A Killing Fair (17 page)

 

Chapter 24: Starting Over

I
t's one thing to suspect a man of murder and quite another to prove his guilt, as was demonstrated the next morning by the subject of one of my sure-thing accusations.

Because Friday was this week's day off, I was eating a leisurely breakfast at home when Don O'Rourke called. “You had a visitor here this morning,” he said. “I'd suggest staying indoors today.”

“Anybody I know?” I said.

“Fellow by the name of Louie Luciano. Says he got out of jail this morning, and he's got a present for you that he needs to deliver in person.”

“He promised to give me a broken skull if he got out.”

“He's big enough and pissed off enough to provide one. I tried to cool him down and get an interview on his release but he barreled off looking for you. Like I said, you'd be smart to stay off the street today.”

“You didn't tell him where I live?”

“I was tempted, the way you embarrassed the paper by all but convicting him in your story, but I didn't want to be an accessory to murder like your new friend Grubby Grimes.” Don said.

“You're all heart,” I said. “I'll try to return the favor by producing the real killer.”

“Maybe you should let the cops do that. They seem to be a step ahead of you on this one.”

That hurt. “As a presidential candidate once said, this is a marathon, not a sprint. We'll see who's ahead when the final arrest is made.”

“As I remember it, that candidate came in a distant second in his race, so you'd better pick up your step the rest of your race. Another fiasco like this one and you'll spend the rest of your career writing weather reports and the garden news.” My ear drum reverberated from the force with which he put the phone down. Don rarely displayed his displeasure with such vehemence. I suspected he had heard from the publisher.

Great. Now I had an unsolved murder to write about, a venge­ful former suspect to dodge and an unhappy boss to win back. I picked up the cup of hot coffee I'd set down when I an­swered the phone and took a sip. It had cooled to room temperature.

I almost gagged as I swallowed the lukewarm liquid. I put the cup into the microwave and hit the one-minute button. While the machine was exciting the coffee molecules and sending them to a higher temperature I booted up my laptop. When the microwave went “ding,” I took out the coffee and opened the folder on the Vinnie Luciano murder. I always copy the files from important ongoing stories into my laptop, both as backup and for use away from my desk.

Okay, it was my day off, and I should be enjoying myself. But I'd been warned to stay off the street, so what was I going to do cooped up at home? Watch daytime TV? I'd rather have Louie Luciano break my skull than sit through Family Feud. Might as well use the time to read through the case file and see where the review would lead me.

It led me back to Vito Luciano, the inheritor of King Vinnie's Steakhouse. Vito had denied being at the fair the day of the murder, but he hadn't offered any information as to where he was and who, if anyone, could vouch for his location. He had also denied having had recent contact with the chemist who was his partner in the horse doping case, but the denial hadn't convinced me.

I had not asked to talk to the chemist when I located him at 3M. Maybe now was the time. But how could I do it? What would be my excuse for calling? And what would I say? How about, “Hi, Dr. Lymanski, did you give Vito Luciano a package of strychnine?” No, somehow that didn't seem to be a viable opening line.

I needed to know more about Dr. Philip Lymanski before I called. So I did what any grizzled veteran reporter would do. I Googled him.

There were more than two dozen hits, going all the way back to newspaper reports of the horse doping charge and dismissal of same. I started with those and worked my way forward through a string of postings from scientific publications. These included both articles about his work and articles written by him. I got the impression he was widely known in the field of chemistry for his research and his writing.

The most recent posting was only a week old. It was from a biweekly chemical journal with national circulation. I actually let out a whoop when I read it.

Dr. Lymanski was scheduled to receive an award for a recent research discovery at an upcoming conference at the University of Minnesota. This award was to be presented at a dinner on October 1, just eight days in the future. The article also gave a brief description of Dr. Lymanski's procedure and the results. Although I got an “A” in chemistry way back in my freshman year of college, I didn't understand a word.

No matter. This was the perfect opening. I would call the honored chemist for a story about his award, and somehow work my way into a question about his current relationship with Vito Luciano. I would call him now.

I found the phone number in my file. I punched it in and was transferred to Dr. Lymanski's extension. It was answered by the same woman as before and I asked to speak to Dr. Lymanski.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Dr. Lymanski is not available.”

