Monkeewrench (24 page)

He released a heavy sigh and shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, which was truly alarming. The suit was a wool blend work of art, and Magozzi would have bet a year’s salary that those pockets had never felt the chief’s hands before.

“Monkeewrench took that game off the net yesterday morning, right after they read about the cemetery murder,” Gino reminded him. “Nobody—except the people working this case and the Monkeewrench geeks—has seen any of the murder scenarios past number seven. So that business about seventeen more vics marked for death is a load of sensationalistic crap.”

Malcherson said sarcastically, “And I’m sure the public will be as relieved as we were to learn only four more of them will die, not seventeen.” He sighed and glanced down
the hallway toward the task force room. “We’ve got some decisions to make, and we’ve got to make them fast.”

“Like what?”

“Like do we shut down the Mall of America?”

“Jesus,” Gino muttered. “Even if it wasn’t a stupid idea, we don’t have the authority to do that, do we?”

“According to the attorney general, we do. Imminent danger to the public, something like that. And incidentally, Rolseth, before you repeat your sentiments beyond this hallway, you should know that a lot of the people I’ve been talking to don’t think it’s ‘stupid’ to close the mall to save a life. Including some of the people on the task force.”

Gino rolled his eyes. “Damn it, it’s not that simple. They’re not thinking it through …”

Malcherson held up his hand to stop him. “I know that, and you know that, but we’re not going to convince anyone else by opening with the unequivocal statement that their idea is stupid.”

Gino sighed and nodded.

“What’s the mall’s position?” Magozzi asked.

There was no humor in Malcherson’s smile. “No one is going to touch this one. Not the mall management, not the mayor of Bloomington, or the governor, for that matter. It’s our decision.”

Gino gave a disgusted snort. “No one wants to take the heat for shutting it down, and no one wants to be left holding the bag if we don’t shut it down and someone gets hit out there.”

“Exactly.”

“So we get the backlash. It’s a no-win situation, and once again the cops get to be the bad guys. Well, this just sucks.”

Malcherson glanced at his watch. “We’ve got exactly one hour to decide. We keep it open, I’ve got commitments from the Highway Patrol and almost every sheriff’s department in the state to help out with extra officers.”

“For how long?” Magozzi asked.

“As long as they can.”

“Not long then.”

“Probably not.” He blew out a long exhale and looked down at the floor. “Plus I’ve got two suits in my office.”

“Shit,” Gino said.

“Right now it’s an offer. Manpower if we need it, which we might, so we’d better think carefully before we decline; and profiling help.”

“Profiling?” Magozzi said. “That’s a crock. There is no profiling this guy. He’s not a sexual predator, not sticking to a victim type. Hell, they’d be hard-pressed to prove serial with no forensics beyond the gun caliber. The FBI’s got nothing to offer here. They just want in.”

“If it’s Internet-related, it’s Federal, and they
are
in. Technically, of course, we have no hard evidence of the Internet connection, just conjecture; so for the moment they’re standing down. But politically, having them on board might not be such a bad idea. No harm in spreading the blame around.”

Magozzi bit down on the impulse to say that this case was about catching a killer, not about spreading blame, but in his position, the chief had to juggle both of those balls. “Can we hold off? See what shakes out in the meeting?”

Malcherson nodded. “That’s what I told them.”

Gino’s cell phone chirped from deep in his overcoat pocket. “Yeah, Rolseth here.” He listened, brows elevated slightly. “Got it.” He folded up the phone and tucked it back in his pocket. “The Monkeewrench partners just walked in the front door. All five of them together.”

Magozzi frowned. “You told them to come in at ten, right?”

“That’s right. Eager beavers.”

Magozzi shrugged. “Let ‘em wait.”

W
ith most of the department in the task force meeting, Gloria had the homicide room to herself, unless you counted Roger Delaney, which she didn’t. He was a short, cocky son of a bitch with slicked-back hair, bad teeth, and a penchant for butt-slapping that had nearly gotten him killed the one and only time he’d laid a hand on her fine black ass. He was two-fingering a keyboard in a back corner while Gloria manned the front desk and the phones.

She’d already had over a dozen calls about the Monkeewrench murders. Would-be witnesses who saw the killer in a dream, or knew for a fact their brother-in-law or boss or pizza delivery boy had done it. She marked them all dutifully in a log, as if they had merit, because sometimes psychos kooky enough to kill were kooky enough to call the cops and talk about it.

