A Cold Case of Killing

by Glenn Ickler

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Al said. “Did you see the driver?”

  “Not really. I saw a dark shape but not any features. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.”

  “Only one person in the car?” he said.

  “That’s all I saw, just the driver,” Naomi said.

  “You said the car was weaving?” I said.

  “Yeah, it looked kind of like the driver was having trouble controlling it at that speed.”

  “Have you told the police about this?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I talked to a woman detective by the name of Barnes. I’ll never forget her, because she had an attitude.” Ah, yes, nothing from the neighbors, according to Detective K.G. Barnes.

  “She’s sort of known for her attitude,” Al said.

  “What he means is that she’s known to be a bitch,” I said.

  “As I woman, I don’t like to hear that word, but I’d say that in Detective Barnes’s case it could be accurate. Now, if you gentlemen are through with me, I really have to get on my way to work.”

  “We’d like a quick photo and then you can be on your way,” Al said. “Where do you work?”

  “At the Minneapolis Globe,” she said. “But I read the St. Paul paper every day.”

  As we left, I thanked Naomi for her help.

  “No problem,” she said. Aargh! Young people.

  “Imagine that,” Al said as we left. “Interviewing someone who works at the Globe.”

  “Small world,” I said.

  We questioned two more people before calling it quits, and got a partial corroboration of Naomi’s statement from a seventy-something woman dog walker, who had been walking her Shih Tzu—yet another one—a little after 6:00 a.m. on the Friday of Henry’s death.

  “I heard this awful screeching of tires, and when I looked around, here comes this big black sedan tearing up the street like a rocket,” Ann McDermott said, pointing in the direction of Henry’s house. “I grabbed Cuddles and held her while that monster went ripping by.”

  “You say it was a big black car?” I said.

  “Looked as big as a frickin’ tank coming at us,” she said.

  “You didn’t see what kind it was?”

  “I didn’t care what kind it was, I just wanted to be sure Cuddles was safe. The car wasn’t going in a straight line and I was scared it might zoom over to the sidewalk.”

  “Good idea to hold the dog,” Al said. “Did you see the driver?”

  “Not really. I was too busy grabbing Cuddles and ducking out of the way to look for any driver.”

  “Well, thank you for your time and your help,” I said as Al took Ann’s picture cuddling Cuddles.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she said. Disappointing. She was of the generation that should give the proper response.

  We returned to the office with a couple of new facts I could put in a story. Two women had seen a black car, either small or as big as a frickin’ tank, leaving from in front of Henry’s house, weaving at high speed with screeching tires at the estimated time of Henry’s death. With Al’s pix of the people interviewed, it made a tolerable follow story on the Falcon Heights murder case. It was so tolerable, in fact, that it brought me a phone call in response the next morning—at home on my day off, no less.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Day Off

  WHO GAVE YOU permission to talk to those people about the murder of Henry Moustakas?” asked Detective K.G. Barnes.

  “The Founding Fathers,” I said. “Surely you’ve heard of the First Amendment.”

  “You and your photographer buddy are poking your noses into police business,” she said. “That’s going beyond your First Amendment rights.”

  I wanted to tell her she was full of crap, but I said, “So sue me. Sue the paper. Sue the corporation that owns us. But be aware that Al and I might be snooping around out there in your little police kingdom again before the case is solved. If it’s solved.” I couldn’t resist that final dig.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. First Amendment, the case will be solved,” KGB said. “We have a perfect record in solving homicides.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You’re one-for-one in that category. But as I recall, you had help from a certain reporter-photographer team who figured it out first.”

  There was a moment of silence, and I could imagine steam whistling out of KGB’s ears as she remembered how we’d one-upped her. “Just take this as a warning,” she said at last. “You two stay out of Falcon Heights or we promise to find a way to put you behind bars for something.” Her voice rose in a crescendo as she spoke.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  “No problem,” she said at top volume as she broke off the call. I knew she would give that uncouth response.

  The next call I received was far more encouraging. It came just before noon from Martha Todd, who said that the case in Moorhead had been settled and that she was in her car and about to leave the motel parking lot. “See you about five o’clock,” she said.

  I greeted this news with a whoop of joy and asked if she wanted me to try to make something for dinner.

  “Yes, reservations at the nearest restaurant,” she said. “That’s the one thing you know how to make without burning something or creating a hellacious mess in the kitchen.” I couldn’t argue with that. My lack of culinary skills was unmatched and undeniable.

  Shortly after lunch, my doorbell rang. I peeked out the window and ascertained that the caller was friendly. When I opened the door, Zhoumaya Jones rolled through in her wheelchair. “I just got home from hiding out with my friend and the first thing I need to do is apologize and thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome for whatever you’re thanking me for, but you’ve got no reason to apologize,” I said.

  “No reason to apologize? I run away and hide from a lunatic killer and leave you to get your throat cut and I’ve got no reason to apologize? I’m just thanking the Lord that you’re alive to apologize to.”

