Blizzard Ball

by Dennis Kelly

  Kirchner asked Mrs. Cooper if they could look around the house, as it might help them in the investigation into her son’s death.

  Zip’s bedroom looked like a teenage hangout from the eighties. Wrinkled Metallica rock posters hung from the wall, a pot-weighing scale sat on the dusty dresser, Hot Wheel street rods were lined up on a window sill, and a samurai sword stood unsheathed in the corner. The closet door was secured with a latch and padlock. Kirchner asked Mrs. Cooper if she had the key.

  “I don’t know. This is all so confusing,” Mrs. Cooper said, hanging back at the doorway. “My son was a good boy. I raised him without a father. It’s hard in this neighborhood.”

  “I am sure you did the best you could, Mrs. Cooper, and I am sorry for your loss,” Kirchner said as he touched her arm, “but we really need all the help we can get to ensure your safety and bring some closure to Eli’s passing.”

  “He hid the key. I am not supposed to know where it’s at,” she said, and reached up to a molding ledge above the door. She handed Kirchner the key and thumped away down the hall.

  As he opened the closet door, Tyler produced two pairs of protective gloves from his pocket and handed one to Kirchner. They would call in a BCA mobile lab to officially inventory the items, but not before they picked through the closet. The articles included high-heeled shoes, dresses, panty hose, Barbie dolls, and piles of Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogues. “Fetish?” Kirchner said.

  “My guess is cross-dresser.” Tyler held up a pair of bikini panties and stretched the waist band. “Full size, to be sure.”

  They continued with the rummaging, pulling out a shotgun, a hunting rifle, boxes of ammunition, a bottle of Oxycodone six-ty-milligram tablets, cell phones, a laptop, long-haired wigs, boxes of jewelry, a baseball bat, a high-beam flashlight, and an assortment of purses.

  Kirchner latched onto a Gucci shoulder bag. It was brown leather with light gold hardware and an adjustable shoulder strap.

  In and of itself it was not a remarkable accessory, except that Kirchner’s wife had owned a similar purse. It was never recovered in the carjacking. His wife wasn’t given to designer logos or girly fashion, but she liked the supple feel of the handbag’s leather and the green and red band that cut through the center. It reminded her of a saddle and horse blanket and growing up on the North Dakota plains. It was a rare splurge for a woman dependent on a policeman’s salary, but Kirchner hadn’t objected. He carefully unzipped the purse, holding his breath. It was empty. He turned the purse inside out to get a good look. Scratched into the face of the inside leather pocket were the initials ASK—Aquene Starr Kirchner.

  Salah

  Kirchner and Tyler set about conducting a thorough canvassing of the eastside neighborhood to find out what was known about Fahti, the Cash and Dash clerk.

  They quickly got a hit. A Pakistani man who appeared to be in his early twenties, known only as Fahti, was said to work intermittent shifts along with Jamal and his wife. No one knew his connection to the owner, but customer reports of textbook reading behind the counter indicated he was probably a student.

  Tyler put a search out to local colleges, universities, and vocational schools and came up with only one Fahti: Fahti Panhwar, a student at the University of Minnesota. As it turned out, Fahti was a member of the University’s Pakistani Student Association, and his picture was posted on the organization’s Internet site. Tyler made a copy of it and circulated it back to the Cash and Dash customers.

  “The good news is,” Tyler said on the call to Kirchner, “we have a positive confirmation that Fahti Panhwar worked at the Cash and Dash.”

  “Just give it to me,” Kirchner chafed, lacking the patience for yin and yang theatrics.

  “The bad news is, Fahti has disappeared, hasn’t been seen on campus since shortly after the closure of the Cash and Dash.

  Dropped out of school and put his student visa status at risk. I talked to the director of the Pakistani Student Association. He said Fahti was very troubled and unfocused around the first of the year. He said Fahti had an apartment above a mosque in St. Paul, but reports were he no longer lived there. He did suggest we check with the mosque’s spiritual leader—apparently Fahti confided in him.”

