Killer Blonde

by Allan Evans

  Stensrude sized him up. “Shorter, but more muscular. He looked army like, you know: military.”

  “So, he didn’t see you?” Cade asked.

  “No man. I wouldn’t be here if he had. That guy was badass.”

  “Where were you?” Cade gestured around the bridge. “The guy had to have looked to make sure he was alone.”

  “I was stealthy, dude. See those shadows over there?” Stensrude pointed to where the sloping concrete met the bridge deck. “I was hanging there.”

  Cade shook his head. “I have to say it strains credibility you just happened to be hanging out under a bridge in the dark on such a cold Saturday morning.” He didn’t say anything further, letting his words hang there. Waiting for Stensrude’s response.

  Stensrude looked back and forth between the two investigators. He shrugged. “It is what it is,” he offered. “Bad situation. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s time to put the rocks back on the moon. It’s out of balance down here.”

  Cade’s phone vibrated. It was Capt. Rejene. “What do you have?”

  “Definitely our killer. It was brutal.”

  “Any evidence we can use to find this guy?”

  “A witness, actually.”

  “That’s great. So, he saw the killer dump the body?”

  “He did, but there’s something seriously off about this witness. Not convinced he’d play well before a jury. But it’s better than nothing.”

  “How bad could he be?”

  “Let me put it this way. You know how there are people who secretly deal drugs out of ice-cream trucks? He’s dressed like a drug dealer who secretly sells ice cream.”

  Rejene let out a snort. “Really, that bad?”

  “Yeah, he’s the type you see riding the bus at night wearing sunglasses. And get this: he said he could tell the killer’s car had been borrowed from a woman.”

  A pause. “How?”

  “He’s psychic, I guess.” Cade let out a long sigh. “I’m surprised he didn’t know the license plate number.”

  Stensrude spoke up. “It’s 3AV-071.”

  Cade spun toward Stensrude, who held up his hands. “You never asked.”

  Rejene repeated the plate number and said she would have the number run. “We may have something then. Good work.”

  As Cade talked strategy with Rejene, he was drawn into Stensrude’s discussion with Rob. Rejene paused and Cade held up his phone so she could listen. Stensrude was talking about his motel stay. “So, there’s only one channel in this motel, and in the morning while I was getting ready, I was watching Sesame Street. They were doing this bit where some clown was trying to wash his hands but kept washing his feet or his elbows and Elmo would go, ‘No Mister Noodle, your HANDS!’ and all the TV kids would laugh. Around the fourth or fifth time when he couldn’t find his hands, I heard a grown man yell from somewhere else in the motel, ‘DAMMIT, MR. NOODLE.’”

  “I’m starting to understand what you mean about your witness,” Rejene observed. “But if he helps, great. He can link the killer to the body. We can put Stensrude on the witness stand and he’ll identify the killer—once we catch him—as the one dumping her body.”

  Cade, completely perplexed, watched Stensrude as he hopped on one foot and pointed up to the sky. He shook his head. “Which would perhaps sound more convincing from a person whose home featured a foundation, but sure.”

  “Hey, you’re not going to believe this,” Rejene said. “But your witness was correct. The plate came back registered to Candan Anne Spring. I’m putting the plate out metro-wide now. With all eyes searching for it, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “We need some luck,” Cade said looking back toward Spring’s body. “And we need it soon.”

  The minute Sweetwater was back in Spring’s Honda, he knew time still wasn’t on his side. He needed to drop this vehicle faster than a wasp after a sip of Cuban coffee. He wanted to abandon it far away from his neighborhood. Options ran through his mind, the Mall of America, maybe the airport. However, he couldn’t risk the twenty-minute drive out to Bloomington. He knew it wouldn’t be long before an all-points broadcast went out for Spring’s Honda.

  A thought came to him and Sweetwater tingled with its boldness. The Ramsey County Law enforcement center was on Grove Street, just a few blocks over. The last place anyone would look for a killer’s getaway vehicle would be in the law enforcement center’s parking lot. And conveniently, there would be a variety of unattended vehicles for him to choose from. Decision made, he headed north on 35E and took the first exit on Pennsylvania.

