by P. J. Tracy
A man in a tux with a face like a contract killer rapped on his window. Magozzi saw an Argo pin making a hole in his thousand-dollar lapel. He rolled down the window and badged him, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Who belongs to all the cars?’
‘Relatives, friends, who knows,’ the man said with a sour expression. ‘Everybody on that goddamned canoe’s had a cell phone pressed to their ear since they found the body. That big Lexus back there?’
‘Yeah, I saw it.’
‘Came in like a tank, clipped one of our guys in the knee when he tried to stop it. Mother of some kid in the wedding party, and we’d have had to shoot her to keep her from getting through.’
‘Red won’t let you shoot people?’
The guy actually smiled, but it didn’t do much to soften his face. He still looked like a contract killer.
Magozzi parked between two squads and shut off the car. Fifty feet away the paddle wheeler was spitting out an occasional already-interviewed guest, tidbits tossed to a piranha press. Stunned by the turn their party had taken, blinded by the camera lights, the rich and powerful looked weak and strangely vulnerable in their couture gowns and black-tie tuxes. Most stood like sheep under the onslaught of shouted questions, but one older, bejeweled woman Magozzi thought looked familiar was having none of it. When the pushy female reporter from Channel Ten entered her space, the woman shoved her hard, right onto her pushy little ass.
Magozzi finally placed the woman as the mother of the groom. ‘Good for you, lady,’ Magozzi murmured with a dark smile, pleased that someone had finally done what he’d wanted to do for years.
He hadn’t taken two steps away from the car before the mob smelled fresh meat and turned on him. He raised a hand to protect his eyes from the lights of a dozen cameras, and winced at the sudden noise of shouted questions. There were too many to sort them out, and he was just about to stick his elbows out and barrel through, the hell with the department’s long-standing policy to always accommodate the press, when the blond from Channel Ten charged toward him, waving her porta-mike like a broadsword to clear a path.
She was too good-looking, too hungry for an anchor spot, and she had a tabloid mind-set that didn’t mesh well with Channel Ten’s bland, kid-oriented newscasts. Magozzi saw her leaving for another market within the year, and as far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be soon enough. She was rude, aggressive, had a nasty habit of quoting out of context, and besides, she hadn’t pronounced his name correctly once.
‘Detective Ma-go-zee?’ she yelled so loudly it startled the other reporters into silence.
Magozzi saw several disapproving glances in the crowd. As a rule, the Minnesota media was remarkably well behaved. They’d all talk at once, they’d ask stupid, insensitive questions like, How did you feel when you learned your six-year-old was shot by her brother?, and sometimes, like now, they even shouted, but only so loud. He’d always wondered if there were some kind of silent agreement on a maximum decibel level so no reporter would ever cross the border from eager to rude. If there was, the blond had just exceeded it.
‘You bellowed?’ he asked, taking some small pleasure in the angry flash of her eyes as a titter spread through the crowd.
‘Detective Ma-go-zee . . .’ she started again.
‘That’s Magozzi. Ma-go-tse.’
‘Right. Kristin Keller, Channel Ten News. Detective, can you confirm that the man shot on the Nicollet tonight was using the restroom at the time he was murdered?’
Indelicate bitch, Magozzi thought. And definitely not a home-grown girl. Your proper Minnesotan never made public reference to bodily functions, no matter how vague.
‘I just got here, Ms Keller. I can’t confirm anything at this point. Excuse me.’ He started to ease through the crowd toward the gangplank, but swore he could feel her hot breath on his neck.
‘Was this another Monkeewrench killing?’ she shouted from behind him.
Oh shit. He stopped and turned around, saw her sly smile.
‘Our sources tell us that the murder last night in Lakewood Cemetery was identical to one in a computer game created by Monkeewrench, a local software company. Do you have any comment on that, Detective?’
‘Not at this time.’
Hawkins from the St Paul Pioneer Press spoke up. ‘Come on, Leo. We’ve had calls trickling in all day about that cemetery murder, from other people who were playing that game on the net. They all said that murder was right on, and now we’re hearing that this killing could be a match for another one in the same game.’
