“She was here when I left.”
“When was that?”
“About noon, after my soap.”
“What time did you get back?”
“I done my shopping; I was back by oh, 1:30.”
I glanced at my watch. It was 4:15.
“Was she here when you returned?”
“I don’t spy on my tenants,” the old woman told me abruptly.
“Of course not. But perhaps you heard her moving about, heard her television.”
“No, usually I do,” the woman answered quietly, genuinely puzzled.
“Do you have a key to Miss Lamb’s …?”
“’Course I have a key,” the woman said impatiently. “I own the place, don’t I?”
“Would you …?”
“I ain’t lettin’ you in there alone.”
“Come with me. I just want to make sure she’s all right, I won’t touch anything.”
“Damn straight you won’t touch anything,” she said. She went into her apartment after first ordering me to “Wait there.” She took her own sweet time about it. Finally she reappeared, said, “C’mon then,” and unlocked Amy’s door. I pushed past her into the living room.
The old woman screamed with more energy than I thought she could possibly muster. She screamed as I led her out of Amy’s house and into her own. She screamed as I sat her down on a threadbare sofa and she screamed as I dialed 911 on her black rotary telephone. I was tempted to slap her across the face, but that only works in the movies.
I left the duplex and moved the length of the sidewalk, sitting on the steps overlooking the boulevard. She didn’t stop screaming until well after the police arrived. I didn’t blame her.
THIRTEEN
OFFICER JAMES CURTIS of the St. Paul Police Department’s Northwest Team, riding alone without sirens or lights, screeched his unit to a stop directly in front of me. It took him about fifteen steps to move from the driver’s door to where I sat. The effort left him breathless.
“’S been a long time, Taylor,” he said between short-winded puffs. His right hand rested on the butt of his holstered Glock 17.
“Too long,” I assured him.
“You call it in?”
I nodded.
Curtis glanced backward at his unit, gave it some thought, then returned to it, opening the rear passenger door.
“You mind?”
I shook my head no and left my perch. When I reached the open door Curtis said, “Do me a favor.”
I didn’t have to ask what the favor was. I assumed the position and he searched me thoroughly without comment. After he finished I slid into the car and he locked me in. Without a backward glance, Curtis went to the house, hesitating on the porch, deciding between doors. He picked the one the screaming woman was behind. A few minutes later the woman was quiet and Curtis had returned to the porch. He took a deep breath and went inside Amy’s apartment. He was pale when he came out thirty seconds later, pale except for his eyes. They were red with anger and sorrow. He returned to the squad and radioed Homicide for assistance. Except he didn’t use the appropriate code number. Amy Lamb wasn’t a number to him. When he finished he flung the hand mike away and sat there rubbing his eyes.
“I hate this job,” he said.
An elderly man with silver hair, who probably thought he had seen it all, stood in the center of his yard two houses down and pretended to rake leaves while he watched the small army of officers, technicians, wagon men and medical examiners that descended on 988 Fratzke Avenue. He reminded me of my father, who hadn’t raked a leaf since his eldest son turned nine years old, but would get angry just the same when my brothers and I frolicked in the piles we made and scattered the leaves across the lawn. The old man seemed particularly interested in a slender woman with short-cropped hair who was directing the activities.
Anne Scalasi loved this shit; the almost gleeful way she described the habits and behavioral characteristics of killers, you’d think she was talking about former boyfriends.
Anne used to be an elementary school teacher. For giggles, she’d joined a Ride-A-Long and gone patrolling with Anoka County deputies. She was hooked the moment she first heard the siren from inside the car; hooked like a largemouth on a Bass-oreno. She immediately quit her day job and became a nighttime dispatcher in a suburban police department. During the day she went to school, first junior college, then the academy—she was top of her class at both.
And she married a cop.
Eventually, Anne became the suburban department’s first female officer and still later, its first female detective. She soon caught the attention of the state attorney general’s office, which hired her as an investigator, only they didn’t give her much to do. She decided her employment was merely an affirmative action ploy and accepted a position with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.
The BCA liked her so much they sent her to the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime in Quantico, Virginia, where she was specially trained to investigate mass murders and serial rape killings. Once again she scored first in her class and the FBI wanted to keep her. Instead, she returned to the BCA under the stipulation that the bureau would loan her to any local department that might require her expertise. The BCA agreed, then refused to allow her to work any case where it did not declare jurisdiction. So she joined the St. Paul Police Department, which was happy to accept her terms.
Now she commanded the unit, replacing the man who had hired her, taking the job many people thought I would eventually hold.
Anne ignored my presence while she examined the scene and interviewed the old woman. Finally, at her bidding, Curtis led me to where she was standing with McGaney and Casper. Casper was speaking earnestly, trying to impress the boss, using his hands and saying, “The most brutal murders are domestics, okay? When you get five, six gunshots like we have here, you’re talking husband-wife, girlfriend-boyfriend, boyfriend-boyfriend, am I right?”
Anne said, “Probably.”
