by Glenn Ickler
I got a busy signal when I called Falcon Heights police. Of course. Every newspaper, TV channel, and radio station in the Twin Cities would be calling about the chief’s e-mail. I kept disconnecting and punching in the number over and over for several minutes before I finally scored. The desk sergeant sounded frazzled as he transferred me to Detective K.G. Barnes.
“Are you looking for a medal?” KGB asked when I identified myself.
“No medal, just recognition,” I said. “And the answers to a couple of questions.”
“We’re really not answering questions.”
This didn’t stop me from asking. “What did you find when you searched the suspects’ houses?”
“We’re not releasing that information at this time.”
“Did you find strychnine at Louie’s house?”
“We’re not releasing that information at this time.”
“Do you think Frankie . . . Francisco . . . wore the Fairchild suit and delivered the lethal stick full of poison?”
“We’re not releasing those details at this time.”
“Are you releasing any information beyond the chief’s skimpy little e-mail?”
“Not at this time,” said KGB. “Have a nice day, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Bitch!” I yelled as I banged down the silent phone.
A passing police officer stopped and stuck his head in the open door. “Your girlfriend driving you nuts?” he asked.
“This woman will never be anybody’s girlfriend,” I said.
“One of those bitches that swing both ways?”
“No, just one of those bitches who make life miserable for people who have to work with them.”
“I hear you,” he said and walked away.
I wrote the story, touched it up with some background material about the changing of Vinnie’s will and included the tidbit that Louie Luciano’s former neighbors had accused him of poisoning their dog. “Bet you didn’t know that, KGB,” I said as I pressed the key that sent the story to Don. Wasn’t I just the smartest crime solver in the world?
* * *
The courtroom was jammed with reporters, photographers, and curious citizens by 8:15 Tuesday morning. I noticed the Luciano family was split into two groups, with one clustered around Vinnie’s widow and the other surrounding Louie’s wife. The two camps didn’t seem to be communicating with each other.
Every seat was filled so I wormed my way through the TV cameramen until I was standing behind Trish Valentine in the aisle on the left side of the room. Being behind Trish was advantageous because she was always closest to the action and she was short enough for me to see over her head.
“Glad you could make it, Trish,” I said.
“Trish Valentine, reporting live,” she said. “Always first where there’s breaking news.”
“You’re as regular as an old man on a diet of prunes,” I said.
“And you’re as disgusting as an old dog sniffing on a hydrant,” Trish said.
Our exchange of compliments was interrupted by the bailiff’s call for all to rise and the appearance of the Honorable Anthony T. Thomas. After everyone who had a seat was seated, Louie Luciano and Francisco Garcia were brought in and placed front and center by a quartet of uniformed policemen. Both men wore orange jumpsuits, handcuffs, and ankle shackles. Doug Riley, the Bulldog, rose from a front row bench and announced that he was appearing for both of the accused.
Ramsey County Attorney Lawrence Brigham, appearing for the people, read the charges against the two men. Both were charged with first-degree murder and of depriving the deceased of his human rights. Frankie was also accused of aggravated assault in the clubbing of Tommy Grayson and with the theft of the Fairchild costume. I smiled at the possibility of Frankie being found not guilty of murder but doing time for stealing the big round head of a gopher.
Brigham gave a quick summary of the events at the State Fairgrounds on the day of Vinnie Luciano’s murder and added an intriguing tidbit. He said that during a warranted search of Louie Luciano’s premises, a container with a small portion of strychnine had been found in the garage. In my mind, this was damning evidence against Louie. Case closed.
When asked for their pleas, both Louie and Frankie said not guilty in loud, decisive voices. Riley then asked that his clients be released without bail on the grounds that all the state’s evidence against them was circumstantial and neither man was a flight risk. Judge Thomas gave Riley a look that said “you must be kidding” and set bail at $250,000 for Frankie and $500,000 for Louie. The Bulldog started to respond, but the judge stopped him by banging the gavel and calling for the next case.
Al was shooting photos at the back of the courtroom when the prisoners were led out, and I saw Louie say something as he passed him. As we left the courthouse, Al told me about the encounter. “Louie said to tell you that he is gonna beat this rap, and then he’s gonna beat your goddamn head in,” Al said. “So I guess you’d call this giving you a heads-up.”
“Think I should buy a helmet?”
“I think you’d better watch your head and your back if he’s not put away for life.”
“I can’t see either my head or my back. How the hell can I watch them?”
“It’s all done with mirrors,” Al said.
Chapter 22: Quick Turnabout
I was trying to put some life into a story about coyotes invading the posh suburb of North Oaks Wednesday morning when Al arrived at my desk. “I got in without having to dodge Willow this morning,” he said. “She got hit with the restraining order while she was standing out by the parking ramp. She just sent me an e-mail asking how I could be so mean and cruel. She says all she wants to do is be my bosom friend.”
“Did she include a bosom friendship photo?” I asked.