“Will he be available later today?” I said.

“No, sir. Dr. Lymanski is attending a conference in Michigan.”

Good grief, did this man have a conference every weekend? “When will he be back in his office?”

“I expect him on Monday. May I take a message?”

I gave her my name and number and told her why I was calling him.

“In all honesty, I doubt he'll return your call,” she said. “He never speaks to the non-scientific press.”

“Not even his local paper?”

“Especially his local paper. He's afraid of being misquoted or misinterpreted. He's had some difficulty in the past.”

“Does this go back to the incident at the race track?”

“I think I've said enough,” she said. “I'll give him your message but I doubt you'll hear from him.”

“If I don't, I'll call back,” I said.

“Good luck, Mr. Mitchell. Have a nice day.”

 

* * *

 

I was almost out the door of my apartment Saturday morning when the phone rang and I was told that Augie Augustine had called in sick. This time the caller was Eddie Gambrell, who took over as city editor on Saturday. Eddie did not sound as sympathetic toward the ailing police reporter as Don O'Rourke, but I kept my thoughts about Augie to myself and went to the police station.

“You're turning into a regular here,” the desk sergeant said as I walked in.

“Augie seems to have a chronic problem,” I said.

“Augie's problem comes in a bottle. The paper should send him up to Hazelden for some rehab.”

“The paper can't send him unless he's willing to go.”

“Pretty soon he's going to be sick on more than just weekends if he doesn't get some help. Then maybe the paper will find a way to persuade him.”

“I'm familiar with the process,” I said. “I'm an alcoholic.”

“Then you know what I'm talking about,” the sergeant said. “Augie's fucking up his career.”

I expressed my agreement and went to check the overnight reports. The best one involved a man who called police because a woman locked him out of his own apartment, but punched an officer shortly after the two-man squad arrived. The report said the caller became “visibly upset” while the officers were discussing how to resolve the situation.

“He clenched his fists and charged at us,” the reporting officer wrote. “We grabbed him as he threw a punch.” The punch hit one officer in the face. The same officer's motorcycle boots were ruined in the ensuing scuffle as both officers wrestled the man to the floor where he continued to struggle and kick. As I've said before, you can't make this stuff up.

I wrote that story and half a dozen additional shorts, e-mailed them to the city desk and sat back to think about what I would say on Monday. I absolutely had to talk to Dr. Philip Lymanski, no matter how he felt about the non-scientific press. My problem was twofold: how to persuade him to do the interview and how to slip in a question about Vito Luciano.

 

* * *

 

Don O'Rourke agreed that I should talk to Dr. Philip Lymanski when I broached the subject Monday morning. Seeing no need to remind Don of the connection between Dr. Lymanski and Vito Luciano, I pitched the interview solely as a story about a local chemist's winning of a prestigious award.

However, Don's memory for names and events was infallible. “Isn't Lymanski the chemist mixed up in a horse doping charge a few years ago?” he said.

“He is,” I said. “The charge was dropped.”

“Wasn't Vito Luciano the other guy charged?”

“He was.”

“Is there any chance your interest in Lymanski goes beyond the scientific award story at hand?”

“Vito told me there hasn't been any contact between them since then. I might try to verify that, but I'll wait until the end of the interview.”

“Don't get us into any more trouble,” Don said. “Louie Luciano was raving about a libel suit while he was cussing you out last Friday.”

As Dr. Lymanski's secretary had predicted, he did not call me that morning. I waited until 2:30 p.m. to call his office again. The secretary said she had given him my message, but it was in a pile with many others.

“May I speak to him now?” I asked.

“He's on another line,” she said. “And he hates to be inter­rupted.”

“I'm willing to hold.”

“Okay, but I'll cut you off if he hasn't picked up in ten minutes.”

Just after the nine-minute mark a male voice said, “Dr. Lymanski.”

“Hello, doctor,” I said. “This is Warren Mitchell from the Daily Dispatch. We'd like to do a story about the prestigious award you're receiving Saturday.”

“Why the sudden interest in me?”

“You're receiving a very newsworthy honor.”

