Madman on a Drum (5 page)

Karen Studder had the face of a woman whose prettiness was five years behind her. She was built large on top, with a narrow waist and hips and tennis-player legs. Her skin was burnished bronze beneath her dark blue shirt and khaki skirt; apparently she was one of those women who are convinced they look better with a tan despite evidence that it's the sun that turns grapes into raisins. She would still be pretty if not for the sun.

“No,” she said. “I don't know where Scott Thomforde is. I know where he's supposed to be.”

“You don't keep track of your people?” Bobby said.

We were all standing in the space between Bobby's living room and dining room. Karen was on one side; we were all on the other. She must have felt outnumbered.

“I supervise about a hundred offenders,” Karen said. “I don't follow each and every one of them around. I don't know the exact moment that they're in violation. When an offender is paroled to me, I'll look in on him twice a week, maybe three times if I want to see more. Later it's once every two weeks, sometimes once a month. I usually arrange for employers to contact me if an offender doesn't show up for work, but they're under no obligation. Thomforde is in a halfway house. If he doesn't come back from work, the supervisor will let me know. It's still early, though.” Karen looked at her watch. “Not even six thirty.”

“They don't have to be back in their hole by a specific time?” Bobby asked.

“They don't live in holes,” Karen said. “They live in a limbo between prison and real life, and we cut them slack when there's slack to cut them. Scottie has been in compliance all the time I've had him. Never a problem. That earns him some leeway. We don't freak out if he's not back immediately after work. Maybe he stopped for coffee with his co-workers, maybe he's visiting his mother, maybe he's with a girl…”

Bobby took a photograph off the wall and thrust it into Karen's hands. “Maybe he's with a twelve-year-old girl,” he said.

Karen studied Victoria's photograph and stole a quick look at Shelby, who was watching intently from her spot on the staircase. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. There's nothing in his jacket that indicates sexual crimes.”

“We don't think it's a sex crime,” Honsa said. “It's a kidnapping for ransom.”

Karen said she didn't believe it. Bobby told her she had better.

“What do you want from me?” she said.

“You're an officer of the court,” Honsa reminded her.

“You want me to take Scottie into custody? I don't do that. If you want a warrant, I can call a judge. If we can't find a judge, I'll issue an apprehension and detention order myself. But I don't arrest people. I work for the Minnesota Department of Corrections. We have rules.”

“Bend them,” said Bobby.

“Bend them?”

“What do you do when an offender is in violation?” I asked.

“I call the police and have them execute the warrant.”

“Ms. Studder,” Honsa said. When he had her full attention, he said, “Calm yourself.”

“I am calm.”

“Ms. Studder, we do not wish to arrest Thomforde at this time. We merely wish, if possible, to learn his current location.”

“You want me to find him?”

“Yes, Ms. Studder. After that, we'll take over.”

“Just find him?”

“You do do that, don't you?” Bobby said. “You do look in on your parolees?”

“Yes,” said Karen. “We call them home visits. Kind of like a pop inspection. We look in on them at home, at work, find out who they're hanging with. I've done it twice with Scottie already.”

“Then he won't be suspicious if you do it again,” Bobby said. “I'll go with you.”

“No,” said Honsa. His voice was combative, his reassuring smile gone. “We've discussed this before. Just the sight of you might cause Thomforde to panic. We'll send one of my agents.”

“You don't think seeing the FBI won't make Scottie freak?” Bobby said.

“I'm not going alone,” said Karen.

This went on for about thirty seconds until Bobby conceded in a loud voice. “All right, send McKenzie.”

Honsa shook his head.

“McKenzie knows the neighborhood,” Bobby said. “He knows more people than Larry King. He'll know where to go when she”—he gestured with his thumb toward Karen—“runs out of ideas.”

Honsa shook his head some more. “I don't think that's a good idea,” he said. His voice was suddenly neutral. “The man who took your daughter knows McKenzie as well as he knows you. I am deeply concerned about what might happen if Thomforde saw him.”

“Thomforde will be suspicious if anyone goes looking for him,” Harry said. “But McKenzie”—Harry waved a finger—“isn't the cops. He isn't us. If Thomforde discovers that McKenzie is looking for him, he'll think it's just McKenzie and not law enforcement. He'll still believe that he has the upper hand. He'll still think he's in charge. He won't panic.”

