by Mike Faricy
I had been incorrect when I suggested to Aaron that Pauley had been on the wrong side of an interrogation table since he was twelve years old. He’d actually been eleven when he was hauled in on an arson charge for attempting to burn down his school. Juvenile sentencing was staid and Pauley was remanded to the custody of his grandmother, Emerald Mebbs. Emerald was back five months later, petitioning the court to take Pauley off her hands. Her petition was the last mention in the file of either Pauley’s mother or grandmother.
In and out of foster homes for the next three years, Pauley apparently tried the patience of some extremely patient people. At fifteen, he was sentenced to the juvenile facility in Red Wing, Minnesota on a series of burglary charges. He escaped from the Red Wing facility three weeks later. At age seventeen, he was sentenced to the Minnesota Correctional Facility in Saint Cloud where along with honing his criminal skills he learned the art of license plate stamping.
He was released in February of 1995 and promptly returned in November of that same year for possession with intent to distribute. This seemed to suggest a recurring pattern in Pauley’s life. Namely that if anyone was going to be caught, it would be him. Unfortunately, Pauley seemed incapable of ever learning this basic lesson for himself.
There seemed to be nothing in the file that would suggest anything as serious as the murder of Desi Quinn, let alone Helen Olsen’s car falling through the ice or Bernadette Driscoll’s boat exploding. Still, there was a graduated series of offenses that over the course of a quarter of a century created a lot of problems for a good many people and in general made their life experience a lot less than it could have been. Collectively, the societal problem could be summed up in one word, Pauley.
It was close to two in the afternoon when I finished reading Pauley Kopff’s depressing biography. I needed to get out of the musty catacomb of the records area, out into the sunshine and maybe spend some time chasing him down.
I carried the file out to Madeline’s desk, but she was nowhere to be found. I was tempted to take the file with me, but then I would have to kiss my access down here goodbye. I placed the file on her purple desk chair and then pushed the chair in so the file wasn’t just left sitting out in the open.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I drove past Karla’s and couldn’t spot Pauley’s car, so I drove through the state lot across the street. There it was, parked in the middle of the lot, lost in an ocean of state employee vehicles parked around him. The LeSabre was still sporting stolen South Dakota plates. Once again I was tempted to let the air out of one of his tires, but decided to take the high road and instead drove over to his apartment to break in.
When I pulled up in front, there was a hopscotch game drawn on the sidewalk and the door was wedged open with a kid’s shoe, burgundy with neon orange laces. The shoe was the kind where the heel lit up every time a step was taken.
The dozen doorbells were all labeled, except for one, unit 205. I didn’t see Pauley’s name listed anywhere, so I gambled and went for the unlabeled unit. The apartment was up on the rear of the second floor, the last of three filthy doors on the right hand side of a dingy hallway. Apartment 205 had, by far, the filthiest door and was located next to a rear stairwell spray painted with some sort of illegible gang graffiti.
I knocked twice and nothing happened. I put my ear to the door, but couldn’t hear anything through the grime. I quietly turned the knob. The door was locked, but seemed pretty loose in the door frame. I felt around the molding above the top of the door for a key and came up empty handed. I pushed softly against the door, and it moved maybe three-eighths of an inch before it stopped. I could see the latch catch in the door frame, so with the assistance of my expired VISA card I slipped the latch in under five seconds and the door suddenly creaked open.
I listened carefully and then called a soft “hello” before I stepped in and closed the door behind me. It was a small compact unit with a no-smoking sign tacked onto the back of the door. The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and dope. Against the far wall was a grimy grey couch with navy blue trim around the seams of the three cushions. The end cushion on the right hand side was torn along the seam and yellowed foam rubber seeped out from a gaping slit. On the opposite end of the couch, a thin bed pillow, grayed and soiled was wedged in the corner. The whole affair looked like it should have been out on the boulevard with a sign marked “FREE”, which was probably how Pauley got it in the first place. Opposite the couch was a forty-two-inch flat screen TV that looked shiny and brand new. The flat screen was sitting on a stack of a half-dozen boxes, each one holding a brand new flat screen. Next to the flat screens was a pile of maybe a dozen iphones, and behind them a number of Toshiba laptops piled against the wall. Funny, I’d never pegged Pauley as the hi-tech type.
