I crossed fingers on two hands and held them up—and shook my head.
“Keep talking to yourself this way, the next thing you know you’ll be collecting cats.”
You could call the ACLU.
“Nah. I support most of what they do, but sometimes I just want to smack ‘em upside the head. Dammit, stop talking to yourself.”
Here, kitty, kitty.
“Arrgggggg!”
I was getting close to slapping myself silly when I decided to sleep it off. I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. The dream came quickly.
The glass door of the convenience store swung open. The suspect didn’t see me. I tucked the recoil pad of the shotgun against my shoulder and sighted down the barrel.
“Police. Drop the gun. Put your hands in the air.”
The suspect turned toward me. He was holding a paper bag in his left hand and an S&W .38 in his right.
“For God’s sake drop the gun.”
The suspect raised his hands.
I fired once.
I was wide-awake when the phone rang.
It’s Nina, calling to forgive you.
“Nina,” I said into the receiver.
There was a slight pause, followed by a woman’s voice I didn’t recognize.
“Rushmore McKenzie?”
“Who’s calling, please?” I was expecting a sales pitch.
“Mr. McKenzie, my name is G. K. Bonalay. I’m an attorney representing Merodie Davies.”
“Who?”
The air conditioner was working hard, but my hair and pillow were matted with sweat. I swung my legs off the bed and sat on the edge.
“Merodie Davies,” the voice said. “I understand you were present when the police arrived at Ms. Davies’s home the other day.”
“I didn’t know her name. You are who, again?”
“G. K. Bonalay, her attorney. Were you present?”
“I was there.”
“I understand you attempted to intervene when Officer Baumbach assaulted Ms. Davies.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘assault’ exactly, but, yeah, I did that.”
“Mr. McKenzie, I am told that Officer Baumbach arrested you and held you prisoner in the Anoka Public Safety Center for thirty-five hours without charging you because you intervened. Is that correct?”
“Ms.—Bonalay, did you say?”
“G. K. Bonalay.”
“My arrest was off the books. How did you hear about it?”
“Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. McKenzie, can we meet?”
“For what purpose?”
Her reply didn’t sound lawyerly at all.
“I’m going to get those guys,” she said.
I didn’t hesitate. I should have. I should have disconnected my phone. I should have left town. I should have done a lot of things. Instead, I said, “When and where?”
2
G. K. Bonalay was having a good day. She told me so to explain her dazzling smile. Seems the coke dealer she was defending was sentenced to eighteen months after pleading guilty to one count of possession. He could have earned ten years, probably should have, but she had muddied the waters sufficiently enough that the Hennepin County attorney cut her client some slack to get the case off his desk. Now she was giddy with success. ‘Course, it’s precisely because of deals like that that most cops have such a low opinion of defense attorneys. I’m not one of them. I reconciled myself a long time ago to the fact that they’re a necessary evil. Besides, if they, the cops, prosecutor, jury, and judge all do their jobs properly, everybody gets exactly what they deserve—the bad guys go to prison, the good guys go home, and those in between get reduced sentences.
There was a lot of feline in G. K., in the easy grace of her movements, in her intelligent green eyes. I noticed it immediately when I saw her ascend the stairs leading to the second-story loft of the Dunn Bros. coffeehouse on Third Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. She moved as though gravity were merely a suggestion, not a reality. She seemed so young that at first I thought she was a college girl, albeit a well-dressed one—red equestrian-style jacket, black pleated skirt, and black hose and pumps. She was deftly balancing a large ceramic mug filled with mocha on a saucer with one hand while carrying a heavy leather briefcase in the other. The loft was empty except for a man and woman, both dressed in suits, who sat across from each other at a small table, leaning in and talking low, their foreheads nearly touching, so it wasn’t hard to pick me out. She walked to the table where I was nursing a French vanilla IceCrema.
“Rushmore McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for meeting me.” She set down her drink and briefcase and offered her hand. It was soft. “I’m G. K. Bonalay. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Not at all.”
We both sat.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“What did you expect?”
She waved her hand as if it were an unimportant question.
“How do you like to be addressed? Rushmore? Rush?”
I cringed at both names. “Just McKenzie,” I said. “How ‘bout you?”
“Hmm?”
“What does the G stand for?”
“Oh. Genevieve. My friends call me Gen. Do you want to be my friend, McKenzie?”
“Is that a trick question, Genevieve?”
“Not at all. Today I’m everyone’s friend.”
“Why is that?”
She told me about her drug dealer. She assured me that the guy deserved prison time, but not ten years.
“The sentencing guidelines the legislature passed are so screwed up. Everyone’s trying to prove they’re tough on drugs, which means you can now get more time for possession of an eight-ball than you can for first degree sexual assault. That’s nuts.”
“How long have you been an attorney?” I asked.
“I passed the bar nearly eighteen months ago, but I’ve been practicing law for much longer.”
