DRAFT VERSION FOR EDITING 2025!

Saturday, February 10, 1990

My victimization begins in a deluxe hotel room in Oman the night after a full moon and historic total lunar eclipse. I am feeling quite heady and relaxed after a mentally and physically stimulating day my first day in this exotic Sultanate on the Southeast edge of the Arabian Peninsula. I am part of a delegation of 12 American women who have come on a friendship mission to meet, learn from, and support female leaders in the Middle East. We have spent the two previous days traveling from our week-long home in Yemen to Abu Dhabi via Kuwait and Bahrain, then to Muscat, Oman via Doha. I have used my trip tension to justify my not watching the midnight eclipse on Friday.

But today has been exhilarating with substantial briefings at the Ministry of Social Affairs on the health, education, and social issues facing Omani women and children followed by lighter lessons on the etiquette of incense air baths. An hour swim in the warm Gulf of Oman has energized and soothed me. Now, before leaving for a formal dinner hosted by the Omani women, I decide to call home to wish my husband Jack and 18-year-old son Fritz well and farewell (both are leaving on trips in 5 days).

The balmy Gulf air ventilates the plush pastel room as I relax in my black silk dress into the bed and call home at 6:15 p.m. Jack picks up the phone at 8:15 a.m. in St. Paul and almost immediately says he has bad news. I think that maybe his mother has died – Jack's father had died last summer – but still she's in fine health. Later I wonder why this even came to mind.

“Fritz's car was broken into last night and they still his cello and guitar. I need the appraisal on the cello.”

So much for easing me into the situation. I stiffen and feel nauseous, though one tape in my mind tells me I should be grateful that no one is dead. I don't feel the least bit grateful.

“Let me talk to Fritz,” I command, wanting to comfort my son by satellite. Jack replies that he is taking the ACT tests. When I chasten Jack for letting Fritz take these college entrance exams after such a stressful event, he comments that while Fritz really was shaken last night he seems better today.

Frustrated by this poor judgment, I demand the details of their full moon night. Fritz had parked his car in the main parking lot of St. Paul Academy — the private school he attends — from 5:00 to 9:00 p.m. He had come from a post-school lesson back to SPA to help pack equipment for his school-sponsored 12 person winter camping trip in The Boundary Waters. He was running late so there was no time to stop home first to drop off his cello and guitar, nor was there a room at school to lock up his instruments, so he locked them in his car. He positioned his car near the school and Ice Arena where there was a lot of activity, hockey practice and basketball games. Only the neck of the cello case could be seen down through the windows of the Toyota Tercel four-wheel drive wagon.

About 9:00 o’clock Fritz went to the car and unlocked it. He looked in the rear and saw his backpack but no cello or guitar. He then saw that his left rear window vent had been broken and that there was glass on the ground and in the car. He ran into school and fell to his knees, his head in his hands. A friend offered to call the police for Fritz and at 9:25 Officer McHarg arrived, then interviewed for it and filled out a report, deciding not to fingerprint the car.

Jack continues that sometime after 11:30 p.m. when he and Fritz went to bed a Sergeant Walsh called and left a message on the machine (the ringer on the bedroom phone is usually turned off) – that the police had a suspect and needed the guitar serial number. Jack says he has just called the police this morning but, being the weekend, no one there knows anything about Walsh's call. I feel a compelling need to hope so I urge Jack to call the police again and insist on talking to Walsh either at work or home. Jack's response is that I can't solve the case long distance from Oman, so how is the trip otherwise?

Not willing to kill the subject, I tell him where to find the cello appraisal in the desk drawer, that it was written by “House of Note” in St Louis Park (a Minneapolis suburb), and to remember to tell the police that the cello is a valuable instrument made in Cremona, Italy, at the turn of the century. I add that Wendell Mordy, our old neighbor and Fritz’s first cello teacher, would also know specifics about the cello. I reminded Jack that Wendell is in Tucson and tell him where to find his phone number. I suggest that Jack show the police pictures of the cello with Fritz then tell him where to find them noting which ones I think would be good: black and white for shape and features; color for hue and emotion. I reminded Jack that the F holes on the front are over carved – a distinguishing feature – as is its lighter atypical varnish color. (I am always slightly amazed by my ability to record details and become so task-oriented while under stress.) When I say that we have to get the cello back, Jack doesn't resist and promises to call the police again. He adds that I can do nothing from Oman. My stress level rises as I recognize that I must depend on Jack to act on details.

I give Jack my phone and room numbers so that he can call or Telex me if he gets the cello back, which he promises to do. I don't remember telling him much else of the trip. He closes his conversation saying he's glad I'm having such a good time. I close by reminding him to call or Telex on the cello before he leaves for his trip Thursday.

I then tell my roommate Leaetta Hough about the cello's theft. I tell her of its important to Fritz, that it was originally a loan from a Jack Baer in Cleveland who had heard through Dr. Mordy about Fritz's deafness as a baby and young child, and how he had overcome tremendous odds to learn a string instrument. I realize in the telling that this cello is not only Fritz's most important and valuable possession, but also the most meaningful and valuable object our family has. Now its lost makes me feel even more anxious.

At dinner that night I sit between two charming and astute women from the Omani Ministry of Social Affairs, Eisha and Ida. Well-traveled they tell me how they have yet been warned not to go to the United States, that they would be “hit and people would steal our gold rings and bracelets.” I tell them that theft is not such a big risk, particularly not in certain parts of the US such as mine. But then I tell them about the cello. I tell them of the importance of the cello to our son and family. I don't know if they are more astounded by the theft or by me – the fact that I have just said theft is not a problem where I live but that we have just had the sacred object stolen.

February 11 – 21, 1990

I receive no call, no Telex from Jack, and can't reach anyone at home when I call Tuesday and Wednesday. I give up trying by Thursday, February 15th, when I know that they will both have left. As my hopes fade, I find myself telling members of our group about the cello trying to keep it alive by telling and retelling its legend. My colleagues are mildly sympathetic to outraged but, coming from bigger more crime-ridden cities, no one is really hopeful. In a weak, patriotic gesture I don't tell other Omanis or the Moroccan hosts we meet later that week. However I do tell Chah Abaza, an old friend with whom I visit in Cairo. She adores Fritz and cannot understand why anyone would want to hurt him. I assure her that the thief probably didn't know him but, with that statement, I begin to wonder if another SPA student didn't take it; perhaps to harass Fritz out of jealousy or spite. Crime, particularly theft, is not unknown at SPA. All of our family, particularly Fritz, have criticized the administration's lax punishment of student delinquents.

Several mornings on the trip I awaken, realizing I dreamed about the cello and its loss. I feel so angry, frustrated, nauseous, and despairing. I see the cello in the icy Mississippi River; I see it broken and burned in a fire in a rural cabin; I see it in a pawn shop in Chicago; at a fence’s flat in Los Angeles. I never see it in our home anymore.

Thursday, February 22, 1990

We leave Casablanca in the morning and land 10 hours later in New York, I don't look forward to arriving in St. Paul since both Jack and Fritz are still gone. Luckily, our daughter Kristen, a junior at Barnard College in New York City, meets me, updates me and comforts me. She tells me that the police seem to have recovered Fritz's guitar, may have an idea who took it, but don't have the cello as far as she knows. I allow myself a bit of hope since I know that that her latest news is a week old, from when Jack left.

Kristen and I go on to talk about my trip, about her crew, music and college activities. Her enthusiasm for her life and endorsement of mine reaffirms me and girds me for the sleuthing ahead.

When I arrive in St. Paul at 10:30 p.m. I am met by Gerry Hannan, our housekeeper. I immediately ask her if she's heard anything on the cello, and she responds that it doesn't seem to be back but that there is a memo from Jack on it and a letter from the police.

I am greeted at home by our two Silver-tip Persians, Mandu and Sterling, who distract me for a few minutes. I then scan the mail on our bedroom dresser and do not find the police letter. Jack's memo indicates that the police are looking for someone, but his information is confusing, so I take a bath and go to bed about midnight, with only the two cats for comfort.

Friday, February 23, 1990

I awaken at 7 a.m. and search the mail pile for the police letter Gerry referred to. I find a letter dated Monday, February 12 (3 days ago), to call Theft between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. should I get further information on the case. I can't believe what I'm reading.

I watch the kitchen clock and at 8 o'clock I call Theft and get a Sgt. Hunziker on the phone. He informs me that Sgt. Leonard Peterson is working on the cello case and that the case number cited in my letter refers to a January incident (the theft of Fritz's skates from his car while parked on Kellogg Boulevard on a Sunday afternoon as he worked at the Deco Restaurant). I try to breeze over that case (it was our first theft ever and I don't want the police to get the idea that we are careless with our property and that this sort of thing happens to us all the time) and get to the case at hand. But in my jet lag haze I begin to see the skates theft as a warning which none of our family heeded.

Hunziker gives the cello case identification number, 90017076, and offers to have Sgt. Peterson call at 2 p.m. when he comes on duty, so I calmly thank him for all his help. In my exhaustion I try to keep in mind that I must listen carefully to my voice and words so I don't sound strident or frantic or frustrated. I recognize that I am not in control of this case; I don't like it, but I don't want to show it.

I pick up Jack's memo and re-read it. One of his opening statements is that our insurance agent is pessimistic about the cello's return. Well, I tell myself, this guy has never been a fighter, so his opinion on such things isn't worth much. I then learn that the police think they know who stole it since they arrested a woman and a man in a bar with the guitar. Another guy, a "known drug addict and crook" supposedly sold them the guitar in the first place and the police have a pick-up order for him, but hadn't found him by the time Jack left.

Jack comments that he finds it very frustrating dealing with the police because "they won't tell me a lot and they insist there is nothing more I can or should do. They just counsel us to sit tight." He adds that I'll find a letter in the file regarding the cello and guitar identification, that he and Fritz have contacted all the local pawn shops and music stores, and that he has put the cello on a watch list of the American Federation of Violin and Bow Makers. He closes: "I do not believe there is much else we can do."

I cry in exhaustion and frustration when I finish Jack's memo. I look for clues, for openings, while I wait to hear from Peterson.

I call Jack's secretary, Janet Smith, and ask her if she's mailed me a copy of the letter to the police which Jack referenced in his memo. She didn't, so I ask her to mail one to the house and to fax a copy to my office. I then call my office and after allowing only a few pleasantries about my trip, I alert my secretary, Maureen, to watch for the fax and to send it home with my neighbor and officemate, Molly Culligan.

In order to be fully up to speed when I talk to Peterson (or so I tell myself) I telephone Jack in San Moritz, Switzerland. His mother answers and cheerfully states that Jack has just come in from hang gliding. This makes me even angrier that he has left me with this mess while he goes off skiing, and now he is risking his life, leaving me with everything to solve. I give Jack a cursory greeting and ask him to tell me the whole story from Fritz's discovery of the theft, through the phone call that night, through the time he left. I press Jack to detail the actions he took. He says he kept asking the police if he shouldn't hire a private investigator, but the police said no, that they were doing all that could be done. I'm frustrated with this conversation, with the fact that Jack's letter to the police isn't here, that I have to gather up all these loose ends and that Jack is not much help. When Jack tells me he knew I'd figure it all out when I got home I start to cry and hang up on my useless, fun-loving spouse.

I unpack, wash clothes, and buy groceries, all to pass the time, not really to get my home life in order. I then notice that my dishwasher is not working and that the refrigerator is freezing all the food, including my new groceries. When the repairmen say that they can't come until Monday, pity myself for having such a disastrous homecoming.

I phone my relatives to inform them of my safe arrival. They all ask about the cello and in having to tell them the bad news I wonder if calling them was such a good idea. I realize that while I want to talk about the cello, at the same time, I hate to. It has been two weeks today since the cello was taken and I know that with every day passed, no, make that every hour, there is a lessened chance of recovery. I begin to feel that I am in the center of a negative environment.

About 1:45 I begin to check the clocks and my watch every few minutes until 2:25 when I call the Theft Division. Sgt. Peterson answers and says he was just about to call me. I want to believe him. He prefaces his remarks with an assertion that he and the police are doing all they can do, more in fact than they have to. To underscore the latter, he says he personally has been contacting and checking pawn shops for the cello. I respond that I realize this is "not a rape or homicide" in terms of crime importance, and that I am grateful for all his extra work.

Then I tell Sgt. Peterson the story of Fritz and the cello. I describe Fritz's deafness as a baby until surgery at age 3, and how a neighbor, Dr. Wendell Mordy, former President of the Science Museum of Minnesota, began to teach him the cello at age 7, a formidable undertaking since Fritz was tone-deaf at the time. I continue that Dr. Mordy later told a friend in Cleveland, an amateur cellist, about Fritz's accomplishments on the cello, and how this friend was inspired and kindly lent Fritz a good cello which we were later able to buy at a low price. I enumerate Fritz's cello performances at school, at church, at recitals and his current preparations for his senior solo recital. I rush on the Fritz is a good kid, an Eagle Scout and on the track team. (For no known reason, I think the police will be less helpful to an "artiste" so I try to balance Fritz, the musician, with Fritz, the OK Joe.) I am trying to get Peterson to attach this cello he has never seen with a person he has never met. I am trying to shape the dust of words and evidence, and breathe life into them, to bring my case back to life.

Using my absence as an excuse, I then ask Peterson to tell me about the case to date. I let slip that I have been out of the country and since Jack is overseas, I am unsure of the facts. Realizing my mistake I tell Peterson that this joint absence to different foreign places has never happened before, that Jack went at the last minute and was with his 71-year old mother. (Now I am afraid that the police will view us not only as eccentric music lovers, but as rich eccentric music lovers.) My back-pedalling is transparent for what it is, so I finally stop and wait to learn the facts.

Peterson patiently begins that on Friday evening, February 9, a known junkie and street person with a string of arrests, Duane, ("That's the only name I'll tell you," Peterson asserts when the name seems to accidentally slip out. I wonder if Duane is black or white; I hope he's white so that racial issues don't compound the case.) offers a bass guitar for sale at a West Seventh Street bar in St. Paul. A "snitch" calls the police with this information. The police go to an apartment where the instrument is supposedly for sale (a girlfriend's apartment where Duane lives on and off, notes Peterson). The police see another woman, not the girlfriend, walking out of the apartment with a bass guitar and arrest her. She says she doesn't know about a cello. The police then call Jack saying they have the guitar and a suspect. They don't hear back from Jack that night so they release the woman for lack of evidence.

When I question Peterson if the police searched the girlfriend's apartment for the cello he replies that the woman with the guitar said she bought it in a hallway, not in an apartment, so the police lacked probable cause. Citing the joint theft of the cello and guitar I probe this search issue, but Peterson shifts focus to the County Attorney who he says wouldn't give the police a search warrant.

I ask Peterson if there's a warrant out for Duane, and he says they can only issue a pick-up call for him and that he'll show up soon, certainly within two weeks. "You've got to understand, he's a street person, so he eventually shows up. We just don't know where to find him." But he adds the caveat that even when they find Duane, it's hard to learn much (much less recover the cello, I think) since "it's just one junkie testifying against another."

I suggest using the "snitch" for testimony, but Peterson quells that idea stating that the police won't release his name because they rely on snitches to help out. He infers he doesn't even know the name of the snitch in this case.

Trying to be logical I question Peterson about a getaway car to haul the cello and guitar from SPA to the bar (about 3 miles, I estimate), to the apartment. He says there was none, that Duane probably took a cab or got a ride. He reiterates that Duane is a street person who "works up and down Randolph breaking into cars.”  This sounds wrong to me since Randolph is a long street and you'd certainly need a car to transport goods, particularly big items like a cello.

I try to interest Peterson in understanding why a thief would want to steal something so offbeat, so big as a cello, so hard to dump. Peterson's only comment is that he'll probably never steal a cello again.

In an attempt to incite action on the case, I return to the issue of a search warrant for the girlfriend's apartment. Peterson responds that he's going back to the county attorney Monday; clearly the county attorney is the culprit in this dialogue. Since Peterson's voice shows a desire to get off the phone, I close by asking him what's happened since the arrest and release of the woman with the bass guitar. He mentions the notification of pawn and antique shops, adding that he didn't even know what a cello was when the case started. I both appreciate and am dismayed by his honesty. The case sounds dead to me, so I thank him again and hang up.

I look over my notes and underscore my new knowledge, that the guitar wasn't sold in a bar as Jack thought, but was offered for sale there and sold elsewhere. But the discovery of this fact, coupled with Peterson's insistence that there was no getaway car, makes it apparent to me that the police are trying to give us minimal information, even if it doesn't make sense. I cry for a while then clear my eyes and focus on the county attorney issue.

I call Jack's law firm, Holmes and Graven, and ask to speak to a lawyer who knows something about criminal law, search warrants, and county attorneys. The receptionist transfers me to a lawyer whom I don't know; I articulate the case facts and ask how best to deal with the county attorney. He says he'll check it out. He calls me back within ten minutes, saying he called Peterson who was very nice and assured him that the police were doing all they could. I thank the attorney but caution myself that I've just wasted a chit by making this useless, and probably bothersome call to the police. My relationship with them can withstand only a limited number of interactions, I think, and I must position each carefully lest they stonewall me out of annoyance.

