Killer Storm

by Jen Wright

  The green lights made me think of my ex, Dar. She bought that clock for me after many nights of watching me bolt straight up out of bed trying to put out the fire; the fire I saw starting in the corner of my room; the fire that was really just red lights. I wondered how long it took her to find this little green-lighted clock. Even though she was my ex by then, and the thought of her still pissed me off, I woke up liking her for this gift.

  After six months of being single, I still woke up thinking about her. I wondered if I was abnormal somehow because I seemed to be stuck. Maybe I just needed to get another clock. I searched my mind for reasons why we had failed. Was it because she moved in with me after we'd been seeing each other for only a month? I thought about all of the arguments that we didn't have. Maybe we were just too different. She was laid back and never planned ahead. I pictured the pile of bills she paid only when the pile fell over. I pictured our home, cluttered with art projects, clothes, and empty cups. She cleaned when things got in the way and lived totally in the moment, a free spirit. By contrast, I knew my own tendency was to plan compulsively. I just couldn't function in any other way. I guess you could say that order has always been a comfort to me.

  Neither one of us was good about "processing." I thought that was what being with a woman was supposed to be all about. Well, so far, in my twenty-plus years of exclusively seeing women, it had not proven true. I once read a self-help book on lesbian relationships that said we should avoid picking partners who we think are identical to or the opposite of ourselves. It seems I failed in this regard. I think I picked Dar to balance myself out and ended up resenting her for being herself. It ended badly.

  On our last day together, we were supposed to go away for the weekend to share a cabin on the north shore of Lake Superior with our good friends Tina and Sally. I had my bag packed and loaded in the car before leaving for work. When it came time to go, Dar was on the phone organizing a hike with friends, having completely forgotten our plans. I spouted off about how unreliable she was and from there moved on to how our house wasn't a home; it was a dirty clothes pile. She just walked out, saying, "Jo, I've had enough. I'll come back for my stuff while you're gone." I came home to an orderly and sparse house. I suspected that we would have dinner sometime, after a couple of messed up schedulings, and talk about the fact that we were just too different, or maybe about what an inflexible jerk I was.

  The smell of coffee finally pulled me out of bed. I had programmed my pot to brew precisely two cups ready to drink by 5:55 A.M. I grabbed my mug, walked out to the deck, and began to sip. I wasn't too consumed with the thoughts in my head to hear the birds singing all around me. I tried to clear my mind, allowing nature to ground me before setting off on my ritual morning walk with my dogs. Before long, though, I found myself thinking about the Toivunen murders. I looked up midway on the trail and didn't know where I was. I half expected to be at the end by then. I gave up trying to clear my mind and hustled my dogs back to the house.

  On the drive to Duluth, I glanced at my Palm Pilot, wondering how I could fit some time in my schedule to support Lou. I didn't even notice that the radio was off for the thirty-minute commute.

  I rolled into a half-filled parking lot. It was the first week of deer hunting season, and most of the men in our office were sitting in tree stands. I entered my building, stomped off the leaves clinging to my shoes, and instinctively braced against the cold of the building where my office is located. Rumor has it that the city morgue used to be housed downstairs. If the rumor is true, the building had not lost the ambience. Originally built in the 1920s as a health clinic, it now housed a variety of businesses, including a Women's Health Center, psychologists' offices, and several nonprofit human service agencies. While the floors are a beautiful light marble and the ceilings twelve feet high, they don't compensate for the cold, clinical feel of the building. The plumbing and heating are original, and to make matters worse, building management turns the heat down at night and on weekends to save costs. In a cold snap, it takes a full two days before the temp. reaches 68 degrees. I pulled up my collar and hugged myself as a symbolic embrace against the cold. My soft shoes ticked off a staccato rhythm as I traversed the marble expanse to the stairwell leading to our third-floor offices.

  The front office, originally designed as a waiting area, had had a fresh remodel, including a thermostatically controlled heating system all its own. Consequently, the clients waiting to see their probation officers experienced relative comfort compared to the rest of their visit.

