Strolling through the parking lot, she impressed herself with her lack of fear. Even though he likely left the bar after her, somehow she knew he was waiting for her. Three occupied parking spaces from her car, she sensed rather than heard, a movement coming from behind.
“He’s here,” she loudly said to be sure the mic she was wired to would pick it up. As she did so, she spun around, let her purse slip to the ground and snapped her right wrist to extend the metal baton she was holding.
Howie lunged at her, holding the Taser out to incapacitate her. Maddy swung the baton at his hand and hit the Taser, smashing it into a dozen pieces. Shocked at her sudden attack, Howie froze for a second, long enough for Maddy to swing again cracking him across the left elbow numbing his left arm.
“Ahhh! Goddamnit…” he yelled.
His left arm hung limply at his side and he swung a poorly aimed right hook at her. Maddy stepped into it, blocked the punch with her left arm and drilled his left knee with the baton. His knee started to collapse and she hit him two more times across the rib cage, fracturing four or five and across his right wrist. He went down on one knee, puzzled at the ferocity of Maddy’s attack while looking into her eyes.
By this time a Ford van was screeching past the parked cars coming straight at them, the lights from the van illuminating the scene.
Howie managed to get up on both feet. His left arm still hung limply, his knee slightly buckled and the pain in his ribs excruciating. The van came to a halt just as Howie said, “Who are you?”
Madeline was standing silhouetted by the lights. Her feet were slightly apart, her right hand holding the baton at her side. She looked and felt absolutely calm and totally unconcerned. The van’s doors started to open and Maddy took a half step toward Howie with her left foot, pivoting on it, she spun completely around and drove her right foot into the exposed chest of the helpless Howie Traynor. The kick took him completely off of his feet, flat onto his back and his head banged off the asphalt surface.
Tony Carvelli, Jake Waschke and two other men were out of the van by this time. Maddy stepped over to Howie and straddled his prostate body. She looked down into his barely conscious eyes, snarled and said, “You’re worst nightmare. That’s who I am, asshole.”
The men from the car quickly gagged him, handcuffed his hands and covered Howie’s head with a hood. Ignoring his obvious pain, they picked him up and literally tossed him through the side door onto the vehicle’s floor.
Carvelli reached Madeline as she was retrieving her purse. “You okay?” he asked with obvious concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Now what? What about him?”
“Go home, sweetheart,” Tony said and gave her cheek a light kiss. “You’ve done enough. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Maddy looked at Carvelli and said, “So, don’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answer to, right?”
“Something like that,” Carvelli said.
“Tony, be careful. I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. Neither will anyone else. Go home and relax.”
SIXTY-SIX
Two nights later, Jake Waschke and three retired cop friends pulled away from a private dock on Mille Lacs Lake. It was after 11:00 P.M. and they had a chore to perform.
Mille Lacs is a two hundred square mile lake located in central Minnesota. It is approximately ninety miles north of the Cities. The short distance makes it one of the most popular resort areas in the state. Normally on a June night, the lake would be semi-busy with fishermen angling for walleyes. Tonight, there were severe storm warnings for the area which cut the boat traffic down to almost nothing. No one wanted to be out on this large body of water with a windy thunderstorm hammering you.
The three ex-cops with Waschke were the same men who helped Carvelli do surveillance on Howie Traynor. Tom Evans was driving the boat, a twenty-three foot Crestliner with a 200 hp Mercury outboard. The boat’s owner, a retired MPD captain, had a half-million-dollar summer place on the lake courtesy of his wife’s money. The ex-captain and his wife were conveniently away for a few days. Without asking questions, he agreed to the use of the house and boat.
Evans pushed the accelerator down and the big Merc roared to life making the boat jump. The lake was starting to become quite choppy as the wind picked up. Looking west in the direction they headed an ominous dark mass was flashing lightning as it moved toward them. An occasional dull thud of thunder could be heard over the noise of the outboard.