There was a moment of silence before he said, “I've seen your byline. Don't you do mainly crime stories?”

“I'm an investigative reporter. I do a wide variety of stories.”

“How'd you get picked to call me about this one?”

“I guess I'm the only one here who ever took chemistry in college.”

“So you're familiar with chemical terms?”

“More than most reporters,” I said. This wasn't a lie. Every­thing is relative and I was reasonably certain that nobody else in the newsroom knew more about chemistry than I did.

“How'd you find out about the award?”

I told him I'd read about it in the scientific journal.

“You read that paper?”

“I check a lot of publications for news about prominent local people.”

Another silence. Then he said, “Do you want to do this on the phone?”

“I'd rather talk to you in person if possible.” I hoped I wasn't stretching my luck.

Yet another silence. “Be at my office at 7:30 tomorrow morning. I'll give you half an hour before I start my work day.”

I almost whooped again. “Would it be all right to bring a photographer?” I asked and held my breath.

“Be sure you're both on time,” Dr. Lymanski said. “Now good afternoon to you.”

I really did whoop as soon as the phone was out of my hand.

Corinne Ramey jumped four inches off her chair. “Did you finally score with that stonewall cop?” she asked when she came back down.

“No, but I have a date with a nationally-known chemist,” I said.

“I hope the chemistry is good.”

“It's not that kind of date. The chemist is a man.”

“Now days you never know,” Corinne said.

 

Chapter 25: Manipulation

H
ow the hell are you going to move from asking this bird about his chemistry award to finding out about his contact with cousin Vito?” Al asked as we pulled into the 3M Company parking lot at 7:15 Tuesday morning.

“I'm going to use his dislike of the non-scientific press to make the connection,” I said. “By alluding to what he considers poor treatment by the press in the horse doping case, I might be able to slip Vito's name into the interview. It's called manipulation.”

“Well, good luck with that. I might get a shot of him manipu­lating you right out the door on the end of his foot.”

“He didn't sound like a violent man,” I said.

Nor did he look like a violent man when he greeted us at the reception desk at 7:30 on the dot. Dr. Philip Lymanski was short of stature, sparse of hair and broad of belly—definitely not the physically abusive type. He wore a dark-gray pin-striped suit, a white button-down-collar shirt and a plain pale-blue tie. If you looked up the word “bland” in an illustrated dictionary, Dr. Lymanski's photo would be there.

He led us down a long hall to his office, which was devoid of anything personal. The décor on the walls consisted entirely of framed diplomas and award documents. No photos of family or works of art. The carpet was beige, his desktop was devoid of clutter, and the chairs he invited us to sit on were only a shade darker beige than the rug. More shades of bland.

“So, you scan the scientific press for story ideas,” Dr. Lymanski said after he settled himself behind his desk, which held little more than a blotter and a calendar. It could have just been delivered from the factory.

“We look everywhere for news,” I said with what was meant to be a disarming smile. “You never know where you might find something local, like the story about your award.” Dr. Lymanski nodded but did not return the smile.

I started the interview by asking him to tell me about the research that led to the award, hoping he would get rolling and I wouldn't have to ask any questions that would reveal the true state of my knowledge of chemistry. Luckily he was a free-wheeling talker once he got started, and I wasn't forced to prompt him. His discovery had something to do with particles several sizes smaller than atoms and required a symbolic explanation on the chalk board. I copied the equations and reactions, and wondered if I'd be able to decipher my notes when I began to write the story.

When Dr. Lymanski wound down, I said, “This is a fascinat­ing story and you seem suitably proud of your research and this award. I'm surprised the local media weren't notified by the institute sponsoring the award.”

“I asked them not to send out any local publicity,” he said. “I don't like dealing with the Twin Cities press.”

“Have you had a bad experience with the Twin Cities press?” I asked with what I hoped was an air of innocence.

“Several years ago I was falsely accused of a crime and the papers and TV played it up as though I was a major gangster. The case was blown a thousand miles out of proportion. I'm sure every asshole reporter, pardon my French, who covered the case was in a state of depression for weeks after all the charges were dropped.”

“That must have been before I started at the Daily Dispatch. Anyway, I don't remember your name being connected with a court case. What did it involve?”