  Walking into the office, I noticed a fresh pile of baked goods on the front "treats table." Jeannie, our front desk supervisor, must have been busy baking the previous evening and didn't want to have the temptation at home. I quickly scanned the table for chocolate. Seeing nothing I

  couldn't live without, I gave a quick "good morning" to the front office staff and headed for my office.

  As I passed through my double security doors, a scene of complete disarray stunned me. I stared blankly. The room had been ransacked. A locked file cabinet containing all of the staff files was open. The drawer was bent outward as if someone had pried it from the outside. Paperwork was everywhere. My plants were turned over, and dirt was covering the paper, my desk, and the floor. All of the contents of my desk were on the floor. My burgundy leather chair was tipped over and leaning against the windowsill. I thought I could make out a light musky smell. My initial reaction of numbness and shock quickly turned to anger, and then to determination.

  My prior training as Chief Security Officer at the juvenile detention facility kicked in. Secure the area, don't disturb anything, and memorize the scene. I moved to the neighboring office and called the front desk. I informed Jeannie that there had been a break-in and asked her not to allow anyone back and to please phone the police. I then moved to the security doors and diverted curious staff members until the police could arrive.

  While I waited, I studied the doors. There was no sign of forced entry. The doors could be opened either with a magnetic security fob or by entering a numerical code into the keypad. The combinations on all of the door locks on the third floor are the same. It would be relatively easy for an offender to memorize the combination while his or her probation officer was opening the door from the waiting area. I was sure I had obliterated any fingerprints present on the keypad when I let myself in. I decided immediately that I would have to talk this over with the Chief of Probation and perhaps allow only fob operation in the presence of clients.

  What the hell would someone want with my files? As head of Juvenile Probation, I hardly ranked as a worthy target. Perhaps the intrusion was really about one of the probation officers. They do make recommendations to the court for sentencing on crimes involving drugs and even murder. What was this about? I couldn't help but tie it to the Toivunen murders somehow.

  Damn, I had just done my annual weeding out of the piles of paperwork. Well, at least I had a better chance of knowing what was missing.

  Jeannie escorted Nate down the hall. I felt myself smile in spite of the circumstances. I thought about our first meeting fifteen years earlier. I had been working in the juvenile intensive unit, and he was a beat cop. I called for backup as I was trying to arrest one of the kids on my caseload for violating his probation by drinking. The kid was resisting, and his mother was in my face screaming at me. Nate rolled up in a squad and slowly walked up to us. We were in front of the house, and I'd been attempting to talk my client down so that I could place handcuffs on him. Nate walked up to the client, lumbered his six-foot, five-inch frame over him, and stuck out his hand as if to greet him. The kid didn't know what else to do, and shook his hand. Nate gave him a big smile and had him in cuffs within five seconds, all the while making small talk. The kid smiled and said, "Hey, smooth." Nate's head is small for his body, and his eyes are close together, but somehow the sight of him always makes me happy.

  He approached me with his usual smile and handshake. "Jo."

  "We mee
t again." I shrugged and pointed to the mess visible through the office doors. "I didn't go back in. Nothing has been touched since 7:45. Those are staff files, so please use some discretion."

  Time seemed to stop as Nate snapped several pictures and dusted for fingerprints. He casually asked, "Are there any other cases you guys have been into recently? Big ones. Other than the Nichols case?"

  "Well, there was the burglary of the electronics warehouse in the West End. You guys tagged the Munson brothers for that. The case is due for sentencing next week. We were looking at shipping the older brother to the Detention Center for nine months. The younger one is headed for the Workhouse three-week program." I scrunched up my lips and thought for a second. Nate just waited.

  "Then there is the Toivunen murder case." I looked at Nate, and he gestured for me to go on. "Nate, do you think this is tied somehow to Nichols? That case is nowhere close to trial, and Nichols is in pretrial detention with no release privileges. Lou had him on probation when the first murder occurred."