The boat bounced along over the lake’s waves, some getting as high as two feet and growing. When they had traveled almost two miles out, Waschke tapped Evans on the shoulder and yelled above the noise, “This should do.”
Evans backed the engine down and the boat cruised to a stop. He swiveled around in the captain’s chair while his three companions stood up.
Normally this particular boat had six passenger seats. Before setting out, the men had removed two of them to accommodate their cargo.
Steadying themselves on the side of the boat, two of the men, Dan Sorenson and Franklin Washington moved into position. Waschke knelt down on one knee and ripped off the duct tape covering the mouth of Howie Traynor.
“You can’t do this!” Traynor immediately whined. “It ain’t right. You’re cops. You can’t do this. Please, I’m begging you, don’t…”
“Ssssh, ssssh,” Waschke quietly whispered and put a finger to Howie’s lips. “You should’ve thought about this a long time ago, tough guy.”
While Waschke taunted Howie Traynor, Sorenson, kneeling at Howie’s feet, checked the single chain wrapped around Howie’s ankles. Attached to the chain were two forty-pound kettle balls. The chain was also wrapped around Howie’s waist and hands and secured with a lock.
“They’re good,” Sorenson solemnly declared as Tom Evans knelt down next to him.
Waschke looked at the three men while Howie continued to whine and cry. Waschke asked, “Any second thoughts? Now’s the time.”
“No,” each man emphatically said.
“How deep is it here?” Waschke asked Evans.
“The depth gauge had it about twenty-five feet,” Evans answered.
“Nice night for a little swim, don’t you think?” Waschke said to Howie.
By now, consigned to his fate, Howie had calmed down. Defiantly he said, “I’ll see all you sonsabitches in hell.”
With that, Waschke replaced the duct tape over his mouth. Sorenson grabbed his feet, Washington took the shoulders, Waschke his mid-section and Evans the two kettle balls.
The four men heaved him up onto the gunwale of the boat. Sorenson edged aside so Evans could toss the kettle balls into the water. At the very last second, before they pushed him in, Waschke said, “Take a real deep breath, dickhead. You’ll have to hold it for a long time.”
Howie held up both hands extended his middle fingers and the ex-cops sent him over the side. The water splashed into the boat and hit all four of them.
Dan Sorenson reached into his shirt pocket and removed a small key. He dropped it into the water where Howie had gone down, laughed and said, “Good luck, shithead.”
A few seconds later, the men were back in their seats, Evans had the boat turned around and was heading back to shore.
Howie Traynor sank like a stone. The kettle balls attached to his ankles dragged him to the bottom, through the tall weeds in less than two seconds. Instead of panic or fear, Howie felt at ease, serene even. He always knew his life would end violently and that he was not destined for old age and a peaceful end in a hospital bed. Now that it was here, his mind cleared and he decided to enjoy the experience.
His feet hit the muddy bottom first and his shoulders a brief moment after. He settled into the weeds and mud to await the end when a tiny object hit him in the face. Reflexively his hands shot up, despite the chain, and he snatched the piece of metal off his right eye.
Remaining calm he held onto it and a couple of seconds later he re
alized what it was. It was a key that must have been tossed into the water by his would-be executioners.
Had it been mid-day, there would be very little light at this depth. At night, almost midnight, Howie literally could not see his hand in front of his face. The calm Howie felt after accepting and awaiting his fate was instantly replaced with near panic. His conscious brain immediately began to signal his heart and lungs that time was running out. Now that he held the means of escape, a reprieve from his watery grave, his will to survive kicked in.
He found the lock quickly enough and even managed to insert the key without a problem. Howie clicked open the lock and that’s when his problems began. The chain was wrapped around his wrist three times and his waist twice. While the clock kept ticking and his oxygen starved brain started to scream, he struggled to uncoil the chain. What seemed like several minutes but was less than thirty seconds, he got his hands free and the chain removed from his body.