‘We’ve gotten the same calls,’ Magozzi said.
‘So the police department is aware of the connection between these killings and the game?’
‘We are aware of some similarities, and we are investigating.’
‘There were twenty murders in that game . . .’ Kristin Keller called out, and then her very own news chopper moved in overhead, drowning her out. ‘Get that fucking thing out of here!’ Magozzi heard her scream as he hurried through the crowd toward the gangplank.
McLaren met him on the main deck. ‘It’s really going to hit the fan now, isn’t it?’ he said dryly.
‘Yeah, and we’re going to get splattered big time.’
It had taken a murder to do it, but someone had finally upstaged Foster Hammond, and he had not been happy about it. The possibility of a murder at his daughter’s wedding reception might have given him a cheap thrill, but he’d lost his sense of humor when MPD had crashed the party en force.
The social event of the year was now a crime scene, the bride was inconsolable, twenty-five grand worth of food was going to end up in steam trays at a downtown homeless shelter, and Hammond’s illustrious guests had all been corralled into one salon for interviews, ‘like common criminals,’ he’d sputtered to Magozzi.
Magozzi was still patting himself on the back for holding his tongue throughout Hammond’s tirade, but when the bastard started talking about police incompetence he’d excused himself before he said something really inappropriate, like ‘I told you so, you stupid, arrogant prick.’
Now he was fifty yards away from the controlled mayhem that reigned on the Nicollet, staring into the inky black water of the Mississippi, wondering how the hell they were going to catch a cipher who lived in a cyberworld and killed in this one.
He looked up across the river and saw a million hiding places in the clusters of trees and underbrush, jagged rock formations, and dense shadows. The son of a bitch could be hiding there right now, watching him, gloating. But Magozzi didn’t think so.
With a deep sigh, he took one last look at the water and headed back toward the barrier of squads that were lined up side by side in the parking lot. Blue and red lights still flashed, bathing the side of the Nicollet with a jerky, blood-and-bruise rainbow.
Gino had finally extricated himself from the melee on the boat and was ducking beneath fluttering ribbons of crime-scene tape, heading toward him. He was overdressed for the twenty-degree weather in a puffy down parka, fur-lined cap, and fat snowmobile mittens that were good to seventy below. Two crime-scene techs followed him, carrying a gurney that held a black zippered bag.
‘You planning an Antarctic expedition later?’ Magozzi asked.
Gino glowered at him. ‘I’m sick of freezing my balls off. It’s only October, for crying out loud. Whatever happened to Indian summer? I swear to God I’m going to move south. I hate this friggin’ state. I hate winter. We’re going to have trick-or-treaters out in snowmobile suits next week and every time you open the front door you’re going to lose about a hundred dollars’ worth of heat –’
Magozzi interrupted a rant that could go on until spring. ‘So what have we got?’
Gino let out a tremendous sigh that filled the air around his face with billowy white clouds of frost. ‘Same ol’, same ol’. A nightmare from hell. What do you want first, gossip or facts?’
‘Definitely gossip. The truth hurts too much.’
‘Well, the mayor t
hrew out his back bending over to kiss Hammond’s ass – apologizing, if you can friggin’ believe it, for causing such a ruckus. Stupid son of a bitch.’
‘Which one?’
Gino smiled unpleasantly. ‘Good question. At this point, I’d say they’re interchangeable. Anyhow, the mayor quickly recovered from said back injury in time to save face in front of his biggest campaign contributor by openly chastising McLaren and Freedman for, quote, “letting this terrible thing happen.” ’
‘You’re not kidding, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. Goddamn political asshole. Our guys were good, though. Just stood there and took it.’
‘Jesus Christ. Remind me to write them up some bonus time and hazard pay when we’re doing hours on this thing.’
‘I think a couple Purple Hearts would be more appropriate.’
Magozzi looked up and saw Red Chilton and two of his men disembarking from the boat. Even Red, normally unflappable, was looking a little worse for wear. Magozzi wouldn’t have traded places with the man for all the gold in Fort Knox. ‘How’s Red doing? I didn’t even see him when I was inside.’
