Unidentified Woman #15

by David Housewright

  “Okay, you’re no good to me. Doctor?”

  The assistant Ramsey County medical examiner stood and cleared his throat as if he were about to deliver a lecture to a roomful of premed students.

  “As requested, we compared our measurements of the wounds suffered by Oliver Braun—our victim in Highland Park—against the size and shape of the blade of the knife that was recovered in Little Canada,” he said. “After careful analysis, we have concluded that they are consistent.”

  “Are you saying it’s a definite match?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s never definite, Bobby. You know that. However, we did find a trace amount of blood on the hilt. Give me seventy-two hours and I will give you a profile.”

  “Make it forty-eight.”

  “Seventy-two, and that’s with someone working it full time.”

  The ME sat down. He seemed disappointed there wasn’t applause.

  “Okay. Deputy Sergeant?”

  The deputy sergeant was a member of the General Investigations Unit of the Ramsey County Sheriff’s Department. The department didn’t get many murders. It investigated only those committed in the seven small contract cities like Little Canada for which it was paid to provide services, so I was a little surprised that someone with a higher rank wasn’t in the conference room acting all large and emphatic.

  “We canvassed the area, interviewed the mourners,” said the sergeant. “No witnesses. The church had never installed security cameras, so there’s no film to look at either. My deputies did find a shell casing at the far end of the parking lot. Federal .30-06.”

  “Ahh,” said Keith.

  “We sent it to your office. You should have it by now.”

  “Ahh,” said Keith again.

  “Prints?” Bobby asked.

  “We lifted a partial,” the sergeant said. “That’s why it took so long to get it to the BCA. Not enough points to run it through the system, though.”

  “Did you find any brass at the first shooting?”

  Bobby was speaking to Luby, who squirmed slightly in his chair.

  “No,” he said.

  “Did you look?”

  “I—I don’t know. There was a lot of snow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll get someone back out there with a metal detector.”

  “Okay.”

  “In the meantime, we’ve been trying to work up a history on Karl Olson, our victim,” Luby said. “So far with little success. We don’t know much more about him than what we found in his wallet. Family, friends, who he worked for, where he’s from—nothing. So far. We’ve also been trying to get a line on the kids who lived in the duplex. We know a great deal about them except, well, where they are at the present time. I went up to Deer River myself. I was able to confirm everything that McKenzie told us. Beyond that…”

  “Okay. Jeannie.”

  Shipman had a notebook open in front of her. She knew this moment would come and had prepared what to say. She spoke of the flyers that were found in the duplex and the garage sales that they led her to. She related her suspicions that the sales were a front for a shoplifting and burglary ring and that they were operated by two young men named Craig and Mitch—that was all the ID she had—and that Ella Elbers had been tentatively linked to them. She said she was sure that Peter Troop was also involved in the garage sales and that he had been shot in the leg during a drive-by shooting on Sunday.

  “So that’s where the wound came from,” the ME said.

  But, Shipman said, she had no information about the shooters or their motives.

  “Could the drive-by shooter in Woodbury and the sniper in Little Canada be the same person?” the deputy sergeant asked.

  “My opinion, I want to say no,” Shipman said. “Unfortunately, I have nothing to base it on except that the sniper seems very competent and the drive-by shooter not so much.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that the blood on Troop’s knife matches Braun’s…”

  “Unless the good doctor tells us otherwise,” Bobby said.

  “That raises the question—what the hell was Troop doing at the kid’s funeral?”

  “I don’t know,” Shipman said.

  “Guilty conscience,” said a second deputy. “He did say he was sorry.”

  “Puhleez,” said Luby’s partner.

  “My question,” said Luby. “McKenzie, what were you doing at the funeral?”

  “McKenzie,” Bobby said, “speak up.”

  I felt a twinge of panic when the room full of officers turned their undivided attention on me. I sat straighter in my chair.

  “I’m trying to find Ella Elbers,” I said. “With permission from the commander.” I added that last part to remind Bobby that I wouldn’t be there at all if he hadn’t sent El to my condominium in the first place. “I went to the funeral in case she showed up.”

  “Why would she?” Luby asked.

  “She and Oliver Braun used to date. They broke up around Christmas. Braun’s friends at the funeral, none of them have seen her since.”

  “Why did they break up?”

  My shrug didn’t satisfy anybody.

  “What else can you tell us?” Bobby asked.

  I had seen the look in Bobby’s eyes before. He was wondering how much of what I had told him was the truth and how much wasn’t. He was also debating whether or not I was holding out on him, and given our past history, he was leaning heavily toward not. I needed to give him something more. If I didn’t, two things were going to happen. Thing one—his anger would probably reach biblical proportions. I didn’t mind that so much. It wouldn’t be the first time he was upset with me, and after all these years, I figured our friendship could withstand pretty much anything—after all, I was best man at his wedding and godfather to his eldest daughter, and his daughters were heirs to my estate, such as it was. But thing two—he’d cut me off from the investigation now and forever, and I didn’t want that.

