Certain Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Something’s wrong,” Jay said to his wife. “Wolves aren’t normally that brave to get so close to humans.”

  Alarmed now at the brazenness of the wolves, the two of them turned and ran up the driveway. As they passed the equipment shed on their right, the motion light above the shed came on illuminating the yard and driveway.

  Her husband continued to hurry toward the house but something out of the ordinary caught the corner of Sharon’s eye. She turned to her right, shined the light alongside the shed and audibly gasped and yelled, “Jay!” when she saw him. Twenty feet away, the judge was sitting on the ground between two birch trees, each hand nailed to a tree, his head slumped forward and his shirt covered in blood.

  The doctor turned to the sound of his wife’s voice and immediately saw the light shining on his friend. “Oh my God,” he muttered as he hurried back to his wife.

  “Give me the light,” he said as he took the flashlight from her. “Go in the house and call 911,” he continued while still holding the light on the body. “Call 911 and tell them there’s been a homicide.”

  Sharon had been staring, her eyes unblinking as he said this. Realizing what her husband had said, she snapped to and as she turned to go to the house, she simply said, “Yes,” and ran toward the building.

  Jay’s instinct as a physician was to examine the body to be sure his friend was dead. During the years of his practice, the doctor also acted as a county coroner. The position rotated among himself and six other physicians, each doing the job for two years then passing it along. Because of this, Jay Patterson had been at a few murder scenes; enough to know the protocol and to be careful not to contaminate it. He could clearly see Smith was dead so he stayed back where he was. He also kept one eye open for the wolves realizing the scent of his friend’s blood had been the source of their interest.

  Balm Lake is located twenty-eight miles northwest of Bemidji, the Beltrami county seat. In less than half an hour of receiving Sharon’s 911 call, the judge’s property was literally crawling with Bemidji police and Beltrami County Sheriff’s deputies.

  Sheriff Ed Newton, who was called at home, arrived forty-five minutes after the 911 call. A long time veteran of law enforcement, the sheriff immediately took charge. It was now past sunrise and the sheriff already had teams of officers carefully combing through the woods looking for evidence. On the way to the crime scene, the sheriff had called the local office of the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to request their assistance.

  “What’s that on his head?” Newton rhetorically asked the medical examiner as he bent to look at the body. “Jesus Christ,” Newton said when he realized what it was. The killer or killers had placed a double-strand of barbed wire that had been twisted together and made into a crown, on the judge’s head.

  “Is this some kind of sick, religious thing?” Newton asked.

  “Don’t know,” the ME answered. “I’ll know more when I get him back to town but he was tortured too. Look,” he continued as he pointed his pen at the dead man’s hands. “All of his fingers and toes have been crushed by something. Probably a pair of pliers.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the sheriff softly said again. “Look, Doc, keep the details, especially the broken fingers and toes to yourself. Keep that out of the media and the public for now.”

  “You got it, Sheriff.”

  By the next morning, the news had reached the Twin Cities. A murdered Minnesota Appeals Court judge, even a retired one, merited at least some attention. The killer saw the Channel 8 report which took up about five minutes of air time just before a commercial break. The report was short on details and since it took place two hundred miles from the metro area, didn’t create much of a stir. Within forty-eight hours, it was completely forgotten by the population, including the cops of the Cities.

  FIFTEEN

  Aaron Forsberg parked the Ford mini-van he had borrowed from his uncle in the garage of his uncle’s home in Golden Valley, a suburb west of Minneapolis. He shut off the engine and exited the vehicle. It had been a long night and Aaron was dead tired and in no mood to discuss his whereabouts, even with the only person he knew who had stood by him and still did.

  Aaron had been convicted of murdering his wife a little more than eleven years ago. At the time, it had been a sensational trial with infidelity, jealousy and of course, money all thrown into the mix. Aaron had been a very successful investment banker earning seven figures in salary and bonuses. The problem was he had to work ninety to a hundred hours per week to do it. This, of course, made for a very lonely home life for his wife and three children. Not surprisingly his wife Sarah, a still attractive woman in her mid-thirties, struck up an affair.

