Read Flinch Factor, The Online
Authors: Michael Kahn
In addition to his seat on the Cloverdale city council, Milt Bornstein was a professor of journalism at one of the local community colleges. The information posted on his faculty web page stated that he had office hours every Thursday morning from 10:30 to noon. I drove over to the college after a morning court hearing and arrived about 11:30. His office door was closed. I could hear muffled sounds of conversation inside.
According to the bumper stickers and other detritus affixed to his office door, Professor Bornstein was a card-carrying member of the ACLU and PETA, a fan of
NewYorker
cartoonist Roz Chast, a lover of vegans and organic produce, a hater of SUVs and Wal-Mart, a big fan of U2, and a bigger fan of Bono. His door, in short, suggested that its owner could risk great physical harm at a cocktail party if he ran into Benny Goldberg.
I knew one key fact about Milt Bornstein beyond the contents of his doorâa fact that added a touch of irony to his office hours, which followed a class he taught in ethics. I'd learned that fact at the Cloverdale city hall during the two hours I'd spent yesterday afternoon searching the city's building records. The only building permit issued to Corundum Construction over the past five years was for the construction of an in-ground swimming pool at 1220 Columbia Avenue. The building permit had been issued almost two months to the day before the final vote of the Cloverdale city council in favor of the Brittany Woods TIF project. One of the four yes votes on that motion was also one of the owners of the home at 1220 Columbia Avenue. According to the title records, those owners were Dr. and Mrs. Milton S. Bornstein.
I took a seat in the chair against the wall next to the closed door. Across the hall was a large window with a southern exposure that looked out on a sight not visible in St. Louis for almost four days: the sun. The rain finally ended sometime last night after midnight. Yadi and I had headed out this morning on our three-mile jog under a welcome blue sky.
The door to Bornstein's office opened.
“Next Friday will be fine,” he was saying from inside.
An Asian-American woman was backing out of the office, her hand on the door. She had a backpack slung over her right shoulder.
“Thank you, Professor.”
A male voice from inside said, “Just email me the outline by Monday.”
“I will do that, sir. Thank you.”
“No problema.”
She nodded at me and then walked quickly down the hallway.
I stood and moved over to the doorway. Milt Bornstein was seated behind his cluttered desk, jotting something onto a yellow legal pad. I knocked against the door.
“Come in,” he said without looking up.
He was still writing as I took the seat facing the desk. He was bent over the legal pad, giving me an unobstructed view of his bald head. He wore a blue chambray shirt rolled up to his elbows and a red and blue striped bowtie. On the wall behind him were three framed posters: Che Guevera in his beret, Bob Marley in his dreadlocks, and the advertising poster for
All the President's Men
âthe one with the young Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford in sports coats and loosened ties staring into the distance below the tagline
The Most Devastating Detective Story of this Century
.
“Yes?” Bornstein said, raising his head. His eyebrows arched in surprise. “Miss Gold?”
“Professor.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Are we allowed to do that? I mean, didn't you sue us?”
“That case is over. It's been settled and dismissed.”
He nodded and scratched his neck. Milt Bornstein was a skinny, fidgety man in his late forties with a high bald forehead, long ears, and big brown eyes. He had a sharp nose, thin lips and an almost scrawny neck.
He said, “Your clients must be delighted.”
“They are.”
He shrugged. “Life marches on, Counselor. We on the city council shall seek other means to grow our city's future.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “So what is it we need to discuss?”
“Corundum Construction Company.”
His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Who do you know there?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Who did you deal with?”
“What makes you think I deal with anyone atâ¦what's that company name again?”
“Corundum.”
He frowned. “Corundum? Who are they?”
“The company that's building your pool.”
“Oh, yes. That Corundum. Yes. Of course. Who did I deal with?”
“That's my question.”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.
“Tell me, Miss Gold, why is that of any interest to you?”
“That's confidential.”
“Oh, really.” He gave a cold smile. “Then I'm afraid that my contact information is confidential.”
“Perhaps not for long.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Are they still going to build your pool?”
