by Mike Faricy
On the way there I picked up a pay-as-you-go phone. It was navy blue with shiny chrome-like trim, you had to fold it open to talk on it. Folded up the thing was about the size of a pack of matches. I told the kid at the counter I’d left my identification at home, slipped him a five, then paid ten bucks in advance for twenty cents a minute calls. The kid, all of sixteen, didn’t blink. I’d the feeling it was probably a pretty standard transaction.
It was a good forty minute drive, mostly on four lane freeway after rush hour, before I got to Minnetonka where all the swells lived. The shades were still drawn on Doctor Death’s second floor and I pulled in and parked in the circular drive. It looked like the light might still be on in the corner room, but I couldn’t really be sure in the mid-day sun. Now there were three newspapers at the front door, the past three days of the Minneapolis Star. There was a sticker on what looked like one of the living room widows. The sticker matched the little alarm system sign in the front garden. Through the window I could see a fireplace, two, nice off-white couches on either side, a large oriental rug, a couple of end tables with lamps, some sort of large flat screen above the fireplace mantel. It looked like pretty nice digs.
I pushed open the mail slot next to the front door it was crammed with circulars and a few envelopes. I grabbed the envelopes, then walked calmly to my car and drove off as if I rifled people’s mailboxes everyday. I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and fanned through the envelopes. One was addressed to resident, one was a credit card offer from Citibank addressed to Carroll Kevork. The third envelope held a form letter from Wells Fargo Bank explaining new policies and charges for direct debit cards. Basically worthless except it suggested he had at least one account at Wells Fargo.
There was a pay phone alongside the grocery store. I phoned Doctor Death’s office at the U, listened to his pain in the ass recording then got the message that told me his mail box was full. I pressed zero to schedule an appointment. A nice lady came on after two rings.
“Department center, how may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to make an appointment with Doctor Carroll Kevork.”
“One moment please, I’ll transfer your call.”
She dumped me back into Doctor Death’s message. So much for higher education, I punched zero again.
“Department center, how may I direct your call?”
“I would like to make an appointment with Doctor Carroll Kevork, his voice mail is full. It seems I can’t leave a message.”
If the nice lady remembered who I was from twenty seconds earlier she gave no indication.
“One moment please, I’ll transfer your call.”
I was dumped into some recorded message that asked me to input the first three letters of the last name of the individual I was trying to reach. I did that. The next recording instructed me to press one upon hearing the name of the person I was trying to reach. Doctor Death was the fifth or sixth name I listened to, I was becoming numb. I pressed one. The recording instructed me to press one to leave a call back number, two to leave a message or zero to return to the switch board. I pressed two. The recording instructed me to wait for the tone before leaving a message. I waited for what seemed an interminably long time. Finally I heard the tone.
“Doctor Kevork,” I said in an asshole, rich guy accent, “this is Mister Myles Wesley at Wells Fargo Bank. I’m calling today to alert you to an accounting error, in your favor for the amount of one-hundred-and-forty-nine dollars. Would you please call me and let me know where you would like these funds deposited or should you prefer, we can issue a check made out to you. My direct dial number is,” and I left the pay-as-you-go cell number.
The three newspapers and the mail box had me wondering if Doctor Death had fled the scene once Kiki visited him the other day. Or, was he just lazy, never checked his mail and had just stopped reading all the bad news in the newspaper.
I drove to my office and called my new best friend, Nelson Tornvold, and left a message. I took it as remotely positive that his mail box wasn’t full. I phoned Louie’s office number, “Mister Laufen will return your call just as soon as he’s able.” Some things don’t change.
Nelson phoned me toward the end of the day, he sounded about twelve years old, but a diligent twelve.
“Yeah, Mister Haskell. This is Nelson Tornvold, I’m returning your call.”