“Can you do that?”
“With proper adult supervision, yes, you can, which is how I got this.”
G. K. opened her briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of photocopies an inch and a half thick held together at the top with a two-hole metal clasp. She set the file in front of me. The top page read:
Case #07-080819
Merodie Anne Davies
Offense: Homicide
She smiled and patted the document as if it were the latest Nevada Barr mystery and she was recommending it highly.
“Everything Anoka County has on Merodie,” she said. “Coroner’s report, incident reports, supplementals, witness statements . . .”
“Am I missing something?”
“What?”
“It’s been only a couple of days. How could the county generate that much paper in a couple of days? This is civil service work.”
“The county attorney, David Tuseman. He lit a fire under everybody.”
“Why?”
“He’s running for the State Senate. He has a primary in a couple of weeks. Like most politicians, he wants to prove he’s tough on crime.”
“He’s already indicted Merodie for murder?”
“No, Merodie hasn’t even been charged yet. She’s being held for violating her probation on a dis-con. Thirty days. I learned Tuseman is using the time to build a case. I’m trying to get it kicked before he brings it to the grand jury.”
“Then how did you come by all of this?”
“I did an internship with the Anoka County attorney’s office when I was in law school; I practically ran their misdemeanor division. After I graduated, I volunteered to work in the public defender’s office while I was looking for a job. One of the cases I caught was Merodie’s disorderly conduct. When they checked her sheet they noticed I had been her attorney of record and they gave me a call.”
“No, no,” I said. “I mean, why do you have these reports? These reports are supposed to be confident
ial. They aren’t supposed to be released until charges have been filed.”
“Like I said, I used to work in the county attorney’s office. I still have friends there. Why? Since when do you care about the rules?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know you, McKenzie. I know all about you. You’re not a play-by-the-rules kind of guy.”
“Who says?”
“Clayton Rask in the Minneapolis Homicide Department. Brian Wilson with the FBI. The Feds don’t like you very much, but Brian does.”
“You’re well connected. Especially for someone so young.”
“I stopped being young a long time ago, McKenzie.”
“What do you want from me?”
“First, when the time comes I need you to give a deposition stating that Officer Baumbach struck Merodie Davies repeatedly, that he demanded that she answer his questions, and that he did not advise her of her rights, and then testify to it again in court if it comes to that.”
“I’ll testify to exactly what happened. I won’t embellish.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“What else?”
“With your testimony I shouldn’t have any trouble getting a judge to rule that all of Merodie’s statements to the sheriff’s department are inadmissible.”
“What else, Gen?”
“I like it that you call me Gen.”
“Gen?”
“I need a favor.”
“A favor?”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Ever since you quit the cops and took the reward money for catching Thomas Teachwell, you do favors for people. There was the Entrepreneurs Club, and that thing for your friend Mr. Mosley that upset the Feds so much, and rumor has it that you did a favor for the governor’s wife . . .”
“You got all this from Rask and Wilson?”
“Some of it.”
“It’s true, I suppose. Sometimes I’ll do favors for friends. If they’re good enough friends and there’s a good enough reason.”
“The law firm I work for doesn’t mind that I’m working Merodie’s case. They mark it down as pro bono. Except I’m still expected to put in my eighteen hundred billable hours, and they’re not going to dedicate any resources to the case, they’re not going to let me hire a private investigator, so . . .”
“So you want me to do it—all your legwork.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not licensed.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know your way around a police investigation, and I can give you a letter stating that you’re acting on my behalf in case anyone hassles you. You can do the job.”
“I can do the job, I just don’t know why I should.”
“Because I’m cute?”
“You’re not that cute.” Besides, my inner voice reminded me, I have a girlfriend who’s cuter. At least I hope she’s still my girlfriend.
“Because you want to see justice done?” G. K. said.
“Most of the time I don’t know what that is.”
“Because it’ll give you a chance to stick it to the Anoka Police Department. Is that a good enough reason?”
“It’s not a good reason,” I admitted. “But it’s enough.”
G. K. asked, “How do you want to start?”
I picked up the file. “I want to read this and then talk to your client.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Anoka. We’ll drive up and chat with Merodie. I need to speak with her anyway. I’ll drive. You can read the file on the way.”
Five minutes later I was in the passenger seat of an inferno red PT Cruiser taking Washington Avenue east to 35W. I was already on the third page of the report before we hit the ramp.
Office of
Anoka County Coroner
Final Summary
AC07-881
CID File 07-080819
DECEDENT: Eli Thomas Jefferson
AGE: 34
SEX: Male
PLACE OF DEATH: 1117 Deion Avenue, Anoka, MN
DATE AND TIME OF DEATH: Found August 14 (1300 hours)
Eli Thomas Jefferson was a 34-year-old never married, unemployed man who lived with his female roommate. He was reported to be a chronic alcoholic. A statement made by his roommate indicated that he had received a deep cut under his left arm and several smaller cuts to his face from a broken bottle. The body was in an advanced stage of decomposition and was insect infested with dried blood on most areas of the torso as well as arms and legs.