  Saturday was a complete mess. The media was all over them once the story broke. The blonde-killer, as he was now almost universally referred to, had struck again. Word of Spring’s panic-stricken 911 call got out and everyone was pointing fingers. Governor Ritter showed himself to be particularly adept at deflecting unwanted attention. Over the course of the day, Ritter pointed at nearly everyone: the State Patrol, BCA, St. Paul police, media, and of course, Cade Dawkins. To quote the Governor, “I still believe Dawkins is the right man to lead this investigation. Face it, everyone screws up. It’s what you do with the situation and how you handle it that’s important. I’ll be there, watching to make sure the investigation gets back on track.” Ritter looked directly into the television camera, adjusted his $180 Salvatore Ferragamo tie, and proclaimed, “And that’s why you elected me. To be accountable.”

  Cade was livid. “That slippery bastard is anything but accountable. I love how in the same sentence he says that I’m the right man for the job and I screwed up.”

  Rob shook his head. “Like Ritter is going to come anywhere near our investigation. Not a chance.”

  Cade paced around the shared office. “What are we going to do about it?” He punched the wall, ignoring the worried looks of the State Patrol staff. “What the hell do we do next?” His voice grew louder.

  Rob stood up. He gently tugged on Cade’s sleeve, leading them out of the office. “Waffles. We’re going to get waffles.”

  “I like waffles.”

  Rob nodded. “I know. Everyone likes waffles.”

  “My mom used to make us waffles every Sunday.”

  Rob steered them around the maze of desks and out the door. “Mine too. Waffles make everything better. There’s something about the combination of butter and syrup that makes all the bad just melt away.”

  They ended up at an IHOP restaurant off White Bear Avenue. Apparently well-liked by the law enforcement community, several troopers sat in an adjoining booth. They were greeted warmly, handshakes and fist bumps all around. One of the things Cade most appreciated about being in law enforcement, especially in times of stress and persecution, was how cops had each other’s backs. “Sorry to hear Ritter throwing you under the bus,” Mike Swanson offered. “I thought you did the best with a near impossible situation. I’d like to see Ritter do any better, the sanctimonious prick.”

  Cade sat back in their booth, taking a sip of decidedly average coffee. Rob leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. “I am absolutely beat. Lack of sleep is killing my brain. I’m having serious issues with stringing together coherent thoughts.”

  “Where do we start?” Rob stared off in the distance. “What’s our next step?”

  “It’s time to get back to the basics. Good old-fashioned police work. Start with running down all the stops and registration checks in a two-hour window around each of the killings. Maybe we’ll get something. In New York, police finally caught the Son of Sam serial killer due to a witness who’d been walking her dog when she saw a parked car being ticketed near a fire hydrant. Moments after the traffic police had left, she heard shots fired nearby. The witness stayed silent about this experience for four days until she decided to contact police, who then closely checked every car ticketed in the area that night.” Cade took a sip of coffee.

  “There’s a rhythm to these cases,” Cade continued. “Even when it looks bad—like it does today—I feel the momentum shiftin
g. If we check back over everything, we’ll find something and we’ll have this guy soon. Things are coming to a head.”

  Rob nodded. “I hope you’re right. We can’t keep going like this.”

  The waitress dropped off matching plates of waffles. Conversation gave way to attacking their breakfasts. Both men were lost in thought, dwelling on the case.

  Rob was the first to speak, with a mostly empty plate in front of him and a half-chewed bite still in his mouth. “I still don’t get how the blonde-killer found these women in the first place. These aren’t random killings, crimes of opportunity if you will, where he randomly came upon his victims. Whatever he does for his work must give him occasion to come into contact with these women.”

  Cade finished his breakfast and pushed the plate away. “And then he stalks them. He followed his earlier victims, marking their vehicles with a reflective dot, and attacked them on quiet stretches of state highways.”

