Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Private Investigators

A Hard Ticket Home (9 page)

BOOK: A Hard Ticket Home

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I could relate to that.

Across from my chair was a glass display case. While I waited, I studied its contents: 9 mm Intratec spring knife, .22 carbine with bayonet, 12-gauge shotgun, nunchucks, timing chain, Louisville Slugger, and a rusted tire iron. A typed index card taped to the outside of the case read:
“Weapons used to attack St. Anthony Village police officers in the month of August.” I shuddered, wondering what September would bring.

Some time after noon Chief Casey arrived.

“Inside,” he said, hurrying past me.

His office was small and windowless and extremely cluttered. The chief sat behind a dark wood desk that was far too big for the room and motioned me to the only chair that was empty.

The chief read my statement twice. When he finished, he told me to sign it.

I did.

He said, “The assistant county attorney wants to speak with you.”

“I bet.”

“Don’t go anywhere I can’t find you.”

He had no right to say that. Unless you’re actually charged with a crime, you have every legal right to go anywhere you please, even France. Only I didn’t argue the point. Where would I go?

“Johnson,” he called.

Officer Johnson and I did a dance number in the doorway until we figured a safe way to pass each other. As I left I heard the chief speak sternly to him.

“Johnson, I don’t like cops who are loose with their hands.”

It took an hour to drive home, feed the ducks, take a shower, get dressed again, and snap a holstered 9 mm Beretta to my belt. The Beretta nine-millimeter is the official sidearm of the United States Armed Forces and is the standard issue of law enforcement agencies throughout the country, including Minneapolis. If the St. Paul cops had used it instead of the Glock 17, my whole life might have been different.

I slipped a black sport coat over the Beretta and stared at myself in
the full-length mirror. The gun was properly concealed. No one would know it was there. But I knew.

I hate guns.

The street where Jamie Carlson Bruder lived was empty. No surprise there. You live in a half-million-dollar house, how often would you go outside? And quiet—well, that’s why people bought half-million-dollar homes in this neighborhood, because it was quiet. Yet something was terribly wrong. I felt it as I parked my SUV in the same spot as the evening before and walked to Jamie’s front door. I knew it in the same way that I knew my mother had died before anyone had the chance to tell me.

I used the doorbell, then knocked loudly. When no one answered, I circled the house, peeking into windows as I went, ignoring this time the trellis of roses. There was no BMW in the driveway, no beautiful blond scratching in the dirt. I pounded hard on the back door. No reply. It was only seventy-five, but it felt a good twenty degrees warmer. I used the back of my hand to wipe sweat off my forehead.

Colin Gernes used to
like
burglars, would speak longingly of the good old days when burglars were gentlemen thieves who gently jimmied windows and doors, who were actually considerate of their victim’s possessions, who never carried, never hurt anyone—Gernes’s kind of crook. That was before cocaine. That was before junkies gave burglary a bad name by smashing windows with bricks and hammers, beating, raping, and killing anyone unfortunate enough to be inside, running off with the loot to their junkie fence for ten cents on the dollar or a gram of low-grade dope. That’s what I was thinking of as I slipped the burglary tools out of my inside jacket pocket—the “new” burglar.

The tools were illegal for me to carry—a stiff “wire” and the pick I made myself, a long, narrow piece of hard metal with a tiny L on one end. I used them to work Bruder’s cheap lock, cursing him when it
sprang and the door swung open. A five-hundred-thousand-dollar house and a $2.99 lock. “Call this protection?” A pro could have managed the job in less than thirty seconds. It took me about three minutes.

I returned the tools to my pocket and slipped the Beretta from its holster. The weight of it felt comforting.

I forced myself to breathe normally and moved cautiously into the kitchen, telling myself to “see everything.” Only there wasn’t much to see. No dishes in the sink, no debris on the table, nothing stacked on the counters, everything just so except for a single cabinet drawer open about three inches. I glanced inside without opening it farther. A junk drawer.

