by Glenn Ickler
“Did you tell Martha that her call saved you from drinking yourself into God knows what kind of a mess?”
“I haven’t told her yet. I know she’ll feel guilty about having left the wine in the house, so I’m waiting until she gets home and I have to explain the missing bottle.”
“Just be sure you remember to tell her,” Jayne said. “She might not want to leave alcohol around the house next time she’s gone.”
“I might not want to have another crazy bastard put me into a condition that calls for alcohol.”
We sipped ginger ale in silence for a couple of minutes before she said, “Didn’t I read that you had another strange experience the day after the knife at your throat?”
“I did,” I said. “Al and I did. We found a body in a veritable Lake Superior of blood when we went to interview a guy who claimed to know something about our cold case girl, Marilee Anderson.”
“Do you think the murder of that man had anything to do with the case?”
“I don’t know. It could be that or it could have been a break-in that went really down the toilet.”
“What do the police think?”
“Who knows? The investigator is our old friend K.G. Barnes of the Falcon Heights Police Department.”
“The woman who wouldn’t talk to the media after the State Fair killing?”
“The very one.”
“Did you ever try my suggestion?” Jayne had advised me to try softening up KGB by inviting her to a non-business, off-the-record lunch.
“We eventually had lunch together but it didn’t work out,” I said. “She just has a crazy hatred of the press.”
“More likely it’s fear—the fear of saying too much or making a mistake. If lunch didn’t work, maybe you can play on the fear. Try raising the possibility of something bad happening if she’s too close-mouthed.”
“What would that be?”
“I don’t know. Try to come up with something. You’re the reporter. I can’t do all your thinking for you.” She opened her purse, took out a small notebook and a pen, and wrote on a page. She tore out the page and handed it to me. “Here’s something I can do for you. Here’s my phone number.”
“I already have your number in my cell phone,” I said.
“This is written in nice big numbers. Put it up where you can see it, and remember to call it the next time you’re all alone and drooling for a drink.”
“You’re assuming that something extremely traumatic will happen to me again.”
“Your history tells me that the odds in favor of that are pretty good.”
She had me there.
* * *
WHEN I BOOTED UP my computer Tuesday morning I found an e-mail informing the media that the Ramsey County medical examiner would discuss the results of the autopsy on Henry L. Moustakas at 10:30 a.m. I relayed this information to Don O’Rourke, who promptly assigned Al and me to cover it.
“You look kind of limp this morning,” Al said as we sat in the cafeteria drinking coffee prior to our departure. “And the bags under your eyes would hold a pound of potato chips.”
“Tough night at AA,” I said. “Everybody wanted to hear about that goon holding the knife to my throat. I got the shakes all over again just telling about it and I didn’t sleep all that well when I got home.”
“I guess it was neck and neck whether the cops would get there before he cut your throat.” Leave it to Al to find a one-liner to brighten my day.
“Even after the cops arrived it was touch and almost go,” I said. I had stopped covering the scab with gauze and I caressed it between my thumb and forefinger as I spoke. It was hard and rough and blessedly dry.
Al saw the move. “Don’t worry, nothing’s leaking out,” he said. “Not even cider from your Adam’s apple.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said. I finished my coffee with two big gulps and we went to listen to Dr. Lyle Lundberg discuss some serious bloodshed.
The usual crowd was on hand for the medical examiner’s report. I took my customary position behind Trish Valentine, who was clad as skimpily as Channel Four’s dress code would allow because the temperature outdoors was ninety-two degrees. I knew her translucent, low-cut blouse would draw Dr. Lundberg’s attention, which would put me in his line of vision if I raised my hand to ask a question.
At precisely 10:30 a.m., Dr. Lundberg entered the meeting room, followed by KGB and her boss, Falcon Heights Police Chief Victoria Tubb. The good doctor looked first in our direction and began to swivel his head leftward to scan the audience. His head stopped in mid-swivel and jerked back our way for a second look at Trish’s generously exposed cleavage before it turned away again for a complete scan of the assemblage. The white-haired M.E. was in his middle sixties, but his male instincts were still in their prime.
“Our autopsy has shown that Henry L. Moustakas died from a massive loss of blood caused by a stab wound that pierced a major artery,” Dr. Lundberg said. “The wound did not result in immediate death. The victim’s heart continued to beat for several moments, all but emptying his body of blood.” Okay, that explained the expanse of red that covered most of the kitchen floor.
“The wound was inflicted by a long, narrow blade, which entered just below the rib cage on the victim’s left side. The victim was found lying on his back with his right hand covering the wound, as if he had attempted to stop the flow of blood. The time of death is estimated at approximately six o’clock on the morning of July twenty-fourth. That’s all I have unless you have questions.”
True to form, Dr. Lundberg was looking at Trish, and her hand shot up. “What was the victim wearing?” she asked. “Was he dressed for the day or was he in pajamas?”
The doctor smiled. “I’d say he was partially dressed for the day. He was wearing trousers but no shirt. The killer had a bare upper torso to aim at.”
He was still staring down Trish’s blouse at her upper torso when I asked, “Would you say the killer was right-handed?”
