by Judy M. Kerr
MC nodded. “You bet. We can be there in an hour.”
Cam gave her the thumbs up.
MC hung up. “If we get there in an hour, we can prep with Ferndale and Andrews.”
“Meet you at the bubble in half an hour?” Cam asked.
“Yep. I’ll send Jamie an email asking for his help expediting the PO Box search. And, Cam?”
He stopped in the doorway.
“Thanks. You’re a good friend.”
MC called Agent Sebastian Ferndale as she and Cam entered the parking ramp near the Hennepin County Jail in downtown Minneapolis. Ferndale met them at the building entrance and escorted them to an office, an approximately eight-by-ten very beige space that held a desk with a computer and a few chairs.
“County gave us this empty office to use,” Ferndale said. “Andrews is set up in an observation room waiting for us.”
MC shed her coat and tossed it over the back of one of the chairs. “Thanks for including us.”
“No problem. You can leave your stuff here while we do the interview.”
MC and Cam followed Ferndale down what seemed, to MC, a never-ending hallway. Echoes of Cam’s concern over her wellbeing pinged in MC’s head, and she made a conscious effort to repress all of it.
Her thoughts soon flowed toward SPPD’s lack of progress on nabbing Barb’s killer. MC needed to pound the pavement. Someone had to have seen or heard something. All she needed was one tip, a snippet. Something to wedge the door open and shine some light into the darkness.
“MC?” Cam’s voice broke into her musings.
“Sorry. What?”
Ferndale said, “I understand you two had a chat with Thomson.” He opened the door to a cubbyhole observation room with a desktop computer and three chairs squeezed around a desk. “Would’ve been nice to get a heads-up.”
Andrews sat in one of the three chairs in front of the computer. “Hi guys.”
The others greeted him.
MC said to Ferndale, “My bad. Oldfield asked me to let you know. Slipped my mind. In our defense, after listening to the audio files you sent us, we felt Thomson might be a viable suspect. Especially after talking with Klein first.”
Cam said, “The voices in the audio don’t sound like Klein.” He held up a hand as Ferndale opened his mouth. “Hear me out. The quality isn’t the greatest, but I urge you to listen again to see if you change your mind. And the timeline doesn’t fit for Klein to be involved.”
MC sat in a chair and pulled out her notebook. She paged through it until she found the page she wanted. “Remember we followed Klein the night Arty was killed.”
Ferndale said, “Yeah, I remember.”
MC continued, “He met with two goons. At the dump site, no less, although at the time we didn’t know it. And we followed him home. I’ve said it before—the timeline doesn’t work with him being the killer.”
Ferndale said, “You may have valid points. But I can’t ixnay Klein quite yet. He was the last person to see Arty alive. We’re not ready to clear him. Right, Walt?”
Andrews said, “That’s why we brought him in.”
Investigating always got MC’s mojo running and, thankfully, she felt her focus returning. For the moment, she felt sharp and with-it. She gave Ferndale and Andrews an approving nod. “Maybe we’ll get something more concrete from Klein today.”
Ferndale dug through a file. “We’ve had all the voice recordings transcribed. I’ve also got a stack of photos from Arty’s car and from the crime scene. I’ll have copies sent to you, as long as you promise to keep me in the loop on what you’re doing.” He eyed MC. “We’re all on the same team.”
MC said, “Sure. Great.” MC glanced at Cam.
“What?” Ferndale asked. “There’s more?”
MC sighed. “Truth is, we already have copies of the photos from Arty’s car. Wilcox from MPD sent them to me a couple weeks ago.
Ferndale said, “And?”
MC said, “One of the keys on Arty’s keyring resembled one I have. For a PO Box.”
Andrews angled away from the computer and toward MC.
Ferndale folded his arms across his chest and leaned a hip against the desk. “You didn’t think we needed to know this? What’d you find out?”
Cam said, “We haven’t heard anything yet. We escalated the issue to our Team Leader because postal management hasn’t responded to my request for information.”