The wood floor was well-worn oak, long devoid of any finish, let alone wax, not that you could really tell with all the clothes scattered around. There were two empty beer cases stacked at either end of the couch serving as an end table of sorts. A table lamp sporting a bare bulb and no shade sat on one of the stacks. A coffee can filled with cigarette butts rested on top of the other.
Three unmatched dishes were on the floor in front of the couch. The one with the fork had remnants of what appeared to be chili or very old pasta. The other two held spoons and a grayed substance that had probably been milk at one time. An empty half pint of Jim Beam rested just underneath the couch.
A light blue four-drawer chest stood against a wall leading into the kitchen area. A bottle of Phillips gin, two different cheap vodkas and a bottle of orange-flavored schnapps with barely a swallow remaining were scattered across the top along with what looked like a tuna fish can filled with more cigarette butts. The remnants of a large teddy bear sticker decorated the front of the top drawer. There was a rectangular mirror hanging on the wall above the dresser, the wood frame around the mirror was missing on one of the sides.
The kitchen consisted of an overflowing sink full of dirty dishes and dirty paper plates scattered across a small greasy counter. I cautiously opened the refrigerator. The light was out, but I could see an open bottle of ketchup, three hotdogs in a package that once held eight and a half empty bottle of Mountain Dew. I closed the refrigerator door using my foot.
The bathroom was at the rear of the small kitchen. I figured I’d need a whole slew of inoculations just to step inside the place. There was a dirty little sink with a dirtier little cracked mirror hanging above it. The tub had a shower surrounded by three walls of white plastic tile stained a rust color. Mold was growing along an area where half-a-dozen tiles were missing from the top course. Instead of a medicine cabinet there was a dusty, white metal shelf with circles of rust probably from wet cans of shave cream or bug spray left sitting there. Pauley had deodorant, an aftershave named Bad Boy, shave cream, toothpaste, a tooth brush, a razor and a container of Spiked Up Max Control that was missing the cap.
I went back to the blue dresser and searched the drawers. A couple of T-shirts were tossed in the top drawer, probably worn for maybe a day or two then thrown back in there. The second drawer held boxers, a belt without a buckle, three photos of a much older fat woman lifting a grey sweatshirt over her head to expose herself, socks and one sandal.
The next drawer contained more clothing, none of it folded. The bottom drawer held two pairs of blue jeans, a tube of KY Intense Arousal Gel for Her and two rather large vibrators still glistening with lubricant. I decided not to touch any of it.
Hanging on the corner of the mirror were three plastic bead necklaces, the sort of necklace one either earned or gave away on Mardi Gras. Next to them hung a gold chain with a small gold Irish Claddagh medallion… hands holding the heart with a crown.
There was a small closet in the corner next to the couch, but nothing was on hangers. There were three jackets and another pair of jeans hanging from hooks attached to an unpainted board across the back wall. Two pairs of boots, three shoes and a sandal matching the one in the dress
er drawer were thrown in a corner. Two baseball caps sat on the shelf and next to them was a silver roll of duct tape.
The duct tape got me thinking, and I went back into the bathroom and removed the top of the toilet tank. There was nothing in there but rust and water. I checked the back of the tank… nothing.
I looked beneath the little bathroom sink, and there on the backside of the sink was a plastic bag taped in place. Vintage Pauley, only the second place everyone would look.
The plastic bag held a small black pistol, a Beretta 950. It was maybe four-and-a-half inches long, three-and-a-half inches high, a .25 caliber. The sort of weapon you’d use for concealed back up, maybe in a coat pocket, on your ankle or in a purse.