“Nothing that has anything to do with my current work,” he said. “And as I told you, the charges were dropped because we were innocent.”

“We? Someone else was involved with you?”

“A friend.”

“Another 3M scientist?”

“No, just a friend.”

“Is he still a friend?”

“It doesn't matter. Our occasional get-togethers have nothing to do with my work or this story, so let's not discuss old dead issues. At any rate, Mr. Mitchell, I believe our time is up. Nice meeting you—and you, too, Mr. Jeffrey. I'll be looking forward to the story and hoping you got my good side with the camera.”

“Should be in tomorrow or the next day,” I said. “And don't worry about the photos. Al always gets the best side of his subjects.”

As we left the building, Al said, “You're as slippery as a greased pig skating on an icy sidewalk.”

“The best laid schemes o' mice and men don't always gang a-gley,” I said. “And sometimes we asshole reporters catch asshole citizens like Vito Luciano in a lie.”

“Our reluctant researcher certainly had some lousy chemistry with the press.”

“You might say he had a bad reaction.”

“That seems elementary. But where does all this leave us with Vito?”

“It leaves us needing to challenge him on his lie about having no recent contact with his partner in alleged chemical crime. I need to ask him exactly where he was and what he was doing the day his cousin swallowed the strychnine.”

“You don't think your pal at the Falcon Heights PD has done that?”

“If she has she hasn't shared it.”

“So you're going after Vito when we get back to the office.”

“That's my first phone call of the day.”

“Lucky you. I'd rather have a root canal than talk to Vito again.”

“Don't say that. I might be needing some dental work after I call him a liar.”

 

* * *

 

Ozzie Bergman, the bartender, answered the phone at King Vinnie's Steakhouse. He said Vito was in his office but wasn't taking any calls. “Don't bother to leave a message,” Ozzie said. “He ain't returnin' any calls neither.”

“Either,” I said, automatically correcting Ozzie's grammatical faux pas.

“Huh?” he said.

“Nothing. Just a knee-jerk reaction. I'll ask Vito my questions in person later on. Will he be around all day?”

“He's generally here till closing, but he don't hang around half the night like Vinnie did.”

I started to say “doesn't” but caught myself and instead said, “See you this afternoon.”

“Cheers,” Ozzie said. “Maybe he'll buy you a drink.”

“Maybe he won't,” I said after hanging up. “Not after I ask him what I'm going to ask him.”

“You're talking to yourself again,” Corinne Ramey said. “You must have been calling the Falcon Heights PD.”

“No, but that's next. Better get ready to cover your ears when you see me put the phone down.”

“Better yet,” she said. “I'm going out to interview an old coot who drove into a house on the East Side.”

“We're doing interviews with old coots hitting houses now?”

“It was the fire chief's house. And he crushed the stuffed bear that was standing on its hind legs in the chief's den.”

“Good grief. Does the chief hunt bear?”

“How are you spelling that?”

“Get out of here,” I said, picking up the phone. Corinne jumped up and double-timed it to the elevator.

To my surprise, KGB was available to take my call. Not surprisingly, she made very little information available.

“Are you following any new leads?” I asked.

“We are still questioning Mr. Grimes,” she said. “We set up a lineup for his viewing and he exonerated Mr. Louis Luciano, who some people were quite certain perpetrated the crime.”

“Hey, I just asked some questions and wrote a story based on the answers. You were the ones who went out and arrested him.”

“You're right. Hopefully we have learned from our mistake and we won't arrest anyone on purely circumstantial evidence again. Will you do the same with your reporting?”

Ouch! “I always try to be careful,” I said. “In this case I followed up a lead from another family member who convinced me that Louie was the killer.”

“Would that be the victim's cousin Vito?” KGB asked.

“The one and only. What do you think of him as a suspect?”

“We aren't discussing any further suspects at this time. We'll admit that Vito did have a strong motive.”

“And the opportunity. Do you know where he was at the time of the murder?”

“We're not revealing any information about further persons of interest at this time.”

“So Vito is a person of interest?”

“We can't respond to that at this time. By the way, we hear that Louie Luciano is looking for you. Have nice day, Mr. Mitchell.”