The kitchen reminded me of a remodeler’s store display. So did the dining room. And the living room. And the family room. And the den. The furniture was all new. Jamie had arranged it for conversation with a nod to her two fireplaces. I didn’t see a TV, but I hadn’t looked for one that hard. I did find the Bruders’ answering machine at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second floor. A red light blinked and a digital display said there were two messages. I pressed the playback bar with my elbow. It wasn’t until I heard a male voice say, “David, this is Warren. Something’s gone wrong. Better call me ASAP,” that I realized what a foolish mistake I had made. I just revealed my presence to anyone lurking in the house.
You’re a real pro, McKenzie
. A woman delivered the second message—“Hey, babe, this is Merci. Have you decided what to do about your visitor? Call me.”—but I was listening too hard for sounds of movement to pay much attention.

I left the machine to rewind itself and started up the stairs.

My Nikes made no sound on the thick carpet. I stopped at the top step, looked around, listened. Nothing. There were six rooms. I started with the one nearest me. A guest room with private bath. Unoccupied. I slipped into the next. It was a nursery. The crib was empty.

“Mother and child are out running an errand,” I told myself. “It’s a
pleasant afternoon, maybe Jamie took the child to the park.” There were dozens of reasons why they weren’t home. I couldn’t force myself to believe any of them. I kept moving.

The third room was a catchall and contained a locked glass gun cabinet filled with shotguns, hunting rifles, and two handguns; a sewing machine, empty gift boxes, wrapping paper and ribbons, a desk without a chair. The fourth was a bathroom. The fifth was the master bedroom.

That’s where I found her.

Jamie was on the bed, her wrists tied to a brass and white-enamel headboard, her ankles tied to a matching baseboard—the skin was torn and bloody where she had struggled against the twine. Her mouth was sealed with duct tape. Bruises covered her face and shoulders. Cigarette burns dotted the rest of her nude body. Strips of flesh hung from her breasts where someone had skinned her. There was a steak knife on the mattress next to her and at least eight jagged holes in her stomach—they were hard to count because of the blood. Blood had poured out onto her black shorts and her white blouse, brassiere, and panties, all cut away and lying beneath her. The pubic hair around her vagina was matted with dried fluid. A broom was on the floor next to the bed. The tip of the broom handle was stained red. Jamie’s eyes were open, her fists were clenched.

I screamed at the sight of her.

Most murders are mistakes. The majority are committed spontaneously by completely rational people who in moments of rage do completely irrational things. A groom kills his best man over the last slice of pizza at a bachelor party. A man kills his wife for switching the channel during the World Series. A young woman kills her landlord for raising the rent. A teenager is shot on an MTC bus because he refuses to lower the volume on his radio. A father is gunned down by his son during an argument over whether an angel or star belongs on top of the Christmas tree. Mistakes. The killers didn’t mean to do it. A surprising number of them will confess to that the moment the cops walk through the door. They might as well. Often they’re standing there covered with blood or surrounded by witnesses.

Only the killing of Jamie Carlson was not a mistake. It was methodical, well organized, and terribly ferocious. And the killer had no intention of admitting to his crime. Someone would have to catch him.

That’s what I was thinking as I sat in my Jeep Cherokee waiting for the police to respond to the call I had placed with my cell phone, refusing to look at the house, knowing what was inside. Two squads arrived within two minutes. I knew the driver of the second car from my time in the department’s Central District.

“How you doin’, Mac?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Dispatch said you called it in.”

“Yeah.”

“Show me.”

“Wait for the detectives,” I told him. “The house is clean. There’s no one inside and nothing you can do.”

He didn’t like my telling him that, but before he could lean on me a team of detectives I didn’t know arrived.

“You call it in?” the taller of the two asked after consulting with the uniforms.

“Yeah.”

“Show me.” He was more forceful than the uniform had been. I blew him off just the same.

“Show yourself.” I wasn’t trying to be a smartass. I just wasn’t going back into that house. I was a civilian now. There were things I shouldn’t have to look at. I told the detective where to find Jamie. I told him that there wasn’t anyone else in the house. I told him I would wait there. The detective assigned a uniform to make sure I did. He returned twenty minutes later. His cheeks were pale and his breath came hard, yet he spoke steadily.

“Touch anything?”

“Back door handle, in and out.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“We might take your fingerprints, anyway.”

“They’re already on file,” I told him. That raised an eyebrow until I explained that I used to work the job he was working. Yet I doubt I had done it any better. He took my statement calmly, professionally, leading me through my discovery of the victim.