  “Well, we’re both still alive and safe from John or Robert or whatever the hell his name is now. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Mitch, when I read your story about that bastard holding a knife to your throat I felt so ashamed of myself for running away that I couldn’t even pick up the phone and call you. It’s taken me this long to work up the nerve to face you.”

  “You did the right thing,” I said. “I did the stupid thing by opening the door without making sure that it was Clarence from the FBI. If I’d used half a brain, the guy never would have gotten inside and my neck would never have been nicked.”

  I poured us both some iced tea and we sat and talked for nearly an hour. As Zhoumaya was leaving, I invited her to join Martha and me for dinner.

  “Oh, no, Mitch, I can’t do that,” she said. “You and Martha have got a whole week’s worth of talk to talk, and whole week’s worth of something else to do when you get home from dinner. I’m not going to get in the way of any of that.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, either. Zhoumaya’s forecast was right on the mark. Martha and I did a week’s worth of talking over our dinner in the restaurant, and then we did our best to catch up on a week’s worth of loving when we got back to our bedroom. When we reached a state of exhaustion, sometime past midnight, we agreed to continue our catch-up efforts on the following night.

  “We’ve still got several nights worth of catching up to do,” I said.

  “And after we catch up, there’s no harm in getting a few nights ahead,” Martha said. Once again, I couldn’t argue with that.

  * * *

  “YOU LOOK LIKE something the cat dragged in,” Al said as he handed me a cup of coffee at my desk Friday morning.

  “Martha got home last night,” I said. “We sat up half the night talking about everything that happened while she was gone.”

  “Oh, I’m sure all you did half the night was talk. But please spare me the details. Anything interesting happening here in the w
orld of news reporting today?”

  “Not yet. Right now there’s nothing new on either the cold case or the current hot case. I’ll check with both Brownie and our buddy KGB later this morning, after I do a story that Don gave me at City Hall.” I told Al about the previous day’s telephone encounter with Detective Barnes and he suggested going back to Falcon Heights to nail a copy of the Constitution on the front door of the police station.

  “We’d better use tape instead of a nail or she’ll charge us with vandalism,” I said.

  “How tacky of her,” Al said.

  My call to Brownie netted me a grumpy “good morning,” a five-minute canned music concert on hold, and a “have a good day, Mitch.” Alaska resident James Bjornquist had not responded to a message Brownie had left on his phone, and the St. Paul PD was no closer to determining the fate of Marilee Anderson than it had been the previous day.

  My call to KGB netted me the information that she was in a meeting and wouldn’t be discussing the Moustakas murder case with the media on this day. What a surprise.

  Thus frustrated in my pursuit of both cold and hot case news, I put on the navy blue blazer I had slung over a corner of my desk and walked up to City Hall to cover a developer’s presentation to the City Planning Board. The boredom actually felt good after all the action I’d been swept up in during the last few days.

  After lunch, I had little to do except shuffle papers and try to look busy when Don glanced my way. I was seriously considering another trip to Falcon Heights just to piss off Detective K.G. Barnes when my phone rang.

  The high-pitched voice was so raspy and heavily distorted that I couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “I have a tip for you,” it said.

  “What about?” I asked. I had the awful feeling that this could be another nut like Morrie calling about Russian radar peeking into his bathroom, so I wasn’t all that interested in the reply.

  “Marilee Anderson,” said the voice.

  Now I was interested.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Getting Warm?

  WHAT CAN YOU tell me about Marilee Anderson?” I asked. Again, my right hand began searching the desktop for note-taking materials.

  “I can tell you where she went,” the voice said.

  I had pulled a blank sheet of paper out of the pile and was picking up a ballpoint when I said, “Okay, where did she go?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “She didn’t go on the phone?” I hoped my flip response would encourage the caller to keep talking so I could get a better clue to his or her gender.

  “Don’t act stupid. We need to meet in person.”

  I thought about Old Hank. “The last person I was supposed to meet in person met up with a sharp knife instead,” I said.

  “I know,” said the voice. The rasp was softening and I had a sense that the caller was female. “I’m not worried about that.”

  “So where do you want me to meet you?”

  “St. Adolphus Church in Minneapolis.” The church where Old Hank worked and probably where Helen Hammersley had seen a woman she thought looked like Al’s updated photo of Marilee Anderson. “You know where that is?”

  “I can find it,” I said.

  “Come to the small cottage behind the church, on the left side, next to the convent,” the voice said in a hoarse whisper. Now I wasn’t so sure it was a woman.

  “When?” I asked.

  “How about today? In two hours?”

  I looked at my watch. It was 1:28 p.m. “I can do that. Who do I ask for?”

  “You won’t have to ask. Just knock on the door at three thirty.”

  “I’m bringing along my photographer friend.”

  The caller was silent for a moment before responding. “Okay, bring him. But no pictures.” The line went dead.

  My feet barely touched the floor as I raced to the city desk to tell Don O’Rourke about this amazing turn of events. Don was as excited as I was to think that the solution to the puzzle he’d tried to solve twenty-five years ago could be only a couple of hours away. He sent me to the photo department to get Al for a planning session and we both returned almost drooling in anticipation.