“She sent both the bosom buddy and the crotch companion shots. I deleted everything and I’m considering burning the laptop to make sure they’re gone.”
“Be careful where you burn it. You could be fined for air pollution.”
“I’d gladly pay a fine to have Willow pollution burned out of my life for good.”
After I finished the story, I went to the cafeteria for a doughnut and a cup of coffee. Al had been sent out to shoot a seventeen-car pileup caused by a guy texting on Interstate 35, but there were several other slackers in the cafeteria with whom I could kill some time between assignments.
When I returned to my desk I found I’d killed nearly a half-hour. It was time to call Detective K.G. Barnes and try to coax her into leaking some more information about the case against Louie Luciano and Frankie Garcia. For one thing, I was wondering how big the strychnine container was and how much poison remained inside it. For another, I wanted to know if they had any evidence against Frankie beyond his presence—and denial of same—at the fairgrounds on the day of the murder. To my surprise, I was transferred to KGB immediately.
“How can we help you, Mr. Mitchell?” she said. Her tone was less antagonistic than usual. In fact, it was almost friendly. My guard went up immediately.
I asked about the strychnine and she said the details of all charges would be discussed at this afternoon’s media briefing.
That startled me. “I didn’t know there was a media briefing this afternoon,” I said.
“Didn’t you get our e-mail?” she said. “We thought that’s what you were calling us about.”
“When did you send it?”
“Five minutes ago. You’re slipping. You usually respond in less than three.”
“Sorry. I just got back from, uh, an assignment and I haven’t checked my e-mail since early this morning.”
“Read our e-mail,” KGB said. “We think you’ll agree that it could turn this whole case around.”
“Sounds like I’ll be calling all of you again as soon as I’ve
read it.”
“We’ll be here.” There was a disconcerting smugness in her voice. I said goodbye and started calling up my e-mails with one hand while I was putting down the phone with the other.
The Falcon Heights police e-mail, which was signed by Chief Victoria Tubb, said there would be a media briefing at 1:30 p.m. at the police station today to discuss a new development in the Vinnie Luciano murder case. A report to Falcon Heights police from the FBI fingerprint laboratory had identified some prints found on the purloined Fairchild costume as belonging to a male St. Paul resident with a criminal record. This man had been taken into custody late Tuesday night and was being interrogated. His identity would be revealed and the results of the interrogation would be discussed at the afternoon briefing.
I sat in stunned silence for a moment before reaching for the phone. I didn’t know the Fairchild costume had been found, let alone sent out for fingerprint analysis. This could be a major break in the case against Louie Luciano and Frankie Garcia, and it was a major break the wrong way from my point of view. I punched in the Falcon Heights police number.
“That was quick,” KGB said when I was transferred to her line. “Figuring in the time it took you to read the e-mail, we’d say that you’re back in form, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I said. “What kind of game are you playing with the press? This is the first time you’ve told anyone that the Fairchild costume had been found, much less sent out for analysis.”
“We didn’t go public with that because we didn’t want the perpetrator to know we’d found the costume,” KGB said.
“Where was it?”
“That’s part of this afternoon’s discussion.”
“This could take Frankie Garcia off the hook,” I said.
“And possibly Louie Luciano along with him,” she said. “Depending on what our present guest tells us under interrogation this afternoon.”
“Will you be water boarding him?” I wasn’t serious, but I could visualize KGB doing this.
“We don’t think it will be necessary to go to that extreme.”
“Who is this guy? What kind of record does he have?”
“You’ll hear all that in a couple hours with the rest of the reporters. All we’re saying at the moment is he has an arrest sheet several pages long. Basically he’s a thickheaded thug who gets looked at every time there’s assault or armed robbery in the area.”
“You mean when they round up the usual suspects?”
“You could put it that way.”
“This could knock a huge hole in your case against Louie.”
“And also your case against Louie,” KGB said. “Remember, you’re the one who convinced us to take a closer look at Louie because you’re so absolutely sure of his guilt. Maybe this is why everything we turn up about Louie turns out to be circumstantial.”
“I guess I’ll see you this afternoon,” I said.
“One-thirty on the dot. Have a nice lunch, Mr. Mitchell.” She sounded much too cheerful, and I could see why. She was now one-up on me, and she would actually be pleased to shoot down my Louie and Frankie theory. It occurred to me that she’d be even more pleased if she had heard Louie’s courtroom exit pledge.
I tucked my tail between my legs and went to the city desk to tell Don about the new development.
“That was a quick turnaround,” Don said. “What does this do to yesterday’s charges against Louie and the other guy?”
“It could blow them completely out of the water,” I said. “If this new guy is really the one who cold-cocked Tommy and stole the suit, Frankie Garcia is a free man. I just hope the new guy says Louie is the one who hired him.”
“Well, the best you can do for now is to update your story with as much as you’ve got for the running electronic edition,” Don said. “Take your twin with you to the briefing. Have him get a decent mug shot of that detective you call KGB.”