MC said, “We’re hoping he’ll be able to get us what we need.”
“And you’ll tell us immediately, correct?” Ferndale asked.
His face was flushed, and MC wondered if that was from anger or frustration. She hoped the FBI agent wouldn’t blow a gasket and get them booted.
“Ferndale, catching Arty’s killer is important to us, too. He was pivotal in our fraud investigation. I think we can all agree the two are tied together.” She contemplated Cam, then Ferndale and Andrews. “We really want to see whoever killed Arty pay for the crime.”
Ferndale sighed. “I get it. But let’s work together. No more secrets. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” MC said.
They settled on Cam and Ferndale interviewing Klein, and MC and Andrews observing via computer in the room they were gathered in.
“He doesn’t care much for me,” MC said. “No sense antagonizing him.”
Ferndale stood. “Let’s see what Mister Klein’s got to tell us.”
MC settled in front of the monitor next to Andrews. She was glad she didn’t have to interrogate this guy. She’d felt clear-headed when the four of them were planning their tactics, but now her head hurt, and she didn’t think she had it in her to stay ahead of the suspect.
Klein was seated in a red chair in the eight-by-eight-foot interview room. Mint green paint adorned the walls. Two dome cameras hung from the ceiling, and microphone plates were embedded in the walls on either side of the interviewee’s chair. Cam and Ferndale entered the room. Agent Ferndale introduced himself, and Cam dragged in an extra chair. He sat on the opposite side of the table from Klein while Ferndale set his chair to the left of the door facing Klein.
Ferndale leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “Len. Is it okay if I call you Len?”
“That’s my name.” His gaze slid toward Cam. “Why is a postal inspector here? Am I accused of stealing mail?”
“Inspector White is here because of the Inspection Service’s involvement in an investigation in which Mister Musselman was a key witness.”
A sneer creased Klein’s face. “I didn’t have nothing to do with killing Musselman. So, I’m not clear why I’m even here.”
“Why don’t we just dive in?” Ferndale asked and verified that Klein had been Mirandized. “And you’re willing to speak without an attorney present?”
“Whatever. I got nothing to hide.” Klein tried to move his chair back and almost tipped over when the legs caught on the carpet.
MC leaned toward Andrews. “Our guy appears to be nervous.”
“He definitely isn’t comfortable.” Andrews turned the volume control up a couple clicks. “And he’s a giant sweatball.”
Ferndale said, “Len, take us through your day on Monday, November seventeenth.”
Klein heaved out a sigh. “Again? How many times do I need to tell the same story?” He launched into a monotone description of his day, including the exchange with Arty in the evening after Arty met with Stennard and Thomson.
“You follow Arty when he left the building?” Ferndale asked.
“I’ve told you people a million times. No. The last time I saw Musselman was when he hightailed it through the front door. He seemed pissed off or scared or something. I didn’t think any more of it because I had work to finish and a meeting of my own to get to.”
“What type of vehicle were you driving?”
Klein rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. “The same as last time you asked. I drive a black Escalade owned by Stennard Global Enterprises.”
“Interes
ting. Because we have information a black SUV followed Arty after he left the Stennard building. Know anything about that?”
Klein crossed his bulky arms and leaned back in the chair. “I’m not the only person who drives a black SUV.”
MC sent Cam a text message. Ask him who else drives the Escalades owned by Stennard. She watched as Cam read the text.
“Agent Ferndale? If I may?” Cam asked.
Klein’s head whipped to the right as if he’d forgotten Cam was in the room. “Are we doing ‘good cop, bad cop’ now? Gonna sweat me out?”
Cam leaned forward. “We don’t do that shtick. We’re here to get your take on what went down. Tell me, how many black SUVs are in the fleet at Stennard?”
“Two. Mine and one extra for when we have important security details.”
Cam jotted something in his notebook. “And who has access to those two vehicles?”
“Me, Mister Stennard, and Mister Thomson.”