The phone went dead and my computer monitor came alive with its chirpy “You've got mail” message.

I opened the message. “We need to talk,” it said. It was signed “Willow.”

I opened reply, typed, “No, we don't,” and clicked send.

 

* * *

 

By mid-afternoon I had finished the story about Dr. Lymanski's research discovery and the upcoming award ceremony, along with a couple of minor pieces that required only a phone call each. Don O'Rourke left for the day at three o'clock, and I checked out at 3:05 after telling Fred Donlin, the night city editor, that I was going out on an interview and wouldn't be back until the next day. I was still trying to decide how to approach Vito Luciano as I parked in the lot at King Vinnie's Steakhouse.

I was greeted at the entrance to the dining room by Max Triviano, the manager, which never would have happened with Vinnie in charge. Vinnie's number one priority as owner of the restaurant was schmoozing his customers. His philosophy was that the office work would still be there to be dealt with after the paying guests were gone and the doors were locked, whether it be after hours or early morning. In fact, most of the bookwork had been left to Max, who was better as a back-office bean counter than as a front-door glad hander.

When I asked to see Vito, Max waved toward the hallway in the back and said, “You can knock but I don't guarantee he'll answer. Vito's nothing like Vinnie, may he rest in peace.”

“Don't I know it,” I said.

I walked back and rapped on the office door. Hearing no response, I rapped louder. This time a voice inside said, “Who's it?”

“Mitch from the Daily Dispatch,” I said.

“What the hell do you want?”

“To talk to you. I just interviewed and wrote a story about a good buddy of yours.”

“I ain't got any good buddies.”

“How about we discuss it without the door between us?” I said.

“Oh, for Chris' sake come in,” said Vito.

I did. He was tilted back in a beat-up leather swivel chair behind a desk that was the exact opposite of Dr. Philip Lymanski's sterile workspace. Sheets of paper, magazines, file folders, news­papers, and ledger books were heaped in sloppy piles all across the surface. It was a close call, but I made the grudging concession that Vito's desk was even more of a jungle than my own.

I picked a stack of old newspapers off a chair in front of the desk, dropped the papers on the floor, and sat down.

“So, what phony baloney is claimin' to be a good buddy of mine?” Vito said.

“Dr. Philip Lymanski,” I said. “And he seems to be the real thing.”

Vito sat up straight and put his arms on the desk. “What the hell were you talkin' to him about?”

“He's famous in the world of chemistry. He's getting a big deal award at the ‘U' this weekend. I thought you'd be there to clap when he was introduced. I'm hoping you'll make a comment for my story.” No reason to tell him the story was finished and probably already set in a page of the morning paper.

“Why would I be there?” Vito said. “I told you I ain't seen Lymanski since the, uh, the incident.”

“Lymanski says otherwise. He says you two get together occasionally.”

“You asked him that?”

“In a roundabout way.”

“You're a sneaky son of a bitch, did you know that?”

“I've been called worse things than that,” I said.

“You are worse than that,” he said. “You're a snoopy pain in the ass who never gives a guy a minute's peace. Now that Louie's off the hook I suppose you're back to hopin' you can prove I killed Vinnie. You probably asked Phil if he mixed up the poison for me to put on Vinnie's goddamn fool piece of garbage on a stick.”

“What if I told you that I did and he said yes.”

“I'd know you were a lyin' little creep in addition to bein' all them other things I just said.”

“Those other things,” I said.

“What did you say?”

“I corrected your grammar without thinking. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, my god, you come in here accusin' me of murderin' my cousin and you're worried about my fuckin' grammar?”

“It's a habit with me. Knee-jerk response you could call it. Sometimes I just can't control it.”

“Well, I can't control the urge to throw out of this office without takin' the time to open the door, so you'd better get your ass out of here before I come around this desk and grab you by your suspicious little throat.”

I stood up. “Where were you and who were you with the day that Vinnie died?”

“Get the hell out of my sight.” Vito started around the desk and I accepted the invitation to vanish. I closed the door behind me to slow Vito down in case he was following and walked full speed back into the dining room.

Louie Luciano was standing at the bar.