“Why wouldn't they?”
“The TIF fell through.”
He leaned forward in his chair and glared at me, his nostrils flared. “What exactly are you trying to imply, Miss Gold?”
I gazed back. “Come on, Milt. You know exactly what I am implying.”
“I am deeply offended. This meeting is over.” He stood. “Please get out here.”
“Not yet.”
“Go.”
I gazed up at him. “Sit down.”
“What?”
“Sit down, Milt. I'm not done.”
He stared at me, eyes blinking. After a moment, he took a seat and started strumming his fingernails against the desktop at a staccato pace.
“This is an absolute outrage,” he said.
“Relax, Milt. I'm not an investigative reporter.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I'm not here today to expose you and your sordid little deal. I'm not here to dig up dirt.”
He drummed his fingers as he stared at me.“How am I supposed to know that's true?”
“Because I say it is.”
He snorted. “And that's supposed to make me feel better?”
“Frankly, Milt, I don't care how it makes you feel. I'm looking for some specific information about Corundum Construction Company that you should have. My suggestion is that you talk to me.”
“Why should I talk to you?”
“Because what I care about is a lot different than what a cop or an FBI agent will care about. Okay?”
He was rapping his fingernails against the desktop, his lips pursed, staring at his desktop.
He looked up and met my gaze. “What is it you care about?”
“A death.”
His eyes widened. “Someone was killed?”
“I didn't say killed, Milt. Just a death. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it wasn't.”
“Who?”
“That's not your concern.”
“I don't know anything about a death.”
“I didn't say you did, Milt.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Some information about your contractor. For reasons that you understand better than I do, Corundum Construction Company is a secretive organization. It appears to be a shell corporation that has done a careful job of concealing its owners from the public. I'm here for their names. I want to know who you dealt with.”
“Why?”
“Because one of those people will have information about that death.”
“What kind of information?”
“That's not your concern, Milt.”
“I don't understand.”
“You don't need to understand. All you need to do is give me the names of the people associated with Corundum that you dealt with.”
“And if I don't?”
I shrugged. “To paraphrase Bette Davis in
All About Eve
, âFasten your seatbelt, Milt, it's going to be a bumpy ride.”
“Are you threatening me?”
I stared at him. “Yes.”
He lowered his eyes.
“Well?” I said.
“I need to think this over.”
I took out a business card and slid it across the desk toward him. “You have twenty-four hours.”
“And then what?”
I stood and gazed down at him.
“And then this is no longer a private conversation.” I checked my watch. “Noon tomorrow. I'll look forward to your call.”
I turned and walked out.
Back in the office that afternoon I returned to my list of sixteen St. Louis law firms with offices in more than one city. The first day I'd tracked down the document ID number in the databases of five of those firms and came up 0 for five. I'd hoped to finish the list yesterday but had only been able to reach lawyers at two more firms, which left nine.
Next on the list was Beckman & Boyce, a 100-lawyer St. Louis firm with smaller Missouri offices in Kansas City, Jefferson City, and Springfield. I knew several lawyers at the firm, including Rob Crane and his litigation entourage, but considered only one of themâa young trusts-and-estates partner named Roberta Bronsonâa friend. We served together on the board of a local arts organization.
I dialed her number. She answered. After some small talk, I shifted to the point of the call. Since she was a trusts-and-estates partner, I described the mystery document as a power of attorney.
“No names?” she said.
“They've been redacted. But there is a document ID at the bottom of the page. It looks like a St. Louis document. I'm hoping it's yours.”
“Let's check. What's the number?”
I gave it to her.
I could hear the clicking of her keyboard.
“A power of attorney?” she asked. “Is that it?”
“No. It's some sort of release.”
“What do you mean âsome sort'?”
“The document title is âCorundum release.'” Trying to sound nonchalant, I said, “Oh, well.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem. I appreciate you looking, Roberta. By the way, does the document profile show the author?”
“Let's see. R.L. Crane.”
“Rob Crane?”
“Yes, Mr. Crane.”
