[Marc Kadella 03.0] Media Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  The two men were parked in between two other cars on a side street in this very upscale Minneapolis neighborhood. They were less than one hundred feet from the corner where Parker Street met Lake of the Isles Boulevard. Despite the lateness of the hour, almost 11:00 P.M., the darkness and the storm, they could clearly see by the ambient light reflecting off of the lake barely a hundred yards across the grass in front of them. Lake of the Isles is one of the chain of lakes that gave the City of Minneapolis, and the Los Angeles Lakers, its nickname; The City of Lakes. Surrounded by beautiful, expensive homes, many dating back to the turn of the nineteenth century, the area would be a crown jewel in just about any city in the world.

  “Time,” Big said again a few minutes later.

  “Any minute now,” Little replied.

  They watched as a man in tights marked with reflective tape, despite the weather, jog past the corner on the path surrounding the lake. When Big saw the jogger he muttered, “asshole” just as the lights from a car on Lake of the Isles Boulevard illuminated the man and a moment later a police patrol car passed by the corner.

  “Right on time,” Little said. “Every eighteen to twenty-four minutes.” Little had done a thorough recon of the house and neighborhood and had spent several nights timing the cops patrolling around the lakes.

  “Let’s go,” Big said as he opened his car door. Having removed the single bulb from the interior light, the car remained in darkness as the two men got out. Hunched over against the wind and light rain, they quickly ran across Parker Street to the back door of the house.

  Next to an alley that ran behind the building was a small, unattached one car garage facing Parker Street. It was constructed of the same brick material as the house from over eighty years ago and looked tiny, almost ridiculous, next to the seven thousand square foot home. Above the door was an old style exterior light to illuminate the small, barely ten-foot driveway. Little had previously loosened the bulb of the light above the garage door and the area in front of the garage was quite dark. Between the missing garage light, the weather and the all black clothing the men wore, the two of them were practically invisible.

  The corner of the house met the corner of the garage at this point and there was an entryway door into the house. The lock on the door looked as if it had last been replaced in the ‘50s. It took Big less than a minute, even in the dark, to pick the lock and the two of them were in.

  They both carried a flashlight with the lens taped over leaving a hole for the light to come through about the size of a pencil’s eraser. Once inside, they turned the flashlights on and Little went up the single flight of stairs and into the kitchen. With Big casually following him, Little went through the kitchen and into a hallway closet. Inside the closet, while Big shined his flashlight on it, Little removed the cover to the alarm box and quickly attached a bypass hook up to the alarm before the alarm company could be notified of their intrusion.

  Little turned around and said, “Okay. We’re good to go.”

  “You’re sure there’s no one here?” Big asked for at least the fifth time that evening.

  “They’re out of town,” Little replied. “Six minutes. No more.”

  “I know the drill, asshole,” Big snarled causing Little to flinch. “You go do the safe. I’ll check upstairs.”

  Little hurried toward the far end of the first floor where the study was. Having already discovered and photographed the safe, he was extremely confident he would have it open in under two minutes.

  While Little went toward the study, Big started up the carpeted, open stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Little had told him the bulk of the items worth taking, the solid silver utensils, candlesticks and other items, many of which were expensive antiques, were on the main floor. While working with the cleaning crew, Little was able to scout the upstairs and told Big to take no more than one minute to go through the master bedroom only. There wasn’t anything in the other rooms worth the time and effort.

  Big almost carelessly opened the door to the master bedroom which caused the door to bang slightly against an antique armoire standing behind it. The noise it made, while not very loud, made a significant impact on the silence of the room.

  Big ignored the noise and while standing in the doorway, began to play the flashlight around the room. In the middle of the bedroom, directly in front of the door was a king size, four poster bed, complete with a canopy above it. He slowly moved the light over the bed then heard the obviously frightened and shaky voice of an old woman say, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Big didn’t hesitate an instant. He didn’t think about what to do or take a moment to consider it. He simply reacted. In barely a second he leapt over the bed’s baseboard, flew across the length of the large bed and came down directly on top of her. He heard the air rush out of her lungs as he clamped his left hand down on her mouth and with his right hand he grabbed a pillow, roughly pushed it down to cover her face and used both of his powerful hands to hold the pillow in place.

  The elderly woman tried her best to fight back. She kicked her legs and thrashed about back and forth and with her hands she tried to claw at his arm. The poor woman never had a chance. Less than thirty seconds after it started her back arched, her eyelids fluttered and her body went completely lax.

  Big held the pillow over her face for another minute to be sure she was dead. He got off the still body, found his flashlight and surveyed what he had done. Then he did something even he could not have explained. Big pulled the blankets down, took the woman’s hands and gently folded them together and placed them on her stomach. He then covered her up to her chin with the blankets, put the pillow he used to kill her back where it was and fluffed the pillow under her head. Despite the sudden and violent attack, she looked quite peaceful and serene. Apparently satisfied he returned to his task.

  Big opened the door to the study and found his partner seated at a desk with the contents of the safe spread out on its surface.