  I reached into my wallet and removed the sheet of paper that Smith, the security guard at my condominium, had given me. I unfolded it and set it on the conference room table. It was passed from one hand to another until it reached Bobby.

  “Mitchell Bosland,” I said. “From Rochester, Minnesota. El made a reference to him on her Facebook page. He’s one of the three men operating the garage sales, as Detective Shipman said earlier. The sheet contains all of his driver’s license information.”

  “McKenzie,” Shipman said, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Honestly, Detective, I thought you already knew.”

  What a liar you are, my inner voice said.

  From her expression, whatever earlier opinion Shipman held of me took a catastrophic nosedive. I thought she was about to give me an idea of how much it had sunk when Bobby interrupted her.

  “What else?” he asked. His voice made it clear that I had better have something else.

  “The second man is named Craig. I don’t have a last name, but I’m sure he’s from Rochester, too.”

  “And…”

  “And the third man is named John Kispert. I know nothing about him, although I’m pretty sure he operates the home and garage burglary end of things.”

  I heard Shipman’s harsh whisper—“Bastard.”

  “Okay,” Bobby said. He passed the sheet to Shipman and started assigning tasks to nearly everyone in the room. When he finished, he announced, “First priority—Karl Olson, Oliver Braun, Peter Troop. Somehow, somewhere their lives collided. Connect the dots, people.”

  The officers made ready to evacuate the conference room, but he halted them.

  “Up until now we’ve been able to operate below the radar,” he said. “That’s going to change. A murder suspect killed at the funeral of his alleged victim—you know the media’s going to be all over this one. No leaks. I mean it. I want this case airtight. Any journalists start asking questions, you refer them to me.”

  “Especially if the reporter is Kelly Bressandes,” Keith said
.

  The remark caused a snicker to ripple through the room. Bressandes had the nicest legs and best come-hither smile on local TV.

  “Damn right,” Bobby said. “If anyone is going to give Bressandes an exclusive, it’s going to be me.”

  The ME slapped Bobby on the shoulder as he passed out of the room. “Rank does have its privileges,” he said.

  I was the last to leave. Bobby intercepted me at the door.

  “McKenzie, do you know why I let Shipman take the lead on this investigation instead of doing it myself?” he asked.

  “Because you’re a desk-bound bureaucrat?” I said.

  “It’s because I didn’t want to put you in a position where you would lie to my face. And I didn’t want to put myself in a position where I would have to do something about it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Shipman knows everything that I know.”

  “See, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Trust me, Bobby.”

  “Uh-huh. One more thing. If you tell Shelby what I said about Kelly Bressandes, I will shoot you where you stand.”

  THIRTEEN

  Later that evening, I went to Rickie’s. Joey DeFrancesco and his trio had just begun their first set in the upstairs performance hall—I could hear his Hammond B-3 organ singing—yet instead of listening, I went to Nina’s office. I knocked on the door and stepped inside without waiting for permission. Nina was sitting at her small desk, her feet up, and drinking Scotch. She did not look happy.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You don’t know? It’s been on the news.”

  The shooting, my inner voice said.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said.

  I sat in the chair opposite her. She studied me long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You were there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You were standing close when it happened. That’s why you have bloodstains on your new jacket, isn’t it? Because you were so close when it happened.”

  I hadn’t noticed the stains.

  “I have some old jackets I can wear,” I said.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Nina asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “So, what else is new?”

  “Talking won’t change anything.”

  “It always makes me feel better.”

  “It just makes me feel sad.”

  “That’s because you think Fifteen did it. You like her, and it bothers you to think she killed that man. Him and the one in Minneapolis.”

  “You like her, too. If I recall, you said you wanted to adopt her.”

  “I still don’t believe she did it.”

  “Why are you drinking alone in your office, then?”

  Nina didn’t reply.

  “I don’t know what I think,” I told her.

  “McKenzie, there were three men in that truck. If it is Fifteen, and I’m not saying it is, but if she is trying to get revenge on the men who hurt her, who dumped her on the freeway—there’s one left.”

  “At least one. If it was a man. We don’t know for sure.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe Kispert.”

  “Should we warn him?”

  “Do you think he needs warning?”

  Nina took a long pull of her Scotch.

  “It’s my own fault,” she said. “I wanted to involve myself in your adventures. Before that, I hardly ever drank. Now look at me.”

  “Do you have any more of that?”

  She did. We sat together drinking silently.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Nina said. “I received an e-mail just before you walked in.”

  “From whom?”

  “Our friend Mitch. Actually, it wasn’t just to me. It was to his entire mailing list. The garage sale set for Saturday in Apple Valley? Postponed indefinitely.”

  “I was afraid something like this would happen. With all the heat from the shooting, they decided to go dark. I bet Shipman has Mitch under the bright lights even as we speak.”

  “Forgetting the mixed metaphors—you sold him twenty-four thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise for fifty cents on the dollar.”

  “It was my money.”