I then remember that a former County Attorney, Bill Randall, works at Jack's old law firm, Doherty, Rumble and Butler. I call him only to learn that he is out until March 5, so I ask to speak to another attorney there, Bill Cosgriff who's an old friend. But he's on the phone so I leave a message and request to speak to anyone else there who knows about criminal law since I need help quickly. The receptionist says there might be, that she'll look into it and call back. Within a few minutes Dave Martin, whom I know, phones me and listens to my recitation of the events and conclusion that the county attorney is the roadblock. He conference calls a criminal attorney in Minneapolis, a Mark Peterson (The irony of dealing with two Petersons doesn't occur to me; in a Scandinavian town one hardly notices such things.), to whom I repeat the facts, then give the go-ahead to call the County Attorney. Peterson calls back at 4:20 and his voice conveys disgust and disgruntlement with the system--the same feelings I have; I already like him, even before he says anything of substance. He relates that when he called the C.A.'s office at 4:10 that he couldn't get anyone "to walk across the room to get the records" even though the office isn't supposed to close until 4:30. We'll have to wait until Monday to get any information. (I instantly castigate myself silently for thinking and moving too slowly since 2:30 when I talked with the police. Now I'm going to lose two more precious days.)

I ask Mark Peterson to press ahead on Monday, and says he'd love to help out but he's leaving Saturday for Mexico for a week. When I ask for his advice, he states that the case is already stale, that I'm clearly going to have to get the records from the county attorney, and that once I do, I should probably hire a private investigator to work on the case. He adds that I can't expect much help from the police since they figure I'm rich and can buy another cello, so why should they care. He concludes with the name of a St. Paul associate attorney to call Monday and offers to brief him on the case.

I am disoriented. I know what to do but know that I can't do anything for two and a half days, and the one person who seems to know what to do is going to a beach! It is only 4:30 on Friday afternoon and I feel so helpless, so lied to, and so late. I cry some more.

But since I can't allow myself to give up, I decide to call the Mayor, Jim Scheibel, to ask him to urge the police to help us. Both he and his chief of staff, Tom Welna, are busy, so I ask the receptionist to have Tom call be today since we have a time sensitive problem which needs immediate action.

About 5 p.m. John Koziol, Fritz's Jazz Ensemble conductor, calls and asks that Fritz attend their 1 p.m. rehearsal tomorrow, Saturday. I reply that I don't think he'll be back from his camping trip, and that he doesn't have a guitar here, as far as I can tell. Koziol says he'll get another guitar for Fritz, that he sent the I.D. information on the stolen one to the police, and hopes we can get it back soon.

Right after hanging up my neighbor and office mate, Molly Culligan, drops off the fax of Jack's letter to the police. She also invites me to go with her and her husband to an art show opening.

When I plead a desire to go to bed early to recover from my jet lag, she applauds my sensibility. I think she also senses my stress, but as a good friend she is both willing to listen and to leave me alone.

I am pleased with the tone and content of Jack's letter. He expresses gratitude for the guitar's recovery, but is wary about the cello's fate due to its value, uniqueness and the possibility that the suspect will realize the heat is on and dispose of it. He states he would "appreciate any extra effort the squads could put in in picking up this bum;" he sounds pleading, not convinced the police will do what he asks.

Jack goes on to describe the cello in detail. He cites its yellow/gold color "as opposed to the dark brown one traditionally finds in a cello." He tells Sgt. Peterson that it was built in 1902 in Cremona, Italy by Romeo Antoniazzi. (Why doesn't he tell them this is the Cremona, where Amatis, Guarneris and Stradivaris--all the great string instruments were made.) He notes the accompanying Neuderfer bow (Why not tell them that bows can cost up to $50,000, often as much as the string instrument?). He describes the black hardshell leatherette case (but neglects to mention that it cost $800 new 10 years ago), and says the case has a "Westec Security Systems" sticker on the outside. (He doesn't divulge that Fritz's speech teacher, Barbara Winthrop, had given him that sticker over a year ago after the Winthrops had installed a security system after their house had been burgled. I think of how sick and violated Barbara felt after their robbery; I think I finally know that same sickness. My sympathy toward her at the time was genuine; but today, 18 months later, I truly feel the right sorrow for her because I feel it for myself.

Reading the details of the cello makes me realize even more what is gone, so I cry again. Now I'm angry that the letter, which seemed good when I started reading it, isn't more passionate, even though it’s quite emotional for Jack. But I re-read it and decide its adequate, even good. It’s all I have and I need all the hope I can muster.

I then begin to wonder if I should feel unsafe and afraid.

Haven't I noticed some cars driving down our road slowly, perhaps checking to see if anyone's home? Of course, I realize, there was probably Fritz's name and phone number on both instrument cases; certainly his name was on his music. I turn on the outside flood lights and close the curtains. I decide we really do need a home security system.

Finally, about 8 p.m. I go to bed. I think about the theft exactly two weeks ago, only tonight is moonless. I wonder if the thief is sleeping on the street, or more likely, breaking into cars to get goods to trade to feed his drug habit. I can't sleep so I take a Halcion, usually reserved for overseas travel adjustment, and collapse, crying.

Saturday, February 24, 1990

I awake about 5:30 a.m. and list the questions I have and actions I can take to revive the case. "Why was no search warrant issued that night?"; "How did Duane move the cello and guitar around?" I mull over the inadequacy of Peterson's version of the crime. The fact that he told me more than he told Jack makes me hope there is more to tell. But will he?

I list actions: hire investigator; place ad; write articles (for newspaper). I list people to call, people who can help reactivate the police and motivate the seemingly obstructive County Attorney: John Mannillo (a good friend of the Mayor); Sherm Winthrop (attorney, husband of Barbara Winthrop, and our children's legal guardian); George Latimer (former Mayor, good friend who's always liked Fritz).

At 8:30 I call Jack in Lucerne where it’s mid-afternoon. According to the front desk he's not arrived but should be in by dinnertime. I leave a message to call home immediately regarding the theft.

At 9 a.m. I call John Mannillo (he's always up early, though this seems late), tell him the story to date and ask him to intercede with the Mayor since I never heard back from his office. I suggest I may have to give this story to the newspapers (In my mind I select Nick Coleman since he always seems to like a scandal.) and am mildly horrified when John says that's probably a good idea. (I really think this should be my last resort when all else fails; since he thinks it’s appropriate now he must think the case is hopeless.) I thank John.

I phone George Latimer but his daughter, Kate, says he's already left and she doesn't know when he'll be back, but will leave a message. Once again I berate myself for being late--my attempts to be considerate and polite are further delaying me. I clearly see the cello in the river. I call the Winthrops and tell Barbara the situation and add that time is at issue. She relates how they had spent a week after their robbery listing and getting prices on all their stolen items (which included a lot of handmade jewelry and artifacts) and how the police urged them to complete it within a week, and how the police simply took it and filed it. All that work! I tell Barbara that I now better understand how victimized she felt when she was robbed. Though she and Sherm are leaving to play tennis she calls him to the phone. I try to sound reasonable and not too anxious as I tell Sherm the story and ask how to get the records from the County Attorney.  He says to call the head, Tom Foley, on Monday and to give him Sherm's name (So I won't sound like a fanatic or nut-case, I think; I appreciate I have connections who can vouch for my sanity. Then I think it’s crazy that I have to have connections and sanity­vouchings to get anywhere. But I appreciate I haven't called in these chits before and am glad for my past political fundraising deeds--even though they were usually done without great love and enthusiasm, more out of duty and desire not to see the opponent win.)

"Not this weekend?," I ask Sherm. No, he says, nothing can be done before Monday since no one is in the office. (How does he know that? We must have some business-like civic employees who work weekends and can be called at home. But I know they probably get enough weekend 'emergencies' and besides, Foley's useless to me without the files at hand.) Sherm closes by giving me his direct office number and says to call him after I've talked to Foley. Sherm's a great guy.

Mannillo then calls and says Jim Scheibel is out for a few hours but he's told his wife, Mary Pat, the story and she'll have Jim call me.  In its retelling I realize John thinks the theft just occurred so I correct him on the date.  I think I should call Mary Pat and tell her it happened two weeks ago, and that that is why police attention is so critical for the trail is cooling, if not erased.  But I think I may have to use this information later as an excuse to call Scheibel if I don't hear from him.

Who else can help me with Foley? I think of Judge Roland Faricy who married a good friend of mine, Sheila Higby, within the past few years. Sheila's musical, having sung with me in the Bach Society for 5 years (she sang in my ear to help me out but never mentioned my deficiency). We've had them over to a party, they've invited us over, we just went to a dance together in November, they've met our kids, he knows something about music. Yes. So I call Rollie at home but all I get is a recording so I leave a message.

Bill Cosgriff returns my call and although he has no suggestions about Foley, he reports that he, too, has been a multiple victim of car break-ins. He parks his car in a reserved section of the World Trade Center garage which is supposedly under surveillance, and twice his car window has been broken and a seemingly unvaluable item, such as an overcoat, was stolen. We discuss how a cheap drug like crack makes us all more likely victims of such thefts.

Fritz calls from the northwoods, having just gotten off trail, and says he had a fabulous time. No, he won't be able to make the rehearsal, and he will get in sometime after 5:30. He asks if we have the cello, and sounds sad when I reply that I'm working hard on the case.

Around lunchtime (I find I'm not too hungry, but decide that's one good side-effect) a man calls for Fritz while I'm reviewing my "crime notes" while sitting at the kitchen table. I reply that Fritz won't be back until the evening so he asks me to have him call him. He is David Muller, head of the Music Department at Whittier College in California, where Fritz has applied. Muller has called to find out if Fritz is going to apply for a half-tuition scholarship on cello and if so to send a tape by March 10. I tell him about the cello's theft and then relate the whole story of Fritz and how he got his cello. I regretfully comment that even if Fritz were to get the cello back it would be tough to prepare a tape.

Somewhat fishing for information, I truthfully tell Muller that we were thinking of taking Fritz to see Whittier the week of March 17 or 24, assuming he's accepted at Whittier. Muller says great, live auditions are March 17, so Fritz could gain extra time and probably do a better audition. Muller affirms that his call is a positive sign of Whittier's interest and probably acceptance of Fritz. I raise my level of enthusiasm for Whittier, ask him some questions about it, and suggest he read Fritz's recommendation to Whittier from John Koziol.

He promises to go to the Admissions Office and read Fritz's file. Then, to wish the cello back, I visualize Fritz's playing an audition in California, then I begin to think of all the problems getting the cello there (It has to ride full fare in a seat; the luggage hold is too dangerous), much less his preparing enough music after so little recent practice. I edit the vision back to "seeing" Fritz playing the audition so that I can bolster my hopes. I thank Muller for his call. I realize I have just gathered two bows for my quiver: another story/reason/cause to obtain the cello; a probable college acceptance which I know will cheer Fritz, as it has cheered me.

About 3 p.m. I call Jack again, when its 10 p.m. in Lucerne. His mother answers, asserts they got no message from me, and starts to chit chat about the lovely room they have, the great view, how sick Jack is, etc. I am pleasant but brief and ask to speak to Jack. I relate the new information I've garnered from Peterson about the guitar sale locale, and ask him if the police mentioned a search warrant and its denial by the County Attorney. Jack replied that since he had only been told of the guitar being offered and sold in the bar, there was no reason to suggest a search warrant since he knew of no place to search. Jack endorses my focus on the County Attorney. He's really sounds sick as I talk to him, coughing deeply and relaying how he could barely pack up this morning for Lucerne. I don’t feel too sympathetic, however, since I know he's being punished for leaving me with this mess to untangle. I just wish he'd get home so I could talk to him (berate him?) in person.

Since I still haven't heard from Mayor Scheibel, I call him around 4. He answers and says they are walking out the door, so I ask for two minutes. I explain I'm calling to correct the information given Mary Pat that the cello was just stolen, then describe the cello's import to Fritz and us. He responds that he'll call Police Chief McCutcheon Monday and ensure the case gets attended to. I thank Jim but realize from his cordial, but mildly impatient tone that this request is another small headache at a time of bigger problems such as trying to fire the Fire Chief. But then, I rationalize, we did host a big fund raiser for Jim at our home last summer just 6 days after Jack's father's funeral, no small imposition. I don't expect Jim to go to the mat for us, but just hope he remembers to follow up with McCutcheon.

Around 5:30, after several cups of herbal tea (so I don't get too jittery) I leave to pick up my photo prints of the trip and to get Fritz at school. I arrive at Shutterbug in the cold, clear twilight, and as I exit the car I notice that my garage door opener is caught on my purse strap. I decide to leave it hanging since I've already shut the car door. After getting the 12 film packets I drive the two blocks to Fritz's school and park in the same lot where his car was parked 15 days ago when the instruments were stolen. The lot is fairly full, with activity in both the gym and hockey rink. I walk into the unlocked side entrance of the gym building and up half a flight of steps when I realize I am too frightened to proceed further. I return to the safety of my car where I sit for a while waiting for the bus. I write down the license number of an old beater whose dissolute-looking driver had preceded me up the gym stairwell. What several weeks earlier would have been a boring, but carefree marking of time, has now become a time of sensory alert as I watch for the thief or potential marauders.

I finally decide I'm too early so I drive the two miles home to await Fritz's call. As I approach our garage I reach for the opener and can't locate it. I rush back to the school and search my former parking space in the dark, thinking it might have fallen out when I entered the gym, but cannot find it. I rush back to Shutterbug at 6:10 (ten minutes past closing) and see the clerk driving out. I honk but he won't stop, won't even look at me. I walk around the store entrance and lot but to no avail.

I drive slowly back to school, realizing I am stressed--maybe even stressed out, so I must be exceedingly careful. I also realize that I have no key to our house (I'd removed the outside hidden key Friday night) and I'm not sure my neighbor with an extra key, Molly Culligan is home.

I call Gerry Hannan, our housekeeper, and her son says she's just gone bowling and thinks she has our key on her car ring.

Fritz's bus then arrives and we hug hard, glad to see that the other is safely home. I express my sympathy for him about the cello, tell him about the house key problem, and ask him to call the Culligans for a key. Fritz calls and reports no one home, so he rejoins his group to help unpack gear. While I wait for him to finish, I return to my survey of the lot for suspicious characters and record a few more license plate numbers. One car of particular interest is a beat-up wagon with Colorado plates which is occupied by two Indians who have left the gym three times during my wait, turned on the car motor and hefted gulps of liquor from pint bottles. I try to see and remember their faces. I realize I need to know the face of my attacker.

When Fritz finally finishes after a half hour I ask him to show me where exactly his car was parked during the theft. He positions it in the first row by the school, not in a dark corner by Randolph Avenue. The thief must have walked around peering into each vehicle, while a cohort drove a car, screening the search and seizure. Fritz remarks that he once took his cello out the rear door rather than from the trunk and how difficult, cumbersome and time consuming it was to pull it around the seat and out the door. We agree that the thief must have really worked hard at it.

We drive the 15 miles to our summer cabin at White Bear Lake where I am pretty sure there is a house key. On the way Fritz tells me about his 10-day excursion, then talks more about the theft. He articulates how despairing he felt when he discovered the broken window and missing instruments, how he ran into school and fell to his knees, sobbing. He tells how he pulled himself together to talk to the police and how he wondered why the thief hadn't taken his Walkman out of his backpack.  I learn that the games that night were over about 7:15, so the theft probably occurred between 7:30 and 9:00 when the only people at SPA were the winter campers, and people were no longer walking in and out of the gym and hockey rink. I deduce that Duane acted when there were no longer cars parked alongside Fritz's, in order to have room to wrestle the cello out. Yes, there definitely had to be another car to provide a screen in case someone did walk into the lot. What brazenness, what desperation, what bastards!

I caution Fritz that my losing the opener is a sign of nervousness and that under such stress we must take extra caution not to get into accidents. Clearly my lecture about calm in the face of storm is making Fritz more anxious, negating the healing of his wilderness retreat. While I don't want to upset him, I feel that we are readying ourselves for a private war and we must be psychologically armed and aware. Fritz then confesses his fear of Dr. Mordy's disappointment when he learns the fate of the cello he secured for Fritz. I tell him we will find it first before we need to tell him anything. This soothes Fritz.

We arrive at the log cabin, our place of rest and retreat, and fortunately find three keys which look like ones to our house in town. I secretly hope these aren't my old office keys. I wish Fritz and I could stay at the cabin for a while, light a fire and relax, but I know I'm not capable of letting go. I feel extremely alert, so I falsely assert that things are already looking up, and we drive home.

About 8:30 p.m. Judge Roland Faricy calls and apologizes for not having called sooner, but he and Sheila just walked in from a vacation in Cozumel. I have the sense to chat sociably about Cozumel and scuba diving there, before launching into a description of my plight.

During the discourse, Rollie interrupts when I mention the thief's name, Duane, to suggest it sounds like the work of Duane M. (some French last name I don't catch). I am grateful for this tidbit: I will be able to learn the name of my assaulter and he's probably white, so fears of racism charges won't muddy my pursuit.

Rollie suggests I not pressure Foley, since he's an elected official, but instead call one of two career assistant attorneys who deal with criminal cases: Jim Koener or Paul Lindholm. Rollie says to give them his name, then adds his direct work phone number for me and them. I apologize for causing so much trouble, repeating my "I realize it’s not a rape or homicide" line, but Rollie enthusiastically supports my involvement. "Remember you're working with bureaucrats, and only a squeaky hinge will get any attention." At this moment I love Rollie Faricy. He barely knows me, and I don't think he's even met Fritz, but he wholeheartedly cheers me on. I am glad he married my friend.

