by Fred Limberg
“Which might mean the other ‘Go Girls’ know the killer too.”
“Which also might mean one of the ‘Go Girls’ is the killer.”
“Don’t you just love a mystery, Ray?” He thought about it for a while before answering. He missed his cigarettes at times like these. He was jealous of Carol and her Marlboro Lights.
“Not anymore. I used to be up for it. I used to love the challenge…the puzzle…the mystery. Not anymore. I want the murderer standing over the body with an empty smoking gun, crying his eyes out in remorse, crying out for God to forgive him for his sins.”
“This ain’t one of those, Ray.” She flicked a taunting ash out the window.
“I know,” he said, closing his eyes. Ray let his head droop to his chest, and thought about little Erika Hilgendorf and women’s strip joints where men waved boners around and about Lakisha Marland. Then he smiled, remembering he had to call her about her alibi later.
Chapter 12
Tony drove away from the campus with no urgent destination. Stuckey was probably somewhere in the milling masses, anonymous and un-findable for the time being. He considered that the final solution was going to be a good old fashioned stakeout. Tony had never been on a stakeout. He’d sat on the side of the road with his radar on, jigging for speeders, but that wasn’t a stakeout. He’d done roadblocks before, but that wasn’t a stakeout either. The interstate sign appeared advertising Snelling Avenue, the exit nearest the Fredrickson’s house. He decided to make a stop there. It was still taped, still a secure crime scene. Ray hadn’t given him any specific instructions what to do if he couldn’t locate the missing roommate so he decided to go through the house again on his own.
It wasn’t like he’d been told he couldn’t, he told himself. The old saw about begging forgiveness before asking permission came to mind. If he had to sell it he’d call it…initiative. That had some buzz.
There was a squad car parked on the street in front. When Tony pulled into the driveway a young patrolwoman stepped out of the unit, tucked a baton in her belt, and approached him. She recognized it as an unmarked police car. There wasn’t any tension. Still, Tony reached for his new gold shield. He didn’t recognize her.
“Detective de Luca,” he said in greeting, trying to be nonchalant.
“Connors.” She offered her hand. Tony thought she looked awfully young to be wearing a uniform, fragile even. When they shook hands he noticed she sure didn’t smell like a cop.
“I just want to take a look.” He cricked his head toward the house. She told him some evidence techs had left not more than an hour ago, said they might be back, and produced a key and a clipboard he hadn’t noticed before. He hadn’t been looking at her hands. Officer Connors was cute. He felt a little guilty standing at the back door, pulling on his powdered latex gloves. Then he was in the house.
The blood stain was still on the floor, dried and nearly black now, a dark testament of Deanna Fredrickson’s death. He noticed that someone had stepped in it at some point, probably after the body had been removed and the stain photographed and cataloged, described and filed away…after it didn’t matter anymore. He was glad it hadn’t been him.
Dusty graphite smudges surrounded the sink and littered the countertop. He noticed the coffee mug sitting on the counter. He leaned over to inspect it. The other smudges had rectangular striations across them, most of them, where the techs had used a tape to pull the prints off. The mug didn’t have any. That struck him as odd, but just for a second. He guessed the techs had other ways to lift prints. He vowed to study up on it.
The address book was gone. So was the planner notebook. Those would be in evidence now, handier for them to refer to. The smudge on the floor was still there but he could see where someone had scraped at it, no doubt lifting a sample for analysis. He remembered every detail of the appearance of the body from the early morning previous. As if in a photo shoot the image flashed in his mind. Here. There. Side view. The leg tucked under. The missing shoe.
What had the coroner’s report said? That it appeared to have been a left-handed assailant; the blade was angled right to left and slightly upward, under the ribcage, partially severing the aorta.
Click. Flash! Here. The smudge. The shoe. He had it! He took out his notebook and wrote: ‘DF was killed by a right handed assailant…knife in right hand. Dragged back. Lost shoe, Smudged floor. Strong? Stronger than her? Surprised.’
