(2012) The Key to Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “It’ll be ready in a minute,” the pretty young college student / police intern answered. “I’ll bring some in for you when it’s done.”

  “Good Carol, thanks,” Jake replied. “C’mon in Gary and tell me what you’ve got,” Barnes followed him into the cluttered office and, as Jake was taking his seat behind the old, beat up desk he used, noticed the outer door opened and Roger Holby and Helen Paltrow, the serial killer expert, came into the squad room. Barnes opened his small notebook and was about to speak when Jake held up a hand to stop him and said, “Here comes Holby and the shrink. They might as well hear this, too.”

  The two new comers took seats in the office and Barnes began, “Girl’s name is Alice Faye Darwin, age eighteen. Works as a waitress at Marone’s Deli on Lake. Got off work ten o’clock last night. Hung out for a bit and left by herself.”

  “How’d you get that already?” Holby asked.

  “The parents. Their names were in her purse. I gave them the bad news last night. That was fun,” he added sarcastically. “Anyway, they told us where she worked and we got someone over there before the manager left. Now comes the interesting part. According to her license, she was five foot eight, a hundred thirty pounds. Brown hair with a weird kinda haircut, you know, kinda spiked like. Pretty attractive, like the others.”

  “Anything from the lab guys at the scene?” Jake asked Holby.

  “Not yet. We’ll know more later. I figured I’d go out there after I met with you,” Holby replied.

  The conversation in the office continued for almost an hour and, as it did so, the squad room began to fill up with members of the task force, most of whom had little or no sleep. Jake noticed several new faces, mostly women, who stood around looking a bit lost and confused as to why they were where they were.

  “What’s with the new people?” Jake asked Holby.

  “They’re to answer phones. Try to weed out the cranks. We’ve got this all over the news asking for anyone with information to call. We’ve got a hotline set up.”

  With that, the discussion ended and all four rose to leave. Barnes to head home. Holby to the crime scene and Jake to talk to the other detectives.

  Precisely at 9:20, one of the female phone operators interrupted Jake with a call. “He insists on talking to you, Lieutenant. Says he saw someone near the scene last night.”

  “I’ll take it in my office,” Jake said. “Yeah, Waschke,” he growled into the phone.

  “It’s me,” the voice replied. “What now?”

  “Where are you?” Jake asked.

  “In a phone booth about a six blocks from my place. You know how hard it is to find one of these things? It’s by a drugstore.”

  “Okay. Now, go home and wait out front. I’ll send someone for you to bring you in. Got it?”

  A half hour later, Marty Hobbs was seated in a chair in front of one of the squad room’s desks while several of the detectives, including Jake, listened to his story. “I was walkin’ down Chicago,” he began for the fourth time, “at about Thirty Fourth, when I seen this guy come tearin’ around the corner. He saw me and almost stopped, right under a light, ya’ know,” he continued looking around at the group of faces intently staring at him. “Then, he walks past me and, as soon as he gets by me, he starts runnin’ again.”

  “What was he wearing?” one of the detectives asked.

  “I told ya’, I don’t know, dude. Dark kinda clothes. Jeans maybe. I didn’t notice what he was wearin’. I just noticed his face. He was sweaty and breathin’ hard, ya’ know. Like he’d been runnin’ or was excited or somethin’.”

  “You got a good look at his face?” another officer asked.

  “Yeah, dude. I got a good look at him. Look, I heard on the news this mornin’ about what happened last night, ya’ know. So, I figured I’d call and tell ya’ what I seen. I’m tryin’ to help you guys and you’re actin’ like this is some bullshit or somethin’, ya’ know. I don’t need this shit.”

  “Take it easy, Mr. Hobbs,” Jake said in a soft, reassuring voice. “We’re just trying to be careful. Do you think you’d recognize this guy, again?”

  “Yeah, I think I could,” Hobbs said, obviously more relaxed.

  “Okay, good. Santell,” Jake said to one of the detectives, “see if you can round up a sketch artist for Mr. Hobbs here. In the meantime, I’ll have him go over some mug shots. The rest of you, keep a lid on this and get back to work.”

