Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (24 page)

Jo stood up, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair. “Guess
it’s time to pick up Mazlo.”

Turners Bend

March

C
HIP HAD NEVER BEEN THE
adventuresome
type. He was not obsessed with speed like some men he knew. No power boating,
no motorcycling, no car racing. Extreme sports were not in his vocabulary. In
Acapulco, while others were scuba diving or parasailing or diving off of high
cliffs, he was poolside with a margarita in hand. He hadn’t tried rock wall
climbing, much less mountain climbing. His one brush with speed had landed him
in the ditch and Runt in the hospital. The risks he had taken in the past were
mainly at the roulette table or unknowingly at the altar.

Yet,
here he was, roaring along a trail on the back of a powerful snowmobile in the
dead of night in bitter cold weather, and he loved it. He was urging Iver to go
faster. “Open it up and see what this baby can do,” he said, his voice being
lost in the roar of the powerful engine and the rush of wind.

Jane
had not been pleased. As she hunted up long underwear and prepared a thermos of
hot chocolate, she berated him with names such as “lunatic” and “fool.”

“Be
sure to take your cell phone in case something happens,” she said.

“What
could happen?”

“If
you have to ask, you shouldn’t be going at all. You have no idea how dangerous
it can be. Did Iver tell you how he wrapped his sled around a tree a few years
ago? Sheesh, men.” She stuffed hand warmer packets into the pockets of the
snowmobile suit.

***

The
night was crystal clear and perfectly still. The light from the full moon cast
shadows around the jack pines and birch trees and gave the snow a bluish tint.
Chip looked up and identified Orion’s belt and Canis Major and Minor, Orion’s
hunting dogs. Sirius, the nose of one of the dogs, was brilliant…shimmering.

It
was about 10:30 p.m. when they arrived at the site Iver picked for viewing Rod
Mueller’s place. There was a break in the trees, and they had a clear view from
above the house and snow-covered fields. Light from the windows formed pools in
the snow around Mueller’s house. There was no sight of the SWAT team, no action
on County Road 17.

“What
if it’s not tonight? We don’t know for sure,” Chip asked Iver, as they perched
on the sled, visors up and steam from cups of hot chocolate warming their
faces.

“I
could be wrong, but I don’t think so,” Iver said pointing to a line of armored
vehicles slowing moving into sight. “Show time.” He stowed the thermos and took
out a pair of binoculars.

Passing
the binoculars back and forth between each other, they watched the vehicles
line up outside Mueller’s gate and assault rifles and battering rams being
unloaded. Chip spotted a small figure he guessed must be Agent Masterson. She
held a megaphone. Miraculously the sound echoed through the still night air and
they could catch her words.

“Mr.
Mueller. This is the FBI. We have a warrant to search your premises. Please
exit immediately.”

After
a few moments, she repeated her statement and added a warning. “If you don’t
come out peacefully, we will make a forced entry.”

The
tinkling of breaking glass pierced the air. Gunfire sounded from the house, and
Chip and Iver saw sprays of snow fly up as each bullet landed across the yard
in front of the house. The SWAT team moved into place and advanced behind
battering rams. From their vantage point on the hill, the scene looked like toy
medieval warriors marching into battle.

Iver
passed the binoculars to Chip and gestured to a figure moving from the rear of
house, zigzagging from tree to tree, heading for a shed. Within seconds they
heard an engine start up and watched an ATV head out of the shed in their
direction.

Then
it veered off to the left.

“He’s
heading toward the bike trail that leads to the trestle over the Des Moines
River. Hop on,” yelled Iver.

They
left the trail and headed downhill, dodging trees and throwing up snow on
either side of the sled. Momentarily they seemed stalled in a low spot but Iver
gunned the engine and soared out, almost tossing Chip off the sled in the
process. They were closing in on the ATV when the rider turned his head and
spotting them. He threw an object that looked like a duffle or backpack into a
wooded area. Swerving to avoid a guardrail along a steep drop-off, the ATV
flipped onto its side, the two wheels in the air still spinning.