  Nate was taking notes. I felt a strong pang of intuition about Lou's statement that Nichols was pulling strings from detention. "Hey, those staff files contain home addresses and phone numbers. Lou isn't scheduled to come in until two o'clock today. Maybe we should call him to make sure he's OK."

  "You really think that's necessary?" He looked skeptical. "What are the chances this is about him?"

  "Why are you here? You obviously thought it prudent to respond to this, even with those murders on your plate."

  For a brief moment, I wondered about the unknown person who dared to break into the offices of a criminal justice agency, and I knew it was someone I would have to take seriously. My intuitive voice was nagging at me not to let this go.

  "I have his cell number programmed into my phone. It will just take a minute."

  "Have at it," Nate agreed.

  "No answer, but that isn't unusual. He isn't on call. Let me try his home phone." There was no answer there, either, but I left a message on his machine to call me on my cell phone right away. "Can you send a squad to his house?" I asked. "I'm sure I'm overreacting, but hey, it's better to be safe than sorry, right? Better yet, let's go there together; I know where it is."

  "Let's hope you are overreacting, Jo. Kids love Lou. I've seen him get up on the witness stand to testify against gang-bangers about their gang involvement, and he is still the first person they ask for when they're in trouble. Even if this is tied to Nichols, chances are Lou isn't a target. I just can't see it."

  He smiled a crooked little smile. "Let me radio this in. I don't want anyone thinking I'm just out socializing with you. That would be some gossip, wouldn't it?"

  "You could do worse," I responded, thinking that Jerome Nathan knew just when to lighten my mood.

  Chapter 3

  Lou's house seemed empty. It was 10:30 A.M., and he should have been up, even though I knew that he had probably been working quite late.

  "Is it possible he got called to assist some of your guys?" I asked Nate.

  "Nothing going on that I'm aware of. Well, let's take a closer look. Stand back here. You guys really should be armed, you know."

  "That's a different discussion, Nate." I started formulating an argument in my head about how probation officers must be part police officers, part counselors, and part social workers. We find it difficult to fulfill all of these roles while carrying guns, but the police usually don't understand that.

  Two quick knocks and the door cracked open. Nate was all cop as he yelled into the residence. "Lou, you there? Lou, police!" Nothing. Nate motioned with his hand for me to wait. He entered with gun drawn. "It's all messed up here, too." Nate had his radio out immediately. "Squad 23 requesting backup at 1238 Pineview Court."

  He stepped back out to wait for his backup. A Pathfinder pulled up in the drive, and Lou got out with a quizzical look on his face.

  "Hey guys, what's up? Can't be a social call this time of morning."

  "Where is your wife, Lou?" Nate asked quickly.

  Lou took a step forward toward the doorway. Nate put a hand to his chest.

  "Where's your wife?"

  "Working. Now tell me what's going on," Lou demanded, looking worried.

  "Your boss's office was broken into. Now it looks like your house got turned."

  Two squads pulled up without sirens, and two uniformed officers quickly approached. Nate directed Lou and me to stay on the sidewalk while he entered the house with the two officers.

  "All clear," Nate called out after five minutes or so.

  "Lou, I need you to come in and do a quick visual of what's missing. Jo, you can stand in the entryway, but don't touch anything." Even though I approved of Nate's care in handling the crime scene, I fumed.

  Lou flinched as he walked into the wreckage that was his living room. He visibly shrunk when he scanned the broken picture of his family. He just stood there and finally said in a quiet voice, "Nothing's missing that I can see right now. I have some guns in the basement – a couple of hunting rifles. I don't own any handguns."

  "You guys drive me nuts. You should all carry!" Nate was about to start ranting again.

  "Could you possibly make your point a little clearer, Nate?" I had to give him some grief.

  "OK, let's go see about the guns."

  Against orders, I followed the two men into the basement. The guns were still in a locked gun cabinet. Lou checked the utility area and his remodeled family room. He didn't notice anything out of place.