After a few loads of wash I go to bed and consider whether or not I should buy a gun to defend myself in case the thieves decide we're worth another hit. At least I feel safer tonight with Fritz at home, I tell myself, as I take the hated sleeping pill.

Sunday, February 25, 1990

I awaken alert and in my bunker mentality. Despite my tautness, I still make the usual Sunday-breakfast buttermilk pancakes, counseling myself that normal routines will help maintain sane behavior. But as I flip the first six wafers I decide to skip church. Too much needs to be done although, in truth, I'm sure what I can accomplish before Monday.

I review my list of questions for Peterson or the County Attorney (re. search warrant and car) and add another: “Duane knows our name.”

Should I demand police protection? I re-write my action list, titling it "My Recourse," and add to the three previous actions (hire investigator, place ad and contact newspaper reporters) a fourth, "Offer reward, no questions asked."

As I'm reading the classifieds to check on cellos for sale (none), John Mannillo calls and relates that he saw Scheibel and understands he called. When I respond that I initiated the follow-up Mannillo sounds disappointed that Scheibel hadn't called; John knows I felt let down by Scheibel's campaign staff last summer. So I offer that no matter who made the contact, I'm sure Jim will get the police moving. In my heart I'm not sure Jim will or can.

I begin to read the newspaper and suddenly realize that a Bach cello partita is playing in the background. My stomach contracts: Fritz learned this piece early (It was really too advanced for his technique at the time, but we were delighted with it, as was Darryl Skobba, St. Paul Chamber Orchestra cellist, when he heard that 8-year­ old blond boy play it for his Greater Twin Cities Youth Symphony audition.) I used to feel joyful when I heard that partita; now it sickens me with a sense of loss.

Fritz arrives for breakfast a few minutes after the piece ends and doesn't notice or ignores my tears. I casually interrupt his reading the comics to ask him what he'd do if he met the thief. "I'd punch him and try to kill him. I hate him.” I am startled by the violence of his emotion. I say I know he's angry, but that we must not be dragged down to the level of our victimizers. I continue that my anger has caused me to think of getting a gun, but I've dismissed this as unwise since it only puts our family at risk of being hurt. I state that we are so lucky we have friends we can call upon to help us. Suppose we were poor and knew no "connections" or were afraid to ask for help, how dejected we would feel. Fritz agrees, but I intuit he doesn't think he could feel any worse, more helpless than he does.

I ask Fritz more about the case, why the police didn't fingerprint the car (they said it would be useless), why they still have the guitar (I add this to my list of questions), and which pawn and music shops did he and Dad call? Did the police notify Minneapolis or Duluth (add to list of questions)? I remember when Jack's car was stolen 20 years ago (his sister left the keys in the ignition at a shopping mall!) we learned that the Minneapolis police would not be notified for a week, and then only by mail, even though we live just a few miles from the St. Paul/Minneapolis border. Was his name on the instruments? (Yes, full name and number on guitar case; name on all music in both cases.) I sicken.

I have gone too far, pressed Fritz too hard. With tears in his eyes he angrily retorts that I'm making him feel even more terrible. He feels awful about the cello and at least the camping trip helped him relax. I apologize and say I know this has to hurt him the most, particularly because of his anxiety regarding Dr. Mordy's reaction. I confirm I am working hard on this case for him, no, for all of us. I recognize that Fritz feels as helpless as I, maybe more so. Certainly he blames himself for leaving the instruments visible that night, even though he had done the same thing tens if not hundreds of times before. I also realize that I will have to solve the case by myself, involving Fritz only minimally and only where he can solve an issue. I again feel angry with Jack, that he was so useless when he was home in the early days after the crime.

About noon Jane McKim calls to thank me for helping her daughter with her college applications and to announce that she's been accepted at her first choice, St. Mary's. Hearing my reserved voice, Jane asks me if I’m OK, and I confess it’s not just jet lag, but our stolen cello and need to jolt the County Attorney. Jane suggests husband Mike is good friends with Tom Foley and she'll have him call this evening, when he returns from skiing with the boys. I feel a bit hopeful that things might get moving today, but try not to get too excited.

About 3 p.m., while sorting laundry in the guest bedroom, ex­ Mayor George Latimer calls and apologizes for not having responded sooner, he just found Kate's message. I explain the situation, adding the new twist about the scholarship opportunity. George relates that he remembers how Fritz got the cello, and how important and wonderful a gift it was, so how terrible this must be for us, and yes, how with each day that passes there is less chance of getting it back. His sympathy is genuine and unbounded for us and for Fritz, whom he has always liked and supported. I can practically hear George shaking his head over the phone. He makes me feel glad that I called him.

I report that, in the interest of not getting too many players crossing wires, I've already spoken with Scheibel and he's going to McCutcheon Monday. George confirms the importance of keeping everyone informed and updated so we don't get folks doubling up, but gee, McCutcheon is gone this week, too bad, he was just with him and could have appealed then to him. He concludes that he'll call police headquarters Monday, that not much can be accomplished today.

But about 10 minutes later George calls back and says that thinking about the importance of not losing more time, he's already called headquarters and talked to a Captain Kunz ("a real good old­ fashioned cop"). He doesn't recall a cello theft, but will call me for details.

When Kunz calls I relate the story and tell him the thief's first name is Duane. He notes the date, looks up the case and states the thief's name is Duane Franek (I grab my notebook and record the name), "a real thorn in our side." Kunz says Franek has been a steady offender for some time (I mentally note he must not be a teenager), always committing theft, but not real bad. Kunz claims he doesn't see a pick-up call for Franek, but then after two weeks, such things fade; in fact a theft gets cold after a few days with no solution.  Kunz ends that he'll have a Sgt. Alexander call me for details so they can start looking (seemingly again) for Franek. I so appreciate Kunz's straightforward manner and openness that I pull out my action list and change the phrase "demand police protection" to "ask for protection."

Sgt. Alexander phones almost immediately and summarizes the story as he's heard it, and says they'll start looking for Franek. I feel elated that we're getting action before Monday.

I pull out the White Pages and search for Franeks and find three in St. Paul and five in Minneapolis, including a Duane in Bloomington (the other four are across the river in the Shakopee area). Since I know our Duane hangs out in St. Paul, I pick out a Franek on California Avenue (the other two addresses are in the suburbs of Newport and St. Paul Park) which I think is in a less affluent section of town and call. When no one answers I am relieved, since I wasn't quite sure what pretense I'd use to ask to speak with Duane (who I assume is their son or brother.)

I review my list of questions, adding two: "Have Duane's relatives and friends been questioned?" and "Can we wiretap his girlfriend's line?" Since Duane's actions are affecting our whole family, why shouldn't we pressure and embarrass his?

Now that I have a last name I want to locate my assaulter, so I try to think of whom I know who might have run across Franek. I phone Frank Kennedy, a shirttail relative of my sister's husband who lives in Shakopee (the home of two Franeks, and nearby two others). Frank Kennedy, about 58, works on a roofing material assembly line in Shakopee where he lives in a rooming house. He often stops here to chat and have lunch on his way downtown to get a haircut at the Barber College; I know that he sometimes stops for a beer at a W. 7th Street bar, perhaps the bar where the guitar was proffered.

After I explain the situation to Frank, he asserts he doesn't know any Franeks in Shakopee and that he'd never been at the Grand 7 Bar. "But, but Linda, I'll ask around Shakopee." I urge Frank not to get too active since I'm not sure this is the same family, but yes, ask around. Realizing that Frank is a sweet coward, I don't think he'll go too far. I feel guilty I've insinuated that he might know someone like Duane Franek, but I rationalize that since Frank isn't too smart, he won't feel insulted, I hope.

I pursue this idea and call Terri Timmerman who used to care for our kids while she was finishing college. She was always talking about an (unrelated) younger "cousin," Lynnette, who I recalled, had at least two children by a drug user and/or dealer. Lynnette used to hang out downtown and was a constant source of frustration to Terri who was always trying to help her improve her soap opera-like existence. I explain to Terri that I am trying to find someone who might know Franek. She replies that Lynnette is still "screwed up" and now has four kids by the druggie whom she married and lives within White Bear Lake. I apologize for the inference and Terry wearily says she understands and that she's given up on Lynnette.

As I listen to myself I decide I'm pushing too hard, going too far. On the other hand, I feel a little good that besides knowing people in power I also know some folks who might have the necessary bad connections. But I'm forced to admit that I'm just excusing my insulting behavior, I'll have to find other ways to touch Franek, to get him to learn the story of the cello.

I decide to go to bed to relax with my cats and read the New Yorker about Lyndon Johnson's 1948 primary election misdeeds. About 8:30 p.m. Fritz awakens me and its Mike McKim. Mike's response to my story awakens and revitalizes me: we have to call Foley tonight, he insists. Mike finds Foley's home phone number and we do a conference call, but get the message machine.

Mike is undaunted, however, and decided to call Leslie Morsted, an assistant County Attorney. We interrupt her while entertaining friends, and Mike launches into the story of the cello, adding the information on the scholarship. When he reports that the police are attributing the stalemate to her office, Leslie says that although she’s not familiar with the case, she’ll get on it first thing in the morning and call me. After she hangs up Mike cautions that she's fairly inexperienced, so may not be able to do a lot.

Within the hour Mike calls again and says he talked to Foley who promises that he and Leslie will get on the case and call by 10 a.m. tomorrow. I don't sleep well, but I comfort myself with the hope that activity will bring progress.

Monday, February 26, 1990

I awaken about 6 a.m. and since I know its several hours before I hear from the County Attorney, I go over my list of questions and suggestions for the police and C.A. I add an eighth: "Alert girlfriend's apartment owner to check garbage for a cello." I think that any sane person would throw the cello away as the case heats up. I hope Duane isn't totally sane.

After Fritz leaves for school at 7:45 I decide to suggest that the school principal make an announcement warning kids about leaving goods visible in their cars (Didn't Peterson warn that these thieves worked up and down Randolph Avenue where the school is located?) and to request any witnesses to speak up. About 8:05 I call SPA and ask to speak to Pat McCart, the principal, and the receptionist claims she's          not in, so I suggest announcement material for today's school assemblies.

I then ask for the list of groups which used the gym and rink the night of the robbery (many schools rent SPA's facilities) and am switched to the Athletic Department. The hockey coach, Mike Foley, finds the calendar: at 5 p.m. there was a SPA/Blake (another private school) basketball game in the gym, with no more activity when the game ended around 7; the ice arena was used by Mendota/Eagan (affluent suburban school) for practice from 7:30 to 10. While these private and suburban schools may have thieves among them, it’s unlikely they would be the West 7th street people and junkies I'm looking for.

Foley suggests I call the SPA security officer, Ray Zopf, the first I've known of his existence. When I call Zapf and ask him if he had seen any suspicious types in the lot the night of the theft, he launches into a description of his travails that evening, how he never got to check the lot since he was guarding the school labs and other equipment from the cleaning crew and persons unknown; evidently Fritz's camping group had insisted on unlocking all the outside doors in order to haul equipment back and forth. I thank Zopf and tell him I never appreciated until now the extent of the school's security problems.

I initiate some housekeeping calls: to Barbara Winthrop for the name of her contact at Westec Security, and to my office to announce there's no way I'll get in today. About 10:30 Leslie Morsted reports she can find no record of the case, but she'll look further. Within the hour a Chuck Bolck reaches me and identifies himself as the prosecuting attorney on the case. I launch into the full story of Fritz and the cello, and he states his sympathy since his daughter's clarinet was just stolen. I learn it was stolen from her desk at Webster Magnet, where our kids went to elementary school.

We return to my case and after I tell him the little I know, he states that it was an off-duty cop who saw a person walk out of the apartment with the goods. I ask about the cello and Bolck pleads he'll have to pull the file and get back to me this afternoon. He seems eager to help, so I relate that Peterson is coming to him for search warrant authorization today; Bolck says fine, he'll also make sure Peterson updates his file so that it's complete. We agree that if I don't hear from him by 2:30 I will call him just before my 4 o'clock meeting in Minneapolis. I am elated by Bolck's solicitous attitude, but wonder how active the case is since he doesn't seem to remember much about it. I also wonder how diligent the police have actually been and what has really happened during the past two and a half weeks.

Mike McKim calls to find out what happened with the County Attorney and I am amazed and grateful for his concern and action. He suggests I start looking for a private investigator and offers a few names. I'm really not sure I'm ready for this escalation of the battle, but Mike comments that once we have the names of the suspects from the County Attorney, we'll need to get into action. He underscores one particularly experienced person, a Lebanese fellow who works as a probation officer, is sure to know Franek's kind of crowd and "is good at getting information out of them." I don't think I'm ready to pay for violence to others, not yet at least.

Judy Ranheim, good friend, flutist, mother of a French horn player and a cellist, brings over Vietnamese food for lunch when I decline her invitation to go out and relax. She listens to my travails and suggests others who should be notified: the Musicians' Union in St. Paul (to keep a lookout and to publish a notice in their magazine) and Manny Laureano, trumpeter in the Minnesota Orchestra. I say I will, but frankly I feel overwhelmed by the hundreds or thousands of people I'll need to reach to watch for the cello. I rather focus on the thief at hand, and not admit the possibility of a wider search arena.

Mike McKim offers more names of private investigators and via conference call we leave messages for a few of them. Since I'm not truly committed to this course of action at this point, I'm somewhat relieved when none has called back by the time I leave for my St. Thomas Business School Board meeting at the Minneapolis Club.

After cursory greetings to the group, I duck out about 3:50 with notebook in hand to call Chuck Bolck. Sitting in a cramped, stuffy booth on the second floor of the club, I hear Bolck enthusiastically thank me for getting back to him. He then summarizes the case to date, throwing out names and addresses as if he's filling in the blanks for me, when in fact I know almost nothing. Writing furiously, this is what I learn:

Initially a William Miller, Jr. (the snitch Peterson referenced) called police, as reported by an Officer Langbehn, that a Duane Franek and Dennis Jarvis were offering a guitar and cello for sale for $125 (I sicken at the price) at the Grand 7 Bar. Franek's car supposedly had the instruments in the trunk. The police then went to Montcalm Estates apartments on Randolph and Lexington (a mile from our house) where the instruments were being sold, and saw Jarvis and a Catherine Mootz carry out a guitar. They drove off, were arrested and booked.

Mootz said she'd bought the guitar from Franek for $50 in the apartment hallway.

I ask Bolck if anyone then searched the apartment or car, especially since this is Franek's girlfriend's home, and he says that for some reason, no, and besides Franek lives elsewhere, 9-something James, with his girlfriend. I can't believe what Bolck is saying: Franek is not a street person. He lives in a house, drives a car and is probably older than I first thought. I realize that Franek was offering both a cello and guitar for sale, not just the guitar, as Peterson reported. I also realize the police really did screw up that night by not searching the car or apartment; they probably lost interest when they couldn't prosecute.

Bolck is willing to answer my questions but I'm too stunned to know what else to ask. I thank him and return to my meeting. I explain my tardy entry and the businessmen on the board look puzzled when I tell them I'm searching for a drug addict who has our son's 1902 Italian cello. I realize this sounds absurd so I turn to review St. Thomas' strategic plan. I listen to myself expressing strong, articulate opinions, though in the end I decide I talked too much.

I skip the Board dinner to pick up Jack at the airport. I carry a black face veil with eye slits, plus a head covering, both which I bought in a market in Oman and have decided to wear when I greet Jack (evidence of my old fun-loving pre-crime self!). I race to the gate and as I hear them announce the plane's landing I duck into the ladies' room to "mask up." Women stare strangely at me as I tie on the face veil and try to wrap the headpiece. I feel compelled to explain this is all a joke for greeting my husband, I think they think I look bizarre, if not dangerous. I can hear the passengers walk by the door and I run out, only to realize I've missed Jack, but long enough to hear a gate clerk sarcastically comment "Get a load of this nut." I realize they are referring to me and I rip the mask off and head for the baggage claim. I feel crazy enough these days as a sleuth, and don't need any more snide asides.

Jack looks wonderful to me, trim, tan and handsome. I hug him then try to rehang my veil, but it's hard without a mirror. He laughs and says he's really sorry he didn't see me masked at the gate. I realize what a good audience he is and decide it’s not worth being too angry at him over this cello mess. These tender emotions do not prevent me from berating him when we get home and I'm updating him on my progress. When he reasserts his comfort leaving the case to my abilities to get action, I snap back that we lost one good week of work when he left with his family.

Jack adds one interesting bit of information. He thinks the police got distracted from the case when the following week a few bodies were found in the Mississippi. The first, on Monday, was a young boy's body, decapitated and missing his hands and a foot; people thought it might be Jacob Wetterling, a 12 year old kidnapped last fall from St. Cloud, and the subject of many searches and much mourning. After a second body was found, the police reported that both bodies were embalmed and the dismemberment was the work of some bizarre, devil-worshipping, grave-robbing cult.

I shudder and recall that just before we bought our cabin, there had been a break-in and inhabitation by an occult group for several weekends. We saw the painted goats’ heads, splashed with mock blood, which seemed the focus of their altar, surrounded with occult symbols and many candles. The leaders of the celebrations turned out to be nearby residents, a brother and sister at a Catholic school who invited their friends over. My tortured mind begins to connect them with these embalmed bodies; could they also be connected with the cello? (I had let their parents know that we knew their identity; could this have led them to retribution?)