Honsa stared at Harry as if he were looking at a traitor. “No,” he said.

“We need to send somebody,” Harry said.

“I'm not going alone,” Karen repeated.

“No,” Honsa said.

“Yes,” Shelby said. “Victoria is my daughter. I say yes.”

We all turned toward her. She was still sitting on the staircase, still peering through the posts. I had forgotten that she was there.

“Mrs. Dunston, it's against my better judgment,” Honsa said. “If Thomforde sees McKenzie coming…”

I felt the weight of Shelby's eyes fall on me.

“Hey, Scottie,” I said.

Honsa pivoted toward me. I walked up to him, slipped my arm around his shoulder, hugged him close. “Scottie. Man, you gotta help me. For old time's sake. I know you don't like Bobby Dunston cuz of what happened. I don't blame you. But someone just took his kid. Someone kidnapped his little girl, man, and we can't tell the cops. You gotta help me. You've been around. You know people. You can ask questions, okay? You gotta help me find her. Will you help?”

Honsa stared at me for a moment as if I were drunk, dangling car keys in his face.

“I don't like this,” he said.

You think I do?
my inner voice replied.

“Be careful,” Honsa said.

It was nearly 7:00
P.M.
when we walked out of Shelby's Place, but daylight savings promised us at least another half hour of sun.

“I'll drive,” I said and led Karen Studder to my Audi 225 TT coupe parked on the far side of Wilder. She circled the light silver sports car, examining it carefully before speaking to me across the roof while shielding her eyes against the setting sun.

“You're not a cop, are you?” she said.

“No.”

“I didn't think so. This car—if you're a cop and you drive up to 367 Grove Street in this, Internal Affairs would be all over your ass.”

I let the comment slide, although she was right. You don't see many luxury sports cars in the parking lot of the St. Paul Police Department. I thumbed my key chain to unlock the doors. When we were both safely inside the Audi, Karen said, “I wish I had a car like this. How much does a car like this cost?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Well, maybe someday.”

I snapped my seat belt into place, and Karen did the same.

“Where to?” I asked.

“You know, we could make this a lot easier on ourselves. Just make some phone calls, call the house, call Scottie's employers, call his mom…”

“Where to?”

Karen sighed significantly. “His job first,” she said. “See if he's been in today. Then the halfway house.”

I fired up the engine.

“Do you have a gun?” Karen asked.

“I can get one.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No guns.”

“What if …?”

“No guns,” she repeated.

“You're the boss,” I said.

“Since when?”

I pulled away from the curb. Bobby and Shelby were watching from the window as I drove off.

 

Karen directed me to I-94 and told me to take the Dale Street exit and hang a left. As I drove, she said, “If you're not a cop, what are you doing here? Why are you doing this?”

“Call it a favor for a friend.”

“A favor?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You do a lot of favors like this, McKenzie?”

“Depends on how you define ‘a lot.' ”

“Don't go all Bill Clinton on me,” she said.

“Yes, I do a lot of favors for friends. Usually it's no big deal. Sometimes it involves an element of, ahh…”

“Danger?”

“Uncertainty.”

“Why?”

“Because they can't do it for themselves and I can.”

“They can't call the cops? They can't call—”

“An officer of the court?”

Karen hesitated for a beat and said, “I guess I had that coming.”

“No, you didn't,” I told her. “You're just trying to do your job, and your job has rules.”

“I'm guessing that you're the guy who bends them.”

“Something like that.”

“Why?”

“I told you.”

“You told me why people call you for favors. You didn't tell me why you do them.”

“I used to be a cop. I quit when I became independently wealthy. Only the thing is, I liked being a cop. I liked helping people. I saw a lot of terrible things when I was in harness; I was forced to do some of those terrible things myself, yet I always slept well at night. When my head hit the pillow and I looked back on the day, no matter how crummy the day was, I could always say, ‘The world's a little bit better place because of what I did.' It made me feel good; made me feel useful. I used to tell people that I liked being a cop so much that I would have done it even if they didn't pay me. Now they don't have to.”

“So you help friends, even at the risk of your own life, because you think you're making the world a better place?”

“Sounds pretentious as all hell, doesn't it?”

