Killer Storm

by Jen Wright

  "So, how did the interview with Warren go?"

  "Well! Extremely well. I was just updating Nate. This will be his ballgame from now on. I will provide support in any way I can. If this pans out, Warren will have his guarantee of safety. He said that there is one big player out there we haven't apprehended yet, and that this individual is responsible for pulling the trigger on the Toivunens. He said it's a guy going by the name of Richard Rapinski, a.k.a. Rap, a.k.a. Tre. Tre is his most recent alias. Warren doesn't know where he lives, but he hangs out at the Nosy Bar to drink, and shoots pool at the Slam. He's the major muscle for the G.M. Warren described him as a short guy who primarily uses guns to inflict harm. He has a rep for toying with people to scare the crap out of them. He has a total short man complex. He drives around in a jacked-up truck with mud wheels. The name Tre came up because prior to this he had allegedly killed three people. I guess now it's seven."

  "I hope this information is good. Did you get out of Warren how he got tangled up in all of this? I mean, I always knew the guy was a bubble off, but this is extreme."

  "We asked him that. He said that he got in deep with gambling debt. He hadn't mortgaged his house, but he did borrow money from Nichols. Rather than get his legs broken, he agreed to work for them. He wouldn't say specifically doing what, but we don't think it was limited to peddling dope to kids. You'll be happy to know that he doesn't appear to be working with anyone else in your department."

  "So what were you talking about when I walked up?"

  "We were talking about a bad cop."

  "It's not fun, is it?"

  "Good to clean the rats out," said Nate.

  "What's next?"

  "Run down Tre," Sam responded. "We don't want your folks messed up in this at all. The guy is armed to the teeth and likely escalating in his need to kill. I'm going to feed what information I have about him to our profiler to see if there is a best way to approach him. What your office can do is to call Nate with any leads. Please make it clear that your officers are to steer clear of him."

  "Understood."

  I allowed myself to sit there absorbing things for only a minute. I wanted to have another cup of coffee and weigh how much to tell the staff, but I knew that if they didn't get accurate information from me, they would succumb to gossip. I'd rather give it to them straight than have to clean up a mess of rumors.

  When I went back to the office, I called the staff together to discuss the news coverage about Warren and how it was affecting them. I also called the agency that does our critical incident debriefings. This would affect every person in my unit. I wondered if the agency had ever facilitated a debriefing with such a large number. We scheduled it for noon. I ordered pizza.

  I couldn't stand the wait before the staff debriefing, so I deep-cleaned the staff kitchen and lounge. I think I am the only one who ever does it, and it needed it. The sink had a layer of scum, the coffeepot was stained black, and there were dishes to scrub. I pushed up my sleeves and dug in. I spent an entire hour scouring and scrubbing. Don walked by, smiled, and said, "Stressed out? Well, something good may come of this after all."

  For Christmas, I often get cleaning supplies from an anonymous member of my staff. I bet most units joke about how their bosses dress, or walk, or something. I'm sure they have anal retentive jokes about me. I just needed some order. I needed to accomplish something.

  The debriefing was hard. The juvenile probation officers were angry with Warren for being such a slime. They were angry that the public now associated probation officers with gang-affiliated drug dealing. They were also mad at themselves for failing to see his slide to the dark side. I suspected they were angry with me for not seeing it, too, although they didn't say that directly. All in all, it was a good start. The facilitator encouraged us to keep talking about it and to seek counseling when needed. This issue would be with us for a long time.

  Afterward, I kept my staff together to set limits about contact and proximity to Tre. While we could do some nosing around to try and pin down his location, it was imperative not to get labeled as a target, or to draw his suspicion to the fact that we were zeroing in on him, causing him to go underground.

  Once back in my office, I called Nate to see if the police had confirmed Tre's full name so that we could see if he was in the probation system. We track all known associates, as well as last known addresses. He informed me that Richard Rapinski was an alias for sure. They had another name, but they were not sure of its reliability. They didn't have enough for a warrant, and they didn't have a known address, anyway. The suspect's name was John Alexander Drift, d.o.b. 5/25/84. That put him at nineteen. That was young for a serial killer. Sam was going to have trouble with that in the profile. While Nate was on the phone, I pulled up our client tracking system. John Alexander Drift was not listed. There were too many Drifts to make any logical connections.