I decide this is too far-fetched, though not impossible given my recent far-fetched experiences. I return to describing my information about the case to Jack. I rave about Mike McKim, then tell Jack we two need to go in person first thing tomorrow to the police and County Attorney to learn all we can and to galvanize them. Jack readily agrees, a surprise to me since I know he has lots of work awaiting him.

We go to bed, but I still sleep restlessly. Progress doesn't mean solution.

Tuesday, February 27, 1990

Over breakfast I review my more recent notes and questions as if I'm cramming for a test; like a test final, I feel I only have one chance to prove myself. I scan several photo albums and pick out pictures of Fritz with the cello. I select one where he's wearing jeans and sweatshirt; it shows the cello's color and the background doesn't look lavish (I'm very conscious that we must not appear "rich").

On this cold, clear day we drive separately downtown and meet in the St. Paul Hotel ramp. I'm glad Jack waits for me there and watches me park; I feel vulnerable and in need of physical protection.

We walk to the Lowry Medical Arts Building which houses the County Attorney offices, and ask the receptionist to speak to Chuck Bolck. She seems annoyed when we admit we don't have an appointment, but Bolck greets us warmly and leads us to an office. I start off by telling Jack about Bolck's daughter's clarinet and offer her the use of Fritz's old, good clarinet. Bolck declines and Jack looks puzzled as to how a clarinet got into the mix. I then show the picture of Fritz with the cello, but judging by his expression and tone of voice as he hands it to me, he clearly understands some of the meaning of our loss.

Bolck opens his file on our case and summarizes each police report which are ordered by date. I scribble names and addresses, and Franek's car license, as Jack and I comment that there's been a lot more activity by the police than they've let on, primarily interviews which have yielded few results. Bolck then shows us the mug shots of Franek and Jarvis, which he introduces "to give you an idea of the cast of characters we're dealing with." Franek looks seedy and strung out, Jarvis looks tough and mean. With a dramatic flair, Bolck pulls out the printout of Franek's arrest and conviction record, which extends from his uplifted arm to the floor--about five feet. I shudder when I acknowledge that I am dealing with a 37 year old practiced, hardened criminal. I am more wary.

We have a reasoned, reasonable discussion with Bolck about the mistakes to date: no search of the apartment where the transaction occurred, no impounding of Franek's car that night, and the early release of Mootz, the woman who bought the guitar, who according to Bolck "could go back and warn everyone about the cello." He adds that Peterson is going to further interview the arresting officer to learn why things happened that way that night. Another flaw becomes obvious, there is no address or phone number for the snitch, William Miller, and no way, according to Bolck to find him or force the police to bring him in as a witness.

I tell Bolck that the problem with solving the case is that we and the police have different goals: they want a conviction (which is hopeless so they have no incentive to continue) and we just want the cello and don't care about retribution. In this case, Jack asks him, shouldn't we hire a private investigator. Bolck admits he considered the same with his daughter's clarinet theft, but decided it would do no good; he doesn't rule it out in our situation, but can't recommend it.               He asks whether or not we've hoofed it the pawn shops, and when we confess we've only called them, he says they're a shady bunch, judging by his recent experience.

Bolck then makes the most spectacular offer of all: copies of all the police reports by this afternoon. My dream of the day has come true without even asking. We warmly thank him and leave.

On the walk to Jack's car we hold hands and discuss how much better we feel, both because we're getting the hallowed reports and because the police really did work on the case, although it clearly stopped about the time Jack left for Europe. Arriving at police headquarters, we ask the desk officer, who sits behind (bulletproof) glass if we can see the head of Theft; since I know Peterson doesn't come on duty until 2, I want to use this opportunity to get the story from his supervisor, who I assume, will have less to hide. The desk officer makes a call, then slips a pass through a slot for Lieutenant Gus Johnson. Johnson meets us near the elevator and invites us into his office. We thank him for seeing us, then I hand him the photo of Fritz and the cello, and tell him the saga of its origins and importance. Happily for me, he asks if he can keep the photo, and we reply that we brought for the police to have in order to ID the cello. What I don't mention is that we mainly brought it so they could see the sweet, kind boy who plays the cello and has been so hurt.

Johnson then lays out the case to date, repeated a lot of the information Bolck just gave us (We told Johnson of our previous meeting so that everything is in the open, from our viewpoint, at least.). He adds one new bit of news, evidently from a new report that he pulls out, they yesterday they talked to Franek's girlfriend, Brenda, and searched her house, but didn't turn up the cello. He adds that according to Brenda, Franek moved out a week ago, that Brenda never allows his stolen goods in the house (Johnson chortles when he quotes this), and that she couldn't call the police when he was there since she has no phone. (So much for my wiretap idea.)

Johnson then patiently responds to my other questions. He admits he doesn't know why the car nor apartment were searched that night; that was a decision of the desk officer, as it also was to release Mootz (He doesn't name her, only identifies her as the guitar purchaser.). He adds that when "she" was released, she probably went back and warned the others, and they all left town for the weekend. "To sell my cello," I suggest.  Yet at this moment I see these thieves, leaving town like Bonnies and Clydes, for their country cabin where they burn the cello in the fireplace.

When I ask Johnson about Miller, he says it’s too common a name and the police can't find him. I suggest that there is a William Miller on the 900 block of St. Clair, nearby Brenda's, and Johnson stonewalls me with his expression.

As I go through my list of questions, Johnson tells me that we don't need police protection; these junkies are a pain to the police but are only interested in money for dope via non-violent crimes. He also answers that we can get the guitar later this week, no they haven't widened the search for Franek to Minneapolis or Duluth (he eventually shows up at his girlfriend's), a wiretap is not authorized in these kinds of cases, and Franek has no relatives, "only a sister and she won't have anything to do with him.”

Johnson then reiterates that we are dealing with a bunch of liars, so it’s hard to get to the truth. We need to find Franek, who is bound to show up. Johnson is kind, but unenthusiastic about our chances of recovering the cello. After we thank him he walks us out and we say we'll tell Chief McCutcheon how helpful he's been. He tiredly assures us that kudos don't matter since he's close to retirement.

Jack and I drive back to the parking ramp where he drops me off. But I realize I have a lunch meeting at 12 with Mary Cummings of the Minnesota Museum of Art, so I stop at Sonnie's, a dress store, to call from there to try to change it to 11:30, twenty minutes from now. I see Kathy Broat, an old neighbor and store clerk, and tell her about the cello when she asks what's new. She reminds me that a mutual friend, Ann Hunter runs the victims’ rights program for the County Attorney. She's going to see Ann at lunch, so I ask Kathy to mention our plight since I think Fritz and I clearly qualify as victims.

At my lunch meeting I of course recount the cello story to Mary before moving to our stated agenda of long-range planning for the Museum. I am pleased as I listen to myself, since I don’t sound too frantic or possessed. Clearly this morning's meetings have reduced my previously overwhelming sense of powerlessness.

After lunch I borrow a garret office at the Museum to make some calls while I wait for the records from Bolck. The space is cozy and comforting, plus affords a view of the C.A.'s office (as if I need to see it). I get my phone messages from my office, and return Mike McKim's call first. After I give him a progress report he suggests more private investigators to call. We conference call a few, leaving messages, then finally reach the Lebanese patrol officer. I summarize the case and he comments that he's known of several raids at the Randolph spot, that it's a well known fencing and drug trading area.

He then claims the state is his only employer (from his voice tone I infer he doesn't want this job) and suggests we simply hire two thugs. I comment that I'm not sure how to go about hiring two thugs.

At last it’s time to call Bolck, and he states the report copies will be at the front receptionist's. I race-walk over, claim my package, then get the car from the ramp, watchful for muggers. I am an unhappy victim.

Since I can't wait to read the reports, I pull into a 15-minute meter and read them all, only yesterday's report on the visit to Brenda is missing. I drive home, detouring to survey Brenda's house and Duane's usual residence on James. I appraise the rundown yellow­ brown clapboard house, and note kiddie scooters in the front and overfull garbage cans in drums in the alley. There is no sign of Franek's car, which according to the police files is a red 1976 Cadillac, but I do notice an old van in front of Brenda's, so I record the license. I then drive by the Randolph apartment where the guitar was sold, and where, according to Miller's interview, houses a Cuban drug dealer, but don't spot Franek's car in front or in the apartment lot in back.

I drive the remaining mile home, feeling more fearful again since all these thieves live so close, in this supposedly good part of town. Drug usage is supposed to pervade our neighborhoods, not drug dealers, I think. Like a bounty hunter, I read and re-read the reports as if they are pirate's treasure maps. I acknowledge the correctness of Peterson's assessment, that "they" all lie since none of the stories square with the others. Each witness, Catherine Mootz (who bought the guitar), Dennis Jarvis (Franek's companion who was arrested with Mootz), and Kelly Ritter (tenant in the Randolph apartment and an acquaintance of all the players) tell the story that puts them in the most favorable light.  At the time of her arrest Mootz claimed she was driving west on Randolph when she saw Jarvis who flagged her down and invited her into the Randolph apartment hallway where she bought a guitar from a white male. In a later interview she admits she was lying then, and that Kelly Ritter called her at the bar where she worked, offering a guitar for sale; she went to Ritter's apartment and bought the guitar from Duane Franek, Jarvis was also there already. Jarvis, clearly the most practiced of the three, claimed he knew nothing about the instruments.  He simply stated he was visiting Ritter that night, went out to get a beer, saw Mootz, offered to carry the guitar to her car and asked for a ride home.

Ritter, who wasn't interviewed until a week after the theft, basically backed up Jarvis story: she never saw a guitar, and had last seen Franek the day before the theft; Ritter says Mootz is trying to help the father of one of Ritter's kids get child custody.

In terms of timing, I realize from the reports that little had been done by the police at the time of the theft. However, at Bolck's direction, a pickup order for Franek was issued on Monday, February 12, three days after the theft, Mootz was called back in for further questioning on the 14th, and Ritter on the 16th. I also notice that Mootz wasn't photographed until the 14th, not the night she was booked, as would be customary; this coupled with the fact that she was quickly released the night of the crime (allowing her to go back and warn her friends) suggests a real breach of good police judgement. I begin to wonder if she isn't the friend of some cop.

I also note that from the 16th to the 26th, the day Brenda was interviewed, the police appeared to do nothing. On the other hand, the police had done far more than Peterson claimed they had (he noted only the checking of music and pawn shops). I mentally berate Peterson, but shift my disappointment to Lieut. Johnson when I see that Franek lists his mother, who lives in Newport, as next of kin.

So much for having "only a sister who won't have anything to do with him.”

I then study Franek's record and see that but for a domestic assault, his crimes, which start right around his 18th birthday (juvenile arrests aren't recorded here), were not violent. I realize I have little reason to be afraid of him, physically, and I begin to feel like I am healing, because I feel less victimized. I also deduce that since the police had screwed up the first night, they have been afraid to admit it to me, and so they tried to cover their mistakes and their fairly decent follow-up with minimal if not misleading information.

I also realize that I will have to keep leading the charge, because there is little in it for them in terms of a conviction, only the possibility of being embarrassed. At least now I know some of what I am facing, plus I have some tools, in the reports, to find the cello or at least learn what has happened to it.

Since I am the leading investigator, I consider my next move. I decide to call Dwayne's mother to see if she can give me any clues about his whereabouts. I dial her and when she answers I hear myself talking to her in a high-pitched soft voice and asking her if I can speak to Dwayne. She sounds friendly when she tells me he isn't there, in fact he doesn't live there. "Oh, he gave me this number.”

“Will he be there soon?" I ask. "He was just here Saturday, and should be around in a few days." She then asks for my name, and I blurt out in the sugary squeaky voice "Lynnette."  I ask her to have him call me, that yes he has my phone number. Thanks a lot.

I am so proud of myself that I call Peterson, first thanking him for his attention to the case and relating how nice it was to meet Lieut. Johnson. I then apologize for playing "Nancy Drew" but rush on to report that I've just called Franek's mother and she says he was just there. Yes, he responds, these guys never wander far. I suggest he might want to interview her and the other Franeks in St. Paul. He politely holds his tongue on this issue and tells me to feel free to call him daily to check on the case's progress.

I then open the mail and read the police form letter saying our case is closed due to lack of information. The case number is that of the cello/guitar and it was signed Monday by the same Captain Kunz whom I spoke with on Sunday and who said he reinitiate the pickup for Franek. The letter has a sobering but not depressing effect on me: I know the case is not closed and there is some activity, but also recognize that without my prodding it would be a dead issue.

I also pick up a phone machine message from Tom Welna of the Mayor's office, returning my call of Friday. So much for my request for timely attention, though I decide to re-return the call when I later need his help.

About 5 p.m. my carpenter, who lives in the Selby Dale area, calls regarding some work at the cabin. I give him a description of Franek's car and Jarvis' address (which I think is a logical hideout for Franek and/or the cello) and ask him to drive in front of it and behind it when he goes to and returns from work. He says that's easy since he's working nearby on a job.

When Jack comes home we drive around the various abodes of the suspects, looking for Franek and his car. I'm unsure which exactly is Kelly Ritter's apartment, but Brenda's house has only a few lights on with curtains or sheets hung over every single window. I wonder aloud whether or not they are dealing dope inside, or if anyone is even there. On the tour Jack and I talk about how liberating it has been to see and now have the police reports. I comment that I can even begin to think about buying a replacement cello. But I still feel driven to first find out what's happened to ours.

Wednesday, February 28

I am glad this is the last day of a miserable month. I tell Fritz that March can only be better, as I send him off to school with a reminder to pick up his guitar at the police station and to look up three license plate numbers at the Transportation Department: Franek's, Jarvis's (both are listed in the police reports) and the van's.

I inform my office that I'm hiring a private investigator today, so not to expect to see me. I realize that cello recovery is not only my full-time job, but all-time occupation.

When Mike McKim calls me early in the day I gratefully recognize how important his cheering on is. He says that now that I have the names and addresses, I should consider talking personally to Brenda and Kelly, even Catherine. At the least, he offers, leave them a note offering a reward for the cello's return, no questions asked. I comment that I'm not sure I want to get to know these people, realizing that I am still afraid of them. They may be crazed addicts. or worse, they may not care about my son and his cello. Then I would lose hope.

I call a few more private investigators, giving the names of criminal lawyers whom Mike McKim has talked to collect the p.i. names, Doug Thompson, Bill Mausey, Torn Heffelfinger. I talk to one fellow at the FBI who asserts he, too, knows 1116 Randolph Avenue well, he's raided it several times. It sinks in further that the drug trade is closer to me and is more pervasive in my neighborhood than I ever realized.

I also realize that private investigators are very specialized, there is no such thing as an all-purpose p.i. Some investigate white collar crime, some watch husbands, others wives, or so it seems. Some "re-steal" stolen cars; some do it in-state, some out of state. While the investigators are all polite, I'm a bit disappointed that none I've talked to seem to handle my type of problem: thief location and networking with the fences who trade in stolen goods.

After these calls I begin to compose a letter to the women in Franek's life. Maybe I'll even give it to Jarvis, I think, although I'm more afraid of him. The letter reads:

"Our son's cello was taken February 9, 1990. He needs it to try out for a scholarship.  It was loaned (sic) to him by a man who knew of his deafness as a child and was proud of his hard work to learn the cello.

The cello is the most important thing our family has and we have cried over its loss many times.

Please help us get it back, if you can. We will pay a reward, no questions asked.

Our number is     "

I read it, noticing the simple language and decide to try another, more personal opening:

"I am the mother of the boy whose cello and bass guitar were taken February 9, 1990. I am writing you to ask your help to get the cello back, if you can." I stop there and decide I'll ask Jack's opinion.

My brother calls. He, who was born two days before Franek, I mentally note, February 20, 1953, has just been made CEO of a $600 million telecommunications company, he reports. I am so proud of him and I feel relaxed as I question him about the details, I am pleased as I listen to myself that I don't dominate the conversation with cello talk; in fact, I talk about it very little. Stephen senses my sadness and wishes me good luck finding it.

Mike McKim calls again and as I'm relating my findings regarding private investigators, he stops me and says he has a great idea. His 12 year old son goes to school with the son of a cop, Frank Foster, whose wife Kathy runs Pyramid Security, a p.i. agency. He hangs up, then calls back to report that he's left a message for either one to call me quickly.

As I wait to hear from Foster, I decide it’s time to visit Franek's mother and ask for her intervention to secure the cello. But since I'm a bit afraid of Duane and since he might be at his parents', I want Jack along for protection. I contact him at the office, he affirms that this visit sounds like a good idea, and I ask him to get home early so we can go there while it is still light.

The phone rings again and it’s Fritz at the Transportation Department with the license information. One owner's address sounds improbable, so we re-check numbers and discover I transposed numbers on one when I wrote them for Fritz that morning. I tell him to re­submit that one, and remind him to be sure to thank Peterson for all his work when he goes next to the police station to get the guitar. I add that Dad and I are going to appeal to Franek's mother for help, so he should get home before we leave, so we can use his car, less "rich looking" than Jack's Volvo and my Cressida.

When Jack gets home about 5:30 we change into simple jeans and ski jackets. I replace my ruby and diamond wedding ring with a plain gold band (actually an oval clasp for converting a string of pearls into a choker) and plain costume gold earrings. I map out our route and spy the giant blot of Pig's Eye Lake between us and Duane's mother. I remember when Jack and I drove there several years ago, that it was isolated, scum covered and murky. I see the cello in the lake.