He moved over, nearer the table so he could see the entire scene, especially the center of the kitchen. The killer had approached her from behind, probably had hooked an arm around her neck and dragged her backwards. What had they said? Had Deanna screamed? Mae next door hadn’t mentioned a scream. A hand over her mouth? De Luca made more notes, reminders to see if the coroner had noted any bruising around her neck.
Tony pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. He was suddenly feeling tired and spent. He wondered if this was what it was like when you figured it out…made the leap. That you were suddenly exhausted? He’d seen the murder in his mind’s eye and, damn it, made the connections. He hoped Ray would agree. He hoped he’d be proud of him.
There weren’t as many graphite smudges in the basement but the techs had been thorough it looked like to him. The small refrigerator had been printed. He opened it. A beer was missing. Hadn’t there been four in there yesterday?
The boys, the roommates would come over here to watch football games he recalled someone telling him…Scott Jr.? David Hong wasn’t much of a football fan. He wondered if Swenson was, or if Stuckey was. He checked his watch and decided he had plenty of time. He tried to imagine three or four college men sprawling on the big sofa, yelling at the screen, tossing beers across the room. He tried to picture Deanna joining in. He didn’t see that but he didn’t know why.
Upstairs he found much the same. There were fewer smudges than in the kitchen. A lot of them didn’t show tape marks. Deanna Fredrickson had been thorough in her dusting. One caught his eye. It was on the woodwork of the door to the master bedroom, just about head high. Peering closely he could tell it had yielded a print. He decided it wasn’t too surprising, after all. Who dusts the door trim?
The jewelry was gone from the dresser top, he noticed. He made a note to double check the evidence inventory. Someone had helped themselves to a beer, he was pretty sure, so why not a couple of grand worth of earrings.
The bathroom had been gone over. He thought some prescription vials were missing. Would they have been cataloged into evidence? Maybe she was on uppers, he mused. Maybe she was on antidepressants, on happy pills. Did that account for her energy?
The bedside table on the right nearest the door gave up a secret when he opened it. There was a shiny silver toy in there along with a couple of bottles of lubricant. He remembered it was called a Steely Dan, like the band. A girl’s best friend on Friday night, wasn’t that how it went? Even with the gloves on he hesitated to pick it up and decided to just let it rest there. He felt like an intruder—a voyeur. Was this what Ray meant when he said they had to get into people’s lives?
The table on the other side of the bed didn’t give up anything of interest; two paperback books, a notepad and some pens. Tony was shutting the drawer when something clinked and rolled around, like it had been underneath the paperbacks. It was a bullet, a .38 caliber Federal round. Not new—but not a relic either, Tony thought, based on the patina of the yellow brass. That meant there was a pistol somewhere. He looked at the room with newly curious eyes.
A cheap pancake holster was taped to the back of the husband’s nightstand. It held a small frame revolver similar to the one that was chafing Tony’s ankle in his new holster. The hammer was resting on an empty chamber. It was a Colt, a nice little gun, Tony thought as he hefted it. He decided it should go into the evidence locker. Best not leave a firearm in a house that was a crime scene, people coming and going, snooping around…like him.
Tony bagged it. He had baggies and latex gloves with powder inside
them, spare pens, even a small digital camera. He wasn’t going to be caught without his tools again. No sir.
As he locked up the back door, the pistol heavy in his coat pocket, Tony wondered if Deanna Fredrickson had thought of the gun when she was attacked. If it had been handier could she have defended herself, saved her life? If her husband hadn’t been stranded on a runway, if he’d been home, would he have been able to rush to the kitchen and shoot the killer? Was her murder made possible because of a fucking warning light in an airplane cockpit a thousand miles away?
It didn’t take Ray but a second to make the connection. Lakisha Marland had scoffed when he suggested they could run into trouble on their trips. She’d said ‘we have Ally’— something like that. Allyson Couts was an impressive woman. She greeted them at the door to her office, smiling and polite, and intimidating as hell.