Iver
pulled up alongside the overturned vehicle. With the engine idling both he and
Chip jumped off the sled and approached the rider who was screaming in pain.
“My leg, my leg.”

Chip
grabbed a flashlight from the storage compartment on the sled and turned the
beam on the man, as Iver put his shoulder to the ATV and turned it upright. The
guy’s leg was twisted into an unnatural position and his femur was visible
through his flesh, blood spilled out, bright red, soaking into the snow like a
cherry snow cone. The man became silent.

“He
passed out, probably going into shock,” said Chip.

“Call
911, we need an EMT and back-up here. Hurry.”

Chip
fumbled in the pockets of his suit, where he found only the hand warmers. He
unzipped the top of the suit and reached the inside pocket where he located his
cell phone. As he dialed, Iver unfolded a Mylar emergency blanket and placed it
over the unconscious man. He pulled up the woolen ski mask that covered the
man’s face.

“Well,
I’ll be damned,” he said in a low voice. “It’s Hal Swanson.”

Head Shot

Minneapolis,
MN

Early
November

J
O SCHWANN DROVE TO
Mazlo’s
red-brick mansion. Both passengers, Frisco and his new partner, Riley Simmons, were
silent. A pair of St. Paul’s police officers followed in a cruiser as back-up.
Jo could feel the adrenaline course through her body as she parked in the
driveway. This was an arrest a long time in coming.

Jo saw the curtains shift in the bay window as she
walked up the brick walkway. She caught a glimpse of Candace Mazlo’s pale face
before the fabric fell back in place. Jo rang the doorbell. When there was no
answer, she called out, “Mrs. Mazlo. This is Special Agent Schwann. We need to
speak to your husband. Open up.”

The door flew open. Michael Mazlo’s wife stood in the
doorframe, her brows furrowed. “My husband is not here. What’s this all about?
He answered all your questions the other day….”
 

Frisco interrupted, “I’m afraid we can’t comment on
that right now. We need to speak to your husband. Where is he?”

She crossed her arms. “If you can’t tell me why you
are here, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She attempted
to close the door, but Jo shoved her leg in the opening, grunting when the
heavy wood banged into her leg.

 
Jo felt Frisco
shove past her, the warrant in his hands. “This search warrant says we have
every right to be here. Where is he?”

Candace Mazlo’s eyes widened in fear. “But I...I don’t
understand. What are you looking for?”

Frisco gave Jo a meaningful look and shrugged. Jo
turned to Candace. “We also have an arrest warrant for your husband. You need
to tell us where he is.”

The color drained from Candace’s face, and she
abruptly sat down on a bench in the foyer as if her legs could no longer
support her weight. She didn’t speak for several minutes. Looking down at her
feet, she murmured, “He’s been acting so odd lately….”

Candace looked up and Jo saw the stubborn set of her
jaw. “I’m not saying anything until I’ve spoken to my husband.”

Frisco scowled. “Suit yourself.” He turned to one of
the police officers and pointed to Candace. “Keep an eye on her. I’m sure we’ll
have questions for her later.”

Jo motioned for Riley and the other officer to begin
their search of the house. Jo went to the library where they had first met with
Michael Mazlo. She had been searching through the massive desk for several
minutes when Riley appeared at the doorway with Frisco at her side. “Special
Agent Schwann…you’re going to want to see this.”

She and Frisco followed Riley down the hallway and
descended the thickly carpeted steps at the end. Riley guided them through a
theater room, and indicated a brightly lit opening to the left of the movie
screen. “Almost missed the door, because it was hidden in the panels. I had to
force it open.”

Riley led them through the damaged doorway. Florescent
lights lit up a large workbench standing in the middle of the room.

Frisco breathed out, “My God.”

Jo scanned the small, stark room. Hundreds of
photographs covered the back wall, nameless men, women and children. Each had a
number neatly printed in the lower right corner. Her eyes were drawn to the
picture pinned on top of the others. She recognized the face of Claire Russell,
the young woman whose vigil notice she saw when they first met Mazlo.

