“It’s okay,” Jefferson said.
“Now that I think about it,” Maddy continued. “I’ve had this weird feeling I was being followed for the past couple days. Did you call Marc?” she asked Tony.
“Yeah, I did. I told him about your call. He asked me to call him back with any news. He’s at Margaret’s house. They’re fine.”
“I don’t know what else we can do tonight,” Jefferson said. “You be careful,” he told Maddy.
“And sleep with a gun tonight,” Tony added.
Pavel Gorecki shuffled along the street in Northeast Minneapolis toward his destination, St. Andrew’s Catholic Church. Pavel was 78, a retired railroad worker and a volunteer custodian at St. Andrews. A devout Catholic, he lived for his duties at the Church. His wife of almost fifty years passed six years ago and there was little else left in his life.
This Sunday morning for Pavel was the same as all Sundays. He hurried along as best as his weary, old legs could carry him. Pavel liked arriving early at the church to spend some quiet time communing with the Lord without the intervention of a priest. He would then go up and down the aisles and pews to make sure they were neat, tidy and ready for the 7:00 A.M. Mass.
Pavel took his normal seat in the pew farthest from the altar. The church was dimly lit and at first, he noticed nothing usual. Then as he knelt to pray, he looked up at the altar and noticed something out of the ordinary. Because of the weak lighting and his fading old eyes, he could not make out what it was. Something up there was amiss and his curiosity got the better of him.
Pavel stood and made his way up the center aisle. He got within thirty feet of the object that had caught his attention before realizing what it was. The old man gasped, slapped his hands to his face, turned and hurried back down the center aisle, horrified, stumbling and gasping to get to a phone.
SIXTY-FOUR
Owen Jefferson’s cell phone rang awakening both him and his wife. Because of his status in homicide, these calls were not unusual, especially on a Sunday morning which naturally followed Saturday nights with its usual assortment of violent stupidity.
“Yeah, Jefferson,” he croaked then cleared his throat.
“Owen, it’s Dan Fielding. I’m at St. Andrews in Northeast. You’ll want to get down here. I think your boy is back. It’s the priest…”
“Father Brinkley,” Jefferson said. “Shit. Is he posed?”
“Yeah, just like Jimmy Oliver and the others,” Fielding said. It was Sgt. Dan Fielding who was first on the scene when Jimmy Oliver was found in the alley behind Tooley’s. “You know where St. Andrews is?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Jefferson said.
“I got CSU and the M.E. on the way.”
“Okay, Dan. I’ll be along.”
After Jefferson ended the call his wife, Clarice asked, “What?”
“Howie Traynor’s back. Maddy Rivers, a P.I. friend of Tony Carvelli, saw him last night or, at least thinks she did. Now we got another victim, Traynor’s priest over at St. Andrews.”
Jefferson took his time getting to the crime scene. The first thing he did was call Marcie Sterling and Tony Carvelli. He awakened both of them but figured if he could get an early call, why not share the misery?
By the time Jefferson arrived at the church, Marcie was already inside. Jefferson went in and found Marcie, an assistant M.E. and the CSU team at the front of the church.
Marcie was bent down in front of the body watching while the M.E. examined it. Jefferson stood back, hands in his pants’ pockets as he surveyed the scene.
Father John was sitting on the floor, his head slumped forward, his cassock covered in blood. His back was against the oak altar, his arms spread and hands nailed to the wood. He had a barbed wire crown and even from this distance, Jefferson could tell his fingers were crushed, his feet were bare and his toes had been similarly mangled.
Marcie noticed her partner watching. She stood up, stepped back to him and said, “Traynor’s back or we’ve got a copycat.”
“It’s him,” Jefferson said. He then explained what had happened the night before.
“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Marcie asked.
“Because I figured you were with Jeff Miller and I didn’t want to bother you,” he said.
“What makes you think I was with Jeff Miller?” she asked a little too defensively.
“You didn’t think I knew?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know. Oh shit, who else knows?”
