Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

  “What’s this?” Marc heard Barry Cline ask from the doorway. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “That’s right,” Marc said to him. “You’re new around here. You don’t know about this little farce do you? Well, have a seat and I’ll tell you about your government in action.

  “A few years ago, almost ten now,” Marc began as Cline settled into the chair next to Grafton, “my soon-to-be ex-wife, Karen, worked for a restaurant in Northeast Minneapolis. She did some bookkeeping and she was on the signature card for the checking account.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Cline. “I know what’s coming. Payroll taxes weren’t sent in and she was found liable. Hell, that’s common knowledge. If you sign checks and taxes don’t get paid, you’re responsible.”

  “Well,” Marc said with a laugh, “you’re sorta right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Cline.

  “It’s common knowledge that if you sign checks and taxes don’t get paid, you’ll be held liable by the IRS. What’s not common knowledge is that the law says that’s pure, unadulterated bullshit,” said Marc.

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Cline. “I know accountants and tax lawyers who will swear to this.”

  “Yeah, so do I,” said Marc. “We talked to enough of them about this. Interesting how few of them actually know what they are talking about. Trust me, I know the law on this one. It aint so. Anyway, the IRS basically forced me to bring suit, which, I did. The lawyer at Justice handling the case just caved in except for attorney fees.”

  “How much?” asked Grafton.

  “Well,” Marc continued, still looking at Cline, “over the years they had collected a little over forty-four hundred bucks from us on these taxes.”

  “What’s the total?” asked Cline.

  “With interest and penalties, it’s up to over thirty-five grand. Anyway, the reason for the suit is I’m asking for a refund of the forty-four hundred. That’s what gets you into District Court and not Tax Court. You pay the IRS some of the money you’re contesting then bring suit to get it back.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Cline.

  “Because I waited too long to bring the suit, part of the forty-four hundred,

  about seventeen fifty, is barred by statute of limitations. So, she agreed to drop Karen’s liability and refund all but the seventeen fifty. I tell her that’s not good enough. She’s only offering me the minimum I can get in court. I tell her I want it all including the seventeen fifty. She won’t agree to that so we dicker around a bit and settle for half the seventeen fifty to go toward attorney fees. About eight seventy five. Okay? So, she agrees but her boss says no.”

  “You mean, for an extra eight hundred seventy-five dollars they could’ve made this thing go away?” asked Grafton.

  “Yep,” said Marc, turning again to Cline he continued. “Now, imagine telling this to a live client. Explain to a sensible human being what they just did. Tell your client that his choice is to pay an extra eight seventy five to be done. Or, pay you a lot more than that to go to court for the sole purpose of risking losing even more money. You can’t do better, but if you go to court, you could do a lot worse. What do you think your client would say?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t have to pay their own lawyer more fees. She’s salaried anyway,” said Cline.

  “True, but they’re going to pay to fly her out here, put her up in a hotel plus all the extra work she’ll do for it. Plus my time and the court’s. It’ll be a lot more of the taxpayer’s money than eight seventy-five,” said Marc.

  “How much are you asking for?” asked Grafton.

  “It’ll be over nine grand by the time we go to court,” Marc replied.

  “Let me see if I got this straight,” said Cline. “They’re going to spend, easily, more than you would take to settle for the chance to lose over nine thousand dollars? Who thinks up this stuff?”

  “Little wonder people get a little fed up with the government,” said Grafton.

  “Could you end up paying them?” Cline asked Marc.

  “No. That’s not possible. The only question is: Do they have to pay me?” said Marc.

  “What do you think?” asked Cline. “You think you’ll get it.”

  “Who knows?” said Marc. “I think I should but it’s up to the judge and I don’t know him at all. The case law says he can pretty much do whatever he wants. I got nothing to lose so, I guess we’ll see.”

  “Amazing,” said Cline, shaking his head as he and Grafton rose to leave. “Keep me posted. This could get interesting.”