Riley pointed to the enormous maps plastered on the
adjoining wall. There were maps of Minnesota, the Dakotas, the United States
and the world. Thousands of pins were pushed into various points on the maps,
with the highest concentration being centered around the Twin Cities. “What do
you think all those pins are for?”

Jo moved in to take a closer look. Her stomach lurched
when she saw tiny tags attached to the pins, each with a six-digit number and a
date. She backed up to scan the maps again. “I think these numbers correspond
to the victims, and the pins represent where they were sent.”

Frisco’s voice was hoarse when he said, “It’s a
goddamn sick inventory system.”

Jo turned toward the workbench. There was an empty
handgun case lying open on top of several sheets of paper. Once she moved the
case aside, Jo was shocked to see floor plans of various buildings, including
Mazlo’s office building and several at the University of Minnesota. As she
flipped through them, she saw the tunnel systems connecting the university’s
buildings had been highlighted with a marker. “Frisco, look at this. What do
you make of it?”

Looking over her shoulder, he shrugged his shoulders. “Looks
like escape routes to me. Maybe he knew we’d figure out his real business in
human trafficking and thought we’d go after him at work or the U.”

“Sounds plausible.” Tilting her head to indicate the
empty handgun case, she said, “We have to find Mazlo ASAP.”

Frisco nodded. “I’ll grab his wife.” He left and
returned a moment later with Candace Mazlo.

Jo pointed to the floor plans on the workbench. “Tell
us what those are for.”

Candace Mazlo’s shook her head. “I have no idea.” Her
eyes traveled up to the walls covered in photos. “What….what are those?”

“Your husband is wanted for murder and sex
trafficking,” Jo said. She walked over to the wall, and pulling on a glove, she
took down the picture of Claire Russell. She tossed the photo on top of the
floor plans in front of Candace. “That’s one of the women your husband
trafficked.”

Candace’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh, my God. This
doesn’t make sense. He’s just an ordinary businessman with an import/export
company….”

Frisco grabbed her arm. “You have to tell us where
your husband is. Now.” He nudged the photo away, and revealing the floor plans
beneath. “Is he at the university?”

Candace raised haunted eyes to his. She nodded. “He’s
speaking at a symposium in the Great Hall at Coffman Memorial Union.”

She paused and then in a voice barely above a whisper,
she said, “Wait; there’s something you should know.” Mazlo’s wife pulled a cell
phone out of her pocket and flicked through her text messages. She held up the
phone for Jo to read.
Why is the FBI
here with the police?

Tears filled Candace’s eyes. “I sent it before you
came inside. I’m sorry…I didn’t know.”

 
Frisco looked
at Jo and let out a puff of air. “He knows we’ve come to arrest him.”

She nodded. “He’ll be desperate enough to try anything
and he’s got a gun.” The nauseous feeling in Jo’s stomach had nothing to do
with morning sickness. “We’d better get down there fast. Call the campus police
and tell them to clear the lower levels of Coffman. Have them block the exits,
but tell them not to make any moves until we get there.”

The detective nodded, his face grim. “I’m on it.”

***

John took the elevator to the lower level of the student union,
his stomach grumbling. He hadn’t had a chance to eat before his interviews, and
truth be told, his nerves beforehand would have made food unpalatable. Now that
the meetings were over, he was famished.

As the elevator car passed the first floor, he heard shouting and
a loud bang. “What the hell…?”

The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival to his floor and he
stepped off. He heard a woman scream, “Officer down!”

He turned just as a slightly built man barreled into him. They
both fell onto the tile floor and the man sprawled on top of him. He felt something
hard dig into his side.

The man pushed off of him as he struggled to extricate himself. He
stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. He stammered, “You…you’re that doctor.”

John was startled. He tried to get up, but the man pushed him back
to the ground. “Hey! What gives….do I know you?”