  "Nice work, Lou, the place looks great," Nate said, trying for some normalcy in a day that had already become far from ordinary.

  "Thanks. Sara picked out the wainscot and the carpet. I just muscled it into place." As he was looking around, he said, "I can't see anything out of order here. Let's go back upstairs."

  On the way up the stairs, he was shaking his head. "I can't tell what they were looking for. I mean, it must be work related, right? With Jo's office being broken into and all." He paused at the landing, scratched his chin, and looked down at some imaginary spot in the carpeting.

  "Let me see if I have this straight. Your theory is that they were looking for my address in Jo's office, tracked my house down, and then came here and tossed the place. Nothing is missing. It's just messed up. So, is this a message? To me? What's with all these messages to me?"

  "We don't know yet," Nate responded.

  We made our way back into the living room, and Nate began, "Your wife is at work, right?" Lou nodded with a shrug.

  "Please don't misinterpret this question, but where were you just now?"

  "I was at the gym."

  "Do you go every day at this time?"

  "Not really. My schedule is too irregular. I work three days, two off, five on, three off. Ten-hour shifts. We end up swapping shifts all the time."

  "When you work until midnight, are you in the habit of going to the gym in the morning?" Nate persisted.

  "Yes, why? What do you think it means?" Lou was clearly spooked.

  "Nothing yet. I'm just trying to get as many pieces to this puzzle as I can. I'm going to have the Crime Scene Unit go through this place. Can you call Sara and tell her what happened so she doesn't walk into crime tape? They should be in and out of here in three hours."

  "Sure." Lou pulled out his phone and hit speed dial.

  "Let's go somewhere to talk about your caseload and who might have it in for you," Nate suggested.

  "How about Ground Under?" I said. "It's six blocks away." Some of my staff members call the place my second office because I frequently meet them there for informal updates.

  Lou gave me a knowing look and said, "See ya there, Jo."

  Ground Under was full of its usual bustle. We descended the steps leading to the basement of the strip mall where it's located. The walls had a textured earthen tone, and the concrete floor had been stained to look like mud tiles, and then polyurethaned over. College kids and coffee junkies all huddled together in an aromatic, co
ffee-buzzed mass. I relaxed when I smelled my third cup brewing. I secretly longed to sit in the overstuffed chair and couch section, but it was not private enough. I resigned myself to be happy with my brew: strong, Ground Under java.

  "So Lou, tell me who you've pissed off recently," Nate began.

  "You mean kids, or professionals? We're OK, right Jo?" Lou was only half kidding. He has been known to offend people in high places by sometimes throwing out the rulebook.

  Lou winked at me. I wondered to myself if he knew that he was good looking and was using it to his advantage. I found it curious that it worked on me. What did this guy have? I sat there thinking about my affection for Lou and wondered if somehow everyone knew he was my favorite. Then I let go of the guilt trip. Everybody loves Lou, men and women alike. The women like him because he brings hand-picked flowers for the clerical staff all summer long and is generally a good guy. If he forgets about the sign-out board, he apologizes by bringing a treat for everyone. The men like him because he is just an everyday guy. He does his share of after-work socializing, plays golf, and seems to genuinely care about everyone as his extended family. The kids he works with look to him as a father figure – even the hard-hearted gang kids. I think he just genuinely likes people, even the kids no one else likes. He is popular with the police because he shares information between our two agencies and because he knows so much about Duluth's community of troubled kids. I absolved myself of all guilt and tuned back into the conversation.

  "Tell me about all of it. Whatever comes to your mind," Nate continued.

  "Well, there's the Toivunen murder. Nichols is in lockup, though."

  Lou and I exchanged a glance.

  "Tell me about his gang ties. Is there a tie to you?" Nate grabbed his pen and poised it on his notepad. "Anything. Just talk."

  I settled in and began sipping, as Lou is known both for his ability to talk and an amazing capacity for retaining even the smallest detail about his work.