“Nelson, thanks for calling back. I was checking to see if you received anything from Louie Laufen. He had some files…”
“Yes sir, um, Mister Laufen gave me these notes, a couple of pages, told me to verify names and dates. I think they’re from his interrogation with you. Then I’m to formalize them, write a cover letter for him. The information I have is that this is all going in a packet directed to a Detective Manning, at Saint Paul, homicide. I’ve got a case file number to reference, B-A-R seven-four-seven-seven?” He waited for an answer.
“I have to take your word on the file number, can you repeat that to me?”
He did and I wrote it down.
“So, that will be going over to Manning, at homicide, yet today?”
“It should, I’ll have it ready for Mister Laufen’s signature shortly, then as soon as he signs it we’ll messenger it over.”
“You can’t just send an email?”
“No sir, paper trail and all that sort of thing,” he said earnestly.
I was guessing ‘all that sort of thing’ covered a multitude of sins, but I didn’t want to go there.
“Has everything checked out?”
“Yes sir. I mean the records and dates were all verifiable, I’m sure someone on the other end will be doing the same thing I did, verifying. But it all checks out.”
“Nelson, thanks, don’t let me hold you up from getting Louie Laufen’s signature and sending that stuff over to Manning.”
“Yes sir.”
I felt like recommending young Nelson for Louie’s job.
Chapter Forty-Five
My monitor call came through at nine-fifty that evening. It had been dark for almost forty minutes and mercifully there was a slight breeze, surprisingly pleasant weather. As soon as I hung up I got in the car and drove out to Doctor Death’s house. I cruised past twice, then headed for home. I could see the newspapers were still piled at the front door and the same second floor bedroom light was on. I was pretty sure the good Doctor wasn’t home.
Another monitor call came in at six-twenty the following morning. I was convinced it was that fatty Muriel, getting back at me because I had the temerity to request a review of my schedule arrangement. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I lay in bed for forty minutes before I finally got up.
I was parked in my usual space in the far corner of the KRAZ parking lot. By this point I was able to recognize some of the litter that had been there for a while. I tuned to seven-forty on the radio dial, the Blast of Freedom as they referred to themselves, listening as Farrell ponderously read from a script that made no sense to me at all. He lost me somewhere between Pilgrim’s Rights and the Sword of Damocles, then the plea to make a stand for as little as a twenty dollar cash donation, followed by the cautionary reminder not to send checks lest the Communists and Anarchists in Washington monitor your active financial support of freedom. Farrell actually stammered over the word anarchists. Who could be stupid enough to listen to this drivel day in and day out? Present company excepted.
I was clearly in the world’s dullest parking lot, not a thing happening. I drove back out to Doctor Death’s house, just to see if he’d picked up his newspapers yet. There were four of them at the front door, newspapers. I pulled into the circular drive, got out and rang the doorbell. I didn’t expect anyone to answer and I wasn’t disappointed.
I forced my way through some trimmed hedge affair at the side of the house and clomped through a garden around to the back. I walked down a set of terraced stone steps that led to a broad back lawn running a good hundred feet out to the shore of Lake Minnetonka. There were colored flowe
rs, impatiens, on either side of the shady steps. Along the lake the back lot had close to seventy-five feet of shore line. Two large oaks, close to where I guessed the property lines ran shaded a good portion of the back. One of the oaks had a heavy limb running out toward the water, a rope and tire swing hung from the limb, both looked relatively new.
There was a second story cedar deck across the entire rear of the house. A broad staircase with a ninety degree turn half way up led to the deck. As I climbed the steps I could smell the cedar.
I pulled on a pair of rubber surgical gloves as I surveyed the upper deck. On the railing side sat a large gas grill, with a grey plastic cover pulled over it. A large black metal table with an umbrella raised in the middle was just beyond the grill, seven matching metal chairs were arranged around the table. A crystal tumbler with maybe two inches of brownish liquid, a leaf and a dozen bugs floating on top sat on the far end of the table. I sniffed the glass, bourbon, lucky bugs.
