Fred Limberg - First Murder

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.