She was almost as tall as Ray, close to six feet. Ray estimated she weighed between 260 and 280 pounds. She didn’t try to disguise it. Her suit was tailored to her size, close fitting but not tight, a navy blue skirt and jacket advertising a confident, powerful woman. Kind of pug faced, she had shoulder length brown hair and wore glasses. She showed them to the client chairs in front of her desk, asked if they cared for coffee or water. She seemed open and pleasant—at first.
“Obviously, you’re here because of Deanna’s murder.” They hadn’t called ahead. Ray and Carol had taken the chance that they would catch her in the office.
“Yes. We’re interviewing family and friends at this point, trying to get a feel.”
“I think we’ve met, Detective Bankston.” Ray couldn’t pull it out. He was sure he would have remembered this woman.
“Twelve years ago? Maybe more? The Bianchi case?” That took care of one question. She was a defense lawyer. He remembered now. It started clicking. Ray didn’t get involved in Minneapolis cases often. Allyson Couts must work mainly Hennepin County, he surmised. He’d been called to testify against Carlo Bianchi, who he was sure had murdered Reese Whittier, a minor St. Paul troublemaker.
“I remember now.” Allyson Couts hadn’t been as large then. He remembered her as a tall, relentless defense attorney who had mercilessly shredded him on the stand. He had been called to provide background on Whittier. She had blocked, ducked, dodged and blunted everything he had to say.
“So, how can I help you, Detective Bankston? What’s the TOD?” He also recalled her brusque style.
“Monday. Early A.M. We’re thinking 7:00 to 9:00 or 9:30.”
“Breakfast. Helmo case. Client and co-counsel.” She grabbed a pen and scribbled on a pad. “Here.” There were three names and phone numbers on the paper. She knew how it all worked and didn’t seem to take any offense.
“Any tension between the husband and wife you noticed?” Ray decided to match her style. He could do brusque too.
“Nope. Storybook.”
“Kid problems?”
“Everyone should have kids like Scotty and Helene. Wrong tree.”
“What about the ‘Go Girls’?”
“What about ’em?” Ray noticed her eyes narrow slightly at the question.
“Arguments? Jealousy? Someone pissed about something that happened on a trip?” She might have been abrupt and direct, but Allyson was thorough and seemingly truthful. She took a minute to think about Ray’s last question.
“Not with Dee.” She seemed distracted then, still thinking about what she knew, what she thought, and how much of it she would share. “A couple of them might be on the outs, but not Deanna. Not with Dee. Next question?”
“What can you tell me about the incident at the strip club in LA?” Ray didn’t have much else to work with. Neither did he have much expectation of Allyson Couts giving anything up.
“Can’t help you. I wasn’t there.”
“You went on the LA trip though.”
“True. But I didn’t go to the club.” She leaned forward on the desk, hands out and open. “I’m gay, Detective Bankston. The last thing I’d want to do is go to some dive where a bunch of guys are waving their dicks around. I skipped that one. And I don’t do hearsay.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Ray smiled and rose, offered his hand. “Thanks for your time, Counselor.” He saw Carol start to reach for the fingerprint kit and gave her a discreet wave off. They showed themselves out.
“Whew.” Carol said once they were in the car. “You went up against her in court? And lived to talk about it?” She was chuckling while she lit a cigarette.
“It wasn’t too bad for me, but she got the guy off.” Ray shrugged.
“Did he do it?”
“I think so.” He turned to her in the car. “I got it straight in my mind a long time ago, Carol. We catch ’em. The DA prosecutes ’em. Someone in Minneapolis screwed up or something. Not my problem.”
“Yeah, I think that way too.” She nodded. “But sometimes…don’t you get mad sometimes when some junior ADA screws up and one of the bad guys walks?”
“Not mad. I don’t need to waste my energy on mad. I just try to get the next one so airtight, so perfect, that anyone can prosecute it.”
“Bullshit.” Carol tossed the half smoked butt out the window and started the car. “You get mad.”
Chapter 13
Ted Lipka and Vang Pao were leaning against Connor’s squad car. Tony remembered they were still interviewing the neighbors so they must have been nearby. He joined them, curious if the canvassing had produced anything. An old man in a red plaid jacket was herding a small pile of leaves near the curb two houses over. Tony noticed he was keeping an eye on the activity around the police car. Greetings out of the way, talk turned to the case.