Fritz bounds in, enthusiastic about his trip to the police. They photographed him with the guitar for evidence, he discussed narcotics problems with one cop, and had a great talk with Peterson. Peterson says they spotted Franek about 3 p.m. today in the hill area, chased him on foot but couldn't catch him. Sounds hard to believe, I think. All the more reason for my citizen action. Fritz adds that he told Peterson I was planning to talk to Franek's mother. I am not annoyed, in fact think it’s good we're upfront with Peterson, however obliquely.

Just before we walk out the door I call Duane's mother and when she answers, hang up, ensuring someone is home. We take Fritz's '83 Tercel and on the drive Jack asks me if I know what I'm going to say, so I read him my letter to "Franek's women" and state I'll do some variation of this. We arrive in Newport just before sunset, then drive past some shacks on roads I had previously travelled but never noticed. We find Sterling Avenue where his mother's house is located, a pleasant street. We are surprised by the attractive, fairly large suburban ranch house where Duane's mother lives, and park the car out of sight behind a new pickup truck and a camper. As we walk past the two car garage I resist looking in the window to check for Duane's car and my cello, since I can be seen from the house. Besides, I need a flashlight to see inside.

We stand on the front stoop and I ring the doorbell, then knock.

Finally, a pleasant looking 60-ish woman answers the door and I nervously blurt out "I'm a mother coming to you as a mother to help me." She stares speechlessly at Jack and me, as I notice a man behind her who looks just like Duane but is too old. Duane not only grew up in a nice house, but he has both a mother and father, a father who really doesn't look at all menacing or strung out from drugs. They both ask us to come in.

As Jack and I step inside I begin to cry, without trying, out of fear and relief. I scan the immaculate, well furnished, well ordered home and begin my story. I say that through a private investigator (not the police, I don't want to portray that we have inside information) we know that Duane was selling our son's cello in a bar the very night it was stolen; I am careful not to say Duane stole it since I don't want to needlessly increase their defensiveness. I state we are here to ask him when they see him to return our cello, no questions asked. Mr. Franek, who has been shaking his head as I talk, says they know about the cello since Sgt. Peterson called about an hour ago and told them. I am now grateful that Fritz told Peterson about our impending visit so that I didn't have to break this terrible news to these seemingly decent people.

As I begin to tell the story of Fritz and the cello, I thrust forth a photo of Fritz, age 11, playing the cello with Dr. Mordy. (I don't want to mislead them on his age, but I don't want them to know what Fritz looks like now to protect what's left of his identity.) Mrs. Franek's face hardens as she puts on her glasses to study the photo of Fritz. I label her the enabler, the one who always protected and excused Duane as his small infractions grew into large crimes.

She tells me what she has just told Peterson: they never see Duane, he hasn't been there for about a year. The father nods and says, yes, Duane is, let's see, 37, too old to live with them. I repeat the 37, citing that as my younger brother's age. I am trying to get them to relate to me, so that we can somehow bond to secure the cello.

I continue that the cello was originally a loan to Fritz, and this information seems to pain both of them, as they repeat, a loan. I tell them that Fritz has been so depressed by the theft, that were worried he might even commit suicide. This information alarms them, so I add that we have sent him to a psychologist and no longer think suicide is a risk. They seem relieved.

Mr. Franek shakes his head and comments that the fact that the cello was a gift makes it real bad. I try to comfort them, stating that we all try to raise our kids right, that I'm sure they raised other kids well. They forlornly tell us that Duane is their only child (Why, I wonder, did Johnson have to tell me there was a sister?) and he was a good child until he went to St. Paul and met up with a bad lot. For some reason, they then question me as to the name of the bar where Duane was selling the instruments. I tell them it was the Grand 7. Are they checking my veracity, or are they going to go there to find him?

Crying again, I affirm that we're so sorry we had to bother them at their home, but it’s been almost three weeks since the theft and we have no other recourse. Mrs. Franek coolly states that there's little chance they'll see him, adding that he's just moved out of his girlfriend's house (How does she know, I wonder, since Brenda has no phone; she must see him.). I say, yes, but if they happen to hear from Duane, to please ask him to get the cello back. I add that if he has to buy it back, of course we'll reimburse him. I don't think they hear that.

Then, for some reason I don't understand, except perhaps my relief that this conversation had gone fairly well, I hug Mrs Franek, whom I don't even think I like. She sort of hugs me back, and we all shake hands and walk out. As I turn to exit, I notice that Jack has been hanging back, saying very little. Nuts, I think, they probably assume he's a cop who's here to protect me.

Jack and I don't talk until we drive away. He commends my performance, was astounded, but not shocked (he knows me too well) that I was so dramatic, that I cried so much. "They had to let us in. They could hardly leave you crying on the stoop." We comment how glad we were that the empathetic father was there, and think we would have gotten nowhere if we had only met with Veronica Franek.

I return home exuberant, but can't tell Fritz since he's off at school rehearsing for a Friday concert on his reclaimed guitar. I run over to the Culligans to tell them the latest, and they say it’s wonderful I was so brave. I think it was wonderful, too.

About 8:30 Frank Foster, the private investigator and cop, calls and I summarize the case. He replies that he doesn't handle this type, but another cop, Cliff Kelly might if he's not too busy. He'll contact Kelly and have him call me soon, that he's probably working now.

When Fritz returns home we tell him of the sleuthing exploits of his parents. He seems pleased with our intervention, pleased too that the Franeks aren't dangerous and we were unharmed. I go to bed, confident that things are astir. The heat is on.

Thursday, March 1, 1990

Of course I don't go to the office, though I do update my secretary on my progress as Nancy Drew, then return some phone calls. Finally, I get to my real work, calling the 65 pawn shops and music stores listed in the phone directory. After a while I am embarrassed to realize that I've called some stores twice, since they were listed in different directory sections. I make a list of stores, rather than just checking them off in the yellow pages, as had Jack and Fritz, I notice.

The music stores are genteel and consoling, while the pawn shops are defensive, wary and evasive, just as Bolck reported. Instead of asking the pawn shops if any cellos were sold to them within the last month, I change my question and ask if they have any string instruments for sale, with better response but no better information.

At 12:30 I leave to meet Jack, Bruce Carlson of the Schubert Club and Jorja Fleezanis, concertmistress of the Minnesota Orchestra for whom we are helping commission some music. She brings her violin to the table where she can watch it. As the three of us wait for Jack, I tell them briefly about the cello, and she relates that several friends had their instruments stolen and never recovered. Bruce interjects that the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra cellist had her cello taken a few years ago, and that the thief destroyed it. As my tension rises, Jack appears and asks why my car is unlocked with the motor running in front of the restaurant. I reply that I left it with the valet, and ask him to go grab the keys. When he returns to the table he comments that either they parked it or someone stole it. Since this conversation seems counterproductive, we switch to talking about new music, and I feel slightly better.

After lunch I have an extra half hour before having to leave to meet the Westec security salesman at the house, so I call Ann Hunter, of the victim's program at the County Attorney's office. I am a victim in need of counseling, but she isn't there so I leave a message.

A few minutes after the salesman arrives, the phone rings and it's Cliff Kelly, the p.i. and cop whom Frank Foster recommended. He says he can take the case but I won't like his rate, $25 an hour. I say that's fine, since we have to get the cello back since it was a gift, actually grateful that he doesn't charge the $80-$100 rate the other p.i.'s were quoting. I then tell Cliff the story and start to give him names and addresses, but he interrupts and patiently says he'll get the records from headquarters. (I mentally note that all policemen are beginning to sound patient with me, and is that a good sign?) I add that we have already met with Franek's parents, and that I am willing to talk with Brenda and Kelly Ritter, but would want a policeman with me for protection. Cliff Kelly's voice sounds black and as I am wondering whether or not he's the right escort for these white criminals, he says that won't be necessary. He confidently closes that he'll have some news for me by the weekend. I like what I hear but I don't think I should hold him to his word. I listen carefully to the Westec sale, feeling less needful now of buying all the gadgets.

Just before dinner I decide to call the owner of the van, a Brian Richey, thinking Duane may be using it, but there is no answer. I contact a few more music stores, but to no avail there or at the Minneapolis Police Property Department, which one store owner recommends I try.

Feeling a bit lonely and discouraged, I dial Jack's sister, Janice, in Carmel, California. Since I have no news on the cello, I ask her to tell her psychic friend, Joanne, about the cello's location, next time Janice talks to her. In the past Janice has raved about Joanne's ability to make sense of tangled issues and suggest practical solutions. Janice recommends I call her directly, so Joanne "can hear the tone of your voice when you tell her about the cello's disappearance." I agree.

Somewhat embarrassed, but also in need of hope and information, I contact Joanne, who sounds very friendly and direct as a I relate the saga. The second I finish she starts to spew information, telling me not to worry since the cello is unharmed, that its within 15-30 miles of me, in a big city nearby (Minneapolis?), and that Duane sold it for less than $100, “he wouldn't destroy it, he needs the money too bad." She continues that ·I will eventually get it back, but that it will take me awhile. I press her for more detail, and she says the key is Duane's partner (Jarvis) who knows where Duane and the cello are. She visualizes the cello among some guitars, "Look for a place that sells used guitars." I profusely thank Joanne, and when I ask how I can reciprocate, she says to just let her know how the case turns out.

Regalvanized, I call a few more music stores, then receive a call from Ann Hunter. She is so warm and supportive as we talk about the crime, how it has victimized us, and more empowered we feel by getting the records. I praise Chuck Bolck and we discuss the police prevarications, which Ann says are all too typical and increase the sense of victimization. We talk about Fritz's reaction and it occurs to me that working with Ann would be a good senior internship project for Fritz. Ann comments that it would be healing for him to learn about victim problems and rights, especially of those victims less hopeful and resourceful. She promises to look into it.

When Fritz and Jack come home I relate the psychic's encouraging words, and their expression belies concern for me. Jack kids me, Fritz thinks I've gone too far, but on the other hand, he doesn't know what else to do and he clearly appreciates my efforts. I mention the victims' program internship to Fritz, which Jack endorses, but Fritz says he had planned to work in a science lab, but he'll think about it. While he's a very empathetic kid, I don't think he wants to be labelled a victim, a loser himself.

About 7:30 I try to budge the jet-lagged Jack off the couch, but when I cannot move him I use the opportunity to call more music stores, particularly those that handle guitars. Although I have no luck finding the cello, I feel more elated and confident than ever from Joanne's words.

Friday, March 2, 1990

Jack and I talk to Fritz over our breakfasts of cold cereal about the victims project. He agrees it’s worth a look and that he'll discuss it with his advisor. About 8:30 my cleaning woman, Gerry Hannan arrives, and after I update her on the case she remarks, somewhat sadly, that the suspects all live in her neighborhood. And I'm unhappy they're a mile or more from me.

At the office I am hailed as Nancy Drew. I give a brief overview of recent events, and my secretary, Maureen Coffey, asks if I really think Cliff Kelly will have information by the weekend, which after all starts today. "I want to believe him" I respond. I don't mention the psychic since that makes me sound too wacky.

I sort my mail and phone messages and realize how far behind I am in almost everything. But I lay my newly organized work aside and proceed to the driving task, calling music stores. I tick off all the stores with display ads, and when I get down to the plain single line listings, I keep up my spirits by telling myself that stores which deal in illegal goods won't have display ads. When I have checked off the last store, even the suburban and unlisted music or antique stores some suggested, I am glad that I'm finished, sad that I've found not a single lead. Well perhaps my psychic is seeing the cello among guitars in the future.

After a business lunch and other work calls, I drive home mid­afternoon, exiting at Dale so I can drive my route past Jarvis' house, then to Lexington and past Brenda's house, then to Kelly Ritter's apartment and back lot, then home. I estimate that I drive this route, to and from work or other appointments, two to four times a day, looking for Franek and/or his car. Since I am no longer physically afraid of these people I want to help capture them. I never see a police car en route, nor a "stake out" car or person. At about 3:15 I notice two mothers in a beater come pick up about four kids at Brenda's and drive off. I have two thoughts, that Brenda may be running a day-care operation, and that since children make me feel less endangered, this would be a good time of day to come see Brenda, if I ever need to.

At home I re-read all the police reports, another part of my new daily routine, to memorize all pertinent information and see if I can deduce any more leads. Around 4:30 Jack calls, and together we contact Peterson to see if he has any more news. "You have a really nice son," is the first thing he mentions, then reports that but for having spotted Franek on Wednesday, as he told Fritz, there is no additional information. I state that Fritz really enjoyed meeting him and appreciated getting the guitar back, in fact he's playing it in a concert tonight. I then tell Peterson what he probably already suspects, that we went to the Franeks' house and pleaded our case. He offers no comment, which is fine, since I don't expect him to encourage my independent actions, but also want to ensure that I'm not "obstructing justice," whatever that means.

I remind Sgt. Peterson that we just want the cello back, we don't expect retribution. "Besides, Franek will keep doing this and get caught and thrown in jail for another theft." Peterson responds that yes, "this case caught screwed up the first night." Our silence is assent. This is the first time Peterson has really leveled with us and I appreciate it.

I want to tell Peterson that we just want him to be honest with us, that we don't blame the police for any foul-ups, that we are grateful that we have the bass guitar and that we know the identity of our assaulter. On the other hand, I don't want to tell him about our assaulter. On the other hand, I don't want to tell him about the off-duty cop we've just hired as our private investigator. I think if Peterson knew this, he might stop working on our case. Besides, I am wary enough of Peterson to know he will always be polite to us, but he will only tell us the minimum and perhaps even mislead us, so that he can maintain some control over the case. I'm sure we've been identified as mucky-mucks with connections, people whom Peterson can't offend and who have forced him to work on a case which will result in no prosecution and a risk of not recovering the cello. I chastise myself that I should sound more grateful about the guitar's return, though I know it is a thousand times more replaceable than the cello.

But although he is polite, I am wary of Peterson. We will probably never like each other, although there will always be the outward show of respect, helpfulness, and even warmth. Yes, I can't trust Peterson's words, but at least I know this and also know that we can each predict each other's behavior. I hope I know as much about Sgt. Leonard Peterson as he knows about me.

About 6:30 Cliff Kelly calls the house and matter-of-factly states his "man" has located Franek and the cello, so we'll probably have the cello back this weekend. I exclaim my joy, and question Kelly about the details, but he doesn't want to tell me much, only that he's not dealing directly with Franek, but through his agent. I thank him profusely and he assures me that he'll call me Saturday.

I feel elated, though a bit cautious as I check Kelly's assertion versus the psychic's prediction that I wouldn't get the cello back for some time. I wish I could tell Fritz before the concert, but he was going from meeting Ann Hunter about the internship to the school in preparation for the concert. So Jack and I head off for the pops concert at SPA which starts at 7 p.m. We park in the same lot from which the cello was stolen exactly three weeks ago, and I quickly scan the lot for "suspicious" cars but see none.

The school gym is filling quickly as we find seats in the second row. One of the retired music teachers, Olive Bailey, slides in next to me and asks about Kristen. I tell her, then go to the story of the cello. She says she heard about it, and when I tell her our p.i. thinks he can retrieve it soon, I'm not sure she believes it, but wishes us well.

Soon the school principal, Pat McCart, comes over to chat with Mrs. Bailey, I feel mildly enraged since she never did warn the students about parking lot thefts or ask for witnesses to the cello theft. I want to grab the microphone and warn the audience that there is a gang of marauders who works the SPA lot and they should all run out and check their cars to ensure no goods can be seen through the windows. I want the school administration to be more upfront about the dangers lurking around and think I should force them to admit the existence of internal and external dangers, but of course I just sit in my seat and say hello to the principal. She doesn't want to converse more with me, so I just sit back and wait for the show to begin.

The concert is fine, even excellent, as the students play and sing pops music from the 20's through a grand finale medley of "Phantom of the Opera." Moreover, Fritz is the star of the show and I am so proud of him as he plays bass guitar in the jazz band or as solo accompaniment to the singers, a cello he borrowed from an 8th grader in the orchestra (he winks at us as he starts playing it), and piano accompaniment for the chorus and orchestra. He looks great, particularly in the bass guitar solos where a ceiling spotlight bounces off his very blond hair, and seems to be in his element.

After the concert I hug and congratulate Fritz, then tell him Cliff Kelly's prediction. Fritz says he's happy but doesn't want to count on the cello until he sees it. Jack and I then greet other friends at the concert, and accept congratulations on Fritz's performance tonight.

Things are looking up.

Saturday, March 3, 1990

While awaiting Cliff Kelly's update, I again call the van owner, Brian Ritchie. A young man answers but claims not to be Ritchie. I assert I'm calling about the fender bender my son had with a van, license 666EAA. He responds that the guy who owns a van lives upstairs, though he's unsure of its license, and that he'll return in the afternoon. I say I'll call back.

I then edit Fritz's letter to Dr. Muller at Whittier College stating that although he's interested in attending there, he can't audition for the scholarship since he has no cello. Unable to restrain myself, I call Kelly late morning but have to leave a message with his son since he's not home.

Cliff finally calls about 4 p.m. and reports he should have the cello tonight or tomorrow morning. When I press for details Cliff only says that Franek has sold the cello but his agent is negotiating to get it back. I ask if it’s in decent condition, and he says it’s still in its case, so it should be fine. I tell him we're going to a friend's house for dinner, give him the phone number and ask him to call. He assures me he'll call before dinner.