The victim.

Already Jamie’s identity was disappearing under the weight of what she had become. A victim. Her name no longer represented a living, breathing woman. Whatever her history, whatever her accomplishments and failings, Jamie’s life would now and forever be defined by one of the worst things that could happen to a human being. She was a victim now. Nothing more. Murder does that.

Someone laughed, a technician. That’s when I noticed Bobby Dunston. He glared at the tech like he wanted to destroy him in place and was looking forward to the opportunity. The laughter died in the tech’s throat.

By now the brick house was surrounded by trucks and squads, marked and unmarked. They came silently, without siren, without lights. Yet the neighbors heard them just the same. They emerged from their stately homes and watched from their stoops, wondering what evil had invaded their community and threatened their children. A yellow ribbon went up, circling the Bruder house. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. Neighbors who rarely spoke before gathered in small clusters to discuss it—comradeship in the face of adversity. It happens every time there’s a heavy storm.

“What does it mean?” they asked, shaking their collective heads at the army of St. Paul police officers and technicians. The residents of Highland Park were already embarrassed and ashamed. They weren’t yet sure what had happened, but they all knew that it wasn’t supposed to happen there. University-Summit, maybe. Or Frogtown. Or the west
side of St. Paul. Not there. Highland Park was a “safe” neighborhood. All the real estate agents said so.

I gave my statement twice more, the second time to Bobby, only I told him things I didn’t tell the others.

“I picked the back door lock.” I didn’t want any scratches I might have left on the metal to confuse his investigation.

“Goddammit, McKenzie.”

“Thought you should know.”

“What else?”

“I listened to the answering machine. Two messages. The first was from a man named Warren, the second was from Merci Cole.”

“I already secured the tape.”

I nodded.

“What the hell were you doing here?” he wanted to know.

“This morning I killed a man named Bradley Young.” The rest of the story came out in a flood and Bobby forced me to repeat it, slowly.

“What do you think?” I asked after I had finished.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I.”

“But, they do happen.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Know anything about the husband?”

“Good Deal Dave? Do you honestly believe a man could do something like that to his own wife?”

“Christ, Mac. Men do things like that to their wives all the fucking time.”

Bobby was trying hard to contain his rage, but it was spilling out in his language. “Where the fuck is he?”

“And the child,” I added.

“And the child.”

“The killing—it’s just like Katherine’s, isn’t it?”

Bobby rubbed his eyes.

“Maybe it’s the guy I killed.”

“We should be so lucky.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you make the call to the Carlsons? I mean, you’re gonna have to call them anyway, right?”

“You coward.”

Yeah, that’s me all right.

“What are you doing here, McKenzie?” It was Deputy Chief Tommy Thompson. Neither Bobby nor I saw him approach. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

Thompson often spoke in a very soft monotone and you’d better listen carefully because if you asked, “Huh, what did you say?” he’d turn on you with an angry squint and demand to know why he should waste his breath if you can’t even be bothered to pay attention.

“McKenzie discovered the body,” Bobby answered for me. “He has an angle on the case.”

“I must have missed that memo. The St. Paul Police Department is hiring consultants?”

Bobby rubbed his eyes some more. “He discovered the body.”

“I’m listening,” Thompson said.

Bobby told him about my mission to find Jamie Carlson and my early morning visitor. Thompson was singularly unimpressed.

“Find the husband,” he said and started to move away. He had no intention of entertaining other theories. Find the husband. Case closed.

“Yesterday it was Katherine’s boyfriend!” Bobby shouted at his back. “Today it’s the husband! Who’s it going to be tomorrow?”

Thompson turned. He had one of those who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to expressions on his face. “You are out of line, Detective,” he said, his monotone rising several octaves.

Bobby didn’t reply and Thompson smirked like he had won some kind of victory. He spun toward the TV crews filming from behind the yellow tape and the news hounds with pens poised over notebooks. Thompson made his way to the waiting reporters. “It’s a sad day for St. Paul … .”

I tuned him out when Bobby spoke to me. “You’re in a restricted police area.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not a cop. You’re not even a licensed PI.”

“So?”