“Depends on how you define ‘as all hell.' ”

 

I am embarrassed to admit I was glad to finally leave Shelby's home. It was as if a heavy, wet canvas tarp had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt like I could move again; I felt like I could breathe. When we hit the freeway, I powered down all the car windows and let the warm autumn air slap my face and ruffle my hair. Karen put her hand on the top of her head to keep her own hair from blowing about and gave me an impatient look. I ignored her. I understood Bobby's frustration at sitting helplessly in his home. Only I was out and about, now. I was being useful.

We took the Dale Street exit and turned north toward University Avenue. In the old days, this had been one of the most notorious intersections in St. Paul. When I first broke in with the cops, it embodied 20 percent of the city's adult businesses, including all of its sexually oriented bookstores and movie theaters. It also accounted for over 70 percent of its prostitution arrests. That made it a political issue. To appease voters, the city bought out the X-rated Faust Theater for $1.8 million, and it eventually was transformed into the Rondo Community Outreach Library. The gay-oriented Flick Theater was replaced by a shopping mall. R&R Books was bought for $600,000 to make room for a commercial development, and a strip joint called the Belmont Club became the Western District headquarters of the St. Paul Police Department. Now neighbors don't find as many condoms on their lawns and sidewalks as they used to, there are fewer sex acts performed by prostitutes and their johns on the street and in alleys, and girls going to school and young women coming from work aren't as likely to be propositioned. Still, I kind of miss the old neighborhood. It had color, and St. Paul was becoming less and less colorful as we went along.

I followed Karen's directions and pulled into the parking lot of a store that sold and mounted brand-name tires under the banner of a well-advertised national chain. Before we left the car, Karen told me that she would do all the talking. I told her to be careful not to use my name.

A bell chimed when we stepped into the store, and a black man dressed in a blue work shirt looked up at us from the paperwork he was reviewing. He set down a pen and put both hands on the chest-high counter in front of him. Years ago, I took a course that taught officers how to identify drug couriers by observing their facial expressions and body and eye movements. The man smiled when he first saw Karen. Then he raised his upper eyelids showing fear, thrust his jaw forward displaying anger, wrinkled his nose in a sign of disgust, and let the corners of his lips drop down portraying sadness—I've known very few people who could burn through so many emotions so quickly.

“Karen,” he said and extended his hand.

“Mr. Cousin,” she answered and shook the hand.

“Did one of my boys go astray?” he asked. The sadness in his voice matched his expression.

“One of your boys?” I said.

“Who are you?”

“He's with me,” Karen told him. To me she said, “Mr. Cousin has been very good to us. He's given work to a lot of parolees over the years. A good man.”

Cousin shrugged off the compliment. “Just trying to help them make it,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

Cousin studied me hard. “You're a cop,” he said.

I didn't answer—if he wanted to believe that, it was fine with me.

Karen flicked her thumb in my direction. “He's observing,” she said.

“Is he now?” Cousin wasn't satisfied with the answer, but he didn't press it.

“How many boys do you have?” I asked.

“Eight. All of my employees are on parole. I try to… Listen. A man, any man, who's been in the system, I don't care if he's guilty or not guilty, I don't care if he's been acquitted or exonerated or pardoned or what, I don't care if he's just a kid who screwed up or a repeat offender, if you've been in the system, you'll never be considered innocent again. You'll never be given the benefit of a doubt. People look at you; to them you'll always be a thief.”

I had a feeling he was talking about himself, so I asked, “How long have you been out?”

“Twenty-three years, seven months, eighteen days.” Cousin recited the numbers like a recovering alcoholic who knows the exact moment when he had his last drink. “It took me so long to get a decent job. I started applying when I was in stir. Back then you had to have a job or be assured of getting a job before you got parole. I only responded to the want ads that had a post office box. You don't make collect calls from Stillwater. I'd tell them they'd never have an employee who would work harder. ‘So what?' they'd say. ‘We'll be getting a thief.'

“The jobs I did get, they treated me like a leper, like I had a communicable disease. Or worse. One employer tried to blackmail me, said he was going to accuse me of stealing from the company unless I boosted some TVs for him. I turned him in. Nothing happened except that I had to get another job. When I became manager here, I figured I might be able to help some guys who were like me, guys who did stupid things when they were young and paid the price and now were trying to live it down. The owners, they didn't care as long as sales were solid, as long as there were no complaints about service. Now I am the owner.”