“What a coincidence. I may have seen that very release in a case I had with him. Does the profile have a Create Date?”
“Last Wednesday.”
“What about a client?”
“That's odd. It just says Firm Miscellaneous.”
“It must be another case.”
“I can open it andâ”
“âNo. Don't do that.”
“Uh, okay.”
“Your system probably records every time someone opens a document. I don't want Crane thinking you're snooping around in his documents. Thanks again, Roberta.”
“Sure thing. If you need a power of attorney, I'll be happy to send you one of mine.”
“Thanks. If I can't trace this document down, I may take you up on that offer.”
I hung up, leaned back in my chair and stared out the window.
“Jeez,” I said.
“I'll say.”
I turned to see Jacki standing in the doorway.
“Huh?” I said.
“You heard already?”
“Heard what?
“You are not going to believe this. Go to the
Post-Dispatch
website.”
Jacki came around the desk to stand behind me as I typed in the Internet addressâwww.stltoday.comâand clicked Enter.”
The page opened.
“Look at the Top Headlines section,” Jacki said over my shoulder. “Check out what's new.”
On the upper right side of the page was a bullet-point column entitled Top Headlines. The first three items were tagged in red as NEW:
NEW
One-car crash kills Hillsboro man
NEW
Court reverses sitter's conviction in infant's death
NEW
Body found in River Des Peres drainage ditch
“Click on the third one,” Jacki said.
I did. It opened on the following story:
Police Investigating Body Found
In River Des Peres Drainage Ditch
St .Louis Post-Dispatch
St. Louis, Mo. â Metropolitan Sewer District employees discovered a body this morning in the River Des Peres drainage ditch just south of Forest Park near the entrance to the underground portion of the river. The MSD workers were driving through the area at Macklind and Berthold, where they were checking on pipes in the aftermath of the heavy rainfall. They spotted the male body facedown in the receding storm waters and called the police.
Based upon identification materials found on the body, including a Missouri driver's license inside a wallet in the dead man's pants pocket, the police have tentatively identified him as Eugene Chase of University City.
The police are not yet saying how the man died and are unwilling to label the death suspicious until after a complete autopsy. Although there were signs of trauma on the body, the police cautioned that such signs are not inconsistent with the man having fallen into a drainage ditch near his home in University City during the recent thunderstorms and drowned while being swept downstream by rising floodwaters through the underground portion of the river.
I turned to Jacki. “My God.”
She nodded.
I reached for the phone. “That was no accident.”
Bertie Tomaso was out when I called. He returned my call thirty minutes later from the Central West End, where he was about to interview a witness. He got off duty at five. I promised I'd take no more than fifteen minutes of his time if he let me buy him a cup of coffee before he went home. He agreed.
I arrived at Coffee Cartel first and got us each a coffee and a scone.
My eyes widened when he walked in.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said.
He grinned.
“You like?”
“I love it, Bertie.”
Though he was wearing his usual wrinkled-dark-suit-white-shirt-loosened-tie outfit, he'd added something new on top: a grey fedora. He wore it pushed back on his head with the front of the brim bent down over his eyes.
He gave me a wink. “I got that noir thing going, eh?”
“You look terrific. When did you get it?”
“For my birthday. Susie Q got me the hat, a trench coat, and the New American Library edition of Hammett. You should have seen me in the outfit during that rainstorm. I could have passed for Sam Spadeâor at least a dago version.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“So?” he said. “What's on your mind, gorgeous?”
“That body in the River Des Peres.”
“Okay.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Not much. The detective assigned to the caseâhe and I had a late lunch today after he got back from the morgue. We talked some about it.”
“Why?”
He shrugged and dunked his scone in the coffee.
“Just shop talk.”
He took a bite of the scone.
I said, “I met the dead guy last week.”
“Where?”
“In my office.”
“Really? For what?”
“He knew something about Nick Moran's death.”
“Nick Moran?”
“The body in the pickup truck on Gay Way.”
“Oh, right.” He leaned back and studied me. “You thought this Chase guy knew something?”