The house looked dark, I could see through the windows inside to a kitchen, but other than a digital clock on the ovens it didn’t look like anything was on. The lights were off, even though it was late morning the rooms still seemed dark enough to warrant an overhead light. I walked the length of the deck, all the windows were locked, nothing seemed to be happening inside. There were two sets of sliding glass doors, the living room set was locked. I could look in through the living room and see my car parked in the circular drive out the front window. I walked back along the deck to the sliding kitchen door. The door was open about an inch, I listened carefully for a few more minutes, then slowly slid the door, half expecting an alarm. The only sound was my heart pounding like some base drum.
Once inside I quickly walked in the direction of the attached garage. In a hallway just off the kitchen was a solid metal door, I guessed it led to the garage. Next to the door was the control panel for the alarm system. It gave a digital read out of the date and time, next to that was a green light. The alarm was off. Attached to the wall below the control panel was a wooden cut out in the shape of a house with four brass hooks, a set of car keys hung from one of the hooks. There was something else, a smell. I was pretty sure I knew what it was.
As I walked through the house, I could feel the central air. The kitchen was clean, other than the crystal tumbler outside there was nothing to indicate human activity, nothing in the sink. Black granite counter tops reflected cherry wood cabinets and ceiling fixtures. I opened one of the cabinets, it was empty, so was the next one and the one after that, they were all empty. I opened the large brushed chrome refrigerator, it was turned off, spotless and empty as was the freezer.
The living and dining rooms held elegant, matching furnishings with nothing out of place. In the dining room there were three crystal glasses sitting on a long walnut cabinet the glasses matched the one out on the deck. The cabinet held nothing but a half-pint of Jack Daniels, maybe just a third full.
The front hallway felt larger than my entire first floor, at the far end a white carpeted staircase led upstairs. The smell was a bit stronger. As I climbed the stairs the carpeting felt thick and plush and ended about three feet beyond the top step. From there the floor was just dusty chipboard subflooring.
The smell on the second floor was approaching the gag point. There were six bedrooms on the second floor, five of which were empty, not so much as an IKEA chest of drawers, anywhere. The walls were sheet rocked, plastered, but not primed or painted. Capped electrical wires extended out from holes where outlets or ceiling fixtures should have been. All the shades were drawn. Although the door frames were installed and the bedroom doors were hung, none of the rooms, doorframes or the upper hallway for that matter had any trim attached.
The sixth bedroom, the one in the upper corner, held more than I bargained for. There was a thin mattress on the floor and a rumpled sleeping bag. A jumble of socks, t-shirts and boxers were piled against the wall. A table lamp with no shade sat on the floor. The light was on, plugged into an orange extension cord that came up through a hole in the floor. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand and ventured in.
A black metal chair, an exact match to the seven out on the deck sat in the far corner of the room. What was left of Carroll Kevork, Doctor Death, sat with his ankles and wrists taped to the chair and a six inch strip of duct tape over his mouth. I recognized him, or what was left of him, from the website photo. It looked like some nutcase had played tic-tac-toe on his body. Both ears, his nose, arms, chest, well, you get the picture, were carved and sliced. Blood was splattered across the walls. On the floor, small foot prints outlined in dried blood wandered around the chair then faded as they tracked out toward the door. Congealed blood was pooled beneath the chair.
A familiar looking knife had been tossed into the corner. I’d seen it once before. It was bigger than a steak knife, not quite a carving blade, but still capable of doing some very serious damage. The knife came with a bright red handle, the kind sculpted to fit your fingers and hold a blade that gleamed viciously. The blade was crusted with blood. Kiki.
I became aware of a noise, at first I thought it was radio static, then realized it was flies buzzing around. Lots of them all of a sudden. I backed out of the room, down the staircase, through the dining room and out the sliding kitchen door. I somehow had the foresight to slide the door almost closed behind me. Out on the deck I sucked in huge gulps of fresh air. Then made my way to the car as fast as I could hoping I didn’t attract any attention.
