Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder

by Marilyn Rausch

  Frisco grinned at Wellborne’s words and he reached over for a fist-bump with Jo.

  “I have provided Detective Fischer with a list of questions and he will take your statement. Furthermore, we will expect your testimony in court. If we are satisfied with your information, I will pass that along to the proper channels. You will be under close watch, Mr. Wellborne. Do not think about leaving the area until these matters are resolved. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  ***

  After they disconnected the call with Wellborne, Frisco said, “You know, there are a lot of things about this case that just don’t set well with me.”

  Jo raised her eyebrow, “You mean like the fact that an adjunct college professor is a murderer and a sex trafficker.”

  Frisco snorted. “Yeah, there’s that. But, I’m from Duluth. Born and raised. Why don’t I know this Mazlo character from back in the day? Duluth’s not that big of a town.”

  “He’s older than you.”

  “True, but I’m guessing he’s about the same age as my brother, Donny.” Frisco rubbed his hand across his chin, “Now that I think about it, Jonathon Wellborne might have been in the same graduating class as my brother. Didn’t Mazlo tell Wellborne they were in school at the same time?”

  Jo thought for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure of it. Remember, Mazlo said when Wellborne was the captain of the football and basketball teams, he was the captain of the chess team.”

  “That’s right.” Frisco pulled out his cell phone dialed. He.put the call on speaker phone. “Donny, it’s Mike.”

  A voice that sounded exactly like Frisco’s came over the speaker of the cell phone. “Hey, Mikey! This is a surprise. Everything okay with the family?”

  “Everyone’s great. Look, I don’t have a lot of time to talk, but I need to pick your brain. You graduated with Jonathon Wellborne, right?”

  “You mean that slick son-of-a-bitch who took my prom date home?”

  Frisco chuckled. “Oh, yeah, yeah…I forgot all about that. Anyway, do you remember a guy named Michael Mazlo from your class?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re investigating a case down here, and he just might be at the center of it. Are you sure you don’t remember the name?”

  Frisco’s brother said, “Let me go grab my year book. It’s been a while, you know.”

  They waited a moment and then he was back on the line. “What did you say that name was again?” Jo could hear pages flipping back and forth.

  Frisco said, “Michael Mazlo.”

  “I don’t see anyone in the directory by that name. Was he in some kind of sports or something?”

  “Try the chess club.”

  They waited while Donny flipped through more pages. Finally, he said, “There is a guy named Michael Mazlowski. Could that be your guy?”

  Frisco stood up, “Holy shit, Donny. I could kiss you! Thanks buddy. I’ll call you later and catch up. Gotta go.”

  After he had disconnected the call, Jo said, “Are you going to fill me in on the significance of what your brother just told you?”

  “The Mazlowski family has been a pain-in-the-ass for every cop on the North Shore. The father is one of them anti-government nut-jobs, and he usually keeps himself and his family holed up out in the woods.” He scratched his head. “Can’t imagine how that group of knuckleheads managed to spawn an adjunct college professor.”

  Jo said, “Guess he didn’t fall too far from the tree after all. Anti-government, huh? Do you know if he was into paramilitary stuff, too?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit. Maybe our adjunct business professor learned how to shoot a gun with a silencer from dear ole’ dad.”

  Jo thought for a moment. “Frisco, why don’t you contact your old police department up in Duluth and have them send everything they’ve got on the family. I’d be especially interested to know if the Mazlowskis have a history of sex trafficking. Someone’s got to know something.”

  The detective pulled out his cell phone. “I’m on it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Turners Bend

  March

  CHIP WAS ALONE IN THE HOUSE. Jane and Ingrid had left early in the morning for an informational meeting about financial aid at ISU in Ames. He sat in his new work space. He and Jane had re-decorated the kids’ former playroom and turned it into an office. They removed the jungle-print wallpaper and painted the walls a serene dove gray. Chip splurged on a state-of-the-art, chrome and glass computer desk and a custom, ergonomically-designed office chair.