  •••

  The Masjid Al-Rahman was not the Alhambra. There were no columns, ornate capitals, vaulted ceilings, Moorish art, arabesques, or calligraphy. A sign just inside the door directed attendees to place their shoes on a wooden shelf. Another sign listed the current Salah: a prayer liturgy to be performed five times during the course of a day. A large room with an acoustical tile ceiling lay empty save neatly rolled prayer rugs along the perimeter. It reminded Kirchner of the yoga studio his wife had attended.

  Kirchner had half-expected to meet a heavily bearded ayatollah. He admittedly didn’t know much about Islamic practices, and he was surprised by Ali Akmani when he suddenly appeared from a small office off the prayer room. Akmani wore a patterned short-sleeved sport shirt and brown dress slacks. He beamed broadly and greeted Kirchner as if being reunited with a long-lost friend. His triangular catlike face, narrowed below his mustache to a dainty chin. It was as though his features had been arranged to draw attention to his dark eyes.

  Kirchner introduced himself.

  “Yes, come sit, I have been expecting you.” Akmani unfolded a metal chair in his office.

  Kirchner had not scheduled or announced the visit. Akmani picked up on his puzzled expression. “Or to be more accurate, someone in your capacity. Usually it’s the local police, federal marshals, FBI. When the car of one of our members stalls, it is considered a terrorist threat.”

  “Are you in charge here?” Kirchner asked. He was thrown off balance by Akmani’s frankness and wanted to get the purpose of the visit on track.

  “No one is in charge but Allah. We have no hierarchy, no priest, no boss man. I am but a humble imam, reader of the Qur’an, and most capable of error. I am, at other times, a husband and a lowly retail appliance salesman.”

  “Do you know Fahti Panhwar, a Pakistani student at the University of Minnesota?”

  “Are you wearing a recording device?”

  “No, should I be?”

  Akmani studied Kirchner for a moment and continued, “Yes, I know him. He’s a member of our faith community and once lived in the upstairs apartments. But no longer.”

  “Did he tell you he was in trouble?”

  “Yes, with a 750-million-dollar problem.” Akmani let out a thunderous laugh. “Like a snake that has cornered an elephant, he found the prey interesting, but too big to eat, or more specifically, too dangerous to cash.”

  Kirchner was surprised by the introduction of the lottery without a prompt and in particular the reference to the jackpot prize. “Do you know his whereabouts?” he said evenly.

  “Do you play the lottery, Agent Kirchner?”

  Kirchner didn’t answer.

  “Yes, of course you do: the great American illusion.” Akmani paused and let his read on Kirchner settle in. “Fahti, like most people, thought being in possession of hundreds of millions of dollars would change his life. But that kind of change is only superficial. We continue on with our same insecure behavior, only with inflated resources. Instead of standing toe to toe and killing each other with spears and swords, we can now go to outer space and kill millions of people from our enriched vantage point. Have we changed?”

  Kirchner felt immediately uncomfortable with the analogy and with himself. He was screening Akmani’s words through the context of 9-11, a discriminatory bias, he knew, but there, nevertheless.

  “Where can I locate Fahti Panhwar?” Kirchner pressed.

  “May I first tell you what I know of Fahti Panhwar and why he has become a subject of this visit?”

  Kirchner held a tight poker face, careful not to transmit any knowledge of where Akmani might be leading him.

  “As you are aware, the Cash and Dash was a front for outstate lottery ticket scalpers. Fahti worked there as a
part-timer, mostly skimming lottery winnings off unsuspecting elderly folks. But he also helped manage the inventory of illegally acquired lottery tickets for a Canadian operation. Tickets were routinely shipped out prior to the drawing. However, with the Lottery draw date being Christmas day, there was no FedEx pickup. So the tickets were on hand after the big jackpot drawing and during Fahti’s shift. He scanned the Canadian lottery ticket inventory sheet, found the winning ticket in a batch yet to be sent out, and removed it.” Akmani paused and dug around in his pocket—an obvious interruption to let the account sink in, produced a tin of Altoids, and offered them to Kirchner. Kirchner started to reach but pulled back. Akmani popped one in his mouth. “Curiously peppermint, good for a nervous stomach,” he said.