“Well let’s see,” Jefferson began. “There’s me and pretty much the entire police department.”
A uniformed officer tapped Jefferson on the shoulder and told him Tony Carvelli was outside.
Jefferson and Marcie hurried down the aisle toward the front door. While they walked, Marcie whispered, “How long have you known?”
“Since day one. I’m a cop, remember? Relax, you’re an adult, he’s more or less an adult, you’re entitled. It’s okay. Besides, word is he’s really hung,” he said with a smile.
“Oh shut up!” she said as she slapped him on the shoulder. They walked a few more steps and just before they reached the door she said, “Besides, it’s not true but he’ll do.”
Carvelli was standing on the concrete steps leading up to the front door of the church. Jefferson looked around and saw at least two hundred people watching from across the street. It was a little after 7:00 and most of the crowd were parishioners who were there for the 7:00 A.M. Mass. Word of Father John’s murder had leaked and quickly spread. Jefferson stopped on the top step and saw a couple of media vans pull up a block away.
“So much for keeping a lid on this,” he muttered.
The two MPD detectives joined Carvelli who was sipping a large Caribou coffee, looking as dapper as ever.
“Is it our boy?” Carvelli asked.
“Looks like it,” Jefferson answered. “Did you call Maddy Rivers and Marc Kadella?”
“Yeah, I did, had the pleasure of waking them both up. They’re fine. I’ll call them back when we’re done here. Can I get in to take a look?”
“Sure, come on,” Jefferson said.
Jefferson and Marcie spent the morning notifying every police department in the Metro area. The local media was all over the story and all over the MPD looking for information. The public relations office issued denials and warnings that it was too early to tell if the Crown of Thornes Killer was back. Ignoring the denials the media ran with the story that it was the Crown of Thornes Killer. By the end of the day, every judge and a number of prosecutors were clamoring for police protection.
Because the police had done a good job of keeping Howie Traynor’s name out of it, he was not named as a suspect. A couple of media people specifically asked the MPD about him but received firm denials.
By the end of the day, an exhausted Owen Jefferson was happy to be home.
While all of this was taking place, Howie Traynor was smugly watching the TV news from his motel room in Hudson, Wisconsin. Hudson is a small city on the St. Croix River. The river serves as a border between the two states and is barely twenty miles east of St. Paul. Howie could be back in Minneapolis in less than an hour.
Melinda Pace hurried down the front steps of the Lutheran church. She was in a hurry to get away from the AA meeting and a small crowd of people in the evening’s group gathering in front along the sidewalk. Melinda went along with this farce to satisfy the station’s higher-ups but she really did not buy into it. The other people who attended she considered to be nothing but whining, simpering, pathetic losers and drunks with whom she had nothing in common. For their part, Melinda was a huge celebrity who was one of them and was so much nicer than her reputation portrayed.
Playing her role, Melinda smiled and politely nodded at several of them as she walked toward the street. Most of them were smoking and Melinda also lit up while she walked.
Following her normal routine, she was parked on the street of the next block away from the church where the meetings
were held. She was in a spot where none of the others would be so they would not want to walk along with her. Plus, she could make a quick getaway.
Listening to the heels of her shoes clicking on the concrete sidewalk, all Melinda could think about was the silver flask filled with vodka in the car. She had arrived for the meeting before dark and the street lights were not turned on. Because she was thinking about her flask of vodka she failed to notice the streetlight next to her car was out.
Three feet from the driver’s door Melinda hit the unlock button on her key fob. She reached for the door and Howie hit her in the ribs with his Taser. Melinda hit the asphalt face first and hard, immobilized and bewildered but still conscious. Before she even began to comprehend what was happening her mouth was taped shut, her hands tied together and she was in the trunk of a car.
Howie Traynor, one hand on the trunk lid, tossed her purse in with her. A terrified Melinda Pace stared up at him, conscious, immobilized and finally comprehending the fate that awaited her.