  I couldn't run him in the FBI database without an open file, so I checked the Statewide Supervision System. Bingo, we got a match. I could hear Nate's breathing change a bit as he heard this. Drift had picked up a driving without a license charge in Minneapolis earlier in the year. Bless their little hearts for taking the time to enter the data. This was a smalltime charge.

  There was a picture. He was an ugly little wiry guy, with big ears and stringy blondish hair that hung nearly into his eyes. I asked Nate if he had registered for a link to the Statewide Supervision System, but he hadn't. I scolded him and sent him a link via e-mail. I knew his department had access but gave him my password to save him time. I also printed Tre's picture and distributed it to all the PO mailboxes, sending a note to all of the other unit supervisors to relay the warnings of dangerousness. I called it a day.

  Chapter 31

  On the way home, I stopped for gas and picked up a coffee, gas station variety. It actually wasn't that bad, but I added cream and sugar for good measure. I took the scenic route and found myself pulling over at Brighton Beach.

  Brighton Beach is a one-mile park that contours Lake Superior jutting off from the North Shore Highway on the east side of Duluth. There is a pavilion and place where you can park your car for a picnic. Often people just stay in their cars to look at the lake. For obvious reasons, it is a popular necking spot. In the winter, the parkway is blocked off to car traffic, but pedestrians often walk the road or wander down to the lake to explore the rocky shoreline.

  On this night, it appeared deserted. No cars were parked at the barricade, and no one was visible on foot. I walked in a quarter of a mile, then down to the shoreline, and plunked myself on a rock. I had not planned this and found myself wondering why I had come. I have lived in Duluth all of my life, and whenever I have needed time to think, I have always gravitated to the shores of Lake Superior.

  Each time I sit on her shores, I see a different lake. Sometimes it is icy and windy, and sometimes hot and still. On this day, it was cold and gusty. The waves were seven feet high by the time they came crashing into the rocky shore. As they hit, they created a splash that reached another ten feet higher. Where I sat, I could feel a heavy mist carried on the wind. As each wave crashed with a cadenced rhythm, it brought to mind a story one of my Native American client's parents told me a long time ago.

  He said that waves are produced when the body of water dreams. The dreams come in waves throughout the night and leave a little of themselves behind to change the world. Then they cleanse themselves on the shore and return to the depths. I sat there thinking about the waves and of my dreams. I could see the historic Duluth lift bridge from my vantage point, and the Blatnik Bridge behind it. They were both lit up with what looked like Christmas lights.

  I don't know how long I sat there, but I became aware of movement twenty feet to my left. I turned slowly to see a doe and two fawns. They must have tiptoed their way to the water, and they were drinking from a shallow pool left behind in the rocks by the crashing waves. I sat there for ten minutes more just watching them. They seemed unaware of my presence. I wa
s cold but transfixed. When they had their fill, they slowly walked into the woods. I sensed that the deer knew that the lake was dreaming.

  I slowly unlocked my frozen joints and made my way to the Range Rover. I wished for a remote starter because I was cold. You're getting soft, Jo, I told myself. The short walk seemed to take forever. I was feeling old. When I finally reached the car, I glanced in the mirror, and my eyelashes were covered in ice. I had also totally forgotten about my nose injury. It had a nice, dark scab. Why hadn't anyone asked me about my nose today? I guess things were really bad for folks at work. As I started the Rover, I thought of Zoey. I was frozen to the core, but the thought of her warmed me.

  Just as I was easing back onto the Scenic Highway, she called.

  "Jo, it's Zoey."

  I smiled when I heard her voice.

  "Hi, Zoey." I'm not a big conversationalist on the phone.

  "Where are you?"

  "On my way home."

  "Wanna join me for dinner?"