  “I know peppermint,” Kirchner said, caught off balance. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “When Fahti reported for his late night shift,” Akmani continued, “he found Jamal, the convenience store operator, tied up on the flooded floor of the store. Jamal informed him that the store had been robbed of the lottery tickets. Mexicans. Fahti considered this a stroke of good fortune, as the loss of the winning ticket could now be attributed to the store robbery. Jamal balked at the plan and said the Canadians would think it was a setup and chase him down and kill him. Jamal demanded the winning ticket. Fahti refused. Jamal began beating him with a club. Fahti retaliated with a box cutter. The stubby blade caught Jamal just below the ear.”

  “Carotid artery,” Kirchner interjected.

  “Like Judas, the remorse was immediate and debilitating. Fahti dropped out of school, a tormented sinner.”

  “Except he sought your help,” Kirchner said.

  “Not my help. Allah’s forgiveness.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you can make an informed decision between Fahti and your lottery ticket.”

  The thought that the lottery ticket was still available sent a rush of blood to Kirchner’s face, but he quickly tamped down his enthusiasm and let the cop in him speak.

  “I can’t let Fahti walk.”

  “I am not asking you to let him walk, but rather, to fly—to let him go home and wage a personal jihad against the evil within.”

  Kirchner started to speak.

  Akmani held up a flat palm. “I have a gift for you, my friend.” Akmani opened his desk drawer and removed a curved dagger in a brass and leather scabbard. “Very old,” he said, holding the weapon in outstretched arms. ”An offering of peace in our tradition.”

  Kirchner immediately connected the dots. The knife was undoubtedly the weapon employed to kill Eli ”Zip” Cooper, a task Kirchner would have preferred to do himself. He pulled the knife from the scabbard. Dried blood stained the blade. There had been no attempt to clean it up. Kirchner knew he was being played. He was unsure of the game, but he aimed to put a stop to it. He set the knife down, dropped both hands hard on the desk, and leaned into Akmani. “I am not sure where you’re going with this other than to incriminate yourself in a murder and grand theft.”

  “I am only looking for us to help each other.” Akmani moved from behind the desk. “Now if you will excuse me, it is almost time for Salah. Come back in three days. If I get a report that Fahti is safely out of the country, you will have your lottery ticket.” Akmani walked Kirchner to the door. “If you choose to apprehend him, the proceeds of your big Lottery prize could very well be put to use by some,” Akmani paused to underscore the point, “shall we say, sectarian interests.”

  Kirchner found himself out on the street looking at the mosque, holding a strange curved knife. He had been gently dismissed, not on his own terms, but with impeccable courtesy.

  Pucked

  Kirchner alerted the governor to the repossession of the jackpot lottery ticket. The governor insisted on an immediate off-site meeting and suggested the local youth hockey arena.

  Kirchner felt conflicted about having traded the lottery ticket for Fahti’s freedom. He could have put the heat on the Imam Ak-mani, made his life a living hell, on the way to collaring Fahti. But unless Fahti confessed to the theft, the case was circumstantial, and the imam’s not-so-veiled threat about using the lottery proceeds for a homegrown jihad was a nightmare in the making. There was, of course, the matter of Eli “Zip” Cooper and death by kirpan. But for now, Kirchner would hold this information to himself. He needed time to sort it out.

  When the imam had handed over the lottery ticket to Kirchner, he was surprised to find it wasn’t signed. Apparently, Fahti knew he couldn’t redeem the ticket personally, so the signature block had been left blank, allowing for a surrogate to claim the cash on his behalf.

  The hockey rink was cold and felt like a meat locker. Kirchner picked his way up several rows of aluminum bleacher seats and sat down next to the governor.

  “That’s my kid, number seven. First line, right wing. A Peewee. They have good shot at the state tournament. You ever play hockey?” the governor asked, without taking his eyes off his son.

  “Some football, mostly worked.”

  “Yeah, I worked, too. Grain elevators, but that’s a story for another time.”

  “Governor, let’s get to the nub of it.”

  “What do you consider our options to be?” The governor’s head swiveled back and forth following the puck.

