Murder in St. Charles

By John Manion

When I was a young man, I loved traditional English murder mysteries, the ones in which all the suspects were assembled at the end of the book and some wily detective explained the reasoning and clues that led to the identity of the murderer. It was so exciting to watch the detective eliminate suspects and discard certain clues while embracing the clues, which led to the actual murderer. I would then reread the sections involving the murderer and see how the author had set up the clues that most times had eluded me. I had so much fun! I read all those mysteries and unfortunately have not found any who use that dramatic format, so I decided to write one myself.

In Murder in St. Charles, the patriarch of a large, dysfunctional family is murdered on Christmas night in front of his adult children, sister-in-law, her boyfriend, and three members of his staff. Max Marten is a successful lawyer whose egocentric personality has made him many enemies—some in the legal community, others in his own family.

The path to finding Max Marten’s murderer is psychologically complex and somewhat overwhelming for the small-town police force tasked with solving the crime until criminal psychologist Ray Lynn Park is brought in to consult on the case. It is Ray Lynn who solves the case through the use of psychology, intuition, karma, and a little bit of luck. And most importantly, she uses the little cells in her brain in the best tradition of detectives that went before her.

Enjoy the book. I loved writing it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662448669

Book preview

Chapter 1

Big-Game Hunting (November 23)

Max Marten smiled broadly, for this was the kind of day he lived for. Standing on the top of the federal courthouse building in downtown St. Louis, Max stepped up to a bank of microphones with his clients Elwood C. Woody Laney and his wife, Marilu, in tow. Max brought out what appeared to be a prepared statement and began to read it aloud, "Today, I have filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit on behalf of my clients Elwood Laney and his wife, Marilu, against Rausch Industries of Granite City, Illinois, alleging that they knew their product, a cobalt tip used in common tools such as circular saws, was dangerous. We alleged that when the cobalt tip was sharpened, it emitted a toxic cobalt dust. Without a special mask, this dust was inhaled by my client, causing him interstitial lung disease. This threat necessitated that Rausch Industries properly warn sawmill workers like my client to wear a special protective mask when sharpening their product. Rausch Industries failed to do so.

Standing to my right is my client Woody Laney, a man who worked as a repairman at a saw shop in Arnold, Missouri. Over the past year and a half, Woody was exposed to this toxic cobalt dust while wearing only a regular cotton mask. This led to Woody suffering lung damage that is irreversible. As a result, my client, at the ripe age of twenty-seven, has been told by his doctors that he has lost 50 percent of his lung capacity for good. He runs out of breath after walking a couple of blocks with his dear wife. He can only play with his little baby Tammy Ann for a couple of minutes before he becomes winded."

While Max spoke, a nondescript slightly built blond-haired man in a Cardinals cap and blue jeans stood next to him, nodding his head. His wife’s, wearing a simple cotton dress, eyes welled up with tears. They had a look of two deer caught in the headlights. What they did not realize was their attorney was the ultimate big-game hunter and already had a corporate Goliath in his sights.

Max continued, This American family has suffered a terrible injury as a result of the callous greed of defendant Rausch Industries. We will not only be asking for compensatory damages for Woody’s irreversible lung damage but also punitive damages for Rausch’s callous decision to risk the health of hardworking Americans like Woody for failure to warn of a risk they knew about years ago. Such corporate greed must be stopped. I will not rest until Woody and all the Woodys of the world receive justice. As if it had been rehearsed, Max, with a slight tear in his eye, walked over to both Woody and Marilu and clumsily hugged them. The clients had no idea how to respond. Marilu tried to hug Max, but he had already completed his momentary affectation. Max returned to the microphones and said he would field a few questions.

"Hi, I am Karen Smith of Channel 5 News. Mr. Marten, how widespread is this problem with cobalt dust, and do you anticipate any future litigation, the same as what happened in the midsixties when asbestos was discovered to be so hazardous to people?"

Max turned to face Ms. Smith, looking gravely serious. In a lower tone to accentuate his seriousness and sincerity, Max responded, I have no doubt there are many other hardworking laborers in the sawmill industry that may have similar lung damage. Then pivoting to look directly into the camera, Max made his plea. For all those workers out there, who may be experiencing shortness of breath and think it is due to cigarettes, please go to your doctors immediately and get checked out. If your doctor tells you that you have what is called interstitial lung disease, please call my law offices as soon as possible. I have a toll-free number. It’s 1-800-Max-Sues.

Julius Huntsman, Channel 2 News, inquired next, Your statement seems to indicate that Rausch Industries knew of this cobalt dust danger for some time. Do you have any actual proof of such an allegation?

