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

by Marilyn Rausch

  “Good work, Ron. I owe you one.”

  “Nah. You’re doing me a huge favor with this trafficking thing. Lord knows, we’ve got enough problems without adding more to the list. Maybe now I can bring Micki and the kids home.”

  Jo smiled at that. “What about your police chief?”

  “I had Wellborne sign a separate affidavit stating the chief’s involvement with his shenanigans. He’ll be in deep shit before the next shift is over.”

  Ron paused, and then said, “What’s going to happen to Wellborne? It galls me to think he’s going to get away with all this in return for his testimony.”

  “Trust me; he won’t be getting off scot-free. He’ll be lucky if all he loses is his company, at this point. We should have those water contamination reports from Mazlo’s office in our hands by the end of the afternoon.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  Jo thanked him and disconnected the call. She turned to Frisco and was filling him in on the Williston update when Frisco’s phone rang.

  “Frisco here.” He paused, and then said, “Hang on a sec, Frank. I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  He placed the phone on top of his desk and mouthed, “Duluth PD”. In the vicinity of the phone, he said, “Alright, Frank. Tell us what you pulled on the Mazlowski family.”

  The voice was loud coming through the phone; as if Frank was worried he couldn’t be heard and should shout his findings. “The father, Jacob Mazlowski, used to be a member of the Posse Comitatus over in Tigerton, Wisconsin.”

  Frisco said, “Wasn’t that a white supremacist paramilitary settlement that went out of business back in the eighties?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. After the federal government cracked down on the group in ‘eighty-five, the main leaders were arrested and the group petered out. Jacob moved back to his daddy’s old farmstead, just outside of Duluth.”

  “I’ve heard rumors. Any recent activity?”

  “Jacob and his sons, Jeb and Samuel, have been keeping a low profile for the last couple of years, but there’s been recent buzz they’re trafficking Native American women and kids. Very well organized, too. We’ve had a helluva time getting something solid, though.”

  Frisco added. “Always heard old Jacob was pretty bad-ass. People are too scared to talk. I’m sure he learned from his Posse days how to keep his activities underground.”

  The police officer continued. “Jeb’s been arrested several times for destruction of property and Samuel’s rap sheet includes harassment of several local girls, especially residents of the Fond du Lac band of Lake Superior Chippewa over by Cloquet. Both sons have managed to wriggle out of serious jail time, mainly because no one will testify against them in court.”

  Jo spoke up. “Any record of problems with the third son, Michael?”

  They could hear the unmistakable clicks of a keyboard and the police officer said, “Not since he was a minor. Looks like he kept his nose pretty clean after a stint in juvie.” A few more clicks and then he continued, “Funny, I can’t seem to find anything on him after his eighteenth birthday; it’s like he dropped off the planet or something.”

  Frisco looked at Jo. “Must’ve been about the time he changed his name to Mazlo.”

  Jo nodded. “But it looks like he never really left the family business, just went to college to learn how to do a better job of running it.” Directing her attention back to the phone, she said, “Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. I’ll keep digging and ask around.”

  Frisco said, “I’d appreciate it. Looks like I’m buying the beer next time I’m in Duluth, buddy.”

  The officer chuckled, “Well, then don’t take so long to get back up this way. I get mighty thirsty, you know.”

  After Frisco clicked off the call, his new partner walked into the station. The detective motioned for her to join them and they both stood to greet her.

  It was the first time Jo had met Frisco’s new partner in person. She was very tall, her Nordic roots evident in her white blond hair and long legs. Riley held out her hand in greeting when Frisco introduced them, and Jo had to look up into her face, her head barely reaching the woman detective’s collarbone.

  “Great to finally meet you, Riley. Frisco has said great things about you.” She smiled. “Now, we’re all going to have to sit back down or I’ll get a kink in my neck looking up at you.”