  Rob picked his teeth with a toothpick. “And because the crimes happened on state highways, the case comes to us. Some guys get all the luck.”

  “Not sure I believe in luck anymore,” Cade said, standing up. He grabbed Rob’s check. “I’ve got your breakfast. Go get some sleep. I’m going to do the same. I need to get my brain functioning properly.”

  On the way out, they stopped by the trooper’s booth. Three uniformed officers lounged over coffee as one of the troopers, Julio Roque, finished an anecdote about a traffic stop that had gone as wrong as one could. When the story was done, they all shook hands and Roque said, “This was a big day for science. He ordered chicken nuggets,” nodding to the veteran trooper, “and Swanson ordered eggs. Couldn’t help but wonder which would come first.” He burst out laughing and the others joined in. The thing about cops is, you learn to deal with the job’s pressure through humor. If you didn’t, you’ll be walking a mall or selling insurance within five years.

  As they headed to the cashier, Cade was stopped by the older trooper who was at the next table. Cade knew the veteran trooper as Harvey but had never spoken to him.

  “Dawkins, a word if you have a moment.” Cade noted the man’s serious expression and waved Rob to keep going.

  Harvey looked to be approaching the Patrol’s mandatory retirement age. His hair had mostly gone gray, but he still looked fit. Older men tended to go into one of two directions: they went soft and pudgy, the years of inactivity catching up to them, or they became lean and wiry, their body composition shifting to bone and gristle. Harvey fell into the latter camp. “What can I do for you?” Cade asked.

  Harvey ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Couldn’t help but hearing you guys talk about the killer stalking those women.” He paused.

  “And?” Cade prompted him. He was bone tired and his patience was draining away.

  “I know you haven’t been with the Patrol long. There’s an old highway trooper trick you may not know about. Back in the day, we’d mark a few of the regular cars at the bar and then follow them at a distance. It’s how we’d get some of those hard drinkers off the road.”

  “How’d you mark them?” Cade was intrigued.

  Harvey glanced around. “I’m not admitting anything here. But I’ve known some to crack a taillight. Most would put something reflective on the car so they could spot it easily. I suppose it’s similar to the whiskey plates they put on repeat DWI offenders today. It made them easy to spot, and certainly helped make our arrest numbers look good.”

  Cade thought for a moment as he edged towards the door. His brain had that fuzzy feeling that only lack of sleep could bring. He knew it wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “So, you think the blonde-killer used one of the trooper’s old tricks?”

  Harvey nodded.

  “So?” He could hear frustration creeping into his voice.

  “So, ask yourself how he knew about it. That’s all.”

  They shook hands and Cade headed out into late morning sunshine, eager to find his bed.

  Eleven hours later, Cade woke with a start. He glanced at the clock, seeing it was after 10 p.m. already. He shook his head and dragged himself out of bed. He padded over to his small office located off the bedroom and picked up his cell. After a moment, Capt. Rejene answered.

  Without preamble, Cade said, “The killer is a cop.”

  Rejene’s voice was slightly above a whisper. “Hold that thought. I need to move somewhere more private.” The phone jostled and she came back on after several long moments. “Why do you believe the blonde-killer is a cop?”

  “I’ve been so sleep deprived, I couldn’t see it. But my brain made the connection and woke me up. I was talking with one of the veteran troopers last night, Harvey something…”

  “Harvey Reed. Yeah, he’s been with the Patrol since the stone age. Solid guy.”

  “We were discussing how the killer stalked his victims using the reflective dot so he could easily follow their vehicles from a safe distance.”

  “Yeah,” Rejene said.

  “He told me it was an old trooper technique to mark vehicles at the bar by breaking a taillight or putting something reflective on the car. Then the trooper follows from a distance and pulls them over.”

  “I’ve heard tell of troopers using that trick. Most troopers know about it, but I don’t believe it’s used much these days. Not on my watch anyway,” Rejene growled.

  “The point Reed tried to get across wasn’t that cops did it, but how would this guy know about it? So, that’s why I believe this guy is a cop. Or worse, a trooper.”

