by Glenn Ickler
“Yeah,” he said. “We both get sick together. So I better not get sick again. You want us, you call Swenson.” He started the mower and was off with a roar.
Back at my car, I slid behind the wheel and called Louie Luciano’s home on my cell phone. I asked Louie’s wife if he had a cell phone and she gave me his number.
“You lied to me,” I said when Louie answered on his cell.
“Who are you? What are talking about?” he said.
I told him that I’d talked to Frankie and learned that they were both at the State Fairgrounds on the day of his father’s murder.
“Okay, I was there at the Midway,” Louie said. “I thought you was asking if I was at Pop’s program.”
“Were asking, and I asked both questions,” I said. There was that reflex correction popping out again. “You told me you’d only been to the fair the following Saturday.”
“Okay, okay. I didn’t understand the question. I didn’t lie to you. I was at the fair with Frankie but we was at least a block away from Pop’s program. We never went near Heritage Square. In fact, Pop was dead and in the morgue by the time we heard about what happened. I didn’t know about him getting killed until Mom called after I got home.”
“You didn’t hear the sirens from the Midway?” I said.
“You kidding? With the noise they make setting up those rides you couldn’t hear a bomb if it hit Heritage Square and blew it to pieces.”
“Maybe that’s true,” I said. “But can anybody other than Frankie tell me everything you did at the fairgrounds that day?”
“I didn’t see nobody else that I knew, if that’s what you mean,” Louie said.
I gritted my teeth and managed not to correct the “nobody” else. “That’s what I mean. Can anybody other than Frankie verify your claim that neither of you went near your father’s program?”
“You asshole. Do you think that I could’ve killed Pops?”
“If the shoe fits, lace it up,” I said.
“Well, I didn’t. And if you print that I did I’ll come to your office and kick your goddamn ass all the way to the fairgrounds.”
* * *
“You got enough for a story?” Don O’Rourke asked when I returned to the newsroom.
“I can’t use any names, but I think I can do a piece saying the Daily Dispatch has learned this and learned that from unofficial sources,” I said. “Then I’ll run it past our tight-lipped buddy in Falcon Heights and see if it inspires a comment.”
“Give it a shot,” Don said. “Maybe it’ll get the cops off their butts.”
So I gave it a shot, writing that through unofficial sources the Daily Dispatch has learned that a person with a strong motive for killing Vinnie Luciano was at the State Fairgrounds the day of the murder, accompanied by a person whose stature matches that of the person who wore a stolen Fairchild costume while delivering the poison to the victim. I added that although both persons deny involvement in the killing they cannot provide proof of their activities at the fairgrounds.
With fifteen minutes to go before deadline, I called Detective K.G. Barnes. To my amazement, she was available immediately.
“This is what we’re running today and I’d like your comment,” I said. I read her the story and held the phone two inches away from my ear. I had no problem hearing KGB’s reply.
“Are you crazy?” she yelled. “You can’t run that.”
“Give me three reasons why not,” I said.
“Number one, it’s libelous.”
“Who am I libeling? There’s no names mentioned.”
“Your anonymous suspect will sue you.”
“And get his name in the paper as the plaintiff in the lawsuit? I doubt it.”
“We’ll sue you.”
“On what grounds?” I asked.
“You’re meddling in a murder investigation,” KGB said.
“When did that become a crime? I’m neither interfering with nor hindering your investigation. If anything, I’m helping you by uncovering a person of interest. If you want the names I’ll give them to you. Got any more reasons we can’t print the story?”
“Yes. You’re printing unfounded rumors.”
“Wrong. The story is based on face-to-face interviews with the people involved.”
“How about we forbid you to print it?”
“How about I read you the First Amendment?”
“You’re a crazy, out-of-control reporter chasing stories that aren’t there.”
“Is that the comment you want us to print?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “No, wait. We need to talk to the chief.”
“You’ve got five minutes to talk to her and get back to me.”
“What if we can’t do it in five minutes?”
“Then I’ll write that Falcon Heights police refused to comment.” I heard the receiver slam down and the line went dead.
“What are you grinning about?” asked Corinne Ramey, who’d been eavesdropping at the next desk.
“I just went one-up on my favorite bitch,” I said. “Which reminds me, did you get to call Falcon Heights on my day off.”
“I did. And Detective Barnes will never tell you how sweet I am again. I worked her over for a good five minutes trying to pry out some information.”
“Tough couple of days for the KGB,” I said.
Four minutes later my phone rang and I found myself talking to Falcon Heights Police Chief Victoria Tubb. “I strongly urge you not to print that story, Mr. Mitchell,” she said.
“Three reasons why,” I said.
“You’re mucking around in something you know nothing about.”
“Can you prove to me that the story isn’t accurate?”