I am delirious that victory is so close, so I run over to the Culligans and tell them. When I return home Fritz comes in and when I tell him the great news, he says he doesn't want to get too excited until we see the cello, and cautions not to tell people until we have hard news. However, I still call the good friends who have been cheering me on, confident that Cliff knows what he's doing.

About 7 Jack and I leave for our dinner party, not having heard yet from Cliff. Coincidentally, the hostess is one of Fritz's previous cello teachers. We discuss music, my Mid-East impressions, and of course, the cello. At about 9:30 I excuse myself from the dinner table to call Cliff, but only reach his son. "Are you the lady with the case?" he queries. He reports his father is working on it, that he left at 5:30, so I ask him to have Cliff call in the morning.

I re-enter the dinner party conversation, visualizing Cliff negotiating for the cello with drug dealers in some squalid shack in the country. As we drive home I tell Jack I'm worried about Cliff's safety. He confidently tells me not to worry, that "Cliff is trained to take care of himself."

Sunday, March 4, 1990

At 6 a.m. Jack takes Fritz to the airport for a week in the Washington-based "Close-up" program, an opportunity to study the various parts of the federal government. We eat our buttermilk pancakes as Jack reads the Sunday newspapers and I re-read the police reports. Jack goes to church while I stay home, waiting to hear from Kelly.

About 11:30 I call Kelly (I've learned he sleeps in the morning since he usually does night duty) and tell him I was worried when I didn't hear from him last night. He assures me that I shouldn't worry, that he used to be a guard at Stillwater, the maximum security prison. I say that is what Jack says. He explains that his agent is still negotiating and that the price to buy back the cello is $300. I interject that if price is the issue, give them more, and he confesses that price is not the reason for the hold-up, that for some reason the guy who has the cello likes to look at it. Kelly promises to call later with an update.

I wander around the house, fold laundry, tidy up, try to do the Times crossword puzzle. I am increasingly frustrated that Kelly doesn't call when he says he will and then doesn't give me much information. I decide this must be the training of policemen. Jack reminds me that Cliff will only call when he has news and that negotiations take time. He comments that Cliff's only mistake was to promise me the cello by noon today.

About 4:45 Cliff calls and says the guy will sell the cello, but now Franek wants immunity from prosecution. Cliff's agent is leaving soon to go back to negotiate for the instrument. I tell Cliff that none of us can promise immunity, but that Franek should be informed there is no case against him for the cello's theft, no evidence connecting him with it. "Tell Franek the police had dropped the case, and that we are pursuing this only because we want the cello back for our son.”

Cliff responds that he's informed Franek there is no case, but that he hasn't mentioned our son since he's told all the players that it was his cello that was stolen. Well, I think, the story of Fritz and the cello would have probably seemed irrelevant to Franek, would not have moved him. I inquire whether the bow is still with the cello and Cliff says he's unsure, his reports are that the cello is fine and still in its case. I think of Fritz's name on the cello music, particularly the Brahms Sonata he was working on. I hope Franek dumped the music.

Almost apologetically I tell Cliff we're going to a neighbor's for dinner (I don't want to sound like social butterflies, like the "rich" people the police probably type us), but give him the number, noting we'll be there around 5:45. Cliff says he has to go to work tonight, but he'll call us by 6:30 with information on the latest round. I feel the proximity of the cello.

We walk the two blocks to the neighbor's house, a German couple, and immediately request that they keep their two boys off the telephone until 6:30 since we're expecting a call about the cello's return. They smile and say it's no problem, but don't move. I repeat my request, thinking they don't understand me, understand the urgency I feel. They still don't move to inform their sons, so on the pretense of going to the bathroom, I pick up a hall phone to ensure no one is using it.

About 20 minutes later the phone rings, and I walk to it saying it must be for me, but it isn't.  When 6:30 comes with no phone call, I stiffen myself for party conversation. One of the host's sons comes in and only now do I realize that the two boys have just arrived home.

By now Jack has told several of the guests the story of our cello search, about our adventures with the police, the County Attorney's office, private investigator and current negotiations. comments it sounds like Germany, Nazi Germany I think.

I decide I must be more careful in talking about the cello search. Besides, my latest battle front with the private investigator is failing, as are my spirits.

When we arrive home about 10:30 there is message from Cliff on the machine. Fritz calls from Washington D.C. to learn about the cello. When we tell him we don't have it but are negotiating, his voice tone suggests that this is what he expected to hear.

Monday, March 5, 1990

Although I know I should go to the office to prepare for my business trip next week since I admit to myself I'm letting too many things slide, I instead call a business partner to apologize for my distracted behavior, but stay home to write checks for overdue bills. I can't go to work, I am so twisted up emotionally.

When I call Cliff around noon he explains he didn't call before because negotiations ceased last night. According to his "agent" Franek started "doing drugs" so he couldn't talk to him. Cliff states that people are unreasonable when they're taking drugs, even dangerous, and that time means nothing to them. "Now we have to wait until Franek 'comes down' and needs more money for more drugs." Upon questioning, Cliff says his agent is in fact a fence and that all he can do is stakeout the place where Franek is doing drugs and talk to him when he surfaces. I give Cliff the go-ahead, unsure I have other alternatives.

I revert to re-reading the files and listing actions the police can take: questioning Jarvis and searching his apartment, running down Miller and calling him in for questioning. I do my Jane Fonda aerobics tape to try to relax, then go off to do some errands, driving the Ritter-Brenda-Jarvis route before and after.

When I return I call Peterson for an update, but he reports no sign of Franek. “Once we find Franek we can find the cello.” I don't tell him Franek doesn't have the cello, but thank him and hang up, lest I blurt out anything about our private investigator.

Late afternoon I receive several calls from those friends I called Saturday to report the imminent recovery of the cello. When I tell them the story they feel bad for me, bad they called, I can tell. But they all restate their support for my actions, belief in a positive outcome, and this is important to me. But, in fact, my spirits are low and I am afraid we're in for the long haul, just as the psychic predicted.

Tuesday, March 6, 1990

Cliff calls in the morning, he seems to have a few days off, and he reports that he and his agents are staking out Brenda's house and a place where Franek is supposed to be smoking crack in the basement.

He's questioned a few of Franek's associates who report Franek is laying low since he sold a car that isn't totally his. I wonder if it’s the Cadillac, but Cliff doesn't know. He adds that he's never met a guy like Franek who has so many people mad at him. Evidently he's taken things from his friends in order to support his drug habit. I authorize further stakeouts, afraid to ask the running total of the bill to date. Hopefully we can get Franek to surface soon so we don't lose our past momentum.

I'm getting worried that it’s going to be harder to find Franek and get the cello. Franek's identifying car may have been sold, the fence who has the cello likes to look at it, Franek knows someone really wants it back, and his friends have the heat on. Obviously he's hiding someplace in St. Paul, and now that he's underground it's in his best interest to stay there and destroy the cello. I hate to think that all this effort to find and negotiate with Franek may have the worst results possible.

During meetings from 11 through late afternoon I am amazed how clearly I can think on other issues, although I decide I sound a little too assertive in some opinions. Since I am downtown I call Ann Hunter's office, but she's not in. I then drive to Minneapolis to visit my friend Gloria Sewell, and she insists I relate my cello adventures to Jim Stageberg, an architect who is there on a consultation. Her pride in my actions reaffirms that I'm doing the right thing (the only thing?). She and Jim voice amazement that I visited the thief's parents, and I wonder if I'm being foolhardy. But I still drive my "route" home although I'm not sure there's a car to spot any longer.

Ann Hunter returns my call around dinnertime, and when I report my results with the p.i., noting the stalemate, she applauds my hiring him and understands my reluctance to tell the police. She suggests instead that I call Chuck Bolck and tell him what I've done, explaining that Chuck can take the information I've gained and further direct the police to help things along.

That evening Jack and I take my Aunt Helen and Cousin Claire to see a play, "Into the Woods," at the Ordway Theatre in St. Paul.

During the performance I decide I'll follow Ann's advice and call Bolck in the morning. I find comfort in the idea of leveling with everyone. Besides, I think we need a break soon in order to maintain police activity, and that break will probably be the finding of Duane Franek.

Wednesday, March 7, 1990

I discuss my strategy with Jack and he agrees we need to bring everyone up to date. I call Chuck Bolck at 8:15 and tell him we've hired an off-duty cop as a private investigator, then relate his results. Bolck seems to endorse this action and suggests that if I'm willing to divulge the p.i.'s name, as a policeman he can file a formal report with the Theft unit, then Bolck can take it from there, directing the police how to act on this information.

I confess that I'm somewhat reluctant to have the p.i. talk to the police because I'm afraid they'll get irritated with me, stop their search for Franek, or otherwise screw up the case. "You've got to understand that I'm frustrated that the police screwed up in the first place, then lied to me throughout, and that my p.i. has made more progress fin 24 hours than the police made in three and a half weeks." Bolck replies that he can appreciate my feelings, but that by having access to my p.i.'s information, the cops can then act on it and help bring the case to a close. I tell him I'll talk to my p.i.

I phone Cliff Kelly and he quickly asserts he sees no problem with my giving Block his name and filing a report. He adds he has to go to headquarters this morning, anyway. I then inform Bolck about Cliff's name, and notice he hesitates. I ask if he has any concerns that it's Cliff Kelly we've hired, and he says no, it's fine if Kelly is helping us. He adds that he looks forward to Kelly's report and I am relieved the truth is out and that Bolck is my shield from the police, my ally.

Since we need to get Franek to surface, I begin to dream up ways to harass him and his friends. I recall Kelly Ritter's statement that Mootz was trying to help get Kelly's parental rights terminated, and remember Kelly's conviction a year ago for stealing food stamps. I visualize the children being raised in Kelly's apartment amidst its drug dealing and fencing operations.

I call my sister, Laura Doyle, who lives in Worthington and works for the Minnesota Department of Human Services and explain my mixed motives: harassment of Franek's protectors and the drug-laden homes of these children. She offers I can call Child Protection Services and report what I know. She says they are obliged to follow up on the information, while keeping my name confidential.

I contact Child Protection and tell a worker briefly about Kelly

and can only give the address), and Lorna Winston, Jarvis' girlfriend and roommate. I decide not to report Catherine Mootz, the guitar purchaser, since she may be a good witness for us, having testified in her second interview, that Duane Franek sold her the goods.

The Child Protection worker sounds bored, except for hearing about Kelly. She immediately calls her by her first name, like an old acquaintance. She directs me to call Steve Dilley, a social worker, but refuses to explain his connection to Kelly Ritter, only divulging that he'll be very interested in my information. I call Dilley but he's gone.

It is a windy, sleety, gray day as I slowly drive my route late morning to meet my friend, Leaetta Hough, for lunch (She was my roommate in Oman and has called regularly on the case progress.). We walk for about an hour before eating, and I confess I'm trying to smoke Franek out and may have gone too far by reporting his three friends to Child Protection. "Good for you," Leaetta immediately exclaims, "these women are bringing these children up in a terrible environment of drugs and criminals.” I am grateful for her support, though I know from my research on teen pregnancy and from seeing their homes, that these women have low self esteem, are poor, and sense little control over their lives. But still, Leaetta's words make me feel less guilty about “snitching.”

After lunch I drive downtown to another meeting, then take my “route” home. I call Brian Richie's home to discuss the mythical van fender bender. The same person as before picks up and this time admits to being Richie. He says he's really glad I've called back and Fiero, his upstairs neighbor who bought the van isn't here but has been worried ever since I called. In response to my question, he replies that Fiero has been the only person driving the van, that they both checked the van and couldn't see any damage, and want to know where the accident happened. I state it was at Randolph and Milton Streets (I pick out an intersection one block from Brenda's) and say that well, maybe my witness was wrong. Richie asks for my phone number and I respond that my lawyer advises against it. "Lawyer" he practically shouts. "Don't worry, it's not that big a deal," I reply and hang up. I really don't feel bad that I'm causing anxiety, since Franek and his friends have done the same to me.

I next call Cliff Kelly and he reports that things didn't go well at police headquarters. I feel nauseous as he comments that he never did get along with Sgt. Peterson, that when he told Peterson what he had learned that Peterson cut him off with the statement that he was only dealing with liars and that he couldn't believe anything he'd heard. Kelly retorted that his agents were straight, but Peterson just handed Kelly a form and said "You're a cop, so fill out a report."

I apologize to Kelly about Peterson and then he asks if I want him to stay on the case. Obviously he has interpreted my suggestion to talk to Theft as a sign of dissatisfaction. Of course, I tell him, we only went to Bolck to help you smoke Franek out, since you're the only one who's made any progress and we really appreciate it. Kelly agrees to continue the stakeouts.

I feel sick that nothing positive has happened as a result of my intervention and I may have jeopardized the accomplishments of my past 13 miserable days of sleuthing. My impatience with Kelly's handling of me as well as with his reactive approach to waiting out Franek, may have lost me the cello and may have inadvertently demotivated both Kelly and the police.

My sister, Laura and her family arrive about dinnertime to stay with us through the weekend while they attend the state hockey tournament. My brother in law, John, a prosecutor for Stearns County, reviews my actions and underscores the need to depend on Kelly for results.

Jack comes home late, and after I finish updating him, I comment that the time may have come when we should be finding ourselves two thugs.

Thursday, March 8, 1990

After Laura leaves for work at her headquarters, John reviews the case and police reports with me in more detail. His sensible, experienced approach to the case and his technical advice are helpful, especially after yesterday's lowpoint of the Kelly-Peterson confrontation. He and I drop off Fritz's car for window repair on the way to the hockey tournament, then I drive through sleet and snow to my office. The weather matches my mood.

As I continue the calls and research in preparation for my business trip next week, I decide that I have to get the cello back by the time I leave for Chicago next Tuesday. This case is draining and distracting me, and I have to be in top form to negotiate those licensing contracts next week, the culmination of months of hard work and an inventor and engineer. I can't let them or myself down.

Once I have most of the trip arrangements in hand, I call Steve Dilley, the social worker whom Child Protection told me to contact. He introduces the conversation by stating this can only be a one-way talk, for obvious reasons (client protection, I assume), so I recount the story of Kelly Ritter, her friendship with Franek, her apartment "business" and her comment about not wanting to lose her kids. Dilley responds that yes, Kelly has a hard time, "supporting herself as best she can, if you know what I mean, since she already has lost her kids and no longer gets welfare."

Dilley, of course, doesn't realize the implications of the bomb he's just dropped: Mootz would have no reason to lie about Kelly in order to help her friend get custody, since Kelly doesn't have her kids. I add this information to my list for Bolck as I also wonder why Dilley cares about Kelly's current situation since she's off welfare. But after I hang up I question whether or not Bolck and the police care at all about Mootz's motives. I'm probably grasping for straws, hair-splitting over issues that matter only to me.

After lunch when I call Bolck for an update, his impatience immediately surfaces when I ask about Cliff Kelly's report. Kelly was of no help since he only gave the police a three-line report of useless information. I explain Kelly's interpretation of Peterson's condescending attitude and lack of previous camaraderie. I add that I was just trying to help smoke Franek out, since he is laying low having sold his or a friend's car. "The police have had Franek's car for a while. It's a blue Cadillac. They found nothing when they searched it." I wonder why no one's told me this before, but lamely reply that Franek's Cadillac is red and maybe Kelly is talking about a different car. I now assume that the police towed Franek's car and that he sold a different one, though I have no idea how.

Now I am really confused. Bolck states that he can't tell me what to do, but that clearly our p.i. is not getting us any good information, and that as a cop he has an obligation to be provide any useful information to Theft. When I acknowledge he may be right, Bolck says he'll get all the records tomorrow from Peterson and meet with us about them on Friday afternoon. We agree to 2:30.

When I drive home I skip my usual "route" since I'm pretty sure there's no car to spot, and I'm unsure of its color. Wouldn't that be a joke if I've been looking for the wrong color all the time. I berate myself for having lessened everyone's interest in the case: Cliff Kelly's, Peterson's and now Bolck's. My good connections can't force them to continue work on a hopeless case.

I review my list of questions to ask Bolck tomorrow, about the issuing of a warrant for Franek, and some more information about the car’s repossession, circumstances and location. But I acknowledge the weakness of my list since I have few ideas anymore. Then Jack comes home I underline the critical nature of the meeting with Bolck tomorrow: we have to get him on-board again.

Friday, March 9, 1990

I don't call anyone this morning, just talk to my sister and husband about the case and family affairs. I try to appear normal but I am nervous and emotionally exhausted. Laura and John drop me off at the auto body shop of their way to the midday hockey game. As I wait for the car I check myself in a mirror, and see a haggard, depressed person, hardly the business executive who knows what she's doing.

This sense of defeat when the shop owner asks if this isn't the same car that had another window repaired recently. As I explain the circumstances I feel stupid, that we really are having bad luck in our family after so many good, blessed years. I wonder what will happen next to us.

When I arrive home, I change my clothes and put on some makeup.

I feel better, less like I'm falling apart. At 2 I leave to meet with Bolck, but due to tournament traffic I drive around and around looking for any parking space or open lot. I finally spot a tight semi­illegal spot on Kellogg Boulevard, right about where Fritz's skates were stolen, I muse, pull in and lock up. But as I start to walk off I see my briefcase in the back seat and determine I should lock it in the trunk, lest Franek or his act-alikes should decide to break in and steal it. That would be too much for me, I realize. As I pull the briefcase off the back seat, my papers and cards float into the slushy street; evidently it was unlatched. I want to leave the mess in the gutter, but decide I need most of them, so I throw the soggy papers into the trunk.

