by Glenn Ickler
On our way to the courthouse, I told Al about my weird luncheon with the new, sexy KGB. “I can’t explain the switch from cold fish to red hot mama,” I said.
“I can,” Al said. “Instead of you needing her for information, she now needs you. The new suspect is being held by the St. Paul PD and Brownie is probably stonewalling KGB. Next she’ll be snuggling up and whispering sweet questions into your ear.”
“So it’s not my boyish charm? The shoe is on the other foot and she’s still a heel?”
“She’s trying to shine up to you now. But I bet she’ll give you the boot once she gets what she wants, which involves verbal intercourse, not the good kind.”
The usual media mob was milling about the courtroom when Sheldon Kularski was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, and ankle shackles. He looked pale and frail as he stood facing the judge. His hands and knees were shaking so violently I could hear the handcuffs and chains rattle.
Linda L. Lansing, who was nearly a foot taller than her client, rose and stood beside him as the clerk recited the charge. Standing side-by-side among the observers were detectives Curtis Brown and K.G. Barnes. Neither of them looked my way, and I noticed that they did not look at each other. Al’s assessment of KGB’s motivation for the sexy turn-on appeared to be on target.
Kularski’s response of “not guilty” was barely audible. Triple-L asked that he be released on bail and the judge ordered him held without bail. The officers holding Kularski’s arms hustled him away as fast as a man can be moved with his ankles shackled together. The whole thing took less than five minutes.
Al and I were at the courthouse door when Linda L. Lansing stopped me with a tap on my shoulder. “Call me at my office before you write anything,” she whispered close to my ear. “We need to talk.”
“What was that about?” Al asked.
“Either she wants to schedule a secret love tryst with me, which could never happen, or she wants to talk about a case before a trial, which she never does.”
“Sounds like plenty of nothing.”
“Nothing’s plenty for me,” I said. “This is one call I’m definitely going to make.”
I called Triple-L and Associates immediately after grabbing a cup of coffee and returning to my desk. I was put through to Triple-L immediately by her secretary, which was another thing that never happened.
“Thanks for calling so quickly,” said Triple-L. “I’ve been holding off all my other calls until I got yours.”
“I’m deeply honored,” I said. “To what do I owe this deep honor?”
“You should be deeply honored. You know damn well that I never talk to reporters before a trial.”
“I do.”
“And you know damn well that I never talk to reporters about a case off the record at any time whatsoever—before, after or during a trial.”
“I do.” This was starting to sound like a wedding.
“Well, I’m about to break both rules.”
Wow. First KGB turns friendly and now LLL is breaking rules. “May I ask why you’re doing this?” I asked.
“Because it will benefit my client,” she said. “It can also save you and your paper some eventual embarrassment but I really don’t care about that.”
“Your lack of concern for me and my paper overwhelms me.”
“It should.”
“I’m ready to take notes.”
“You won’t need any notes. This is strictly between you and me and I suppose your editor.”
“Okay, no notes. But I have a photographic memory.”
“If you write one word of this I’ll never trust you or speak to you again. Plus I’ll put the Lansing curse on your head.”
“What’s that?”
“May the fleas of a thousand camels inhabit your pubic hair.”
“In that case, Scout’s honor I won’t write anything,” I said.
“When were you a Scout?” said Triple-L.
“Actually, never. How about I swear on a stack style books?”
“Good enough. Here’s what I want you to know. The television news reports have been having a field day with my client over the extortion charge and the possibility of a murder charge. Now that he’s actually been charged with murder, they’ll be having a real circus. I’m hoping that the St. Paul paper will be more circumspect with what it prints, which means I’m hoping you will be extremely careful about what you write and will cast a similar influence over what others write.”
“We never go over the top like TV,” I said.
“I know that,” she said. “Here’s my reason for suggesting extra caution on this story. As you know, I have represented hundreds of clients as defendants in criminal trials. Most of them have been guilty, but a few have actually been innocent. My current client, Sheldon Kularski, is guilty as hell of extortion, and the prosecution has him by the nuts thanks to Vinnie Luciano’s work.
“Having said that, I want you to know that this man had nothing to do with Vinnie’s murder. I have talked to dozens of killers in my work, and I’ve developed an extremely accurate bullshit detector. Having used that detector in my talks with Sheldon Kularski, I am convinced he is genuinely innocent of murder. I know you have to write as much as you can dig up about this case, Mitch, but I’m asking your paper to use restraint and stick to the known facts so that he’s not convicted in the press before he goes to trial.”
“What about Grubby Grimes identifying your client’s voice as that of the man who hired him to deliver the poison?” I said.
“At this point, that little shit will say anything to get a reduced sentence,” Triple-L said. “No jury in the world would convict a man of murder on the basis of the Grubby guy’s testimony, and there’s no evidence that connects Mr. Kularski to the poison. He was simply one of many people who happened to be walking around the fairgrounds that day. He stood out in one woman’s eyes because he was holding hands with another guy, but I have a witness who will provide Mr. Kularski with a valid and believable alibi. So again I’m saying that you’ll benefit both my client and your newspaper by sticking to the facts as they’re made public and not letting the commentary go wild.”