Between phone calls it was so quiet she could hear the hesitant clicks of Roger’s keyboard and the sporadic trickle of water passing through a coffeemaker that hadn’t been cleaned in months.

Normally the homicide room was buzzing with activity, detectives busy with cold cases in the lulls between new
ones, working narco or sex crimes or helping out the gang detail when people on the street had the good sense to stop killing each other for a time, and the silence made her irritable. So did the desk sergeant keeping all the media people corralled downstairs on a day when she’d dressed for television, wrapping her big beautiful black body in a combination caftan/sari of browns and oranges that looked like Africa even if she’d bought it at Kmart. She’d wrapped her wild black hair in a matching scarf, bought ten new nails with half-moons twinkling gold in mahogany enamel, and knew the TV people would be all over her because the fools always jumped all over what they thought was ethnic, even though they didn’t have a clue. But they had to see her first.

She was drumming her long nails on the desktop, trying to think of an excuse to sashay down to the press room, when she heard voices in the hall and perked up a little. At this point she was so desperate for a diversion she didn’t care if it was a scruffy walk-in with a hot tip on the JFK assassination.

The first one through the door was white and slender and strung so tight she might have asked for a urine sample if the woman hadn’t looked at her straight on, then nodded with respect. “Good morning. I’m Grace MacBride. We’re here to see Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth.”

“I’m sorry, the detectives are in a meeting right now …” The words died in her throat as the rest of them filed in. Her sharp brown eyes brushed over a guy in one-piece bright yellow Lycra so tall and skinny you could use him as a pole for vaulting; a ponytailed, bearded linebacker of a man in black leather; a pale guy in a to-die-for suit who looked like he was CEO of something; and then a wonderfully, beautifully fat woman with flashing eyes who sashayed better than Gloria on her best days, head to toe in Gloria’s favorite color, orange. My oh my. A white woman with fashion flair.

“We’re the owners of Monkeewrench.” Grace MacBride recaptured Gloria’s attention. “We were asked to come in this morning.”

Gloria gave the circus troupe a hasty, skeptical once-over, wondering what on earth would bring such a diverse group together. “That’s right. I’ve got you down, but not until ten. You’re almost two hours early. You can have a seat over there—”

“No. There’s no time.” MacBride’s response was so fast and sharp it put Gloria off for a minute.

“Excuse me?”

“We need to see them right now. Please call them.”

Oh, now, this was intolerable. The words had been civil enough, but they’d been delivered like an order, and Gloria didn’t take orders very well, especially not from some skinny white broad with an attitude. She stood up and leaned stiff-armed on her desk, using her great size as intimidation.

“Listen, honey, if you think I am going to walk into a meeting of armed men and women and tell them sorry, they have to break it up now because Ms. Grace MacBride wants to see them, you’ve got another think coming. You may rule the little world in that Monkeewrench office of yours, but in this one, you operate at the pleasure of the detectives, not the other way around, so you might as well take a seat, because you’re going to have a very long wait.”

Grace MacBride just smiled at her.

There was a big tag board on wheels positioned in the center front of the task force room today, holding morgue photos of the three victims, crime-scene photos, and blowups of the staged photos from the game. The desk was angled off to the side.

Everyone was seated when Magozzi, Gino, and the chief walked in, and they were all looking at the pictures.

It was a funny thing, Magozzi thought. Most people looked at morgue photos and jerked their eyes away just as fast as they could. Homicide cops—good homicide cops—spent a lot of time staring at the pictures of dead victims, absorbing details surviving family members never saw, unwittingly forming some kind of bond with people they’d never known in life, making a kind of unspoken promise.

In one way it was a little morbid, he supposed, and in another, it was almost tender. Anyone who said you had to shut off your emotions to be a homicide cop had it exactly backward.

“Okay, listen up, everyone.” Magozzi piled a thick stack of stapled handouts on the table in the front of the task force room and took a seat on the edge of the desk. “Fresh off the copier. We may have caught a break today, thanks to Dr. Rambachan, who stayed up all night working on the paddle wheeler vic. Speaking of which, I’d like to thank everyone for the extra hours they’ve been putting in. I’ll give you a quick briefing, but if you’d like some light reading later, the actual autopsy report is included in your handout.”

