Ten Minutes Till Midnight

By Lee Martin

It was called Denvers Crime of the Century. In 1988, Frank Magnuson, a young man struggling with lifes curve balls, was set to testify against a Crip kingpin who along with three other men perpetrated a robbery of a Denver restaurant. The night before the trial, two dispatched killers lay in wait in the basement of a house in Bonnie Brae owned by Franks friend and roommate, Steve Curtis. At just before midnight in June of 1989, two young men lay dead with a third left for dead.

Ten Minutes till Midnight takes the reader into the very depths of Hell as two of these innocent men experience twenty insane moments of pure horror.

Five years after the heinous crime would justice be served? Prosecutors Al LaCabe and Mike Little, doing battle with a polished public defender and his eccentric, wily partner, would be at their passionate best to see that it was. The true story of faith, miracles and recovery, Ten Minutes till Midnight will not only leave the readers adrenaline pulsating, but pondering the very credibility and prudence of the justice system.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 22, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440146657

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Ten Minutes till Midnight

Copyright © 2009 Lee Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-4664-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-4665-7 (ebook)

Cover Art

By

Jim Anderson

iUniverse rev. date: 6/16/09

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Beginnings

Bonnie Brae

Steve

Frank

Dan

Shadows

The Edge of Midnight

Bloodbath

Aftershocks

Burying the Dead

Anatomy of a Killer

Waiting for Justice

The Circus

Under the Big Top

Star Witness

Total Collapse

The Trouble with Sunwolf

The Crista Factor

Winding Down

An Imperfect Justice

The Unrepentant

The Champion

Epilogue

Passage

Requiem

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the defense of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked came against me to devour my flesh, my enemies and foes, they stumbled and fell.

Psalm of David

27: 1-2

What follows is true. It is a compelling story of faith, miracles and deliverance in the face of evil and certain death. Life is God-given, precious, holy. There is nothing so valuable. And when life is taken unjustly, brutally, savagely, from the innocent, those born and unborn, there must be justice. This is the story of triumph over tragedy, faith above fear and the ultimate wielding of justice.

This novel was written for a broad audience. As several of the individuals in this book during moments of hostility were prone to use profanity, I have elected either to omit or abbreviate specific words which may be considered offensive. It will be up to the reader to use his or her imagination in speculating as to where the more graphic profanity was uttered and specifically what was said. This should not affect the artistic value of the story.

Acknowledgements

To the warriors of justice…Al LaCabe, Mike Little and Dick Penington.

To Larry and Jacque Magnuson, loving hearts who go on. To the Denver Police Department, heroes and protectors all. To Steve, champion for the unborn and loyal friend. To my friend Jim Anderson for his encouragement.

And to Frank and Dan.

Music, when soft voices die

Vibrates in the memory-

Odors, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;

And so my thoughts, when thou art gone

Love itself shall slumber on.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

PROLOGUE

The wind sweeps out of the Arapahoe, catching up October’s fallen leaves and sending autumn’s first chill throughout the valley and into the city. It trails the gentle breezes of summer, long gone now, carrying the whispers of the dead, also long gone, though their spirits still haunt the streets of Bonnie Brae looking for the reasons why. Looking for justice. The pall that had hung over the city for nearly four years is also swept away now that time has slowly begun to heal the deep wounds inflicted on both mind and body. The gripping fear that had permeated among anxious neighbors for months afterward has long since been replaced by an atmosphere of peace and revival.

The voices of the dead are sometimes still heard reverberating in the dark of night in the mind of the man who would be dead three times over had it not been for Divine intervention. It remains all too real, too vivid, indelibly etched, like his still visible scars. Within his brain the battle ensues…the battle between anger and forbearance. There are days one emotion wins over the other, only to lose out the next. His demons are never fully gone. But release ultimately comes at the end of the day, often though in the young hours of the morning when he falls into prayer and finally, mercifully, into a deep, consuming sleep.

