“Geez, Kyle,” Gunner said. “Put that thing away. Just be ready to tackle him if he gets loose.”
“Right,” he said, sheepishly returning the side arm to its holster.
“You know what,” Gunner said. “Forget about covering me and just bag that squirt gun. He tossed his head at the plastic pistol lying in the dirt. “It’s evidence, Kyle. Wear your gloves.”
“Yessir,” the young deputy said, fumbling to open the leather belt compartment that held his evidence bags and gloves.
By the time Kyle had retrieved the gun, Gunner was finishing the pat down. Now he turned his attention to the bystanders. “Child support,” he said. The crowd gave a collective nod as Gunner escorted the suspect off the premises and toward his cruiser.
As they crossed the grassy parking lot on the way to the car, Gunner turned to Kyle.
“Honestly, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with folks these days,” he said. “I’ve done a lot of police work in my time, but I ain’t never arrested a guy for shootin’ at cows with a squirt gun.”
“Strange,” Kyle said. “Darn strange.”
Gunner laughed. “You said it, Kyle.”
“And you . . .” Gunner said to the suspect as they reached the cruiser, “. . . you be careful not to hit your head.” He tucked the handcuffed man into the cruiser’s caged back seat and closed the door.
Gunner climbed behind the wheel and clicked his seat belt.
“What are we really arresting him for?” Kyle asked, as the cruiser’s AC came to life.
“I guess we’ll start off with creating a public nuisance and see where the County Attorney wants to go from there. In any case, it won’t be our worry, Kyle. We did our jobs.”
“Yessir,” he said. “We sure did, didn’t we.” He wore a broad smile.
Gunner chuckled.
“We sure did. Nice bust rookie.”
CHAPTER 63
Bloomington, Minnesota.
When I informed them the Mercedes might contain hazardous materials, the Bloomington Police moved expeditiously to cordon off the area. Minutes later, additional black and whites arrived and began diverting MOA visitors to other entrances. At least one news van had shown up, too.
“You got a comb?” I asked Bull. “Looks like we’re gonna be on TV.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I see.” He did not offer me a comb.
Costa and his troops arrived on the scene a few minutes later. I counted six black sedans as they passed through the cordon. There was also a Yukon Denali SUV with a flatbed trailer in tow.
“The man never travels light,” I said. Hearing no response, I turned to Bull to see what was up. He was gone. Besides harboring a persistent dislike for law enforcement, Bull was also camera shy.
The FBI cars parked a safe distance from the ricin-laden Mercedes. The Denali swung in ahead of the convertible and backed the trailer into line with the Merc’s front bumper.
What followed was nothing short of bizarre.
First, four guys in black suits wrestled a large, rubbery-looking tarp from the SUV’s cargo compartment, setting the tarp on the front of the trailer and unrolling it until it covered the entire bed.
Next, the men winched the Mercedes up metal loading ramps and onto the trailer, not stopping until the car rested entirely on top of the tarp.
Seconds later, two agents were attaching steel “boots” to the car’s wheels to prevent it from rolling while in transit, while at the same time, two others were detaching the loading the ramps. Then all four hoisted the remainder of the tarp up and over the convertible. It was long enough to cover the entire car, and wide enough to draw the top and bottom sheets together all around.
Finally, using a device I could only describe as an industrial steam sealer, the men maneuvered 360 degrees around the trailer, fusing the upper and lower portions of the tarp together until the Mercedes was entirely enclosed within a sturdy, rubberized “baggie.”
Sixty seconds later, the men had packed up their ramps and dusted off their suits. The ricin was ready for transit.
Honestly. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
Would you like that Mercedes SL 450 to go sir? Sure. Why don’t you just wrap it up for me.
As I stood wondering what other new and different experiences the day might hold in store for me, Agent Costa approached. He offered his hand and I shook it. We assumed the traditional male shoulder-to-shoulder conversational stance.