  Riley’s cool blue eyes danced with merriment and obliged, taking the seat next to Frisco. “Likewise. All I ever hear about is ‘Jo this’ and ‘Jo that’. I’m a big fan already.”

  Frisco turned to his partner. “Okay. Enough with the love fest. Got the warrants?”

  Riley nodded and held up the papers. “Right here

  Jo stood up, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair. “Guess it’s time to pick up Mazlo.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Turners Bend

  March

  CHIP HAD NEVER BEEN THE adventuresome type. He was not obsessed with speed like some men he knew. No power boating, no motorcycling, no car racing. Extreme sports were not in his vocabulary. In Acapulco, while others were scuba diving or parasailing or diving off of high cliffs, he was poolside with a margarita in hand. He hadn’t tried rock wall climbing, much less mountain climbing. His one brush with speed had landed him in the ditch and Runt in the hospital. The risks he had taken in the past were mainly at the roulette table or unknowingly at the altar.

  Yet, here he was, roaring along a trail on the back of a powerful snowmobile in the dead of night in bitter cold weather, and he loved it. He was urging Iver to go faster. “Open it up and see what this baby can do,” he said, his voice being lost in the roar of the powerful engine and the rush of wind.

  Jane had not been pleased. As she hunted up long underwear and prepared a thermos of hot chocolate, she berated him with names such as “lunatic” and “fool.”

  “Be sure to take your cell phone in case something happens,” she said.

  “What could happen?”

  “If you have to ask, you shouldn’t be going at all. You have no idea how dangerous it can be. Did Iver tell you how he wrapped his sled around a tree a few years ago? Sheesh, men.” She stuffed hand warmer packets into the pockets of the snowmobile suit.

  ***

  The night was crystal clear and perfectly still. The light from the full moon cast shadows around the jack pines and birch trees and gave the snow a bluish tint. Chip looked up and identified Orion’s belt and Canis Major and Minor, Orion’s hunting dogs. Sirius, the nose of one of the dogs, was brilliant…shimmering.

  It was about 10:30 p.m. when they arrived at the site Iver picked for viewing Rod Mueller’s place. There was a break in the trees, and they had a clear view from above the house and snow-covered fields. Light from the windows formed pools in the snow around Mueller’s house. There was no sight of the SWAT team, no action on County Road 17.

  “What if it’s not tonight? We don’t know for sure,” Chip asked Iver, as they perched on the sled, visors up and steam from cups of hot chocolate warming their faces.

  “I could be wrong, but I don’t think so,” Iver said pointing to a line of armored vehicles slowing moving into sight. “Show time.” He stowed the thermos and took out a pair of binoculars.

  Passing the binoculars back and forth between each other, they watched the vehicles line up outside Mueller’s gate and assault rifles and battering rams being unloaded. Chip spotted a small figure he guessed must be Agent Masterson. She held a megaphone. Miraculously the sound echoed through the still night air and they could catch her words.

  “Mr. Mueller. This is the FBI. We have a warrant to search your premises. Please exit immediately.”

  After a few moments, she repeated her statement and added a warning. “If you don’t come out peacefully, we will make a forced entry.”

  The tinkling of breaking glass pierced the air. Gunfire sounded from the house, and Chip and Iver saw sprays of snow fl
y up as each bullet landed across the yard in front of the house. The SWAT team moved into place and advanced behind battering rams. From their vantage point on the hill, the scene looked like toy medieval warriors marching into battle.

  Iver passed the binoculars to Chip and gestured to a figure moving from the rear of house, zigzagging from tree to tree, heading for a shed. Within seconds they heard an engine start up and watched an ATV head out of the shed in their direction.

  Then it veered off to the left.

  “He’s heading toward the bike trail that leads to the trestle over the Des Moines River. Hop on,” yelled Iver.