  Late one Friday night while all three children were at friend’s homes or their grandma’s, Aaron came home late to find Sarah lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Her skull had been cracked like an egg with a claw hammer the cops found in the garage. The hammer had traces of Sarah’s blood and hair and Aaron’s fingerprints. Aaron’s DNA was discovered on the body in the form of saliva found on Sarah’s face. Aaron claimed it was from him leaning over the body, sobbing and probably drooling a little because he was so distraught. Once his wife’s affair and the one Aaron was carrying on with a co-worker came to light, no one bought his story.

  A year later, Aaron was sentenced to two thirty-year prison terms to run consecutively. One of the factors Judge Ross Peterson used to depart from the sentencing guidelines and make the terms consecutive was Aaron’s refusal to accept responsibility. Aaron insisted he was innocent and steadfastly maintained that position and still did for the murder. Aaron believed it must have been his wife’s lover but the man had an airtight alibi.

  While in prison, Aaron lost everything. His children hated him, his friends and relatives abandoned him and all of his money was gone. The money went to legal fees or into a court ordered trust fund for his children. The only one who believed him and stood by him was the uncle with whom he now resided, John Forsberg, his deceased father’s younger brother.

  For his own protection, Aaron had been sent to a prison in Michigan to do his time. As angry and bitter as he was after the trial, prison life also took its toll on his personality. Never one who could be described as warm and cuddly, prison had instilled a sharp, edgy hardness in him.

  Aaron entered the house from the attached garage through the kitchen door. He passed through it and found his uncle seated at the small, round, wooden dining room table directly in front of him facing the garage door. The morning paper was scattered about the table top and the TV was on in the living room.

  “Where were you all night?” John politely asked him.

  “Out,” Aaron tersely replied lightly placing his hands on the back of a table chair while looking down at his uncle.

  “It would be nice if you would let me know if you’re going to do that. You’ve been gone since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Sorry,” he replied without inflection.

  “Your lawyer called.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Didn’t say. She asked me to tell you to call her.”

  “On Sunday morning? That‘s a little odd,” Aaron said. “I’m tired. I’ll call her later.”

  John hesitated for a moment and looked directly at Aaron’s face before saying, “One of the judges who turned down your appeal was murdered last night.” Uncle John couldn’t swear to it but he thought he saw a flicker of something from Aaron’s eyes and face.

  “No shit, huh. Well, the bastard had it coming.”

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” John asked still looking for a reaction from his nephew.

  Aaron hesitated a brief moment then said, “Why would you think that?” Aaron released his grip on the chair, stepped back and indignantly said, “I’m going to bed.” Without another word, he walked through the living room toward the guest bedroom.

  He looked at the TV just as the young woman announcer told the viewe
rs about the murder of a retired state appeals court judge. She gave his name and said the body was found at his cabin near Bemidji. No further details were available. Unseen by his uncle, Aaron slyly smiled and went into his bedroom.

  While he watched his nephew walk away, John couldn’t help wondering about Aaron’s reaction. He had not asked a single question about the murder of the judge. Who was it? Where did it happen? How did John find out? Nothing. Not a single inquiry. And John couldn’t help noticing that, although Aaron admitted nothing, he didn’t deny anything either.

  As the morning sun was making its way from east to west, a single ray beamed through the bedroom window and hit Eugene Parlow in the eyes. Still in bed after a long day and longer night, he was in no hurry to get up. Parlow was the second of the four men released from prison because of tainted DNA. Because the DNA test results were the only solid, physical evidence against him, his lawyer had opted for a trial to the bench without a jury. Her reasoning being a judge would be less likely to convict on DNA evidence only. Parlow was convicted of second-degree murder in the stabbing death of a Minneapolis street prostitute.