Max fixed his tie and sneered, Julius, I am not going to try this case on the courthouse steps. Suffice it to say, if I were a shareholder of Rausch Industries, I would be looking to sell.

Julius Huntsman zeroed in, Was that a yes?

Max divulged, I have every confidence that any jury will find our evidence not only compelling but Rausch’s behavior absolutely outrageous.

Mr. Marten, Karen Smith queried, you have introduced your client and his wife. Who is the gentleman standing to your right?

Max, slightly irritated, responded, My law firm is called Marten & Gilbert. The gentleman to my right is Stephen Gilbert, my law partner for over thirty years. Since there seems to be no other questions relating to this case, I will close by thanking you for coming. With Thanksgiving only three days away, on behalf of Woody and Marilu, I wish you a blessed and bountiful Thanksgiving.

While the camera crews started to wrap up, Max turned to his clients and asked them if they needed a ride home. They said they did. Max got out his cell phone and called an Uber for them. In no time, the driver arrived, and Max ushered them into the car, whispering, If you need anything, give my office manager Cara Morocco a call. Under no circumstances should you talk to anyone about your case, especially reporters. In my operation, I am the only one that should do the talking.

Watching the live news conference were several interested parties. At the Gilbert residence, Stephen Gilbert’s wife, Virginia, watched seething. Talking to the picture of her husband’s face on the television, Virginia lamented, Another grand performance by Max. I will never understand why you have tolerated him for all these years. He will never change. You will never change. I give up!

At Rausch Industries, CEO Wallace Rausch was watching with head Corporate Counsel Barbara Jones. After the conference was over, Rausch angrily clicked off the set and snapped, He must be stopped. He is going to try to turn cobalt dust into a 2020 version of asbestos. I want you to dig up anything you can on Marten. I want this done yesterday. Do I make myself clear?

Ms. Jones responded, Perfectly. It would appear Marten may have some information about us having knowledge about the dangers of cobalt dust and the need to wear a specialized mask. Is there such a smoking gun?

Wallace Rausch shook his head. Barb, you worry too much. I need to get back to work.

Once Barbara left the office, Wallace closed his office door and opened his locked desk drawer. He took out a burner cell phone and made a call. Hi, this is Rausch. They have filed suit. I need you to get up here as soon as possible.

No problem, the voice on the other end said, I should be there either Tuesday or Wednesday. Is everything set?

Rausch responded, Yes. Let me underscore the fact I am counting on you to get the job done. You are getting a pile of money. You better be successful.

The voice assured Rausch, I know what I am doing. I will not fail.

With the reporters still standing on the steps, Max summoned his driver to bring around his Bentley. When Max and Stephen got into the car, Max muttered, This car will be on the local evening news, and all those prospective jurors out there will say that guy must be a damn good lawyer to drive such an expensive car.

Climbing in, Stephen Gilbert cautioned, Max, law is not just a dog and pony show.

Max agreed. No, Stephen. It’s also sales. In fact, everything in life is sales.

Stephen sighed. I hope I never become like you.

Max asked, You mean successful?

Stephen replied, No, Max, I mean jaded.

Max strongly commented, I assure you, Stephen. You will never be either jaded or successful.

The two friends and law partners sat in the Bentley, each looking out their respective windows. They had known each other for close to forty years from their days at law school. They could not have been more opposite. Although the same age with the same education, Max craved the limelight, while Stephen preferred his privacy. It was a combination that had worked very well over the years; however, it was not without a disagreement on occasion.

Maxwell Thomas Marten II was a man of sixty-five years, though he easily could have passed for someone ten years younger. He was small in stature, barely five feet ten. He was a few pounds north of 175 pounds, yet he was muscular and strong. Max was a man who worked out at least three times a week unless he was in trial. He was barrel shaped with a thick neck and strong chest and arms. He had recently developed a slight paunch; still for a man his age, he was in fairly good shape. Max did not have handsome looks. What he did have was rugged, chiseled features with intense blue eyes, very few wrinkles, and a strong chin with a deep cleft. He seemed to have a permanent five-o’clock shadow, so he made it a point of keeping tan even in winter. His silver hair was thinning all over, which Max refused to hide. Instead, he cropped it, looking more like a Marine sergeant than an attorney. Physically, Max looked like one tough son of a gun, and that he was. Women loved him and men admired him. Max’s enormous ego necessitated the love and admiration of both sexes.