I shed tears of self-sorrow as I run to Bolck's office. I am five minutes late, but can see that Chuck and Jack have already started meeting in the conference room, as I wait impatiently to be buzzed in. When I rush in and sit down Chuck is cordial but not too friendly. He is reviewing the latest police reports, and I am astounded at how many have been filed since our last meeting a week and a half ago. I pull out my notebook and write quickly.

Bolck summarizes the first report in the pile, the interview of Brenda on February 26, which Gus Johnson had also reviewed with us last Tuesday, the 27th. I now learn her full name: Brenda Lynn Hatch. The next reports that Officer Longbehn (patrolman on duty the night of the theft, February 9, who had gotten the "snitch" report) brought in Miller to Sgt. Peterson for questioning on February 27, the day of our initial meetings with Bolck and Johnson. Miller confirms his story about Franek selling the guitar and cello and I am grateful that our one really good witness has been found and has testified in writing.

That same day, according to the next report (so our visit really did produce some police action, I think) Longbehn visited a number of Franek's friends with whom he is reportedly staying (including Kelly Ritter!) checked out a van Franek was supposed to be driving (but not the one I've been tracing, I realize from the license plate), asked the bartenders at Franek's watering spots to keep an eye out for him, but with no results. The next report is from the same date and signed by Peterson, reporting his unfruitful interview of Kelly Ritter at headquarters. She testifies that she's just seen Franek earlier that day, but she can't keep him out since he has a key from when they lived together last summer (so she does qualify as Franek's girlfriend, as Peterson originally told me). From February 28, the day Peterson called Franek's mother, until six days later, there are no reports.

Bolck starts with a series of reports on March 7 which note the discovery of Franek's blue Cadillac (same license number as the red one I've been looking for: has it been painted I wonder) when a William Heinze, the current owner, was reported dead in the car (He was actually asleep). What follows is his testimony as to how he bought the car from Franek "a really hot crackhead" for $600 a week or so before. Heinze reports no cello, only champagne glasses and a pair of women's shoes in the car when he bought it, and that Franek took the glasses and left the shoes. "Class guy," Bolck wryly comments.

But it is the next set of reports, dated Tuesday, March 6, just three days ago, which removes all my underpinnings and sets me reeling. William Miller, our own William Miller, our star witness, and Duane Franek (a.k.a. Ripoff Duane) are reported for breaking into a car by Miller's sister, Pam. "Close family," is Bolck's comment. Pam Miller also reports that her brother and Franek have been smoking crack at Miller's house on Garfield (I recognize the street as one of Cliff Kelly's stakeouts). Our witness is Franek's partner in crime and shelter and drug provider.

As I sink into shock and despair Bolck pulls a final report and tosses it across the table to us. “And this four-line report came from your p.i. I can't tell you how to spend your money, but this is useless."    I read Cliff's bland report of how he got the name of a William Stone who talked to Franek who still has the cello. This is truly useless information. "This guy is a police officer and either he knows nothing or is hiding what he knows; he has a duty to report material information.” I nod as I think that we have no case, no allies, no directions to go.

Of course I decline to suggest actions to Bolck from my list, such as searching Jarvis' apartment and telling him about Kelly Ritter's child custody status. I merely close my notebook and quietly comment that the only thing we can do is see Brenda. As we part at 2:55 I ask Bolck for a copy of these reports. He promises them by next Tuesday, explaining that the copy room is very busy. I recognize that he doesn't want me to have them, that he wants me to get off the case.

Jack and I verbally comfort each other as we walk out, not stating that the case seems more hopeless and confused than ever. but this near-mortal wounding I have just received in Bolck's office does, on the other hand, energize and focus me to the one thing I haven't yet done: see Brenda and ask her for help. We agree to meet at her house in half an hour, after he drops off some legal papers. I impatiently declare that I'll just go directly to Brenda's, but with some humor, Jack points out I should first go home to take out my diamond earrings and shed my leather coat.

Once home I follow Jack's advice and search for a more appropriate coat. I pick out an old gray raincoat, noticing some remaining stickum from an old "Hello, My Name is" badge, but decide this sloppy touch is all right. I then spy some stains on the cuffs and determine I should give the coat to Goodwill, but later.

I park around the corner from Brenda's house where my car is less obvious and wait for Jack. But when I see several children running into her house I decide that this is a safe time to approach her, and besides, a mother to mother talk will be more effective. As I walk up the steps I notice for the first time that there is no door on the porch. A young boy follows me up and as he runs by and opens the front door I ask him if his mother is home. He says sure and points to a figure at the end of the hall surrounded by several children. I can only make out her the outline of her thin body, not her facial features, since the light is behind her.

"Brenda?" I say as she walks forward and asks what I want. "My name is Linda and I want to talk to you about a cello." As she emerges from the shadows I see a very thin, plain 30 year old woman with a high forehead, pale skin and deep voice. When I add that I don't think we should discuss this in front of the children, she nods and asks me to come to the kitchen.

We walk through her spare, worn but fairly tidy living room, with about six kids playing in it, and sit at a small kitchen table. I begin by telling her she is my last resort to get back the cello, and start crying almost simultaneously. I start to tell the story of Fritz and the cello, but she interrupts and says she has been bugging Duane to give back the cello. “Just leave it in a church then make an anonymous call to the cops, I tell him.”

Brenda then changes pace. "Duane just stopped by here this afternoon. You know, he's in real bad shape, really strung out (am I supposed to feel sorry for him, I wonder). She continues that she's tired of having the cops harass her about Duane and the cello. “It's getting so my kids are afraid of cops, it's really something." I'm amazed that this woman who lives with a thief and addict, in a world of other thieves and fences, doesn't want her kids to fear police. It even sounds like she wants her kids to like them. I'd think she'd view the police as her adversary, but then again, when you're poor and more likely to be a victim of crime, you need the police more. I then wonder if it was Brenda who reported Duane for domestic assault.

I take over the conversation and relate how the cello was originally lent to Fritz. Brenda interjects, "I hear your kid is handicapped, too. It's a shame.” I am grateful that the police or Duane's mother have told her about Fritz. Brenda adds “I tell Duane, you have kids. And this poor handicapped kid needs his cello." She notes that two of her four kids are Duane's.

I explain how depressed Fritz has been over the loss, how he's scared to tell his teacher, and how we even sent him to a psychiatrist because we were afraid about suicide. I am still crying and by now Brenda is holding my hand. "I see Duane tonight and I'll ask him to get it back. I'll have it for you tomorrow -- I guess I'll just bring it here,11 she promises. She adds that I should stop by her house tomorrow, and that if she doesn't have the cello then, she'll give me the name of the person who does have it. "I'll name names."

I ask her to give me the person's name now, in case there is any problem, then we can go get it, but she warns that the possessor is a “rough character." “You know," she comments, "your guy (Cliff Kelly) almost got it last weekend but this guy likes the cello. Duane's going to sell it to your guy if he can get it." I ask if the guy is a musician and plays the cello. "Heck no, but he's real strange and just likes to get high and look at it.” (I take heart that this statement confirms Cliff Kelly's report.)

Suddenly I look up and see that a man has just walked into the house. "That's Ron," Brenda sort of explains as he ruffles the hair of one of the children. I assume he's the father of a child Brenda cares for during the day. I give Brenda our unlisted phone number (so she can't trace us; I've never given her my last name) and state it's unlisted, has no machine on it, no way of tapping the conversation. I don't want her to think there is anyway the police can listen in on us. I add that she should call me anytime, day or night, that I'll come right away and get the cello, and notify the police only when I have it safely home. She's concerned that the cops might arrest her for possession of stolen property (as am I, I think), so I assure her that I'll make up some story for the police as to where I found the cello.

Brenda and I walk to the door and I nod to Ron as I pass by. Jack is standing at the entrance so I introduce him to Brenda, and explain Brenda's promise to get the cello back by tomorrow. He thanks her as I hug Brenda, stating, "I'm doing this for my son, you know. Thanks for everything."

As Jack and I walk to our cars he relates he was watching the house and thought he'd leave me to my pleading until he saw Ron enter and feared for my safety. "I knew it wasn't Duane from the mug shot, but I wasn't sure who it was." Jack leaves for a meeting and I drive home, thinking I'm calm, but notice that my hands are shaking. It is just 4 p.m.

About 5:20 Jack bursts in announcing proudly he's found us a "repo man who can get anything back." Jack quotes Bill Sands, the bank executive with whom he was just meeting, that "This guy is great. He knocks down doors and asks questions later." Well, I think, once we get the name of the person who has the cello, we now have the means to proceed. I hope Brenda gets it back first.

About 6:30 we go to dinner at Sam and Thelma Hunter's, Ann's talented in-laws: Sam is a cardiac surgeon and Thelma is a concert pianist. Since Ann has briefed Thelma about the cello case, she suggests I tell Sam about it as she fixes dinner. As I talk I realize I sound wound up and mindless of danger. I try to slow down, to calm down, but I can't. Sam, the caring doctor, sounds worried about me--I realize this case is driving me mildly crazy.

I change the subject, so we talk about their recent trip West, about their six sons, and about Jack's family whom they know well. When they wish us good night and good luck as we leave, I recognize the hopelessness of the case and that not only Duane, but I am strung out.

At home I replay two messages on the answering machine. The first, from Sgt. Peterson at 7 p.m. reports they've arrested Franek tonight and it looks like "we'll be getting your cello back tonight. I'll call you in the morning." The next call, from Cliff Kelly, states he's just heard from Theft that Franek has been arrested so he's pulled his man off the case. He'll call tomorrow.

I tell Jack that I feel like crying, that this is the worst time to have found Franek, that it will only screw up Brenda's negotiations. "If Franek is smart, he'll be like Jarvis and claim he doesn't know anything about a cello." Jack tries to calm me, saying that it's out of our hands, that all we can do is let these events play themselves out.

I am convinced that with Duane's arrest that Brenda will try to reach me soon, so I re-plug our phone into the unlisted number jack. Laura and her family come in about 11:30 and I update them. Thankfully, they are supportive and non-judgmental.

As I lie in bed I visualize myself calling friends on Sunday night and telling them we have the cello back. The vision is positive, yet I don't know how to make it materialize.

Saturday, March 10, 1990

In the middle of the night I am awakened by the phone ringing, and race to get it shouting "It's Brenda" and say hello. Nothing. I notice it's 1:30 a.m. I lie down, waiting for her to call again, and realized that Laura may be picking up the phone in her bedroom at the same time, causing both portable phones to cut each other off. I direct Jack to run downstairs and tell her, but the phone rings again, with the same results. I race to Laura's bedroom, tell her it's Brenda calling, and grab her portable phone receiver with an ununderstandable explanation of my actions. I realize I'm treating her as if she's some naughty child, when she's only trying to keep me from waking up. I'll explain later.

The phone rings as I walk into my bedroom and I lunge for it. "Brenda,” I say. “Is someone tapping us?" she starts. Her voice sounds deeper than I remember and her pronunciation makes her sound drunk or high. She sounds like she's at a party or place with a lot of people, judging from all the voices in the background. I explain that it's only my sister picking up, but clearly she doesn't understand or believe me. She continues, "I called this evening but you weren't home." I start to explain where we were but she interrupts, “They got Duane tonight." I reply that I know, then wonder if that's a wise acknowledgement. "Ron, the guy you met at my house, has been working on the guy, but now the guy's scared to give us the cello since the cops might arrest him. Everyone's real nervous since they got Duane."

She informs me that Peterson came to her house about an hour after I left (My God, I hope she doesn't think I sent him, so I tell her that I never let him know I was seeing her.) and she told him she had just seen me, and that she was going to get the cello and would call me when she did. "Don't you dare call her" Brenda quotes Peterson, "But I tell him it's her kid I'm getting the cello for." She says that Peterson told her if she brought the cello to her house she'd be safe (not subject to prosecution). But I wonder to myself whether or not Brenda will be safe from prosecution since Peterson has lied before.

"Duane needs treatment real bad. You know he's really an addict. Me, I don't do drugs, I see what they do to you." (With her slurred speech I'm not sure what she's on.)

"Ron's trying to go straight, you know, he's in a halfway house and he don't want no trouble. He's working on getting the cello, but it's going to take longer. The guy that's got it, he's scared too."

Brenda comments that she told Ron that "you and your husband were real nice people, that you remind me of Duane's parents." (What a standard, I think, but then I consider that they too are solid middle class people.) She says she'll keep working on it, but we'll have to give her until Sunday night. She tells us to stop by Monday to get the cello, and if she doesn't have it she'll give us the holder's name. I ask her to give it to me now, but she holds firm.

I thank Brenda and remind her she can call me anytime, day or night, that I'll stay by the phone, and that I'll meet her any place to get the cello and only tell the police later. I close by telling Brenda that I love her and am surprised when I hear myself say it.

Maybe it's true.

I lie down and daydream nightmares--I don't fall asleep. I envision Peterson arresting Brenda and me for possession of stolen goods. I see Peterson (whom I've yet to meet in person) searching my house for the cello, then fingerprinting it. I decide that when I get the cello from Brenda I'll claim that I found it on our doorstep; even in the middle of the night this story sounds implausible to me. Clearly though I view Brenda and me as allies working together to get this cello for our children from thoughtless, lying, bumbling men.

I get up about 6 a.m. totally exhausted and tautly strung. I am glad my sister is here since she always soothes me. About 7 I tiptoe into the guest bedroom and whisper in John, my brother-in-law's ear that I need help. After a shower he comes into the kitchen looking tired, too. I realize I really shouldn't have awakened him, but I barely apologize since, after all, this is war.

I summarize Brenda's call and tell John I'm worried the police might stake out Brenda's house, then arrest her when she has the cello. John thinks this unlikely, but still possible, if their goal is a prosecution for all their work. We discuss safe, untraveled places to drop the cello, and he suggests talking to a boyfriend of his cousin who works at the Dorothy Day Center in downtown St. Paul. About 8 a.m. John calls him and he's willing to help out. (I ask myself if I would be willing to under similar circumstances; I basically respect the police and don't think good citizens should try to outwit them.) We agree that Brenda or friend could leave the cello at the front desk with no exchange of information. The desk receptionist will call us directly; no one will know our last name. I feel better.

Fritz then arrives from the airport, after his week-long stay in Washington, D.C. for the "Close-up" program. He immediately asks about the cello, and is disappointed with the news, but tries to cheer us on. He is exhausted from lack of sleep, but begs to go to bed. I want him to rest.

When by 9:30 neither Peterson nor Kelly have called, I presume there is no cello so far, and that Peterson is embarrassed to tell us. I phone Cliff Kelly and he reports that last evening Peterson told him Franek had been arrested and that Kelly was hereby ordered off the case (The nerve of Peterson to fire our employee, I think.). Since he doesn't want any hassle with the police department, Kelly agreed and called off his contact about 7 p.m. I suggest the reinstatement of the contact, whom Kelly states is a Minneapolis firefighter, since Peterson hasn't gotten the cello yet. Kelly assures me that it won't be necessary since "from what Peterson told me, I'm 99.9% sure you'll have your cello back this morning." I thank Kelly for all his work, but feel unbalanced since I've just lost one of my major supports.

At 2 p.m., when Peterson has still not called, I contact Jack at his office and ask him to check with Theft re the cello recovery. I want to involve Jack and I think they're tired of me down there. Jack calls back in 15 minutes and proclaims "The police are doing just what you want them to do." (I'm not sure what that is.) He states he spoke to a very nice Sgt. Cheryl Endehar who informed him that Franek would confess to nothing, so the police decided to leave Brenda alone and let her try to get the cello back. Endehar says they've promised Brenda they won't prosecute her, just please get it. Jack comments that the police sound sophisticated in their approach. I agree this all sounds good, but think Jack is misled if he thinks Peterson has gotten sophisticated all of a sudden.

About 3:30 p.m. at the recommendation of my brother-in-law, John Doyle, (who has called from the hockey tournament to see how I'm doing) I call Cliff Kelly and update him. He restates his "99.9% sure" slogan but sounds less convinced, more confused that the cello still isn't returned. When I press him he relates that Peterson told him that Franek had the cello and was going to give it to the police Friday night. I sense Kelly's discomfort as he tells me this since he doesn't want to jeopardize his job. I tell him I simply want him to put his contact on notice, since if Brenda doesn't retrieve the cello by Sunday night, we'll have to reactivate him. Kelly agrees.

When I go to bed early Saturday night I surround my pillow with portable phones for both lines, my command center. As usual, I don't sleep well, so I finally take a sleeping pill around 11. I'm worried that for a few nights, I've taken a pill almost 15 nights straight.

But how else can I rest in the midst of my siege?

Sunday, March 11, 1990

I arise early, moderately rested but very disappointed that I wasn't awakened by a call from Brenda last night. I make pancakes for all of us, and Jack leaves for church around 10, with instructions to stop at the grocery store on the way home to get two bunches of roses for Brenda. I want to encourage Brenda in her efforts and decide that flowers make a good excuse to stop by and get an update. "Why roses?" Jack asks. "Because Brenda has never gotten roses," I answer.