I remembered when they wheeled Desi’s body out the ME had said to Aaron, “Looks to be a small caliber, if I had to guess I’d say maybe .22 short or a .25.”
That got me thinking about the gold Claddagh medallion on the mirror. There was no way I could ever prove it, but it sure looked like the one Desi had worn the day I turned her down. I left it hanging on the mirror and decided to flee the scene before I contracted some weird disease.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I hadn’t taken more than two steps back into the hallway when I heard laughing and heavy stomping coming up the front stairwell. I ducked down the back stairs and out of sight just as the voices arrived on the second floor. One of them sounded stupid enough to be Pauley.
“Just playing hard to get. I know she wants it.”
“What she wants is to be left alone,” another voice said, followed by guffaws and giggles.
I heard the apartment door creak open and Pauley said, “Hey, what the fuck?”
“You don’t lock your door?”
“Pretty sure I did. You guys notice that shitty de Ville parked out front?”
“De Ville?”
That was my cue to get out of there before I was spotted. I stepped into the first floor hall just as an apartment door opened and a rather obese woman in a purple T-shirt waddled out using her walker.
“Who are you?” she snarled.
I smiled, nodded and kept on moving.
“I said, who are you? Hey, you, what are you doing in here? I’m going to call the police,” she yelled after me.
As I picked up speed, I heard footsteps thundering down the rear stairway.
“Stop him, I think he wanted to rape me,” the woman growled.
“There he goes,” a voice yelled just as I flew out the front door, running toward my car. I had just slipped behind the wheel when the front door to the building burst open. Pauley and two exceedingly large guys screeched to a stop and looked up and down the street searching for their prey, me.
They zeroed in on my car as I fired up the engine. Pauley yelled something, but I couldn’t make out what he said and didn’t see any wisdom in asking him to repeat himself.
As I pulled away from the curb, the car suddenly rocked and I glanced out the passenger window just as one of Pauley’s gigantic pals kicked the door again. “Get out of your God damned car, stop damn it, stop!” he screamed and began to punch the window with his fist.
I accelerated to get away from him. A second later I heard a loud thump above my head and a baseball sized rock bounced off the roof of the car and across my hood. I rounded the first corner, then zigzagged the next few blocks in case they were following. I hopped onto Interstate 94, heading east toward Wisconsin, the opposite direction from where I wanted to go. I kept checking the rearview mirror every other second, but couldn’t spot anyone following me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Around ten miles out of town I began to think about heading back. I had checked the rearview mirror repeatedly, but never spotted anyone following and began to feel a little more comfortable. I drove to my office and parked in front. Louie was nowhere to be found, so I wandered over to The Spot for a quick beverage just to calm my nerves.
I was on my fourth or was it my fifth calming beer when a guy I recognized and whose name I’d forgotten wandered in.
“That your DeVille they’re towing?”
“Towing? Not likely,” I said, shaking my head.
“Red, with a blue passenger door? I’m guessing you had some windows in there at one time,” he said, nodding as Carrie the bartender slid two shots across the bar.
I’d been half lost in some country song coming out of the juke box. “Huh?”
“Looks totaled, Man,” he said, downing a shot and nodding in a nonchalant sort of way like my car being totaled and towed would be an everyday occurrence.
I looked out the dingy front window through the orange neon ‘OPEN’ sign. My car, or what was left of it, was being pulled onto the bed of a large blue and shiny chrome tow truck. There was a squad car parked in front of the tow truck and the two cops seemed to be having a casual chat as the tow truck driver hooked chains to the under carriage of my car.
I was out the door shouting. “Wait, wait, hold on, that’s my car.”
The three of them turned in unison to watch me running toward them. One of the cops said something I couldn’t hear, but it brought a smirk to their faces.
“This vehicle belongs to you, Sir?” the smaller of the two cops asked, once I’d crossed the street.
