Grace and Harley had tough security, but this is like a prison. I was waiting for those two clowns at the gatehouse to throw hoods over our heads and chuck us into the back of the van.”

  “I’ll tell you to duck if I see a red dot on your forehead.”

  “Hey, joke all you want, but this is a little paranoid, don’t you think?”

  “Zeller’s a very public figure now. Paranoia comes with the territory. Besides, if you own a shack like this, you damn well better have good security.”

  Without further intervention from guards, snipers, or packs of frothing, man-eating wolves, Gino and Magozzi made it to the grand front door, which opened before they knocked. They were greeted by a sober older gentleman, with a hard, leathered face that seemed at odds with the nice, crisp suit he was wearing. He gave them a polite, subdued greeting and ushered them into an opulent entry foyer where two enormous muscular black dogs sat perfectly still and at attention.

  “What kind of dogs are those?” Gino asked.

  “Italian Mastiffs.”

  “They’re huge.”

  “A hundred pounds each.”

  “Not exactly family pets, are they?”

  “They’re quite gentle with the Zellers.” The man gave him a thin smile. “They’re also excellent watchdogs. They have the run of the property at night. Please, follow me.”

  He led them down a marble hallway to a pair of ornately carved pocket doors. “Have a seat, Detectives.” He gestured to a row of fussy, suede-covered side chairs perfectly aligned against the wall. “Mr. Zeller will be with you directly.”

  Gino sat down and rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Was that guy supposed to be the butler or the bodyguard?”

  “He didn’t offer to bring us tea.”

  “He wasn’t packing, either.”

  “I think the pair of monsters salivating on the floor in the foyer precludes the need.” Magozzi stuck both his hands in the perfectly equidistant spaces between the chairs on either side of him. “Maybe he’s the guy in charge of arranging the furniture.”

  “I’m giving Zeller one minute,” Gino whispered harshly.

  “Gino, give him a break. The man is in mourning.”

  “Okay, I’ll give him two minutes. We’re in the middle of an investigation and the clock is ticking.”

  As if on cue, the doors slid open to reveal their host. Robert Zeller, legendary lawyer, the probable future governor of the great state of Minnesota, and possibly the future POTUS, looked every bit the part. In fact, he was almost a caricature of the part: salt-and-pepper hair trimmed just-so, a fit build, and patrician features set on a face just tan enough to exude robustness without looking like he’d spent too much time on a yacht somewhere along the Côte d’Azur.

  His suit had probably cost a few grand, but it wasn’t so conspicuously flashy that it would alienate the hoi-polloi he was courting for votes. Yep, just a regular working stiff in a three-thousand-dollar outfit, looking out for the little guy. Smoke and mirrors. The fine art of politics. The only thing about him that seemed one-hundred-percent authentic was the pervasive sadness evident in his face and posture.

  “Please, come into my office, Detectives.” He shook their hands and invited them to sit in two more fussy chairs across from his desk, these covered with hob-nailed leather instead of suede. “Did Conrad offer you any refreshment?”

  Actually, no. But Magozzi didn’t feel particularly offended and he didn’t see an endgame to pointing out Conrad’s lapse in hospitality. “We’re fine, sir. And we’re very sorry for your loss. Thank you for seeing us during this difficult time,” he offered respectfully.

  He gave a weary, measured nod. “I appreciate that. This is such a terrible thing. Such a tragedy.”

  “We agree. And we don’t want to take up too much of your time so, if you don’t mind, we’ll get straight to the point.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you tell us about your last conversation with Mr. Norwood?”

  His handsome features distorted in pain. “I called to let him know he and his family were in my thoughts and prayers on the anniversary of his son’s death.” He exhaled a shaky sigh. “Gregory was never able to come to terms with Trey’s death and, frankly, I don’t know if such a thing is even possible. It plagued him. I think the guilt was eating him alive.” He shook his head remorsefully. “Obviously it was.”

  “He felt responsible for Trey’s death.”

  “Of course he did. If either of you has children, you understand.”

  Magozzi found himself in the unique position of not just understanding but empathizing. “How did he sound to you when you spoke?”

  “He’d been drinking heavily, which wasn’t like Gregory at all. And it was so early in the morning. I wondered if he hadn’t been up all night drinking, and that alarmed me. I offered to come over, but he dismissed the notion.”

  “What eventually made you call nine-one-one instead of going over there yourself?”

  “After reflecting on our conversation and his state of inebriation, I decided that a welfare check might be prudent, but by then I was due to leave for a campaign event. I certainly never expected something like …” His voice trailed away and he studied his manicured hands.

  “That’s why you waited before you called nine-one-one?”

  He nodded mechanically. He was on auto-pilot. Magozzi had seen it a million times when dealing with the grieving. You couldn’t be entirely present when you were rehashing the past hours, days, months, years of your relationship with the deceased.

  “It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve made in my life. He was my best friend, and a very public figure, who struggled to retain some modicum of privacy. He was mourning the loss of his son on a difficult day.
He trusted me. Calling nine-one-one felt like an enormous betrayal. As it turns out, my deliberation over making the call may have turned out to be the ultimate betrayal.”

  Magozzi resisted the urge to tell him that when suicides made the final commitment it was almost impossible to stop them. They always found a way. But telling Zeller not to beat himself up seemed condescending and wouldn’t do a damn thing to make him feel any better. The man was going to live the rest of his life agonizing over the what-ifs, no matter what Magozzi said to him. Unless their investigation revealed a homicide, in which case his grief would be redirected in another, equally negative, direction.

  “So, prior to this morning, you were never concerned about his mental state?” Gino asked.

  “He was extremely depressed about Trey, particularly today, but I’ve always considered him to be the strongest man I knew. However …” he looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose “… Gregory received some devastating news last week. Pancreatic cancer. He had less than a year to live.” He looked up with an expression of pure misery. “His family doesn’t know yet. He was waiting to tell them after Trey’s memorial. I understand this must come up during the course of your investigation, but I would very much like to be the one to break the news.”

  “Of course, sir. We’d appreciate it if you could let them know before we meet with them this afternoon.”

  He nodded absently, his desolate eyes wandering around his magnificent office. “I’m picking them up at the airport. I’ll speak with them then. My God, I still can’t believe this.”

  “Do you think anyone else would have wanted to harm him?”

  Zeller gave them an incredulous look. “Are you considering something other than suicide?”

  “We just want to be thorough before we close the investigation.”

  “I can’t imagine another living soul who would want to bring harm to Gregory. Of course, up until now, I couldn’t imagine him killing himself, either. But what can a man truly know about another’s demons?”