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 sight 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 p
retty awful. That’s the worst I’ve seen, though,” the sheriff said.
“You okay?” Jefferson asked Marcie.
She was leaning against a car and the color in her face was returning. She nodded her head a couple of times then said, “Yeah, I’m okay, I think.”
Jefferson turned back to Boone and said, “I’ve been in homicide for over ten years and I’ve seen some awful things people do to each other but that…”
“Yeah, I know,” Boone said. “Right now it looks like a boat accident. What do you think?”
Jefferson thought it over for a minute then said, “You’re sure about the fingerprints?”
“Yeah, we ran them three times. And the body size fits. What was he doing up here out on the lake?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Jefferson said. He paused for a moment then continued by saying, “Well, Sheriff, it’s your case. I can’t tell you what to do. But my advice is if it looks like a boat accident, if the autopsy confirms that, then close your case. Call his parents. I’ll get you their information. If they want the body, okay. If not, dig a hole, put him in it and walk away. No one is very interested in finding out what happened to him. But you do what you think is best, Sheriff. If you need anything, feel free to call.”
At 3:50 that same afternoon, Carolyn buzzed Marc over the office intercom. She told him there was a call from Maddy Rivers for him and Maddy said it was important. Marc, of course, knew that Howie Traynor was back and like everyone else, was on edge about it.
“What’s up?” he asked Maddy.
“I just got off the phone with Gabriella. You should turn on your TV set at four o’clock and catch the Court Reporter.”
“Melinda Pace is dead. Who’s doing the show?”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Maddy coyly answered him.
At four o’clock, the entire office was gathered around the television. Marc told everyone about Maddy’s call and they were all curious to find out what was up.
“Good afternoon. My name is Gabriella Shriqui and this is The Court Reporter,” Gabriella began the show by announcing.
Gabriella went on to explain that the station had decided to honor Melinda Pace by continuing her show. Gabriella was honored, so she said, to be selected to host the show and could only hope to maintain the high standards of journalism that Melinda had established.
She explained that the show was being broadcast live because they had received the news about Howie Traynor moments ago. His shocking death was the lead story and her guest was the lead MPD detective for the Crown of Thornes case, Owen Jefferson.
When the broadcast ended, Marc placed a call to Gabriella and was put right through.
“So, you got the show. Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks. When can I have you on?”
“We’ll see. The reason I called was to tell you how impressed I was that you kept a straight face prattling that nonsense about Melinda’s journalistic standards. Please tell me you’ll do better than that.”
Gabriella laughed and said, “I think I can do better than that.”
Coming Spring 2016
Personal Justice
The Fifth Marc Kadella Legal Mystery
Below is an excerpt
ONE
Mackenzie Sutherland followed the wheeled aluminum bier down the center aisle of St. Mark’s Catholic Church in St. Paul. It carried her husband’s coffin toward the church’s front entrance on Dayton Avenue. The bier was guided by six young men, all of whom were sons of old friends of her husband.
She walked slowly down the aisle loosely holding the arm of her personal lawyer, Cooper Thomas. Her face bore an impassive expression; appropriate for a funeral. Anyone looking at her through the black veil attached to her black hat and covering her face would think nothing of the look she wore.
Behind her, having been uncomfortably seated on the same pew with Mackenzie, were her three stepchildren. Robert, the eldest, and his wife, Paige, sat with their three unruly children. Then came the youngest, Hailey and her latest oh so cool, chic and hip bohemian-artist boyfriend, Chazz. Bringing up the rear of the dysfunctional family was the middle child, another son, thirty-eight-year-old Adam. Of the three of them, Adam was easily the most useless. His problems with drugs and alcohol made gainful employment problematic at best, if he had ever been so inclined toward self-sufficiency in the first place.
Mackenzie’s husband William ‘Bill’ Sutherland had been a well-known, respected businessman for almost forty years. Bill and his first wife, Beth, had worked and sacrificed to build a chain of successful grocery stores. Three months before his death he opened the thirtieth and final store in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Bill had always treated his employees well, in fact a little too well judging how it was affecting the company’s bottom line. However, because of this, there was not an empty seat in church.
When they exited the church, Cooper Thomas gently led Mackenzie toward the Cadillac limousine first in line behind the black hearse. While the casket was being loaded into the back of the big vehicle for Bill’s last trip, Mackenzie took a moment to look up at the sky.