  He sat staring out the window waiting for his creative juices to emerge. He heard the furnace come on and felt a rush of warm air from the vent at his feet. When it cycled off, he listened to the ticking of the battery-run wall clock. Crap, my creative juicer is broken; I’ve got nothing.

  The sky was the same gray as the color of the walls. The snow, which in sunlight was a brilliant, sparkling white, today was an ashy gray. Gray on gray on gray. Chip was working himself into a funk.

  He spied a snow plow on the stretch of country road that he could see from his window. In anticipation of a visit from Iver, he went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, using the last of their Ethiopian blend.

  Within minutes he heard the roar of the plow coming up the driveway. The engine slowed to an idle and then stopped. Iver let himself in the back door and stomped his boots on the rug. “Yo,” he called out.

  “Come on in, Iver. Coffee should be ready shortly.”

  Chip took a look at his friend as he entered the kitchen. He always got a kick out of Iver’s winter wear. He never wore a jacket. Today he had on a quilted flannel shirt, jeans at half-mast, and a fur-lined hat with dangling ear flaps.

  Iver sat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs, which creaked under the pressure of his formidable weight. One of these days, thought Chip, that chair is going to give way under Iver and end up a pile of kindling.

  “What’s the temperature out there today?” asked Chip.

  “In the summer we Midwesterners say, ‘It’s not the heat; it’s the humidity,” and in the winter we say, ‘It’s not the temperature; it’s the wind chill’.” Iver took out his phone and punched at the screen with his sausage-sized finger. “Dang, I’m lovin’ this phone. Look here, Chip.”

  Chip glanced at the screen Iver held up to him. It read: Wind chill -26.

  “I’d call that more than a little nippy.”

  “Nah, ain’t too bad. Gonna get a lot colder before winter ends.”

  “It’s March; winter will end soon.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it, buddy.”

  Chip poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to Iver. “What brings you out this way today?”

  Iver got a sly smile on his face. “Thought I’d let you in on what’s going down tonight. You know I hear things and see things, and I can put two and two together.” He got up and went to the cupboard, took out the sugar bowl and stirred a spoonful into his coffee.

  “Come on, Iver, cough it up. Don’t keep me in suspense. What have you heard and seen?”

  “Well, it started yesterday when Chief Fredrickson asked me to plow out the road at the Swede Point Park campsite and wouldn’t tell me why. I never plow that road ‘cuz the camp is closed in the winter. Strange, huh?”

  “Yes, it does seem odd. Why would he do that?”

  “I was asking myself that same question, when I overheard something at the Bun at breakfast today. Agent Masterson was at a table with two guys I’ve never seen before. I assume they were FBI. When she left, the two dudes were talking quietly with a lot of jargon, sounded like code words. I did hear ‘campground’ and twenty-three hundred hours.”

  “So, do you think something is going down at Swede Point Park at eleven o’clock?”

  “I decided to take another run out to the campgrounds. I parked in a secluded spot and watched vehicles arrive and equipment being unloaded. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a rio
t squad or SWAT team.”

  Chip had a pretty good idea of what was being planned. He bet Masterson had confirmed Rod Mueller was making bombs and was planning a raid. He wondered how much he should share with Iver.

  “Here’s what I think,” said Iver. “Mueller’s place is near that campground. The feds probably have the goods on him. I think Rod is in for a big surprise tonight.”

  “You may be right, Iver.”

  “You game, pal?”

  “Game for what?”

  “I’d hate to miss out on that show. Thought I might just plan to be in that vicinity tonight on my new sled. It’s a two-seater. You up for a moonlight ride?”

  “On a sled? In this weather? I don’t know, Iver. I doubt the feds will let us get near.”

  “First of all, Chip, my new sled is a Polaris Turbo IQ LXT with a 4-stroke 750cc engine. It powers up to 140 HP and gets to triple digits in 1320 feet over hard-packed snow.”

  Chip shook his head. “I don’t understand a word you just said.”