  “Actually,” said Marc, “I’m disappointed she turned me down. I wanted it over with.”

  “Hey,” said Grafton as he and Cline turned back at the door, “how’d you make out this morning?”

  “Fine. We kicked it around a bit, the judge, prosecutor and me, and decided Mr. Fuller should go to prison for a few years. Probably settled it.”

  “What’d your client say?”

  “He wasn’t overly enthused about the idea.”

  “Well, good luck on the twenty-fifth. That’s just incredible. It’s hard to believe anyone could do something that stupid.”

  “Who, the government or Ray Fuller’?” asked Marc.

  “Are you kidding? What the government’s doing makes Ray Fuller look like a sensible individual. He at least knows when to cut his losses.”

  “I have a question,” said Cline stepping back toward Marc’s chair, “Why does the IRS pull this shit? Don’t they know the law?”

  “Of course they know the law,” answered Marc. “They do it because they’re the IRS and most people can’t fight them and they simply get away with it. With the IRS, you’re guilty until you prove different and most people can’t fight so, they settle up.”

  “That sucks,” said Cline.

  “For sure,” said Marc.

  “Well,” Grafton chimed in, “I hope you make the bastards pay for it once. It’d be nice to know someone who stuck it to them.”

  “I’m sure gonna try,” said Marc.

  TWELVE

  “You want coffee, Lieutenant?” asked the bartender while staring at the big cop who had come in the bar and taken his usual seat in a booth along the wall opposite the long bar.

  “Lieutenant,” he said again, louder this time to get the cop’s attention, his friend obviously distracted.

  “What?” said Waschke suddenly as his head snapped up, his mind returning to the present. “Coffee? Yeah, Louie. Decaf. Sorry.”

  The man behind the bar grabbed one of the pots off of the warmer on the ledge next to the liquor bottles and taking a cup from below the bar, headed out to serve his customer. “Lot on your mind tonight, huh Jake, what with this stalker and everything,” the bartender said, a statement not a question, as he set the cup on the table and poured the man his coffee.

  “Yeah,” Washcke agreed, passing his hand over his face. “Thanks Louie,” he said as he put the cup to his lips.

  “It might be a little strong, Jake. I put it on a couple hours ago figuring you’d stop tonight. Haven’t seen you for a few days and you’re later than usual.”

  “Almost 10:30 P.M. already,” agreed Waschke as he looked up at the clock behind the bar. “You’re right, I am kinda late tonight. Out cruising for our boy.”

  “Any luck?” asked Louie. He had known the police lieutenant for almost fifteen years. He knew better than to ask any specific questions about an ongoing investigation. But his bar, he was the owner of the Lakeview Tavern as well as the head bartender, was one Jake stopped at frequently. In fact, almost every night. Sometimes looking for information, street talk, gossip, whatever. Usually though, Waschke liked to come in, sit quietly in one of the booths, sip a little decaf and relax or, like tonight, gather his thoughts.

  Jake responded to the question with a short, wry laugh. More of a quick expulsion of breath than a laugh. A snort, really. “Don’t worry, Louie. You’ll know as soon as something breaks. Probably before me,” he
said, looking up at the television above the bar.

  “Yeah, no shit,” said Louie, shaking his head. “It’s been all over the news for weeks, especially since the governor’s daughter. Even if they don’t have anything to talk about, they talk about it. That must be a helluva pain in the ass for you to put up with, the press, I mean.”

  “Yeah, it sure is,” Waschke replied with a resigned sigh. “It’s not so dumb, though. Keep it on the air, keep people, especially women, conscious of it. Hopefully, it will remind them to be careful. Maybe even save someone’s life,” he said as he held up his cup for a refill.

  “Good point. There’s more than one loony out there. Pays to be careful, these days. You look tired, Jake. Get some rest.”

  “Easy for you to say,” replied Waschke to Louie’s back as Louie walked back toward the bar to continue serving the few regulars seated on the barstools.

