A Carnival of Killing

by Glenn Ickler

  The prince shrugged. “More than you can count on your fingers and toes.”

  “And you’re sure whoever was hanging around with Lee-Ann Wednesday night wasn’t a member of your Krewe?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He rose and saluted me. “Have a good evening, Prince of the Printed Media.” With that, he walked away to join Vulcanus Rex, the only one I could positively identify because of his black running suit.

  Al, who had been circulating and quietly taking photos while Soot and I talked, returned to the table. “What did old Sootie have to say?”

  I told him.

  “Oh, shit,” Al said.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  We finished our drinks and were about to ask Britney for our check when another Vulcan emerged from the mob and plopped himself down in the chair vacated by the Prince of Soot. “Hi,” he said. “Recognize me?” The voice sounded familiar but I’m not good at reconstructing faces around mouths and noses, which were all that showed between the man’s goggles and greasepaint beard.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Can I have three guesses?”

  “Are you sure we’ve met?” asked Al.

  The masked man’s mouth formed a smile and the teeth gave him away. “My first guess is Ted Carlson,” I said.

  “Very good, Mitch,” Carlson said. “You could be a detective. Are you boys having fun?”

  “We men are having a blast,” Al said. “The crowd in here is pretty lively considering recent events.”

  “The show must go on,” Carlson said. “Anything more I can do for you boys?”

  My immediate response was to say he could kiss my boyish ass, but I restrained myself, knowing I might have to ask this condescending little prick a question or two in the morning while I was writing my story. “Nothing for now,” I said.

  “I must confess that I’m surprised to see you boys here,” Carlson said. “I thought you’d be working on your story and printing your photos tonight.”

  “I’ve got plenty of time to write in the morning,” I said.

  “And we don’t print photos anymore,” Al said. “You’ve maybe heard of digital photography?”

  “Oh, of course,” he said. “Silly me.”

  “I must confess that I’m surprised to see you in a Vulcan costume,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t be,” Carlson said. “I was a member of the Krewe three years ago. I still love to put on the suit when there’s a party.”

  “Been to many parties this week?” Al asked.

  “Actually, I dressed up for the Queen of Snows dance Wednesday night,” Carlson said. “Had a ball, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Again he flashed the perfect row of teeth.

  “Did you go along with the crowd afterward?” I asked.

  Carlson realized that the question was loaded. “If you mean the crowd that went to O’Halloran’s, the answer is no,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I decided it was time to pack it in, so I went home.”

  “How late was it?” I asked.

  “Late enough,” Carlson said, pushing back the chair and rising. “It’s been nice talking to you boys. If you have any questions in the morning, don’t hesitate to call. Have a good night.”

  “You, too,” Al and I said in unison as he walked away.

  “What an asshole,” Al said when Carlson was out of earshot. “Do you think he could be the extra Vulcan that one of your Kates saw in O’Halloran’s?”

  “Anything is possible,” I said. “But I have no idea what his motive for killing Lee-Ann might be.”

  “He could have picked her up at O’Halloran’s, took her somewhere and tried to screw her, and got rough when she wouldn’t put out.”

  “That’s possible. But we won’t know whether she was sexually assaulted until we hear the ME’s report on Monday. Meanwhile, I’ll put him on my list of suspects.”

  Britney was standing beside us. “Another round, gentlemen?”

  “No thanks, just the check,” Al said.

  “But thanks for calling us gentlemen,” I said. “Our last visitor thought we were underage.” I added an extra dollar to my share of the tip.

  Chapter Nine

  Autopsy-turvy

  When I walked into the lobby of the Daily Dispatch building a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. on Monday, I heard loud male voices and saw a man waving a snub-nosed pistol in front of Harry, our security guard. The security desk was the first thing a visitor encountered when entering our building, and unless one wore an ID tag, one must be identified and tell Harry what department one wants to visit.

  The man waving the pistol was shouting something about not giving a shit about the sign saying no firearms allowed in this building. “This gun is the whole purpose of my fucking visit,” he yelled.

