Killer Storm

by Jen Wright

  "I first got Nichols after he committed a burglary when he was fifteen. This was after he came here from Detroit with his mom and little sister to escape gang life. There's not much to like about this kid, and I can find something to like about almost every kid." Lou shrugged, and Nate and I both nodded in response. "He enrolled at Central and hooked right up with the Gangster Mob. I actually think he is the leader. GM is a new gang with no apparent ties to other gangs.

  "It's difficult to start a new gang, particularly in a city the size of Duluth. While the drug trade is still relatively small, it is growing. The market for drugs here is quite good. The price of a rock of crack is twice what a dealer can get in Minneapolis, Chicago, or Detroit. Breaking into such a lucrative market is tough and dangerous." Nate and I knew this, but we just let Lou continue to think out loud.

  "Word has it, our friend Nichols has had quite a battle on his hands. For a guy to gain respect, he has to carve out his territory with pure violence." Lou paused to see if we fully grasped what he was saying. Again we nodded, not wanting to interrupt. "Any threats to the territory must be handled quickly and decisively. To gain access to a gang, one must be beaten or raped in." I could see the sadness settle into him from his first-hand experience in dealing with kids. "This is true for males and females. Nichols must have led the initiation of each and every new recruit. This is one tough kid. He is the kind of kid who doesn't feel anything except power. He also mistakes fear for respect. Legend has it he cut a kid's finger off and left it in the mailbox of his parents' house because the kid flashed an index finger gang sign. The members of the GM are terrified of Nichols. The GM has both juvenile and adult members, and he could easily be pulling strings from detention."

  I sat there trying to figure out how this little weasel I had met with Lou was capable of a cold-blooded murder and running an entire gang. He seemed way too edgy to me. Way too out of control. I kept my thoughts to myself. I wondered if Lou remembered that I had gone with him to see Nichols in detention.

  "We don't have that much information on this gang yet because they haven't been around that long. What the informants have said, though, is that Nichols is the kingpin. The leader. The leader usually makes sure that his runners and dealers don't use drugs. They need to keep it strictly professional. Nichols, however, thought he was above all of that. He thought he was hiding his use from everyone, but everyone knew. He started getting a god complex, too. Odds are he was losing touch with reality when he shot Toivunen. I’m bettin' that if he hadn't been doing the fast burn on meth, he would've had someone else carry out the hit on Toivunen. He got too cocky and careless." Lou took another sip of coffee, thought for a second, and went on.

  "When he got picked up on the murder charge, the police needed time to investigate to make sure they charged him well. I’m holding him in detention on a violation of probation. The guy was really pissed off. Made a threat to me. He said, 'You will regret this. Don't you know who I am?' I didn't think that much of it. I mean, kids threaten me all the time. It's just bravado, trying to save face. Jo, remember? You were there. He threatened you, too. He asked, 'Is that your signature on my report? You're gonna pay, too.' Jo goes with us on all of our serious arrests and court hearings so she can watch our backs." Lou's expression had turned sober, free of his earlier mockery.

  I thought to myself that I was just protecting my assets.

  I asked Lou if he had been keeping a gang book.

  "I'll make a short list for you of its known members, the colors, symbols, and our stab at the hierarchy. The problem is, I don't have that much yet. Some of the symbols have been borrowed or are slightly different from those used by other gangs like the Gangster Disciples, Latin Kings, Crips, and Bloods. This is going to be harder than you think."

  "Lou," I cautioned him. "I'm not sure I want you anywhere near the office, let alone on the streets."

  "I am not going to let this stop me. Think about the message we give to these guys if we back down. We need to come at them with everything we have."

  "Nate, can you assign him an officer to team with for a while?"

  "Sure, how about me?" Nate spoke up. "Let's go at this thing together, Lou."

  "I'd like to be kept in the loop here whenever possible." My organizing skills kicked in. "I'd also like it if the same information packet you are preparing for the Police Department gets to the probation officers. Can we access the BCA database of known gang members and their ties to Detroit? Maybe he brought some of his buddies from there with him."