Raising his eyes far enough to look at me, Dr. Lundberg said, “The positioning of the wound toward the victim’s left side would indicate that the blow was struck by a right-handed person facing him.” Exactly as I’d imagined.
“Are there any clues as to the killer’s motive?” asked a man behind me. “Was it a robbery gone bad, or what?”
“That’s out of my area of expertise,” Dr. Lundberg said. “Perhaps Chief Tubb would respond to that.”
Chief Tubb stepped forward. “We have no evidence that would lead to a motive at this time,” she said.
“How about suspects?” asked Barry Ziebart of Channel Five. “Did the neighbors see or hear anything?”
“We have no suspects and Detective Barnes has received no information from any of the neighbors at this time,” Chief Tubb said. I made a note to question some of Old Hank’s neighbors for my next story.
“What about family?” Trish asked. “Who are the victim’s survivors?”
“The victim lived alone and had never been married,” the chief said. “We found a contact number for a brother in Minot, North Dakota, who will be coming to claim the victim’s remains as soon as we release it. The brother is older—I believe he said he’s sixty-eight. He has a wife and two adult children, but both of the parents are deceased, as are all of their aunts and uncles.”
I asked for the brother’s name and the answer was Herbert. How about that? Old Hank and Old Herb.
After a couple of more questions, Chief Tubb indicated that the session was over and the trio left the room. Before turning to follow the two officers, Dr. Lundberg took a last look at Trish Valentine. All he saw was her back, because she was facing the camera and reporting live.
* * *
MY E-MAIL CONTAINED a message from St. Adolphus Catholic Church, which reminded me that I had left a voicemail message there on Saturday asking for a comment on the maintenance man they called Old Hank. The call had not been returned, and this e-mail was a canned statement from the past
or, Father Joseph, expressing deep sorrow over the loss of their longtime employee and friend, Henry Moustaskas.
Seeking something more personal, I called the church again and asked the woman who answered if I could speak with Father Joseph. She wasn’t sure that he was available, but after several minutes of waiting on hold a man with a hearty bass voice greeted me and identified himself as Father Joseph.
I explained my mission and noted that during a previous call, the secretary had referred to the departed as Old Hank.
“Well, yes, I guess some folks here called him that,” Father Joseph said. “He’s worked in the church, the rectory, and the convent here for quite a number of years so the ladies, in particular, got quite familiar with him. He was a bachelor and he would flirt with the ladies a little, don’t you know.”
“He flirted with nuns?” I said.
“Oh, more with our lay people than with our nuns, but all the ladies loved him. It’s a sad day here, Mr. Mitchell, a sad day indeed.” He spoke with an Irish lilt that I hadn’t expected from a priest at a church named St. Adolphus.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Tell me, Father, was there anyone you know of who might not have loved him?”
“Oh, no, I can’t think of anyone. If you’re asking if anybody here might have killed him I can give you a flat no, Mr. Mitchell. There’s nobody here at St. Adolphus capable of such a thing, and certainly not when it’s Henry.”
“Did I hear you say you have a convent there in addition to the church?”
“Oh, yes, a small one. We have about half a dozen nuns and a few lay people living here on the grounds. I’m sure as you’re born that none of them had any quarrel with Henry, either.”
“How about outside-of-the-church staff and the people in the convent? Anybody you can think of who might have had a gripe against Henry?”
“In the congregation, you mean? Again, I’ve got to say a flat-out no, Mr. Mitchell. Henry always did his job real well and went out of his way to help fix anybody’s problems. I can’t imagine why anybody would want to hurt a man like Henry. It must have been some sneaking house-breaker that got caught in the act and stabbed poor Henry in order to get away. I do hope the police catch the man who did this awful thing.”
“I do, too,” I said. “Have the police talked to you and your staff?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “A woman detective came by and questioned us all one by one in my office. Very intense young lady. Not a very pleasant bedside manner, if you know what I mean. I think her name was Barnes.”
“I’m sure it was. Detective Barnes is not noted for either her personality or her tactfulness. Anyhow, I’ll let you get back to work now and I thank you for your help.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome, Mr. Mitchell, and blessings on you.” And blessings on you, Father Joseph, for knowing the proper response, I thought.
I caught Don O’Rourke just as he was leaving for the day and suggested that Al and I start the next day knocking on doors and quizzing people in Henry Moustakas’s neighborhood. Don agreed that it might be worthwhile, so I passed the word to Al and said I’d pick him up in the morning.
“You’re thinking Old Hank’s killing has some connection to our cold case, aren’t you?” Al said.
“Think about it,” I said. “I’ve talked to a woman who saw a woman that looked like Marilee Anderson at a Catholic church in north Minneapolis. And Old Hank Moustakis, who worked at a Catholic church in north Minneapolis, wanted to tell us about knowing where we could find Marilee Anderson. Is it pure coincidence? Or are we getting warm?”
“Could be that,” Al said. “Or we could just be feeling the July weather.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Old Hank’s Neighborhood
WE HAD DECIDED to get an early start Wednesday in an effort to catch some of Old Hank’s working neighbors before they left home. The first one we encountered, at 6:35 a.m., was a muscular middle-aged man in jeans and a T-shirt who was about to get into a well-used Chevy sedan. He lived three houses south of Henry Moustakas.