“I bet with a sealing system like that the FBI never has a problem with freezer burn,” I said, nodding sideways toward the departing Merc-in-a-bag.
Costa was working up a spit, but I guess he reconsidered, because he swallowed instead.
“Less drama for the press than the HazMat team,” he said. “Cameras just love those yellow suits.”
“So . . .” I said.
“So?”
“So . . . I guess I was right about the attack targeting the Mall of America.”
“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see what the lab finds inside that car. One thing I do know though . . . .”
“Yeah?” I said, more than a little irritated at Costa’s refusal to acknowledge my contribution to averting a major disaster. “What’s that?”
“We picked up Mrs. Cho at Southdale.”
I turned to face him.
“No kidding? Nice job.” At least one of us knew when a compliment was called for.
“Thanks,” Costa said. “Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to have any ricin on her person. Maybe the lab will turn up some trace evidence. Anyway, I’ve got teams clearing the mall right now.”
“You shut down Southdale?” I said. “Wow. You’ve got a pair, my friend.” Southdale wasn’t as large as MOA, but it wasn’t a trinket shop either.
“What are you talking about? We needed to clear the premises to ensure the safety of everyone concerned,” Costa said. “Standard procedure.”
“Remember to say that when the retailers sue you for wrongful eviction,” I said, resuming the shoulder-to-shoulder stance. “You’d better hope those teams of yours find something. Lost sales are gonna be huge. Folks don’t like it much when you get between them and their money.”
Costa took a deep breath.
“I guess we’ll let the Attorney General deal with crossing that bridge, if we ever get there.”
Costa didn’t seem too worried. I supposed he had plenty of options for passing the buck if necessary. And the legal fees wouldn’t be coming out of his pocket.
“My mall’s still open,” I noted, a touch of pride in my voice. “And I already got my ricin.” I smiled toward the crowd and waved at the news cameras.
“Like I said,” Costa reminded me, “we’ll see.”
I wasn’t worried. I knew what was inside that Mercedes trunk.
“Anything else I should know?” Costa asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Bull tells me there’s a North Korean collaborator taped up inside.”
“Inside what?”
“The mall,” I said. “It’s this building right here.” I indicated the mall’s exact location with a pat on its exterior stucco. “You can find the gentleman in locker number E-67.” I handed Costa the key. “But be careful, he had a knife last time I saw him.”
CHAPTER 64
Bloomington, Minnesota.
Before Costa had finished debriefing me, the sun was beginning to set over Ikea and I was ready to go home. Costa consented to concluding our discussion tomorrow, when the full reports from the lab were in.
My parking selection in the East Ramp proved to be the perfect launch pad for a discreet getaway. As I idled down 24th Avenue in the direction of Interstate 494, my side window offered a good view of the hubbub surrounding the mall’s North Exit, a couple hundred yards distant.
Scores of uniformed police still manned their cordons. Television news crews elbowed one another in vain hope of an FBI interview, their clunky satellite trucks clogging the mall causeway, flooding all and sundry with their gaud
y incandescents. Obsessed gawkers and innocent passersby alike combined to snarl vehicle traffic all the way out to Lindau Lane.
A few minutes ago, I had been a part of that circus. Now I was just a man on his way home from the mall.
Three blocks further along 24th Avenue, I swung the Pilot onto the I-494 East ramp and settled into the freeway’s right hand lane.
Today had been a good day, I decided. Not an easy day, or a perfect day . . . but a good day nonetheless. Bull and I had thwarted a terror attack at MOA that, but for our intervention, would have certainly succeeded. We’d inconvenienced a few people in the process, though.
I imagined the Mall Cop had a sore neck and maybe a few bruises. Sometimes Bull doesn’t know his own strength. But in all fairness, the kid shouldn’t have pepper sprayed Bull when he had the option to walk away, or call for backup, or pee in his pants. When you pepper spray someone and they don’t go down, you’ve got to expect some sort of retaliation. Perhaps it was a lesson in perceived power the young man had needed to learn. It might even save his life one day.