  They left the trail and headed downhill, dodging trees and throwing up snow on either side of the sled. Momentarily they seemed stalled in a low spot but Iver gunned the engine and soared out, almost tossing Chip off the sled in the process. They were closing in on the ATV when the rider turned his head and spotting them. He threw an object that looked like a duffle or backpack into a wooded area. Swerving to avoid a guardrail along a steep drop-off, the ATV flipped onto its side, the two wheels in the air still spinning.

  Iver pulled up alongside the overturned vehicle. With the engine idling both he and Chip jumped off the sled and approached the rider who was screaming in pain. “My leg, my leg.”

  Chip grabbed a flashlight from the storage compartment on the sled and turned the beam on the man, as Iver put his shoulder to the ATV and turned it upright. The guy’s leg was twisted into an unnatural position and his femur was visible through his flesh, blood spilled out, bright red, soaking into the snow like a cherry snow cone. The man became silent.

  “He passed out, probably going into shock,” said Chip.

  “Call 911, we need an EMT and back-up here. Hurry.”

  Chip fumbled in the pockets of his suit, where he found only the hand warmers. He unzipped the top of the suit and reached the inside pocket where he located his cell phone. As he dialed, Iver unfolded a Mylar emergency blanket and placed it over the unconscious man. He pulled up the woolen ski mask that covered the man’s face.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said in a low voice. “It’s Hal Swanson.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Head Shot

  Minneapolis, MN

  Early November

  JO SCHWANN DROVE TO Mazlo’s red-brick mansion. Both passengers, Frisco and his new partner, Riley Simmons, were silent. A pair of St. Paul’s police officers followed in a cruiser as back-up. Jo could feel the adrenaline course through her body as she parked in the driveway. This was an arrest a long time in coming.

  Jo saw the curtains shift in the bay window as she walked up the brick walkway. She caught a glimpse of Candace Mazlo’s pale face before the fabric fell back in place. Jo rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, she called out, “Mrs. Mazlo. This is Special Agent Schwann. We need to speak to your husband. Open up.”

  The door flew open. Michael Mazlo’s wife stood in the doorframe, her brows furrowed. “My husband is not here. What’s this all about? He answered all your questions the other day….”

  Frisco interrupted, “I’m afraid we can’t comment on that right now. We need to speak to your husband. Where is he?”

  She crossed her arms. “If you can’t tell me why you are here, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She attempted to close the door, but Jo shoved her leg in the opening, grunting when the heavy wood banged into her leg.

  Jo felt Frisco shove past her, the warrant in his hands. “This search warrant says we have every right to be here. Where is he?”

  Candace Mazlo’s eyes widened in fear. “But I...I don’t understand. What are you looking for?”

  Frisco gave Jo a meaningful look and shrugged. Jo turned to Candace. “We also have an arrest warrant for your husband. You need to tell us where he is.”

  The color drained from Candace’s face, and she abruptly sat down on a bench in the foyer as if her legs could no longer support her weight. She didn’t speak for several minutes. Looking down at her feet, she murmured, “He’s been acting so odd lately….”

  Candace looked up and Jo saw the stubborn set of her jaw. “I’m not saying anything until I’ve spoken to my husband.”

  Frisco scowled. “Suit yourself.” He turned to one of the police officers and pointed to Candace. “Keep an eye on her. I’m sure we’ll have questions for her later.”

  Jo motioned for Riley and the other officer to begin their search of the house. Jo went to the library where they had first met with Michael Mazlo. She had been searching through the massive desk for several minutes when Riley appeared at the doorway with Frisco at her side. “Special Agent Schwann…you’re going to want to see this.”

  She and Frisco followed Riley down the hallway and descended the thickly carpeted steps at the end. Riley guided them through a theater room, and indicated a brightly lit opening to the left of the movie screen. “Almost missed the door, because it was hidden in the panels. I had to force it open.”

  Riley led them through the damaged doorway. Florescent lights lit up a large workbench standing in the middle of the room.

  Frisco breathed out, “My God.”