  “It’s a snowmobile.” Iver took a gulp of coffee and continued. “Here’s my plan. There’s a trail that runs in back of Mueller’s place. There’s a rise with a clearing that has a good view of his land. Full moon tonight, so we should be able to watch all the action with little chance of being detected. What do you say?”

  Chip hesitated. He and Iver had some previous adventures that were wild, but this one seemed a bit crazy. Yet, it was tempting. He hedged. “But I don’t have any gear.”

  “I’m sure Sven has got stuff stored here someplace. He and Hal used to ride. The suit may be a tad long for you, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “What would I tell, Jane? I have a feeling she wouldn’t approve.”

  “Just tell her the same thing I’m going to tell Mabel. The truth. We’re going out for a ride to test my new sled.”

  “I’m in, partner,” said Chip, shaking Iver’s outstretched hand.

  In the basement they located a black snowmobile suit with orange trim and a matching helmet. Chip suited up, put on the helmet, and pulled down the visor. He felt like a cross between the Michelin Man and Darth Vader. A surge of excitement coursed through his body.

  “I’m ready to rumble.”

  Chapter Forty

  Head Shot

  St. Paul & Minneapolis, MN

  Early November

  DR. JOHN GOODMAN STOOD in Rick Wilson’s hospital room and checked over the latest vital signs from his patient’s chart. Satisfied, he turned to Rick. “How’s the memory coming along?”

  “Still…don’t remember…shot.” He shook his head in frustration.

  Caroline Wilson, Rick’s mother, sent John a glance. John felt bad for both of them. The kid still couldn’t recall the events that led him to the operating room, fighting for his life. It was possible he would never remember. John couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be unable to identify your would-be killer, to always wonder what happened.

  He changed the subject. “Your progress is nothing short of amazing. Hard to believe you’ll be heading to the rehab facility tomorrow?”

  Rick nodded in response. His mother said, “What can we expect there?”

  John took the chair opposite Rick’s mother, next to the bed. Although the question came from Caroline, John directed his response to both of them, wanting to make sure Rick would have a clear understanding of the road ahead of him. “A team of professionals there will take over your care. After performing a thorough evaluation – taking into account our records, of course - they will establish treatment goals and begin your rehab regimen as soon as possible. The earlier they begin, the better off you will be. The window of recovery is the greatest early on in rehab. The more aggressive they are in the beginning, the better the outcome.”

  He paused and glanced at Caroline, before he turned his attention back to his patient. “It’s not going to be easy. There are days when you are going to want to give up. But I know you are a fighter; you’ve already come so far. You are young and strong.”

  Rick struggled to talk. “Can…take it. Whaaa…what will I be….” He swallowed and tried again, “be like?”

  John thought carefully about Rick’s question before responding, "Your brain will continue to heal itself for the next five to eighteen months. Unfortunately, the parts of your brain that were destroyed by the bullet are gone forever. While the surrounding tissue will make new connections, it’s hard to say with any precision. Each case is different. While it’s very rare for a person with your extensive brain injury to recover all abilities and function, I wouldn’t rule out anything. I’ve heard about patients, who after being shot in the head, return to near normal functioning.”

  Caroline spoke up. “What areas will be the hardest to recover?”

  John turned to her. “As I’ve mentioned before, the damage to Rick’s brain was confined to the left side of his brain. That area affects speech, reading, problem solving abilities and hand/eye coordination. These are things you and I take for granted every day. We do them without thinking. They’ll be the tasks that will be most challenging in the days, weeks and months ahead. But Rick is in good hands at the rehab facility.”

  As Caroline and her son quietly talked further about the days ahead, John snuck a quick glance at his watch. If he left in the next few minutes, he would have just enough time to get to his interview at the university. He smiled at his patient and stood up from his chair. “I hate to say this, but I have another pressing appointment. I’ll check in on you one more time before you’re discharged. Let me know if either of you has any further questions.”

  Caroline Wilson nodded. “Thank you for everything, Doctor Goodman.”