  Forty five minutes later Marty Hobbs, trying his best not to look as bored as he was, turned the tenth page of the second big book of photographs and spotted the face he was seeking in the upper right hand corner. Jake, stealing glances at his snitch through the glass front of his office, was at his desk pretending to work but anxiously waiting for Hobbs to make his identification. Any second now, he thought as he noticed Hobbs pause when he saw the picture. Hobbs turned in his chair, waved at Waschke and Jake was out of his office as quickly as he could.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Anybody see anything, yet?” Jake said into the radio. He received negative replies from the dozen detectives scattered at various locations around the outheast Minneapolis neighborhood. Jake had asked the question about every ten minutes since two o’clock that afternoon. He looked at his watch for at least the fifteenth time since taking up their surveillance posts, watching the suspect’s small apartment building, waiting for him to appear. It was now past eight and still no sign of the man Marty Hobbs had picked out of the book that morning.

  The rest had been as easy as Jake had planned. A quick affidavit for a judge to casually look over before the formality of a search and arrest warrant. A call to the suspect’s parole officer for an address and here they were, impatiently waiting for Fornich to return. They knew he was not in the apartment, a phone call every thirty minutes confirmed it. Sooner or later, he would show up and they would take him, hopefully on the street.

  “Dispatch, this is Waschke,” Jake said into the car’s radio.

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant,” came the response.

  “Have someone get a hold of John Lucas over in St. Paul. I forgot to call him. Tell him to come downtown to my office, over.”

  “Roger that, Lieutenant. We’ll find him,” the dispatcher said.

  As Jake was replacing the microphone in its cradle, he heard a voice from the portable radio the stakeout team was using, lying on the seat beside him.

  “Heads up everybody. Our guy’s coming up the street toward home,” he heard Denise Anderson say. She was in a car a block behind Jake and, as he crouched in his seat, he turned backwards to look down the street to see an older, run-down Ford station wagon coming toward him.

  “He’s in the wagon,” Anderson said over the radio.

  The car came to a stop in the street directly in front of the building. All eyes watched as Fornich got out of the car, walked around the front of the car turning to go toward the building. Just as he stepped onto the grass of the boulevard, three men and a woman materialized as if from thin air, guns drawn and in a matter of seconds the suspect was down on the ground, handcuffed then hurtled into a car that screeched to a halt while he was dragged from the grass.

  Jake was out of his car and crossing the street as the suspect was being tossed in the back of the police sedan. Walking up to the four arresting detectives he said, “Good job everyone. Nicely done. Beth,” he said turning to the lone female, “you take charge down here. Read him his rights, show him the warrants and keep the civilians away. I’m goin’ inside.”

  “Right, Lieutenant,” the woman said to Jake’s back as he hurried up the sidewalk to enter the building.

  Jake was the first one into the small apartment, casually strolling around, instructing the others conducting the search. He went into the bedroom and, while another detective went through the contents of the cheap dresser, went into the small closet. At first rummaging around in the almost empty closet, making as much noise as possible. After a few moments came out into the bedroom hold
ing the knife carefully with two fingers and a handkerchief.

  “Well, well. Look what we have here. Carlson,” he said to the other officer in the small room, “get me an evidence bag.”

  “Right away, Lieutenant,”

  After placing the knife in the clear plastic bag, sealing and marking it, Jake hung around in the apartment for another fifteen minutes while the detectives tore the place to shreds. Satisfied they were being thorough, he said to Gary Barnes, “Gary, make sure you get every stitch of clothing, bagged and marked. Plus, any silverware and knives. Anything that might be a weapon.”

  “You got it, Lieutenant,” Barnes said.

  “I’m goin’ out to talk to our suspect. With what we have now, we can at least take him in,” said Waschke. “I’ll see ya’ downtown. Be thorough.”

  “Count on it. I’ll hang out here ‘til the lab guys are done. Too bad they didn’t turn up anything at the park this morning.”

  “Yeah, too bad. I gotta tell ya’ though, this one feels right. I think we may have him,” Jake said as he held up the plastic enclosed bread knife.