“It’s all based on anonymous interviews so I don’t know if it’s accurate or not. My problem is that you’re talking to people without police permission.”
“Show me a law that says I need police permission to ‘muck around,’ as you so colorfully describe it.”
“There’s no law,” the chief said. “It just isn’t done. It’s not, uh, it’s not gentlemanly.”
“It has been done before in America and it will be done in the future,” I said. “Now, do you have a printable official comment on the story or not?”
“My official comment is that I have no comment on a story that to my knowledge has no basis in fact.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. And I want the names of the people you’ve interviewed or I swear I will charge you with obstructing justice.”
“I’ll call Detective Barnes and give her the names as soon as the story is in print,” I said. “Have a good day, Chief Tubb.” This time I got to hang up the phone, but I did it in a gentlemanly manner.
As I added the chief’s comment to my story, I wondered what would happen when Louie Luciano read it. Would he really come to the office to kick my ass?
Chapter 21: Playing Hide-and-Seek
Maybe I should have put a ban on e-mails into that restraining order,” Al said as we ate our sandwiches at noon.
“Willow still baring her limbs?” I asked.
“I got the crotch shot again this morning. Along with a message that said ‘this pussy could be yours, why won’t you make it your pet?’”
“Tell her you have felines for nobody but your wife.”
“She knows that. Still she sends her personal cat scan.”
“I hope you deleted it.”
“Yes, I put the cat out.”
“Still no word that Willow got the restraining order?” I said.
“No, the tree still stands alone,” he said. “I just hope she’s serious about staying away from our house. My kids don’t need another anatomy lesson.”
“I’ll bet Kevin would grin if Willow would bare it.”
“He found the last show way too entertaining. Since then he’s been running to the door every time the bell rings.”
I’d heard enough about Willow, so I changed the subject to the Luciano murder case and filled Al in on my morning activities. I had given KGB the names of Louie Luciano and Francisco Garcia just before lunch. She hadn’t even thanked me, which was not a huge surprise.
“Think KGB will question Louie and his buddy?” Al asked.
“She has to,” I said. “If nothing else, Chief Tubby will order it.”
“And then what will happen?”
“Unless Louie and Frankie can come up with an alibi, which would surprise me, they should be charged with murder. It looks to me like Louie supplied the strychnine and Frankie delivered it in the Fairchild suit.”
“You don’t think Louie carried the death on a stick to Heritage Square?”
“He could never squeeze that belly into the Fairchild costume. Frankie is skinny, the same size as the kid who got bonked on the head. They make the perfect pair of perps.”
“Well, I hope the perfect perps get popped into prison by the cops,” Al said.
“That act by a copper would be a proper crime stopper,” I said. Al threw up his hands in surrender and left the cafeteria. I mentally patted myself on the back for my poetic triumph and went to my desk.
* * *
My first phone check at eight o’clock Saturday morning went to the Falcon Heights police, who had not released any information to the media since receiving the names of my two suspects. Neither KGB nor Chief Tubb was available. I left a message with the desk sergeant and turned to other tasks sent my way by Saturday City Editor Eddy Gambrell.
It was after 10:30 when I realized that the Falcon Heights police had not returned my call. I called them again and this time I was immediately transferred to Detective K.G. Barnes. “We are preparing a news release for all media,” she said. “You should have it in your e-mail in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be calling you as soon as I’ve read it,” I said.
“We’ll be going off duty as soon as we’ve sent it,” said KGB.
“Then I’ll call the chief.”
“She’s already gone off duty. Have a nice weekend, Mr. Mitchell.”
I put down the phone in an ungentlemanly manner, causing Al, who was perched on the usual corner of my desk, to jump. “You seem less than happy,” he said.
“The bastards are sending out a press release and then running for cover before anyone can question them,” I said.
“I assume the bastards you’re referring to are your tight-lipped friends at the Falcon Heights PD.”
“With friends like that no reporter needs enemies. I give them Vinnie’s killers on a stick and they stick me with the same canned press release as everybody else, with no chance for questions.”
“There’s no gratitude in this world anymore.”
“You’re right. Reporting has become a thankless task.”
“And photography has become a game of hide-and-seek.”
“Willow’s still stalking you?” I said.
“This morning she was waiting by the exit door of the parking ramp,” Al said. “I saw her when I drove in so I stayed upstairs and used the exit to the skyway.”
“You’d be in the pits without that skyway.”
“Keeps me on the straight and level,” Al said. “Straight away from Willow and a level above her head.”
The e-mail from Falcon Heights arrived a few minutes later. It said that the police department had followed a newly provided lead and had detained for interrogation two persons of interest in the Vincent Luciano murder case. The two men, both still unidentified, were being held in the Falcon Heights city jail pending further questioning. There would be nothing in addition released to the public until Monday morning. This bureaucratic drivel was attributed to Chief Victoria Tubb.