  “We’re not going to have that discussion right now, the one about joining our finances. The point is, the investment was supposed to tie us in with these guys, right? Get us close so we can find out if they’re the ones that tried to kill El and then decide what to do about it. Now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought you had a plan?”

  “Can’t imagine what gave you that idea.”

  We drank some more.

  “Do you want to go upstairs and listen to Joey?” Nina asked.

  “Actually, I was thinking of taking you home.”

  * * *

  We started making out before we even opened the door. Nina had her hands around my neck and was nibbling my ear—which I really, really liked—while I fumbled with my key card, trying to slip it into the lock. I realized that we were on camera; Smith and Jones were probably watching us on their security monitor. I didn’t care.

  They said they were bored, my inner voice reminded me.

  I managed to open the door and we spilled into the condominium. I closed the door and had Nina pressed back against it. My fingers were working the buttons of her long coat. I stopped when I heard what sounded like a polka played on a xylophone.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “Is that you?” Nina asked.

  “No, that’s not—wait.” I rummaged through my pockets until I found the burn phone I had used to contact Mitch. Now he was trying to contact me. I pressed the button that allowed the cell to accept the call.

  “This is Dyson,” I said.

  Nina’s eyes grew wide at the name.

  “Dyson, this is Mitch.”

  “I was just going to call you,” I said. “What’s this shit I hear about you canceling the garage sale? I told you I need a reliable distributor.”

  “That’s why I called. I’d like to meet with you. You and Mr. Herzog.”

  I flinched at the sound of his name. Nina must have noticed, because she leaned toward me, a concerned expression on her face.

  You used Herzog’s name at the storage garage, my inner voice told me. Damn, he’s going to be pissed.

  Mitch filled in the silence that followed.

  “We checked you out, you and Mr. Herzog,” he said. “We believe you can help us.”

  “Help you what?”

  “That’s what we want to meet about.”

  “When?”

  “Now, if it’s convenient.”

  I was watching Nina when I answered.

  “It is most certainly not convenient,” I said.

  I agreed to meet him anyway. Nina leaned away from me after I finished the call and folded her arms across her chest, a defensive gesture.

  “Dyson?” she said. “Nick Dyson?”

  “Yeah, about that…”

  “I need another drink.”

  * * *

  Herzog was even more unhappy than Nina, especially when I explained that Craig and Mitch knew his name and apparently accessed his record. It took a lot of fast talking and the guarantee of a sizable payday to convince him to accompany me to the meeting. Even so, he remained in a foul mood. When we arrived at Cafe Latté, a gourmet cafeteria specializing in exotic desserts located in St. Paul, he marched to the table where Mitch and Craig were nursing coffees and announced, “I don’t like to drink caffeine at night, it keeps me awake.” From the expression on their faces, you’d have thought he threatened to set them both on fire.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Herzog,” Craig said. “They serve—I could get you green tea. That has only a little caffeine.”

  “Japanese cherry,” Herzog said. “With honey. And while you’re at it, I could us
e a slice of that raspberry torte they got.”

  Craig was quick to his feet, pausing only long enough to ask, “Mr. Dyson?”

  Mister, my inner voice said. I like that. Means they’re frightened or impressed, probably both.

  “I’m good,” I said aloud.

  We remained at the small table while Craig left to serve Herzog. I said, “What do you want?” Mitch said, “We should wait,” even as he gestured toward his partner’s empty chair. So we did. Quietly. Meanwhile, a steady stream of customers flowed around our table as if it were an obstacle in a creek. No doubt that’s why Craig and Mitch chose the place, I told myself—for its loud, crowded, and breezy atmosphere. As for me, I prefer privacy when I conspire to commit a major felony.

  The wait was long enough that Mitch grew restless.

  “We Googled you,” Mitch said, just to make conversation. “Both of you. Is your name really Glen?”

  “Think that makes me happy?” Herzog said. “You checking up on me?”

  “I was just saying…”

  “You call me Glen again, I’ll fuck you up.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Herzog.”

  “Fuck the Internet.”

  Mitch avoided Herzog’s stare after that. He found my face. He smiled slightly as if he were hoping to find an ally. I glared at him.

  You don’t see me calling him Glen, do you, numb nuts? my inner voice said.

  Mitch looked away.

  Craig returned a few minutes later. He served Herzog from a plastic tray.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Craig asked.

  Herzog sipped the tea while Craig hovered above him.

  “You waiting for a tip?” Herzog asked.

  “No. No, no.” Craig sat down, setting the tray in front of him. “No.”

  “Start talking,” I said.

  “We have been forced to suspend operations,” Mitch said. “We won’t resume until … until certain matters are dealt with.”

  “What matters?”

  “The police are onto us.”

  Herzog spoke around a forkful of raspberry torte.

  “What do you mean, us?” he said.

  “Us, us,” Mitch said. “Well, not you. I mean us.”

  “Better not be me.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “A St. Paul detective named Shipman brought me in for an interview. She wanted to know about the garage sales. I don’t think she had any evidence, and I gave her nothing. Kispert, he didn’t say anything either.”