  My first thought was to go back outside and call 911, but I quickly recognized the gun waver from the rear, which was as wide as my grandmother’s antique wash tub. His name was Sean Fitzpatrick, and he was the head of an organization called the League of Effective Gun Owners, otherwise known as LEGO. I thought this acronym was extremely appropriate because the members of LEGO thought of their guns as playthings.

  Fitzpatrick was in his middle fifties, with a gleaming bald head, a bulbous red nose and a belly that hung far over his belt as a result of absorbing countless kegs of beer. He was a frequent writer of letters to the editor opposing any and all gun laws, and an occasional indignant visitor to the newsroom when a story about gun control pissed him off. This was the first time I’d seen him carry a weapon into the building.

  I hustled up alongside him. “Hey, Sean, what’s going on?” I said. “How come you’re giving Frank a hard time?”

  “I’m trying to explain to this donkey that I’m here to talk about this gun,” Sean said. “I want to show it to the asshole who wrote that anti-gun editorial in Sunday’s paper and the other asshole that drew the stupid cartoon that went with it.”

  “Frank’s just doing his job, Sean,” I said. “According to the law that you helped push through, we have a right to ban guns in this building.”

  “But this is a fucking exception,” Fitzpatrick yelled. “I can’t explain what I want to explain if I don’t show those assholes the kind of gun I’m talking about.”

  “Hey, Tex, cool down,” said another voice. It was Al, who had just come in the door. He always tried to ruffle Fitzpatrick’s feathers by calling him Tex or Gunslinger.

  “Oh, great, now I’m triple-teamed by the leftwing, patriot-hating media,” Fitzpatrick said. “I might as well go home.”

  “Oh, bullshit! What’s your problem?” Al asked.

  “Your dumbass editorial writer wrote a piece attacking the concealed weapons bill and your equally dumbass cartoonist drew a picture of a woman pulling an AK-47 out from between her boobs,” Fitzpatrick said. “I want to show them the size of gun we’re really talking about in this bill.” He waved the pistol toward us and I saw it was only about five inches long.

  “Is that a gun or a cigarette lighter?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m trying to get across to you dumbfucks in the media,” Fitzpatrick said. “People don’t conceal guns any bigger than this one. It’s a Derringer. A two-shot Cobra Derringer.”

  “You’re sure it’s not loaded?” Al asked.

  “Of course it’s not loaded,” Fitzpatrick said. “I know better than to bring a loaded gun in here.”

  “Show me,” Al said.

  Fitzpatrick pushed out the cylinder so we could see that it was empty.

  “How about if I take the gun and go with you to the editorial page editor?” Al asked. “I think Frank might allow that, being as how I work here and he sees me every day.” Frank, who was delighted to be taken off the hook, nodded in vigorous affirmative.

  The three of us rode up the elevator to the fourth floor. When we got there, I headed for my desk, and Al walked Sean Fitzpatrick through the newsroom to the editorial page office after getting everyone’s attention by yelling, “Armed and dange
rous gunslinger on the floor.”

  On my desk was a note to call Ted Carlson and a scrap of paper informing me that the ME would release the autopsy report on Lee-Ann Nordquist at 9:00 a.m. On my voice mail was a message from Kitty Catalano saying she thought my Sunday story on our ride with the Vulcans was “really super.”

  Ted Carlson could jolly well wait in line. I’d phone Kitty later to hear first-hand, possibly at lunch, how really super she thought my story was, but my first call had to be to Detective Curtis Brown.

  He picked up after only three rings. “Homicidebrown.”

  “Dailydispatchmitchell. What’s new on the late Klondike Kate?”

  “The autopsy report,” Brownie said. “Didn’t you get the word?”

  “I did. But there must be more than that. Surely your detectives have not been sloughing off over the weekend.”