Maybe it was not Max they loved and admired but his money. Max was rich and not shy about letting everyone know it. He had a signature look: a gray Armani blazer with a black cashmere turtleneck in cold weather and always colorful polo shirts in the summer. In social circles, Max was known as a catch, though since the death of his wife twenty years ago, Max had not been caught. He was a serial dater, but apparently relationships were not his thing. He found his greatest satisfaction in work. Max had made his money the hard way; he earned every dollar. He had a modest South St. Louis upbringing living with his father, a truck driver, and his mom, a teacher. The Martens were not able to give their only child many of the finer things in life. However, they gave him all the attention they could muster. At an early age, Max became the main focus of the Marten family. Both father and mother lived all their hopes and dreams as well as their grievances and disappointments through young Max. Thus, at an early age, Max was already under pressure to win at all costs or else. Fortunately for the family, Max won most of the time.

Max was not much of an athlete except for wrestling, where he lettered his last two years of high school. The sport of wrestling fit Max’s personality perfectly. He was aggressive, tenacious, and combative, traits that served him very well in his future career as a trial lawyer. He had an undistinguished career in academics with above-average grades in high school and college. A family relation was employed at St. Louis University Law School, and Max used that connection to gain admission. In law school, again Max finished in the middle of his class, though his fellow students voted him most likely to succeed. They were right. Once out of law school, Max’s career just took off. It was not only because of his unparalleled drive and work ethic but moreover because of his unique personality.

Through his high-voltage charisma, Max let everyone he met know that he was a winner, and he challenged them to attach themselves to his star if they wanted to be one as well. The only ticket they needed to be on his team was for them to believe that Max was as great as he really thought he was. If they did that, Max would be their loyal friend, ally, lawyer, or whatever they needed him to be. Over the years, rich business types, average joes, judges, court reporters, men, women, and most importantly, jurors all fell under Max’s spell. Having this inordinate belief in himself, Max skipped the typical route of working for a large law firm and went directly into practice as a sole practitioner. He struggled for a time, yet after a couple of years, he started to succeed. Through his work ethic, he made himself into a top-notch trial lawyer, piling up victory after victory in small cases and then bigger ones. Max saw that the big money in law was being a plaintiff’s lawyer representing the common man against large corporations with deep pockets. Max started to win big cases, which he had on a contingency fee basis. This meant he would get 33 percent of the amount awarded to his clients. Over the next decade, Max was to earn tens of millions in contingency fees.

In 1985 at the age of thirty, Max met his match, a beautiful blond-haired girl named Danielle, who was ten years his junior. She was everything he was not—sophisticated, refined, and soft-spoken. He fell for her hard and went about convincing her that he was the man for her. Max apparently was successful in overwhelming Danielle, for after a brief courtship, they were married at Maison Toussaint, the countryside estate owned by Danielle’s parents. On the surface, the marriage was a happy one. Danielle, an avid horsewoman, spent most of her days at the stables but would make sure to look her best when Max came home for dinner around 8:00 p.m. most nights. In exchange, Max showered Danielle with anything she wanted, though Danielle had remarkably simple tastes. After being married for five years, the Martens welcomed a daughter, Katharine (Cassie), into the world; followed two years later by a son, Maxwell Thomas Marten III (Trey); and Thomas Maxwell Marten two years after that. Although Danielle’s family had been affluent furriers, the fur industry faced hard times in the mideighties. Max came to their financial rescue. He saved the family estate by paying off the mortgage. Eventually, he moved his family into the main house and had a beautiful cottage built on the estate for Danielle’s parents. He renamed the estate Huntington Hills.

Life seemed idyllic for the Marten family as the century turned until the time that Danielle started to experience severe headaches. After trips to several specialists and way too many tests, Danielle was informed she had inoperable brain cancer and was given only a short time to live. Max was devastated. His perfect world, the one he had worked so hard to create, was unraveling. Refusing to accept the inevitable, Max flew Danielle to Paris in one last-ditch attempt to save her through an experimental treatment at the famed Cancer Institute of Paris. This failed. Danielle died in Paris in late November 2000. She was only thirty-five. Her parents had predeceased her. Besides Max, she left three small children—Cassie, ten; Trey, eight; and Thomas, six—as well as an older sister, Florence.

Chilton—Max’s butler, chauffeur, and major domo of Huntington Hills—drove the Bentley away from the federal courthouse through the heart of downtown St. Louis. They passed the Old Courthouse, where the famous Dred Scott decision was handed down. Directly in front of them was the Gateway Arch built to represent St. Louis as the gateway to the West. Max always marveled when he saw the Arch. He remembered how they built it in the midsixties. Both legs of the Arch were built to the point where they stood over six hundred feet but were not connected to each other. As a youngster, Max could not figure out how they would complete the final construction at the top of the arch. To his utter delight, young Max watched on the news the day a helicopter hovered over the top of the Arch with the last connecting piece suspended in midair connected to a cable. He could not believe it. They just lowered that piece and fit it in the space between both legs. He was amazed.