“No one else? The other staff?” Cam glanced up at Klein.
“I mean, other security staff have access when I assign them to a specific detail. But they don’t have access to the keys. I’m in charge of the keys.”
Cam asked, “Do you have to give Mister Stennard and Mister Thomson keys? Or are they able to take the keys at will?”
“They have access any time. But they hardly ever use the SUV. Usually only if they have a meeting or want to take clients around town and not use their personal vehicles.”
Cam asked, “Did either of them use the second SUV on the night Arty went missing?”
Klein stared up at the ceiling as if the correct answer were written on the white tiles. “I don’t think so. But I left before them. When I left, both of their vehicles were still out front, and the other Escalade was parked behind the building.”
“You were the only one driving an Escalade then.” Cam scrawled some more in his notebook.
Klein slammed a hand on the table. “Pay attention. I did not kill Musselman. I told you, I had a meeting. I didn’t see Musselman after he left the building. Why the fuck won’t you people listen?”
Ferndale said, “Okay, Len. Calm down. We’re just talking here. Tell us about your meeting. Who with? Where? How long?”
“Can I get some water?” Klein asked.
“Sure.” Ferndale left to find Klein something to drink.
Klein growled out, “I’m telling you people. I didn’t f’n off Musselman.”
“You need to give us more, Len. I gotta be honest, things are not going your way right now.”
Ferndale returned and set a bottle of water in the middle of the table.
Klein reached for the bottle, unscrewed the white plastic cap and sucked down half the liquid. The suction crinkled the flimsy plastic, and the sound bounced off the concrete-block walls. “Thanks.”
Ferndale resumed his questioning. “You’ve quenched your thirst. Now tell us about the meeting.”
“Like I said, I met with a couple of business associates. End of story.”
Ferndale shook his head like a disappointed parent. “Len. You’re facing a possible murder charge. I’d think you’d want to be a bit more forthcoming.”
“I didn’t kill him!”
“Tell us where you were and who you were with. These associates have names?”
“I had a business meeting.”
“Len, you sound like a broken record. Maybe we should leave you to think about things for a while. Some personal reflection may enlighten you. What do you think, Inspector White?”
“I agree.”
“Fine by me,” Len said, his voice argumentative. “The story will be the same when you come back in here.”
Ferndale smiled. “Oh, did I forget to mention we have a special place for those needing alone time?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Glad I got your attention,” Ferndale continued, “as we’ll be moving you to a holding cell. When we’re ready to continue the interview, we’ll have you brought back here. The digs are a bit more—stark—shall we say?” He gathered his notes.
“You don’t scare me,” Klein said.
Cam stood. “We don’t want to scare you, Len. We want to find the truth. If not today, maybe tomorrow, or the next day.”
“I’ve seen all the tactics. I was in the military.”
Ferndale grimaced. “I was, too. But believe me when I tell you the jail holding cells contain more colorful individuals than you saw in the military.”
“Guess we’re outta here,” Cam said.
Ferndale followed him out of the room and into the observation room.
MC glanced up as they filed in and quickly refocused on Klein. “I was hoping for more.”
Ferndale came up beside her. “I’ll have one of the officers haul him to general holding. Maybe he’ll have an epiphany and want to talk after some quality time with the county’s other guests.” He picked up the phone and made the arrangements.
Within two minutes, a six-foot tall, muscle-bound deputy entered the interview room, cuffed Klein, and hauled him out.
MC’s phone vibrated. Email from Jamie. She opened it, scanned the message and then read it again.
Andrews asked, “Everything okay?”
“Sorry, just a message from our boss.”
Ferndale said, “We’ll take another run at Klein in a couple of hours. If we shake anything from him, we’ll let you know.” He opened the door. “I’ll take you back to the other office. This place can be worse than a corn maze if you’re not familiar with it.”
On the way to the car Cam asked, “What’d Jamie find out?”
“He wants to talk.” MC pulled her phone out and placed the call.
“MC?” Jamie’s voice was stern.