The tow truck driver suddenly became very involved in raising my car onto the bed of his truck.
“Yeah, it is. Did someone hit it?”
“Not exactly,” the other cop said, looking up to where my office window used to be.
For the first time I became aware of a crunching beneath my feet and noticed glass, lots of glass scattered around the street and sidewalk. Then I noticed there was a beige, two drawer file cabinet that was wedged between my dashboard and the roof of my car where the windshield had once been.
“You want to tell us what happened here?”
“I don’t know. That’s my office up there, and I think that looks like my file cabinet.” I nodded as my car was hoisted up toward the front of the tow truck bed. Both cops glanced up at my car then looked back at me.
“I, I just went into The Spot for a minute to use their phone,” I said, realizing how stupid that sounded as soon as I said it.
“That’s your office up there?” The shorter cop indicated the broken picture window on the second floor with a nod of his head. “And you don’t know how that file cabinet ended up in your front seat?”
“Well, I’d say someone threw it out the window.” I was picturing the idiot screaming at me and punching my passenger side window back at Pauley’s just a couple of hours ago.
“Any idea who might have done this?” the other cop asked. He sounded calm and he came across as one of those quiet, even keel types. I had the feeling he was finding the whole situation rather interesting.
“No, no idea,” I said pretty sure they knew I was lying.
“Been in an argument or fight with anyone? Maybe an outstanding debt? Road rage incident, something like that?” short cop asked.
“No, no nothing like that.”
“Girlfriend trouble?” calm cop asked.
“No, no girlfriend. Nothing.” I looked up where my office window used to be. I guessed whoever did that had to have kicked in the office door to get to the file cabinet, and probably trashed the place for good measure.
“Well,” short cop said, glancing up at the broken picture window. “Someone doesn’t seem to be too happy with you.”
Another squad car pulled up with just one officer in it. He sat behind the wheel, looking at us for a moment while he had a brief conversation on the radio before he climbed out of his car. I saw sergeant stripes and he sort of looked familiar, although I couldn’t place him. Most of the cops, and especially the younger ones like the two I was talking with, were in good shape. They had physiques on them that suggested they worked out, a lot, and wouldn’t have a problem handling people if it came to that.
This Sergeant wasn’t like that. I put him at mid to late forties, heavy, but
in that farm kid or laborer sort of way. He wasn’t fat, but not a sculpted body builder either, just old fashioned solid, maybe a hockey player. The ‘S’ curve on his nose suggested he may have held some solid opinions on occasion. He gave me a perfunctory nod and directed his question to the two officers.
“What happened?”
“We were just asking this gentleman the same thing,” short cop said, and then looked at a small notebook in his hand before glancing up at me. “Mr. Haskell?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, I was in The Spot using the phone.” I indicated over my shoulder where three guys were standing on the sidewalk, smoking and watching. None of them made a move to venture over toward us.
“And this just happened? No fight, no argument, no sort of incident?” the Sergeant asked.
“No, nothing like that. Someone said they were towing my car and I looked out the window and, well, here I am.”
He nodded like he’d been here before. I wasn’t going to give him anything and he had more things on his plate than wasting time with me. He turned to the two officers. “You check upstairs?”
“Door kicked in, place trashed, the window obviously,” short cop said and glanced up to the second floor again.
“Mr. Haskell, you better check things out up there. Look for items missing, maybe files. I don’t know if you kept valuables or cash up there. Maybe there was a safe.” He rattled this last bit off like a memorized line. He sounded like he wouldn’t just be surprised, he’d be positively shocked, if there had been anything remotely of value in my office.
Then he suddenly produced a sheet of paper from out of nowhere. “This has contact information. That’s my card attached at the top along with a case number you can reference. You can file your report online. Please feel free to contact us should you have any information. Obviously, we’d like to get the person or persons who were involved, but it becomes difficult if not next to impossible without any cooperation from you, Sir.” He smiled then handed me the form.