  John flashed a smile. “It’s been my pleasure to know you both.”

  ***

  John arrived a few minutes early for his interview at the University of Minnesota. When he walked to the entrance of the Coffman Memorial Union building, he briefly turned around to admire the view across the mall. It was mid-afternoon and the campus was a beehive of activity. The lawns were blanketed with dried leaves and students hurried along the pathways, huddled against the cold breeze that swirled between the buildings on either side of the mall. Autumn always reminded him of his own years on campus, and he experienced a wave of nostalgia.

  He smiled at the thought of being a player on this university’s stage, depending on how the meeting with the president and board went, of course. John liked the vibrancy he felt as he strolled around the Big Ten campus.

  John pulled open one of the large main doors and strode into the first floor of the massive building. Glancing around to get his bearings, he saw sofas and chairs filled with students working on laptops, sending text messages, reading text books or catching a catnap.

  Locating the information desk, he asked for directions to the meeting room and took the elevator to the third floor. As he stood in the elevator, he straightened his tie and checked his watch. It had been quite some time since he had met with a board and he wanted to make a good first impression.

  He wished he had a chance to talk to Jo to get her thoughts before moving forward with the interview. However, ever since she began the Rick Wilson case, they had few quiet moments together. He had planned on discussing it the previous evening, but Jo hadn’t gotten home from Frisco’s until after two a.m., and she had left early in the morning for the office.

  The elevator arrived and John located the meeting room to his left. He took a deep breath and walked into the room.

  ***

  The day flew by as Jo and Detective Frisco spent the majority of the afternoon at his desk in the St. Paul police station arranging for a judge to issue the arrest warrant for Michael Mazlo, along with search warrants for his house and business office. Frisco sent his new partner, Riley Simmons, to pick up the warrants from the judge’s chambers.

  While they waited for Riley’s return, Jo’s cell phone rang. The caller was Detective Ron Fischer of the Williston police department. />
  “Ron, give me some good news.”

  “Never thought it would happen, but I’m holding a lengthy affidavit signed by Wellborne. I’ll email it right now.”

  “Excellent. Anything in it that we don’t already know?”

  “Yeah. Boy, talk about an interesting and creepy discussion. He said Mazlo called him one day, must’ve been right before your victim, Rick Wilson, was shot. According to Wellborne, the guy was drunk, or high on something. He aggressively pushed Wellborne to do his part in clearing the way for his skin trade. Mazlo told him one of the college kids had confronted him with proof he was blackmailing Wellborne and threatened to go to the authorities.”

  Jo interrupted. “I’ll bet Mazlo was referring to Rick Wilson. That crazy kid must’ve told him they bugged his office.” She shook her head. “He should have gone to the authorities with what he knew instead of going to Mazlo.”

  Ron continued. “Well, you know kids at that age, they think they’re invincible. Anyway, Wellborne was pissed and wanted a guarantee he wasn’t going to be exposed. Mazlo insisted he would permanently take care of the college kids himself and then they would be free to move forward with their deal.”

  “Did Mazlo tell him how he was going to take care of the problem?”

  “No. Guess Mazlo was afraid Wellborne might grow a conscience if he was too specific, and Wellborne would go to the police. But, there was no doubt in Wellborne’s mind he was going to kill both men.”

  “And Wellborne’s agreed to testify to all this in court?”

  “Yup. He lawyered-up. Wanted to renege on his agreement with you. However, I reminded him of the deep shit he was in, not only for the water contamination cover-up, but also for abetting sex trafficking in the oil fields. He had that attitude of his right up until the point I told him he would be going down for authorizing the murder of his compliance officer.

  “After that, he couldn’t write down his statement fast enough. When his lawyer tried to stop him, Wellborne threatened to fire his ass for interfering. Said he wasn’t planning on spending his life in prison for ‘some old high school classmate’s shit’ is how I think he phrased it. It’s been an entertaining afternoon, thanks to you folks.”