“Notice that she doesn’t mention where she got the newly provided lead,” I said.
“Let’s hope people remember that they read it here first,” Al said.
“I’ll be sure to remind them,” I said. “At least Louie won’t be coming in here to kick my ass any time soon.”
* * *
On Sundays I usually call my mother and my grandmother, two widows who live together on a farm near the southeastern Minnesota city of Harmony. I do this even though I always get a lecture about my church attendance, which is actually 100 percent nonattendance, from Grandmother Goodhue, better known to friends and family as Grandma Goodie.
This Sunday was no exception to the golden lecture rule. I called after Martha and I had hauled a carload of stuff to our new home, and Grandma Goodie’s first question was, “Did you go to church this morning, Warnie baby?” She has called me Warnie baby since the moment my parents named me and she has nagged me about church every Sunday since I was old enough to shave.
“I had to skip church this morning, Grandma,” I said. “We needed the time to pack up some stuff for our move. October first is less than two weeks away, you know.”
“You have your priorities all muddled up, young man,” Grandma Goodie said. “You should be taking care of where your soul is going before worrying about moving your earthly belongings. For all you know, you could be facing the Lord’s judgment in less than two weeks.”
“I’m counting on the odds being in favor of my soul staying with me longer than my earthly belongings can stay in this apartment.”
“You never really know when your soul will depart, Warnie baby. Think about that poor man who was poisoned with his own food at the State Fair.”
“I think about him every day,” I said. “I’ve finally figured out who gave him the poisoned food.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Maybe we’ll be able to come back to the fair next year then.” She and my mother had stayed away from the State Fair for the first time in almost forty years because they didn’t want to be that close to the scene of a crime.
“I’m sure you can. You could have come this year. There was no danger.”
“We just didn’t want to be anywhere near the place where that poor man died. It’s scary just to talk about it. I felt really sorry for those square dancers on the stage that had to stand there and watch that man die in agony. I was a square dancer once myself, you know.”
“The square dancers vanished in a hurry,” I said. “There were only a few still watching by the time poor Vinnie stopped struggling.”
After giving me another scolding for avoiding church, Grandma Goodie called my mother to the phone. She, too, was happy to hear that the killers had been caught, making the fairgrounds safe for women in their sixties and eighties again.
I mentioned our moving date and said, “You’ll have to come up in October and see our new place.”
“I suppose we could do that,” Mom said. “When are you two getting married then? Have you reserved a time for the church?”
“We haven’t set a date for the wedding.”
“Isn’t it about time you did that?”
“We’ve only been engaged for about six months.”
“Well, it took you six years to get that far,” she said. “Don’t let it drag on for another six then. Your poor grandmother could be in a nursing home.”
“Yes, ma’am, we’ll try to get our act together before Grandma falls apart,” I said.
“Don’t be a smart aleck, young man.”
“I’m not. But remember, Martha was away doing her scholarship payback thing in Cape Verde for almost three of those six years.” Martha had agreed to work for the Cape Verde attorney general’s office for three years in return for a law school scholarship in the United States.
“I suppose
I’ll have to give you credit for that,” Mom said.
“Anyway Martha and I aren’t good at rushing into things. It was hard enough for us just to get engaged.”
“I know, dear. Not that I’m trying to rush you, but your grandmother and I aren’t getting any younger.”
“Good point,” I said. “I’ll mention that phenomenon to Martha.”
“Again the smart aleck.”
I made a note to ask Martha when she thought we might have a wedding. And if she thought it might be in a church.
* * *
Augie Augustine called in sick early Monday morning, so again I found myself in the tiny press office in the police station. This time when Don called, I was diplomatic enough to refrain from suggesting any possible cures for what ailed Augie.
The featured police blotter story of the day was about two women who had an argument that culminated in one woman grabbing the other by the hair and slamming a door into her face. I tried to picture that as I wrote the story and had some difficulty putting the face and the door together. You just can’t make this stuff up.
I was thinking about making a call to the Falcon Heights police when an e-mail from Chief Victoria Tubb arrived. The chief was informing all news media that the two persons of interest in the Vinnie Luciano murder case had been reclassified as suspects, had been arrested and were in custody. They would be brought into Ramsey County District Court at 8:30 a.m. Tuesday. They were identified as Louis Luciano, age forty-eight, and Francisco Garcia, age twenty-eight, and their home addresses in St. Paul were given. The e-mail also said that both addresses had been searched on Saturday, but it didn’t say what, if anything, had been found.
I called Don at the city desk and said I would do a story as soon as I talked to either the chief or Detective Barnes.
“You sure you got time?” Don said. “I could have Corinne Ramey make the call and write the story.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “These are my suspects and my story. There’s nothing even half as important going on here at the St. Paul PD.”
