by Glenn Ickler
I thought a phone call to the neighbor might be interesting. His name was Edgar Palmer and his address was no longer next door to Louie when I found the listing in the phone book. I called the number and a woman answered.
I identified myself and asked for Edgar Palmer. She said he was at work and would be home about 5:30.
“Are you his wife?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about Louie Luciano nearly killing your husband two years ago. I notice you’ve moved out of that house.”
“We moved after Louie poisoned our dog,” she said. “We didn’t think it was safe there anymore.”
“Louie poisoned your dog?”
“We couldn’t prove it was Louie, but somebody poisoned Lucky and who else would it have been. Louie had been really nasty to us ever since the fight about the trees. Our daughter was being treated for hemophilia at the time, and the sleazy so-and-so knew that Lucky was her best friend.”
“That’s terrible. How’s your daughter doing?”
“She’s recovered, thank you,” she said.
“Do you know what kind of poison killed your dog?” I asked.
“We took Lucky’s body to the vet. He said it was strychnine.”
I restrained myself from shouting “bingo,” calmly thanked Mrs. Palmer for the information and said I wouldn’t need to talk to her husband.
“Has this got something to do with Louie’s father’s murder?” she asked.
“One never knows,” I said. “But I’m going to find out.”
“I hope you can put that rotten bastard away for life,” she said.
With the help of Mrs. Palmer’s revelation that strychnine killed her daughter’s dog, maybe I could.
My next call went to 3M. After pressing my way through a multitude of menu numbers, I finally connected with a human female who asked how she could direct my call.
“Doctor Philip Lymanski,” I said.
“One moment.” A phone began ringing and after the fifth ring a man said, “This is Doctor Lymanski.”
He was still on the scene, available to assist Vito Luciano if needed for the concoction of a deadly sandwich filling. However, I wasn’t prepared to talk to him yet. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Wrong number.”
I almost let out a war whoop when I put down the phone. Now I had two bona fide suspects with motives for murder and the means to kill with chemicals. Should I call KGB and tell her everything I’d learned?
Chapter 18: Narrowing the Search
Of course I wasn’t going to tell KGB. Why should I? What had KGB ever done for me?
Now the question was where and how to start. My two suspects had the means and the motive but how could I find out if either or both had the opportunity.
Should I come on like gang busters with Vito, tell him I knew about the horse doping charge and challenge his association with Dr. Philip Lymanski? Or should I try to finesse a discussion about horse racing, doping and chemists? How could I present this in terms of a story for the paper?
Or should I start with Louie by confronting him with the strychnine poisoning of the Palmers’ dog? That might be risking strangulation. Maybe I should play it cagey with Louie and try to find out where he was on the day of—and the day before—his father’s murder? And again, how could I turn this line of questioning into a story?
I posed these questions to Jayne Halvorson as we drank our glasses of ginger ale in Herbie’s after our Monday night AA meeting. My plan was to consult with Jayne that night, run it past Martha when I got home and get Al’s opinion the next morning before doing whatever the hell I thought would work.
As always, Jayne took her time responding. After several sips through her straw, she suggested telling Vito and Louie that I was planning to write a story about when Vinnie Luciano’s loved ones last saw him and what they were doing when they learned of Vinnie’s death. This would also require interviewing Vinnie’s wife and the other children to camouflage my real intent, but it could even make a legitimate story.
“Brilliant,” I said. “I knew you’d come through with an idea. Prominent victim’s family recalls his last hours. You’re wonderful.”
“And I’m only charging my usual fee,” Jayne said.
“I’m paying the tab for your ginger ale?”
“That’s right. But I’m having seconds.”
“I think I can cover it.”
On the sofa at home, with Sherlock Holmes straddling our laps, I repeated the conversation to Martha and asked for her opinion.
“My first opinion is that you should be careful how you approach those two guys,” Martha said. “The word around my office is that Vito has connections with some pretty nasty people, and it’s obvious from what you’ve told me that Louie has an explosive temper.”
“I’m with you there,” I said. “I don’t relish being ambushed by a friend of Vito’s or having Louie’s hands around my neck.”
“The only thing around your neck should be my arms.”
“I’m also with you there. Why don’t we try a little of that?”
“Here or in the bedroom?”
“The bedroom is much more comfortable. Plus we can get naked first,” I said.
“Naked in the bedroom it is,” Martha said. And naked in the bedroom it was.
* * *
I didn’t see Al until lunchtime on Tuesday because he’d been sent out to shoot a semi-trailer rollover on Interstate 94 in the eastern suburb of Lake Elmo. Some idiot had cut off the truck, forcing the driver to take evasive action that threw the trailer out of balance. The whole eighteen-wheel rig came to rest on its side, blocking all westbound lanes leading into the Twin Cities at rush hour. Oh, yes, the trailer’s load of cornflakes was also spread across a wide patch of the highway. The only good news was that the truck driver wasn’t hurt.