  “Pretty straightforward, by my book,” Kirchner said, blowing heat into his hands. “Establish that the ticket was acquired illegally, declare it void, and roll the unclaimed proceeds into a subsequent Lottery drawing.”

  “You mean expose the fact the Lottery director, appointed by me, manipulated the Lottery for his own gain? I’m not sure this would instill a lot of public confidence in the Lottery or my office. What else do you have?”

  “Destroy the ticket, let it expire as unclaimed, and let the money revert to the state.”

  “I would suggest that plan would only serve to dampen the public’s faith in the Lottery and poison future Lottery revenue opportunity.”

  “Hey, what are we doing here, shooting clay pigeons?” Kirchner erupted. “Why don’t you just say ‘pull’ and I’ll toss another concept up for you to shoot down? You’ve obviously got something on your mind, Governor, so let’s get to it.”

  “Jason, keep your head up, back check, defense,” the governor yelled into the rink before turning his attention back to Kirchner. “Sorry, didn’t mean to jerk you around. I was just hoping we would land on the same page. Look, the only prudent solution is to follow through on the original intent and give the money away. A winner will be like a shot of adrenaline and restore the full faith and credit of the Lottery. Not to mention chase away allegations of conspiracy and mismanagement.”

  Kirchner started to object and was quickly intercepted.

  “I hear you and your tech genius Tyler are in some kind of hot water.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “My assistant thinks she overheard you make a threat against Morty shortly before his death. I believe your words were, “Morty’s going to drown.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Kirchner bristled, as he attempted to rewind the scene with the governor’s assistant. “I said, ‘Morty’s going down.’”

  “I’m sure I can convince her otherwise and get the BCA off your back at the same time. Fix things,” the governor said as the Zamboni made its way out onto the ice.

  “Fix seems to be the operable word with your lottery operation.”

  “I know I look like a hayseed to you, but I’m a pharmacist by trade, and I know something about palliative care. And in government, it’s a treatment called hope delivered on promises. It’s through promises that the government controls and manages its citizens. We promise more money, better jobs, better benefits, equal respect, security, whatever. The lottery, which is perceived to embody all these things, is one of the few promises we can actually deliver on, albeit for a rarefied few. When citizens lose faith in their government’s promises, the situation can swing betwee
n anarchy and enlightenment,” he said. “Think Lenin and Gandhi. I’m not prepared for the consequences either way.”

  Kirchner didn’t want any involvement in the governor’s disposition of the winning lottery ticket. Nor was he interested in the offer to salvage his job. He really didn’t give a shit about it anymore. But the deal included Tyler, and as much as the kid irritated the hell out of him, he couldn’t stand by and watch Tyler’s career be flushed for what he considered his own ill-gotten plan. Besides, the kid was starting to grow on him. He reluctantly accepted the governor’s offer to short-circuit the BCA’s internal investigation levied at him and Tyler. Almost immediately, Kirchner began to second-guess his decision. After all, it meant he was a coconspirator to the governor’s lottery ticket plan.

  Forgiven

  Kirchner sat alone in his living room and listened to a leaky faucet dripping somewhere in the house. Not a day went by that he didn’t think about finding and terminating the carjacker that had killed his wife. Well, that day had come. But instead of feeling relief or closure, he had a sense of being spent and incompetent. Outside of a stint in the army and a couple of rock-bottom security jobs, he had worked his entire adult life in law enforcement. More and more he was missing critical investigative pieces, overlooking the obvious. Or making deals off the reservation. Not that others particularly noticed or cared, but he did. Back in the early days of his career he ran so hard and fast he was able to distance himself from internal misgivings. But he couldn’t outrun himself anymore. In the end he had failed his wife, just like he almost always did. He picked up the kirpan dagger off the coffee table. The strange gift the Imam Akmani had pushed on him. Perhaps it was luck or a freak confluence of events that had erased Eli “Zip” Cooper, but Kirchner could take no credit. Nor did he feel any responsibility to chase down or investigate the death of his wife’s killer. He withdrew the dagger from its scabbard and wrapped a tight grip around its bone handle. “Maybe this is what they call divine justice,” he said tightly, elevating his hand overhead and slamming the dagger into the table.