“No, but I know you. You were in the papers. You’re the
neurosurgeon who saved Rick Wilson.”

The man got to his feet and John saw to his horror what had jabbed
him in the side when they fell. The man held a Glock pistol. He raised his arm,
pointing the gun at John’s chest. “You’re my ticket out of here.”

***

Jo drove through the convoluted streets of the
University of Minnesota, while Frisco made all the necessary phone calls at her
side. Since they would be arresting Mazlo on campus – which fell under the
joint jurisdiction of the Minneapolis Police Department and the University
Police - Jo asked Frisco to notify both departments as a courtesy. He sounded
irritated by the time he completed the second call.

Frisco sighed. “Both forces will be there for back-up.
This is turning into a multi-jurisdictional shit-show. Between us, and the
other two forces, we’re going to have a crowd.”

Jo took her eyes off the road for an instant. “Put
yourself in their place, Frisco. An arrest like this could go sideways,
especially with so many students around. Given Mazlo’s family history with the
law, we have to assume he’s not going quietly.”

“I hear you, but still…too many cooks, as the saying
goes.”

Jo nodded. “We’ll make it work.” She wished she felt
as confident as she sounded.

She double-parked at the student union building. As
they climbed out of the SUV, a Minneapolis PD squad car pulled in behind them.
Two officers stepped out and walked toward them. The tall one with a shaving
nick on his cheek introduced himself as Officer Keck and the other as Officer
Canton. He said, “Not often the feds are involved in campus matters.”

“We’re not sure what this guy has in mind. A criminal
like Mazlo will be dangerous and unpredictable on a crowded campus. Thanks for
joining us.” Jo threw Frisco a sidelong glance. When she walked past him a
moment later, he murmured, “Playing nice with others, I see.”

They climbed the steps and walked between the massive
columns. As they entered the main doors, a burly campus police officer lumbered
toward them. His face was pale and his voice sounded strangled when he said,
“We blocked the entrances to the Great Hall, just like you said. The suspect
came out and when one of my guys tried to stop him, he shot him. Jesus…he just
shot him in the face, in cold blood!”

Frisco clenched his fists. “Shit.”

Jo said, “Do you know where the suspect is now?”

The campus police officer nodded, his face grim. “He
ran off toward the bookstore.” He looked away for a moment. “We screwed up. We
cleared the lower levels, but didn’t shut down the elevators in time. Some guy
got off on the ground floor and Mazlo grabbed him. He’s holding him hostage in
the bookstore.”

Jo closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her temples to
relieve the pressure that had taken up residence there. The arrest of Mazlo was
rapidly spiraling downward and she needed to figure out a way to gain the upper
hand. She opened her eyes again. “Has he made any demands yet?”

The officer said, “No, and he said he’ll only speak to
you.”

“Is there another way downstairs?”

He pointed across the room. “There’s a staircase over
there.”

Jo turned to Frisco’s partner. “Riley, take Officer
Keck and Canton down the stairs and see if you can see anything.” She hesitated
for a moment, and then added, “But for God’s sake, don’t let him see you.”

Riley nodded and dashed across the room, the two
officers at her heels. Jo watched them disappear down the stairwell.

Next, she turned to the campus police officer. “You
need to clear the rest of the building of all non-essential people.” The man
nodded and reached for his shoulder-mounted radio, calling for additional help.

Frisco said, “What do you want me to do?”

“You and I are going down the escalator.” They swiftly
moved through the deserted study lounge and stepped onto the down escalator,
guns drawn.

She could feel her heart thump in her chest. Hostage
situations were always unpredictable at best, with emotions running high. Mazlo
would be desperate now, and feeling cornered. She had to figure out a way to
defuse the situation and fast. The life of his hostage depended on it.

Crouching down at the base of the moving steps, Jo
came to an abrupt halt in front of the college bookstore. Her head swam, trying
to wrap itself around the vision in front of her.

Standing in front of a display of gold and maroon
University of Minnesota clothing was Michael Mazlo, holding a gun to John’s
head.