“Good for you,” I said, and I meant it, although I doubt it sounded that way.

“Why are you here?” Cousin asked.

“Scottie Thomforde,” Karen said.

“What about him?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“He's gone. His shift ended a couple hours ago.”

“Was he here?”

“Yeah, he was here.”

“For his entire shift?” I asked.

Cousin pressed his lips together, a sign of determination. Or anger. Or both. “What did Scottie do?” he asked.

“I don't know that he did anything,” Karen said. Her voice was carefully neutral, as if she wanted Cousin to know her presence in his store wasn't personal. “I was conducting a home visit. He wasn't where he was supposed to be. You know how that makes me nervous.”

“Karen, how many guys have gone through here over the years, ex-cons looking for a chance? Got to be forty or fifty. I should add it up someday. Of those guys”—he held up four fingers—“that's how many violated. That's how many couldn't stay away from the bad thing.”

“You're a shrewd judge of character,” I said. Again, I was trying to be complimentary. Again, he took it differently.

“If I pull your tail off, will it grow back?” he asked.

Karen stepped between us. “About Scottie,” she said.

Cousin was staring at me when he answered. “I gave Scottie the afternoon. He left at about one. You can check his time card if you want. He said he had some personal matters to deal with.”

“What personal matters?” Karen said.

“I didn't ask. He didn't tell.”

“Mr. Cousin, you know better than that.”

“He's a good kid.”

“Would any of your other employees know where he went?”

“You could ask.”

We went through sound-resistant glass doors into the back. Three men were working on two cars. They were reluctant to help us for fear of jamming up their co-worker, or because they just didn't like us, or both. I doubt they would have spoken to us at all if not for the encouragement of Cousin. We didn't learn much except that Scottie tended to keep to himself—which was a lot different than the Scottie I used to know—and that he had the name “Sticks” stitched to the pocket of his work clothes. In between screeches from the air wrenches, a man with far too many tattoos that had nothing to do with art told us, “I saw him at Lehane's a couple weeks ago. It was a Saturday.”

The name alone was enough to send a ripple of fear coursing through both Cousin and me. Lehane's was a bucket of blood on the East Side that the city had been threatening to close for years. More murders and assaults with deadly weapons have occurred in and around there than in any other one place in the Twin Cities.

“What the hell were you doing at Lehane's?” Cousin wanted to know.

“Do we need to spend more time discussing the terms of your release?” Karen asked.

The man shrugged and smiled the way some people do when they're caught doing something they shouldn't.

“I take it you're not the head of the local Mensa chapter,” I said.

“What's Mensa?”

“Never mind.”

“Shut up,” Cousin told me.

I shut up.

“Scottie at Lehane's—was he with someone?” Karen asked.

The man grinned. “It's not the kind of place you go into alone,” he said.

“Who was he with?”

“I don't know. White dude. Had some size to him, like he did a lot of weight lifting, body building.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Not then, but the next day I said, ‘Hey, Scottie, who was that woman I saw you with last night?' You know, tryin' to be funny. Scottie said, ‘That was no woman. That was T-Man.' ”

Cousin winced at the name.

“Something,” I said.

Turned out that around the same time, Cousin had invited Scottie to lunch only Scottie begged off. “I have to see the T-Man,” Scottie told him.

“T-Man?” Karen asked.

“Yes,” Cousin said.

“Do you have any idea who that is?”

“No, but…”

“What?”

Cousin said, “Back in the old days, when Elliot Ness was chasing Al Capone, that's what they used to call agents of the Treasury Department. T-men.”

 

“That went well,” Karen said when we were back in the Audi. “Do you think you could have been any more condescending?”

“I thought I was the soul of restraint,” I said.

“Is that what you call it. God, once a cop, always a cop.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know, McKenzie, there's a big difference between being on parole and being on probation.”

“Is there?”

“If a man is out on parole, it's because he did his time. He paid the price for his mistakes, and now he's trying to make the transition from prison life to real life. But you cops refuse to give him a break. You confuse him with offenders who are serving probation, offenders who were convicted of crimes but instead of being sent to prison or jail are slapped on the wrist and told to ‘be good.' I don't blame you if you're pissed off at them.