Warrior in the Shadows (6 page)

1.8

Lieutenant Simon Oberstar was a big florid Norwegian who supervised the Special Investigations Unit. He'd been Bobby Lee's rabbi throughout his career, hovering over him all the way from patrolman to detective sergeant. Obi's wife had died from cancer five years ago, leaving Oberstar with two teenagers a year apart in private schools. They were both in college now, and the tuition was stretching Oberstar to the brink, Bobby Lee knew. They were smart kids, but lots of smart kids went to St. Olaf's in Northfield and there weren't enough scholarships to go around. Two mortgages and living as frugally as a lonely widower could was how Oberstar made it work. Maxine loved the old man who'd been a fixture in their life from day one with the PD, and she fixed him the Norwegian treats he loved and she loathed, just to see him happy when he came over, which was often.

"What you got on this Simmons thing?" Oberstar said. "What's your case file looking like? Is it thick with all kinds of leads you've run down, or skinny with all kinds of nothing?"

"I just got the autopsy back, Obi-Wan," Bobby Lee said. "The doer knew what he was doing… and we got a good make on the knife if we find it."

"How's that?"

"Knife was serrated halfway down, sharp as hell. Looks like this," Bobby Lee said. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out the knife Charley had given him for his birthday. He flicked it open one-handed and handed it to Oberstar.

"See?" he said.

"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary," Oberstar said. He weighed the knife in his hand, took a swipe at the air. "This is legal?"

"Oh, yeah," Bobby Lee said. He took the knife back and studied it. The chisel-pointed blade folded into a titanium handle, an elegantly designed fighting knife built for one purpose only and that was cutting up humans in a fight. He'd met the maker, Ernest Emerson, at a knife-fighting seminar sponsored by Charley's friend Rick Faye, who taught martial arts in town and was an adviser to both the FBI SWAT team and the Minneapolis Emergency Response Unit. Both Emerson and Faye were nice guys, easygoing and laid-back till you saw them in action with a knife, stick, or their bare hands. It made Bobby Lee glad they were on the side of the good guys, and taught him a whole new respect for knives. He thumbed the blade shut and slid it back into his pocket.

"Probably a blade just like that. Somebody who knew how to use it, too. We're looking into it."

"What about motive? Who benefits?" Oberstar said in his favorite pedantic voice. He scratched his nose and studied his fingernail as though looking for skin scrapings.

"Hauser and Thomas are over at his office, interviewing coworkers and we got a warrant for his office files. The bank is pretty cooperative, but they're hinky about his files. He was their lead officer on a whole slew of international loans and venture capital deals… lots of stuff in Asia, Australia, South America."

"Was he working on any big deals?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, according to Hauser's first pass. But we're looking into it."

"Fucking First Bank. Those sons of bitches got me by the balls with their mortgage."

"Me too," Bobby Lee said.

"Old Rollie Wheeler, used to be a mortgage officer there… used to be a cop, got shot back in the seventies in that big shootout down in Bloomington with the narcos. Said he'd had enough and got out. Took one in the lung and rode that disability all the way through school and then to First Bank. When Angie was still alive, old Rollie, he took care of us. He's gone now, these fuckers no w…"

"Yeah, I know," Bobby Lee said, cutting into the tirade. "Screw them all if they can't take a joke. We'll send the Cannibal Killer after them."

"Let me know what happens, Bobby," Oberstar said. "I'll keep the assholes off your back. But make something happen soon, huh?"

"Thanks, padre. Go take a break. I got the ball."

"Dig for this boy, Bobby. Whatever you need."

"I got it. I'll let you know how it develops."

Bobby Lee watched Oberstar lumber away, hitching his baggy suit pants as though he were still wearing a patrol uniform and equipment belt. Then he turned back to his desk and flipped through the case file again, turning over the photographs as though he might now be able to see through the scramble of blood and innards strewn across his desk to the face that had to be behind it, and through that face to get some insight into the mind there.

He'd never worked a case like this before. He'd filled out the detailed questionnaire the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit sent to local law enforcement agencies requesting help for profiling serial offenders, but he knew what kind of backlog those harried and overworked agents had to deal with. He didn't have a serial killer yet.

Yet.

Bobby Lee's street smarts had stood him in good stead during his years on patrol, and working homicide hadn't taken the edge off that at all. He stayed tuned up and kept his senses sharp. He had a feeling about this guy, and he'd learned to trust his feelings. He was going to see this guy's work again.