March in Minnesota can be less than pleasant depending on how long winter decided to linger. The driver of Mackenzie’s limo stepped aside to allow Cooper to open the door for her. As he did so, a slight involuntary shiver went through Mackenzie.
“Dreary day,” she remarked as she entered the car.
She slid across the seat to allow her escort to get in next to her and close the door. While they sat waiting for the other guests to get in line and form the procession, Mackenzie pushed the button to raise the car’s privacy glass behind the driver.
“I’ll be glad when this is over,” she quietly said.
“You’re doing fine,” Cooper said patting her right hand with his left. Mackenzie had placed the hand on the seat between them and Cooper held it as if to comfort her.
“Stop,” she firmly admonished as she removed his hand and placed hers in her lap. “I don’t need consoling, Cooper. I need this business to be done.”
Despite his marriage, Cooper Thomas was thoroughly smitten with the very fetching Mackenzie Sutherland. Even dressed in widow black, she was still a fine looking woman. Hiding his disappointment at her admonishment, he said “Soon, Mackenzie, just a few more days. Everything is arranged.”
“I know,” she sighed. “I’m just tired of his damn kids bugging me about money.” Mackenzie turned her head to look out the passenger window as the rain began to lightly fall. While watching the rain streak the glass, waiting for the procession to start up to the cemetery, a slight smile curved her mouth upward.
While the two of them were silently chauffeured to the cemetery, Mackenzie retraced the route she traveled to reach this destination. Now, in her early forties her crusade began almost twenty years ago.
Mackenzie Lange, her original maiden name, graduated from the University of Minnesota in her early-twenties with a marketing degree. A very attractive young woman, borderline beautiful, Mackenzie had little trouble finding employment. She quickly learned she could use her looks, charm and intelligence to excel at sales and she found she liked it. There was something about manipulating people to do what she wanted that gave her a rush.
After a few years, just before turning thirty, Mackenzie moved to St. Petersburg, Florida. She had saved enough money so she could live without a job for at least two years if necessary. Having done her research before leaving to move to Florida, she knew exactly where she would work and in six months the job was hers; new car sales at Bauer Cadillac. It was also the location of the corporate headquarters for Bauer Enterprises, the owner of twelve car dealerships in the Tampa-St. Petersburg metro area.
Mackenzie, using her smooth legs and ample cleavage, shot to the top of the sales board in less than three months. It wasn’t long before she caught the attention of the company owner, Joseph Bauer, whose office was in the same building.
Immediately smitten with his beautiful young super sale
swoman, within two weeks they were dating. Three months later the angry first Mrs. Bauer was filing for divorce and three days after it was finalized Mackenzie became the second Mrs. Joseph Bauer.
Along with a very profitable business, Mackenzie became a stepmother for the first time. Joseph had two sons, Samuel a mere two months younger than Mackenzie and David, the spoiled Mama’s boy of the family.
Everything went exactly as Mackenzie had envisioned it. Having been married to a Jewish Princess for over thirty years, the sexual wild ride that Mackenzie brought to the conjugal bed turned Joseph into a pliable puppy.
Suddenly, a month after changing his Will, which cut out both sons, Joseph was found slumped over his desk. At the ripe old age of fifty-five, without any warning, his heart gave out. Three months later the grieving widow sold the business for seventeen million dollars. The amount was probably half what it was worth, but she wanted a quick sale.
The four-million-dollar beach front house was mortgaged to the max. Since her name was not on any of it, Mackenzie did a quick deed in lieu of foreclosure and she was on her way back to the Midwest.
During her marriage to Joseph Bauer, Mackenzie had become acquainted with an old college friend of her late husband. They had socialized several times and Mackenzie had taken every opportunity to flirt and flatter the well-to-do widower. Of course, when Joseph died suddenly this friend, Robert Hays, had flown immediately to Tampa-St. Pete to help the poor widow and console her through her time of grief and help handle the estate proceedings. Although Mackenzie required no help or grief consoling, she was all too happy to let him do it. By the time she cashed out and moved to Milwaukee where he lived Ken Hayes, soon to be husband number two, had been reeled in and landed.
Certain Justice Page 43