Then there was the owner of the extraordinarily well-preserved Mercedes convertible . . . we’d pretty much ruined his day, though he might not even know it yet. Frankly, I was thankful I didn’t have to meet the guy . . . or gal. The fact was that Bull and I had faced a challenging situation – one that required sacrifices. The Mercedes was one of those sacrifices that sometimes needed to be made. It’s true the sacrifice was made easier by the fact that it wasn’t my Mercedes . . . but the point is still valid. That beautiful car had become collateral damage in the war on terror.
I tried to think who else’s day we might have wrecked.
The blocked mall entrance probably inconvenienced a few shoppers. Then again, for a good number of news reporters, our unorthodox activities had made their day. I’d call those two a wash.
And there was one more notch on the bright side, Gunner had apprehended the cow shooter in Zumbrota – apparently before he was able to do serious harm – effectively extinguishing the Foot and Mouth threat. That was something Gunner should be proud of, even though he would never know the scope of the economic disaster he had prevented. In fact, he should be even more proud of himself because he performed his duty without regard for how silly it seemed, on pure trust, with greater chance of ridicule than reward.
Well done, Gunner.
I turned on the radio, unconsciously punching the button for an oldies station. Probably all the popular songs I knew qualified as oldies by now.
Ringo Starr’s It Don’t Come Easy – the Concert for Bangladesh live version – had just started playing. Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues, and you know it don’t come easy.
I laughed.
Nope. It don’t come easy.
* * *
It was after 9:30 when I brought the Honda to a stop at 1011 Jefferson Avenue, and I was feeling pretty peppy, all things considered. I even thought I noticed a proverbial spring in my step as I climbed the porch stairs.
“I’m home,” I called as I entered. Beth came running to meet me, throwing her lovely arms around my shoulders and planting a big smooch right on my kisser.
‘Thank God you’re safe,” she said. “I was so afraid.”
Just as I was enjoying the attention, Beth pushed me away and punched my shoulder.
“Ouch.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” she said. “I was about worried to death.”
She was right. I had no excuse. I may have had reasons, but it’s not the same thing.
“Until about an hour ago, I was kinda busy,” I said in my defense. “Mall of America, ricin, FBI, etcetera. Maybe you saw something on the news?”
“Of course I did . . . you big galoot. Scared the bejeebers out of me. I knew what was really going on, and it had nothing to do with a safety drill.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am.” I really was. “I’ve got no excuse for worrying you. I should have called, but sometimes my brain just gets caught up in what I’m doing . . . and I forget to do what I should be doing. You know?” I gave her my best puppy dog face.
“Don’t you go poochy-facing me,” she said. “I know you get caught up in your work. Too caught up. You think you’re some kind of superhero or something, flying all over saving the universe. But you’re not.” Her eyes were tearing up. “And the world is full of kryptonite.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Come here,” I said, grasping her upper arms and pulling her toward me. At first, she resisted . . . then finally succumbed. Now, as I held her close, the sobs came, convulsing her entire body. I held her tightly, saddened that I was the cause of her distress. It wasn’t just the lack of a phone call, I knew. It was everything about my day, and the risks I had taken – had needed to take.
We stood like that for a long time, not talking, my lips kissing the top of her head again and again, my hand caressing the silk of her hair.
“Shh,” I whispered. “I’m here now. I’m safe. We’re both safe.”
Eventually the sobs subsided. Beth inhaled deeply, pushing the air out through her mouth.
“It would be a lot easier putting up with you if I didn’t care about you so much.” Her voice was soft and she followed the words with a sniffle.
“I know,” I whispered. “Damn my rakish charm!”
Beth pushed away from my chest. Her nose was runny and her face was streaked with mascara, but all I could think of was how beautiful she looked.