“If you’re right, the cops should still be looking for the real killer,” I said.
“They should be,” she said. “But if cops think they can see an easy conviction they sit back and wait for the trial.”
“So you’re basically telling me that I should be looking for the real killer. Al and I should be looking.”
“You guys have done that more than once. Have a nice day, Mitch.”
Chapter 31: Starting Over
By the time I finished briefing Don O’Rourke and writing my careful, strictly factual story there wasn’t much day left. I was looking ahead at a three-day weekend, with Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off, needing to start all over on the hunt for Vinnie Luciano’s murder. I had no idea where to begin the search.
My two chief suspects, Vito Luciano and Louie Luciano, had both been eliminated. Vinnie’s restaurant competitors, Oscar Peterson at Northern Exposure and Luigi Bunatori at House of Italy, seemed like very poor prospects. Who was left to investigate? Vinnie’s wife? Vinnie’s other two children? They just didn’t seem to fit the profile of a killer.
I had to respect Linda L. Lansing’s judgment of her client, which almost certainly meant the real killer was still out there somewhere. But nothing made sense. There was nowhere to go to pursue the story.
“We need to start from scratch and refigure this whole story,” I said to Al. “I don’t want to wait until next Tuesday to do it, but Martha expects me to help with finishing our move to the new apartment this weekend.”
“I’m with you,” Al said. “Bring your laptop along when you and Martha come for dinner tonight and we’ll get started right after dessert. Maybe we can u
nravel this can of worms.”
So after consuming a hefty plateful of cheese and veggie lasagna and a large slice of Carol’s apple pie, I joined Al in his home office to review the events, starting with the pictorial history on Al’s laptop. Every photo he had shot from the presentation at Heritage Square to the murder arraignment of Sheldon Kularski was on file. He always saved everything he’d shot until the story had been completed. After the killer was caught and convicted, Al would cull his photos, saving those that had been published and others that he liked.
We flipped through the Heritage Square pix, looking for familiar faces in the audience and onstage. We saw the fake Fairchild deliver the strychnine-loaded square meal on a stick. We studied the background, looking for anyone who might be reacting to the delivery. We found nothing.
We arrived at the shots of Vinnie taking his first bite of his last meal. The series that followed included close-ups of Vinnie and overall shots of almost the entire stage, including the cluster of square dancers standing behind Vinnie and Scott Hall. “My mother felt sorry for those guys having to watch Vinnie die,” I said, pointing to the square dancers.
“That must have been tough, but there’s one dancer who isn’t hanging around to watch,” Al said. He zoomed in on the group and pointed to one man in square dance attire whose back was toward the camera. The next overall shot showed the same man jumping off the back of the stage.
“Go back a few shots,” I said. “See if we can see the face of the guy who can’t bear to watch.”
Al reversed direction and stopped several shots farther back. Vinnie was taking that first bite and the square dancers were visible. “Zoom in,” I said.
The man we were looking for was still facing Vinnie in that shot. “Zoom in some more,” I said. “Maybe we can see his face.”
The man’s features became less distinct as the image grew larger, but his expression came through clear enough. It was a look of open-mouthed, wide-eyed horror at what he was seeing.
“Makes sense that he’d be horrified,” Al said.
“Except that Vinnie is just taking the first bite,” I said. “Vinnie doesn’t realize he’s in trouble but it looks to me like the man behind him does. The guy looks vaguely familiar. Move ahead a few shots.”
Four shots later, as Vinnie was staring at the stick with his mouth open, probably saying the food didn’t taste right, the dancer in the background appeared again. His expression was changing from the horrified look to something else. Fright, maybe?
“Who is that guy?” I asked.
“We don’t know any of the square dancers do we?” Al said.
“I think we might know that one. It looks a lot like Erik what’s his name, the president of the Oles and Lenas.”
“Our host after the play,” Al said. He looked closer at the photo. “I think you’re right. Isn’t his last name Erickson?”
“Yes, his name is Erickson. Why does he look like he’s seen a ghost, I wonder.”
“He can’t know the stick is poisoned.”
“No, he can’t,” I said. “Or can he?” There was a beat of silence before Al responded.
“Holy shit, you’re not thinking what I’m thinking?” Al said.
“I think I am. Hang on while I look up what the Sunday paper blurb actually said about that program. I’ve never taken the time to go back and read it.”
“Neither have I.”
I had copied everything written about the case, including the announcement that Brownie had talked about, into my laptop Vinnie Luciano file. It took several minutes of searching but I finally found it.
I clicked to open it and with our heads almost touching we read: “Everything will be on the square Wednesday when a new treat is added to the Minnesota State Fair menu of foods on a stick. The square-shaped goodie, cooked up by Vinnie Luciano of King Vinnie’s Steakhouse, will be introduced at a 10:00 a.m. ceremony on the Heritage Square stage. First to sample the new square concoction will be St. Paul’s nationally-known square dance caller, Scott Hall.”