  "I'm on it. We have access at the PD." Nate’s enthusiasm was building.

  "I'll be at the PD roll call for the first update," I continued. "Lou, please post the informational packet region wide and have it distributed to all the mailboxes locally."

  "Already there, boss."

  "We can also check the Statewide Supervision System, Juv E Net, and Crim Net."

  "There, too."

  Nate offered to drop me at the office, continuing his diatribe about arming probation officers. I was thinking about the relative safety of Lou and anyone else who might be the target of this "warning" as well as how long it would take to clean up my office. Nate sensed my distraction, and we rode in silence for the last five minutes. As I exited the vehicle, he said, "We'll protect him, you know."

  "Thanks, Nate. I know you will. Let's hope he doesn't need it."

  Chapter 4

  The department was still in turmoil. Most of the staff had gathered in the reception area that houses three secretaries in a large open area divided by short cubicles. This arrangement works well because it allows maximum coverage at the front security window and the main phone line.

  I basked for a minute in the knowledge that these talented women would restore the atmosphere in our agency to that of an organized, fully functional office. The clerical staff not only handle large amounts of legal documents with ease but also manage to maintain an easygoing, friendly environment.

  The secretaries are referred to as information specialists, but they essentially fill clerical positions. Staffed at a ratio of about one to every ten probation officers, they make the work readable and professional, and they enter information into the many legal databases. They are paid relatively well as clerical jobs go in the area, but they're still at the bottom of the pile relative to the other positions in the agency. They know that I know who really runs the place.

  As I walked into my office, I was again stunned, but this time by the lack of disorder. My file cabinet was now closed with the drawer lip still bent. My plants looked to be healthy and reunited with their potting soil, and my desk was clean and organized. I turned to go back up front to investigate when I saw Jeannie walking toward me. I could tell that it was her even though the hallway is a good one-hundred feet long because her pink spiked hair was immediately discernable. She sports a different hairdo about every month that usually incorporates a bright dye job of pink, purple, or green. Her personality is at great odds with this rebellious presentation. She is bright, efficient, and professional.

  I waited while she traversed the distance. She approached with a guarded smile.

  "I hope you don't mind, Jo, but I thought you could use some help."

  "Thanks, Jeannie. You are truly the best."

  As a supervisor, she had confidential privileges and could access the files without harm.

  "I think I made some improvements in your filing system, but don't get used to me doing your filing."

  "I'll keep searching for the right bribe, and again, thank you." I made a mental note to buy her favorite sugar-free box of chocolates from the gourmet chocolate store downtown. She had indeed improved my filing system for the staff files, and my desk contents were totally organized as well. I asked her to call building management to fix the lock, but she said it was already in the works. I went through the files, but found nothing missing.

  I sent out a group e-mail to the juvenile unit staff regarding an emergency staff meeting at 2 P.M. I didn't th
ink we would have an attendance problem and fully expected to see a couple of folks come in from vacation.

  I called Chief Long and updated him in greater detail about the situation. He asked me to remind everyone on staff that he was the only person authorized to speak to the media. He also inquired about the effort to protect Lou. While Long knew about Lou's talent for reaching into the hearts of the hardened kids, he was also aware of his total lack of care for the chain of command and the bureaucratic rules of the office. Lou was known for bypassing the rules to accomplish his goals. He gave the classic "end justifies the means" excuse. Most of the time he was well connected enough to pull it off. A sizable income generated by an outside gang consulting business allowed him the freedom to take risks.

  As expected, the staff and supervisors were on board about finding the culprits. This group really mobilized in difficult situations. It reminded me of a time a while back when one of the probation officers in the adult felony unit was having his house vandalized on a daily basis. A brick was thrown through his large living room picture window while his wife and two sons were home. Two of his cars were also sabotaged, and his insurance company was about to drop him. We set up a six-block radius of personnel staked out in cars, on foot, and hiding in bushes. The Police Department was notified and had squads in the area ready to respond. When a car approached his house, we let the bad guy get out of his vehicle and partway to the house before moving in. He made it back to his car, and a high-speed chase ended a few blocks away in a police roadblock. That put an end to the PO's problems.