  “Hey,” Little began when he saw his partner. “We did okay. Looks to be about seven or eight grand in cash and if the jewelry is real and it looks like it, gotta be another hundred here easy. Everything okay upstairs?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” Big lied. “Why?”

  “What do you have there?” Little asked indicating the black cloth sack Big carried.

  “Silver,” he answered.

  Little looked at his watch and said, “Times up, we need to go.”

  “I know you told the other officer what happened, Carlotta, but I need you to tell me,” Detective Tony Carvelli patiently said to the obviously distraught Latina woman.

  Carvelli and his young partner, Antwone Spenser, a recently promoted detective with the Minneapolis Police Department, were seated in matching, obviously expensive cloth covered wing-backed chairs. The two men were facing two women, both of whom appeared to be the same approximate age. The women were seated together on a sofa and the four of them were in the main living room of the house on Parker and Lake of the Isles.

  Carlotta took a deep breath, squeezed the hand of the woman next to her and said, with barely a trace of an accent, “I got here at eight just like every day. As soon as I came into this room, I noticed some things missing. I looked around for a few minutes and could tell that a lot of the silver things were gone. Then I realized Mrs. Benson wasn’t downstairs. She’s almost always here when I get here,” she explained. “So I hurried upstairs and went into her bedroom. She was still in bed and not moving.”

  Carlotta stopped and wiped a couple of tears away, looked at the woman seated next to her and said, “I guess I knew right away she was dead. Her eyes were closed, she wasn’t moving and her face was really pale.” She sniffled and said to the other woman, “I’m so sorry, Miss Janet.”

  “It’s all right, Carlotta,” the woman said rubbing the back and shoulders of the upset housekeeper.

  Carlotta turned back to the two detectives and continued, “I checked to see if she
was breathing, which she wasn’t, then I came downstairs and called Miss Janet from the kitchen.”

  “I called 911 then drove here as quickly as I could. There was a police car already here when I arrived,” Janet Benson Milliken, the victim’s daughter said. “I came inside and before they could stop me, hurried upstairs to Mom’s bedroom.

  “I came back down and we talked to your officer, the tall black man. And we both told him what happened. He had us sit down here and told us not to move around or touch anything. More police and other people started arriving and we’ve just been waiting. Do you think my mother was murdered by burglars?”

  “It’s too soon to tell,” Carvelli softly replied.

  “It’s all my fault,” the daughter said fighting back a sob. “We were supposed to be at my cousin’s cabin but something came up at my job and I decided to stay for a couple more days.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Carvelli soothingly said looking into the daughter’s eyes. “This is not your fault. If this was done by the guy who did the burglary, he’s the one to blame. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t start second-guessing things. It won’t bring your mother back and it isn’t true. We’ll get this guy and put him away.”

  “Sarge,” Carvelli heard a voice say coming from the living room’s entryway. It was the same officer the two women had first talked to. “Sergeant Waschke just pulled up,” the man said referring to the arrival of a homicide detective.

  “Thanks, Jefferson,” Carvelli replied looking up at the man. He turned back to his partner and asked, “Did you get everything?”

  “Yeah, I did, Sarge,” the much younger man answered.

  Carvelli looked at the women and said, “We should clear out of here and let the crime scene people do their job. You’ll get me a list of the missing items?” he asked the victim’s daughter.

  “Yes as soon as I can. The insurance company will have an inventory of everything. I made sure of that. There are also photos.”

  “That’s smart. Good job,” Carvelli said.

  Leaving Jefferson at the door, the four of them went out through the front door. Carvelli nodded his head at the beefy man coming through the front gate. They all waited at the bottom of the steps as the man approached.

  Carvelli and Waschke shook hands and Carvelli introduced the homicide detective to the two women.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Waschke sincerely told Janet. “I should go take a look,” he said to Carvelli.

  Carvelli indicated to his partner to stay with the women while he and Waschke started up the front steps to go inside. Jefferson was at the door with a clipboard making a record of everyone who entered the crime scene. He took down Waschke’s name and badge number. As the two men were walking up the stairs, Waschke said to Carvelli, “Keep an eye on him. He’s sharp as a razor and he’ll make a damn fine detective and soon.”

  “Where’s Collins?” Carvelli asked referring to Waschke’s current partner.

  “He’s got his old lady knocked up again and they had some doctor’s appointment this morning.”

  “Another kid?” Carvelli asked. “What’s that, five or six?”

  “Yeah, something like that. I’m not even sure he can keep track.”

  “Maybe you ought to have a little talk with him about how to avoid it.”

  “I’ve tried. He won’t listen,” Waschke growled as he walked into the bedroom.

  He greeted the two people from the medical examiner’s office who moved away from the body to allow Waschke to look over the elderly woman.

  Waschke looked over the woman’s face for a moment then asked the tech standing next to him, “What’s this on her cheek?”

  The tech leaned over next to Waschke and with a pen, pointed at a very lightly discolored area along the right jawline. “That right here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It could be bruising. Look at this.” He picked up a pillow lying next to the woman and pointed to a very light stain on it.