But there was something about the choice of the victim. Madison Simmons wasn't right. The banker wouldn't be the usual prey of a serial offender; this smacked of a hit, someone with a grudge, business or personal. This kind of anger you sometimes saw in sex-related crimes. Gay? A hooker? Something there? There wasn't the element of disorganization you saw in a rage-induced murder, though. Simmons had been butchered, but not in a frenzy. It had been systematic and efficient, not hate-filled hacking. Madison Simmons had been taken apart the way a good hunter took apart a deer in the field, even down to preparing the kidney fat for a snack.

"That's some silly sick shit for sure," Bobby Lee said.

"You ain't kidding," said one of the uniform officers passing his desk.

"Caught me talking to myself," Bobby Lee said.

"Just don't start answering yourself," the patrolman said.

Bobby Lee laughed and went back to his pictures and his rumi-nations. The hunter, for that was what Bobby Lee was starting to call him, had used materials on the scene to stage it, but he'd brought his knife, and the club he'd used to kill the banker with him. The forensics team said the club was heavy, similar to a baseball bat but with a heavy bulbous head, maybe a walking stick. The blow that most likely killed him had shattered his skull and opened his brain pan. The hunter would be a strong man, strong as hell. The angle of the blow indicated that Simmons had been below and at an angle when the killing blow was delivered, probably sitting in the recliner with the hunter facing him. Everything else, the evisceration, hanging the body, that was all postmortem.

It had been messy, and it had taken time, but the scene wasn't rushed. The hunter hadn't been afraid of being discovered, or he just didn't care.

Bobby Lee felt sure that the hunter had stripped down to avoid getting blood spatter on him. Analysis of all the water traps in the showers and sinks showed that he hadn't showered or washed, at least not there. The traces of paint and minerals they'd taken from the image on the wall were still undergoing analysis.

That painting disturbed him. It was carefully drawn with its hellish palette of paints and provided a clear message about the hunter's mind if he could only translate the meaning, find some way to go where the killer's mind went. Where did all this go? What was this all about, the killing, the eating, the painting? He wracked his brains about that, but he knew he'd have to get some help elsewhere for insights into that image, and he hoped Charley, with his unconventional thinking, would take him where he needed to go.

1.9

"Please move it to the right, Stan. Just a little," Kativa Patel said to the museum technician struggling to hold a heavy framed nineteenth-century watercolor up in the tight space she had left after laying out the exhibit.

"We're almost there… there," she said in satisfaction. "Let me mark that for you."

Stan was old enough to be her father and a bit slow but sweet. "I'll get it hung right for you, Miss Patel."

"I know you will, Stan. Thanks for being such a dear."

"That's why I like working with you, Miss Patel. You always take the time to get it right."

"That's the way my old dad taught me, Stan. If it's worth doing it's worth doing right."

She patted the old man on his arm and hurried back through the vaulted ceiling galleries and then the main lobby into her office, her low sensible heels clacking and resounding in the empty hallway of the administrative section. It was slow for a Sunday, but then it was late in the day. She waved to another curator working in her cubicle, and stopped to fill her coffee mug, a beautifully hand-thrown ceramic mug, a gift from an old boyfriend in Cape Town, with black French roast from the coffeepot before she went into her own office.

Her office was tiny but immaculate in its organization. Even the stacks of correspondence piled on the floor for lack of filing cabinet space were neatly set edge to edge and in the most reasonable simulation of order she could create. She kept several pieces of art from the archives in her space: a hand-rubbed copy of a spiral stone carving from Dajarra, Queensland, and a variety of prints from modern Aboriginal artists in the Cairns area, some of them originals signed by the artists she had gotten to know while doing her postgraduate work there.

She sat at her desk, leaned back in the old secretary's chair she preferred, and put her feet up on her desk, her hands cradling the hot coffee mug and slowly sipping with the delight she brought to things of the senses. She'd loved the time she'd spent in Australia, bashing around the outback in a tired 4© 4 in the Laura region looking at and looking for new and old rock art in the area. Looking at the pictures reminded her of that time, and how it had been so good to be in a country that reminded her of home, yet without the fears that plagued South Africa. Cape Town was one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but the remains of apartheid, the unbelievable surge of crime after Mandela took office, and the flight of the professional class had led to her leaving, first to Australia, then to the United States, to one of the coldest states in the lower forty-eight, a fact that jarred her every time she stepped outside to enjoy the beauty of the trees surrounding the park and the Sculpture Garden across the street, the bite of the air just barely muzzled now, but ready to be bared within weeks.