  “You’ve got to be careful with this,” Don said. “Think about what happened to the guy in Falcon Heights. If this case is connected to his murder, the same killer might go after this caller and you might arrive at a very bad time. You should for once do what Detective Brown wants and arrange for a police backup.”

  “I’ll call Brownie and ask him to set up something with the Minneapolis cops,” I said. “He might even take a trip across the city line himself to get a first-hand report on what the raspy fake voice tells us.”

  “You couldn’t tell if the raspy fake voice was male or female?” Al asked.

  “Not really. I was thinking it was a woman and then it got more masculine.”

  “Maybe it was the ghost of Old Hank Moustakas. He called me using a raspy fake voice to set up our meeting.”

  “I don’t think Old Hank had a twin,” I said. “But come to think of it, Marilee’s cousin Lauralee got her death threat from a caller with a raspy fake voice.”

  “You make damn sure you’ve got police backup,” Don said. “You don’t know what you’re walking into.” I repeated my pledge to set up things with Brownie.

  Our next problem was how to get a picture without upsetting our caller. Al decided that the best way was for him to receive a call on his cell phone and take a quick shot as he ended the phone conversation.

  “Won’t the flash spook him . . . or her?” Don asked.

  “I’ll turn off the flash,” Al said. “We’ll have to count on the room having enough light to give us a decent image.”

  “Who’s going to make the call?” I asked.

  “I’ll make the call,” Don said. “We should set up an exact time.”

  “If the person figures out what Al is doing, he or she might get pissed and throw us out,” I said. “Give me enough time to ask some questions before making the phone call.” We decided that Don would call at 3:47 p.m., giving us seventeen minutes to get in, get settled, and get some serious answers.

  When our skull session ended, I went to my desk and dug my pocket-size tape recorder out of the middle drawer. I loaded it with a fresh tape and put it in my shirt pocket. Next I called Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown’s number. I got his voicemail, telling me to leave a message and he would get back to me.

  “That’s no good,” I said out loud.

  “What’s no good?” asked Corinne Ramey, whose sensitive ears seemed to pick up everything I said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just muttering to myself.”

  “Sounded like you were arguing,” she said.

  “That’s debatable,” I said.

  I called the St. Paul Police Department and asked to speak with any homicide detective but Mike Reilly, knowing I’d get no cooperation from him. After a short wait I heard a click and a voice said, “This is Detective Townsend, how can I help you?”

  Perfect. I had previously worked with Terry Townsend, who was a young detective with a bright future, and he had been as helpful as a detective was allowed to be when dealing with the media. I told him I was trying to reach Detective Brown and explained the possibility of our cold case caller in Minneapolis also being connected to the murder in Falcon Heights.

  “Detective Brown is away from the office on personal business and won’t be back today,” Townsend said. “This sounds like you definitely should have a backup and I think I can arrange it. I’ll call Minneapolis and request a backup for you at St. Adolphus Church, beginning a few minutes before three thirty. Give me your number and I’ll call you when the backup is arranged.”

  I gave him my cell number and suggested he call that in case we were already on our way to the church before the arrangements were complete.

  “You really should wait until we’re sure of backup before you leave St. Paul,” Townsend said.

  “Our
appointment is for 3:30 p.m., and believe me, we’re not going to be even one minute late,” I said.

  “I’ll work as fast as I can, but do not go into that building until you’re absolutely positive that the police have your back.”

  “Just please get it done before three thirty.”

  “I’ll start the minute that we end this call.”

  “In that case, goodbye,” I said. “And thank you.”

  “No problem,” Townsend said. Aargh! They should make young cops take an etiquette course.

  * * *

  WE HAD NOT received confirmation of a police backup when Al parked the staff car in front of St. Adolphus Church at 3:12 p.m. We scanned the area around us and saw nothing that looked like a police car or a police officer. I checked my cell phone and made sure it was turned on and that the battery was charged. The answer was yes to both.

  “Let’s look around while we wait for the call,” Al said. We got out and walked to the foot of the concrete steps at the front of the church. The stone building was at least sixty feet tall with a gold-colored cross rising from the peak of a pointed dome. The gray construction stone had darkened in splotches over the decades, but the front wall was brightened by a round, twelve-foot-diameter stained-glass window that glowed in the sunshine above massive double doors made of polished oak.

  “Impressive,” Al said as he photographed the church with his cell phone.

  “Imposing,” I said as I scribbled a few descriptive words into my notebook.

  “Impervious,” he said.

  “Implausible,” I said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that being this close to an actual solution to the Marilee Anderson case is implausible.”

  I suggested further exploration, so we turned left, walked past the church, and followed a flagstone path toward the rear of the building. At the end of the path we saw a small cottage that we assumed was our destination. My watch said 3:23 p.m. and we still hadn’t received confirmation of a police backup.

  “It’s getting close,” Al said. “Are we knocking on the door at three thirty if we don’t have a call about backup?”