There were a few chuckles and a couple sleepy groans as the task force that still wasn’t officially a task force lined up like zombies to retrieve the new material. Most of them had pulled a double yesterday, and Magozzi wondered if the son of a bitch who was responsible was suffering similarly or if his tweaked-out brain chemicals were keeping him wired.

He took the last swallow from the mug of great coffee the women downstairs had given him and continued. “Victim number three is Wilbur Daniels.”

“His name was Wilbur?” Johnny McLaren asked. He and Patrol Sergeant Freedman were sitting together this morning, bonded by what they surely considered their personal failure on the paddleboat last night. They both looked exhausted and defeated.

Magozzi looked from one to the other, then threw them a bone. “You did good work on the boat last night.”

“Right,” Freedman rumbled in a sarcastic basso-profundo. “The operation was a success but the patient died.”

“He was dead a long time before you got there,” Magozzi reminded him, deciding that if they needed any more head-patting than that, they were going to have to go to the department shrink. Right now he just didn’t have the time. “Wilbur Daniels, forty-two years old, ID’d through military prints from a stint in the army back in the eighties. Never been married and we’re still trying to find next of kin. He is … was … employed as a marketing rep for Devon Office Supplies on Washington for six years and we have his boss on ice downstairs waiting to be interviewed. You up for it, Louise?”

“You bet.”

“Note that Dr. Rambachan found semen in his underwear and has determined that Wilbur Daniels ejaculated very near the time of his death. He also bit his own hand, presumably out of passion, so there was obviously a sexual element involved. Whether or not it has anything to do with the killer, we don’t know yet.”

“So maybe he was just wanking in the bathroom and got a little surprise in the form of a bullet to the head,” Louise offered.

“Possible. Or maybe the killer brought him there under the auspices of a little afternoon delight.”

“So if our doer’s a man, that makes Daniels a fag,” Louise stated frankly.

“Not very PC, Louise,” Gino said.

She tossed her head indignantly. “Hey, it’s okay for me to say ‘fag.’” She turned her attention back to Magozzi. “So if he was gay, what are you thinking? Maybe a series of hate crimes?”

“Not at this point,” Magozzi said. “We don’t have any info
on the girl on the angel yet, but there’s absolutely no indication that the jogger was a homosexual. But that Wilbur Daniels might have been is a possibility to keep in mind when we retrace his steps before he set foot on that paddle wheeler. And that takes us to page three of the autopsy report. Stomach contents.”

“Oh, God, I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” Detective Peterson groaned. He was a recent transfer from St. Paul, whipthin with a pallor to his skin that made Magozzi think meat hadn’t passed his lips in several years.

“Okay, there was beer and eight mostly undigested mini corn dogs in the vic’s stomach. The very sort of mini corn dogs they serve at Steamboat Parker’s Grill down by the river and nowhere else in the general vicinity. He was there less than an hour before he was shot on the boat. McLaren, you get down there with his photo as soon as they open. Maybe somebody remembers him, or better yet, maybe he was with someone, and if so, then chances are pretty good that’s our killer and we can have a sketch worked up for the media.”

Aaron Langer, fresh from outside in a black topcoat and leather gloves, sporting violet circles under his eyes, strode into the conference room waving a sheet of paper. “Sorry I’m late. We just got an ID on the girl in the cemetery. Maybe something we can work with.”

“Terrific. Tell us what you’ve got.”

Langer peeled off his gloves, assumed his lectern demeanor, and addressed the room. “Missing Persons got a call from the Mounties last night. A Toronto couple had reported their eighteen-year-old daughter missing after she took a Greyhound to Denver via Minneapolis. The bus stopped at the downtown terminal two nights ago, with a layover.”

“The night of the cemetery murder,” Magozzi said.

“Right. Her name was Alena Vershovsky. She and her parents emigrated from Kiev five years ago. Her parents are also
both computer programmers, which might mean nothing—half the Russian immigrants are computer programmers. But something to bear in mind. Anyhow, a family friend in Denver met her bus yesterday, but she wasn’t on it. We just confirmed a match on the dental records. I’ve got two guys on their way down to the terminal now, and we can all pray somebody can give us a visual on this piece of shit.”