The silent phone is a painful reminder of my lack of control and the lack of progress. Around noon I call Theft and talk to Sgt. Endehar. She begins her first ten sentences, “As I told your husband yesterday..." and repeats what Jack has already reported. Then she relaxes and says that Franek is permitted no phone calls, except to his lawyer (When she responds that he doesn't have an attorney, I offer Jack's services.), and that she's spending hours straightening out the paperwork on his recent arrest so they can charge him with two misdemeanors and "lock him up for two years." I hope she's right, but my experience reading Franek's record makes me doubt the charges will stick or that he'll spend more than a month or two in prison. It must be frustrating for the police to chase down these crooks who are quickly back on the street, repeating their crimes. I keep these thoughts to myself, thank her and ask her to call us if there's any news.

After the Doyles leave at 1:30 Jack and I drive to Brenda's on this warm, overcast day with my arrangement of 20 pink and red roses. Jack waits in the car as I ring the bell and wait. Finally Brenda's upstairs duplex neighbor opens the adjoining door with the news that Peterson was just here an hour ago looking for Brenda. The neighbor says that Brenda left yesterday afternoon with her kids and that she doesn't know when she'll be back. She offers to house the flowers and give them to Brenda when she returns. I am disheartened but not despondent with this news since I figure Brenda wanted to get away from the cops so she could do her work. At least I hope this is the case.

The warm weather coupled with the recent snowfall produces a late afternoon fog which seems to thicken with sunset. The evening is dark and foggy despite the fact that the moon is full and unseen. I look out and think that it is exactly one full moon, 30 days, since the night of the theft. Jack, Fritz and his friend, Mark Liberman, have tickets to a college championship hockey game. I eschew using the fourth ticket, stating that I must stay by the phone. I have not been out of the house since Friday night, except for the brief trip to see the missing Brenda.

When Mark arrives about 6:15 he mentions the terrible visibility and tough driving. I label it “a good night for a crime" since it looks exactly like a Basil Rathbone set, perhaps more so.

After the fellows leave I sit in the kitchen, both phone lines in reach, and attempt the Sunday crossword puzzle. At 7:30 p.m. the regular phone line rings, and I expect it to be my sister or another relative since Sunday is family call day. It is Sgt. Peterson and he immediately states he has the cello. I thank him excitedly and tell him that if he were here I'd hug him. He continues that he's been negotiating all weekend to get the cello back, that it was touch and go, but the police finally succeeded. I thank him for all his hard work and time, and restate the cello's importance to us, and that I'm sorry that Jack and Fritz aren't here now so we could all rejoice.

I then ask Peterson for more detail on how they recovered the cello. He stated that about half an hour ago the police got an anonymous phone call that there was a cello in a garbage bag at an intersection off West 7th street by a fire hydrant. "We sent a squad car to pick it up and they brought it here to police headquarters." Sounds like Brenda's work, I think.

Peterson says he's going home now and that I can come in tomorrow morning about 8 to identify it. I offer to come now, but he says there’s no need; with all the fog I’m just glad to wait. I ask how the cello looks and he replies "old." I'm not sure that means antique looking or beat up. He adds that the strings are loose, but assumes that that is how you store it. I don't tell him no.

After the final words of gratitude to Peterson, I begin to act out my previous visualization, calling people to tell them the cello is back. I first call Kristen at college who immediately shouts to her dorm room visitors "Mom's got the cello back!" Always the worrier, she asks if we're sure it's the right cello, and I say of course, but begin to wonder.

I call the police station to ensure it's the cello of golden brown color and that it has the bow with it. But Peterson has left, and while the officer on duty has heard something about a cello, he can't find it. I decide not to get nervous and continue the announcement calls to friends and supporters. Since the list is fairly long, I ask some to call a few others.

About 10:30 p.m. Jack, Fritz and Mark return and I call them into my bedroom to tell them the fabulous news. Fritz expresses relief but says he doesn't want to get too excited until we see it and make sure it's in reasonable condition. This search has hurt all of us.

For the first time since my trip I sleep well and without medication.

Monday, March 12, 1990

I bounce out of bed and list all the things I need to do today regarding the cello and business trip. Jack and I arrive at police headquarters right at 8 a.m. and tell the desk officer that Sgt. Peterson is expecting us. While we wait for him I pick up courtesy brochures on car thefts and home security systems. The elevator doors open and a tall, fair 50 year old man emerges and introduces himself. This is the first time I have seen my competitor and for some reason I hug him (although this seems to have become my standard practice during this case) as I thank him, then hand him a bottle of champagne. I am so relieved and grateful the ordeal is over.

The three of us take the elevator down to the property room in the basement.  Peterson asks for the cello, but when no one can find it, Jack says he hopes it's not missing. I nervously laugh and recall many articles about stolen property room items. Finally Peterson steps behind the counter, goes to the garage locker and carries to us. We comment that the Westec sticker is missing, and after unhinging the case we behold the beloved cello and bow. The music is missing, the bridge is stuck in a side pocket (causing the loose strings), there are some new cracks and a few scratches, but the cello is fine. We agree the cello shouldn't be fingerprinted since it might damage it, and since the guitar was wiped clean of prints, we assume the culprits would do the same with the cello.

Then for some perverse, suicidal reason which I will never understand, Peterson starts to rattle on about Franek's innocence in all this. "You know, Franek really didn't take the cello. He's really a good guy and worked hard all weekend making calls to get the cello back." I want to put my hand over Peterson's mouth to stop him, he's just making a fool of himself, diminishing his very real accomplishments. But instead I mention the snitch's report and that Franek's car was parked where the guitar was sold, to bring Peterson back to reality. "That was just coincidence. Franek was just a victim of circumstances," he asserts. I can't believe that Peterson is spouting all this nonsense, but decide it's just his effort to prove to us that he really controlled the case the entire time.

We change subjects, asking when we can get the cello back.

Peterson says Wednesday afternoon, but I explain that since I'm out of town this week, I'd like to get it Thursday. He jokes that maybe he should take it home with him for safekeeping. We flee to the car and Jack remarks that he's just lost all faith in Peterson. I lamely try to interpret Peterson's unbelievable statements, his need to have the last word, to show his "rightness," but in the end I realize it makes no sense.

We drive to the County Attorney's office and park illegally to save time. Ironically we waste the minutes by entering on the wrong side of the building, forcing us to backtrack. Chuck Bolck spots us and lets us in, greeting us with a huge grin as "our most crime solving family." I tell him that his talk with us last Friday inspired me to go talk to Brenda, and he says he knows and that my talk with her did the trick. He is extremely gracious and happy for us, and demurs when I give him the champagne and thank him for all his support. He says the champagne is not necessary, but virtually bubbles when he introduces us to two other attorneys in his office, whom he says he's working with to put Franek in jail for a while on another theft. As I hug him goodbye, he hands me copies of the police reports he reviewed with us on Friday, "for the family album."

I skim the reports on the way to Brenda's, commenting on a few details about the Cadillac that is blue and the witness Miller who is also the accomplice. Brenda answers the door and invites us in. We thank her for getting the cello and she evinces mild surprise saying “Ron must have gotten it for you." She hands the champagne to her second child, a six year old who is Duane's, as is her third child, she explains. (The oldest child is in school and the baby girl is evidently someone else's.) The child puts the champagne in the refrigerator, chattering on in speech so unclear we have no idea what he is saying.

Brenda says she's about to give Duane's kids a bath since his mother is coming over to take them for the day. I nonchalantly ask if Mrs. Franek sees them often, and asserts she comes there twice a week to see them. "I don't know what I'd do without her. She's wonderful."

Jack asks Brenda if Duane works and she says that when he has a job he's a real good worker. But Duane's job now is breaking into cars, she adds matter of factly. We restate our gratitude to her for getting the cello back, but she doesn't seem to want to talk about it. She relates that Duane called her a snitch this weekend and her serious look betrays an expectation of wrath from him. She mildly chides me for not having come to her in the first place for help and she'd have gotten the cello back. I confess that I wasn't sure before whether or not I should be afraid of her, but when she looks at me puzzled I realize she can't begin to understand my fear.

We ask her to convey our thanks to Ron and she adds that he's at his halfway house now, but will be here this afternoon. I ask her if there's anything we can do for her, but when she says no I offer to get her a family Science Museum membership, she likes the idea. We hug and say goodbye. On the way home Jack warns me not to get too friendly with Brenda or to view her and her colleagues too romantically. Remember, he says, they're all amoral, a ring of predators, thieves, dope addicts and fences. I agree but think he's a bit heavy. I envision myself teaching Brenda to read well and to counsel her so she can get a job, but although I know this is highly unlikely on both her and my parts, I don't tell Jack.

I go to the office about 9:30 with the intention of leaving about 3 to go to Brenda's to thank Ron (I assume Franek will still be in jail), then get to our local police station by 4, shift changeover time, to thank the patrolmen who worked on the case. But I run late so I head first for the Southwest team office, arriving about 3:55. As I walk in the building I hear a call from headquarters to send squad cars to 915 James, Brenda's address, to arrest Franek, Duane, may be armed and dangerous. I tense as I realize the appropriateness of Jack's warning. Had I not been delayed I would be at Brenda's now, faced by a possibly vengeful Franek, police descending, guns drawn. I shivered when I considered the possibility that Franek might have used me as a hostage. My morning chat with Brenda should probably be my last personal encounter with her.

I enter the team office, introduce myself as part of the cello family, and say I'm looking for Officer Langbehn to thank him. They tell me to wait, that he's picking up Franek now, and will be here soon. I comment that I thought Franek was in jail now, but they state he was let off this morning, then "they" found another felony to his credit, so issued another warrant. They smile and shake their heads as they tell me.

Sgt. Walsh offers me tea while I wait and I realize he's the officer who called the night of the theft reporting a lead and wanting guitar identification. As I profusely thank him and the team, he cites names of several others who worked hard to find Franek. I recognize I should have brought more thank you tokens, but I'm committed. We bemoan the system that keeps releasing the Franeks of the world, particularly when the police have worked hard to find them. Walsh's cohort, Sgt. Mead notes that "My only comfort is that some day Franek will be breaking into a car, the owner will see him and shoot him. That will be the end of our problems with Franek.” In the meantime the cat and mouse game will continue.

As Walsh is telling me about his strings appreciation course in college and how difficult he found it to play the cello, Longbehn walks in, a medium height, heavy set 30 year old wearing a bullet proof vest. He exclaims that after looking so hard for Franek, he just got the closest to him he's ever been when he arrested him, putting his hand on his shoulder as he walked him to the squad car. He continues that he saw Franek on West 7th about a week and a half after the theft, Longbehn was with his wife and son, but lost him when he turned the corner. In parting, I comment that I'm so happy and grateful and they say they can tell. They add that they appreciate being thanked since they seldom hear from anyone "those few times things turn out right."

Once home I call more supporters, basking in the positive outcome, all ignoring my close brush with failure. Everyone sounds relieved and suggests I can now go on to other things; I'm sure I've exhausted them, too.

I call Joanne, the psychic in California, and she notes that this should be a lifetime lesson for our son to be careful with his goods, that it must have been among some guitars at one point, and would I write her a letter about it since she's keeping a file on her predictions.

When I tell our former Mayor George Latimer, he terms this one of the best stories he's ever heard, that Brenda sounds like an O'Henry heroine, the tough but honest and kind moll. He's so right, even if Jack doesn't think I should romanticize her.

I feel an aura of calm and peace envelop me.

Wednesday, March 14, 1990

Jack picks me up from my business trip about 7 p.m. and says Cliff Kelly is coming to the house at 8 with his bill. I unpack a bit, then write down my questions for him. Cliff arrives at 8:30, a slightly heavy black middle aged man, probably our age, I assume.

After the initial thanks, he agrees to a beer and tells us more about his end of the case. He initially contacted an insulating contractor, a reformed fence, who approached Jarvis for information on Franek and the cello. The contractor then approached an active fence, the William Stone whom Cliff mentioned in his police report, who negotiated with Franek. After negotiations failed, Cliff employed a Minneapolis firefighter to join the insulator in staking out the various houses where Franek was staying or smoking crack: Kelly Ritter's, William Miller's, or Roberta LaTraille's, another old girlfriend. Cliff adds that Franek immediately confessed taking the cello to the fence, but says that the West 7th crowd always confess right away, whereas the Eastside crooks proclaim their innocence.

I find that although I'm interested in these details, I no longer feel compelled to get all possible information.  I am in control of my life again, no longer a victim. Cliff closes his crime notes by saying that it drove the police crazy that I had their reports, and then that I hired a p.i. I write him a check for $1191.50.

That segues into a discussion within the police department.

Cliff related how three blacks and three women recently scored very high on the written exam for sergeant, but were knocked out of the running in the oral interviews on supervision techniques. After Cliff leaves Jack suggests I use my business background to help these women and minorities get promoted. I agree, hoping I'll have the energy later to work with the police again.

Thursday, March 15, 1990

At 8 a.m. I call the police department, Theft and the Property Room, to inform them I'm coming for the cello. The property officer claims he can't find Peterson's release of it from evidence, but come down (I note that there's no case being prosecuted on the cello, but he ignores this.) I arrive at the Property Room about 8:15, comfortable that I know my way around headquarters. While the officer hunts for the release he tells me that Peterson's nickname is "Lumphead Lenny" since "he always forgets to do the paperwork." He gloats that he'll have to call Peterson at home, "maybe I'll even have to wake him up,” he smiles. He talks to Peterson, then hands me the phone. I try to give Peterson an excuse for his slip, that I was gone for two days, and hope he remembers I could get the cello Thursday. He takes me up, "Yes, I didn't sign it out since I knew you'd be gone." I thank him again and hang up so he doesn't begin to tell me more outrageous tales.

The officer completes the paperwork, then realizes they have no photo for evidence. I have them take an extra polaroid with me holding the instrument in its case and holding out the property recovery tag. As I drive off, I realize I've left the photo there, and chalk it up to continuing stress.

At Carl Becker and Sons, fine string instrument maker and repairer, I relate the cello's tale to Jennifer Becker. She opens the case, fingers the cracks and exclaims that "they didn't even humidify the cello." I realize she's not trying to be funny, but still comment that this group's idea of humidification would have been to throw it in the Mississippi.

Repairs are estimated at $1200. I suggest a new appraisal, and cautiously ask if Antoniazzi, maker of this cello, is a known name. She replies that yes, in fact they've become very popular recently. When I ask for an approximation of the cello's current worth, she consults a book and states "This information is two years old, but it's probably worth about $18,000.” I'm shocked, but also glad that I had little idea of the cello's updated monetary value during the hunt, or I would have been even more stressed.

At the office I do minimal work, then pull out a St. Paul map and circle all locations connected with Franek on this case. From Kelly Ritter's on the west, to Brenda's, heading east to his three hideouts, was a distance of no more than a mile. The police were right, that Franek never ventured far. I again wonder why they had so much trouble finding him.

I inform Bolck of the new value of the cello, noting that it makes all the extra effort worthwhile. I joke, truthfully, that my problem now is to find a cheaper cello for Fritz to take to college. Bolck thanks me and says he'll mail the final reports on the case "so you can close your file." He closes that Franek should be in jail for a while since he had drugs on him when they arrested him Monday. I doubt it, but hope for the sake of Bolck, the police and society in general that it's true.

I call Peterson but since he's not there I tell the officer on duty, who's name I recognize, about the cello's appraisal. He writes the information for Peterson, then says he'd like to ask me a question. "We all want to know how you ever hired Cliff Kelly as your private investigator," adding that they have some smart blacks in the police force, but Cliff's not one of them. I lay it on that Cliff came highly recommended by a good friend of Tom Foley (the County Attorney) and he chokes "You're serious?" I recall Kelly's comments last night about minority discrimination in the police force.

I agree with Jack's assessment that hiring Kelly was beneficial not only for the information he provided, but also because the police were darned if they'd let Kelly get the cello first. So be it.

Saturday, March 24, 1990

Jack, Fritz, Mark and I attend Garrison Keillor's live radio show at the World Theater. Among the radio messages from audience members that he reads is: "Congratulations to Linda, our own Nancy Drew, for recovering the stolen cello. Love, Jack." Garrison slows down as he reads it, looking like it must be a mistake, so that the word "cello" comes out sounding like "child." A few in the audience laugh and one or two cheer.

I begin to think of the final reports which I've just received from Bolck, dated Sunday, March 11, the day the cello was recovered. Franek claims he never took the cello, only tried to help sell it that night. He won't say who did take it though, since he's afraid for his life. He adds that the night of the robbery he happened to stop at Kelly Ritter's just after Mootz had been arrested, and when the police knocked on the apartment door, he and Kelly didn't answer it (So the police did try to question her that night, though it’s not recorded in any of their reports.). At 5 p.m. Sunday, after Brenda evidently tells Franek that Ron's giving up, that too many people are afraid of arrest, Franek calls a "Paulie" who he claims knows where to find the cello. Peterson talks to him and tells him how to inform the desk when he has information about it. At 7 p.m. the anonymous phone call comes in telling the police where to get the cello. It seems that Franek did play a positive role, at the end.

Although some experts claim that thieves seldom realize how their deeds really harm people and that if you show them the damage done other human beings, they'll often reform, I don't think Franek is reformable. Just this week a policeman told Fritz that Franek was still loose and had "upgraded his act," he's now robbing stores as well as breaking into cars.

After the show we see George Latimer in the lobby. He introduces me to some guests as "our own Nancy Drew" and says he has quite a story to tell them about a cello. I cross over to the Science Museum to buy the family membership for Brenda, signing the gift card, "Linda and the cello."

When I rejoin our family I tell Fritz to “Remember, when your children and grandchildren ask you what Linda Hoeschler was really like, tell them the story of how I got back the cello.”

And so I have.