“Hey, what’s up?” She glanced at Cam.
“Where are you?”
“Cam and I are leaving the Hennepin County Jail. Why?”
“I thought you two were working on the fraud case. Why are you at Hennepin County Detention? And what’s with the post office box inquiry?”
“We were helping the FBI re-interview Len Klein about Musselman. And the reason I requested the post office box search was because I noticed a PO Box key on Arty’s keychain. I thought we might find something useful in his mail.”
“You need to let me know stuff like this instead of barreling ahead with requests. When I said you and Cam were still assigned to the Stennard case I didn’t mean the homicide investigation. We’ve plenty of work if you and Cam have spare time.”
“I don’t think we can work the two cases separately, boss. They’re intertwined, whether we like it or not.”
Cam frowned at MC.
“I have to justify the department’s activities now that Chrapkowski’s out. I need to be in the loop.”
“Jamie, I’m sorry we didn’t route the initial request through you. Won’t happen again.”
Jamie blew out a loud breath. “Okay. Your point about the two cases is well-taken. I just want to know what my inspectors are doing.”
“Understood.”
Jamie said, “You believe this will help the task force investigation?”
“We do,” MC said. “And we’ll loop Oldfield in if something pans out.”
Jamie said, “All right. Arty had a box rented at the Main Post Office, downtown Minneapolis. I gave the supervisor on duty a heads-up you’d be there within the hour.”
MC said, “Thanks, Jamie. We’re on it.” She ended the call and relayed the gist of the conversation to Cam. “He sounded flustered, maybe pissed off.”
Cam pulled open the car door. “He’s probably having a bad day. It happens. But we probably should’ve routed the request through him to begin with.”
MC said, “We don’t usually, though. Maybe he’s stressed, and it’s coming out sideways.”
Cam said, “Forget about it. Let’s do this.”
They parked at the Minneapolis post office on First Street and went in to find hordes of customers w
aiting in line, most with stacks of boxes to mail, most likely Christmas gifts. People wait until the last minute, MC thought. I don’t get it. Who wants to spend half their day at the PO?
A twenty-something woman, ruddy-faced and exasperated, hollered at a small child, “Zachary, stop!”
Cam barely dodged a toddler with a drooly candy cane stuck in one plump fist. “Yikes. Little Zachary nearly got me with his sticky mess.”
MC laughed. “Quick reflexes. I guess having kids trained you for field maneuvers, eh?”
“You know it.”
MC used her plastic employee id badge card to open the door from the lobby to the workroom floor. She knew her way around the facility. Both of them had investigated plenty of incidents at most post offices over the years. She led the way through a maze of equipment, some filled with packages and sacks, and others waiting to be filled. Trucks were backed up to the dock to be loaded.
“God,” she said, “I’m glad I don’t have to work the mail. What a nightmare.”
They passed sections of post office boxes to a spot where a woman sat at a desk wedged between a pillar and massive rolling carts. MC flashed her shield. “Postal inspectors. We need to speak with the supervisor of the PO Box Section.”
The woman pushed aside a pile of forms. “That’s me, Susan Berg. I heard you might be showing up.” She pulled a scrap of paper from under the pile of forms. “You want to inspect the Musselman box, right?” She stood, not much taller than a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.
MC said, “Correct.”
“This way.” She didn’t glance back to make sure they followed. “All the mail has been sorted for the day,” she called over her shoulder.
She scooted past one cluster and took a right at the beginning of the next section. She stopped and viewed the note in her hand, then surveyed the boxes. “Right here.” She pointed at one of the smaller boxes about halfway down. “Number 24418.”
MC peered into the box. “One yellow padded envelope.” She pulled a pair of gloves from her messenger bag. To Susan Berg she asked, “Do you know the last time anyone picked up mail from this box?”
Berg said, “Couldn’t tell you. We have hundreds of boxes, and unless a box is overflowing and we have to notify a customer to come pick up their mail, we don’t monitor frequency of pickup.”