  Sipping his coffee, oblivious to the sights and sounds of the sparsely crowded bar, he tried to relax and unwind after yet another long, stressful day. There was no let up on the pressure and there would not be until someone was behind bars for at least one of these murders. With the political heat, it would be best if it was for the Dahlstrom girl’s, he thought. The heat coming from the Capitol was showing no signs of a let up. And why not? If the governor’s daughter was not safe, whose was? The problem was, they were no closer to getting this guy than they had been from the beginning. Jake knew why, too.

  Homicide, he knew from more than twenty years experience as a police officer, is a relatively easy crime to get away with. Do the deed, get rid of the weapon and other physical evidence such as your clothing, walk away and keep your mouth shut. Most killings were solved not by brilliant police work, although some were, but because in more than seventy percent of all homicides the victim and the perpetrator know each other. A spouse, friend, lover, neighbor. An angry exchange, an emotional burst, a gun goes off. Everyone is sorry afterwards but it’s too late now. Jake had to clean up the mess more times than he cared to remember after just such an occurrence.

  He leaned back in the booth, put his feet up on the bench seat under the table opposite him and let his mind drift back over the events of this hectic day. A technique he had discovered years ago to help him relax and at the same time, organize his thoughts about the case he was working. He went back to the day’s beginning, 8:00 A.M. at the downtown police headquarters, and the meeting with Jake’s boss, Deputy Chief Roger Holby, the man overseeing the investigation for the mayor and chief of police.

  THIRTEEN

  “Can we get started? Let’s go people. Find a seat and we’ll get going,” said the deputy chief. Holby was standing in the front of the conference room, at the head of a long table with more than twenty chairs along its sides. He patiently waited for the dozen detectives, eight from Minneapolis the rest from St. Paul, to finish filling their cups and take a seat so the briefing could begin. “Okay folks, come on, let’s get going,” he said, less patiently.

  Jake took the first chair at the end of the table, just to the left of his boss, and looked over the short, middle-aged woman sitting in a metal folding chair in the corner behind Holby. She must be the shrink, he thought. The one he had been told about. The one who was supposedly some kind of expert flown in to lend a hand. Well, he thought glumly, whatever help you can give us lady, will certainly be welcome. We’re getting nowhere on our own. He finished his chocolate-covered doughnut just as the meeting began.

  “I’d like to introduce, Dr. Helen Paltrow,” Holby began after all the detectives had found their seats around the table. “Dr. Paltrow is a forensic psychiatrist at UCLA and an expert on serial killers. Being from LA, she probably has a lot more experience dealing with this than we do. We’ve brought her in on this to give us whatever help she can in nailing this guy. Anyway, I’ll turn it over to Dr. Paltrow now. Doctor.”

  The small woman rose from her chair and walked to the head of the table holding a legal-size manila file folder, stuffed with papers and notes to refer to during her presentation. She placed the folder on the table and put the half-moon reading glasses chained around her neck on the bridge of her nose. As she began to open the folder, the deputy chief said, “Would you like to use a podium, doctor?” referring to the small, wooden, portable platform that was sitting on the floor along the wall.

  “Yes, please. That would be good,” she answered as Holby stepped over to pick it up. “As your chief said, my name is Helen Paltrow,” she began after the podium had been placed on the table for her use, “and I’m a professor at the UCLA Medical School. I don’t know how much of an expert I am on these matters, but I have spent most of my life, going back to college forty some years ago, studying and profiling what we have come to call serial killers. I have participated in a number of investigations during that time. and have studied, sometimes in person, virtually every serial killer that we have identified. I’ve spent a lot of time personally interviewing as many as I could. Some whose names you’d recognize such as Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer.”

  “You were in the same room with Jeffrey Dahmer?” interrupted Joyce Rollins, one of the three women sitting at the table. “Not without a weapon, I wouldn’t be,” she added, invoking laughter from the assembled group.