‘Ah, you know Red. Master of détente. Personally I think he’s wasted in this field. He should be a diplomat.’
‘Any sense of who’s going to take the fall for this? I mean, when things shake out, people are going to wonder why thirty armed professionals on-site with a pre-warning couldn’t stop this thing.’
‘Well, that’s the good news. Anant says the vic was probably dead for hours, long before anyone showed up. Magnusson never mentioned his private head when he was giving the tour. Dinky little thing with one of those plastic accordion doors – everybody assumed it was just a closet. Of course, ignorance is no excuse – Argo and our guys both did sweeps before any of the guests were on board. But Red’s not passing the buck and neither are we. We’ll all just keep our fingers crossed and hope this gets lost in the shuffle, if you know what I mean.’
Magozzi nodded. ‘What else do you know?’
‘The only thing I know for sure is that Hammond’s lawyers are going to be up all night writing about fifty-two lawsuits. Wouldn’t surprise me if Hammond tries to sue the dead guy’s estate for emotional distress because he had the nerve to get killed. Of course, nothing holds water because Hammond was forewarned and he chose to ignore it.’
Magozzi smiled. ‘So Hammond’s going to be on the receiving end of some lawsuits.’
Gino winked. ‘Let’s just say he’s going to find out who his real friends are. If he has any. Hell, I might sue him for emotional distress – I was helping Helen with her history homework when I got the call. What if she fails her test tomorrow? She’ll be so damaged, her grades will start sliding, then she won’t get into college – we’re talking serious lost wages here. Anyhow, political intrigue and lawsuits aside, here’s the scoop, straight from the Grimm Reaper and your Hindu buddy. Same old shit – my words, not theirs – .22 to the head. With one new wrinkle. Guy’s got a fresh bite mark on his hand. Very recent. Like minutes premortem.’
‘Terrific. Our boy’s getting creative.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought, so I get all excited, thinking maybe we get some DNA, a bite mark we can match, like that, and then Anant tells me he thinks the vic bit himself.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah. Guy’s got himself a serious overbite with some crooked canines. Match looks pretty good.’
‘You want to tell me why the vic would bite himself?’
‘Hey, it’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t want to go there. Rambachan will put it together. He always does.’
Magozzi looked over his partner’s shoulder and saw the medical examiner’s tall, lanky, unmistakable figure pacing the exterior deck of the ferry, his open coat flapping behind him, head bent in a search for clues Magozzi could only guess at. When he caught his eye, he waved him over. Rambachan lifted one finger and went back to pacing, and Magozzi returned his attention to Gino. ‘How are the interviews going?’
Gino snorted, scuffing at the frosty asphalt with his Sorels. ‘Slow. They scattered like panicked deer when they saw the squads.’ He looked irritably at the flashing turret lights. ‘Can we shut these damn things off?’ he bellowed to no one in particular. ‘It took half an hour just to get a head count. Over three hundred guests. And every single one of them hates me.’
‘That’s a record for you, isn’t it? Alienating three hundred people in one night?’
‘You know what I had to do to those people? I mean they’re all dressed to kill and ready to party and celebrating this really happy event, you know? And I have to go around with a friggin’ Polaroid of a dead guy with a hole in his head just in case he might be their date or their father or whatever. Now you want to take a stab at the statistics? How many out of all those people do you think are going to puke when they have to look at a picture of a bloody corpse at a wedding reception?’
‘Jesus, Gino . . .’
‘Thirteen. Thirteen puked right on the spot. Goddamn boat smells like the drunk tank on Sunday morning. And the ones that didn’t puke got hysterical. We should have been passing out Valium in little paper cups. “Here, take your pill and look at the dead guy.” Man. I even felt sorry for the bride, and she was the one I really wanted to deck this afternoon. But she’s just a kid, you know? Sure, a murder at your wedding reception sounds Agatha Christie when you’re that age, but looking at the body is a whole different story. Here she is all decked out in white satin and lace with little pearl things in her hair and me, Mr Nice Guy, I make her look at a corpse on her wedding night. Christ, my stomach’s a mess. I was scared shitless he belonged to one of them, you know?’