“Did you pick up a few boxes of cornflakes?” I asked when Al joined me in the cafeteria.
“My kids are fixed for breakfast until they graduate from college,” he said.
“No Willow lurking at the door?”
“No sign of her. Maybe she finally got the message. Anything new on the King Vinnie front? The KGB making any progress?”
“The KGB reported only that she had several more calls from tipsters and that ‘we’ are following up. But wait until you hear what I’ve got going.”
When I finished my tale of acquiring the Vito and Louie rap sheets and my subsequent actions, Al said, “So now what?”
“Don has his doubts about my story idea, but he finally gave me the go-ahead. I’ve already set up an interview with Vinnie’s wife for this afternoon. That seemed like an innocuous way to start. And of course I need a photographer to take a mug shot.”
“Got any photographers in mind?”
“Only one. The slip is already written and we’re meeting the grieving widow in her home on Mississippi River Boulevard at two o’clock.”
“Don really bit on this?” Al said.
“I think Don knows what I’m really after—that it’s about trying to smoke out the killer. But Vinnie was his next-door neighbor, and he’s really pissed at what little the Falcon Heights cops have done.”
* * *
Vinnie Luciano had lived in a well-kept Tudor style house on the high bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. The spectacular view across the river included Fort Snelling, a nineteenth-century outpost originally built for protection against Indian raids. The fort had been turned into a tourist attraction, complete with men in Civil War era soldier costumes who fired a real 1860s cannon for the visitors. As we walked from the car to the front door, I wondered if the cannon shots could be heard in the Lucianos’ front yard.
Sophie Luciano met us at the door and ushered us into the living ro
om. Like her late husband, she was short and wide, and her straight black hair was sprinkled with gray. She wore a black dress appropriate for a recently widowed woman and sensible black shoes. The only pieces of jewelry she wore were her engagement and wedding rings.
She waved us toward two armchairs, both of which were upholstered with bright elaborate patterns, and offered us iced tea. We accepted and she brought three glassfuls from the kitchen on a tray. After passing out the tea, she sat on a wide, floral-print sofa facing us, with a glass-topped coffee table in between. The only items on the table were the morning paper and a National Geographic magazine, both squared up with the edges of the table.
After we offered our condolences, she nodded and said, “You were there, weren’t you? When Vinnie died?”
“Yes, both of us were as close to Vinnie as we are to you right now,” I said.
“That’s the only reason I’m talking to you,” Sophie said. “I’ve been keeping away from the media, but I want to ask you about his last moments. What they showed on TV looked so awful, like he was in terrible pain.”
I didn’t like where this was going. The thought of recounting Vinnie’s writhing death throes to his loving wife brought a knot to my stomach.
Al saved my day. “I think he was beyond pain,” he said. “I was very close because I was shooting pictures and it looked to me like he was unconscious and not feeling a thing.” Liar, I thought.
“I had that same feeling,” I said. “His body was moving but he seemed to be totally out of it.”
“You’re not just saying that to comfort me?” Sophie said.
“No, no,” we said in unison.
“That’s really how it looked close up,” Al said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I never imagined that my husband would die like that. So horrible.”
I needed to change the subject quickly so I asked when she’d last spoken with Vinnie and we moved along into the interview. Her description of the couple’s last hours together was so mundane I was barely listening until Sophie mentioned that three days before the murder Louie had been visiting while Vinnie was bragging about the Square Meal on a Stick.
My brain snapped to attention when I heard that. “Did Vinnie mention when he was introducing it at the fair?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, he gave us the full story, including where it was happening,” Sophie said. “He was really hyped about showing off that crazy square thing, and he thought doing it at Heritage Square with a bunch of square dancers was a great gimmick.”
“What did Louie think of that ‘crazy square thing,’ as you call it?”
“Louie thought it was a great idea. Asked Vinnie what time the show was starting so he could try to get off work and be there.”
“And was he there?” I asked.
She thought for a moment. “I don’t really know. I don’t recall that he’s ever said anything about being there. I guess you’ll have to ask him.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. Oh, baby, would I ever.
* * *
“Aren’t you ashamed of lying to the poor woman like that?” Al said as we walked to the car.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Telling her he was out of it, having no pain.”
“You told the same lie. ‘Beyond pain,’ you said.”
“Good thing she didn’t have a lie detector.”
“I have a feeling she detected both of our lies and chose to accept them.”
“No lie?” Al said.
“Nothing but the truth,” I said.
We parked the car in the company garage, and were almost at the front door of the Daily Dispatch when we saw her. Willow, wearing a high-necked, ankle-length pale blue dress, was leaning against the wall beside the door. Luckily she was looking in the opposite direction. We flattened ourselves against the wall and backed away. When we were out her sightline, we turned and high-tailed it around the corner. We went into the nearest skyway entrance and made our way to the office, with Al grumbling about the inefficiency of the system that hadn’t yet produced a restraining order.