  He approached the car in which the suspect was seated, the seat belt pulled tight around his waist and his hands cuffed in his lap.

  Jake walked past the small crowd in front of the building, held at bay by a group of uniformed officers. When he reached the side of his car, he said to the woman he had left in charge of the street scene, “You read him his rights?”

  “Twice, Lieutenant. With witnesses and he definitely responded that he understood,” Beth answered.

  “Has he said anything? “

  “What the fuck is this all about and I aint done nothing is about all.”

  Jake stepped over to the car, opened the door next to his suspect, leaned in to look at him just as Fomich yelled, “What the fuck is goin’ on? What’s this bullshit? This is about those women, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Jake calmly.

  Fornich paused, uncertainty in his eyes and on his face, then said, “I recognize you. The cop on TV. I watch the news and read the papers. I aint no fuckin’ dummy.”

  With that, Jake thumped the door closed, turned back to Beth Johnson and said, “Let’s get him downtown. Try to do this quick and quiet. I want no one talking to him till we get downtown. You drive this car. Get one of the uniforms to go with you. I’ll lead.”

  At the Old City Hall Building, in the basement hallway in front of the task force squad room, a mob of reporters and defense lawyers was already waiting for them. From any one of a dozen places, the news of the arrest had leaked out. A small group of people bringing in the suspect, Waschke in the lead and Fomich surrounded by three plain clothes detectives all followed by two uniformed cops, came round a hallway corner and ran straight into bedlam. The group closed up and Jake used his size to plow through the crush of people with their recorders, lights and minicams while Waschke repeated a ‘no comment’ to the pointlessly shouted questions.

  They somehow managed to bull their way to the squad room door and as Waschke was about to turn the knob a sudden calm and silence came over the crowd. Opening the door to lead Fomich inside, a reporter with Channel 8, standing right next to Jake with her cameraman’s light directly in his face, got off the question they all wanted answered, “Is this the killer, Lieutenant Waschke?” she said as she thrust her microphone toward Jake.

  Before Jake could get out the ‘no comment’, the fear, anger and anxiety overcame the suspect and he jerked his arms free of the detectives. He stepped right up to the woman, his face a contorted mask of rage, raised his manacled hands extending the middle finger of both, pointed them at the crowd, and screamed, “Yeah! Fuck you! Fuckin’ right. I did it. . .” as a dozen strobe lights flashed and minicams whirred. Jake and two of the other detectives grabbed him, flinging him through the door and into the first available chair then slammed and locked the door behind them.

  Jake knelt down in front of him, his nose inches from the suspect’s and yelled, “You sit right there and shut the fuck up. Not another word. You got it? “

  “Assholes,” responded Fornich.

  “You could’ve called me sooner, Jake,” Jake heard John Lucas say as Lucas got up from his perch on top of one of the desks.

  “John, I’m really sorry,” Jake calmly replied. “It all came up kinda fast and, to be totally honest, no bullshit, no excuses, I forgot about you. I’m sorry.”

  “What do we have?” Lucas asked nodding at the surly suspect with the defiant look on his face.

  “Not sure yet, John,” Jake whispered so the suspect would not overhear. “May have a witness who can place him at the scene last night. Plus, we found a knife that could be our weapon at his apartment.” He turned to the other officers and said, “Beth, you and Bob come here a second. Listen,” he continued quietly to the two detectives, Lucas listening over his shoulder, “set up a lineup right away. Do it right. Get guys who’re close to him in appearance. I want a lawyer down here for him to cover the lineup. Call the Public Defenders office and have them send someone over.”

  “Why not just get one of the vultures in the hall? Must be a dozen of ‘em out there. I thought they were gonna start throwing business cards at the guy,” Bob Sherman said.

  “Lock him in the room until we get it set up. No one talks to him,” Waschke commanded.

  After Fornich was locked away, still handcuffed, in the small interrogation room, Jake said, “Where’s our witness? What’s-his-name?”

  “Hobbs, Lieutenant. Marty Hobbs. He’s upstairs. We’ve been taking real good care of him,” answered one of the uniforms that had squeezed through the mob in the hall.