  “You can tell the taxpayers that we’ve been working very hard on this case. However, we haven’t turned up much beyond a shitload of Vulcans as possible persons of interest, which is still off the record by the way. I’m hoping you can help reduce the number from your contacts with the Vulcan menagerie. Good story and pix, by the way.”

  “Thanks from both me and Al,” I said. “I’m sure you already know the names of three members of this year’s Krewe who were in O’Halloran’s.”

  “I do,” Brownie said. “It’s the possible fourth one we haven’t come up with. Either the woman who thought she saw four Vulcans was seeing double from too many drinks or there was a ringer in the group.”

  “If there was a ringer, it could have been a guy named Ted Carlson.”

  “The Vulcans’ manager?”

  “That’s the one. Have you questioned him?”

  “No. What makes you think I should?”

  “He talked to us at Klondike Kate’s Friday night, dressed up in his Vulcan suit from three years ago. He let slip that he was at the Queen of the Snows dance Wednesday night, also in costume. He said he didn’t go with the bunch to O’Halloran’s, but people have been known to lie.”

  “Not to a reporter,” Brownie said, feigning utter shock.

  “Even to a reporter,” I said.

  “Thanks for the lead, Mitch. I’ll have a little chat with Mr. Carlson. Have a good day.” Brownie was gone before I could ask another question. I put down the phone realizing that I’d received nothing useful in exchange for my tidbit of intelligence. I could only hope that the ME’s report was more than routine.

  The ME’s report was presented to a milling cluster of Twin Cities newspaper, television and radio reporters, along with their associated photographers and cameramen, by Police Chief Casey O’Malley. The report began with the customary facts about the cause of death, which in this case was strangulation. No surprise there.

  This mundane beginning was followed by the equally stunning revelation that marks on the victim’s neck indicated the use of some sort of rope as a garrote. This drew an appropriate silent response.

  Next came the word that the victim’s coat, hat, and scarf had been found in O’Halloran’s cloakroom, which meant she’d been taken outside in below-zero weather without them. I raised my hand at this, and was told to hold my question until the chief was finished.

  The time of death was estimated at between 11:00 p.m. and midnight. This was the time a witness had reported seeing her leaving through the backdoor, which led to an adjacent parking ramp, with a male companion. The fact that the companion was dressed in a Vulcan costume was not mentioned by the chief.

  “Tests showed that the alcohol level in the victim’s blood was .10,” the chief continued. “This, of course, is above the level of legal intoxication, which is .08.”

  Next we were told that the victim showed signs of “vaginal bruising” but that no semen was found. If rape had been attempted, the act was not completed. Finally, the chief called for questions.

  Again my hand shot up. “Does the fact that she wasn’t wearing her coat indicate that she was killed immediately after leaving the building?” I asked.

  “That’s a possibility,” said Chief O’Malley.

  I followed up. “How about inside the building? Could she have been dead when the witness saw her leave with the man?” That brought a burst of verbal response from the crowd and I heard Trish Valentine say, “Gross!”

  “That’s also a possibility,” the chief said. More groans from the masses.

  “Can you identify the witness who saw her leave?” the Channel 5 reporter asked.

  “The witness will not be identified at this time,” Chief O’Malley said.

  “Do you think the fact that the victim was legally drunk had anything to do with her death?” Trish Valentine asked.

  “It may’ve been a factor,” the chief said. “The witness who saw her leave stated that she was leaning heavily on her companion.”

  “What happened to her car?” asked the man holding a Channel 7 microphone. “Was she driving that night?”

  “She was not driving,” Chief O’Malley replied. “She lived in an apartment downtown and walked to both the dance and the party in O’Halloran’s. Her car was found in her designated space in the building’s parking ramp.”

  The chief answered a couple more questions, and when no more queries were forthcoming he said, “Oh, there is one more thing. The victim was approximately three months pregnant.”

  Well, didn’t that start the questions and answers flying? No, the police didn’t know who the father was. Yes, the fetus’s DNA would be analyzed. No, neither the victim’s parents nor any of her friends who police had questioned knew who she’d been seeing. Yes, the police were calling for the father to come forward voluntarily.