Casper grinned at McGaney like he thought he deserved some ice cream and cake. McGaney rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Anne smiled at me when I approached. She had a smile that could melt snow; certainly it melted the resolve of many a stubborn suspect—it was her most endearing feature and I felt like slapping it off her face.
“I’ve seen highway workers move faster than you guys,” I told them.
“We didn’t keep you waiting, did we, Taylor?” McGaney asked.
“Screw you.”
“Touchy,” Casper said, then added, “I heard the shrink kicked you off the couch.”
It occurred to me how much Casper’s personality would benefit from a few well-placed blows to the face; make him a better human being. I formed a fist, prepared to drive my top two knuckles through Casper’s fat, flat nose, but Anne pulled my arm down.
“What’s with you?” she wanted to know.
I pulled away. “Whaddya think?”
“You’re taking this way too seriously,” McGaney warned.
“Think so?” I asked him. Yet I knew he was right. I used to be able to do it, look at death without letting my feelings get in the way—a policeman detached, making bad jokes to relieve the horror. Somewhere along the way I lost the knack. Still, I should have known better. As a homicide cop I was nearly perfect. I was better than Anne Scalasi. Better than anyone. For as long as I’d been able to do it.
“What are you doing here?” Anne demanded.
I answered her with short, curt sentences. “Amy Lamb called me. She left a message on my machine. She said she knew who killed both John Brown and Dennis Thoreau.”
Casper’s jaw dropped, actually dropped; McGaney’s pen hung suspended in midair above the notebook; Anne’s smile took on an ugly symmetry, frozen as it was on her face. She stared at me, as did the others. The traffic moved past us on Fratzke, sounding like surf in the distance. No one spoke, not until McGaney mumbled, “What do you know about Dennis Thoreau?
”
“Only what I read in the newspapers.”
“A neighbor reported seeing a man picking Thoreau’s lock,”
Casper reported. “How ’bout that, Taylor? You wouldn’t pick a lock illegally, would you?”
“Not if I thought someone was watching.”
I looked at Anne Scalasi, our eyes fixed in a kind of death struggle: The first one to blink loses. Without prompting I announced, “I met Amy Lamb yesterday while investigating John Brown’s murder. You remember John Brown?”
Anne did not respond, did not turn from my gaze.
“This morning she called me,” I repeated. “She left a message on my machine. She said she knew who killed both Brown and Dennis Thoreau. I have the cassette if you want to hear it.”
She didn’t say if she did or didn’t.
“I tried to reach her by telephone. I called her several times. There was no answer. I left a message on her machine. You probably heard it. I drove over. You questioned the old woman. You know the rest.”
McGaney transcribed my remarks into a small notebook. “Where did she work?” he asked as he wrote.
“She answered the phones at C. C. Monroe’s campaign headquarters.”
Anne Scalasi looked away. Her gaze fell on the front door of the duplex, on the wagon men leaning against a trundle waiting for forensics to finish so they could wheel Amy down to the ambulance. She muttered something I couldn’t make out, took my arm and led me toward the street. I had never seen her this agitated. Apparently, neither had McGaney and Casper. After taking a half dozen steps, Anne turned back to them.
“Find out how well the landlady knew the victim. Find out if she spent much time in the victim’s house. Find out if she can tell us if anything is missing—VCR, TV, whatever. Especially look for personal objects that might be missing.”
McGaney said, “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’re on top of it.”
“I want a hard search, six-block radius. The shooter might have ditched the gun. Find it. And do a license plate check on every vehicle within the radius. Ask the neighbors if they’ve seen any unfamiliar vehicles parked nearby.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Casper said.
“There’s an incredible amount of blood,” Annie continued. “Make sure the techs check the bathroom and kitchen sinks, determine if the killer cleaned up before leaving the scene.”
“We’re on top of it, Lieutenant,” McGaney repeated, miffed that Anne would treat him like a rookie; everything she requested was SOP.
“Get Mankamyer to work his magic,” Anne added. “Find out if the bullets that killed Amy were fired from the same gun that killed Brown and Thoreau.”
“Lieutenant …”
“Just do it, goddamn it!”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Anne went to the driver’s side of Curtis’s car, opened the door.
“Lieutenant?” Curtis said, standing beside his squad.
Anne stopped, fixed the patrolman with her death-ray vision.
“Nothing,” Curtis said.
I took the passenger seat, barely shutting the door before the car was in gear and Anne pulled away from the curb. She flipped a U-turn, drove two blocks and parked on the opposite side of the street. A van plastered with the call letters of a local TV station sped past us. “Vultures,” she muttered, letting the engine idle for a moment before shutting it down, all the time gripping the steering wheel like it was the throat of her worst enemy.
Anne doesn’t tan and she wears little makeup. Even so, her face appeared more pale than usual and her brown hair looked like it hadn’t seen a stylist in quite a while. She released the wheel and leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes.
“Tired?” I asked.
She nodded. “Haven’t gotten much sleep lately. Trouble at home.”
“Really? I thought it might be a guilty conscience keeping you awake.”