BEGINNINGS

On a cool, rainy Tuesday evening in early December, 2005, I found myselfquick-stepping through the Perimeter Mall parking lot under a small umbrella that barely kept me dry. After dodging nearly as many Christmas shoppers as raindrops, I managed to make it from the north forty to the canvas canopy before the front door of Maggiano’s in less than two minutes. My herringbone jacket smelled much like dog hair, I’m sure, as the young female greeter appeared to back away from me with a rather soured look on her face.

I didn’t have a reservation, but since my friend Jim Anderson who had suggested the place hadn’t arrived yet, I would have a short wait anyway. Jim was bringing along a friend who had had flown in with him from Colorado and who had co-founded with him a not-for-profit organization called LifeCommercials.com.. I had also planned to join them for lunch on Wednesday at an Atlanta area country club to listen along with about thirty other potential financial contributors to their dynamic presentation.

Jim had called me a few days before to set up a dinner at the upscale Italian joint with the primary purpose of getting me interested in his friend’s compelling story. After Jim had given him a copy of my first novel, his friend said yes, I agree. This is the guy I want to write the book for sure. He said he liked my writing style, specifically my vivid detail in describing things.

A couple of weeks before, Jim had told me over the phone a little of his friend’s story and I have to admit, I was intrigued. It had all the ingredients that make for best sellers. It did, however, set me to wonder why by this time, sixteen years after the fact, such a story hadn’t been dropped into the hands of a best selling author. But Jim was my friend and we go way back…actually over forty years or more…and I knew he had a lot to do with talking the guy into giving me a shot at the story.

The two men arrived at the restaurant about twenty minutes later and as if on cue the little hostess with the turned up nose said our table was ready. After we were seated, Jim introduced me to his friend, and then over the white noise of our fellow patrons numbering more than two hundred in the large dining room, pressed his buddy to crank up the story. Jim, whose business is coaching executives and professionals, is a take charge kind of guy…a facilitator if you will. He doesn’t mix words and whatever meeting or mission he sets up, cuts right through the chase.

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The man across the table from me was a nice-looking chap in his mid-forties with a high forehead, brown hair and deep, dark and determined eyes. The eyes seared and penetrated, making me wonder what thoughts and intentions were behind them. Yet they were not oppressive eyes. More so eyes that reflected a kind of intensity, if not sorrow. But they were also eyes enigmatically positioned on a face that reflected frivolity and affability.

I’m sure he had told the story countless times, although he said not lately; but because something significant had occurred scantly five months before which had helped bring the matter to closure for him, it was time to put it all in the hands of readers. This wasn’t the first time he had wanted the story told. Several years back he had entered into an agreement with a writer-producer who unfortunately wanted to change and embellish the content. Prostituting an already incredible story was unthinkable. Some things are not meant to be for sale or tainted. The truth is one of them.

With a stoic face he looked at me curiously, took a sip of his Diet Pepsi, and then began his soliloquy with the cyclic rate of fire of a machine gun. When he was done over an hour later, I realized my mouth had probably been agape the entire time, yet I had failed to shovel anything into it. I noticed that my lasagna was now obviously cold and going to waste. Whatever reservations I had had about beginning another novel so soon after my third one was done had long diminished.

But I didn’t fully commit that evening, mainly because I was heavily engaged in marketing my last book and starting a fourth. Perhaps I would look at the opportunity again some time the next year.

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Jim’s business brought him back to Atlanta a half-dozen times in 2006. Each time we met for dinner we skirted the idea of getting started on the book. By the end of the year, however, there was still no definitive decision on my part to go forward with it, largely because I found myself busier than ever in each of my two jobs. Life happens. But early in the next year on his first trip of many planned for 2007, Jim brought with him a package containing six manila folders jammed full of clipped newspaper articles dating from 1988 to 1998. For me there were now faces on the story…primarily faces of murderers and their victims, but significant others as well. On a rainy Saturday after our rendezvous, I sat for over four hours perusing through the articles and editorials written by a number of Denver Post reporters. The story had legs again and my interest was re-kindled.