I looked in the rear view mirror as I pulled away and saw the puddle of oil that had dripped from my engine onto the circular brick drive. The oil left a large stain the size of a dinner plate. I was pretty sure Doctor Death wouldn’t care.
Chapter Forty-Six
Driving back home on I-94, I could not seem to get the smell out of my nose. For the umpteenth time I ran through a check list in my mind. Had I closed the door? Left anything behind? Worn the gloves at all times? Fortunately, I’d called from the untraceable pay-as-you-go cell and disguised my voice when I left phone messages on Doctor Death’s office number. Still, I thought I should call the police, although try as I may, I couldn’t come up with how that would help me in any way.
I got home, pushed a chair up against the front door, wedged another chair under the back kitchen door knob. Then sat and thought, Kiki, Kiki, Kiki while I ate butter-brickle ice cream directly out of the carton with a spoon. My monitor call came through about nine-thirty that night and sort of snapped me back to reality. Other than the ice cream carton I must have been staring at nothing for the better part of the evening. I punched in my code, hit the pound sign and went to bed, not that I could get to sleep.
I must have drifted off because the ringing woke me. It was a phone, a phone close by, but I didn’t recognize the ring tone. It took a few moments to track it down, coming from my dresser, the pay-as-you-go phone. I let it ring, it stopped on the fifth ring. I hadn’t set up any voice mail on the thing so it must have disconnected. I checked after a couple of minutes, no message, caller unknown. It was three-forty in the morning. There was only one place I’d left that number, on Doctor Death’s recording to schedule an appointment. I had said I was from Wells Fargo, attempted to disguise my voice, sounding like some banking jerk. I spent the rest of the night awake, wondering how effective my attempt had been.
I woke to the sound of my cell-phone ringing, Sentinel Monitoring. I punched in the numbers, then pound, the thing was ringing again when I came out of the bathroom.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“Yeah Dev, Louie Laufen, I just signed off on everything and your packet is waiting to be messengered over to Manning in Homicide this morning.”
“Would it help if I ran it over there?” I glanced at my watch, nine-forty-five.
“Really bad idea, no, in fact that could only make things worse. It’ll be over there in the next hour or so. Everything checked out, so this is great news for us, but expect something, maybe all of it to be quest
ioned initially. Once they comb through it, they’ll see how solid we are.”
“Hey, pass on my thanks to your boy Nelson, he did a hell of a job.”
“He’s a good kid. You learn anything else that might help? I’d be more than happy to pile it on.”
“No nothing, I’ll keep looking into things, but I haven’t come up with anything, yet. What do you think about the guy at the U?” I immediately wished I’d never asked the question about Doctor Death.
“Kevork? What do I think? I think it’s interesting, but at this stage just hearsay. I’m not saying there isn’t something there, but Manning’s going to put it to the side until he can tie it in, solidly. By the way, that’s not necessarily a bad trait.”
“Guy’s a prick.”
“Probably, but he’s a straight shooting one. I know you two rub each other the wrong way, but he’s not gonna railroad you, Dev.”
“We’ll see.”
I listened to three of the KRAZ broadcasts from the safety of my office, one was worse than the next. I got home a little before six that evening, there was a note on the door from Heidi, asking me to give her a call.
“Hello,” she sounded way too cheery to have this go my way.
“Hi Heidi, Dev, got your note on my door.”
“Oh yeah, thanks for calling.”
“Course. What’s up, why didn’t you just call me?”
“Didn’t want to bother you, besides I wanted to pick out the color and get it.”
“Color?”
“Yeah, paint for my bedroom. I need it painted, tomorrow, that is if you’ve got the time.”
She said the last part like she knew I didn’t have much else going on.
“Time, well, yeah, I guess. I mean, you want to think about it, do you want me to pick up paint or anything?”
“I already told you, I picked up the paint.”
“Okay.”
“Waterbury Cream”