She thought of Australia, and wondered if she would get the grant she'd applied for to go back and continue her research on the Laura area, to continue her interviews with old Percy Tracy, the avuncular old pilot and artist who'd done so much of the original work on the Laura rock art.

Julie, the barely twenty-one-year-old secretary, who'd celebrated her birthday with the museum staff only nights before, stuck her head around the door frame and said, "Kativa? Your friend Mara is here. Should I send her back?"

"Of course," Kativa said. She set her feet down and stood up. "Tell her to come in."

Kativa followed Julie into the hallway and saw Mara and the tall man she dated standing patiently by the reception desk. She'd first met Mara on a gallery crawl, one of those fun affairs organized by local artists that consisted of a walking tour of the local galleries downtown interspersed with stops in the local drinking establishments. South African college life and then Australian outback living had taught Kativa to enjoy a good drink, and she more than held her own with the hard-drinking Minnesotans. Mara was a painter who had some odd sources of income, and once she had seen her briefly with the man who stood there with her.

"Mara! How good to see you," Kativa said. She hugged Mara briefly, kissed her cheek, then held out her hand to the tall man and said, "Hi. I'm Kativa Patel."

He had an interesting face, this man. He was tall and almost skinny in his leanness, and his grip was gentle but hinted at great strength. The backs of his hands were webbed with dry skin, big veins, and tendons that worked like steel cable under tension. He was casually dressed in battered, baggy old khakis and a denim work shirt under a worn black leather jacket. His face was long, with three distinct grooves across his forehead, as though someone had dragged a rake across his forehead many years ago. While his face was tired, it was a sort of tired amusement, and she sensed that it was something habitual with him, rather than situational.

"I'm Charley Payne," he said.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Charley," Kativa said. "What are you two doing here? Would you like some coffee?"

"I'd love a cup, Kat. Charley?" Mara said.

"Sure," he said.

"Let me get it, Kat. Charley wants to talk to you about those pictures."

"Pictures?" Kativa said.

"The ones I told you about on the phone, the ones I think are African or Australian."

Kativa frowned, then smiled as she remembered the phone call.

"You must forgive me," she said to Charley as she led them back to her office. "I have a terrible memory."

"So do I," he said. "I'm lucky I remember to put my pants on in the morning."

He laughed and she joined him, sneaking a quick glance at Mara who just smiled and stopped at the coffee machine.

"Let me take your cup, Kat. I'll freshen this for you," Mara said.

"Thanks, darling. Come in, Charley. Take that seat and I'll fetch another chair," Kativa said, brushing past him. He smelled warm, with a not unpleasant smell of old sweat on him and just a hint of some sort of aftershave. His body was hard when she touched him. He would be quite muscley naked, she thought, then colored at the thought.

"He's a hunk, Mara," she whispered as she brushed by Mara filling the coffee cups. "Where do you find them?"

"He's a strange one, Kat. But I do like him. I think you will, too."

"Does he have a brother?"

The two women laughed, and Mara came in carefully holding three cups of coffee and Kativa followed, dragging a small chair. The three of them were quite crammed in her space, and Kativa was again struck by how big Charley Payne was. He didn't seem large till you got close to him and realized he was at least six feet three or so, and his baggy clothes hid his body definition. He dominated the space, yet was quiet, and seemed amused and interested by the artwork and her racks of books that filled up the office.

"Where is that from?" he asked, pointing to the spiral rubbing.

Kativa sat down, leaned forward, and rested her elbows on the table, her mug in her hand, quite aware that it pressed her breasts together under the low-cut cotton blouse she wore. "From the Laura River region, in Queensland, Australia. I did my postgraduate work there."

Charley took the coffee mug from Mara. "Thanks," he said to her. "Queensland is the northeast, right?"

"That's right, Charley. Queensland is the northeasternmost territory of Australia. On the Great Barrier Reef side. Have you been?"

"No, but I'd like to. I used to dive, but I haven't for a very long time. Do you dive?"

"No. I'm a poor swimmer and I don't like water over my head. Mara is a diver, aren't you?" Kativa said.

"I got my certification in Cancun a few years ago, but there's not much diving around here. I did it with my boyfriend."

"Which one?" Kativa said, laughing.

"I've forgotten him."

"Did you get your doctorate in Australia?" Charley said.

Kativa smiled. "University of Cape Town, actually."

"You're from South Africa?" Charley said.