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The second week in March I packed up for three days and flew to Denver to meet up with the story-teller again who by the way would be the subject of this fifth novel. Jim picked me up at the airport and drove us south through some terribly magnificent country on the way to his house in Castle Rock. The modest single-story home sits on thirty-five acres high on a ridgeline overlooking a sweeping valley of scrub oaks, craggy rock formations and scratchy brush in the foothills of the Rockies.

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After I had settled in, Jim left for the evening, primarily to leave me with my thoughts. I had the place to myself. The next morning, my brain still on Eastern Time, I was up two hours earlier than usual. Just before sunrise, what we in the Army called Beginning Morning Nautical Twilight (BMNT), I stepped outside into the light, brisk air and onto the plateau, greeted by a diamond studded sky. Because I’ve been used to a sky in the Atlanta suburbs that even on a perfect, radiationally-cooled night would be light-polluted, I had forgotten how vivid night skies in the wide open country can be. I don’t think I had seen the Milky Way since I was a teen growing up in rural West Virginia. Except, of course, that time when on vacation, Sandy and I drove out into the desert a dozen miles away from the Vegas strip a few years ago.

As the morning light eased in, the shapes and colors of the dormant winter landscape began to take form. Banks of snow lay here and there, now not so pure white, waiting patiently for spring’s warmth to send it away. Sparsely situated firs and Ponderosa pines bespeckled the rolling hills as far as I could see to the point perhaps twenty kilometers away where the grey-blue mountains rose up against the sky like the indomitable fortress that it was. Beyond them, over them, peeking through a forming wisp of fog, the snowy summit of Mount Evans appeared.

There was no wind, nothing to hear, almost deafeningly quiet, like I was suddenly expelled to another planet. A paradoxical feeling of peace and fear at the same time came over me, like I had been swallowed up into some kind of lung-oppressing vacuum where the world I had always known had suddenly been replaced. I then knew it had to be the thin air testing my lungs at six thousand plus feet. Yet the air was sweet, and although I could not suck it in as deeply as in the Georgia low country, I breathed as peacefully as I have ever in my life.

At seven I found myself still sitting on the edge of the porch suddenly feeling the presence of God Almighty. Just Him and me in powerful communication. I then contemplated that every day of my life I’m surrounded by the walls of humanity, thinking God is somewhere way out there, hidden, watching through telescopic eyes, elusive. But it was times like this, few as they were, that I realized I was the elusive one…that if I would only sit down and allow myself the moment, His Spirit, like a blithesome, beautiful butterfly, would soon light upon me.

And then only moments later as if He had surely stepped down from Heaven, He sent up in my direction from the base of the valley six white-tailed deer. I remained motionless on the porch as they stopped in their curiosity to eye me. Then one-by-one they accelerated, bounding past the cabin and disappearing into the scratchy brush.

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Later in the morning Jim and I met up again with the man about whom the book would be written. We had lunch at a Bonnie Brae pub and then walked the two blocks to the old house on University where the crime occurred. There I took some pictures with both my Canon and my brain, and then we moved on to relevant and significant venues on the east side of the city. After returning to Castle Rock, the remainder of the afternoon we holed up in the cabin to jump-start the process, mainly getting all preliminaries and logistics ironed out, and then to get down to the nitty-gritty. The modest little place turned out to be the perfect respite for the clearing of mind and soul, where I could cast off the impediments and intrusions that threatened to interfere with the mission at hand.

For the better part of two days I sat with pen in hand listening to the dramatic story yet once again, only this time in more intricate detail and acted out in places by the man who had by the grace of God escaped the jaws of death.

One may wonder from reading the early chapters of this book what makes this story so unusual and compelling. Each year there are hundreds if not thousands of people across the globe who are murdered. Many of the murders may be considered even more grievous and appalling. But out of this story came other stories…stories of undaunted faith, amazing apparitions, astonishing miracles and a father’s enigmatic capacity to forgive.

It is in this perfect setting, this beautiful mile-high city with its quaint boroughs and earthy, peace-loving people, where mountains of snow-capped majesty loom high above its walls, even here the blight of humanity can rear its ugly head. And so it did, twenty years before.