“Maybe the lack of a last name is causing a problem,” I said. “Martha found her on Facebook after we got home last night and she goes by Willow and nothing else.”
I called Martha at her office and learned that the order had been issued after some discussion of the name. “It’s just a matter of finding her to serve her,” Martha said. “There’s no home address listed anywhere for someone whose name is just Willow.”
“Well, she’s camped outside the Daily Dispatch front door as we speak,” I said.
“I’ll call the police and tell them,” she said. “Is she wearing any clothes?”
“She’s wearing a baby-blue dress that goes from her neck down to her ankles.”
“Too bad. She’d be easier to spot if she was still in her baby pink birthday suit. Anyway, I’ll send the cops. Bye, sweetie, see you at home.”
Chapter 19: Take Your Choice
Of course Willow had moved away by the time the officer with the restraining order reached the Daily Dispatch. Al learned of the service failure Wednesday morning via e-mail—from Willow. She sent an apology of sorts for her unclad appearance at Al’s front door. It ended with, “I don’t know what got into me, but I wish it was you.” She included the standard bare boobs attachment and added a photo of her bikini-waxed crotch with her legs spread. Al called me into the photo department and showed me the new anatomical view of Willow on his laptop. “It looks like she took this one herself, holding the camera at arms’ length,” he said. “See how the angle isn’t quite straight? She was tilting the camera a little to one side.”
“My god, quit critiquing the photography and kill that thing,” I said. “What if you get hit by a car or something, and the cops pick up your laptop and find this kind of crap on it? They’ll send you to Sandstone for five years.” Sandstone is the site of a federal prison in northern Minnesota.
“Jeez, I was going to make a big print and enter it in this year’s Guild contest,” Al said. The Twin Cities Newspaper Guild sponsors an annual contest for various categories of newspaper work. “It might take first prize in the self-portrait division.”
I looked again at the fleshy pink tunnel and said, “You could call it ‘Opening the Gates of Hell.’”
“I’d sure catch hell if Carol ever saw it.” He pressed delete and the voluminous vagina vanished from view.
After my routine phone check with Detective Barnes, who said “we” had nothing new but were following up some additional telephone tips, I was sent to the University of Minnesota to cover a Board of Regents meeting. This stuffy event wiped out my morning, but I had some time to chase Vinnie Luciano’s killer after lunch. I decided to start with Vito, so I managed to grab Al and we drove to King Vinnie’s Steakhouse hoping to catch the new owner on the job.
We were in luck. Vito was mingling with the remainder of the afternoon crowd, most of whom had consumed a late lunch heavy on the liquid side. We took Vito aside and I explained the phantom story we were working on.
Vito’s face turned scarlet. “Jesus H. Christ!” he said, loud enough to catch the attention of everyone still in the dining room. “Don’t you guys ever quit? Vinnie’s been dead for what? Three fuckin’ weeks? Let it alone for god’s sake.”
Could this be a guilty conscience talking? “People are still interested,” I said. “Vinnie had a lot of friends in this town. It’s a natural human interest story.”
Vito scowled at me for an uncomfortable moment before replying. “Tell you what, Mr. Reporter. If you promise never to come to me lookin’ for anymore half-ass stories, I’ll answer your questions for this one. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
Vito led us to his office, waved us into two guest chairs facing his desk and closed
the door. He walked around the desk, sat down and took a cigar box out of his top right drawer. He offered us each a cigar and we both said, “No thanks.” He bit off the tip of a big, black one, applied a wooden match to the business end, blew out a cloud of blue smoke, and leaned back in his chair.
“Fresh from Cuba,” Vito said. “Sure you won’t join me?”
We shook our heads in unison and I thought about Don O’Rourke’s funny bone joke about us being joined at the skull.
“So, what do you want to know?” Vito said, emitting another blue cloud. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Al’s camera flash.
“Well, let’s start with the day Vinnie died and work backward,” I said. “Were you at the fair that morning?”
“Never go near the fair,” he said. “That place is a fuckin’ zoo, pardon my French. Too many people, and I wouldn’t touch any of that crap they’re sellin’ in the name of food out there.”
“Not even a Square Meal on a Stick?”
“If I never hear of that piece of shit again it will be too soon.”
“So you didn’t go to the grand introduction of your cousin’s invention?”
This brought a huge puff of smoke. “No way in hell was I goin’ there.”
“Did you know about the Meal . . . uh, Vinnie’s concoction before the program?”
“How could I not?” Vito said. “That’s all he talked about for a month before the fair started. He had this marvelous idea and the idiots at the fair bought it. He tried to get me to taste it and I told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”