  He was released a few days before Howie Traynor and wasted no time reacquainting himself with old friends. In just a few weeks he had already been involved in one armed robbery and three burglaries. Parlow’s total share of all of the felonies was barely three thousand dollars, most of which he spent on booze and prostitutes. The rest of the money, Parlow liked to joke, he just wasted.

  Parlow spent several minutes covering his eyes from the sun while thinking of the previous night’s events. He rolled his head to his right and saw that it was almost noon. Having arrived home and to bed around 5:00 A.M. he contemplated going back to sleep. With the sunlight now streaming through the window, he realized that was probably futile.

  Parlow tossed the blankets aside and by the time his feet hit the floor he had reached for his cigarettes and lighter from beside the clock. Putting a cigarette in his mouth as he stood, he lit it with one hand while scratching his crotch through his boxers with the other.

  He relieved himself in the toilet then shuffled out of the bathroom to the living room of his tiny apartment. Parlow thought about the lawyer, the Albright woman, who had loaned him some money and guaranteed him a huge settlement for being falsely convicted and sent to prison.

  Parlow plopped down on the ratty looking, second-hand couch, picked up the TV remote and pressed the power button. The TV, a 42-inch flat screen, was the only decent item in the tiny apartment. Purchased with money from the lawyer, it was the nicest thing Parlow had ever owned.

  When the screen lit up, a male anchor with perfect hair and perfect teeth was reading the news. The lead story was about the judge found murdered at his cabin in northern Minnesota. Parlow watched and listened with great interest but the details, other than the man’s name were very limited.

  SIXTEEN

  Tony Carvelli walked through the door of the detectives’ squad room and headed toward Owen Jefferson’s desk. On the way he said hello or waved a brief greeting to several cop friends including Jefferson’s boss, Lt. Selena Kane who smiled and waved back from her glass enclosed private office.

  Sensing the disturbance of the ambient atmosphere of the room created by Carvelli’s arrival, Jefferson looked up from the file he was reading. He closed the file and placed it on the desktop then swiveled in his chair, leaned back, crossed his right leg over his left and laced his fingers behind his head.

  Carvelli grabbed one of the cheap padded metal government chairs from another desk, placed it alongside Jefferson’s and sat down.

  “I didn’t know you knew Selena,” Jefferson commented.

  “Yeah, I’ve known her for a while. She made detective just before I retired. Word is she’s about to get kicked upstairs and you’ll get her job,” Carvelli said.

  “Huh,” Jefferson almost snorted. “I’ll believe that when it happens.”

  “You want her job?”

  Jefferson removed his hands from behind his head and thought for a moment before answering. “That’s another question, but yeah, I think I do. Why not? More money, less street hassle.”

  “Whatever I can do to help, let me know,” Carvelli sincerely offered.

  “With your reputation upstairs?” Jefferson said raising his eyebrows. “Please, don’t help me.”

  “That’s insensitive,” Carvelli said feigning hurt feelings. “I’m a very sensitive guy.”

  “Uh huh. About as sensitive as a biker gang,” Jefferson said with a wry grin. “So, what’s up with our boy? Come up with anything?”

  Carvelli went over in detail the surveillance he had out on Howie Traynor. For the past two weeks, they had been on him from the time he left his apartment until he got home. A typical day would see him leave around 8:00 A.M. He would drive directly to the church where he worked and head home, usually between 3:00 and 4:00. Sometimes he would leave a little earlier, sometimes a little later. Traynor would normally drive straight back to his apartment maybe stopping at a grocery store on his way home. He would have dinner early then four or five times a week go to a gym and workout. After that, straight home and in for the evening. The surveillance would stay with him until around 10:30 or 11:00 when the TV and lights in his apartment would go out. So far, he had no guests stop by and did not leave the apartment at all except to go to the gym. The only thing out of the ordinary he had done was to make a couple of trips to see his lawyer, Glenda Albright, at an office she was using in downtown Minneapolis.