I nodded.
“What?”
I explained how I got to Chaseâfrom my confidential witness on Gay Way that night to the license plate trace to my crazy story at the Corundum job site about the $750 downpayment.
Bertie dunked his scone in the coffee, took another bite, and chewed it slowly.
“Interesting,” he finally said.
He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a small notebook, flipped it open and set it on the table. He took the ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket, clicked it open, and jotted something down. He looked up.
“This Chase guy,” he said, “he told you Moran was
already
dead when he picked him up?”
“Yes. But he wouldn't say where he picked him up. He was really rattled, Bertie. He said he needed to think it over. He practically ran out of my office. Next thing he's dead.”
“Not exactly next thing.”
“So a few days later.”
“A few days can make a big difference, Rachel.”
“He was killed, Bertie.”
“Because he talked to you?”
“Look at the timing.”
“Rachel, we've actually looked at the evidence.”
“And?”
“It's consistent with an accidental death by drowning.”
“How so?”
“The autopsy ought to help us pinpoint the time of death, but the medical examiner thinks he died no more than twenty-fours before that MSD crew spotted him that morning. That means it had been raining for two days by then. He lived in one of those little shotgun houses in U. City. His house was less than a hundred yards from the River Des Peres stormwater ditch. After those kids fell in and drowned during a storm a couple years ago, they were supposed to fence it off, but there are still gaps. The stormwaters would have been at least three feet deep after two days of that rain. That's deep enough to carry a corpse downstream all the way through that big tunnel that runs beneath Forest Park. There's a lot of debris where it exits onto the riverbed near Macklindâold shopping carts, big branches, car fenders, other crap. That's where the body got snagged when the waters ebbed.”
“How do you know he fell in back near his house?”
“We don't know for sure yet, but we know enough to draw some inferences. His car was in the driveway. The front door of his house was unlocked. The body had on a windbreaker, which suggests he'd been out in the rain. The animal pound picked up his dog last night. It had been running free and still had a leash attached to its collar. So the likely scenario is that he's out walking his dog in the thunderstorm, gets too close to the edge of the drainage ditch, slides down the bank, conks his head on the cement and drowns.”
I shake my head. “He just falls in?”
“It's pretty slick and muddy over there. Also, he was probably drunk at the time. We don't have the blood work back yet, but the guy liked to drink. The house was filled with empties, and his garage was stacked with cases of Busch.”
“Are there any witnesses?”
“Don't know yet. We have two cops taking statements from the neighbors. Could be hard to find a witness, though. Not many people go out walking at night in thunderstorms.”
I frowned. “Still, all these coincidences bother me. A guy with no history of drug use and no known homosexual tendencies is found dead of a drug overdose at an infamous gay meeting spot. The last guy to see him aliveâor at least to see his bodyâdrowns in a stormwater sewer a couple of days after he gets questioned about his connection to the dead guy. I'm telling you, Bertie, you need to find someone from Corundum. That's what I've been trying to do. Someone there ought to know about Gene Chase and Nick Moran.”
I watched him write
Corundum Const. Co
in his notebook.
“You say they do renovations, this Corundum outfit?”
“As far as I can tell.”
I couldn't decide how much more detail to give Bertie about the pattern of city officials and TIFs and Ruby Productions. He'd resisted my efforts to get him to reopen Nick Moran's death, and he seemed pretty dubious about the criminal aspect to Gene Chase's death. Moreover, the TIFs were all out in the suburbsâand thus outside the jurisdiction of the St. Louis police department. And I'd far exceeded fifteen minutes of his time this afternoon. I needed to get home, too.
I said, “When will you have the autopsy results on Chase?”
“Another day or so.”
“Will you at least call me when they come in?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Bertie.”
He stood, pinched the front of his fedora, put it on, and angled the brim over his eyes. Doing his best Humphrey Bogart impression, he gave me a wink and said, “Here's lookin' at you, kid.”
“We'll always have Paris.”
He winked. “I'll call you.”