“How long was Merodie in the house with the body?” I asked.
“Two weeks,” G. K. said.
“That’s nuts.”
“Yeah, it is.”
The decedent had no significant past medical history.
A postmortem examination was performed which showed severe fatty metamorphosis of the liver with mild hepatic fibrosis. An alcohol analysis was performed on spleen tissue and was 0.333 GM/100 GM. Examination of the scalp after removal of hair revealed two areas of discoloration and laceration to the back of the head, each measuring between 4 CM and 6 CM. Areas are discolored reddish-blue and are characterized by a central contusion/laceration. In addition, there was a 2 MM laceration (partial transection) of the brachial artery within the left axilla (armpit). Clotting and inflammation around the wound would indicate that the victim lived 8-12 hours after the wound was received.
The death was classified as a Homicide-Accident-Undetermined and attributed to complications of acute blood loss, due to left axilla laceration. Acute chronic alcoholism and acute ethanol intoxication were listed as associated significant conditions.
“In other words, Jefferson died from a cut under his arm the length of my fingernail that he could have fixed with a Band-Aid,” I said.
G. K. never lifted her eyes from the road.
“The blood wouldn’t clot because of the alcohol,” she said. “He passed out, and while he was out, he bled to death.”
“If the sonuvabitch had been even close to sober . . .”
I didn’t finish the thought, stopping instead to re-read the words
two areas of discoloration and laceration to the back of the head.
“Two areas,” I said aloud.
G. K. caught my drift quickly. “One wound could be attributed to a fall,” she said. “Not two.”
“Someone beat this guy on the head, G. K. Which raises the question, did he bleed to death after passing out from the alcohol or from the beating?”
“Inconclusive. If the coroner knew for sure, it would be in the report.”
She swung the Cruiser into the left lane and accelerated past a slower driver just as we entered the 35W–Highway 36 interchange.
“Tuseman has to have something that’s not in the report,” G. K. said. “As it stands, maybe he can make a case for assault one. Maybe he can make man three. Maybe, it’s a stretch, but maybe he can get a grand jury to go along with unintentional murder in the third degree. Maybe. But murder two? He has to have more.”
“Like what?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
I kept reading. A Supplementary Investigation Report issued by the Anoka County Criminal Investigation Department deputy who had first responded to Officer Boyd Baumbach’s call for assistance didn’t tell me much, although there was one passage that did interest me.
The entire inside of the house was filthy. There was a large amount of feces on the floors and also smeared on the wall in places. Each room was littered with a large amount of empty beer cans and liquor bottles . . . The basement contains a family room that was equally as filthy as the upstairs of the home with blood pools and feces strewn about. However, a bedroom, which appeared to be set up for a small child, was immaculate. There was no blood or dirt of any kind.
The supplemental also listed an address for Eli Jefferson’s next of kin—Evonne Louise Lowman—and Merodie’s mother, Mrs. Sharon Davies.
We were on Highway 10 heading west by the time I finished
the nineteen-page report—single spaced—issued by the Anoka County Sheriff’s Office crime lab. The report described in minute detail every bloodstain, every shard of broken glass, every liquor bottle and beer can, and where they were located in the Merodie Davies residence. My eyes grew weary reading it all.
“Geez, you guys,” I muttered. “There’s conscientious and then there’s anal retentive.”
Only two entries from the summary made it into my notebook. The first described a Lady Thumper softball bat with blood smears on the barrel. The bat was discovered lying on the floor
exactly two feet, seven inches from the body (see photographs).
The second concerned one of the other thirty-eight items collected and tagged as evidence.
Found on right arm of sofa in living room, one white, number ten envelope, blank, containing one personal check dated Saturday, One August, in the amount of four thousand, one hundred sixty-six dollars and sixty-seven cents ($4,166.67) made out to Merodie Davies and drawn on an account owned by Priscilla St. Ana, Woodbury, MN.
“Who’s Priscilla St. Ana?”
“That’s another thing I’m hoping you can find out,” G. K. said.
I moved to the Supplementary Investigation Report filed by Sergeant Doug Rios, Badge Number 191, of the Anoka County CID. It was he who had decided that Merodie Davies should be taken from her home to Mercy Hospital for evaluation. During the ride, Rios claimed, Davies had made several
spontaneous statements
to him. Things like
He was still bleeding yesterday.
and
I didn’t know I hit him so hard.
When they arrived at the hospital, Rios decided that since Merodie was in a talkative mood, they would hold off on any treatment until after she was interviewed.
“They withheld medical attention while they interrogated Merodie,” I said.
“You noticed that, too,” G. K. said.
I read the report on the interview carefully.
Dead Boyfriends Page 3