  After the 6:10 P.M. PD roll call, I swung by Lou's house to make sure it was under obvious surveillance and made my way back home. I took the scenic route that winds along the shores of Lake Superior. I was cautious, as the deer were everywhere. They cross two highways to get to Lake Superior water. Poor things, they always remind me of my dogs. I can't get over how desensitized we have all become in this town to the ritual of deer killing. The news programs regularly show images of hunters stringing up their kill and cutting the heads off right on camera. I'm sure they feel they are portraying the correct way to prepare the deer for Chronic Wasting Disease testing, but I gag every time. What is this doing to our children? No wonder I have so much job security.

  I put a blues tape in the CD player and tried to relax in my 1985 Range Rover. Were it not for the paint job, it would be hard to tell her age because of the timeless boxy body style and prominent roof rack that have remained steady in the Range Rover for nearly twenty years. It was red at one time, but sun-fade damage had rendered it a pale pink. I bought it in Arizona after my dad spent the better part of a winter searching for it. It had high miles but a rust-free body and leather interior. I drove it home and promptly brought it to my mechanic, Phil.

  He is wiry with a ready smile and an appetite for intelligent conversation. He has a slightly curly beard, perpetually greasy hands, and eyes that are so light blue, they appear white if his face is particularly dirty. His shop is a block from my office, and he caters to all of the civil servants who work nearby. Phil sent the motor out to have the cylinder heads bored-out, and he rebuilt the rest of it in his shop. He replaced the struts, most of the front end, and the tires. I then took it to the electronic store to have a six-speaker stereo system installed. The beauty of this vehicle is that I have no car payment. It is reliable as hell and ugly enough so that it's not a target for thieves. My work has left me a little jaded about crime.

  By the time I got home, it was 7:30. I let the dogs out and allowed them to sniff my clothes so that they could determine my activities for the day. When we hit the trail, it was dark, with the moon at three-quarters full so I didn't need a headlamp. I marveled about how different the woods looked day to night, and season to season. The temperature had dropped below freezing, and the smell was danker than decomposing leaves. The moon lighted the trail so well I could make out mushrooms that looked like little fiddle heads in clumps along the trail. I predicted that the fiddle heads would be gone in three days if the temps kept dropping.

  Inside, I started a fire, nuked some leftover lasagna, and parked in front of the TV. Sadly, I found myself watching FBI Files on a satellite channel. I should broaden my focus.

  I called Lou on his cell at 10 P.M. He was working the intensive program with his usual partner, Amanda. Intensive probation means daily contact with the offenders in their homes, as well as tracking their movements twenty-four hours a day. Nate, who was riding along, didn't get introduced at every house and was mistaken for an intern twice. That gave us all a chuckle. There must be some pretty old students in college these days. There was nothing out of the ordinary going on, and it was business as usual in the intensive probation unit. Nate and Lou would soon be able to focus entirely on the gang issue, and if or how it tied to the Nichols/Toivunen murder. They had twenty kids on the caseload, were planning on seeing twelve that night, with a double check on two of them. Nate was having one heck of a long day. I smiled inwardly at his dedication to protecting Lou. I also smiled at Lou's insistence on finishing out his intensive duties before transferring out temporarily. I felt a little guilty because I knew I had the weekend ahead of me, but Lou had to work.

  I cleaned my solitary dish and took a moment to appreciate the order and comfort of living alone. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no clutter of art projects to work around. No dead or dying vegetables in the fridge. I did two average loads of laundry a week. It was all nice and predictable. Would I get bored with this? Had I become too rigid to live with someone again? Was it worth it?