Magozzi nodded. ‘But he didn’t.’
‘No. Nobody ever saw him before. So basically we’ve got nothing. No defensive wounds, no shell, no trace far as we can tell without labs. Just a guy in a suit with no wallet, just like in the game.’
‘Which means more hurry up and wait for a print match or a Missing Persons before we can ID the victim.’
‘Or maybe the ground search will turn up his wallet in a Dumpster, who knows?’
Magozzi shoved his hands in his pockets, searching for gloves that were on his front closet shelf. ‘We need time of death to place the Monkeewrench people.’
‘Between two and four is what we’ve got at this point. And I called the geek squad while you were on your way over, right after you called and told me they popped up from nowhere ten years ago. Now tell me that isn’t weird.’
‘It’s weird.’
‘Anyway, they all answered except MacBride, and get this: they all left work early, they all went home alone and stayed there. Not an alibi in the bunch that holds water, unless MacBride comes up with one when we track her down.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Zip is what I told them. Just asked where they were between two and four, and told them we wanted them at the house for formal statements. Ten A.M. tomorrow. Didn’t mention this little circus, but if any of them have a TV, that’s a moot point.’ Gino tipped his head at him. ‘And you know what, buddy? Unless we rubber-hose them all and one of them breaks down and confesses, we’re screwed. So far this guy is hitting once a day, and the next murder in the game is at you-know-where.’
Magozzi closed his eyes at the reminder. The fourth murder in the game was set at the Mall of America, and the logistics of covering a place that big were a cop’s nightmare, not to mention the shit that would come down if Minnesota’s number-one tourist attraction became a homicide crime scene. ‘I don’t know. My gut still tells me no. It isn’t one of the Monkeewrench crew.’
Gino took off a mitten bigger than a small dog and started digging through the many pockets of his parka. ‘Why? Just because they called us? It wouldn’t be the first time the criminal reported the crime. Psychos get off on that shit, you know. Or maybe it’s one of them trying to bring down the rest. They all know the game, and now you tell me they’ve got this no-past thin
g going. You ask me, there’s just too much strange stuff going on with that bunch.’
Magozzi followed the pocket treasure hunt with his eyes. ‘Sounds like you want it to be one of them.’
‘Hell, yes, I do. It’s either one of them or some anonymous player on that registration list, and last time I checked in with Louise, they’d only cleared about a hundred out of five hundred and some. She said it’s practically impossible; every time they hit a red flag that tells them to look a little closer – a bogus address, billing addresses that don’t match up with residential addresses, like that – their hands are tied. Our hands are tied. None of the Internet providers are giving up any subscriber information without a subpoena, and right now the only probable cause we’ve got is a hunch that our guy might be on that list. He could kill half the city before we get the legal thumbs-up to do that kind of privacy violation.’
‘Almost makes me pine for the days of J. Edgar.’
‘Damn right,’ Gino said dispiritedly.
Magozzi wiggled his toes inside his shoes, figured he could feel about half of them. ‘Monkeewrench could probably do it without subpoenas.’
Gino abandoned his pocket search and gaped at him. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘If they’ve got the know-how to erase themselves, they’ve got the know-how to get us what we need without subpoenas and never leave a trace. We’re out of time, Gino. We need information.’
‘Great. So we’ll bust the guy with inadmissible evidence and he’ll walk anyhow.’
‘If we get a real lead from their research, we won’t need the inadmissible evidence to bust him. We’ll find something else to nail him with.’
Gino grunted. ‘Maybe. But asking civilians? And possible doers no less, to help eliminate suspects in a multiple homicide? We might as well call a psychic.’
Magozzi shook his head. ‘I don’t see that we’ve got any choice. As it stands now, every potential lead is a legal dead end. The only possible way to find the source is to trace those dead ends back to where they came from. Monkeewrench can do that and we can’t. Even if we made Tommy break his sworn oath and several laws, he’s just one guy. The only guy in the department with a prayer of tracking who the anonymous players really are. It all takes too much time –’