“So, investigate this Bradley Young ’til hell freezes over, I don’t care. That’s someone else’s problem. But you stay away from this. You don’t go near Jamie, or her husband, or her child … .”

“Bullshit.”

“Serious shit, McKenzie. I have a serial on my hands. You keep your distance, I’m not kidding.”

“Bobby, you’re forgetting something.”

“What am I forgetting?”

“Stacy Carlson, the little girl …”

“Dying of leukemia.”

“Jamie can’t help her now. But maybe Jamie’s child can.”

“Can children donate bone marrow?”

“I don’t know. But …”

“But.” Bobby glared at me just to prove he was serious. “Do not get in the way. I swear to God I’m not kidding. I’ll bust your ass for obstruction.”

He might have said more, but we were both distracted by movement at the front door of the house. The wagon boys were bringing Jamie out, her body encased in a bag of black vinyl, the bag zipped shut.

“So many women die in the bedroom,” Bobby murmured.

I didn’t realize night had fallen until it became impossible to see the wall on the far side of my living room. There was nothing particularly interesting about the wall. I would have been hard pressed to describe it although I had been staring at it since I arrived home. It just happened to be opposite the chair closest to my front door where I had collapsed in a stupor. Nor could I tell you how long I had been looking at it or what I had been thinking of. Perhaps I had fallen asleep, although I don’t remember that, either. All I knew is that several hours had passed and even then I couldn’t tell you exactly how many.

I roused myself and went from room to room, turning on every light I owned, including the rechargeable flashlight I keep plugged in the socket next to my bed. Soon my house was bathed in the light of several dozen 150-, 100-, and 60-watt bulbs. Probably impressed Xcel Energy but didn’t do much for me. You’re supposed to feel safe in your own home. Secure. Yet Jamie Carlson Bruder had been murdered in hers and a man I didn’t even know had attempted to assassinate me in mine.

It was only then that I had the presence of mind to check my voice mail. The electronic female told me I had two messages. The first was from the guy who cleans my fireplace. “Winter’s coming,” he warned.

The second was from Chief Casey telling me to call. I punched in the number he left but he had already retired for the day and I didn’t feel like leaving a message.

I wondered what he wanted, and thinking about it kicked open the door that I had so carefully and firmly locked when I left Jamie’s home. My mind suddenly became a satellite dish, five hundred channels. I surfed through them all, never holding an image for more than a few fleeting moments, each one rated TVMA. I didn’t want to think about them. To distract myself, I tried to get involved in the baseball game that was broadcast by one of the so-called superstations, but after three innings I realized I didn’t even know who was playing. I went from the TV to
Time
magazine and attempted to read a report on the
goings-on in the war zone that is much of Africa. A think-tank expert suggested that the fighting, including the systematic slaughter of countless innocent civilians, was rooted deep in tribal history and construed by many in the region as a matter of principle and honor. That’s when I lost it.

“Lies!” I barked, tossing the magazine aside. There are only two reasons people commit murder—love and money. I wondered which motive applied to Jamie Carlson Bruder.

“God,” I screamed, using His name like an obscenity. I certainly wasn’t calling on Him. I hadn’t called on Him since my mother died. I fell to my knees and started shaking when they told me the news. It’s the closest I’d come to prayer since. What good would He do me, anyway? Go to confession. Bless me, father, for I have sinned. I broke the biggie. Number five on the Roman Catholic hit parade. Thou Shalt Not Kill. What penance do you get for that? Five Our Fathers? Three Hail Marys? Sure, I dread the loss of heaven and the pain of hell, but you know what? I’ve done it before. I might do it again.

Besides, I had some serious misgivings about God. Is He really all powerful
and
all loving, both at the same time, like they say? See, I can understand how an all-loving God, one who cares deeply, might not have the power to intervene. But if He’s all powerful and still allows innocent people to suffer and die as Jamie and Katherine had suffered and died, wouldn’t that make Him one callous sonuvabitch?

I picked up the phone, set it down, picked it up again, hesitated, punched Kirsten Sager Whitson’s home number and hung up before it rang.

Call someone else.

Who?

There was no one else.

Shelby?

No. Absolutely not.

I consulted my watch. Nine-forty-one and forty-five seconds.
My, how time flies when you’re having fun.

BOOK: A Hard Ticket Home

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