While holding his breath, his lungs aching to exhale Howie still had to free his feet. He reached through the weeds and tried to kick his legs free at the same time. The eighty pounds of weights were too much to allow his feet to move. Feeling his way through the mud, weeds and darkness, he found the chain around his ankles. It was wrapped around each one twice and it seemed to take an eternity to get his feet free.
Finally, as his lungs began to involuntarily push the air out in an effort to replace it, Howie began his ascent. On his way up he removed the tape over his mouth and he could feel his body, deprived of oxygen, literally giving up. He started to lose consciousness, the air in his lungs completely gone and with his final conscious thought he kicked his legs one last time and broke into the night.
Gasping, coughing and spitting up lake water, Howie gulped down the fresh air until his head cleared and his brain went into a mode of relief. For the next minute he tread water ignoring the pain in his ribs, knee, elbow and wrist from the beating he had taken. He finally became calm, relaxed and oriented.
Howie realized he was looking directly at the boat he was thrown from, could see its lights off in the distance a mile or so away. Howie was a strong man and a strong swimmer. It was the one sport he excelled at and enjoyed as a teenager. Despite his injuries, the fractured ribs, elbow and knee, a two mile swim was easily manageable.
“I once told you I would piss on your grave,” he quietly said bobbing in the water and watching the boat head toward shore. “Looks like I’ll keep that promise. And I’ll have a real good time with that P.I. bitch.”
Howie’s ears were filled with water and had not popped yet from the pressure of the depth he came from. In addition, the wind had picked up and the waves were getting higher and more frequent. The wind and the waves were hitting him right in the face and he never heard it. Somehow he sensed it, like an unexplained presence and he turned his head a little too late.
A vehicle traveling thirty miles per hour, even a boat through water, will cover approximately twenty-two feet per second. By the time Howie saw the pontoon coming directly at his face, it was barely five feet away. He didn’t even have time to blink.
The boat was a sixty thousand dollar, twenty-eight foot luxury pontoon with three aluminum pontoon logs. Each pontoon had a metal strap overlapping the prow welded to hold the pontoon closed and water tight. This strap also formed a sharp, hard, metal edge on the point of the pontoon log. The owner’s son and his seven friends were hurrying across the big lake in an effort to beat the storm.
The center aluminum log hit Howie squarely in the face. His head was tilted back, the only reflexive action he had time for. The force shattered his chin, dislocated his lower jaw-bone and drove it back under his ears. It smashed most of his teeth, ripped his nose off, fractured his forehead and removed a good sized piece of the skin of his face.
The force of the blow drove him back underwater, directly beneath the pontoon. Unconscious, if not already dead, Howie’s back was arched, his head tilted backwards and what remained of his face barely inches below the pontoon. Both arms were extended as if nailed to a cross as the air in his lungs caused his body to rise. Howie’s forehead bumped against the back end of the pontoon less than a second after he was initially struck.
The big boat was powered by a 300 hp outboard motor. At thirty miles an hour, the propeller would spin between thirty and thirty-five times per second. If Howie’s eyes were able to see, they would have the briefest of moments to register the sight of the whirling four blades an instant before they hit him. With the precision of a razor, the propeller cleanly removed what remained of what had recently been the face of a monster.
“What was that?’ one of the girls on the boat asked the driver, the owner’s son Colin McIlroy.
“Hit a log,” Colin calmly replied. “The motor sounds fine. It didn’t hurt anything. We’ve got to get in.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
The three men were in a hurry to get to their favorite early morning spot for walleye fishing. It was before 6:00 A.M. and last night’s big storm would have the fish moving about and biting. Or at least so they believed. Every fisherman had a theory about when and how to fish and every one of them is right. And probably wrong, too.
The lake was calm and the ride smooth as the Alumacraft fishing boat sliced through the water. It was a cool morning and the sun was already appearing over the shoreline trees to their left as they headed north.