  “What is it?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” the tech said. “But it could be a bit of lipstick. Even if a woman washes it off before bed she wouldn’t get all of it. We’ll know more when the CSU guys run some tests. Could be trace saliva on it too.”

  “He held a pillow over her face,” Waschke said as he straightened up.

  “Maybe, we’ll know more in a day or two.”

  “Put a rush on it, will you Paul? I got a call from the chief this morning who got a call from the mayor about this. I guess this is a pretty prominent family.”

  “Sure, Jake. Gonna be a lot of political heat on you for this one. Sucks to be you.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Waschke sarcastically answered.

  The two detectives had just stepped through the doorway leading to the front yard when a small Cadillac limousine pulled up and double parked in front of the house. They stopped and watched as a very attractive woman in her early fifties exited the back seat of the car. When she did this, the victim’s daughter walked quickly to the gate in the wrought iron fence. The two women gave each other an affectionate, consoling hug then walked up the sidewalk toward the house.

  “Who is she?” Carvelli asked.

  “I do believe that is Vivian Donahue, top dog of the Corwin family. You know them?” Waschke answered his friend.

  “I know of them. Since this looks like a homicide and I’m in burglary, I’ll let you deal with her,” Carvelli said. He then turned and went back into the house.

  Waschke walked up to the women as the older one was consoling the housekeeper. Waschke gave a slight jerk of his head at Carvelli’s partner to indicate he could leave which the young detective did as quickly as seemed polite. Janet introduced him to Vivian Donahue and explained that her mother was Vivian’s aunt. Janet had called her earlier after calling 911. Waschke immediately realized this explained the call from the mayor to the chief of police and the subsequent call to him.

  “May I see my aunt?” Vivian politely asked.

  “I believe they’re about ready to move her,” Waschke replied. “Plus it’s a crime scene and the fewer people that go in there right now, the better.”

  “There’s nothing much to see,” Janet said to her cousin. “Mom looked like she was peacefully asleep.”

  “You’re sure there was a burglary?” Vivian asked Jake.

  “Yes, absolutely,” Janet answered before Jake could respond.

  “Is her death a homicide? She had a bad heart…” Vivian began to say.

  “As long as she took her meds she was fine. I made sure each week her pillbox was filled for each day. I checked the one for yesterday and she had taken her pills,” Janet interjected.

  “We don’t know,” Waschke said to Vivian.

  “She’ll have to have an autopsy?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Waschke shrugged.

  “Oh, God, how ghastly,” Vivian said. “But I suppose we have to know.” She handed Waschke a personal card with her name and private number on it. “Please keep me informed as much as you can, Sergeant. I don’t mean to interfere but…”

  “I understand,” Jake replied. “I’ll do what I can,” he continued while thinking, If you can’t use the kind of clout she has what’s the point of having it? Jake handed one of his cards to each of the three women and told them if they thought of anything to call him.

  Vivian Donohue slipped her left arm through Waschke’s right arm and led him several steps away from the daughter and housekeeper.

  “I won’t hold you to it but tell me what you think,” she quietly said when she let go of his arm and looked up at him. Waschke was a large, veteran cop who knew how to intimidate people with just a look. Rarely did he ever experience the uneasiness he felt because of the look this woman was giving him.

  “It’s probably a burglary gone bad. Likely he found her and smothered her with a pillow.”

  “Will you catch him?”

  Jake took a deep breath, scratched his chin and thought about
his answer. “I’ll be honest, the odds are not good. If we can recover some of the stolen property…”

  “Which isn’t likely,” Vivian said.

  “Usually not,” he agreed. “We have our best people on it. We’ll do our best. I promise you that.”

  Marc Kadella wearily sat on a padded bench in the hallway outside courtroom 1523 in the Hennepin County Government Center. The pain in his lower back was finally gone. The stress of doing his first homicide trial had tightened up his lower back muscles for the duration of the trial. Four days and no relief. The case had been given to the jury only two hours ago and the pain was already gone.

  Marc leaned back against the hallway wall and vacantly stared across the empty space at the government side of the big building. He found himself taking simple pleasure watching through the windows as the county employees worked at their desks or busily scurried about. It felt good to have his mind in neutral; not thinking about the trial or what he should be doing to prepare for it. It was over. He had given it his best shot and there was nothing more he could do.

  Marc thought about his client, Howie Traynor. He was accused of first and second-degree murder in the death of an elderly woman during the commission of a burglary. Going into the trial, Marc believed he could beat the first-degree charge but probably not the second-degree. His client was likely looking at three serious felony convictions, including assault on a police officer. If convicted of everything but the first-degree murder charge, he was looking at thirty years, minimum.

  It had been eight months since the crime was committed. Fall and winter had come and gone and a lot had happened during that time. The murder of a member of a well-known, respected, politically prominent family had generated a lot of publicity and media attention. Being a novice at dealing with the press, Marc could only hope he didn’t come across as too much of an inexperienced fool. For a solid hour after the case went to the jury, Marc, and the lead prosecutor, Rhea Watson, had both given multiple impromptu interviews here in the hallway. While replaying it in his mind, Marc appreciated the quiet and solitude even more.