  “Well, he was quite secure. Believe me, I made sure before I saw him,” said the psychiatrist with a laugh. “Besides, he didn’t like girls, remember? The boys here would’ve been in bigger trouble with him than me,” a comment that elicited more laughter, which helped to relax everyone.

  As a rule, Jake did not like shrinks. He didn’t believe that they were very helpful. He had been involved with them in the past, both personally and professionally. He had put himself into counseling when his first marriage broke up and grudgingly believed it might have helped him get through it. Two other times he had been ordered to see a police psychologist following the two times he had shot someone. Both good shootings when the suspect had drawn down on him first. Neither event had bothered him in the least bit, especially the one where the man died. Jake believed that was a suicide by cop and he had no regrets about it. For the most part, he believed shrinks were a waste of time and taxpayer’s money.

  “Anyway,” the doctor continued, “I was sent the material on your victims and flown here to tell you what I can about the killer. Frankly, there’s not much here, which also tells me something about your man.”

  “First off,” she said as she removed the glasses and looked over the faces peering intently at her, “let me run through some of the general things we’ve learned studying these guys. Odds are, your guy is white, between the ages of twenty-five and forty. Probably married or at least was at some time in his past. More than likely, something wrong in his childhood. Dysfunctional family or some trauma that’s coming to the surface now and he’s acting on impulse. These attacks, by the fact that they appear to be random, by that I mean there’s no real apparent pattern, seem to be almost spontaneous. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of preparation or planning. At least, that’s my best guess right now.”

  “You mean, he’s not able to control himself. Can’t control his urges or whatever. You think he’s insane?” asked Jake. “He’s driving along, sees a tall, slender, attractive brunette girl and can’t stop himself?”

  “Probably not that spontaneous,” she said looking directly at Jake as she brushed back a strand of her slightly graying black hair, “As I’m sure you know, there’s legally insane and then there’s medically psychotic. Do I think he’s legally insane in that he doesn’t know what he’s doing is wrong? No, I don’t. Obviously, I think they are all medically insane, which, as you probably know, isn’t a medical term at all. But do I think he’s crazy? He’s crazy as a shit house rat. Does that answer your question?

  “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be doing this. Legally insane though, not at all. He knows what he’s doing and he knows it’s wrong. They all do, which is why they try to get away with it. If he didn’t know
right from wrong, why hide? Why try to avoid detection?”

  “Would you testify to that in court?” asked Waschke while thinking, he may not like shrinks too much, but he was beginning to like this one.

  “Obviously not without at least meeting your guy and spending some time with him. Look,” she continued, returning her gaze to the room as a whole, “what I’m saying here is; this guy will look and act as normal as anybody. He could be sitting in this room.”

  “If he’s sitting in this room, he’s anything but normal,” joked one of the women.

  After the laughter died down, Paltrow continued. “On the surface, he’ll appear to be your average Joe Citizen. Middle class, white male probably in his late twenties to mid-thirties. Job, maybe even a professional. Could have a family at home. Likely, but not necessarily, some type of mental or emotional trauma in his background.

  “He’s not some out-of-control nut. In fact, just the opposite. That’s what this whole thing is about. What he’s after. To control his victim and feed off of her fear. These attacks have nothing to do with sex. In fact, the reason you’re not finding physical evidence from this guy could be, just possibly, because he’s not penetrating her with his penis. He may be using some type of phallus. It’s the fear and control.

  “You’re not going to find him by picking up mental cases, derelicts or homeless street guys. You probably won’t have him on file somewhere. Possible, but that’s not typical. He might be but probably isn’t a felon or ex-con with a history. He’ll be of above-average intelligence and I think for your guy, is likely very intelligent.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Holby.

  “Look at your case,” the doctor answered. “Very little physical evidence. Maybe one semen sample even though all but the last show signs of sexual trauma, rape. No hair samples, fibers, skin under finger nails. He has thought all of this through very thoroughly except one other thing. I believe he wants to be caught. Wants to be stopped.