NLM

BONNIE BRAE

The house on South University, an unfashionable story-and-a-half painted brick dwelling, is not typical of other homes in central Denver’s beautiful Bonnie Brae district. Showing signs of age and wear, there have been attempts over the years to improve its dated architecture by adding double-paned vinyl windows, new gray paint over cracked and rotting trim and new dark red paint over the brick. Sadly, the place is now well-weathered and looking rather neglected. A garage in the rear off the alley takes up much of what is left of the back yard. Beginning at the front corners of the house a six foot wood plank fence tracks along either side of the property and closes off at the garage, giving the place a walled-in fortress look. On the gate at the rear a sign is posted: Beware! My Dog Takes No Prisoners.

Built in 1909, the house should have been placed long ago on the National Historic Registry. From within its walls into the airways and into the living rooms of thousands of area homes the crackled news and music from Denver’s first radio station was broadcast. Ironically, from this very house, where news radio began over sixty-five years before, one of the most dramatic stories of Twentieth Century Denver would tragically unfold.

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What was once a rather lovely and quaint neighborhood, the 1100 block now appears run down, if not atrophied, even ‘project-looking.’ Elms lining the street remain craggy and misshapen. Mountain-driven snows, erosion and city neglect have left sidewalk sections cracked and sunken in places making foot traffic difficult, especially for the neighborhood aged and infirmed some of whom ambulate with canes and walkers.

Historically, the residents are the elderly, but there are also starter couples and University of Denver students sprinkled throughout, most of which from one degree to another live financially strained. There is still a smattering of old money there, however, handed down through generations along with the houses. Unlike the days of old, neighbors are generally not well-acquainted. Typically, they ignore each another and go on with their lives, hung up in their own self-centered worlds, not wanting to get involved. It conforms to the new American community social ethic. to be apathetic, estranged, avoiding. Live close together, but feel close to no one. To acknowledge neighbors leads to involvement at some future time. To know others on a personal basis creates obligations and invites complications.

Just two blocks over, however, is a different Bonnie Brae. On Old South Gaylord Street the grass between the businesses and the smooth sidewalk is manicured. Trees are evenly-spaced, symmetrical and well-attended. As the area is largely commercial, one will find a smattering of colorful art deco shops, uniquely-named clothing stores (ones that you would not find in a mall) and quaint grills or pubs patronized by students, yuppies and liberal professionals alike.

Electric Heights, as it was called before 1920, became Bonnie Brae, so named by visionary developer Saco DeBoer who wanted his new neighborhood to have a Scottish feel. Stately Tudors and quaint Cape Cods soon sprang up along curvy, tree-lined streets. Bonnie Brae, Gaelic for ‘Pleasant Hill,’ ultimately became one of Denver’s elite neighborhoods. A pate-and-brie society, if you will. DeBoer dictated that the homes could not be altered from their historic character. Even the Bonnie Brae Tavern and B.B. Ice Cream Parlor were compelled to maintain their unique architectural styles without modification.

Laid out like a perfect square, the borough stretches from Steele Street to Exposition, picking up again at East Mississippi and then over to University. There is little hint of crime in the district. But throughout the area there is little hint of God as well, although there are a number of churches throughout, such as the one back on University Boulevard, the Church of St. Vincent de Paul, only five doors down from Steve’s house. the house where it happened.

STEVE

The second son of Gene and Carol Curtis, Steve grew up in a house not far from Bonnie Brae. His father, a product of the Kansas Dust Bowl era, relocated the family before Steve was born to Denver where he started a new job selling insurance and driving a truck part-time. The Curtis’ lived in each other’s space and each other’s face for over eight years in an eight-hundred square foot brick house on a corner lot just off the edge of downtown proper. It was a great place for kids to grow up. Steve and his brothers, Scott and Mike, played sandlot football and biked throughout the streets, dodging traffic, defying both parental rules and danger.