“Hello, Melinda,” Howie said grinning down at her. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Howie quietly closed the trunk lid and took a quick look around to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied he drove off down the dark, tree-lined street.
“Who found her?” Jefferson asked a uniformed MPD cop.
“A groundskeeper. He was out checking the course just before 6:00,” the man answered.
Jefferson, the officer and Marcie Sterling were standing in the rough along the eleventh hole of the Columbia Golf Course. Melinda Pace was nailed to two small trees in an all too familiar pose. A CSU tech and an M.E., Clyde Marston, were examining the body. The entire area surrounding the scene had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape. A half dozen CSU people were searching for evidence while another dozen cops were milling about. A vehicle from the medical examiner’s office was parked on the fairway nearby waiting to transport the body. Two CSU vehicles were there but everyone else had ridden in on golf carts. Jefferson turned at the sound of one approaching and saw the chief of police himself being driven toward them.
“Good morning, Chief,” Jefferson and Marcie both said when Chief Sorenstad reached them.
The chief stood silently for a minute staring at the body. His driver came up behind him and Sorenstad said, to no one in particular, “This will create one helluva shitstorm. When something like this happens to one of their own, the media goes nuts about it. Same guy?” he asked Jefferson.
“We think so,” Jefferson said.
“This Traynor nut job?”
“Probably.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sorenstad quietly said. “We had the sonofabitch and messed up the case against him. We’ll all get crucified, pardon the pun,” he added nodding toward the displayed corpse of Melinda Pace. “Find this sick bastard, Jefferson.”
Before Jefferson could respond his phone rang. He looked at the I.D. and answered it. Jefferson listened to the caller, his face showing more and more concern as he did so.
“What?” Marcie asked.
Jefferson held up a finger to stop her and said, “I’ll be there as quick as I can. The Chief’s standing right here. I’ll tell him.”
Sorenstad and Marcie looked curiously at Jefferson. He ended the call, replaced the phone in his coat pocket and heavily sighed.
“We got another one, Chief. It’s Bobby Conlin. Detective Bobby Conlin.”
SIXTY-FIVE
Tony Carvelli parked the Camaro on the street one building down from his destination. He got out and walked the two hundred or so feet on the sidewalk and strolled across the asphalt entrance to the building. Tony saw the man he was there to meet, cleaning the limousine he drove for a living.
“Hey, Jake,” Tony said as he extended his hand to his friend, former MPD lieutenant, Jake Waschke.
The two men shook hands and Waschke said, “I was about to call you.”
“You heard about Bobby?” Tony asked.
“Yeah,” Waschke said as he tossed the towel he was holding into a laundry hamper. When he was released from prison, Jake’s many friends around the Cities had a number of jobs lined up for him. Limo driving seemed like a sensible, easy way to merge back into society.
“How’s this gig going?” Tony asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” Waschke smiled. “I’m making more money, working fewer hours and with less stress than I did as a cop. What about Bobby? What’s going on there?” Waschke asked.
“It’s Howie Traynor. He’s back,” Carvelli answered him.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, Maddy Rivers saw him a couple nights ago. You remember Maddy, don’t you?”
Waschke smiled and said, “Pretty hard to forget. Why Bobby?”
“I think because he was with us when we busted Traynor for the Lucille Benson murder. Remember? At the East End, Bobby was the one who hit him with the Taser…”
“And that psycho Traynor pulled the leads out of his chest, threw them back at him then busted his jaw,” Waschke interrupted finishing the story. “What do you think, is he after us too?”
“Probably,” Tony shrugged as if to say, let him try.
“I just remembered, the woman who was with us when we busted him, Helen Barkey…”
“She got married a few years back,” Tony said. “She moved somewhere out west. She should be okay.”
“Good. What are we going to do about this psycho?”
Tony nodded his head toward the building’s exit and said, “I got an idea.”
The two men walked out through the garage door toward the street. While they did, Maddy Rivers pulled up in her black Audi parked and joined them.