“I swear,” Beth said, trying to hide her smile, “one of these days I’m trading in your rakish butt for a newer model.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I need to warn you. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
“Thank God,” Beth said, embracing me once more. “Thank God.”
CHAPTER 65
Red Wing, Minnesota.
A cold front moved through during the night, bringing with it rain and thunder . . . and a refreshing breeze. I opened the bedroom windows around 3:00 o’clock, after which Beth hogged most of the covers. It was a small price to pay, and I was happy for the privilege. By 6:00 o’clock, the front had passed and the day was dawning fresh and new.
The sun had already begun to warm the back screen porch when Beth joined me on the swing.
“How did you sleep?” I asked.
“Fantastic,” she said. “I think crying swamped my system with endorphins last night. I slept like a rock.”
“I’m glad you slept well.”
Beth and I glided back and forth on the swing, listening to the robins chirping in the spruce tree that overhung our veranda and the breeze as it slithered between the wind chimes. I pointed out the two matching sets of rabbit tracks crossing the dewy grass of our back yard. And Beth noted the fresh smell of the flowering mint plants she had seeded along the edges of our patio.
I breathed deeply, then exhaled, allowing the air to whistle quietly past my lips.
“So . . .” Beth said. “Are you taking the day off today? We could go to the park, maybe pack a lunch?”
“That does sound tempting,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’ve still got a couple meetings I need to go to today. One with Gunner and the other with Costa in the Cities. Hopefully, between the two of them, we can end the odd saga of Rodney Holton’s farm.”
Beth eyed me with suspicion.
“Nothing dangerous today. I promise.”
“That’s good,” she said, “because sometimes, your public service crap just wears me out.” Her eyes observed my reaction from beneath long lashes.
“Who could argue with that?” I said, shaking my head. “Sometimes it wears me out too.” I stood. “Nevertheless, I’m off to my first conference right now.”
“Gunner or Costa?”
“Gunner,” I said. “Costa is still waiting on lab results. The FBI may be thorough, but my dead grandma could kick their butts in the fifty.” I smiled.
Beth laughed.
“Ah,” she said. “That’s
the federal government I remember so well. Good luck.”
* * *
When I reached Gunner’s office, he wasn’t as cheery as I had hoped. I was probably going to have to listen to him vent for a while.
“So what’s the problem?” I asked. “You made the arrest, right?”
“Yeah,” Gunner said, “but now I find out it’s not even going in my jacket. There was some executive order or something and now all the records have gotta be purged.” He said the word like it tasted bad.
“Well,” I said, “at least you have the satisfaction of a job well done, another criminal off the streets. Who cares about records?”
“You’re kidding, right? I don’t even know why I arrested the guy. Nobody’ll tell me what’s goin’ on. So if there’s no record, I might as well have pissed away the whole day.”
“Huh,” I said. “Maybe we can get some answers from the detainee himself. Shall we go have a chat?”
“That’s a laugh,” Gunner said, not laughing. “The feds swooped in here and grabbed the guy up so fast we couldn’t even get him processed. You’d think he was some international terrorist or something.”
I nodded.
“Now that is a laugh,” I said. “A terrorist at an Ottawa County stock yard, trying to shoot cows with a squirt gun. Call CNN!”
Gunner chuckled.
“Yeah,” he said. “Big story.” He considered for a moment. “There was something goin’ on with that guy though, otherwise the feds wouldn’t have rushed him outta here like he was some kinda plague. I don’t s’pose you know the scoop?”
“Me?” I said. “I’m a bigger pain in Agent Costa’s backside than you could ever be. Why would he fill me in?” I didn’t like lying to Gunner, but that’s how it goes with Classified information. I don’t make the rules.
“I suppose,” Gunner said. “But that doesn’t make me like this deal any better.”
“Of course not,” I said.
Time to change it up.
“How did you identify this guy to arrest him anyway? I didn’t think anyone had sent you his picture?”
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