"Kat grew up there, and left not long after Mandela came into power," Mara said. She tasted her coffee and wrinkled her nose. "This needs more sugar. I'll be back. Anybody else?"

Charley shook his head no and Kativa said, "No thank you."

"You were born in South Africa?" Charley said.

"Yes, actually in a suburb of Johannesburg called Bredell. I went to university in Pretoria, then Cape Town for my Ph. D."

"Patel, that's an Indian name, isn't it?"

"Yes. My father was of Indian descent, my mother was Portuguese."

"So you grew up under apartheid?"

"Yes. We were considered Colored."

"Ah."

"Yes," Kativa said. She looked into her coffee cup, at the fine brown café au lait that very closely matched the color of her skin. "Yes, those were hard times for everyone."

"Is your Ph. D. in Australian art?"

"Well, to be specific, it's in Australian Aboriginal art and ethnography."

"What's ethnography?"

"It's the study of Australian Aboriginal cultural heritage. It's quite fascinating. Australian Aboriginal culture is the oldest 'primitive' surviving culture we have on earth. Many of their belief systems are completely integrated in their artworks, which encompass a variety of forms. While I studied all of them, I focused on the rock art, both the engravings and the drawings. I came to that really as a fluke… I met a young man who worked for an outfitting company that took tourists on tours in the Laura River regions, looking at the rock art there. He introduced me to Percy Tracy, who is the foremost living authority, at least among whites, in the Laura region. Percy liked me, actually he loves all the girls, even though he's well into his eighties, and allowed me unfettered access to his notes and helped me quite a bit. That's how it came about for me."

Charley reached into the battered canvas valise he'd brought with him, then took out a dark brown manila collapsible file with the Minneapolis Police logo on it.

"Are you a policeman?" Kativa asked.

"No, but I work for the police department. I'm a crime scene photographer, and I wanted to ask you about the images in these photos."

"What do you do for them?" Kativa said.

"Nothing dangerous," Charley said. His smile seemed especially amused. "That sort of police work scares me. I just take pictures."

He handed over an 8© 10 color print. Kativa took it, then picked up her glasses, large round lenses in a frame that even when pressed in place slid down onto her nose.

"This is a very high-quality photograph, Charley. Do you do your own developing?"

"No. But the shop I work with does good work and they know how to work with my stuff."

Kativa was so engrossed in the photograph she didn't notice Mara standing at the door, looking at the two of them.

"This is very familiar," Kativa said. "The design is definitely from the Laura region, I'll tell you this… I think I may actually have seen this before."

"What do you mean you've seen this before?" Charley said.

"Obviously not this particular painting, but the painting this is a copy of. Or rather the rock art image."

"Where?"

Mara came in silently and sat down. Charley set his coffee cup down on the edge of Kativa's desk closest to him. Kativa spun her chair around and scooted to the closest bookshelf and began running her finger across the neatly organized spines of the books.

"Here," she said with satisfaction. She pulled out a book titled
Australia's Living Heritage
, then flipped quickly through the well-thumbed pages till she came to one section. She skimmed it quickly and said to herself, "Not that…" then set the book down on the floor and began looking again. She plucked out a small 6© 6 bound booklet titled
Quinkan Rock Art
and said, "Ah. Here we go."

She flipped through the pages and stopped at one, then handed the booklet to Charley. "That's where. It's a copy of that image."

Charley took the booklet, pushed aside some papers on Kativa's desk, and set the booklet beside his 8© 10. The three of them compared the two. The likeness was unmistakable. The photograph in the booklet was of a figure on what appeared to be a sandstone wall, outlined in red, colored white within the lines, with cross-hatching across the chest. The arms and legs angled upward, with what appeared to be a long bulbed tail dangling below.

"Is that a tail?" Charley asked.

"A penis, actually," Kativa said. "The Imjins were said to travel by bouncing on that knobbed penis, much like a kangaroo travels by bounding."

"What's an Imjin?" Mara asked.

"This is the image," Charley said. He looked at Kativa with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. The amused look was gone, replaced by a fixity of eye that reminded Kativa of her cat when she was stalking a helpless bird. "What can you tell us about it?"

"Where did this image come from?" Kativa said.

"It was drawn on the wall of a crime scene."

"That doesn't look like paint."

"It's not. There's some paint, but most of it is blood and body fluids from a murder victim."

"Oh, my God," Kativa said.

Mara touched Charley's shoulder. "Show her the other photographs."