  “Did your guys interview Jimmy Oliver about the little chat he had with Howie?” Carvelli asked.

  “Yeah, I did personally. He claims Howie told him he forgives him. Said he wanted to let Jimmy know he had nothing to fear from him.”

  “Did Oliver buy it?”

  “He’s not sure. He remembers the Howie Traynor from back in the day. He told me when he saw Howie standing at the bar he almost passed out. But Howie assured him it was all good. Maybe this conversion to Jesus is legitimate,” Jefferson said.

  “Maybe,” Tony shrugged. “But my cynical cop intuition tells me it’s bullshit. I can’t explain why but I can’t shake it either.”

  “Hmmm. Cynical cop intuition is a good thing and it’s been my experience that it’s often right. How long will you stay on him?”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said. “At least another week, maybe two. The guys don’t mind. It gives them something to do and the money’s good.”

  “Vivian Donahue’s money. She must have some.”

  “This is nothing for her plus she’s pissed this guy got cut loose. If you ever get the chance to cross her, don’t. This lady is not someone you want as an enemy.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I run for governor,” Jefferson said. He spun around in his chair, picked up the file he was looking over when Carvelli arrived, handed it to him and said, “Take a look at this. Ever see or hear of anything like it?”

  Tony took the thin file and quickly read through its slim contents. It consisted of a police report and preliminary autopsy. When he finished it, he handed it back to Jefferson.

  “This that judge that was killed up North Saturday night?” Carvelli asked.

  “Yeah, Robert Smith. Retired judge of the state appeals court. Somebody didn’t like one of his opinions,” Jefferson half-joked.

  “I’ve heard of victims being posed but nothing like this,” Carvelli said. “Must’ve been a helluva sight for the neighbors to find. They’re lucky the wolves didn’t get to him first.”

  “Beltrami County is looking for help,” Jefferson said. “They’re sending this,” he continued as he tapped the file, “all over the upper Midwest and to the Feebs to see if anyone has come across anything similar.”

  “They’ll probably come up with something. At least something similar,” Tony said as he stood to leave. “I’ll check around. If I come up with anything I’ll let you know. I’ll keep in touch about our boy Howie too.”


  Jefferson stood, the two men shook hands and Tony turned to leave.

  While Carvelli was meeting with Owen Jefferson, Marc Kadella was across Fifth Street in the government center. He was attending a pretrial conference in a courtroom on the fifteenth floor. It was the pretrial conference for his uncle’s solicitation case. Normally the pretrial conference is an opportunity for the defense to talk to the prosecutor about the case. To check out the strengths and weaknesses and in all likelihood, make a plea arrangement, especially for first-time misdemeanor defendants.

  Marc had patiently waited in the gallery seated next to Uncle Larry for the better part of an hour. The judge was not on the bench and whenever a deal was made, one of the lawyers from the city attorney’s office, the defense lawyer and the defendant would go back to the judge’s chambers. There the judge would hear them out and decide if he would accept the plea arrangement. Since the cases being considered were all misdemeanors, it would be extremely rare for the judge to turn it down. Normally there would be a fine, maybe a little jail time and some typically unsupervised probation. The judge would have his clerk and stenographer come in and they would make a formal record. Once that was finished, the case was completed.

  One of the city attorneys, a balding, heavyset man dressed in a cheap suit in his early fifties, Earl Bicknell, looked over his shoulder at Marc and motioned him forward. Marc told Larry to wait, went through the gate and took a seat at the table with Bicknell.

  “Hey, Marc,” Bicknell said. “Haven’t seen much of you lately since you became such a hot shot celebrity.”

  Marc leaned forward and whispered, “Fuck you, Earl,” to which both men laughed.

  Bicknell opened the file and said, “Larry Jensen. First time solicitation. I’m feeling generous today. Three hundred dollar fine plus costs.”

  “Sorry, Earl,” Marc said. “No.”