The three of them quietly conversed and after a few minutes, Waschke asked Maddy, “You sure about this? You could be working without a net,” he told her.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she answered him. “I’ll be okay.”
“Is Conrad Hilton still around town,” Jake asked Tony, referring to a man who was an expert at wiretapping and electronic surveillance systems.
“Yeah, in fact, I talked to him this morning. I told him what we needed,” Tony said.
“Does he know why?” Maddy asked.
“No,” Tony answered her.
“Have you talked to the other guys yet?” Jake asked him.
“No, I wanted to talk to you first. You know these guys. If I’m in and you’re in, they’re in.”
Waschke thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. He stared up at the sky for a few seconds then began to stroll about deep in thought. While he did this, both Tony and Maddy leaned against the front of her car waiting.
A minute later he came back to them and said, “Is there any other way? Have we thought of everything?”
“I’m open to suggestions about what else to do and hell no we haven’t thought of everything,” Tony replied.
Waschke smiled a wry, nervous smile and said, “I can’t think of anything better either.”
Jake looked at Madeline again and asked, “You’re sure about this?”
“I’ll be fine, Jake. Yes, I’m sure,” she replied.
Madeline was sitting at a table in the patio area of a hookup bar on West Lake Street in the Uptown area of Minneapolis. With her was Officer Karen Anderson. Between them they had received quite a few looks from the single guys in the semi-crowded establishment. The two women were unacquainted so they made small talk about the difficulties of being female police officers.
Roughly forty-five minutes after being seated, a man from the bar approached them. Without invitation, he grabbed an unoccupied chair from another table and sat down with them. By all appearances, the two women appeared quite annoyed by the unwanted intrusion. The man’s name was Mitchell Cavanaugh and like Maddy’s companion, he was an MPD police officer.
He leaned forward and above the din of the bar, said, “I haven’t noticed anyone out of the ordinary paying too much attention to you. The problem is, you’re getting a lit
tle too much attention and it’s hard to spot anyone unusual.”
Maddy said, “I’m going to slap you then get up and leave. Karen, you stay with Mitch and watch for anyone following me out.”
True to her word, Maddy suddenly slapped Mitch across the face. Both he and Karen looked shocked while Maddy looked angry. As she stood up, grabbed her purse and fled quickly out the front door, several of the men at the bar, all too young for Maddy anyway, heartily laughed and made lewd comments.
A bearded man with dark glasses and hair over his ears briefly smiled at the sight. Howie Traynor enjoyed a clear view of the women and was hoping Maddy would leave by herself. She barely made it through the door when he slid off the barstool and casually followed her out. Unfortunately, at that exact same moment, at least eight other people left. Howie slipped out acting as if he was just another person in the crowd.
When she first arrived at the bar to set herself up as bait, Maddy deliberately parked her car in a remote lot two blocks away. After leaving the bar, when she was approximately half way back to her car, she heard Mitch’s voice come through the audio receiver in her ear. He told her about the crowd at the door that left right after her. Unconcerned, Maddy acknowledged the information and kept going.
Howie knew where she was parked and had a different route he could take to get there ahead of her. As soon as he was outside, he began jogging silently down the street to an adjacent alley. He broke into a sprint, got across Charles Avenue and was into the lot before she came into view. Howie ducked down between his car and another and waited for her in the dark, his Taser ready to go.
When Maddy received the news from Mitch Cavanaugh, something in her clicked. Somehow she knew Howie was in that crowd and slipped out unnoticed. Calmly, she opened her purse and put a hand inside it. She removed a small, metal cylinder and held it at her side.
Of course, Madeline knew how dangerous Howie was. She had a pistol in her purse but did not want to use it. Maddy had killed two people, both completely justified, but she was still going through some serious counseling over them. If she didn’t have to shoot Howie, she wouldn’t. Believing what she held in her hand would be sufficient, she went toward her car.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 180