I wrote the update, sent it to Don, found Al in the photo department and told him about Chief Tubb’s surprise announcement.
“Holy shit, if this guy confesses to clobbering Fairchild and delivering the poison, Louie’s pal will walk,” Al said.
“And if this guy does not ID Louie as the person giving him the poison, Louie will also walk. I’ll see you in time to get to the briefing. I’m going out for a while.”
“Where to?”
“I’m going to buy a helmet,” I said.
Chapter 23: Suspect on the Square
I was only half kidding about buying a helmet. I was actually going to lunch with Martha Todd and the head of her firm, Linda L. Lansing, but if there had been a bicycle shop between the Daily Dispatch and the restaurant I might have stopped in to pick up a piece of protective headgear.
I’ve been having occasional lunches with Linda ever since she represented the defendant in a major murder trial I covered about eight years ago. Linda is a woman who draws the attention of every man in the room when she walks in. She is tall (six-two), slender (but curvaceous in all the proper places) and blonde. Our friendship has always been platonic because she has always lived with a female lover. In fact, they were among the happy couples to be officially united on the first day that same-sex marriage was legal in Minnesota.
Linda and Martha were already seated when I arrived. I’d barely settled into a chair after kissing Martha when Linda said, “Andy Morris sends his thanks to you for taking Louie Luciano out of circulation.”
“Why does Andy care about that?” I asked.
“Don’t you remember? Andy is representing Vito Luciano in Louie Luciano’s suit to get Vinnie Luciano’s most recent will thrown out. With Louie in jail on the charge of killing Vinnie, maybe the suit against Vito will go away.”
“And then again, maybe not,” I said. I told them about the arrest of a new suspect in the Vinnie Luciano murder case.
“Oh, god, what a circus this is turning into,” Linda said. “If this new suspect really did deliver the poison he’ll probably give up the person who hired him in turn for a lighter sentence.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” I said. “And the person he names might not be Louie.”
“Ouch,” Martha said. “That would sink your theory and put Louie back where he could make trouble for Vito.”
“For me, too,” I said. “He’s promised to beat my head in when he beats the murder rap.”
“Maybe you should buy a helmet,” Martha said.
* * *
As I always do at briefings, I slid in behind Trish Valentine at the Falcon Heights Police Station. In addition to always standing in the front row, Trish is aggressive and almost always attracts enough attention to be called on for the first question. And because the speaker is looking toward Trish when I wave my hand, I usually get to ask the second question.
“Good to see you, Trish,” I said.
“Trish Valentine, reporting live,” she said. “Always first with breaking news.”
The briefing area was packed with print and electronic reporters and photographers when Chief Victoria Tubb and Detective K.G. Barnes entered. The chief began by reading her statement, which covered what KGB had told me about the fingerprint leading to the arrest of a man with a long police record.
The chief said the Fairchild costume had been found in a dumpster two blocks from the fairgrounds, and that a fingerprint on the head led to the arrest of Mathew Grimes, also known as Grubby Grimes; age thirty-eight, whose last known address was in a rundown neighborhood near the river in St. Paul. I wondered if there was really a house at that number or if Grubby slept under a bridge.
“Do you know where that address is?” Trish whispered.
“It’s where you don’t want to go without company,” I said. “And I don’t mean just one cameraman.”
�
�Always first with breaking news,” she said.
“Or a broken head if you go there,” I said. I turned my attention back to the chief in time to hear her say that Mr. Grimes was cooperating with investigators and would be arraigned the next morning.
As I’d hoped, Trish was the first person called upon when Chief Tubb asked if there were questions.
“You said Mr. Grimes is cooperating,” Trish said. “Does that mean he has named the person who hired him to deliver the poison?”
“It does not,” the chief said.
“Has he refused to name the person who hired him?” I asked while Chief Tubb was still looking at Trish.
“He claims not to know the identity of the person who hired him. On the advice of his attorney, he has declined to say anything further about the transaction.”
I wanted to say, “You call this cooperating?” Channel Five’s reporter did it for me in a more diplomatic manner by asking in what other ways Mr. Grimes was cooperating.
“Mr. Grimes has offered to provide more information in return for further consideration of the nature of the charges to be brought against him,” Chief Tubb said.
“What are the charges?” another reporter asked.
“As I just said, the charges are under consideration at this time,” the chief said.
“So you’re making a deal?” Trish said.
The healthy pink color of the chief’s face was instantly replaced by angry red. “I wouldn’t categorize our negotiations as making a deal, and neither should you. Thank you all very much for coming and have a good day.” She spun and walked out, followed so closely by KGB that I suspected a Velcro attachment.
“Nice going,” I said to Trish. “You drove her out of here before I could ask if they were letting Frankie Garcia out of jail.”
“Oh, that’s a good question. I’ll have to call the chief and ask her that one.”
I should have known she’d jump on that. “Always glad to help.”
“Always first with breaking news.” With a queen-like wave, Trish followed her cameraman out of the room.