  When the hubbub had ended and Al and I were back on the sidewalk, where the temperature was a balmy five below, I saw a woman ahead of us wearing a long lavender coat and a fashionable red cap. “Kitty!” I yelled.

  Kitty Catalano stopped and turned around. “Oh, hi,” she said. She forced a smile and offered each of us a black-gloved hand for shaking.

  “Thanks for the phone call,” I said. “I planned to get back to you later. Were you at the autopsy report?”

  “Yes, I was,” she said. “We’re all terribly interested in finding out anything we can about poor Lee-Ann. Isn’t it awful that she was pregnant?”

  “It is,” I said. “Two lives wasted instead of one. I don’t suppose you have any idea who she might have been seeing?”

  “None. Like I told you, I really didn’t know her all that well. Apparently Toni and Esperanza weren’t able to help the police, either, and I think they were her two best friends in the world.”

  “Can you think of anybody else she was close to?”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know. Maybe Hillary Howard. She’s another Klondike Kate.”

  “Could you have her call me?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Kitty said. “A bunch of us are having lunch to discuss what we can do for Lee-Ann’s family. I’ll talk to Hillary then, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. There went the prospect of brightening my day by lunching with a beautiful woman.

  Oh, well, I thought, things could be worse. And I’d no sooner sat down at my desk than they got worse. The phone rang, I answered and the doleful voice said, “This is Morrie.”

  Every newspaper has a timewaster like Morrie, who called to talk nonsense when a reporter was digging into something important. Our Morrie was a dumpy, disheveled, middle-aged man who walked around downtown with a little shaggy white dog on a leash. Usually he phoned to complain about the Russians watching him on radar. Sometimes the calls were about someone named Robinson, who Morrie claimed was trying to kill him. For some reason, the little kook usually asked for me.

  This call had to do with Robinson. “If you put something in the paper, Robinson would be scared and leave me alone,” Morrie said.

  “Get a pencil and paper, I know just the person you need to talk to,” I said, flipping through the scribbl
ed scraps of paper on my desk. “Call this number.” I gave him the number and extension of the Minneapolis Enquirer Capitol Bureau. Let John Robertson, Jr., deal with the Robinson dilemma.

  It was mid-afternoon when Hillary Howard called. Dave Jerome, our editorial cartoonist, was sitting on that tiny uncluttered area at one corner of my desk telling me about his morning conversation with Sean Fitzpatrick when I got the call.

  “It’s a good thing that Al was the one carrying the gun,” Dave said. “If that redneck bastard had come in with a gun in his hand I’d have been under the drawing table having a heart attack.”

  “I got the impression that Sean didn’t care much for your cartoon,” I said.

  “Some people don’t understand that cartoonists exaggerate things for effect. And gun nuts in particular don’t have any sense of humor.”

  “Sean certainly didn’t get a bang out of your AK-47.”

  “I’m just glad his little show-and-tell gun wasn’t loaded or he might have shot off more than his mouth.” When my phone rang, Dave waved goodbye and slid off the desk.

  Like all of the women chosen to be Klondike Kate, Hillary had a strong voice. It was so strong, in fact, that I was obliged to hold the receiver an inch away from my ear when she spoke. We exchanged greetings, and I expressed my sympathy for the loss of her friend before I asked Hillary if she had any knowledge of Lee-Ann’s love life.

  “I knew Lee was seeing some guy she really liked,” Hillary said. “But she never mentioned his name.”

  “Did she tell you anything about him?” I asked.

  “Not much. He must have been pretty good in bed because she was always full of piss and vinegar after she’d been with him. She never actually said it, but I got the impression that the reason their relationship was such a big secret was because the guy was married.”

  “Did you know she was pregnant?”

  “No. I don’t think anybody did.”

  “Not even the boyfriend?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she told him and he decided to kill her.”

  “That’s possible,” I said. “It wouldn’t be the first time a married man knocked off a knocked-up mistress.”