Buster, the forty-year-old son of the boat’s driver, was seated in the bow. He sipped coffee from a travel mug as he stared out over the lake. A quarter of a mile ahead, slightly to portside, Buster noticed a large object floating on the surface. When they were within a hundred yards, he could see it was human clothing.
“Jesus, Dad, slow down,” he yelled back to his father while pointing at the object. “Over there, something in the water. It might be a body.”
Mille Lacs County Sheriff Rory Boone was getting ready to leave his house when his cell phone rang. Sitting on the stairs off the living room of his home, one boot on, one boot off, he took the call. Knowing the office would not bother him this early unless it was important, Rory was not surprised at what they had.
He listened carefully, asked a few questions then ended the call. His wife of thirty years, standing in the kitchen doorway wearing a house dress and pink slippers asked, “A floater?”
“Looks like,” Rory answered her while forcing on the second boot. He stood and continued by saying, “Over by Isle. Some fishermen found him. The M.E. is on the way. I’ll let him fish him out. I’ll call you later,” he said as he kissed her and gave her a brief hug.
A drowning on Mille Lacs was not an everyday occurrence but was hardly unusual either. The on-duty sheriff’s deputies that would be at the scene were both experienced and could handle it. There was no need for the sheriff himself to drive thirty miles to see it.
Ten minutes after settling into his chair at the sheriff’s office in Milaca, Sheriff Boone received a phone call from the county coroner, Albert Lindgren. He quickly told the sheriff about what was found in the water and the condition of Howie’s face.
“Boat accident?” Boone asked.
“Looks like,” Lindgren replied. “Looks like the propeller hit him in the face and shaved it clean off. Teeth, face, everything gone. His mother wouldn’t be able to identify him.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“He wasn’t in the water too long. We should be able to get good prints,” Lindgren answered him. “I’m taking him in now. I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Is Hampton there?” Boone asked referring to one of his deputies.
“Yeah,” Lindgren said.
“Have him get fingerprints. We’ll run them right away. It’s odd because we haven’t had anyone call in about anyone missing.”
“Will do, Sheriff,” Lindgren said. “I’ll call you later.”
Around 10:30 Charlie Hampton, the deputy who took Howie’s fingerprints, rapped on the sheriff’s door and went in.
“What do you have, Charlie?” Boone asked.
“You need to take a look at this, Boss,” Hampton said handing a document to the sheriff.
Boone, seated at his desk, took it from Hampton, read the name and with a puzzled look said, “Howard Traynor. Why does that sound familiar?”
“Run him on Google,” Hampton said.
Two minutes later Boone said to his deputy, “I’ll call the state police and they can call Minneapolis. They’ll want to know about this ASAP.”
At 2:00 P.M. Owen Jefferson and Marcie Sterling pulled into the parking lot of the Fairview Clinic in Milaca, Minnesota, the county seat of Mille Lacs County. Howie’s body was taken to the clinic for a preliminary report before being transferred to the coroner’s office. Due to the population size of Mille Lacs County, the coroner for the county was in Ramsey, a small city in Anoka County which is part of the Twin Cities Metro Area.
Sheriff Boone, having spoken to Jefferson less than a minute ago, was leaning on his Ford Explorer waiting for them. Jefferson parked and the three of them greeted each other. On their way inside, the sheriff filled them in on what he knew and Howie’s condition.
Boone led them to the exam room where Howie, or what was left of him, was being kept. He was lying on a stainless steel table, naked and covered by a white sheet. Dr. Lindgren was there and warned them about the grisly site before removing the sheet from Howie’s missing face.
Two minutes later, all three of the law enforcement officers were grateful to be back in the parking lot breathing fresh air.
“You ever see that before?” Jefferson asked Boone.
“Yeah, we get car accidents and boat accidents once in a while that can be pretty awful. That’s the worst I’ve seen, though,” the sheriff said.
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 181