“Anything?” Both of the older detectives shook their heads.
Ted flipped a page back on his pad. “Not much. One lady, Grober’s her name, lives in the blue house over there.” He pointed east, toward the busier cross street and the gas station two blocks over. “She said she saw a young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt walking toward the bus stop early Monday morning. She said she didn’t recognize him.”
“She seems to be the unofficial neighborhood watch,” Vang added. “She remembered the Graves woman walking her dog, a Mr. Hendricks was running late and had to trot to catch the 8:15, and that someone named Aldo got his paper that morning in his boxers.”
“That might be something then,” Tony sounded hopeful.
“She only saw him from the back. Couldn’t tell if he was black or white. Couldn’t remember if the sweatshirt had any writing on it. No idea about size. Might not even have been a guy.”
“He was carrying a backpack.”
“That’s not much.” Then Tony remembered something Mae had said, something about hearing a car door. “Did she say anything about a car here at the house? Out front or in the drive?”
“No, but she wouldn’t have been able to see this house.” Ted pointed again toward the blue house. It was on the same side of the street and only three down. Unless the Grober woman had been on the lawn she wouldn’t be able to see the Fredrickson’s.
“What about you? Talked to the last roommate yet?”
It was Tony’s turn to shake his head. “He seems to be a busy boy. I don’t think he’s ducking me but he’s not calling me back either. What do you guys think?” Tony wasn’t above asking advice. Ted and Vang were veterans. Neither of them exuded the presence that Ray did but he knew they were both competent investigators. And everyone had more experience than he did.
“A college kid not bending over backwards to talk to a cop? That’s not surprising.” Vang had a frown on his face. “But…we need to clear him. You’ve left messages?”
“Several.”
“We need to clear him. These kids live on their damn cell phones.” Vang’s tone of voice told Tony that talking with Stuckey was important. He felt a swell of urgency.
“I’m thinking of staking out the house. Ray’s left me kind of twisting here.”
Lipka chuckled. “That sou
nds like Ray. He doesn’t hold hands, Tony. I’m guessing he said something like ‘talk to the last roommate’ and not much else.”
Tony nodded. That was exactly what he’d said. Ray was testing his resourcefulness. He wanted to see how he would solve the problem. Well, Tony thought, I guess I’d just better go solve this problem.
“Anyone want to join me on a stakeout?”
That got a laugh.
Roxie Kennebrew was a mess. There was no other way to describe it, Ray thought, looking at her. Her red hair was barely combed. Her makeup was smudged, what was left of it. She looked to have been crying for days. Her eyes were tortured, the lids rubbed pink by a hundred tissues. There were the last traces of lipstick at the corners of her wide mouth. She hadn’t seen a tub or shower in a while, he could tell. Ray decided that Roxie Kennebrew was either despondent over the death of her friend or a very good actress.
Ray steeled himself for this chat. Even though he was inclined to feel some sympathy for her he was tired of the lack of progress. Deanna the good mother. Deanna the volunteer. Deanna the dutiful wife. There was something Deanna had done that had driven someone to murder. If Roxie Kennebrew was truly devastated maybe she’d open up, talk about the group dynamics of the ‘Go Girls’, let something out, let something slip. If she was acting, Ray was sure he’d be able to tell.
Carol pointed out the two empty brandy bottles in the trash. Ray considered that the woman was drowning her sorrows, self-medicating, drinking to make the pain of loss go away. He knew that never worked, that all the drinking would do was sharpen the edge of self pity so it could cut a little deeper. He’d had some experience with that. He also considered that she might be drinking away her loathing for the evil deed she’d done.
Then, too, he remembered that more than one of her friends had commented that she was a drinker, that she…what was it…liked to let loose? Maybe it was as simple as that. Maybe she was just a drunk. Whatever the case, Ray was still a little gritty from the interview with Allyson Couts . Too bad, Roxie, he said to himself. Ray Bankston doesn’t suffer drunks.