Our heads turned in unison until we were staring at each other with our noses an inch apart.
“Christ on a crutch,” Al said. “The wrong guy ate the poison.”
“Scott Hall was supposed to be the one to die.”
“We and the cops have been chasing the wrong suspects for killing the wrong victim all this time.”
“And now our suspect is right there in the photo, looking horrified because he knows the wrong man is eating the poison.”
“Erik Erickson, square dancer,” Al said.
“Erik Erickson, pharmacist,” I said.
“Bingo!” we said in unison.
“Do we call Brownie?” Al said.
“Let’s think about what we can do on our own before we call Brownie,” I said. “Maybe there’s a way to bring Scott Hall’s would-be killer to the halls of justice without any TV cameras around.”
“A square deal all around,” said Al.
“Right. Now let’s not cut corners as we think this out.”
“Well, as for having the means for murder, he wouldn’t have had to promenade very far to get the poison.”
“But why would the president of a square dance club want to kill the club’s caller?”
“He didn’t like the guy’s singing calls?”
“Be serious,” I said. “We’re trying to figure out what would motivate a normally law-abiding man to wheel around and become a killer.”
The door behind us opened and Martha stuck her head in. “How’s it going?” she asked. “Finding anything?”
“Tell Triple-L she’s right about her client not being a killer,” I said. “We’ve just found the star of the show.”
Carol appeared beside Martha and we invited them into the room. I quickly ran through what we’d done and told them about Erik Erickson looking horrified before the horror show started.
“He’s got to be the one who supplied the poison, but why would he do it?” Al said.
Martha looked at me and said, “Wasn’t it Erik’s wife, Joyce, we saw having a very late dinner with Scott Hall in Minneapolis?”
“That’s right,” I said. “And the night we had drinks with Erik and Joyce she told you that what we saw wasn’t what it looked like.”
“Maybe Erik had a different view,” Al said.
“The way I see it, we should do something,” I said. “The question is: what?”
Chapter 32: The Setup
We decided to sleep on it. Even that was a flop. After a night of tossing and turning while various scenarios ran through my head, I met Al for breakfast at a coffeehouse near his home. His eyes looked as red-rimmed and baggy as mine felt.
We drank coffee and swapped ideas. Al had printed a series of pix showing Erik looking on before Vinnie’s first bite, reacting to the first bite and beating a hasty retreat. Our plan was to show these pix to Brownie and set up an arrest scene that would be photographed and witnessed only by Al and me. Warren Mitchell and Alan Jeffrey reporting live.
We decided to schedule an interview with Erik on the pretense of talking about the financial problems at his theater and slide into questions about his reaction at Heritage Square as Vinnie began eating the poisoned food. I would have my trusty mini-recorder running and try to get him to talk about why he tried to kill Scott Hall. When I had what I needed, I would yell for help and the cops would rush in, one step ahead of Al with his camera.
“We have to call Erik today and set up the interview for Tuesday when we’re back to work,” I said. “Then we can show your pix to Brownie first-thing Tuesday morning and set up the sting.”
“The sooner the better,” Al said. “Remember, a stitch in time saves nine.”
“How do stitches apply to snagging Erickson?”
“Th
e quicker we sew him up the less stitches we’re likely to get.”
“Fewer,” I said. “The correct word is fewer stitches.”
“We’re being picky about our grammar while we’re bagging a killer?”
“I can’t help myself. It’s a knee-jerk reaction.”
“Well, stop being a jerk or I’ll give you a knee where your reaction will be tears and loud wailing.”
“No kneed for that. Let’s get started with Mr. Erickson.” I took out my cell phone.
Erik had given me his card printed with the home and pharmacy numbers. He had written his cell phone number on the back with a ballpoint pen. I called the pharmacy first and was told that Mr. Erickson does not come in on Saturdays.
Next I tried his home, and Joyce answered. I greeted her and asked for Erik.
“He’s at his damn old theater,” she said. “Where he always is on Saturday.”
“This early, even when the theater is dark?” I asked. The next production at the Parkside Players Theatre wasn’t scheduled to open until Thursday of the next week.
“He practically lives there. If it wasn’t for square dancing he’d never leave the goddamn place.”
“Can I get him there on his cell?”
“Damned if I know. I’ve never tried.”
“Thanks, Joyce. I’ll give it a shot.”
“Make the shot bourbon and he’ll be your friend forever,” Joyce said. “Have a good day.” She set her phone down harder than necessary.
“Sounds like a wife who’s tired of playing second fiddle to a theater,” I said.
“A woman scorned is a woman who answers the call of her square dance caller,” Al said.
“I think you called that one right.” I punched in Erik’s cell phone number and the call went to voice mail. I asked him to call me as soon as possible to discuss a potential story about the theater.
“Whatever he’s doing at the theater this early on Saturday he’s too busy to answer the phone,” I said.
“Maybe Joyce isn’t the only Erickson getting a little on the side.”