  Cocoa and Java allowed me to settle into bed first before sandwiching me in. They both tend to cuddle closer and closer throughout the night. I suspect all three of us snore softly. I basked in the simple pleasures of dog love. It was predictable, loyal, and most of all, unconditional.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday morning, we set off through freshly fallen snow. The trail looked, smelled, and felt totally different for the third day in a row. The fiddle-top mushrooms were covered and invisible. The "boys" were like kids in their first snowfall – wrestling and rolling in the snow at every turn. I always savor my first snowy walk of the season. But on this day, I wasn't quite satisfied with the new blanket of whiteness. I wished for a snow big enough to require snowshoes.

  As soon as we neared the house, the dogs slowed, and the hair came up on Cocoa's back. She let out a guttural growl usually reserved for bears. I flashed on the staff files and remembered that my address had been on my pay stub in the top drawer of my desk. I grabbed both dogs and walked them over to my neighbor Carol's place. Her property and mine are connected by a trail that we both mow to a halfway point. To avoid leaving visible tracks from my place to hers, I backtracked and took a longer path that comes out on our connecting trail three hundred yards east of my property line. I told her I thought someone had broken into my house and asked her if I could leave the dogs with her for a little bit so that I could investigate. She agreed. Cocoa and Java headed straight for the treat jar. They sat perfectly mannered, side by side, just staring at it. I apologized to her, and she laughed, walked over to the jar, and took out a treat for each of them.

  Carol is known as the dog lady. She regularly dog-sits for her friends, and the mutts absolutely adore her. She has an endless supply of treats, takes the dogs on many, many walks, and loves their little tails off. Carol is perpetually single, but no one really knows why. She is attractive, fit, creative, and personable. She has sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and a warm smile. Her friends have tried to set her up with dates, but she seems perfectly content with her dogs and her books.

  I left my canines in Carol's capable hands, and rather than taking the trail, walked down her driveway to the road, then cut over to the front of my property. There was an older jacked-up Blazer on the shoulder. Footprints led toward my house through the woods. I found the vehicle unlocked, and popping the hood, quickly pulled two spark plug wires. I eased the hood down and considered my nex
t move. My house is one hundred yards in from the road. My driveway has a gentle curve so that cars passing by can't see the house. The guy I hired to put it in had a difficult time visualizing it, or understanding why I would want it that way, since it would cost more. Once it was done, he understood the visual appeal as well as the practicality of it.

  I decided to take a different route to get closer to the house. I called 911 on my cell phone, telling the dispatcher about my plight. I specifically asked her to call the Duluth Police Department after informing the township police. I gave the 911 operator a quick rundown on the forty-eight hours leading up to the intrusion. The township guy, Dan Shilhon, would be here quickly, but I knew he would want backup. The township PD's home base was in the town hall located a mile away on Valley Road. Dan was either on duty there or at his home a mile in the other direction. Either way, it was going to be quick. I decided to hunker down in view of the vehicle, resisting the urge to see if the shithead was torching my place.

  The wait seemed endless. Although I see myself as a minimalist, I really love my house. I think anyone who has built their own house board by board would have been hard pressed to sit outside and wait for help while an intruder did god knows what to it. I was mortified that all of my work could go up in smoke.

  I quickly amended that thought. It would be our work that would go up in smoke. A major contributor to building my house was my best friend and neighbor, Kathy, who is a designer/architect. She designed the post and beam house I call my home. It is a simple one-story building with exposed ash beams. The living room, dining room, and kitchen all flow into one another. I have a Russian woodstove in the living room area made of native Lake Superior rock. The floors are all maple, with an in-floor, water-circulated heating system built in. It has a huge master bedroom with a gas fireplace, and a Jacuzzi. Kathy insisted that I install a solar panel to power the water system. She calculated that it would pay for itself in ten years of energy cost savings. The shower has three showerheads. All told, my home cost about what an old house in the area would go for. It took Kathy and me two years to build it, and I have been enjoying living in it for the past five years. Now I help Kathy with all of her home-repair projects. I think I could help her for a lifetime and not pay her back for all of the work she put into my house. She doesn't keep track of who owes whom. In fact, we always joke about owing each other. We both enjoy creating something and just hanging out together.