  “That would explain finding Spring’s Honda at the Law Enforcement Center.” She told him about how the car was found and another was taken. Not surprisingly, it was found in Spring’s neighborhood.

  Neither spoke for a long moment.

  “I had a thought,” Cade said. “Several times now, witnesses have said the killer looked military. Stensrude said our killer looked like he was in the army.”

  “So, we check out recent military discharges or National Guard. Not troopers.” Rejene sounded frustrated.

  “Let me ask a question: Have you looked at our troopers? Most have short hair, and most look like they spend their off-time pumping iron.”

  Rejene sighed. “In other words, they look military.”

  “But I don’t get why Stensrude described the killer as military when the description also fits cops. He never said the killer looked like us and Rob and I both spent considerable time with him.”

  “The trouble is, neither of you looks like a cop, Rejene said with a chuckle. “You look more like the barista at my coffee shop. No offense. And Rob looks even less like a cop. He looks like he should be working as a pastry chef on Grand Avenue. And don’t tell him I said that.”

  “Your secrets are safe with me, boss.”

  Rejene laughed. “Go talk to Stensrude again. Bring along someone who does look like a cop. Swanson, maybe. He’s got the right haircut and build. See if that sparks anything in our witness.”

  “I have my doubts if there’s much sparking in Stensrude’s head. Better living through chemistry has eroded his brain beyond the point of no return.”

  “What else have you got going? Go see if you can jostle something loose in that crusty head.”

  Cade laughed and headed for the shower, hoping this would be the day they caught a break.

  He reached Swanson at home. “Hey, Mike,” Cade said as he climbed into his truck.

  Swanson sounded wary. “Hey, Dawkins. What’s going on?”

  “What are you up to? I need a favor.” Cade knew he was pushing his luck. If he couldn’t convince Swanson on his own, he’d resort to using Rejene’s name. He hoped he wouldn’t need to go that far.

  A pause. “It’s 11:00 on a Saturday night. My girlfriend and I just finished watching our romantic comedy.”

  “Good, so you’re free.” Cade smiled to himself as he accelerated down the freeway entrance ramp. “I need you to meet me in downtown St. Paul.”

  “Are y
ou nuts?” Swanson asked. “You’re a single guy. What do you assume is going to happen after I gave up two hours of my life to watch a chick flick with my ultra-hot girlfriend?”

  “Dessert? Maybe swing by Dairy Queen?” Cade heard Swanson snort as he signaled and moved into the other lane, wanting to get around a minivan that drifted into the center lane. He could see the woman was talking on her cell. The woman gestured animatedly as she moved into the middle of the two lanes. Cade hit his brakes and pulled in behind the minivan. “Dang, the woman in front of me is bouncing around the lane like a bowling ball hitting the bumpers at a kid’s birthday party. Good chance the stick figures on her back window are her kill scores.”

  “Listen, Dawkins, I’d love to help, but those two hours are ones I’m never going to get back again.” Cade could hear a second voice now, one that didn’t sound exactly happy. “No, that’s not what I meant. I really did enjoy the movie. I—”

  Cade shook his head. He slowed down, wanting to put some distance between himself and the minivan.

  Swanson was back on the line. “Okay, it looks like I’m available now. Where do you want to meet?” Swanson didn’t sound at all happy.

  They made arrangements to meet by the Union Gospel Mission in downtown Saint Paul. Cade took the Pennsylvania exit, thankful to be away from the minivan. With distracted drivers, the highways were more dangerous every day. Never a cop around when you needed one.

  The Union Gospel Mission operated a hotel of sorts for the area’s homeless population. On average, the shelter’s 88 emergency shelter beds were used every night, and the 140 plus transitional rooms were almost always spoken for. A hub of activity with the itinerant crowd, it was a safe bet Cade would find Gordy Stensrude at the Union Gospel Mission. He parked and walked through the lot, looking for Stensrude. From the wary looks he received, Cade knew he stuck out. He continued toward the entrance where a group of men in army coats gathered around a beefy security guard. They looked up when Cade approached.