  Jo scanned the small, stark room. Hundreds of photographs covered the back wall, nameless men, women and children. Each had a number neatly printed in the lower right corner. Her eyes were drawn to the picture pinned on top of the others. She recognized the face of Claire Russell, the young woman whose vigil notice she saw when they first met Mazlo.

  Riley pointed to the enormous maps plastered on the adjoining wall. There were maps of Minnesota, the Dakotas, the United States and the world. Thousands of pins were pushed into various points on the maps, with the highest concentration being centered around the Twin Cities. “What do you think all those pins are for?”

  Jo moved in to take a closer look. Her stomach lurched when she saw tiny tags attached to the pins, each with a six-digit number and a date. She backed up to scan the maps again. “I think these numbers correspond to the victims, and the pins represent where they were sent.”

  Frisco’s voice was hoarse when he said, “It’s a goddamn sick inventory system.”

  Jo turned toward the workbench. There was an empty handgun case lying open on top of several sheets of paper. Once she moved the case aside, Jo was shocked to see floor plans of various buildings, including Mazlo’s office building and several at the University of Minnesota. As she flipped through them, she saw the tunnel systems connecting the university’s buildings had been highlighted with a marker. “Frisco, look at this. What do you make of it?”

  Looking over her shoulder, he shrugged his shoulders. “Looks like escape routes to me. Maybe he knew we’d figure out his real business in human trafficking and thought we’d go after him at work or the U.”

  “Sounds plausible.” Tilting her head to indicate the empty handgun case, she said, “We have to find Mazlo ASAP.”

  Frisco nodded. “I’ll grab his wife.” He left and returned a moment later with Candace Mazlo.

  Jo pointed to the floor plans on the workbench. “Tell us what those are for.”

  Candace Mazlo’s shook her head. “I have no idea.” Her eyes traveled up to the walls covered in photos. “What….what are those?”

  “Your husband is wanted for murder and sex trafficking,” Jo said. She walked over to the wall, and pulling on a glove, she took down the picture of Claire Russell. She tossed the photo on top of the floor plans in front of Candace. “That’s one of the women your husband trafficked.”

  Candace’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, my God. This doesn’t make sense. He’s just an ordinary businessman with an import/export company….”

  Frisco grabbed her arm. “You have to tell us where your husband is. Now.” He nudged the photo away, and revealing the floor plans beneath. “Is he at the university?”

  Candace raised haunted eyes to his. She nodded. “He’s speaking at a symposium in the Great Hall at Coffman Memorial Union.”

&nbs
p; She paused and then in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Wait; there’s something you should know.” Mazlo’s wife pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and flicked through her text messages. She held up the phone for Jo to read. Why is the FBI here with the police?

  Tears filled Candace’s eyes. “I sent it before you came inside. I’m sorry…I didn’t know.”

  Frisco looked at Jo and let out a puff of air. “He knows we’ve come to arrest him.”

  She nodded. “He’ll be desperate enough to try anything and he’s got a gun.” The nauseous feeling in Jo’s stomach had nothing to do with morning sickness. “We’d better get down there fast. Call the campus police and tell them to clear the lower levels of Coffman. Have them block the exits, but tell them not to make any moves until we get there.”

  The detective nodded, his face grim. “I’m on it.”

  ***

  John took the elevator to the lower level of the student union, his stomach grumbling. He hadn’t had a chance to eat before his interviews, and truth be told, his nerves beforehand would have made food unpalatable. Now that the meetings were over, he was famished.

  As the elevator car passed the first floor, he heard shouting and a loud bang. “What the hell…?”

  The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival to his floor and he stepped off. He heard a woman scream, “Officer down!”

  He turned just as a slightly built man barreled into him. They both fell onto the tile floor and the man sprawled on top of him. He felt something hard dig into his side.

  The man pushed off of him as he struggled to extricate himself. He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. He stammered, “You…you’re that doctor.”

  John was startled. He tried to get up, but the man pushed him back to the ground. “Hey! What gives….do I know you?”