  "I was just down watching the lake, and I got soaked."

  "We can do it without clothes." She laughed out loud. So did I.

  "We usually do."

  "We should try it with clothes some time."

  "I'm game."

  "I just bet you are."

  I was making a U-turn before I answered. "Let me see if I can get K. and D. to take my dogs. I'll call you right back."

  Kathy was not home, but Donna agreed to go get the pups. I thanked her profusely. When I reached Zoey's, I had thawed considerably but was still wet. She ushered me straight into the shower and collected my wet clothes. When I emerged, we sat down to a dinner of potato leek soup and garlic bread. I was adorned in her sweats from head to toe. It felt odd for me to wear someone else's clothing, but I tried to appear flexible. I was going to have to keep a spare set of clothing at her house for emergencies. At least we were close to the same size.

  Chapter 32

  Halfway through dinner, my cell phone rang. It was the security company calling to tell me that my alarm had tripped. I told them I was pretty sure it was a friend picking up my dogs, but I would call them right back. I phoned Donna. She was home, had picked up the dogs twenty-five minutes before, and said that she hadn't gone near the house. I called the security company back and told them it was not a false alarm. They called 911, and Zoey and I hopped into the Range Rover.

  The Duluth Township squad was parked with its nose facing out in my driveway. Officer Shilhon was nowhere in sight. Lights were on in the house. I wondered what to do now. They didn't tell me about this part in my orientation for the alarm. Zoey and I cautiously entered through the front door. It was closed but unlocked.

  "Dan?" I said aloud.

  There was no response. I motioned to Zoey with the universal sign for silence, index finger to the lips, and backed out of the door with her in tow. We tiptoed out to the squad to have a look inside and to access the radio.

  "Dispatch, this is Jo Spence. I'm at my residence."

  "Dispatch to Spence. Do you know the location of Officer Shilhon?"

  "Negative. That's why I'm checking with you. His squad's at my residence, but he's nowhere in sight. I called out for him inside the house, but he didn't respond. The lights are on, and the door is open. I didn't go all the way in."

  "Are you in any danger right now?"

  "No."

  "I'm sending backup as we speak."

  Just as she said that, I could see someone inside the house walking toward the front door. He appeared to be much shorter than Dan.

  "Suspect is in the house. We have to leave. Please hurry with help."

  Zoey had been standing next to me on the driver's side of the car. I exited, eased the door shut, and pulled her with me into the woods. There were no keys in the squad car, and the keys to my car were inside the house. I had hung my keys on the hook just inside the door out of habit. Habits – they get me in trouble.

  "Zoey, do you remember how to get to Kathy and Donna's from here?"

  "Yes, but I'm not leaving you. Who do you think that is, and what happened to Officer Shilhon?"

  "If Dan is in there and he's injured or whatever, the suspect heard us on the radio. He knows backup is on the way."

  "Let's both go, then."

  "No, he may follow us. I can't risk it. He's probably armed."

  "I'm not leaving you here."

  I was filled with the conflicting emotions of wanting desperately to protect Zoey and feeling in awe of her courage. I also realized the power of what we could do together, not just in this instance, but in our future.

  Something shifted in me, and I realized we could be an awesome force. Even though Zoey and I might have been risking our lives, I somehow knew that everything would be fine.

  I squeezed her hand and said, "You are a stubborn shit, aren't you?"

  She flashed me a scared smile.

  The intruder inside my house was opening the front door. Under the entryway light, the man I recognized as Drift or Tre was clearly visible.

  "Shit," stumbled out of my mouth in a whisper. He just stood there listening. I thought I heard a faint siren in the distance. I called Nate's cell, and he answered right away. I whispered, "I can't talk, tell me what you know." I was careful to keep the light from the phone turned away from Drift.

  "Are you OK?"

  "Yes."

  "Lou has been shot. He's in the hospital, but he should be all right. Lou thought he wounded his attacker. Drift should be bleeding. I'm ten minutes away. Hang on. Don't mess with him!"