But it was independence that had become Steve’s rule and which helped set the tenor that fostered an ever deteriorating relationship with his father. Growing up under the drill discipline of a stern, proud father was difficult for him, if not impossible. Early on in Steve’s life he developed a resistance to authority and that ultimately led to a conflict of personalities between the two. Gene Curtis meant well, of course, faithfully committed to providing the essentials for his wife and four children, which included an at home Biblical education and moral instruction. But in doing so, he was often inflexible. And so was Steve. That did not make for an emotionally healthy environment. There were too many people, too much authority and too much temper, all in too little space. And in the nineteen-sixties, it was a scenario that played out in millions of families across the country.

At sixteen, feeling persecuted and craving both a genuine independence and autonomy, Steve left home. He moved into an apartment in Aurora, found a job in an Italian restaurant off I-225 and finished out his senior year of high school at Aurora-Gateway, graduating ahead of schedule. During the nine months he lived alone, Steve avoided conversations with anyone about his age and successfully dodged not only the authorities, but curious neighbors who may have wondered what a minor was doing living on his own.

It wasn’t that Steve had no discernment for discipline, self or otherwise. He had his own sense of discipline. It was a discipline he had learned and cultivated in his own way. Rules and systems that suited him; not those thrust upon him by people who had something to say about how he should behave, work and live. And when it came to rules that people in position had commanded him to follow, that’s where he parted company. Determined, deflective and defiant as he was, he and authority mixed like oil and water. Right or wrong in the eyes of the world, he took a stand. Sometimes it was on principle; occasionally, just because. But always where it involved Christian principle. He did learn that from his father.

For a young man given to defying authority, he had no business enlisting in the Coast Guard. Toward the end of his four year stint, his tour of duty was extended in Long Beach. But then when he received orders that his unit would ship out for the frigid wasteland of Antarctica on the cutter Glacier, Steve disappeared. Hiding out in plain sight with short-cropped bleached-blonde hair and clean-shaven face, he went to work in a pizzeria. When two civilian-attired military investigators showed up one day and sat down for a pizza, curiously eyeing, but not recognizing Steve, he knew the authorities were closing in. A few days later, Steve checked himself into a psychiatric facility in Carson, CA. Seems a few years back while he was stationed in Hawaii, he had become hooked on Percocet and Quaaludes, prescribed to quell his severe headaches. Perhaps chemical dependency could be his valid defense for taking off. So when he arrived at the facility, he decided it was time to turn himself in to the authorities.

It was actually more about his contempt for authority than the mere act of missing movement. He was subsequently charged with AWOL and facing a Summary Court-martial. Steve was simply not suited for military life and its authoritative environment.

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Scott Curtis, the ever rebellious older brother, had also moved out the summer of ‘76 and joined the Army.

After a three year stint, he said goodbye to Uncle Sam and began working three jobs to support his unhappy, pregnant German wife; but then he soon began to suffer from depression.

At the age of twenty-two on May 5th, 1981, Scott committed suicide.

Only three weeks before Scott had taken his life, Steve was served court-martial papers. His life, already in the toilet, just got worse. When the authorities denied Steve permission to attend his brother’s funeral, he slipped from quarters arrest and went home to Colorado.

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Gene and Carol were devastated about Scott, as were Steve, his younger brother Mike and sister, Kelly. Because a wedge had long before been driven between Steve and his father, for a while after Scott’s death, there existed an unspoken dialogue between them. Mainly, it was a wordless dialogue. One of looks…sad, hurtful, blameless looks. But then, finally, out of the tragedy and grief also came a renewed closeness and a more consummate understanding. Gene loved all his children and no doubt they loved and respected him. In their own way. By their own terms. But in Gene’s mind, somewhere in his resolute vision, he had seen all three of his sons as unfinished parts of himself who could do better than him, be more, achieve more, flourish in life, and never ever have to endure the hardships of his own youth. And that was why he had been a hard man.

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Steve knew he had to get his life back in order. After he left Scott’s gravesite, he returned to his folks’ house and began packing his bag. He had to go back to the California base voluntarily to face his judgment before the Coast Guard S.P.s appeared at his parents’ door to drag him back. His father didn’t need any more hurts and disappointments.

In the days prior to his court-martial, Steve was administered the MMPI, a personality inventory, scoring high in deviance in several categories. The