  “Get him down here. I wanna talk to him before the lineup,” Jake said.

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant. Be right back,” the same man said.

  “Oh, Jake,” said Lucas after he returned to his seat on the desktop, “I just remembered. Your brother called just before you came in. Asked me to have you call. Said it was important. Said to call him at home.”

  “You gonna stick around, John?” Jake asked.

  “Are you kidding? You couldn’t drag me away,” Lucas replied.

  “Good. Well, I’ll call my brother. He’ll tell the Governor what’s going on. Let me know when Hobbs gets here,” Jake said to Lucas as he headed for his office.

  “Danny, it’s Jake. What’s up?” he said into the phone.

  “Oh, Jake. Look, um, I can’t really talk right now,” Daniel began. “But, um, I just wanted to let you know I saw Dr. Lester today and he put me on my meds. Pretty heavy dose, he said. Anyway, I wanted you to know I feel better already. More in control. More relaxed. I can’t go into it now but, I’ll be okay.”

  “That’s great, Danny. Now, listen. We made an arrest today on the killings. You understand? We arrested someone and everything will work out. Just keep seeing Lester and promise me you’ll do what he says and take the medication. Promise me that, Danny.”

  “Yeah, Jake, I promise. I swear I will,” Danny whispered. “You made an arrest? Who? What’s the guys name?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Watch the news. There’s a howling herd of them out in the hall already,” Jake said. “You can tell your boss but no one else. Okay? I’ll be in touch. I gotta go now,” Jake said when he saw Marty Hobbs being led through the door. “Bye, Danny. Be cool,” he finished as he hung up the phone.

  He stood behind his desk for a moment, looking first at Hobbs and then, his gaze focused on the detective from St. Paul, John Lucas. Lucas was still sitting on the edge of the desk, his legs dangling and crossed at the ankles, his arms at his side with the palms of his hands pressed against the desktop. He was staring directly at Hobbs. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. A puzzled expression on his face.

  THIRTY

  “What time is it?” Margaret sleepily asked Marc as she rolled over and pulled the bedclothes above her naked shoulders.

  “A little after six,” Marc answered. “Sorry,” h
e continued as he sat down on the edge of the bed and bent over to lightly kiss her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, smiling up at him. “Why are you up so early?”

  “I have to be downtown St. Paul by 8:30, remember? Federal Court. We’re first up and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right,” she purred. “Come back to bed,” she continued as she held out her arms to him.

  “No way. Besides, you need to brush your teeth,” he answered with a laugh as he stood up.

  “What are we going to do this weekend?” she asked, now fully awake.

  “I need to spend some time at my place. I’ve been here so much the last couple weeks the laundry is starting to spill out into the living room,” Marc said. Margaret got out of bed, still naked, grabbed her bathrobe and headed for the bathroom as she slipped it over her shoulders.

  A few minutes later, as Marc was gulping down the last of his coffee, she came down the stairs and said, “You know, I’ve yet to see this alleged apartment of yours. For all I know, you’re just another married man having a little fling on the side.”

  “Yeah, right,” he laughed. “And she hasn’t noticed how much I’ve been gone lately. Look,” he continued as he glanced at his watch, walked over to her and put both arms around her, “I gotta go. I’ll call you later and we’ll make plans. You can come over and help me clean and wash clothes.”

  “Sweet talker,” she said as they kissed. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time. Good luck in court. Let me know how it goes.”

  Marc walked quickly down the sidewalk from the lot where he left his car, hurrying the short block to the Federal Court even though he knew he had plenty of time. Approaching the building’s entrance, he passed the blue and green newspaper boxes of the Twin Cities’ two daily papers in front of the building. Passing both, he looked through the plastic window of the dispensary machines. On the front page of each was the angry, twisted face of Carl Fornich making the obscene gesture. Marc stopped and read the headline of each, both with the same basic message informing the reader about the arrest. He went through the glass entryway door, stopped at the security desk to pass through the metal detector and headed directly to the bank of elevators.