  Drift started to move, and I closed the phone. He was moving slowly and walking with a distinct limp. I nudged Zoey, and we walked farther into the woods, heading north from my house. The snow was deep, so I thought it best to trample through it rather than take the path. The going would be tough for him. I wasn't sure about the extent of his injury, but I was banking on it slowing him down. The forest is much denser behind my house, and the trees are a good seventy-five years older than the ones growing near the clearing. It was dark, and I had the advantage of knowing every inch of the land. We crossed my property behind the house and doubled back. I wanted to end up in the shop that occupied the back third of my garage. I practically lived in this woodworking shop when Kathy and I were building the house. We occasionally tinker in there now, on small projects. I was confident I could navigate it in the dark. It took nearly ten minutes to make our way to the shop door. We had stopped from time to time to make sure he was still tracking us.

  Zoey entered the shop first, and I guided her over to the door leading to the main part of the garage. Placing her hand on the light switch, I told her to flip it when he opened the door. I grabbed a huge crowbar from the supply of tools, as well as a plumber's wrench. I guided the wrench to Zoey's free hand and gave her a squeeze. I then walked over to the door and waited. I heard no sirens.

  We waited for what seemed like an hour. I pictured Drift with his greasy blond hair. I thought about the seven lives he had taken, and my heart was pounding nearly out of my chest. I heard footsteps outside the door, followed by silence. The doorknob turned, and the door cracked open. I waited again for him to walk into the shop. He pushed the door open, and I yelled, "Now." The lights went on, and I swung. I felt the crowbar hit with a thud. I had aimed for his head. He groaned and tumbled back into the door, forcing it closed. He was on the floor with the gun still in his hand, but he wasn't moving. Zoey came flying across the shop and stood on his gun hand while still holding the wrench. I was in awe.

  I kicked the gun out of his hand and picked it up, handing it to Zoey. His face had begun to swell, and he was still not moving. I asked Zoey, "Do you know how to use that thing?"

  "Sure do. The safety's off."

  "I'll ask you about that later. I'm going to get some rope."

  I went into the main part of the garage and retrieved a hefty length of rope and my handcuffs from the Range Rover. I pushed Drift over onto his stomach and cuffed him behind his bac
k. Then I tied his legs together and secured him to the table saw.

  I walked over to Zoey and looked at her. Her composure gave way. She gently put the gun on the workbench and crumpled into my arms. We both sat down, leaned against the workbench, and just stared at him. The Duluth squads finally pulled up. Nate was the first to enter, gun first.

  I said, "Look at what happened to the last guy who brought a gun into my house."

  He just stood there stunned.

  "What the... ? This isn't what I meant by 'don't mess with him.'"

  "Like we had a choice."

  He holstered his gun and felt Drift's neck for a pulse. He was alive. Another officer called for an ambulance, and Nate untied our captive. Drift had not regained consciousness.

  Two cops guarded him while Nate helped Zoey to her wobbly feet and escorted us into the house. He sat us both down at the breakfast bar and searched the house. He radioed for ambulance assistance. I had totally forgotten about Shilhon. Nate said he appeared to be unconscious in the bedroom with a softball bat lying by his head. That meant that he had been unconscious for over half an hour. An ambulance came, and the paramedics gently rolled Shilhon onto a backboard and then onto a gurney. Nate came back into the kitchen, and I brewed a pot of decaf. We filled him in on the night's events.

  Although he could see that we were physically healthy, he offered to stay at the house in case we were traumatized by what we had been through. We both declined, and I called Kathy and Donna. They brought the dogs over and just sat with us for hours.

  Later, as Zoey and I drifted off to sleep, without thinking I murmured, "I love you." I heard the same in reply.

  Chapter 33

  I called Lou the following morning. He was quite drugged. He had been shot in the upper left portion of his chest just above his heart. The bullet had traveled through him without doing any real damage. He wasn't feeling that lucky, though. He would have to do physical therapy for his shoulder and would suffer a long stint away from work. Lou needed and loved his work. I told him I'd visit him soon.