There was a sharp knock on the door, a detective stuck his head in and said, “There’s a priest here. Says he is this Traynor guy’s priest and insists on seeing him.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Kane said.
A minute later Kane opened the door to the interrogation room and let Father John go in. She then motioned for Officer Fulton to step out and she told him to watch the door from outside the room.
THIRTY-TWO
An hour after Father John called him, Marc Kadella arrived at the police department. He was escorted into the detective’s room where he was spotted by Steve Gondeck.
“What’s going on?” Marc asked Gondeck as the two men shook hands.
“Are you the lawyer the priest called and do you represent him?” Gondeck asked.
“Yes, and for today I represent him. We’ll see about anything more than that,” Marc replied. “I was in court across the street and got a text from my office. You guys picked up Howie Traynor?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“For this Crown of Thornes business?”
“Well, um, yeah. For questioning about it,” Gondeck said.
“Why?”
“Can’t tell you that,” Gondeck said.
Marc looked at his friend for a moment then said, “What do you mean, you can’t tell me that?”
“He’s not under arrest yet.”
“What does that mean, yet? In other words, you don’t have enough for an arrest warrant or a search warrant so you’re fishing. Where is he?” Marc asked without waiting for an answer.
The two lawyers had been standing by an empty desk. By this time Kane, Jefferson and Sterling joined them. It was Jefferson who answered Marc about Traynor’s whereabouts.
“He’s in an interrogation room with his priest. I’ll take you there.”
Jefferson led the way with Marc trailing behind, briefcase in hand. He was followed by Gondeck, Kane and Sterling. When they reached the room, Fulton opened the door to let Marc go in.
“If I find out you’re listening in on this…” Marc started to say to the cops.
“Hey, you know me better than that,” Gondeck indignantly replied.
“A friendly reminder,” Marc smiled.
Marc entered the room and found Traynor and the priest seated at the table together. Both men’s hands were folded as if they had been praying. Howie had a contrite and worried look on his face.
“Mr. Kadella, I swear I had nothing to do with any of this,” Howie blurted out before the door was closed behind him.
“Relax, Howie. Nothing’s happening yet,” Marc said. He introduced himself to the priest then politely asked him to leave.
“He can stay,” Howie said.
“The priest-penitent privilege might not apply to our discussion,” Marc said.
“It’s okay, Howard,” Father John said, as he pushed back his chair and stood to leave. “I’ll wait right outside.”
“Did the cops say anything to you?” Marc asked when the priest left.
“No, nothing,” Howie replied. “I been around the block a few times. I got a past, I know that. But I ain’t done nothing and the cops know it. They’re just hassling me ‘cause they’re desperate.”
“Why do you think they know you haven’t done anything?”
“Because they’ve been following me. Almost since the day we were in court and I got out.”
“How do you know that?” Marc asked.
“‘Cause I’ve seen them. They sit outside my apartment all night and follow me everywhere. I’m not that stupid.”
Marc thought about what his client had just told him then said, “Just a second.”
He stood up, opened the door and said, “Come on in.”
Gondeck, Kane, Jefferson and Sterling all filed into the interrogation room along with Father John who sat down next to Howie as the three cops and Steve Gondeck stood along one wall. Marc closed the door behind them, sat down and abruptly asked, “Have you been following my client? Have you been conducting twenty-four hour a day surveillance of him?”
It was Jefferson who answered. “We are not at liberty to discuss police procedures regarding an ongoing investigation.”
“So, the answer is yes, you have,” Marc said. “This means his alibi for these murders is about as good as it gets.” This last statement was made by Marc while he looked directly at Steve Gondeck. “We’re leaving,” Marc said as he stood up.
“Wait, Mr. Kadella,” Howie said. “I’ll say one thing.”
“I’m advising you not to,” Marc told him as he sat down again.
“It’s okay,” Howie told Marc. “I know you think that somehow I have done these murders. I haven’t. But I’ve been thinking about it and my money is on the Forsberg guy and probably Gene Parlow.”
“Why do you say that?” Jefferson asked.
Howie looked at Marc who said, “Go ahead. Tell him why.”
“Because every time we go to the lawyer, that woman who’s suing the city for us, they’re both there before me and pretty chummy. Then when I get there they clam up. And I know Forsberg is really angry about the whole thing. He’s pissed about getting screwed when he was convicted and he’s pissed about the settlement offer.
“I knew Gene Parlow when I was in prison. He used to bitch all the time about how his lawyer screwed him over and he’d like to get even. If I was you guys, I’d look at them.”
“Is my client under arrest?” Marc asked when Howie finished.
“No,” Gondeck replied.
“Is he willing to take a lie detector test?” Selena Kane abruptly jumped in.
“There’s no such thing as a lie detector,” Marc said. “It’s a fantasy for TV. If he passes the test will you guys leave him alone? No. If he fails it, then what? So to answer your question, no, he will not take a polygraph.”
Marc looked at Gondeck and said, “I want the harassment of my client to stop. No more surveillance.”
“No one’s harassing Mr. Traynor,” Gondeck replied.
Marc stared at Gondeck, realizing he had not admitted to the surveillance but had also not agreed to end it.
“They better not, Steve,” Marc said.
“Is that a threat?” Kane asked.
“Don’t even try that ‘is that a threat’ line with me, Lieutenant. I’m not impressed. Let’s go,” Marc said. Marc, Howie and Father John stood up and walked out.
Steve Gondeck, Jefferson and Marcie Sterling were seated at the table in the conference room. Selena Kane was on the phone giving the chief an update. Gondeck was looking at the names on the whiteboard, specifically the ones with a circle around them.
“Could he be right?” Gondeck asked. “Is it this Parlow guy or Forsberg or maybe both of them?”
“Maybe,” Jefferson answered him.
“Maybe? You do realize that alone is enough to create reasonable doubt,” the prosecuting attorney said.
“Something’s been bothering me. How would Parlow or Forsberg know who Elliot Sanders was? How did they know he was the jury foreman at Traynor’s trial?” Marcie asked. “We’re assuming that at least two of the last three victims were killed to cast doubt and confuse us. The lawyers for Parlow and Forsberg, Segal and Meyers, would have been easy to find out. But Traynor’s jury foreman…”
“I don’t know. How did you find out?” Gondeck asked.
“We called the court clerk’s office and they looked it up for us,” Jefferson said.
“They should have a record of anyone else making that inquiry,” Gondeck said. “But Forsberg could easily be computer savvy enough to find out on his own.”
“Parlow, probably not,” Marcie said.
“That doesn’t eliminate him,” Gondeck said. “So, we’re back to these two guys could be involved.”
“What about all three together?” Jefferson asked.
The small room went silent while the three of them thought this over. A minute later it was Marcie who broke the silence.
�
��Possible, but not likely.”
“Why?” Gondeck asked.
“Because Traynor just handed us the other two,” Marcie said. “Would he do that if he was involved with them?”
“Good point,” Jefferson glumly agreed.
“Hey,” Gondeck leaned across the table and looked at the cops. “We can’t dismiss anything right now. Keep digging, we have to find something. But one thing’s for sure, Traynor’s lawyer is right. He has an airtight alibi courtesy of the MPD.”
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.
Certain Justice Page 20