Anne did not respond, her eyes still closed.
“You and the old man going to be all right?” I asked, genuinely concerned now. Anne and I had never spoken about her husband, yet he was a part of nearly every conversation we’d had. We were partners for over four years, Anne Scalasi and I. We’d faced death together, standing back to back. Most people don’t know what that means, the emotional bond it forges between a man and a woman. Still, we never did anything about it, even after Laura was killed and the sexual tension between us became almost unbearable. We stopped seeing each other regularly after I pulled the pin four years ago, yet the feelings, they were still there, just beneath the surface. I felt them as I sat next to her in the car, wondering how tophrase the question I needed to ask. She beat me to it.
“I didn’t kill Dennis Thoreau.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I didn’t,” she repeated more emphatically.
“I believe you,” I said.
“Only people without imagination kill. I have plenty of imagination. I want to get rid of someone, I’d find a few bindles of coke that he took out of his pocket and threw away when he saw me coming, at least ten ounces; he’d go away for a long time.”
“That’s one way,” I agreed.
We sat silently for a few moments before Anne asked, “What would you do if I had killed him?”
“I’d give you up.”
“Just like that?”
“It’s against the law to aid and assist a felon. It’s called ‘accessory after the …’”
“I know what it’s called,” Anne said, frowning, her eyes still closed.
“What about Amy Lamb?”
That jolted her eyes open. “You think I’m responsible for that?”
“Yes.”
“You sonuvabitch!”
“Fine, I’m a sonuvabitch. Now tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”
“Don’t talk to me in that tone …”
“You don’t like it? Tell you what, Annie. I’ll call Internal Affairs and the city attorney; we can all sit down together and have a pleasant chat. How ’bout that? Would you like that better?”
That slowed her down. She leaned forward and grasped the steering wheel at the ten and two positions. “How much do you know?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know anything. I’m only guessing.”
“Go ’head and guess.”
“You’re protecting C. C. Monroe, gubernatorial candidate.”
“Bullshit!”
I continued. “Marion Senske called her friend in the St. Paul Police Department and said, ‘Please, please make the big, bad man go away.’ You agreed.”
“Bullshit!”
“Fine,” I said. “What’s your story?”
Anne sighed, then said, “Marion called me. Said Thoreau was blackmailing C. C. Asked me to put a stop to it. Quietly. I told her I couldn’t do anything unless she signed a complaint.”
“And?”
“And then I went over there.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Marion’s done a lot for women in this state,” Anne answered in a weak and totally uncharacteristic voice. “She was very supportive when I helped found the Women Police Officers Association.”
“Sisters united,” I said.
“Something like that.”
“So you went over there and discovered Thoreau’s body.”
“Yes. My first thought was that Marion had decided to take matters into her own hands. So, I searched the house. The tape was gone. That clinched it for me.”
“Sure it was gone? How hard did you look?”
“You were there. Did you see anything I missed?”
“Was I there?”
“Cut it out, Taylor,” she said, frowning.
“No, I didn’t see anything you missed.”
“Marion looks real good for it. She or C. C. Or both. Probably both.”
“So, why don’t you bust ’em?”
Anne didn’t answer the question, so I did.
“Because Internal Affairs will want to know how you
came to discover the body. They’ll want to know how you came to learn about the videotape. They’ll want to know why you didn’t call it in immediately. And if you tell them, you’re gone. The highest-ranking female police officer in the history of the department bounced for malfeasance, for crissake. On the other hand, if you don’t come clean, somebody will get away with murder.”
“No!” Anne screamed. “How dare you say that to me. You know me better than that.”
“I’m not sure I know you at all.”
“If C. C. Monroe is guilty I’ll drive her to Shakopee myself. Count on it! But there can’t be any doubt, reasonable or otherwise. Not this time. Before I accuse C. C. Monroe I have to have it locked seven ways to hell and back. I have to give her to the grand jury on a platter with an apple in her mouth—to the grand jury and the media. You can see that, can’t you? If I told the truth about how I came to find Thoreau’s body, how I came to accuse C. C., I’d be sacrificing my career for nothing. I don’t have any evidence. And you know C. C. and Marion will deny everything. They’ll claim it was politics. They’ll claim I was doing it for the mayor. What’s going to happen to the credibility of the police department if we’re accused of investigating a gubernatorial candidate for political reasons? What’s going to happen to my credibility?”
“Has it occurred to you that C. C. and Marion might be depending on that—you protecting them in order to protect yourself and the department?”
“No, no,” Anne pleaded. “Not me, not the department. The case. I’m trying to protect the case. Can you imagine what a defense attorney would do …”
“The case, the department, you … What difference does it make? C. C. and Marion still get what they want.”
“No, they won’t. Taylor, what do you think this is all about? Why do you think I got you involved?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Okay, check my reasoning. Someone killed John Brown and we determined almost immediately that it was probably Joseph Sherman. Sherman killed Terrance Friedlander, who was running against C. C. Monroe. I know how you work. I know the first thing you would do is run to your computer…”
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