He told us his name was Jim and that he didn’t want either his name or his picture in the paper. “I didn’t see nothin’ and I didn’t hear nothin’ that mornin’,” he said. “Now, I’m kinda in a hurry to get to the job, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be goin’.”
“What is the job?” I asked.
“Roofin’ a house in Shoreview. So long, guys.” He slid into the driver’s seat of the Chevy, slammed the door, and drove away.
“A roofer,” Al said. “High-level work.”
“We should have wished him top of the morning,” I said. We moved one house closer to Old Hank’s and rang the doorbell. The inner door was opened about twelve inches by a barrel-shaped woman with hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed yet that morning. She was wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and floppy black slippers. She squinted at us through the screen door and said, “Yeah?”
I explained who we were and asked if she or anyone else in the house had seen or heard anything unusual around six o’clock last Friday morning. “No,” she said and slammed the door. I heard her click the lock into place.
“Real sweetie pie,” Al said.
“I admire a woman who doesn’t mince words,” I said.
We received a less frigid reception at the house next door to Henry’s. After showing our Daily Dispatch ID cards, we were actually invited in by the slender gray-haired man who answered the bell. “My wife’s still sleeping, so I can let you in, but talk quiet. She’s been scared stiff to open the door for anybody ever since poor Hank got killed. I tell her, hell’s bells, with all the cops that’ve been around here, the killer ain’t coming back.”
He said his name was Arthur Sommers and that he and his wife Hazel had lived next door to Hank for more than twenty years. “I miss the guy already,” Sommers said. “Two or three times a week we’d have a beer together on my back porch after he got home from work. I been retired for five years so it was good to have somebody to talk to besides the wife. In the winter he’d come over and play gin rummy.”
“Did he ever talk about having any trouble with people at work?” I asked.
“Never. He talked about the people there like they was family. Never heard him say a bad word about anybody there. You think somebody there might have killed him?”
“Anything is possible,” I said. “How about you? Did you see or hear anything unusual outside the morning Hank was killed?”
“You know, of all days, that was the one morning I slept in,” he said. “Usually I’m up and around before six, like I was this morning, but I got to bed late Thursday night because we watched a movie on TV and I didn’t wake up ’til after seven, when the cops came roaring up.”
“How about your wife? Was she awake early?”
“Never happen. She’s famous in our family for not being a morning person. You don’t dare call her on the phone before ten o’clock in the morning.”
We turned down an offer of coffee, Al took a mug shot of Arthur Sommers, and I thanked him as we went out the door.
“I didn’t give you much, but you’re welcome,” he said. Just the response I’d expected from a man his age.
“Are we wasting our time here?” Al asked as we walked past Henry’s house. “Chief Tubb said that none of the neighbors had told good old KGB anything.”
“Experience tells me that it’s wise to double-check anything that involves good old KGB,” I said.
At the house on the other side of Henry’s, I was able to prove my point.
The bell was answered by a young woman prepared to go to an office job. She wore a navy pantsuit with a pale blue blouse set off at the throat by a red-and-white striped dress scarf. Her brown hair was curled into a bun without a strand straying from its designated place and her makeup had been applied with the skill of a theatre artist. She was, in a word, gorgeous.
She didn’t open the inner door more than a crack until both of us had shown her our ID cards through the screen
. Even after she invited us in, she stayed out of range of a handshake. I wondered if the black handbag slung over her shoulder contained a gun.
“You’ll pardon me if I’m super careful about who I let in,” she said. “After what happened next door, my husband didn’t want to leave the house for work before I did, but he had to because he’s got a much longer commute.”
“I’m grateful that you let us in at all,” I said. “I can understand your husband’s concern about leaving you alone.”
“You know, you somehow look familiar. Are you the reporter who had a knife stuck in his throat?” she said. My mug shot had run with the story about my adventure with Robert Obachuma.
“You’ve got a good eye,” I said. “It was me.” I pointed to the scab on my throat and she gave a little gasp.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “He really did stab you.”
“Just a nick with the edge of the blade,” I said with the throwaway tone of a self-effacing hero.
“Oh, go ahead and tell her you blacked out from the sight of your own blood,” Al said. Great backup from a buddy.
“I’d have fainted on the spot at the sight of the knife without it having to cut me,” the woman said. “Oh, my name is Naomi Jacobsen, in case you’re wondering.”
I had been. I wrote it in my notebook and asked the question about seeing or hearing anything unusual. I was pleasantly surprised by Naomi’s answer.
“I was in the kitchen poaching an egg when I heard tires screeching, and I ran and looked out and saw a black car taking off like a shot from in front of Henry’s house,” she said. “It went racing past here, kind of weaving back and forth across the center line, and then I lost sight of it.”
“Do you know what kind of car it was?” I asked.
“It was a black sedan, a small one, but it went by so fast I didn’t see what make it was. They all look so much alike now that you have to see the logo to tell whether it’s a Ford or a Toyota.”