Both Max and Stephen were native St. Louisans, having grown up in the lower- to middle-class white neighborhoods on the south side. Both loved St. Louis and were proud of their city, as they should be. They agreed that Midwesterners were some of the best people in the world—friendly, down-to-earth, and loyal. These people loved the simple things in life—their Cardinals, their barbecue, beer, and most of all, their families. For both men, growing up in South St. Louis was a bond that formed the basis of their friendship, their law partnership, and their success.

As they drove on, Max was the first to break whatever tension there had been by bringing up their lawsuit against Rausch. Can you imagine what Wally Rausch is thinking now? He knows we are coming after him, and he knows we got him dead to rights.

Stephen talked softly and looked concerned. Do you think Rausch knows we have the memo?

Max responded, Of course he knows we have the memo. Cara is of the mind someone went through our law offices last weekend looking for it. If Cara said it happened, I have no doubt it did. Cara knows where every last paper clip is in our office.

Stephen asked, And they did not find the memo?

Max divulged, No, because I know how Wally Rausch operates and moved the memo to Huntington Hills some time ago. It is stashed there.

The Bentley was on the highway, now heading over the Missouri River to the small town of St. Charles, Missouri, where the law firm of Marten & Gilbert had their offices. Max had decided to locate his offices there in the beginning because of the inexpensive rent. When he fell in love with Danielle, who lived not far from downtown St. Charles, Max decided to keep the offices in the same storefront, though they were remodeled to reflect his success. St. Charles was located not far from the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. A small city of about seventy thousand people, St. Charles was settled by French Canadians. It was known to be the last stop the famous fur traders Lewis and Clark made in 1804. Now St. Charles was a wonderful place to live and for St. Louisans a great day outing to enjoy its overall quaintness, shopping, and great food. Max loved living in the rural area just west of St. Charles. Though a city boy, Max aspired to be a country gentleman. He was Irish on his father’s side, which he rarely mentioned, but English on his mother’s side, which he wholeheartedly embraced.

The Bentley crossed the Missouri River, and within a short time, it arrived in front of the law offices of Marten & Gilbert, a two-story modest-looking building. Max and Stephen stepped out of the car and said goodbye to Chilton. Walking into his office, Max was greeted by the incomparable Cara Morocco, the woman who—in her own words—made sure all the legal trains, including Max, ran on time. Hi, Max, Cara said. You were on the noon day news as well as the Bentley.

Max beamed. Cara, how did it play?

Cara, knowing when to stroke Max’s ego, responded, It was impressive. If I were Rausch Industries, I would be worried.

Max noted, Stephen called my interview and Bentley a dog and pony show?

Cara observed, Since when do you care what Stephen thinks?

Max agreed, You’re right, I don’t. Any calls?

Cara responded, "Not that I can’t handle. The Post-Dispatch wants an interview. Your daughter called."

Max muttered, "Well, get the Post-Dispatch on the line. I will talk to Cassie when I get home."

The rest of the day found Max in his glory taking call after call from either the media or friends who had seen his performance. At 5:00 p.m. and again at 6:00 p.m., Max stopped taking calls so he could watch the news coverage of his press conference. It was not just because Max was vain, though he was. Max needed to watch carefully what image he was conveying and how that image was being interpreted. That interpretation would form the basis of his opening statement when his case came to trial.

Promptly at seven thirty, Chilton and the Bentley pulled up into the parking lot. Max looked smug as he greeted his long-time staffer with Home, Chilton, no stops tonight. The Bentley drove through downtown St. Charles and, after a couple of turns, was in a bucolic area of rolling hills and majestic trees. As the road grew narrower and the houses grew fewer, the Bentley traversed a series of curves and hills. When the curves straightened and the hills started to flatten, there stood Huntington Hills, a mansion fit for an English royal.

Huntington Hills let you know, as soon as you approached the impressive black iron gates with the large letters HH in dark green, that the person who lived there was important. Just as the Bentley approached, the gates opened, and you could see the main house in all its grandeur. The house was made of brick with black shutters and four large white columns, which framed its front. From the gate to the house was about one hundred yards. The driveway became circular as you grew closer to the house. In the middle of the circle was a fountain surrounded by autumnal foliage. The house was one of several buildings on this estate of fifty-five acres. As you looked at the house coming up from the driveway, on the right was a four-car garage. Behind the garage to its right was originally a large stone cottage, which had been sectioned into three apartments and now was occupied by the staff. To the left of the house was a gravel road, which led to an ultramodern stable and corral. Behind the house was a large, kidney-shaped pool and patio, followed by a large grassy area of a couple acres, which turned into woods for as far as the eye could see.

The main house was two stories and five thousand square feet in total. As